Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “That hardly seems like a favorable situation for him.”

  Neva broke out in chills. She moved to the mercantile windows and began raising the blinds to allow in the morning sun. Hopefully the wide-open windows would also invite in customers. She needed some sales.

  Arthur trailed behind her. “I believe my concern about how people would react to the discovery of Warren’s, er, indiscretion has been proved accurate.”

  What would everyone say if the sheriff’s and her suppositions about Warren’s other activities proved true? She shot a warning look at him. “I’m not changing my mind about being honest with the town about the children.”

  He chuckled. “Well, after your little speech in church yesterday, it wouldn’t do much good to change your mind now. You can’t take back the things you said.”

  “Nor do I want to.”

  “And by now your confession has probably been repeated and embellished dozens of times.”

  “I can’t stop people from talking.” Impatience sharpened her tone.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “All right, I can see I’m stirring your ire, but I wouldn’t be your friend if I let the topic lie.”

  She shot him a sharp look. Had he deliberately used the word lie to bait her? No hint of teasing or sarcasm showed in his expression. She willed her emotions to calm. Warren had misled her, disappointed her, betrayed her, but she wasn’t talking with Warren right now.

  She sighed and reached for the final shade. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  His hand snaked out and caught her wrist as she raised the shade into place. “But we must. Please listen to me.”

  Moments ago she’d hoped for customers. Now, with the two of them standing in front of an uncovered window with her wrist trapped in his grasp, she hoped no one passed by.

  “The people here have very strong convictions. You received a taste of their disapproval in church yesterday.”

  Neva extracted her wrist and hurried to the back of the store, away from the windows.

  He followed. “You’re an adult. You are capable of ignoring the slanderous comments or turning a blind eye to the reproachful stares. But what of the children? Is it fair to subject young children to such treatment?”

  She spun to face him. “I am not subjecting them to anything except acceptance and affection.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you? Neva, you set them up for rejection and condemnation by your very openness. Those children will always carry the stench of illegitimacy in this town. In a large community perhaps they could find a contingency of people who would be unaware and accept them. But Buffalo Creek is not a large community. Everyone knows everything.”

  She shifted her gaze to the side, grinding her teeth so tightly her jaw ached.

  “The children will grow up without the pleasure of friends. When they get older, no family will want Charley to court their daughters or their sons to court Cassie or Adeline. The children will be forever lonely. Forever shunned, treated like lepers or pariahs.” He gently chafed her upper arms with his open hands. He spoke kindly, as sweet as the essence of the bay rum, but even so his words flayed her. “And because of your involvement with them, you and your twins will be outcasts as well. Is that what you want?”

  She crossed her arms over her apron bib and stepped away from his touch. “Of course it isn’t what I want.” Her heart ached, envisioning the existence he’d painted with his predictions. “But neither can I change it.”

  “Yes, you can.” Arthur advanced toward her again. He took hold of her chin and turned her face to him. “You have the ability to save the children from an unhappy childhood. You can save yourself from becoming penniless and disregarded.” His hand slipped from her chin and cupped her cheek. His fingertips eased into the hair at her temple, sending shivers across her scalp. “Send them away, Neva. If you send them away, your misery—and theirs—will come to an end.”

  Arthur

  She jerked away from him so abruptly his hand remained suspended in the air between them, still tingling from its contact with her soft skin. She pointed to the door. “Go.”

  He closed his eyes and groaned. “Neva, please…”

  “Go, Arthur.”

  He held his hands to her and beseeched her with his expression. “I only want—”

  “You want me to abandon innocent children to save my mercantile.”

  Stated that way it did seem petty. How could something that made so much sense during the night seem ignoble and selfish under the glaring light of the overhead bulb? Arthur paused for a moment, organizing his thoughts, and tried again. “This isn’t just a mercantile. It’s your livelihood. It’s Bud and Belle’s only home.”

  He came close to laughing at himself. How quickly he’d changed his mind about this place and all because he’d come to know the woman. He admired her for wanting to care for the children—she possessed an amazingly giving heart—but she had to be realistic. “You’ve had this business for how many years now? Fifteen? Sixteen? Almost half of your life.”

  Her lips quivered. Her hand, still upraised and pointing to the door, trembled.

  He gentled his voice to a soothing whisper. “Years, Neva. Years of toil and sweat and growing. You’ve known the children for what…mere weeks? Barely more than a month.” But, oh, what a month of hearts expanding and affections growing.

  He forced the inward reflection aside and assumed a firm tone for her sake and for his. “Which carries the greater value? The years or the weeks?” He held out his hands, palms up like the trays in a balance scale, and raised one palm while lowering the other.

  She stared at his hands. Her arm dropped to her side, and her entire frame wilted. She bowed her head, and one silvery tear rolled across her cheek and dripped onto her apron.

  Her obvious despair pierced Arthur more deeply than he thought possible. He reached for her.

  She shied away and hugged herself, almost seeming to shrink before his eyes. “No. Please…just go.”

  He’d wanted her to be reasonable, but he hadn’t wanted to so thoroughly defeat her. Heaviness weighted his chest. He drew in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, Neva.”

  “I am, too.”

  “For what?”

  Her head still low, she peeked at him from the corner of her eyes. Her eyelashes were spiky and moist from tears, her hazel pupils almost luminescent. “For disappointing you.”

  He gazed at her in silence, perplexed by her anguished utterance.

  “You’ve become a good friend, Arthur. I appreciate all you’ve done to help me since Warren’s death. If we were to put the deeds of giving on a scale, your side would plunge downward compared to the paltry things I’ve done for you in return.”

  She had no idea what she’d done for him, awakening him to love again, inspiring him to look beyond his own needs to someone else’s. He started to tell her so, but she went on.

  “But I can’t look at years and weeks. I have to look at souls and sales. What would God have me view as the most valued?” She imitated the gesture he’d made earlier, raising one hand as high as her chin and lowering the other to midthigh. “Souls, Arthur.” She balled the hand beside her leg into a tight fist, lifted it, and pressed it to her heart. “Souls matter most. Even if it means I lose my mercantile—my home—I choose to love those children.”

  He bowed his head and forced his tight, aching throat to release a rasping confession. “I only meant to help, Neva.”

  Twin tears slipped past the curve of her smile. “I know. I appreciate that you care about the children and…and me.”

  He did care. How deeply he cared. But he’d failed in saving her. He’d failed her. He’d failed himself. “What will you do if no one ever shops here again?”

  Her gaze drifted to the side, as if some unseen being held her attention. “I will be strong. ‘He giveth power to the faint…’ ”

  Arthur shook his head, more confused than before.

  She lifted her apron skirt
and cleaned the tears from her face. Smoothing the skirt back into place over her pale-pink dress, she moved briskly past him and stepped behind the counter. “If you’ll please excuse me, Arthur, I have work to do.” She offered a wobbly grin. “Perhaps some signs in the window advertising specials on canned goods and broadcloth will entice a few people to set aside their prejudices and take advantage of saving a few pennies.”

  Bud

  Bud spent the noon break in the classroom with Miss Neff. He ate his sandwich and apple at his desk while completing a grammar assignment. But what did he care about when to use then as opposed to than when Joey and the other stupid boys might be bothering Charley on the play yard? His gaze drifted to the window. Was Sheriff Caudel out there keeping watch?

  “Bud, turn your attention to your work, please.”

  He sighed. “Yes, ma’am.” He aimed his pencil’s point at the paper, but he didn’t write. He couldn’t focus. The voices of kids at play sneaked past the brick walls and tormented Bud. He sighed again and looked up. “Miss Neff?”

  “Yes?”

  “I need the outhouse.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  He bounded up and hurried toward the door.

  “Come right back when you’re finished. We need to get you all caught up on your work.”

  Bud paused long enough to nod. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he clattered down the stairs, taking them two at a time. It jarred his hip, but he didn’t care. He smacked the door with his palms, sending it flying, and he gave a leap off the porch. At the bottom he stopped and, shielding his eyes with his hand, scanned the play yard.

  “Bud!” His sister’s call pulled his attention to a slash of shade next to the building. Belle sat on the withered grass with Cassie and Charley.

  Bud’s knees went wobbly. He crossed to them and crouched down. He looked at Charley. “Hey. You okay?”

  Belle made a face. “I had him come sit with me. Martin, George, and a couple of others tried to steal his lunch. Then I had to go get Cassie because Joey’s sister pulled her hair and made her cry.”

  Bud turned to Cassie. One pigtail hung lower than the other. Her nose and eyes were still red. A strange feeling of protectiveness filled him. He chucked her under the chin. “Aw, you’re tough, Cassie. Don’t let some dumb ol’ girl upset you, okay?”

  The little girl gave him a sad smile. “Okay.”

  Belle threw her half-eaten apple in the lunch tin and slapped the lid closed. “What is wrong with everybody today? They’re all being a bunch of…of nincompoops.”

  Bud shouldn’t laugh but he couldn’t help it. Belle was plenty upset to use that kind of language.

  “They’re always mean to me.” Charley’s quiet voice brought an end to Bud’s laughter. The boy hung his head, his shoulders drooping. “They don’t like me. I wish I knew why.”

  Bud knew why. He’d started it by shoving Charley away. Martin, Joey, and all the others were only following his lead. Only now he didn’t want to act that way, but his buddies had gotten used to picking on Charley. Bud pushed upright, wincing when his hip stabbed.

  He touched the top of Charley’s short-cropped brown hair and waited until he looked at him. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of it.” Bud grinned, purposely setting his lips crooked the way Pop used to do. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

  The afternoon dragged, and Bud’s anger built with each tick of the wall clock. The morning’s encounter had lit a spark of indignation. Then little Cassie’s forlorn face, Belle’s confusion, and Charley’s sad words at noon turned the spark into a flame. His buddies’ snide smirks, the note Martin gave him, the kids’ sniggers and whispers and pointing fingers—it all added fuel to the fire of fury.

  When school let out at three, Bud shoved his books at Belle. “Take these and go on home without me.”

  She drew back, worry wrinkling her face. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Settle things.” Bud marched to Martin’s desk, grabbed him by the arm, and growled, “Get Joey, George, and Seth, and meet me behind the outhouse.” He stomped off before Martin had a chance to say anything.

  He ducked behind the boys’ outhouse. Many a fight had taken place on this patch of grass concealed from the school’s windows. Bud had watched dozens of them, but he’d never participated. His whole body broke out in a cold sweat. He hoped he wouldn’t have to fight today. But he would if the boys didn’t listen to him.

  Martin swaggered around the corner with at least a dozen boys clustered around him. Why had he brought so many? More chills attacked him, and his stomach threatened to give back his lunch.

  The boys formed an uneven half circle, trapping Bud between them and the outhouse wall. Bud shifted so his back was to the wall. Nobody would sneak up behind him.

  Martin walked straight to Bud and stopped inches in front of him. He set his feet wide and jammed his fists on the drooping waist of his baggy overalls. “All right. We’re here. Now what?”

  Martin was three inches taller and at least twenty pounds heavier, but Bud stood stock-still and refused to cower. “I’ll tell you what. Now you listen. Charley’s not gonna be your scapegoat anymore. You’re gonna leave him alone.”

  “Or what?”

  Bud didn’t miss the challenge in Martin’s voice. Part of him wanted to run away and hide. But he rose up as tall as he could make himself. “Or I’ll make you.”

  Guffaws broke out from the crowd.

  Joey left the circle and moved beside Martin. “Why should we? We don’t want his kind in our school. Right?” He turned and looked at the other boys. A chorus of agreement rang out. Joey grinned at Bud. “See that? None of us want him. My dad said back in the old days when somebody came to town that nobody liked, they ran ’em out on a rail.”

  Seth hollered, “Then there’s always tar and feathering, like we read in our history books. Betcha that’d make him leave.”

  Bud gawked at his friends. Belle’s question came out of his mouth. “What is wrong with everybody?” He pushed Martin and Joey aside so he could talk to the whole bunch. “He’s just a little boy. He can’t hurt any of you.”

  Martin crossed his arms and sneered. “Seems to me not so long ago you were pickin’ at him, too. What happened, Bud? Did falling down that well make you go soft…in the head?” Laughter rolled.

  Heat exploded in Bud’s face. “Maybe falling in the well did make me see Charley different than I had before. Maybe I figured out I was wrong to be mean to him. Maybe I—”

  “Maybe you’re what he is.” Martin leaned close, his eyes sparking. “A—”

  Bud wouldn’t let him say the word printed on the paper. He brought back his fist and plowed it as hard as he could into Martin’s face. Martin grunted and stumbled backward.

  Everyone stood in shock, including Bud. Had he really just punched his best pal in the nose?

  Martin wiped his nose with the back of his hand. It came away smeared with blood. Rage gleamed on his face. He pointed at Bud and hollered, “Get ’im!”

  Jesse

  Jesse sat on the edge of the merry-go-round’s plank seat and observed the children leaving school. He chuckled. They ran out with a lot more eagerness than they exhibited trooping in. He returned waves, poked little boys in the tummies, and gave little girls’ braids gentle tugs, earning smiles and giggles. A lot of the older kids sauntered up, too, to say hello. Funny how much he’d come to enjoy this school-day routine.

  Shouts rose from somewhere behind him, and Jesse gave the ground a push with his heel, sending the merry-go-round into a slow spin. His gaze drifted across the play yard, and his senses went alert when he spotted two boys racing for the outhouse. Somehow he wasn’t surprised when they ran behind it instead of going in.

  He pushed off the seat and broke into a trot. The shouts and scuffling noises grew louder as he advanced, and before he rounded the corner, he already knew what he’d find. He collared the two closest boys participating in a wild melee and bellowed, “That’
s enough! Break it up!”

  The kids who’d gathered to watch the fight scattered, leaving Jesse with a half-dozen boys tangled up on the ground. Bud Shilling lay at the bottom of the heap.

  Jesse released the two he’d grabbed and reached for Bud. The others rolled out of the way, belligerence mottling their faces. He barked, “Don’t any of you go anywhere,” and they formed a little huddle on the trampled grass next to the outhouse wall.

  Jesse set Bud on his feet and looked him up and down. His tattered shirttail drooped over his torn trousers. The boy’s lip was puffy and bleeding. More blood dripped from his nose, and one eye was almost swollen shut. Jesse shook his head. “Lands, Bud, what happened here?”

  Bud swung his arm to indicate the group lined up along the outhouse wall. “They jumped me!”

  The Buckwelder boy charged forward. “He started it! Socked me right in the nose!” He pointed to his swollen snoot. “Probably broke it.”

  Jesse examined Martin’s nose. Crusted blood rimmed one nostril, but it didn’t look crooked. “You’re all right.” The boy skulked off. Jesse turned to Bud again. “Why’d you sock Martin?”

  Bud quivered from head to toe. He clamped his jaw tight and turned aside.

  Jesse shook his arm. “Come on, speak up. You must’ve had a reason. I can’t imagine you’d take a poke at one of your friends without provocation.”

  Bud jerked his arm free. “I had a reason all right. He called Charley a…a…” He gulped, then quirked his finger. Jesse leaned down, and Bud whispered in his ear.

  Jesse reared back. “That so?”

  He squinted through his one good eye and nodded. “Tried to call me one, too. I wasn’t gonna let him.”

  Martin bounded over again. “I didn’t call nobody nothin’! He told me to meet him out here and then he punched me. Just punched me without prov…provo…” He spat out, “Provocation! Isn’t that right, guys?” Most of the other boys voiced their agreement, and Martin aimed a triumphant grin at Jesse.