Room for Hope

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Caudel laughed, too, but he sobered quickly. He slipped his hat back in place. “Right now you’re likely Mrs. Shilling’s only friend. I hope whatever happens in the next few weeks—whatever rumors start swirling around town—you’ll stay friends with her and remember none of this was her fault. She’s a victim, not a villain.”

  More riddles. Arthur started to question him, but the sheriff backed up two steps. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Randall.” He turned and trotted off as if the hornets they’d discussed had suddenly come swarming.

  The chill evening air sent shivers through Arthur’s frame. He considered going back to his house and sitting in front of the fireplace, but taking care of himself wouldn’t do a thing for Neva. As the sheriff said, he was her only friend. No one else would see to her needs if he didn’t. He took off once more, his arms swinging with his determined stride.

  By the time he reached the little parsonage behind the chapel, his ears felt half frozen and his nose was dripping. He made use of his handkerchief before tapping on the door. Even before he got the square of white cloth tucked back in his pocket, the door opened, and the minister’s young wife welcomed him with a big smile.

  “Good evening, Mr. Randall.”

  He drew back in surprise. She knew who he was? When he and Mabel attended the chapel faithfully, a different preacher stood on the dais. Arthur had sat in on only a handful of Reverend Savage’s sermons, and he’d never taken the time to introduce himself. He couldn’t decide if he was more flattered or baffled.

  She gestured him over the threshold, then snapped the door shut. “Are you here to see the reverend?”

  Mrs. Savage didn’t seem perturbed or even startled by his arrival. How often did people show up on the preacher’s doorstep? “Yes, if he isn’t too busy.”

  A dimpled grin rounded her cheeks. “He’s reading the children their bedtime story. Since he usually isn’t here during the day for their naptime story, he enjoys participating in the evening routine.” She gestured toward the floral sofa in front of the window and moved toward an opening at the far side of the room. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll—”

  Arthur reached for the doorknob. “No, I don’t want to disrupt his time with your children. I’ll come back another time.”

  She hurried across the floor and caught hold of his sleeve. “Now, Mr. Randall, you braved the cold to see him.” She guided him to the sofa. “He’ll only be a minute or two. I’ll let him know you’re here. Then I’ll start a pot of water for tea. Or do you prefer coffee?”

  Mabel used to fix him tea in the evenings. “Tea is fine.” He sat.

  Her bright smile returned. “Good. Now, please, take off your jacket and relax. Ernie will be right out.” She bustled out of the room.

  Arthur shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his knee. Despite the homey room and the friendliness of his hostess, an uneasy feeling sat heavily in his stomach. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by coming here.

  Arthur

  “I don’t know if you can fix anything.” Arthur held his cup of tepid tea between his palms and gazed down at a few flecks of tea leaves floating in the pale liquid. “But it just seems to me somebody needs to say something before Ne—Mrs. Shilling—has no choice but to sell her store and move away.”

  Reverend Savage had sat attentive and quiet the entire time Arthur shared his concerns for Neva and her children. Now he sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m so glad you came this evening, Mr. Randall. Of course, I’d observed people shifting aside when she entered church, but I hoped her openness about the situation had stirred feelings of empathy in the congregation. To know they’ve deliberately avoided shopping in the mercantile…” He shook his head. “That kind of judgmental attitude has no place within the Christian’s heart.”

  “You’re exactly right.” A touch of anger entered Arthur’s tone, stirred by a wave of protectiveness. “Mrs. Shilling is one of the most giving people I’ve ever met—taking in her husband’s ill-begotten children, putting food in the barn’s lean-to for hobos even after a drifter entered her store and robbed her, offering credit to local folks when most businesses in town have gone to a cash-only system.”

  He pictured Neva as she’d looked this evening, a strand of wavy nutmeg hair waving gently along her jaw and her hazel eyes shimmering with tears of frustration and pain. His throat tightened. “She deserves accolades, not acrimony.”

  Awareness dawned on the minister’s face. “Mr. Randall, are you…smitten with Widow Shilling?”

  If anyone else had asked, Arthur would have brusquely told him to mind his own business. But one couldn’t be so blunt with a preacher. He choked out a harsh ahem. “She and I have become”—he borrowed the word she’d used earlier that evening—“friends, and it pains me to see her suffering. Wrong was perpetrated on her first by her philandering husband and now by the town she has faithfully served for many years.” He set aside the teacup and banged his fist on his knee. “It’s time for the nonsense to stop.”

  Reverend Savage nodded, his lips set in a somber line, but a hint of orneriness sparked in his eyes. “I commend you for defending her. It’s never easy to take the path of right when so many others are moving in a different direction.”

  Arthur lowered his head. If Reverend Savage knew everything, he wouldn’t praise Arthur. He smoothed his mustache with his fingertips, then looked the young preacher in the eyes. “Don’t admire me too much. My initial reason for befriending her was to convince her to sell me her building so I could expand my emporium.”

  The minister gazed at him, attentive, without disparagement. “But now?”

  “Now I think it would be a real disservice for me to shut her down. This town needs people like Neva Shilling, people with a giving spirit and a desire to serve. Especially in these times of hardship, Mrs. Shilling is a beacon of hope that things can be better if we’re willing to give of ourselves.”

  “A beacon of hope…” Reverend Savage shifted his gaze to somewhere beyond Arthur and seemed to drift away in thought.

  Arthur braced himself to rise.

  The minister jerked his attention back to Arthur and lifted his hand. “Mr. Randall, may I ask you a question?”

  Arthur eased back into the seat.

  “When I took over this ministry two years ago from Reverend Kempel, I visited you, as I did all the families whose names appeared on the membership roster, and you seemed quite adamant that you were no longer interested in attending. Seeing you and your sons in the service the past few weeks has been an answer to prayer.”

  Wonder ignited in Arthur’s chest. This man had prayed for him to come to church?

  “Would you mind sharing why you’ve chosen to return?”

  If he told the truth, he might greatly disappoint this earnest young minister, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to prevaricate. “To be with Mrs. Shilling.”

  Reverend Savage nodded, apparently not surprised. “May I ask another question?”

  What else would he have to confess? “I…I suppose.”

  “Do you have a relationship with God through belief in His Son, Jesus Christ?”

  Arthur closed his eyes, the simple question carrying him backward so quickly that dizziness attacked. He’d knelt next to the dais with his dear Mabel on the Thursday night of a weeklong revival just one year into their marriage and pledged his life to the Lord. While Mabel lived, he’d been faithful in church attendance, faithful in prayer, faithful in seeking God’s guidance. But with her death, his expressions of faith had died. He no longer had a relationship with Mabel. Did he have one with the Savior they’d accepted together?

  He rubbed his eyes, then opened them. The minister gazed at him in silent expectation. Arthur blurted, “I’m a prodigal.”

  A soft, understanding smile crept over Reverend Savage’s face. “And are you ready to come home?”

  He jerked to his feet and jammed his arms into his jacket, the need to escape strong. “I’ve said all I came t
o say.” And then some. “I don’t know if you can do anything for Mrs. Shilling, but I’d appreciate your giving it some thought. If things don’t change around here pretty quickly, we’re going to lose a valuable community member.”

  Reverend Savage stood and extended his hand. “Mr. Randall, thank you for coming. I assure you, I will give these matters—”

  These?

  “—some serious prayer and ask God’s guidance on how to best handle them.” The impish glint returning, he squeezed Arthur’s hand. “It seems to me having Mrs. Shilling as your friend is a very good influence for you. I’d hate to see a God-inspired friendship torn asunder.”

  Neva

  Neva took advantage of the quiet days of no customers and no Adeline to prepare for the big dinner on Thanksgiving Day. On Tuesday she cleaned the parlor and dining room, laundered her good table linens and napkins, and extended the fine cherry table as far as it would go, adding all ten leaves. Eight chairs usually surrounded the table, but she gathered chairs and benches from various locations in the apartment until she had enough places for eighteen people.

  From the cellar she collected potatoes, carrots, apples, onions, jars of green beans and pickles, and a quart of sour cherries. Everything else—bread and seasonings for the stuffing, flour, sugar, shortening, boxes of lime Jell-O, and cans of pineapple—she gleaned from the mercantile. As she loaded her arms, she experienced a sting of sadness mixed with anger. These goods shouldn’t still be on the store shelves. But those who gathered around the table would appreciate the pies, salads, and cakes the items produced. She intended to make extra pies and leave them in the lean-to. Even hobos deserved a little something special on a holiday.

  Wednesday she spent the morning baking pies—six apple, two cherry, and three custard. She didn’t have pumpkin or sweet potatoes for the traditional pies, but she hoped the others would satisfy her guests. The stove’s warmth and the pleasant aromas filling the kitchen put a bounce in her step. At noon she walked to the butcher’s for a turkey. One twenty-four-pound bird remained in the display case. She purchased it despite its extravagant $4.56 price tag.

  That afternoon she made two molded Jell-O salads, one with shredded raw carrots and one with pineapple and the few remaining walnuts from her pantry. The jewel-toned salads always looked so pretty on the table. They also looked tempting on the Frigidaire shelf. She hoped the children wouldn’t stick their fingers in them before she could serve them.

  On Wednesday evening after a simple supper of biscuits, boiled cabbage, and ham, Bud entertained the younger children with a game of pickup sticks while Neva sliced the last of the stale bread for stuffing. Belle offered to help, and Neva asked her to set the table with their best china dishes and fine silver cutlery.

  Belle left the kitchen but returned quickly, puzzlement pursing her face. “Momma, who all is coming tomorrow?”

  Neva continued cubing the slices of bread. “I invited the Savages, the Randalls and their housekeeper, the sheriff, and the café owner.”

  Belle silently counted with her fingers. “With us and all of them, we only need sixteen chairs. Why do you have so many?”

  “The table seemed to ask for eighteen place settings.”

  Belle giggled. “Oh, Momma, you’re so silly.”

  This might be her last opportunity to use the beautiful china and the Rich & Baker table. Perhaps it was silly, but she wanted to enjoy the things before she had to give them back.

  Neva gave her daughter’s nose a light tap with her finger. “Well, we have enough dishes to serve eighteen, so go ahead and set them all out. Maybe we’ll end up needing those extra seats.”

  With a grin Belle scampered off.

  When Neva passed through the dining room later to tuck the children into bed, she paused and looked down the length of the table. Belle had done such a nice job, the silverware perfectly placed on the creamy napkins, each dinner plate topped with a salad plate and centered in front of the chairs, and their best crystal goblets standing sentry over the knives and spoons. She curled her hands over the chair at the head, where Warren would sit when he was home, and her eyes slipped closed.

  Lord, grant us a time of sweet fellowship and gratitude tomorrow. So much is wrong in our small corner of the world and over the entire United States. But You are sovereign. You care. You bring hope and healing. Please flood us with Your presence tomorrow so we can carry away pleasant memories. Especially if this becomes our very last Thanksgiving in Buffalo Creek.

  Bud

  Ma kissed Charley good night, then did the same for Bud. Sometimes Bud thought about telling Ma he was too big to be tucked in and kissed like some little kid, but he’d missed it those weeks when she hadn’t come in. And he could tell it made her happy to follow the nightly routine. So instead of ducking away, he reached up and pulled her into a hug. She rose up with a smile on her face, and Bud’s chest went warm. It was good to see Ma smile.

  She extinguished their lamp and then left, closing their door behind her. Bud lay listening to her footsteps leading away—probably to the parlor, where she’d sit and work on some mending or crocheting before she turned in. Ma always had busy hands. When the runners of the rocking chair began creaking against the floor, Bud closed his eyes and yawned, ready to sleep.

  “Bud?” Charley whispered from the other side of the room.

  Bud whispered, too, so they wouldn’t bother the girls next door. “What?”

  “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

  Bud chuckled. He knew. The house smelled like pie, the table was all spruced up finer than a king’s table, and Ma had come in with flour on her chin.

  “Aunt Neva said we’d talk more about California on Thanksgiving.”

  Bud rolled to his side so he could look at Charley. Only a tiny bit of light entered their room from the window, and he had to stare hard to make out Charley’s face. “She said we’d talk about it over Thanksgiving break. Not Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment colored Charley’s tone and expression. “So we might not know by tomorrow?”

  Bud leaned up on his elbow. “You sound powerful eager to find out. Are you wanting to go or stay?”

  Charley shrugged. “Dunno for sure. What about you?”

  Bud chewed his lip. It still hurt a little bit from the mighty wallop he’d gotten from Martin. “Dunno either. Things here are kind of rough, but it’s still my home. California sounds like a dandy place where a fellow could have a good time, but it’s so far away. So…” He sighed. “I dunno.”

  Charley bit down on his lip, the same way Bud did. “Adeline’s so little, she don’t care, but Cassie wants to go. Belle told her oranges grow on trees all over the place in California, and Cassie loves oranges more than anything.”

  Bud would remember to tell Ma to put an orange in Cassie’s Christmas stocking.

  “Me? Oranges are all right, I guess. And it being warm all the time would be nice, too. Always have liked summer and running around without my shoes on. It’d be kind of like having summer year round.”

  Although Charley was singing California’s praise, he still sounded uncertain. Bud prompted, “But…”

  For a long time Charley lay there, looking across the room and blinking real slow, and Bud thought maybe he was going to drift off to sleep. Bud lay back down. And then Charley spoke again.

  “Before me and the girls came here, Daddy said Aunt Neva would be waiting for us and we’d be all right.” He paused for the length of two more blinks. “Who’ll be waiting for us in California, Bud?”

  Jesse

  At eleven thirty Jesse locked the door of his house behind him and set off for the mercantile. He rounded the corner of the sheriff’s office and encountered Miss Mullin heading in the same direction. With a grin he stuck out his elbow.

  She tittered but took hold, and the two moved together along the sidewalk. She sent him a sidelong glance. “You look right handsome today, Sheriff. Or should I just call you Mr. Caudel since you left your bad
ge behind?”

  Jesse chuckled self-consciously. He rarely wore a suit and tie, more comfortable in dungarees and a chambray shirt, but he figured he’d chosen correctly considering the fringed shawl, lace-decorated dress, cream-colored gloves, and flowered hat Miss Mullin sported. “You can call me whichever name you prefer as long as you don’t call me late to dinner.”

  She laughed, covering her wide mouth with her fingers. “Oh, you are a card, Mr. Caudel.”

  He’d been called that before and plenty worse things, too. The ugliest titles—ungrateful, uncaring, self-serving—he’d heaped on himself lately. But he’d been praying to make restitution, and the retired sheriff’s willingness to step in and substitute for Jesse for a week or so meant he could put his plan into action soon. He’d go as soon as he knew for sure whether Warren Shilling had been a thief as well as a philanderer. Eagerness sped his footsteps, and he nearly dragged Miss Mullin across the street to the mercantile’s front door.

  Bud was waiting inside, and he opened the door even before they knocked. “Hi, Sheriff, Miss Mullin. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Jesse recalled his first meeting with Bud. The boy’s welcome today was a lot friendlier. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, Bud.”

  Miss Mullin echoed, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Bud gestured toward the lit hallway at the back of the store. “Go on up. You can toss your shawl on the parlor sofa with the other coats, Miss Mullin.”

  “Oh, is everyone here already?” She pursed her lips. “I wanted to arrive early enough to give your dear mother a hand.”

  “Just the Randalls so far. Mrs. Lafferty isn’t coming after all. She woke up with a bad cold and didn’t want to get out.”

  “Oh, poor Lela.” Miss Mullin clicked her teeth on her tongue. “I’ll make her some chicken soup tonight.”

  Bud shuddered, and Jesse could imagine what he was thinking—chicken soup from the café owner’s stove would add to the older woman’s malady rather than heal it. Bud said, “Soon as the Savages get here, Ma says we’ll eat.”