Forevermore

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “Emmy-Lou!” Mrs. Erickson’s voice carried a panicky edge. “Emmy-Lou!”

  “Here! I’m over here!” Emmy-Lou waved. “Miss Hope said I can pick onions and make noodles!”

  Her aunt hastened over, the basket of eggs swinging from her arm in time with the pregnant woman’s waddle. “Do not go off on your own.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emmy-Lou hung her head.

  “A good girl only goes where she’s told.” Mrs. Erickson rested her hand on her niece’s shoulder. “You must remember not to wander off on your own.”

  “Okay.”

  “Take these eggs into the house, then come back to pick the onion. I’ll help pick vegetables.”

  Though she would have preferred to harvest more, Hope didn’t want the pregnant woman stooping over. “Are you already done crating the rest of the eggs?”

  “Ja. Jakob is taking them to the springhouse.”

  “How’s about you holdin’ out your apron?” Hope cut two more cabbages from their stems and placed all three into Annie’s apron. “Now, if that wasn’t good timin’, I don’t know what is. If’n you carry those in, I’ll bring in the tomatoes.”

  As they walked to the house, Emmy-Lou came back out. Hope set down the bushel of tomatoes. “You go on ahead, Mrs. Erickson. I’ll go on out and water a wee bit while Emmy-Lou’s out here. Then she and I’ll bring in the beans.”

  “I could start lunch. The cabbage would be good for bierocks. I have time to make the dough.”

  “Mmmm!” The thought of the meat-and-cabbage-filled rolls made Hope grin. “You got yourself a good plan.” Mrs. Erickson trundled on into the farmhouse. Hope watered half the garden; she’d come back out later and finish the rest while Emmy-Lou napped and Mrs. Erickson cut the noodles. A woman that far gone with a child had no business hauling water.

  Jakob sat at the supper table and surveyed the kitchen. He’d never seen such a mess. Bowl upon bowl—some covered with cloth and others heaping with string beans—were lined up along the counter on the pump side of the sink; a dozen jars of tomatoes stood in rows like pairs of soldiers on the other side. Small patches of flour dusted the floor, spools of thread and needles sat on the surface of the hutch, and he knew for a fact that only half of the garden got watered this morning. Though the shepherd’s pie tasted wonderful, he knew Hope simply took it from the springhouse and popped it into the oven. It hadn’t required any cooking.

  Friday was housecleaning day. Naomi’s embroidered dish towels even proclaimed that fact. But instead of creating order in his home, Hope caused chaos far beyond anything he’d ever witnessed. The fine layer of dust on the furniture and the smudged mirror on the washstand proved his new housekeeper didn’t keep house.

  “—more chicken feed.” Annie ducked her head.

  Jakob realized he hadn’t been listening, but he didn’t want his sister to feel ignored. “Mr. Vaughn mentioned he would get a big shipment of feed in this week. Perhaps you should go with me to buy the chicken feed, Annie. That way, you can choose the sacks you like best.”

  “What with all that butter you churned today, I reckon you’ll have that storekeeper happy as a lamb,” Hope chimed in.

  “Happy as a clam,” Phineas said.

  “Never seen me a clam. Wouldn’t know whether he was happy or not. Y’all don’t seem none too fond of sheep.”

  Phineas frowned. “You don’t understand.”

  Hope held up her hands. “Now, don’t think I’m finding fault, ’cuz I’m not. I know plenty of folk don’t cotton much to sheep, what with them range wars betwixt cattlemen and sheepherders. I heard ’twas on account of the sheep eatin’ clear down to the roots of the grass so’s the land’s spoilt for the cattle. Didn’t think that’d bother you, you bein’ a farmer. But anyways, you shore can tell when sheep are happy. ’Tis a joy to watch them gambol.”

  “Daddy.” Emmy-Lou reached over and tugged on his sleeve. “You said gambling and beer are sinful. Why does she like lambs when they do sinful things?”

  While Phineas hooted with merriment, Jakob patted his daughter. “The words sound alike, but they are written with different letters. One way means to dance and play. The other means to—” He caught himself just before he said “play” again. “It means to spend money on foolish guesses.”

  “How d’ya like that? I didn’t know them words got writ with different letters.” Hope didn’t look the least bit embarrassed to confess her ignorance. “You got yourself a right clever pa, Emmy-Lou. I never seed me anyone who had more books, neither. You’ll go to school and learn how to read and cipher, and one of these days, you’ll be as smart as your pa and auntie.”

  Emmy-Lou beamed. “Aunt Annie read a Bible story to us today, Daddy. Then we taked our nap. Miss Hope tucked us in. She said Auntie has to teach the baby to take naps.”

  Jakob glanced at his sister. She blushed, but he didn’t want her feeling awkward. So what if the kitchen needed to be straightened? Annie needed to rest, then—

  His mind skidded to a halt. Suddenly it all made sense. Annie read aloud because Hope couldn’t read. If Hope couldn’t read, then the lettering on Naomi’s dishcloths wouldn’t make any sense to her. No wonder she wasn’t doing the assigned chores on the correct days!

  “If’n you go to town first thing in the mornin’, you’d get the eggs and butter to the grocer so he could sell it off to women who wanna do their baking.”

  Well, at least she knows to do her baking on Saturday. “That’s a fine plan. Annie, we’ll leave after breakfast.”

  Hope cleared the dishes and set bowls of sliced peaches before each of them, then took a pitcher from the icebox. She poured cream from it onto Emmy-Lou’s fruit. “The cream from your cows shore is rich and sweet. Anybody else want some cream on theirs?”

  Phineas and Annie did. Jakob noticed how Hope managed to coax his sister into nibbling a little more. It had to be his imagination, but in the few days since Hope had come, Annie didn’t look quite so thin and pale.

  They said their after-supper prayer; then Jakob and Phineas went back out to take advantage of the longer, lighter evenings. Whenever he happened to be within sight of the yard, he’d glance over. Hope started watering the other half of the garden. If the weather weren’t so hot, he’d worry that she would rot the roots. Surely, though, she hadn’t finished watering when he saw her by the clothesline. Dishcloths, small clothes, and handkerchiefs— but not the sheets. After those items, his bandanas waved in a checkerboard of red-blue-red-blue.

  Naomi always hung the reds together, then the blues.

  Jakob shook his head to dislodge that memory and forced himself to focus on the problem. Even if the housekeeper didn’t know Monday ought to be laundry day, it made no sense that she’d boil the water and do only a small portion of the job. And why in the evening? Things wouldn’t dry before she had to take them down.

  By the time he went back into the house for the night, Emmy-Lou had gone to bed. Annie sat at the table, sticking a threaded needle through string beans she pulled from a colander. She glanced up from her work. “The beans have come ripe.”

  He nodded. From his youngest days, he recalled his mother drying string beans this same way. Blanched, then strung up, the beans would dehydrate. The shriveled beans were nicknamed “leather pants.” All through the winter, they’d be added to stews and casseroles where they’d plump up again and be tender and flavorful. This chore didn’t take much effort, and tired as Annie looked, Jakob felt a flare of relief that Hope found something vital for his sister to do that wouldn’t strain her.

  “Where is Hope?”

  “I’m not sure. She went outside. Maybe the garden or the springhouse. Oh—maybe to visit her mule. She loves Hattie.” Annie set aside the beans and levered herself up. “Did you need something? I should have asked. I’m sorry—”

  “Sit, Annie.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Jakob regretted his sharp tone. He softened his voice. “You have nothing to apologize for. It is good—you making
leather pants.”

  She twitched a poor excuse for a smile.

  “How are things going with the new housekeeper?”

  “Okay.”

  Jakob watched as his sister started to chew on her lower lip again. “Annie, I made a point of telling Hope that you’re the woman of my home, and she’ll stay only as long as you want or need her to. If there’s a problem, you only need to tell me so. I’ll take care of it.”

  Annie’s eyes grew huge. “She works hard. It puts me to shame, how little I do. She does all her work and most of mine, too.”

  The way the house looked, Annie was sorely mistaken, but Jakob didn’t dare disagree with her.

  Annie snatched up the needle and frantically started stabbing beans onto the thread. “I’ll try harder. I will. I’m sorry—”

  “Annie, no.” He reached to tilt her face toward him, but she flinched. That instinctive reflex cut him to the core, but he pretended nothing had happened. “Hope’s here to help you, Annie. I’m glad she’s a hard worker. Emmy-Lou sure has taken a shine to her.”

  Annie nodded. “Emmy-Lou loves and trusts as only a child can.”

  His sister’s comment held an unspeakable sadness. Jakob couldn’t reply without making the situation worse, so he cleared his throat. “I need to see to the books.” He strode to the study and shut the door.

  Once alone, he sank to his knees by his desk and rested his elbows on the chair. In despair, he folded his hands and bowed his head. “Lord, what am I to do? How am I to follow your will when I can’t see it? Your Word says it is not good that man should be alone, yet you took my Naomi.” Anguish tore at him. “Why didn’t you take Konrad instead and rescue Annie from his cruelty?”

  Five

  That preacher-man—he’s gotta fine way of thumpin’ his Bible.” Hope curled her arm around Emmy-Lou and thought about how nice and smooth the road was. Most places, the roads bore ruts and holes and bumps. The Stauffers’ buckboard hardly jostled at all. And just to be sure their Sunday-best clothes didn’t get dirty, either her boss or the hired hand had spread a thick blanket in the bed of the buckboard, too.

  “Reverend Bradle is a scholar,” Mr. Stauffer said. “He went to seminary.”

  “Hmm. I s’pose a man could learn a lot there ’bout folks’ souls.” Hope reflected on it for a moment. “Yep. It never occurred to me before now, but it’s the truth. I ’spect there ain’t another place where folks go that makes ’em take stock of their doin’s and shortcomings and decide to change their ways before it’s too late.”

  “The Lord’s Day is good for that.” Phineas stretched his legs across the bed of the buckboard.

  “If’n you stop up yonder, Mr. Stauffer, Emmy-Lou and me can hop down and gather up some posies. That’d be a right nice remembrance to leave, don’t you think?”

  Mr. Stauffer turned and shot her a confused look. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the one what brung it up. The preacher man went there, and since Phineas said the Lord’s Day is a fine time to do it, I reckoned ’twould be nice to have flowers to leave.” Hope scanned their surroundings and frowned. “I usually got me a good sense of direction, but I must be mixed up. I thought you was a-gonna turn to the east back at that fork.”

  “There’s nothing there but the cemetery.” Mr. Stauffer sounded like he’d just been forced to gargle kerosene.

  “That’s what I thunk.” Hope wondered what was wrong with her boss. He’d been standoffish ever since Friday.

  Mrs. Erickson tentatively rested her hand on her brother’s arm.

  “You and Hope are talking about two entirely different things. You said seminary; I think she thought you said cemetery.” Annie twisted as best she could. “Hope, seminary is a special Bible college to make men into pastors.”

  “Thankee for tellin’ me.” She let out a short laugh. “No wonder Mr. Stauffer didn’t turn!”

  “I still wanna stop and pick flowers.” Emmy-Lou popped up onto her knees and stuck her head around the bend of her daddy’s arm. “Can we?”

  “No.” Mr. Stauffer’s abrupt tone closed the subject.

  Mrs. Erickson cringed.

  So it ain’t just me who thinks he’s gotten surly. Well, no use dwelling on that. “Can you ’magine being so lucky that you got to go to school to do nothin’ all day but surround yourself with the things of God? That seminary must be a wondrous place. Just like when we was all a-singing the hymns this mornin’. Everybody lifting their hearts to Jesus. ’Magine how tickled God must be that folks go study at a fancy school just so they can preach better. It shorely worked for him. Ain’t never heard me a finer sermon.”

  Nodding, Phineas said, “Parson Bradle has a way about him.”

  “I’d sure be tickled to hear that verse he used until I can recollect it on my own.”

  Phineas gave her the black leather book he’d brought to church. “You’re welcome to borrow my Bible.”

  Reverently, she gave it back. “Can’t read. Never learnt how. ’Twould give me a gladsome heart if’n you’d teach me the verse, though. There’s a place in the Bible that says, ‘Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.’ I like to tuck verses in my heart every chance I get.”

  “The hundred and nineteenth psalm,” Mr. Stauffer said.

  “You got yourself a fine memory. Me? I can’t make head nor tales of numbers. I always wondered ’bout that sayin’. You can’t make up a story out of numbers.”

  Mrs. Erickson gave Hope a shy smile over her shoulder. “It’s like ‘gambol’ and ‘gamble’ the other night. The words sound alike, but they’re spelled differently. In that saying, the spelling means ‘an animal’s tail.’ ”

  Emmy-Lou giggled. “You can’t make a story out of a horse’s tail. Or a cow or a pig, either.”

  “Coins have two sides—a front and a back. They are called heads and tails.” For having sounded so grouchy earlier, Mr. Stauffer seemed to have calmed down a mite. “When someone says they can’t make head nor tail out of something, it means that no matter which way they look at it, it makes no sense.”

  “That’s me all right.” Hope paused a moment as a flock of birds startled and took flight. “Two years of schooling, and we all gave up on me. Teacher said I got stuff backwards, sidewise, and upside down. Couldn’t make sense of it. A washtub’s a washtub no matter what way you look at it, but them letters flip upside down or swap the stick to t’other side and they ain’t themselves anymore.”

  Emmy-Lou’s eyes were huge. “Don’t you wanna read?”

  “We don’t always get what we want.” Mr. Stauffer bit out the words as if they tasted mighty bad.

  Hurt and confusion mingled on Emmy-Lou’s face, and Hope hastened to soften the unintentional upset Mr. Stauffer’s words caused. “ ’Tis true we don’t. But the Bible says God is our Father, and He always gives us what is best. So I can’t read, but God brung me here to your house where your auntie reads to me and your parson tells me more ’bout the Bible. Ain’t it something how my heavenly Father looks after me?”

  “Daddy and Aunt Annie look after me.”

  “Well, I reckon that means you and me oughtta look after them. What say we fry up a chicken to feed ’em for Sunday supper?”

  “Yummy!”

  Once they reached the Stauffer home, Hope caught herself before hopping down on her own. She caught the worried glance Phineas shot toward Mrs. Erickson; then he reached up to Hope. “Miss Ladley.”

  A pregnant woman oughtn’t hop down. Us setting an example is a good notion. “Thankee.”

  As he set her on the ground, Emmy-Lou giggled. “Phineas helped you ’cuz he wants fried chicken!”

  “Is that so?” Hope held out her arms to catch the little girl.

  “Uh-huh.” Emmy-Lou jumped to her and wrapped her arms around Hope’s neck in an exuberant hug. “I like fried chicken, too.” Her little legs locked around Hope’s waist. “Do I get the gizzard or the neck this time?”

  �
�Ask your auntie.”

  “Aunt Annie?”

  “Whichever you want.” Annie glanced past the garden, toward the outhouse.

  Hope gave Emmy-Lou a squeeze. “You and me need to go change outta our Sunday clothes. I surely am lookin’ forward to eating some of your auntie’s coleslaw with the chicken.”

  While Phineas drove the buckboard across the yard to the barn and Mrs. Erickson went to the necessary, Hope walked up the back porch steps. Emmy-Lou continued to cling to her, and Mr. Stauffer opened the door for them.

  “Miss Hope, do you gotta change out of your Sunday-best dress? It’s so pretty, and I like green. The other one’s ugly.”

  “Emmy-Lou!” Mr. Stauffer’s brows crunched into a stern V, and he pulled her off Hope and into his own arms. “That was rude.”

  “We all got our favorite colors. I reckon lotta folks don’t cotton much to brown. Yeller’s probably my favorite on account of it bein’ so sunny. But brown—’tis a fine color, too. Why, I bet Emmy-Lou and me can name all sorts of grand things that’re brown whilst we change our clothes. Dirt’s brown, and ain’t nothin’ like rich, damp earth to cradle seeds. Now you tell me something that’s brown.”

  Emmy-Lou didn’t bother to look around at all. She looked up with complete adoration. “Daddy’s hair.”

  Golden fried chicken. The last bite of a peach tart’s crust. Tree trunks and lumber. Sturdy leather boots. By late afternoon, when the sun still gave light but heat no longer shimmered in the distance, Jakob marveled at how many things were brown and what a vast array of shades that color held. Never before had he scanned his farm and appreciated the fence posts or the smooth arch of the yokes. The supple look and feel of harnesses and saddles. To be sure, on occasions those thoughts had flitted through his mind, but today he’d seen his surroundings in a whole new light. Maybe it was because of Hope’s little game. Maybe it was because of all the brown things Emmy-Lou might have named first. His daughter had said, “Daddy’s hair.” Nothing but pure, innocent love rang in her voice. Even now, hours later, the memory watered his parched heart.