by Anne Mateer
“Of course,” I stammered. “I understand.”
The mail carrier tugged the leather straps attached to the bit in the horse’s mouth. I contemplated the newspaper in my hand, my most consistent contact with the world outside this farm.
“Is it still bad—in town, I mean?” I gave the sheriff a sideways glance. He hadn’t volunteered such information. But neither had I asked.
“It ain’t good, that’s for sure as shootin’. Buried three more yesterday.” He glanced at the children and lowered his voice. “Took a boy and his father within hours of each other.”
I let out a deep breath and felt a sudden urge to wash my hands again.
His large head shook. “Some say it’s the judgment of God. Some claim it’s the Germans attempting to kill us all in our beds. Either way, not much to do but pray.”
I nodded, thinking of Mama and Mrs. Crenshaw.
“I need to get on now. Still more deliveries to make before dark.”
Suddenly my eyes went wet, and my fingers itched to fling the newspaper, let the pages fly to every corner of the yard. I wanted this scourge to end, wanted Mama to get well and Arthur to send for me. I wanted Frank to come home to his children so I could get on with my life.
“Are you well, miss?”
I pulled my distracted thoughts back to the moment. “Yes, I’m well.” But I didn’t believe my own words. “Thank you, Mr. Culpepper.”
I stepped inside the fence. “And thank you again, Sheriff, for your help.”
“My pleasure.” But the sheriff didn’t sound as if he’d found any pleasure in the day after all. He waited until Mr. Culpepper’s horse trotted away before cranking his car’s engine to life. I hated hurting Sheriff Jeffries’s feelings, but I didn’t want to him to misunderstand. My destiny lay far beyond this or any other pokey town. With Arthur.
He eased his car into gear and sputtered away. I turned back toward the house. Dan clutched my skirt, begging to be held. Janie laughed in James’s arms as her sister played peek-a-boo. And my world righted. I couldn’t fall apart. I didn’t have a choice. These children needed me. They had no one else.
I unfolded the newspaper. An envelope tucked inside bore the familiar slant that quickened my heart. Arthur hadn’t come in person, but he’d arrived all the same.
I woke up chilled. Winter had come to our part of Texas, though I knew the warm weather was by no means over for the year. I put off dressing and instead crept downstairs with clothes in hand, the bare floor cold beneath my feet. And I couldn’t endure cold feet.
I rummaged through the chest of drawers in the downstairs bedroom. Who did the clothes belong to—my aunt or Frank’s wife? A shiver ran down my back, and I decided it didn’t matter. I pulled out a pair of knitted socks and slipped them over my icy feet. Then I tiptoed into the kitchen, stirred the embers in the stove, and added a few sticks of fresh wood before setting the oatmeal to cook.
Another empty Sabbath stretched before me. No possibility of mail. And likely no visitors. Arthur had written of the quarantine at Camp Dick, though, to my great relief, he declared himself well. But he wouldn’t be able to come to me for a while.
The children would need something to fill the hours. Something fun but in keeping with the focus of the day. I remembered the Bible I’d found on the shelf in the parlor. We could read about Jonah and the whale and Daniel in the lions’ den and act them out together. A grin spread across my face, then vanished.
Mama would be mortified at the thought of play-acting on Sunday. But it would be Bible stories, after all. Surely God would understand and approve, even if Mama didn’t.
I took a sip of coffee and thought of Mama. Was she better or worse? I hated not knowing. As much as I chafed against her tight rein, I didn’t want her to die. If only she’d let Daddy put a telephone in the house. Then I could get word. But then again, that would require this house to have one, as well. No use pining over what couldn’t be. So I again begged God not to take Mama as He’d taken her sister.
A sizzle from the stove interrupted my prayer. I looked up as oatmeal poured over the edges of the pot. Jumping to my feet, I lifted the pot from the burner, groaned, and set it on the worktable. A harness jangled outside the window. I flung the door open and ran out onto the porch.
Then I remembered my nightdress.
“Morning.” The preacher nodded once and averted his eyes.
With a shriek, I ran back inside and slammed the door, barring it with my body as breath pushed hard and fast against my chest. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or cry as I listened for the buggy to roll from the yard. Instead, footsteps faded around to the front porch.
I charged up the stairs, two at a time, threw off my nightclothes, wriggled into my work-a-day dress, and pulled on my boots, lacing only the top to keep them from flapping like agitated chickens.
Ollie appeared, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Get dressed, dear,” I said. “It seems we have company.”
“Who?”
“The preacher.” I swept past her and fairly flew down the stairs again. With my hand on the front doorknob, I stopped.
My hair. I ran my fingers down my braid, separating it into one long mass. Knotting it at the back of my neck, I tucked the ends through and hoped it would stay in place without the usual pins—at least for a little while. Maybe now that I was on my own I’d get it bobbed. . . .
I pulled in a deep breath. The odor of strong coffee and burnt oatmeal wrinkled my nose. Be dignified, I told myself. You are a woman, not a child. I opened the front door and peeked around. But no preacher waited.
A horse whinnied nearby, so I gathered he hadn’t left. With a huff, I returned to the kitchen to clean up my mess. By the time a new batch of oatmeal simmered on the stove and a full pot of coffee sat on the warming shelf, the jowly preacher knocked at the kitchen door and handed me a brimming pail of milk.
I passed it to Ollie. “Coffee?” I offered.
He shook his head, eyes shifting back and forth. “Could we visit out front?”
I followed him out the door. His stout legs made quick work of the porch that wrapped around the east side of the house. His black coat flapped in the breeze as he removed his matching hat and acknowledged my more respectable presence with a slow nod. Then fear shot through me like a bolt of lightning in a night sky. Had he come bearing tragic news? I reached for the back of the rocking chair.
“Is there a problem?” I tried to erase the tremble in my voice.
“I’m Brother Latham.” He stuck out a work-worn hand to accompany his shy smile. “I’m sorry I startled you this morning. I wanted to make some visits since we aren’t having services today. Yours is the closest house to mine.”
I exhaled as I shook his hand. At least he didn’t seem to consider me less of a Christian after the nightgown incident. I motioned to the other rocker. He sat.
“I’m Rebekah Hendricks—” I looked down at my hands, embarrassed at my awkwardness—“although I expect you know that.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more sociable in town the other day.” I winced, thinking of the scathing look Mama would have given my inattentiveness, even in such a trying situation.
He waved my words away. “Think nothing of it, child.”
I remembered seeing the doctor’s buggy at the preacher’s house on our walk around the farm. Should I ask after his family? What if it wasn’t good news?
Brother Latham leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The calloused hands and weathered face said he wasn’t solely a preacher. He also farmed. Two jobs rolled into one, with sickness adding to the workload on both ends.
“You won’t have heard, of course, how many have been taken ill in these parts.” He sighed. “That’s for the best.”
I almost interjected what I knew, but before I could draw breath, he continued on. “Our small congregation has already lost several members, including some from its founding families. Your aunt will be most s
orely missed. She was a good friend to all. And we are praying for Frank, too, as he absorbs this unexpected news.”
I nodded, my gaze intent on my hands.
“I can’t imagine how he must feel knowing his children are all alone.”
My head jerked up.
“I mean, well . . .” Brother Latham allowed his words to drift away, his droopy eyes staring at me with apparent concern.
“It’s very kind of you to trouble yourself about us, Brother Latham.” I folded my hands in my lap, as prim and proper as you please, and counted my fingers. Then I inhaled a deep breath. “I’ll be staying on and caring for the children awhile.” I looked up, sure my discomfort stood naked before him. “I promised my aunt I would.”
He gave a curt nod, as if he approved of my plan, but his eyes seemed to concede that he accepted this only because he saw no other option. “Do you have everything you need?”
“I believe so.” My confidence grew with each word. “We have vegetables from the garden and milk from Ol’ Bob, as well as eggs from a few chickens, and the cistern is full from all the rain. I found flour and sugar and a good bit of cornmeal, as well. I’m sure we can manage until . . . ”
Until what? Until Mama got well? Until the children’s father came home? Until Arthur married me?
The preacher slapped his meaty hands against his knees and rose to his full height.
I stood, too. “Thanks for stopping by.”
His head bobbed, jiggling the flesh beneath his chin. “Any other chores I can help with today?”
The question startled me. “Don’t you need to get on to your other visits?”
“What good would I be if I just visited and left without offering a hand of help to those in need? Kind of like saying, ‘Go, be filled,’ instead of giving a hungry man a piece of bread.”
His words made sense, but I couldn’t imagine Reverend Huddleston, back at home, rolling up his sleeves and milking a cow or mucking out a stall, no matter how great the need. He seemed better at sitting in a parlor with a delicate china teacup in his hand.
I thought to protest, to assure him I could take care of things myself, but when I noticed my unlaced boots, my resolve melted. “Your help this morning has been greatly appreciated. I promise I’ll send for you should we need anything more.”
The children gathered at the front door now, their faces peering through the screen.
“My wife will be over when the sickness abates. She’s helping nurse some of the others, as well as a few of our own. But Ollie and James know the way to our house should you need us before then.” He looked at the two oldest children. Solemn nods spoke their reply.
He strode around to his buggy and hefted himself onto the seat. “Frank has been good about sending his pay to Adabelle, so open any letters that come from him.”
I exhaled my relief. Army pay. I hadn’t thought of that. But how long until the next batch came?
On Friday morning, I picked my way across the dew-damp yard after giving Ollie instructions to watch the little ones. I did some of my best thinking with my cheek pressed against a cow’s warm flank, the milk plinking into the tin pail.
Ol’ Bob swished her tail at me. I rubbed my hand down her nose before pulling the stool close. My fingers pulled at Bob’s teats, the rhythmic motion as familiar to me as frying a chicken or sweeping a floor, leaving my mind free to roam.
We’d need a few supplies soon. I’d rummaged through Frank’s letters in the desk yesterday looking for money. I found nothing.
But I read through letter after letter as I searched. Mostly stilted words of a grieving man, one who didn’t quite know how to talk to his children. And yet, in one old letter addressed to Clara and written before he’d boarded the ship for France, his tender expressions of joy at the coming birth of his child ripped at my heart.
Would Daddy’s or Will’s—or Arthur’s—letters sound like Frank’s, given a similar situation? I couldn’t imagine. I told myself Frank’s character wasn’t really any of my concern. What I needed most at this moment was Arthur’s assurance that my life wouldn’t keep plodding along on this predictable line, like a mule plowing a furrow over an unending strip of sod.
The bucket brimmed with the foam of warm milk. I cooed to the cow and forked fresh straw her way. The smell of the barn drew me back to the remembrance of home. How I wished Mama were here. She’d know exactly what to do next.
I trudged back indoors no more peaceful than when I’d left the house. James sidled close, his small fingers slipping into mine. Ollie wiped a towel across the last clean plate. Then she coughed.
Not a big cough, but enough. I shuddered at the memory of Aunt Adabelle’s purpling face. And the blood. I led James to the wash bucket and called the others there, as well, plunging grimy hands into the water and scouring them with soap over and over again.
Whatever else happened, I would keep us all well.
Thunder rumbled less than an hour later. Rain drummed against the window, echoing in my ears, reminding me again of Aunt Adabelle’s muddy grave. Would Mama suffer the same fate?
Dan tromped into the kitchen, water dripping from his hair and his clothes, puddling on my clean floor. “It’s raining,” he announced.
I picked up a dry rag. “Go change, young man.”
He scampered off while I dropped to my knees, mopping up his trail.
Crash. Tumble. Bump. Scream.
I ran into the hall. Dan lay at the bottom of the stairs amid a jumble of wooden blocks, blood oozing from his head.
“Heavens to Betsy!” I nearly fainted as my stomach threatened to spill its contents. “Ollie!”
She already stood beside me.
“Wet a towel and bring it here.”
She dashed away as I knelt beside the screaming child.
James stood over him, too, tears streaming down his face. “I just wanted him to hurry.”
I brushed him aside as Ollie arrived, the towel dripping a river behind her. I wrung water onto the floor, then held the limp flour sacking to the gash. Blood seeped toward the edges of the cloth. “Get me another.” I kept my voice low, trying to calm the situation, though I felt anything but calm.
Three towels later, the bleeding slowed. Dan only sniffled now. James’s tears dried and Janie crawled into the hall to add to the commotion. I leaned my head against the wall, my clean dress now streaked red. If I closed my eyes, would it all disappear?
I squeezed my eyelids shut until the darkness seemed complete. But when I opened them again, everything remained. I leaned over Dan. “Let me look, honey.”
He screamed as I pushed the hair away from the wound. I wished I could scream, too. Scream or vomit, I wasn’t sure which. Did the gash need a doctor’s care? Mama would know.
I cradled Dan’s knees over one of my arms and supported his head with the other as I carried him to the kitchen. “Ollie, get a quilt and lay it on the floor near the stove.” My arms sagged as I waited. Finally, I laid him down. Ollie pressed the rag to the oozing spot on his head.
A horse and buggy stood in the barn, but how long would it take my uncertain fingers to hitch one to the other? And even if we made it to town, to the doctor’s house, would he be home? I knew he continued to care for those ill with influenza. Maybe he wouldn’t have time to deal with this.
Tears streamed down my face now. I wanted to yell at Aunt Adabelle for dying, at Mama for being sick, at Arthur for being quarantined. Most of all, I wanted to yell at Frank—Dan’s father—for being out of reach, across the ocean.
I put my head in my hands. Even God had abandoned us, I was sure. But the thought of lowering that feisty little boy into a muddy, gaping hole in the ground spurred me forward as surely as a cowboy kicking his horse into a gallop.
“I’m going to get help. Keep towels on Dan’s head. Give Janie some warm milk and have James lie down with her so she’ll nap. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I flung open the door and burst through the downpour before
any of them could protest. One step beyond the gate, my boot sank deep in the black mud. I wrenched it free and took the next step. And the next. Brother Latham’s offer of help came to mind, but I felt sure Dan needed a doctor. So I trudged on toward town.
By the time I reached Doc Risinger’s house and pounded on his door, my whole body shook like a high branch in a spring storm. But along the way I’d come to a decision: someone else could take care of these children. Once Dan had the care he needed, I would pack my bags and head to Dallas, to Arthur. I could use the money I’d found in the handbag. Arthur could pay back Frank Gresham later. I’d hire a room, wait for Arthur to be free of the quarantine, and beg him to marry me. Now. My mind was made up, my heart relieved.
Until Doc Risinger opened the door.
“Go away, child,” the doctor rasped, purple-shadowed eyes sunk into his thin face. “I can’t do ye any good now.”
I stuck my foot between the door and the doorframe. “What do you mean?” I could only see a sliver of his tortured face.
“Just what I said, child. The fever’s got hold of me. Go on. Do the best ye can.”
“But I haven’t come about the flu. Dan’s fallen down the stairs and cut his head. It’s bleeding.”
His head moved back and forth, but barely. “Wash it good. Sew it up if ye need to.” A heavy sigh. “Wait here and I’ll give ye some iodine to smear on it, too.”
He pushed the door until it inched my foot back and clicked shut. I paced the small porch. I had to get back to Dan. I’d already been gone too long. The sky still cried its steady tears, but at least I could see beyond the curtain of rain now.
The door cracked open. Unsteady fingers thrust a small bottle into my hands. The door shut before I could voice any apprehension or appreciation.
I plunged back into the muddy track that ran out of town. Slipping, sliding, sinking. Covered in mud, I reached the yard, then the kitchen door, calling for a blanket and a change of clothes. The blanket came first.
“The bleeding stopped just after you left,” Ollie told me. “And I put the towels in there to soak.” She pointed to a bucket on the porch.
