To Walk In Sunshine

by Sally Laity

  Finally she glanced up at the sky, where from the position of the sun she could tell it was time to bring the visit to an end. “Well, I must go now.” Rising, she brushed the leaves from the back of her skirt, then picked up her bag. “Thank you for the lunch. It was—nice—to see you again.”

  Ken stood also. “You, too, Rosa. I really did expect we’d cross paths someday—but today was a surprise. Maybe we can talk longer next time.”

  Rosalind nibbled her lips and checked to see no one else was in the area. “I do not think so. I. . .should not be with you. My people, they. . .”

  An understanding smile accompanied Ken’s nod. “Well, I come here pretty often. Maybe I’ll leave you a message in this old log now and then, if you happen by. And should we meet sometime—by accident, of course—I hope you’ll think of me as a friend.” He reached out a hand and clasped hers warmly.

  But inside, Rosa knew the two of them could never share a true friendship. Not openly. And not even in secret. Sooner or later they would be found out, and that would be disastrous. Withdrawing her fingers from his callused ones, she knew no words could pass the sad tightness in her throat. She raised her lashes and met his gaze for a breathless moment, then turned and started for home.

  Three

  During the next several days, Rosalind relived the visit with Ken Roberts many times in her mind. Whether she was occupied with daily chores, helping her grandmother prepare meals or herbal mixtures, or tending to other mundane tasks, recollections of the young man’s pleasant manner floated about in her head. Even now, jostling along with Grandfather in the wagon, her spirit remained back in the forest with her fair-haired friend.

  She had never deceived her guardians before and did not relish the guilt now pricking her conscience. If they had the slightest inkling that a young and virile man from the mines had approached her in the seclusion of the forest—not once, but twice—they would positively forbid her ever to go there unescorted again. She knew their low opinion of the coal crackers.

  Having met one personally, however, Rosa no longer shared the blanket sentiment that the lot of them were hard-living drunkards. Ken, at least, demonstrated a tender side. Who was to say the others lacked that quality when it came to their family relationships? Perhaps those who turned to liquor did so only to help them deal with the uncertainties of that dangerous life. Besides, both encounters with Ken had been accidental. It was highly unlikely there would ever be a third occurrence.

  The sun’s rays speckled the ground beside the wagon, reminding Rosalind of the way sunbeams slanting through the leaves had painted golden patches on Ken’s light brown hair. The silvery brook mirrored the hue of his eyes, and she could still hear the resonant tone of his voice. But one thing about their visit affected her most of all: Even though he, too, knew the deep sadness of losing family members, his eyes held no trace of bitterness, only a compelling inner peace.

  Still, she couldn’t help pondering his amazing statement about God being his friend. No one in her life had ever mentioned such a familiarity with the Almighty Creator. Unlike some of the other inhabitants of the camp, her relatives almost never went to church. And she knew for a fact that her grandparents didn’t own a Bible, though from time to time they obtained one to sell along with the other wagon goods.

  “You are quiet today, my Rosa,” Grandfather remarked. He turned onto a winding lane that eventually would take them to the home of one of their customers.

  “I have many thoughts.”

  “Good ones, I hope.” His dark eyes twinkled.

  She fought a blush. “Yes. They are good.” She diverted her gaze for a few seconds into the thick trees on either side, then turned to her guardian. “Do you ever think of God as your friend, Grandfather?”

  “My friend?” One side of his mustache quirked upward. “Who put such a notion into your head?”

  Rosa chose an evasive answer. “You said once that all people are alike in God’s eyes. And when I walk up the mountain, all the lovely things I see make me think about Him. That is all.”

  He gave a grudging nod. “I will speak truth. Long years ago, in Baskinta, missionaries came to talk of God. Many of us believed and turned from old ways we knew. But in America, to make a new life, I am busy. Someday I will think of God again. Maybe He will be friend then.”

  “Maybe.” At least her grandfather hadn’t gotten angry. Rosa drew a measure of comfort from that.

  The sight of a farmhouse directly ahead rendered an end to their conversation. And as usual, the family dogs came running, while the lady of the house hollered for the children to go inside.

  Rosalind stifled a sigh.

  ❧

  Contemplating the more than enjoyable chat two days ago with Rosalind Gilbran in the splendor of the woods, Ken found the descent from the sunny morning into the gloom of the mine particularly depressing. He didn’t have it in him to participate in the usual banter with the other men, so he tuned their voices out and concentrated on the gangway they were tromping through.

  Feeble beams of light from the electric lamps atop their hats played off damp rock walls and massive timbers crusted with a gruesome white mosslike fungus, occasionally glancing off streaks of coal, which shone like black diamonds. The glittering sparkles brought memories of Rosa’s dark eyes to mind. Despite the young woman’s hesitance to meet him again, Ken hoped she’d change her mind.

  Just ahead, coal buggies blocked their path, and the men stepped into the ditch running alongside the tracks, their boots sloshing through the brackish water until they passed the cars and resumed walking the track bed.

  The equipment they toted for the day rattled against their backs with each step: pick, shovel, bar, drill, powder, fuses, ax, and lumber. Since he had to bear the expense for the material, plus pay his helper out of his own salary, he concluded the system was designed to keep miners like him perpetually broke and in debt to the company. Maybe it was time he brushed up on algebra, engineering, and surveying and took the state test for his foreman’s papers. Surely there was a better future in that.

  The men passed numerous chambers opening at right angles into the coal seams. The fire boss’s slate had indicated two spots where the roof needed propping in the breast where they’d be working. Ken halted at the one assigned to them. “This is it, fellas. Let’s get busy.”

  Needing no instruction, they set about testing the roof, knocking down any loose or hanging pieces of rock so they could bolster the weaker places with new props to ensure their safety.

  “One o’ these paydays, Roberts,” MacNeil said between grunts as they wedged the timber into place, “we oughta tip a wee glass or two of moonshine at Riley’s Beer Garden. See if we can butter up the foreman an’ get us put in some easy spot, where we can just knock the coal off the ceilin’.”

  “Right,” agreed Valentino. “Wouldn’t take hardly any time at all to fill up our buggies then. We’d be outta here before lunchtime.”

  Ken chuckled. “Come on, guys. You know how the people at my church view that stuff. We don’t even drink real wine at communion.”

  “That’s the trouble with preacher-boys like you. Ye don’t know what you’re missin’.”

  “Could be,” he acknowledged cheerfully, “but I’ll pass, just the same. Now, who’s got the hand drill?”

  “Me, Reverend.” MacNeil’s stocky English butty, Bill Henry, unfastened the tool from his belt, where he’d hung it for the trek to the work site.

  “Good. Soon as you drill us some holes, we’ll set the charges. Then we can get to loading the cars.” Somehow, he sensed they had a long day ahead.

  When the shift finally ended and he went home, he found the house empty. Neither his mother nor Hannah appeared to be around, although cooking smells indicated they couldn’t be too far away. He clomped down to the cellar for his bath, then changed into the clean clothes Ma had laid out. Knowing Timmy wouldn’t be home for awhile yet, he then went to their bedroom for a catnap before supper.
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  In what seemed mere moments, Hannah’s knock awakened him. “Supper’s on.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right down.” He hurried downstairs to the table laden with roast beef, browned potatoes, and cabbage salad. “Pass the gravy, would you, Tim?” Ken asked after the blessing.

  “What’ll ya pay me for it?” the kid quipped. “After all, I’m a workin’ man now, ya know. I get paid for doin’ stuff.”

  “How ’bout I don’t break your arm? Fair enough?”

  “Only cause you’re bigger ’n me.”

  Ken caught the meaningful glance exchanged by Hannah and Ma. The two had been acting a mite strange ever since he took his place at the table. “What’s up? Something I ought to know?”

  “Oh,” his sister confessed, “Mrs. Jessup’s husband had an accident today. He got hurt pretty bad.”

  “Mike Jessup?” Ken probed. Their next-door neighbor worked on level two at the colliery and had a wife and four kids to support. “I didn’t hear the whistle blow.”

  “It never did. He was walking to the cage to go up top, when he tripped in front of a loaded coal car. It ran right over his arm and cut it right off at the elbow. The other men did what they could, then helped him into the cage. The ambulance wagon brought him home.”

  The news quenched Ken’s appetite. Though Hudson’s buggies were smaller than those used at some of the other mines, they held as much as three tons of coal and rock when loaded. Many a man had been killed or maimed for life in one blink-of-an-eye encounter with a coal car. Earlier, Ken had noticed groups of men talking among themselves as he dashed to the shower in preparation for going home, but he hadn’t thought much about it. He shoved his half-full plate away.

  “We took supper over to the family,” Ma said in a mono-tone. “Agnes looked like she was in a daze. The doctor had just left, said Mike won’t be going back to the mine. They don’t know what they’ll do now, where they’ll go.”

  “Somebody’s already been around taking up a collection,” Hannah added. “I wish we could have done more.”

  “I’ll go over there and see if there’s anything I can do. If nothing else, I can at least pray with them. Trust with them that God will see them through this terrible loss.”

  His intention was to lend comfort, but inside, Ken knew his own trust in the Lord was being sorely tested. All the hopes that families like his had upon coming to America seemed to be plummeting into holes even deeper than those the men worked in every day.

  ❧

  “We must go now,” Grandmother said, stuffing her medicine bag with medical supplies, then selecting various herbs from the shelves to add to its contents. “Baby born at full moon will be healthy. And from the way Sultana Zayek carried, I think she will have boy. Big, healthy boy.”

  Rosalind smiled. More often than not, her grandmother’s predictions proved to be right. Better yet, the other women in the camp trusted her tender ministrations in the delivery of their new little ones. “I saw Sultana out walking yesterday. She was anxious for the baby to arrive. She has made many tiny clothes while she has been waiting.”

  “Yes. Well, first we must see that the wee one comes. You will help again. Someday the people will need new midwife, and you already learn much of my trade.” The older woman gathered what she could carry, then started out the door, with Rosa toting the remaining items.

  Barely two years older than Rosalind, the young mother-to-be already lay abed when her husband, Kahlil, ushered Rosa and Grandmother Azar into the cluttered confines of their house wagon. Obviously wary of the whole torturous event in progress, the jittery man seemed only too happy to go outside to resume his pacing, leaving the women in charge.

  Rosa immediately set about doing her usual tasks, laying out clean sheets and towels and removing the scissors, tweezers, needle, thread, and twine from the medicine bag. Her grandmother, meanwhile, tied on a big work apron and moved to her patient’s side.

  This would be Sultana’s second birthing, having delivered a stillborn infant the previous year. Tension lay heavy in the tiny abode, Rosa noted from the muted voices as she stepped outside to heat water at the fire pit. The father-to-be was nowhere in sight.

  Knowing her grandmother always insisted on cleanliness during childbirth, Rosa carried a basin of hot water and a towel to the childbed for bathing the young mother. The pain-filled ebony eyes that met hers revealed a certain calm confidence over being in good hands, yet Rosa sensed her desperate hope that this babe would live. She gave Sultana an encouraging smile, then returned to her duties.

  When the water came to a boil, she inserted the instruments into the pot for several moments, then laid them out on a clean towel and carried those, too, inside. Her tasks now would be comforting ones. . .bathing Sultana’s perspiring face, holding her hand, and waiting.

  And waiting.

  “Good, good,” Grandmother crooned encouragingly after each contraction. “I see the head,” she announced at last. “He is coming.”

  Sultana gave a last mighty push, and Rosalind’s heart contracted as the tiny, squirming miracle presented himself. A touch bluish, at first, he let out a healthy protest at having left his warm cocoon. Still crying as Grandmother gently wiped his eyes, nose, and mouth of mucous and laid him on his mama’s belly, he quickly pinkened.

  “He is beautiful,” Sultana murmured, her eyes misty and soft with love as she cupped a palm around her baby’s velvety black head.

  Once Grandmother had tied off the cord and cut it, she handed the slippery little one to Rosa. “Go wash him nice for his mama. I finish up here.”

  This was Rosalind’s favorite part, holding one of God’s creations. Testing the water in the basin she’d prepared moments before his birth, she found the temperature just right. She soaped a hand and washed his head and rinsed it, then cleaned the rest of him, marveling over the perfect miniature fingers and toes, the strong little legs curled against his body. After wrapping him in a blue flannel blanket Sultana had made, Rosa carried the new babe to his mama and placed him in her arms.

  Grandmother had already rolled up the soiled sheets and replaced them with clean linens. “I will help the girl into clean nightgown,” she said to Rosa. “You go tell the papa he has fine son.”

  “I am happy for you, Sultana,” Rosa said, giving her friend’s hand a congratulatory squeeze. “He is truly beautiful.”

  Weary and spent, the young woman managed a small smile.

  On her way to the door, Rosalind gathered the various items that needed to be taken home and put them inside the medicine bag. Though she herself would be free to leave once Kahlil Zayek had been told of his son’s arrival, her grandmother would remain with the new mama for an hour or two to make sure she and the baby were faring well. Only when she was satisfied all was as it should be, would she make her way home to bed.

  Rosa stepped down from the house wagon, only to discover that Zayek still had not come back. She would have to find him before she could deliver the happy news. From where she stood, she scanned the grounds of the encampment. At this late hour, the other dwellings lay silent and dark in the moonlight.

  Only one cabin still glowed with light.

  Nicholas Habib’s.

  Drawing a long, slow breath to fortify herself, Rosalind gritted her teeth and forced herself to go there.

  The occasional bursts of laughter drifting out the windows infuriated her. To think that a man would leave his poor, suffering wife to endure birth pangs—and possible death—while he gallivanted off to drink and have a good time elsewhere! How callous. When she married, it would be to a man who would stay at her side to welcome a new life created by their love union. If she ever married at all.

  Striding purposefully to the door, Rosa gave three sharp raps.

  Muffled footfalls approached from the other side, then it opened, revealing Nick’s dusky face. One edge of his mouth curved up in a leering smirk. “Well, well,” he gushed on a breath heavy with Ahrrak, his glassy black eyes roaming over
her. “The beautiful Roshalind, come to call. Thish is a great honor.”

  “I am here to see Kahlil,” she said coolly, ignoring his slurred words and rude insolence. “Please get him for me.”

  Blocking the doorway, Nicholas regarded her for a few seconds. Then he yawned and scratched his head.

  But Sultana’s husband, obviously having overheard, pushed Nick aside. He looked only slightly in better condition than Nick as he lumbered out of the cabin, one shirttail askew, his hair disheveled, as if he’d spent hours raking it with worried hands. “My wife. It is over? She is okay?”

  Rosa nodded. “You have a son.”

  “A son! Did you hear that, Nick? I am a papa.” He danced an unsteady jig, laughing as he did so. “We must celebrate. Tomorrow. More Ahrrak.”

  “As you wish,” Nicholas replied, his dark gaze still on her. “You should not be out alone thish late, Roshalind. I will walk with you.”

  “That is not necessary. Grandmother still needs me. I will go back with Kahlil.”

  His thick brows dipped into a scowl, and he tightened his lips before closing the door.

  “A son,” Kahlil remarked, his voice husky with emotion as he started for home. “I am a papa.”

  “Yes.” Rosa had all she could do to keep up with his jubilant strides across the grassy campgrounds.

  She could feel cold eyes stabbing her like ice picks, but under no circumstances would she let Nicholas see her turn around and look his way.

  Four

  A duet of peaceful snoring from the next bedroom joined with the trilling of crickets and other insects outside Rosalind’s window in an irregular and comical pattern. Normally the soothing night sounds coaxed her to sleep, but she lay wide awake as she pondered the events of the evening.