A Time for Everything

by Mysti Parker

  Before she could decide whether or not she was up to the task, she noticed Jonathan standing in the doorway, head down, and feet shuffling.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Ready?”

  He shrugged and kept studying his shoes.

  “What’s your favorite subject?”

  Another shrug. Obviously gaining the boy’s trust wasn’t going to be easy, not to mention encouraging him to speak. She decided, however, to treat him as if he wasn’t mute at all. If she could lighten the mood perhaps…

  “From the looks of it, I’d say your favorite subject is feet.”

  He snapped to attention at that, looking at her with his head tilted to one side like a curious pup. A tiny smile flitted across his lips before he looked away again.

  At least she’d chipped the armor. “Have a seat please.”

  Jonathan quickly obeyed, sitting at the small desk. He tapped his fingers to a marching drum rhythm. Portia rubbed her chin. Where to start? The best way to combat a child’s illogical fear was to repeatedly expose them to it until the feeling subsided. Clearly, Jonathan was frightened of speaking, perhaps because he expected disapproval. Maybe she could remedy that.

  “Jonathan, I want you to recite something your mother taught you. Anything at all.”

  The boy’s face paled beneath his freckles. Fear flashed in his eyes. His poor little fingers froze mid-tap.

  Portia turned away from him, hands clasped behind her back, pretending to study the titles on the nearest bookshelf. “Anything at all,” she added lightly. “No matter how elementary.”

  Jonathan fumbled with a pencil, rolling it back and forth.

  Portia took the lead with her favorite Longfellow poem. “Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream…”

  She paused, waiting.

  His deep intake of breath was followed by the sound of a pencil scratching across paper. She turned back toward him with a smile. He focused on his pencil, this time tapping it on the desk like a drum stick. Portia walked over, leaned in, and read what he had written.

  You’re not my mother.

  As though Jonathan had punched her right in the mouth, she recoiled and turned around to face the large desk. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep to keep unwanted tears from spilling. She’d expected him to feel this way from the moment she accepted the position. But why did it hurt so badly? Perhaps her pain still festered too close to the surface for her to overcome his rebellion. Not my mother — not anyone’s mother — not anymore.

  Her jaw trembled, and with both hands flattened onto the surface of the desk, she decided to cancel their studies for today. No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. Being a teacher meant accepting every student’s faults as well as their strengths. It was her job to help him grow and learn, no matter what.

  After one shaky breath, she spoke over her shoulder. “I know I’m not your mother. But she wanted you to be educated, so that’s why I’m here. Do you want to go against her wishes, or will you honor her memory instead by cooperating with me?”

  No answer.

  Figuring this whole exchange was probably a waste of time, she tried starting over. “Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream…”

  A few painfully slow seconds passed. Then his pencil scratched across the paper again. She feared what she would find, but forced herself to turn around. Easing over to his desk, she leaned in and read.

  For the soul is dead that slumbers, and things are not what they seem.

  With a quiet sigh of relief, Portia continued, “Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal…”

  Once again applying pencil to paper, he wrote, Dust thou art, to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul.

  He’d finally become responsive, even if he wouldn’t actually speak. She would have to be content with that for now. “Impressive. You are familiar with Longfellow. Let us see what else you know.”

  Throughout the morning, Portia quizzed him on arithmetic, science, and history. Apart from struggling a bit with fractions and division, Jonathan proved to be very bright, though their interaction never progressed beyond her verbal questions and his written answers. His mother had taught him well, and Portia hoped Jonathan would open up eventually and show his true personality.

  They’d just begun some composition when Bessie stuck her head in the room and announced lunch. Jonathan sprang from the seat and scurried for the door.

  Portia spoke up. “Jonathan?”

  Bessie grabbed his shirt collar before he could disappear into the hall. “Listen to her, young man. Don’t make me fetch a switch.”

  He turned reluctantly and looked up at Bessie, who stood there with two hands on her hips, waiting, until he finally turned his face toward Portia.

  “Be back here promptly at one o’clock, please,” she said.

  He nodded and disappeared behind Bessie. His running footsteps thudded across the hall to the kitchen.

  Bessie shook her head and crossed her arms. “How are the studies goin’?”

  “He’s a very bright boy,” Portia said, deciding not to mention his first written reply. “I… wish he felt comfortable enough to speak to me.”

  “I ain’t seen nobody but the Lord work miracles, and I don’t expect you will, either.” She turned and started across the hall. “Lunch is gettin’ cold.”

  Portia shivered. The real miracle would be gaining Bessie’s trust, but how?

  ~~~~

  April 17, 1866

  Dear Ellen,

  I hope this letter finds you all well. It is chilly this evening. Rain is pecking on the windows, obscuring our view of the world beyond. Mr. Stanford is still distrustful of me, I suppose because I am a “Rebel’s” wife. We have conversed briefly, and though he may never accept me entirely, we have in common the heartache of losing a spouse. Perhaps that will be enough to nurture his trust in my abilities. I worry that he is not sleeping enough or spending time with his son. Both would do him good.

  Jonathan reports to his studies on time, and he does everything I require of him, yet he will not speak no matter how I try to persuade him. I fear if I press him further, what little amicability we have for one another will be destroyed.

  What I fail to understand, however, is why he is not expected to do chores. The boy’s grandfather says the doctor advised rest in hopes of encouraging him to speak again. I cannot see what good that will do him. Boys his age should be gathering eggs, slopping hogs, cleaning the stables, or weeding the gardens. Perhaps he is truly traumatized from his mother’s loss and father’s distant demeanor, but I think he is capable of much more responsibility.

  Tell me how everyone is faring. I imagine the baby will not be much longer in coming…

  ~~~~

  Portia awoke to the dim light of sunrise. Sun peeked through the clouds, promising a lovely spring day. She extended her arms and legs in one big, satisfying stretch. Something wriggled against her foot. With a startled yelp, she sprang from the bed and threw back the quilt. A garter snake, about two feet in length, wound itself into a frightened coil.

  Hand on her chest and heart thudding against her palm, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Her eyes snapped open when she heard a shuffling sound outside her door, followed by running footsteps heading for the stairs.

  “Jonathan.”

  While not surprising, it still hurt that he would do such a thing. He resented her arrival, as Bessie did, and she doubted that would ever change. The next time she went into town, perhaps she could inquire about another position.

  Her heart sank as she looked around for something in which to store her unwanted bedmate. She found a double-lidded knitting basket in the bottom of the wardrobe and emptied the yarn from it. Using one of the knitting needles, she gingerly lifted the snake from the bed to the basket. Once the little reptile was safely inside, she snapped the lid shut, retrieved two books from her bedside table, and placed them on each side of the lid. She and her broth
ers caught snakes when they were little; she knew what escape artists they could be.

  Quickly as she could, she washed, dressed, and put up her hair. Downstairs, the dining room was vacant, though crumb-covered plates and an empty platter occupied the table. Portia carried the basket into the kitchen, where Bessie and Jonathan were eating their breakfast at the small table. The boy’s eyes grew bigger the closer she came.

  She walked right up to him, holding the basket at an angle. Soon as she lifted the lid, the little serpent’s head popped out, and he welcomed them all with a flick of his tiny forked tongue.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Bessie pushed away from the table, jumped to her feet and backed toward the door leading outside. “What do you think you’re doing, bringing that thing in here? Tryin’ to scare me to death?”

  Portia shut the lid gently, being careful not to hurt the little snake. She looked directly at Jonathan. “I found it in my bed this morning. Care to explain?”

  He flicked his eyes from Bessie to Portia and shook his head frantically.

  “Jonny?” Bessie said, with a note of warning in her voice. “Did you put a snake in Mrs. McAllister’s bed? You best tell the truth or you’ll get a good whippin’.”

  He glanced at Portia and lowered his eyes to the table. Biting his lip, he finally nodded.

  Bessie pointed toward the dining room door. “You get upstairs to your room and don’t you come out ’til I tell you!”

  “Wait,” Portia said, as an idea sprang to mind. Jonathan paused at the threshold. “I think we can come up with something much more productive.”

  Bessie looked at her with one dark, skeptical brow lifted high.

  “It’s a nice day out. I say we skip lessons and put this boy to work. He’s plenty old enough to carry his weight around here, and I have yet to see him do any chores.”

  Jonathan’s shoulders drooped, and he gave her a look that suggested a good whipping would be the better punishment.

  “We don’t work him real hard, not since he stopped talking.” Pity coated Bessie’s words, and she looked at him as though he might soon be on his deathbed.

  Nonsense. This ‘condition’ of his weighed down the whole household. The child was healthy and shouldn’t be coddled into idleness that fostered disrespect and mischief. “His arms and legs are completely functional. He doesn’t need to talk to be able to work.”

  With her lips skewed to one side, Bessie regarded him for a moment. “All right. What you got in mind?”

  “What’s on your chore list for the day?”

  “Weedin’, prunin’, plantin’ potatoes and beets…”

  “Then we’ll help you, won’t we, Jonny?”

  His breath came out in a dreadful sigh as he stomped toward the back door.

  “No, not yet.”

  He paused, looking puzzled.

  Portia handed him the basket. “First you’ll return this little fellow to where you found him.”

  He wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes at her but trudged out the door with the basket, heading toward the garden.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. He never did this kind of thing when his mama was alive,” Bessie said.

  “It’s understandable. His whole world has changed, and he feels helpless. Putting a snake in my bed is something he can control. At least it wasn’t a copperhead.”

  Bessie looked at her for a moment, her eyes softer than usual. “Maybe you’re right about that. What are you gonna do all day?”

  “I’ll be working outside, same as you.” She rolled up her sleeves and smiled.

  Eyes wide with surprise, Bessie said, “All right, then. Gardenin’ shed’s right out there. You can start by pruning the rosebushes. I’ll clean up the breakfast dishes and be out shortly.”

  Portia found Jonathan by the shed, now with an empty knitting basket. She gathered pruning shears and some gloves. At the front corner of the house near the parlor, they found the first unruly rosebush. He crossed his arms and scowled the whole time, but he watched closely as she showed him how to cut a few dead and damaged stems.

  Then it was his turn, so she handed him the gloves and pruners. He swallowed hard and stared at the bush like it might grab him with its thorny arms and never let go.

  “You can do it. See these thin, twiggy stems? Cut those out,” she said.

  With his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, he obeyed, holding the pruners awkwardly at first. His confidence grew with every snip.

  She knew he would feel satisfaction in a job well done, so she continued to instruct and encourage, using the calm, patient voice she had employed in the schoolroom. “And these here that are crossing each other — cut one of those back. Pinch off the suckers next. Perfect!”

  When he finished, he lowered the pruners and stood back, eyeing the rosebush with a “that’s not too shabby” frown. Portia helped Jonny prune the other rosebushes next to the porch and the garden. By the time they were done, he had worked up a good sweat and had earned a few battle scars on his arms from the thorns. But he wore a relaxed smile of pure accomplishment.

  “Now that the sun’s had time to dry the dirt, let’s go help Bessie plant the potatoes and beets,” Portia said.

  When they arrived back at the garden, Bessie was hard at work on evenly spaced potato hills. Portia fetched a hoe and showed Jonny how to dig a nice, straight row. She handed him the hoe, and he did his best. His row looked more like one side of a parenthesis, but it would suffice.

  Portia followed along, dropping seeds into the furrow. When he reached the end of the row, he came back behind her, covering the seeds and gently tamping down the dirt with the bottom of the hoe. Finally the last few beet seeds were safely under the soil. Jonathan stood up straight and arched his back to stretch his strained muscles. He brushed the dirt off his hands and scowled.

  “What’s wrong?” Portia figured he would show her blisters on his palms or a rock in his boot.

  “I hate beets.”

  He said it in such a clear, matter-of-fact voice that no one would have guessed he hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. He walked to the shed, put the hoe away, and went back inside the house.

  Portia’s jaw dropped. “Did you hear that? He hates beets.”

  “He always has.” Bessie stared at the back door and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “You did it. You got him to speak.”

  “No, he did it,” Portia said, leaning on her hoe. “All he needed was enough work to distract him from keeping his voice to himself.”

  “If I’d known that, I would have had him workin’ from sunup to sundown.” She pursed her lips into an impressed smile. “We should tell Beau.”

  “It might be best to wait a bit, see if Jonathan takes the initiative and speaks to him without prompting. If we put too much pressure on him, he might hold back even more.”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right.”

  Mr. Stanford didn’t utter more than a few words at dinner. He didn’t bring up any more serious matters as he had on her first morning there. Harry was as chatty as he’d been from the start, Ezra just as humorous.

  The indifference didn’t hurt her so much as she hurt from watching Jonathan trying to catch his father’s attention. Now and then his eyes would linger on Beau, and his mouth would twitch as though he wanted so badly to share something with him. She was tempted to tell them about Jonathan breaking his silence, but held her tongue. She had to let him speak on his own terms.

  But Beau never looked at him, and Jonathan’s hopeful countenance fell. He played with his stew and nibbled some cornbread, reclaiming the silence he had possessed before today’s three-word marvel. Beau left the table and went to bed without even a farewell or goodnight.

  Certainly indifference was better than the brutality she had suffered at the hands of her own father. Still, her heart ached for Jonathan, and she didn’t know how to make it better.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning’s lesson
s consisted of biology and botany. Portia gave Jonathan the privilege of picking corresponding books that interested him. He picked five, and three of them were books about horse husbandry. The Horse: With a Treatise on Draught, The Complete Farrier, and On Horsemanship, an English translation of an ancient Greek historian. Though horse-related books were in abundance, they were not the only choices. Portia had already scanned every title on the shelves.

  “What made you pick these three?” Portia asked.

  He shrugged and turned his head toward the front window. Toward the horse barn.

  “I bet your father read these to you.”

  With a sad sigh, he nodded and scratched at a spot on the desk top.

  She sat down at the big desk. The windows into Jonathan’s soul had opened a little more. He loved his father and looked up to him. They should be able to connect through all those things fathers and sons did together — reading, hunting, fishing, and the family business. Maybe she could encourage that somehow.

  The door opened, and Bessie announced lunch before she could form any solid plans. Jonathan sped out as usual.

  “How’s things goin’ today?” Bessie asked.

  “Not bad.” Portia closed The Complete Farrier and propped her chin on her hand. “Do you know when Mr. Stanford and Jonathan last did something together, just the two of them?”

  Bessie lifted one shoulder and shook her head. “There’s church, but… no, I don’t remember when just the two of them did anything. They used to fish down at Barton Creek all the time, and they’d go ridin’ almost every evenin’ when the weather was good. Things is different now, and it’s a shame.”