Circle of Love

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Eddie's eyes were wide. "Did he go to prison?"

  "No. He would have, but the judge let Reverend Brace send Mike west to a new home. He gave Mike a second chance to make a good life for himself."

  Eddie leaned into the crook of Frances's arm. In a quiet voice he asked, "Did anybody want Mike? After what he done, I mean?"

  Frances decided not to mention the terrible time Mike had with the Friedrichs. Eddie didn't need that. He needed reassurance. "An army captain and his wife eventually became Mike's foster parents," she said. "They're good to him, and he loves them very much."

  Eddie thought a moment. "They didn't know Mike had been in trouble with the law?"

  "They knew, but they still wanted Mike. In fact, it was Captain Taylor who told Mike that the West was a place for new beginnings and what counted most was what Mike would make of his future."

  "His future? I never gave any thought to a future," Eddie said. "It seems to be enough trouble just tryin' to stay alive."

  Frances hugged him. "You'll soon have a family who'll see to it that you have a good future."

  Eddie turned to look up at Frances. 'They won't hold what I did s^ainst me?"

  'They won't even know about it"

  She thought that would satisfy Eddie, but he said, "Sam told us that ^me lads aren't chosen, that they have to go back.**

  *That happens to only a very few. You'll be chosen," Frances promised. Please, she thought. Please let my promises com£ true!

  Eddie grinned, and Frances smiled back. Eddie wasn't the kind to be down for long, no matter how bad things might look. "I'll change my ways," he said. "Matter of fact, I started changin' them back in New York City."

  "Like going exploring?" Frances teased.

  "I said I started changin' them. It's hard to do all that changin' at once."

  "Captain Taylor said Mike was a fine young man, and you are too, Eddie. There'll be lots of good things in life for you," Frances said.

  Aggie suddenly appeared at Frances's side. "Miss Kelly, some of the little children are getting hungry. Like Lizzie. Mary Beth said I didn't know what I was talking about, but I know when a baby gets fussy because she's hungry. I know a lot more than Mary Beth knows. And you did say I was sort of in charge. When are we going to feed the little ones?"

  Frances pulled out her pocket watch and glanced at it. "It's not yet noon, but I think we're all getting hungry," she told Aggie. "Ill open the hamper, and if you'd like, since you're my special assistant, you can give everyone an apple—except Lizzie and Nelly, of course. I'll peel and chop their s^ples."

  "We get apples?" Aggie's eyes lit in anticipation.

  "Along with bread and cheese," Frances said.

  She and Aggie set to work giving the food to the children. Some of the adults at the back of the car brought out food they'd brought with them, but Frances noticed that Reverend Diller had nothing to eat.

  Frances motioned to him, and he came to the front of the car. "Please join us. We have plenty to share," she said.

  He looked away in embarrassment. "I—I was in a hurry to leave. I didn't think about packin' food."

  "Then please share with us," Frances said.

  Daisy Gordon piped up. "Miss Kelly, David's already started to eat, and we didn't say a blessing."

  Jessie nodded. "At the asylum we always said a blessing."

  Frances turned to Reverend Diller. "Will you lead the children in a prayer, please?"

  She folded her hands and prepared to pray, but he nodded toward Daisy and said, "I'd like to hear this little girl lead the prayer. She'd be happier with the prayer she's used to than the long blessin' that preachers say."

  Daisy didn't need prompting. In a loud, singsong voice she recited, "Bless us, O Lord, for thy bounty which we are about to receive." She smiled, shouted "Amen," and bit with a crunch into her apple.

  Reverend DiDer took the food Frances had given him back to his seat, while Frances sat by the window, eijoying the bread and cheese and the sceneiy of softly rolling hills. But a cry from deep within her heart shattered this moment of peace. Oh, Johnny — how much I miss you!

  It wasn't until long after nightfall that quiet settled on the railway car.

  Frances had told all the stories and poems she could remember from her classroom readers to the thirty sleepy children. She'd helped make them comfortable on the hard coach seats. After the lantern had been extinguished and the railway car was Ut only by the light of a full moon, she wandered among them singing some of the soft Irish songs that Ma had always sung to ease her children into sleep.

  When most of the children had fallen asleep, some of them pillowing their heads on their seatmates' laps or shoulders, and no more lonely sniffles were to be heard, Frances removed her hat and relaxed in the front seat. She retrieved her carpetbag from under the seat and pulled out a pencil and the journal

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  Johnny had given her. There was enough moonlight so that she could see to write. She desperately wanted to put her thoughts about the children on paper to keep.

  She stroked the blank page of the journal before she found herself writing about Johnny and how much she missed him. Had she been wrong to leave without talking it over with him? Had she hurt him too much to ever make things right between them? Frances sighed as she wondered if her questions even mattered. Johnny had turned away from her. He'd turned inward, obsessed with anger at those who had iiyured him. Johnny couldn't come to her with an open heart because his heart was filled with bitterness. She wrote:

  When I return to Kansas^ will I see Johnny ever again? What will my life be without him? Perhaps I should move to St, Joseph and live near Ma. Maybe it would be better to

  She jumped as Reverend Diller slid into the seat next to her. Flustered, Frances closed her journal with a snap.

  "First off, I want to apologize for grabbin' your arm like I did," Reverend Diller said. "Sometimes I have bad dreams, and when you touched me I thought . . . Well, there was someone in my dream, and 1 was fightin' back. I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "It's all right," Frances said. "It was my fault. I didn't mean to startle you."

  Reverend Diller glanced at the blue book on Frances's la^. "What were you writing?" he asked.

  "I keep a journal," Frances said. "I was about to write about some of the children."

  'They're a handful. They've given you a hard day,'' he said.

  Frances smiled. "No, they haven't," she said. 'They're all very good children."

  He slowly shook his head and smiled back. "One gives you a fright l)y runnin' off through the train. Others squabble or fight The babies cry. They demand your attention the entire time. You call that good:>''

  'They're children. Reverend Diller. Why be siu*-prised when they behave like children? If they all sat quietly, I'd be quite worried about them."

  "rd like you to call me Seth, instead of Reverend Diller," he said.

  "Why, that may not seem a proper way to engage in conversation, but on this journey I expect it is acceptable. I've always felt there are, indeed, times to make exceptions, so TU agree," said Frances. "But didn't you tell me your given name was Oscar?"

  He cleared his throat and examined the tops of his shoes. Finally he said, "Seth is my middle name, but it's the name I've always gone by."

  Frances smiled. "I'm sorry. I seem to keep embarrassing you. I shall call you Seth. My name is Frances Mary Kelly. You may call me Frances. How long have you been a preacher?"

  "Not long," he said.

  "Where did you study?"

  "Study?"

  "Yes. What school of divinity?"

  He paused and smiled, as if in reflection. "Yale."

  "It must have taken years of study, yet you seem so young."

  Even in the dim moonlight she could see him blush. "I'm older than I look," he replied.

  Before Frances could say another word, he asked, "How about you? Are you eighteen? Nineteen?"

  *Tm nineteen,** Frances answered.

&
nbsp; "Most girls pretty as you would be married by nineteen," Seth said softly.

  A rush of lonely feelings jBlled her heart, and Johnny*s face came to her mind.

  She didn't answer.

  "I didn't mean to speak out of turn. I guess bein' a preacher and all makes me seem nosy," he said, and his smile was broad and friendly. Frances smiled back.

  *Tell me about yourself," he said. "Where do you live? What do you do?"

  At first Frances spoke haltingly, "rm a teacher. I teach school in Kansas," she said, but as she saw the interest in Seth's eyes, she went on to tell him about her little house and the town of Maxville, built after the railroad came through.

  Seth asked about her family, and when she spoke of traveling with her brothers and sisters on an orphan train, he reached over and squeezed her hand in sympathy.

  Looking deeply into her eyes, he said, "I'm sorry you had such a hard childhood."

  His dark, curly hair, his handsome face were so close to hers . . . Frances gulped and puDed her hand away. "It wasn't a bad childhood. There were many happy times, many good memories to think about"

  "Are you tellin' me there weren't any bad times?" Seth asked.

  "Of course there were," Frances answered, "but I try to keep those out of my mind. I'd rather think about all the good things that happened."

  'That means you're hidin' from the bad memo-nes.

  "No, I'm not," Frances insisted. "I just believe that there's no reason to keep bringing up unhappy thoughts."

  "There is for^sdme people," he said. "Some of them need the anger and the hurt to help them remember."

  Boldly Frances asked, "Are you talking about others you know, or are you talking about yourself?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Yes, it matters."

  Seth was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I fought in the war. You couldn't understand what it was like."

  "Then help me understand. Tell me what's making you unhappy." Maybe Seth could help her understand Johnny's bitterness.

  "Have you ever seen a Union Army prison camp?" Seth asked. "No. Of course you haven't"

  Frances gasped, but Seth didn't seem to notice. He continued: "Lice and rats and moldy food—what little there was to eat. Not enough blankets to go around in the winter months, not enough clean water to drink during the hot summer. And the hospitals . . . Prisoners who're brought there are in such bad shape they're expected to die." There was a long pause before he whispered, "I wouldn't die. I showed them all. 1 refused to give up."

  "I'm sorry you had to go through such misery," Frances said, now understanding why he had awakened in such a frightened state, what horrible nightmares he must have. Did Johnny have nightmares like that? Seth had been in a Union prison and Johrmy in a Confederate prison, but their complaints

  were the same. And their hatred of their captors was equally strong.

  Frances sucked in her breath. What had she said to Johnny? The same held true for Seth. "Wouldn't you rather forget the unhappiness and get rid of the anger and the hurt?" she asked. "Can't you put the past aside and think about the future instead?"

  "No matter. It's over now," Seth said. "I'm goin' home to Missouri."

  "To your parents?" Frances asked.

  "No. My parents died while I was away. Tve made plans to join my older brothers."

  A strange look came into his eyes, and he turned his head.

  "Do they farm?"

  Startled, Seth looked back at Frances. "Farm?"

  "Your brothers. Are you going to be a visiting preacher, riding from town to town on Sundays and farming during the week? Is that what you plan to do after you join your brothers?"

  He sat back. "Have you seen some of the Missouri farms that were burned out? Crops and livestock stolen? Everything gone?"

  "The land can be reclaimed," Frances said. "Houses can be rebuilt."

  Suddenly shedding his dark mood, Seth seemed to relax. "Let's talk about you. Are you goin' to be a teacher all your life? Or could it be you've got your heart set on bein' a farm wife, risin' before dawn to feed the chickens and hogs?"

  Frances felt her face grow warm. "I—I haven't given my future much thought."

  "Maybe you should," he said. "Maybe there's a far different future out there for you—a much more ex-citin' one."

  "Seth," Frances said, "it's getting late. We both need our sleep."

  Seth smiled. *Then sleep well. Ill see you in the momin" He rose and silently strode down the aisle.

  Seth and Johnny, Frances thought The same bitterness, the same hatred of those who hurt them, the same inability to let go of the past and move forward. If there had been no war, what wovJd Seth have been like? Would he have laicghed easily? Planned for a joyful future? Hoped to be a good husband and father? Like Johnny? Like the Johnny I once knew?

  Frances tucked her journal away under the seat, then folded her jacket to use as a pillow. She rested her head against the jacket and closed her eyes. There was so much to think about ... so much to do. . . .

  A ciy brought her to her feet, and she struggled down the aisle to where Lizzie and Mary Beth sat The younger girl was upright, fists against her eyes, tears running down her cheeks.

  "Mama!" Lizzie sobbed.

  Frances scooped her up, murmured against the softness of her baby-fine curls, and carried her back to her seat. With her arms wrapped around the baby, who snuggled contentedly against her, Frances fell asleep.

  She dreamed of Johnny. In her dream, he was on a train, traveling farther and farther away from her. She held out her arms and cried out to him to come back, but Seth stepped between them and Johnny didn't return.

  A SMEAR OF PALE GRAY predawn light seeped into the car, waking Frances. She tucked Lizzie crosswise on the seat to finish her slumbers. Then she slipped into the small necessity at the end of the car to wash her face and brush her hair. As soon as it was coiled and anchored with combs on top of her head, Frances prepared to care for the children, some of whom were beginning to awaken.

  Seth stepped to her side and smiled at her. "What can I do to help you?" he asked.

  Pleased by his offer, Frances smiled in return. "According to the schedule I was given, we'll have a depot stop soon," she said. "There'll be a great deal to accomplish in a very short time."

  He glanced at the hairbrush in her hand, and his

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  smile stretched into a grin. "Don't ask me to help with the hair bows and such. I'd be lost"

  Frances laughed. *Then we'll find you another job."

  He raised a finger to tuck a stray wisp of her hair into place, but Ftahces stepped away, her face growing warm. "You surprise me, Reverend Diller," she said. "You are being much too familiar with me."

  "I geologize, Miss Kelly," he answered. "I don't mean any harm."

  Aggie, her hair a tousled mop, sleepily staggered up the aisle, coming to a stop in front of Frances. She stared at Seth suspiciously. "Fm ready to help," Aggie said.

  "You've just been given the day off," Seth told her. "I'U help Miss Kelly with the boys."

  Aggie's chin stubbornly jutted out, and she stood as tall as she could. *The boys mind what I tell them," she said. "You're not one of us. They won't listen to you."

  Seth stood his ground. "I offered my help, and Miss Kelly accepted," he told Aggie.

  Quickly Frances stepped forward and began to brush Aggie's hair gently. "Goodness knows, there's a great deal to do, and I'm glad to get as much help as I can. I'd like Aggie to continue with her job of waking the boys and taking them to the privy when the train stops. She handles the younger children well. Reverend Diller, I'd appreciate it if you'd help me carry fresh milk from the depot to the train."

  Tossing a smug look back at Seth, Aggie began waking the boys.

  Frances quietly told Seth, "Being my assistant means a great deal to Aggie."

  "I didn*t think she'd care so much. She's a young girl."

  "She's leaving an unhappy childhood in an orphan asylum and is tra
veling into a future that frightens her. She knows she may find someone to love her, or she may not. Anything that helps Aggie to feel a little bit special is important to her . . . and to me."

  "Sorry," Seth said. "I only wanted to help you. I didn't think these things mattered to a child."

  "You were once a child, Seth," Frances said as she started up the aisle. "Think about your own childhood and how you felt about what was happening to you. Try to remember."

  The stop for wood and water was a short one. Frances, thankful that Seth had taken care of buying fresh milk, helped the last child aboard just as the engineer pulled two long blasts on the whistle.

  All the children were wide awake now and hungry, so Frances lost no time in dividing the milk and thick slices of bread among them.

  As soon as their stomachs were full, the car became a noisier, livelier place. Some of the children tried to lean from the windows for a better look at the countryside. Questions flew through the air along with the small flecks of soot that dotted clothes and faces.

  "Look at that white house with two chimneys! It's so big. How many families do you think live in that house?" Lucy Griggs asked.

  David Howard leaned forward and squinted. "Will we live in houses like that?"

  "Naw. They're for swells," Eddie said. "But I don't see tenements. Where are the tenements?"

  "Look!" Jack Greer shouted 'There's cows. Where do the cows sleep at night? Do they have a house?"

  "Horses have names," Elmily AveriU said. "Do chickens have names?"

  "When are We going to get to the people whoTl choose us? How long will it take?" Aggie asked.

  "We'll arrive at the first stop in eastern Missouri tomorrow. It's a town called Harwood," Frances said.

  Suddenly, it seemed, the children remembered why they were on the train. The car fell quiet as everyone became absorbed in his or her own thoughts.

  Lucy reached into the aisle and tugged at Frances's skirt. "Will you help me find a family?" she asked.

  "Of course," Frances said. She slid into the seat beside Lucy and held her hand.