Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  Perhaps it was unwise of Eugene and myself to linger—to torment our own feelings with the last apples picked from the trees that line my father’s meadow; the last pumpkin and squash from the garden; the last Christmas parties and dinners and quiet home evenings; the last new year in Palmyra ushered in; the last ride in Theodora’s sled, the razor-sharp runners cutting over the smooth canal ice. The last Sabbath day dinner shared with Eugene’s parents, the last with mine. The last tender rides to visit all the places that were dear to us, that our eyes would never look upon more. The last Tuesdays—oh, the last Tuesdays of farewell visits to those I so dearly love!

  As soon as our minds were decided, we wrote at once to Georgie and Nathan to expect us to come on the first boat that is allowed through the canal in the spring. She replied that they will scout out a nice little house for us—“with enough space for a garden. Farm your dear cats out to others,” she scribbled. “I shall have a new batch of kittens by the time you arrive.”

  So we are leaving. Though it does not seem possible; it appears more as a dream—some strange wonder which has caught me up in its net and is carrying me on.

  My mother is not reconciled, though my father, at least to some extent, understands. They will have Josephine and her steady young husband to care for them when the time comes, and perhaps a new batch of grandchildren as well. Josie is determined to try again—“just to see if it makes a difference!”—this spoken with the old sparkle back in her eye.

  As tenderly as I can I question Phoebe.

  “When this baby is born,” she says, with that amazing calm. “I cannot even think about other things until I have gotten him here.”

  We do something quite silly, that harks back to our girlish days, and make a secret determination to “meet in prayer” once daily, at seven-thirty of the clock, or as close to it as we can manage. We are comforted by this arrangement; we are comforted by what each takes with her as we both turn away.

  Theodora will not speak to me. Somehow I did not expect this; I thought that I alone could always touch her, could always break through her reserve. I know what loneliness and fear her brittle shell is protecting, and it makes my heart break. What of my godson? What of the next generation, and the long years ahead? I return once more to Phoebe and beg, with her slender hands in mine, that we include Tillie in our prayers every morning. With tears in her eyes she agrees. Heaven help us! That is all we can do.

  All is done. All is ready. The last specks of time have run through our fingers, and we are ready to leave.

  I stand by the window, my shawl wrapped round my shoulders, and watch the dawn come. Lavinia and her father sleep, with the safety and love of our little home enfolding them. Soon we will step through the door out into the wide world, where we have nothing to guide us save our love and our faith.

  My last morning in Palmyra. I press my face against the window glass. How can I take it all with me? I cry. A winter-bright cardinal flashes across my eyes and disappears into the high branches of an elm tree. Life here will go on without me. What patterns will my own life, my new life, weave?

  Lavinia stirs. Automatically I cross the room and go to her to see if she is well covered, to see if she chokes in her sleep.

  For a moment the face of one man comes into my mind—one man, responsible for all this! One man who has taken my life and the lives of so many others into his hands. Taken them and lifted them upward—hoisted them heavenward on the strength of his own shoulders—spending all his love, all his devotion and wisdom on our account.

  When I reach Kirtland I shall find him. I shall tell him that his brother Alvin rests peacefully still. I shall tell him that my brother lives and grows strong and is happy. I shall tell him that Phoebe is waiting, and is in need of our prayers.

  When I look into his eyes again, I shall tell the Prophet Joseph that I am ready to be baptized. I am ready to give of my strength to the One who gave it to me in the first place—I am ready to say, “Thy will be done.”