Katie's Dream

by Leisha Kelly

  “You get some too. I cut a few more pieces than usual. That means they’ll be small, but they’ll go around to everybody before Edward digs in and finishes it off.”

  “We don’t get seconds?”

  “Not this time, sweetheart. At least not till Edward finishes. After everyone has their piece, I want you to let him have all the rest that he wants, and that goes for everything we make, even if he eats it all. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she said. “But why?”

  “Because I’m making him a feast. Or at least the best that I can. We’re going to celebrate your father’s brother being here and pray that he comes to know the Lord, honey.”

  “Oh. He don’t know about Jesus?”

  “Well, not much, I daresay.”

  “Want me to tell him? Or Franky could. Only he’s in the barn right now.”

  “Either of you could, and it might be fine. Only wait a while, all right? Until we’re eating, maybe.”

  I glanced over at the men tinkering so quietly on that car. As far as I could tell, there’d been scarcely two words between them. Why didn’t they talk? Why couldn’t Edward just listen to reason? There must be some sort of a logical answer about Katie. Maybe they could think of it together. Maybe their mother had mentioned some relative or something. If Edward would only listen to reason, maybe he would go and leave us in peace.

  And maybe Sheriff Law would put Katie on a train to her family and we’d be all back to normal. I looked across the farmyard to where Rorey and Katie were playing with Whiskers. We could write to her. It would be good for Sarah to have a pen pal.

  “Can I flour the chicken, Mommy?”

  “You can help me. We have plenty to do.”

  Once the chicken was frying, I sent Sarah to rinse her pail of buds at the well, and I went to the garden and lopped off the tops of half a row of turnips. I used the big old soup pot for them and then pulled up a few carrots and onions, both smaller than I liked. Too bad the sweet corn wasn’t ripe. And too bad what few peas we’d had were already burned up in the summer sun.

  I cut the carrots and onions together with the daylily buds. I’d cream them along with some salt and the sorrel from my picking bag. I didn’t know if Edward would like it or even try it, but my family had learned to eat pretty much whatever there was. I opened one of the ash-covered potatoes and found the outside crispy but the inside white and soft. They’d be fine, despite my neglect. I was surely flustered this morning, not to think about them or the cake. It wasn’t like me to just stick them in the coals and leave without even asking Samuel or Robert to check them. Oh well. They’d come out all right.

  After turning the chicken, I hurried to the house again for sugar and vanilla extract to make a glaze on the cake. We would let Edward eat the better side. I wondered if he’d ever had rhubarb. Samuel hadn’t when I’d first met him.

  Then I remembered the eggs. There were five boiled ones left from our breakfast, down in the cool pit, with what was left of the morning milk. By the time I came up from the basement, Katie and Sarah had both come in the house. They helped me peel and halve the eggs. Then I let them mash the yolks while I opened the second-to-last jar of pickles. We stirred a little cream, a cut-up pickle, and a dash of sugar and paprika into the yolks, and stuffed the halves as neatly as we could.

  Katie said she’d never seen deviled eggs before, which surprised me. But maybe she just meant she’d never seen any like those. Of course, we made do with what we had. Grandma Pearl had hardly ever had mayonnaise, and neither did I anymore.

  After we finished, we marched outside with the plate of eggs, the rest of the jar of pickles, and a blanket big enough to spread on the ground and seat everyone. I realized I hadn’t done anything with the sassafras, so I filled the coffeepot with water, dumped the sassafras in, and set it on the fire. But I’d forgotten bread too, so I had to run back inside for a loaf of the soda bread I’d baked that morning. Then we were ready to eat.

  I called the boys from the barn—they were a filthy sight, but it didn’t take them long to clean up. They’d been working so hard, I was glad to give them a good meal and a break.

  Whiskers was getting excited about the chicken smell. Poor dog. I’d forgotten the turtle bones. But he’d have chicken bones soon enough. Robert shut him in the barn to keep him away from our plates.

  Samuel and Edward came from the car in silence as I was setting the last of the food down in the middle of the blanket.

  “Something smells good,” Edward said, picking up a plate. He was about to help himself when Sarah spoke up.

  “We need to say grace.”

  I could see Edward’s stormy eyes turn to Samuel. But Samuel only waited a second for all the children to be still, and then he prayed.

  “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the food you have provided. We thank you for the families you’ve given us, to love and to honor. Guide us in your will, Lord, that we may be pleasing in your eyes.”

  As soon as he’d closed his prayer, the boys were ready to grab what they could. Especially the chicken. And they were entitled to it, I figured.

  “We have a new tradition,” I said quickly. “The children get to choose their pieces first.”

  Samuel glanced my way, but I only smiled and passed the chicken carefully to Sarah and Katie. Once every child had a piece, I let Edward take what he wanted. Samuel had a wing. Edward ate the rest.

  Of course, there weren’t enough potatoes to go around, but I split one between Rorey and Katie and gave the rest to the men and boys. Sarah wasn’t very fond of them cooked that way, so she and I did without. I filled my plate with turnip greens and the lily mixture and sat back and watched everybody eat.

  “This is mighty good,” Joe remarked. “Ain’t had this kinda meal since Easter.”

  “Good chicken,” Edward agreed, in the middle of a bite. “Good pickles.”

  My eyes met Samuel’s as he was passing around the eggs. He didn’t say a word, but his look was enough. I knew I’d done the right thing.

  “Want some daylily buds?” Sarah asked her uncle sweetly. “I helped pick ’em.”

  “What is it?” he asked, a little uncertain.

  “Daylily. If they don’t get picked, they open into a big orange flower.”

  “Oh. We’re eatin’ flowers.”

  Sarah smiled so innocently. “Flowers is good. I like the little violets that grow in the yard, and the sorrel ones too, that’s yellow as the sun an’ taste like pickle.”

  Edward looked around at our faces. “You always eat like this?”

  “No, sir,” Robert answered. “This is the biggest, fanciest we’ve had in a long time. An’ it ain’t even a holiday.”

  For a moment I thought Edward was going to stop eating; he looked a little surprised and solemn. Maybe he’d thought we bought more food, I don’t know. Maybe he thought he could never live like this, never in a million years.

  Sarah suddenly smiled wider. “It’s a Jesus holiday,” she declared. “It’s a holiday for Daddy’s brother and Jesus.”

  Edward furrowed his brow and bit into his chicken. But Sarah was not to be stopped. “Did you know Jesus loves you? He got killed a long time ago, and then he came alive again and we get to be forgiven.”

  “That don’t make much sense,” he told her. “Even comin’ from you, sweetheart.”

  “You have to know why he died,” Franky added. “He was bein’ punished instead a’ us. That’s why we’re forgiven. We’re not guilty no more if the price is already paid. Wipes it all away, you know?”

  Edward stared over at him, chewing furiously in silence. Finally he spoke. “What’s done is done. You can’t make it undone.”

  And he wouldn’t hear another word.

  With the meal behind us, I cleaned up the dishes. Robert and Joe had gone back to the barn, and the little girls helped me for a little while and then went to play beneath the lilac bush. Samuel and Edward were back at the car, still not saying very much. Franky stood beside me,
thinking, I knew. Finally he spoke.

  “He just don’t unnerstand. Why don’t he let us tell him some more about Jesus? I think he knows he’s sinned. He oughta want to be forgiven.”

  “We can’t make him open his heart,” I told the boy.

  “Yeah. But ain’t there somethin’ we can do to get him thinkin’?”

  “The only thing I know is to show him as much of the love of God as we can. Pastor Jones said once that it’s the goodness of God that draws men to him.”

  Franky was quiet again, and then he seemed to brighten.

  “What if I washed off his car for him? It sure does need it. It’s just full a’ dust.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If he asks me how come, I’ll tell him ’cause Jesus loves him. Can I use a bucket a’ water?”

  “I suppose so,” I answered, too surprised to know what else to say. Franky had his bucket filled quickly and was soon started on the job. I watched to see Edward’s reaction. Franky said something I couldn’t hear, and Edward shook his head, turning his attention back to his motor.

  The next time I looked up, Samuel was talking and Edward was looking angry. They were having words. I should’ve called Franky back, but I didn’t think of it in time.

  “You can fool the whole blame countryside if you want!” Edward yelled. “But it ain’t fooling me! You’re a dirty liar, and that’s all I have to say about it!”

  It happened so fast. He started his car in less than two shakes, and almost at the same time Samuel yelled, fierce and loud enough to make me jump. The car jerked backward several feet. Franky screamed. And I dropped the fry pan and went running.

  Samuel fell to his knees beside Edward’s car. Franky was lying so still. I could feel my heart pounding. How could this happen? How could Edward hit the boy? When Franky was only doing him a good turn, how could he back up and run right into him?

  I rushed forward, and Samuel looked up at me. Edward didn’t even get out of the car.

  The boy’s legs were halfway under the car, bent. He held his eyes squeezed shut. I could see the pain in his face.

  “D-did the wheel go over him?” I gasped. Behind me I heard one of the girls crying, but I didn’t turn to look.

  Samuel nodded, looking absolutely broken. He was holding Franky’s head, calling his name, and the boy’s eyes popped open.

  “Can you move?” Samuel asked him.

  Franky jerked his head from side to side. “It hurts. It hurts.” Then he shut his eyes again. His hands were already shaped into tight little fists.

  “We’ll have to get him to a hospital,” Samuel told me. “Can you get something to wrap him and help hold him still?”

  “Joe!” Rorey was screaming. “Joe! Get Pa!”

  My first thought was George’s wagon. Or Barrett Post’s truck. And maybe that was Edward’s first thought too. “Move him out a ways,” he told Samuel. “I’ll go get somebody.”

  “No,” Samuel said coolly. “You’re taking us.”

  I only stayed long enough to catch a glimpse of Edward’s pale, ugly expression.

  The skunk! The horrid, no-good skunk!

  I ran for the house. What could I use to keep Franky still? He wasn’t moving now, but in a bouncy car on bumpy roads . . . Oh, it would hurt so bad! I grabbed every pillow and blanket I could carry.

  I wanted to go with him in the car. I wanted to hold that little boy I’d come to know so well, kiss him and tell him this would pass, that he’d be okay. But I already knew that I would have to stay home with the other children.

  Joe was beside them when I got back. I’d not seen him look so upset, since his mother died last December.

  “He’ll be okay,” I said as soon as I was close enough. But the words haunted me. I’d said the same about Wilametta, and she hadn’t lasted even one more night. But this was different. It was just his legs. So far as I could tell.

  “We can stop for your father,” Samuel was saying, and Joe gave his solemn nod. “But you ride along. If he’s in the field, we won’t be able to wait for him. We’ll take Lizbeth, and you can send him after us and stay with the little ones.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can I come?” Rorey asked.

  Samuel glanced at her, but I answered for him quickly. “No. You stay with me.”

  I dropped everything I was carrying at Franky’s side. He winced when we moved him. He squeezed his skinny arms tight to his chest and bit his lip to keep from crying, but he cried out anyway.

  I wrapped a blanket around his legs as firmly as I dared, wondering how they’d manage him in the car.

  “Help me with him, Joe,” Samuel said. “It’ll be easier if I get in the back and just hold him. Then you can pad all around us, Juli. As much as you can.”

  It was Sarah crying, I realized. But I didn’t see her. Or Katie. I wondered where they’d gone. Robert was suddenly beside us, holding the car door and helping his father maneuver. I put one blanket down beneath where Franky would be. Edward still hadn’t moved. Like a stubborn, stinking old billy goat, I thought. And it’s all his fault.

  I stuffed the pillows around Franky as carefully as I could, then kissed his forehead and clasped his hand as Joe squeezed his long and lanky frame between his little brother and the back of the front seat.

  “Do exactly what I say,” Samuel ordered Edward. “Drive not too fast, not too slow.”

  “I didn’t see him,” Edward whined. “I didn’t know he was still up so close. Fool kid—”

  At that moment my anger at Edward seethed raw, but it was Samuel who yelled. “Shut up! I don’t care what you didn’t know! Shut up and drive!”

  With Samuel sitting and holding Franky’s chest and head and Joe leaning into the pillows to keep his legs from bouncing, they started away. I could see the tears on Franky’s cheeks. But he was being so quiet. So brave. Managing to take it better than I could have.

  Edward, on the other hand, was mumbling as he turned the car around right over top of Emma’s irises. Something about Samuel. And something about Katie.

  I would have kicked him if I could.

  TWELVE

  Samuel

  As we drove up, George was in the yard rounding up goats. Joe started yelling, and George and Lizbeth both came running, leaving Willy chasing a goat out of the garden.

  “Lordy!” George said when we told him what happened. “Lordy be! I shouldn’t a’ left him with you. He gets to daydreamin’—”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” I said quickly, incensed at George for daring to blame his son. “We need to go. Are you coming?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m comin’.”

  “You want me to stay?” Joe asked his father. “Or come along?”

  “You better stay. Lizbeth is gonna need more help gettin’ them goats in, or we’ll lose the veg’table patch. The rest a’ the big boys is in the field.”

  “Pa,” Lizbeth said, reaching her hand to Franky’s hair. Franky looked up at her, crying just a little. The poor kid. I could feel him all tense in my arms. Shaking. I knew at least one of those legs was broken.

  “You gotta stay, Lizbeth,” George said. “Won’t be nothin’ you can do there yet, anyhow.” He climbed in the front seat as Joe got out of the back.

  “Pa—” Lizbeth protested again.

  “We can get the goats in without her, Pa,” Joe said quickly. “I can watch the little ones too. Where’s Emmie Grace?”

  “Nappin’,” Lizbeth answered.

  “Let her go, Pa,” Joe begged. “He might need her there, since he ain’t got Mama.”

  George didn’t say anything more. He only nodded, rather reluctantly, and Lizbeth hurried in the back where Joe had been, looking scared but relieved to be going.

  “Go to Mcleansboro,” George ordered. “It’s a sight closer’n Mt. Vernon.”

  “I didn’t see him,” Edward started in right away as soon as we were moving again. “Didn’t know he was so close.”


  “Just a accident,” George replied, looking tense.

  “Turn east at the next road,” I told Edward, knowing he wasn’t used to these parts. He did as I said, and kept quiet.

  I wondered at both of them. At George, who had climbed in front without leaning close to his son for even a second, without even speaking to him. And at Edward, who kept excusing himself and had never once asked how bad it might be. I guessed Edward was just too hard and detached to care. But George . . . George would have reacted differently if it had been his oldest son. Or his youngest. Maybe any of the others but Franky.

  With Franky, George’s first thought was of it being the boy’s own fault. He worked Franky along with the rest, but he didn’t trust him to work alone; he didn’t seem to see the boy’s accomplishments. He only wagged his head at Franky’s failures in school.

  “Can’t figger how he come to be stupid,” he’d told me once. “He don’t appear stupid, to look at him.”

  Nothing I could say made any difference. George didn’t seem to hear Lizbeth or Julia about it, either. Only the teacher’s words: “He’s not learning. I don’t know if he can learn.”

  Franky hollered once when we went over a bump, and I held him tighter. Lizbeth held him too, with tears in her eyes. He started crying, trying hard to be so still, and I knew he was hurting badly. He was one tough little kid.

  George was the only one of us who’d ever been to Mcleansboro, and that was before the hospital had opened in 1929. But it wasn’t hard to find someone who could direct us. We found Market Street pretty quickly, and Edward pulled up in front of the hospital with a lurch that almost made me yell at him again.

  The place looked like a house. Had been once, I could tell. “One of you go in and see if they have a cart,” I said.

  But Franky shook his head. “Carry me.”

  So I carried him. Nine years old and barely heavier than Sarah. He rested his head against my shoulder, took a deep breath, and whispered the name of Jesus.

  “He’s with you,” Lizbeth assured him, hurrying along at my side. George was following, I knew he was. But Edward didn’t get out of the car.