Marta's Legacy Collection

by Francine Rivers

  “Mama’s having the baby!”

  “Oh. Well. Congratulations. Go find your father and tell him. He’ll have to put one of the men from the work crew in charge until he can see about your mother.” She closed the door.

  Hildemara ran all over the ranch looking for Papa, then finally found him loading a truck at the far side of the property. When he heard Mama was having the baby, he said something to one of the Italian workers and ran back to the tent-house. Mama lay on the platform floor, sweat pouring from her beet red face. Hildemara stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do. Mama reached out to her. “Did you talk to Mrs. Miller?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “What did she say, Hildemara?”

  “Congratulations.”

  Mama laughed wildly. “What did I tell you about that woman, Niclas?” Mama moaned. “We’ll get no help from her or that lazy daughter—” She cried out in pain.

  Hildemara started to cry. “Don’t die, Mama.” Shaking, she sobbed. “Please don’t die!”

  “I’m not going to die!” She clutched Papa’s shirt, her fingers white. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, God of mercy . . .” After a moment, she let out a harsh breath and fell back, panting. “Go on outside, Hildemara. We don’t need you.”

  Papa looked around. “Where’s Clotilde?”

  Mama gasped, a look of horror filling her face. “Oh, mercy. I don’t know!”

  “I’m here, Mama.” Clotilde stepped around Hildemara and held out a fistful of Mrs. Miller’s perfect yellow roses.

  Baby Rikka turned out to be Mama’s easiest child, or so Papa said. He tugged Hildemara’s pigtail gently. “You were so scrawny, Mama thought you’d die before the end of your first month. But you hung on like a little monkey.”

  “She’s still scrawny.” Bernie gave her a pitying look. “Tony says she’s skinny as a rail.”

  Rikka was so plump and sweet, even Hildemara became enamored. Clotilde liked Rikka well enough the first day or two, but when the baby consumed Mama’s attention, Clotilde asked if the stork could come back and take her away again. Papa laughed long and hard over that.

  “She’s beautiful, Niclas.” Mama smiled down at Rikka as she nursed. “She has your blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s going to be even prettier than Clotilde.”

  Hildemara took Mama’s hand mirror and ran to the barn. Sitting in an empty stall, she studied her face. Did she look like a monkey? She had Mama’s hazel eyes and brown hair. She had Papa’s straight nose and fair skin. Somehow, even sharing those traits, she wasn’t pretty at all. She burned instead of turning brown like Bernie. Her neck looked like a stalk growing up out of the flowered gingham dress.

  Hildemara wished she had been born with Elizabeth Kenney’s long red curls and green eyes. Maybe then Mama would be proud of her. Maybe then Mama would speak to her in that loving voice she used with Rikka; look at her with that soft, doting smile. Instead, Mama often looked at her with a frown. She would let out her breath with impatience. She would wave her hand at Hildemara and say, “Go play somewhere else, Hildemara.” She would say, “Don’t be hanging on to my apron strings all the time!” Mama never said, “Look how sweet Hildemara Rose is . . . look how pretty and sweet . . .”

  Maybe Mama didn’t like looking at her straight, mousy brown hair and hazel eyes, though Mama had the same. Sometimes, Hildemara wished Mama would hide her disappointment and make excuses for her the way she did the others. Maybe Mama regretted having wasted the name Rose on her. She wasn’t poised, pretty, or popular the way she imagined Mama’s friend Rosie Gilgan had been. She didn’t have Papa’s fine singing voice or Mama’s intellect. She made a “joyful noise to the Lord,” Papa said, and she had to study hard and long to get things into her head.

  Whenever Hildie stayed inside the tent-house and offered to help, Mama became impatient. “If I need help, I’ll ask for it. Now go on out there! Find something to do! There’s a whole world outside the door. Stop hiding in here.”

  She wasn’t hiding. “I want to help, Mama.”

  “It’s no help having you underfoot all day! Go! Fly, Hildemara. For heaven’s sake, fly!”

  Hildemara didn’t know what she meant. She wasn’t a bird. What had she done wrong? Maybe Mama never loved her. If Mama loved plump, pink-white babies, then having a scrawny, sickly one would have been a great disappointment. Hildemara tried to gain weight, but no matter how much she ate, she still had skinny legs and bony knees and collarbones that protruded. Clotilde, on the other hand, grew plump and pink and added inches. “Clotilde’s going to be taller than Hildemara in another year,” Papa said one evening, and Hildie felt even worse.

  Sometimes Hildie felt her mother looking at her. When she looked back, Mama would get that troubled expression again. Hildemara wanted to ask what she’d done wrong, what she could do to make Mama smile and laugh the way she did every day with baby Rikka. Sometimes when Mama did smile at her, it didn’t seem to come from pride or pleasure, but sadness, as if Hildemara just couldn’t help disappointing her.

  Like today.

  “Why are you so quiet, Hildemara?”

  She looked at Mama nursing the baby. Had her mother ever held her that tenderly? “I was just thinking about school. When does it start?”

  “Not until mid-September. So you can stop worrying. You’ve got a little more time to play and enjoy your summer.”

  Hildemara started praying for Mrs. Ransom. She taught kindergarten and first grade, so Hildie had only one more year to suffer before she moved up.

  At the end of the harvest, Papa collected his share of the crop money. It wasn’t as much as he had hoped, but some other farmers fared worse. Some others fared better, too, Mama said. She’d been to town. She’d talked to people. Papa told her Mrs. Miller said there were extenuating circumstances. Grim-faced, Mama sent the children to bed early. Bernie and Clotilde, having played all day, went to sleep right away, but Hildemara lay awake, troubled and listening.

  Papa sighed. “We’ll do better next year.”

  “Not here, we won’t. Mrs. Miller told me this morning she expects me to cook and clean for her. Just to make things even, she said. She thinks I should be thankful for the place she’s given us.” Mama gave a hard laugh. “She can do her own cooking and cleaning. Or hire someone else to do it.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “When you do, tell her to find someone else to sharecrop her place. They should know they won’t get a share of anything.”

  “We’ve got no place else to go.”

  “We’ll start asking around. Look what you’ve done with this place, Niclas. And think how much you learned!”

  “I didn’t earn any money.”

  “Because Mrs. Miller isn’t any different than Robert Madson. You’re a hard worker, Niclas. I’ve watched how you manage a work crew. The men respect you. You listen to people. You take advice, from men, at least. And with all your engineer training, you’ve been able to fix Mrs. Miller’s farm equipment and get that well pump going. We’ll find a place of our own.”

  “And how do I pay for it?”

  “We pay for it with the money I made from the sale of the boardinghouse.”

  Papa didn’t speak.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I told you why I wasn’t willing to give it to you sooner. Madson took advantage of you. So has Mrs. Miller.” She gave a soft laugh. “Well, I’ve decided if anyone is going to take advantage of my husband, it’s going to be me.”

  Hildemara lay in the dark, watching and listening, holding her breath until Papa spoke quietly.

  “I could lose everything you saved.”

  “Not if you listen to me. I’ve talked to a lot of people around town. I’ve spent time at the library. I’ve read the back newspapers. I had to be sure this is where we belong. God may talk to you, Niclas, but He hasn’t said anything to me. If I had my choice, you’d be an engineer again. We’d be living in Sacramento or San Francisco. I’d own a hotel with a restaurant! But you hated working for th
e railroad. If you went back to it, you’d eventually hate me, too.”

  “Never.”

  “My father took his misery out on everyone around him.”

  “Maybe it’s just a dream.”

  Mama’s voice softened. “I’ve had bigger dreams than you. And I haven’t given up on them yet. Why should you?” Her voice grew firmer. “But you’d better decide what you want right now. I can start packing tonight. We can go back to Sacramento. You can work for the railroad.”

  Bernie stirred. “Are they fighting again?”

  “Shhhh . . .” Hildemara chewed her fingernails.

  “I’m not going back to work for the railroad, Marta. Not now. Not ever.”

  “All right. Then while you finish out the contract here, we start looking around for land with a house. By this time next year, we can start working for ourselves.” When Papa didn’t answer, Mama raised her voice. “Can we do any worse than we are right now, living here? How many times have the children been sick during the cold months? And in the summer, we bake like bread in an oven. No matter how much I sweep, I can’t keep the place clean! And the flies! I’m lucky I didn’t die of infection when Rikka came.”

  Papa walked away into the night.

  Mama let out her breath harshly and sat in the green-willow chair Papa had made for her. Hands folded in her lap, she waited. Hildemara fell asleep and awakened to hear them talking again, more quietly this time.

  “We’ll do as you suggest, Marta. I pray to God you won’t hate me if I lose all your money.”

  “We won’t lose it. We’ll stand together and fight for it. We’ll do whatever we have to do to make a go of it.” She gave a faint laugh. “Think of it, Niclas. With a permanent address, I’ll be able to get a library card.”

  Papa pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He dug his fingers into her hair and held her head back as he looked down at her. “Don’t let that fire go out, Marta. The world would be too cold for me to bear.” Leaning down, he said something in a low, husky voice. When he stepped away, he held out his hand. Mama hesitated, turning her head slightly as though listening for Rikka. Then she slipped her hand into Papa’s, and they headed out into the night.

  19

  1923

  On the last day of school, Hildemara skipped down the road, heart light. She had all summer to forget how much she hated going to school. She had been devastated by Mrs. Ransom’s announcement that starting next year, the second-grade class would be combined with kindergarten and first grade, and she would be teaching all of them. Hildemara had hoped that after this year, she would have a new teacher. But then she decided it just meant God didn’t want her to stop praying for Mrs. Ransom quite yet.

  Hildemara had learned not to complain about Mrs. Ransom. It only made Mama more angry and changed nothing. She had prayed every morning on her way to school and prayed often while in class, especially when Mrs. Ransom’s eyes fell upon her like a hawk on a mouse. When she hauled Hildemara in front of the class to make an example of her poor attire or dirty shoes or chewed fingernails or scraggly hair, Hildemara prayed the words would float out the window and off into the air, never to be remembered. The room would become so silent, Mrs. Ransom’s harsh words seemed to echo, and she would tire of carrying on and tell Hildemara to go back to her chair.

  Now she sang thank-you prayers until Bernie said she sounded bad enough to crack the sky wide open. So what if she had one more year in Mrs. Ransom’s class before she moved on to another teacher. She could be brave for another year. She wouldn’t let any tears slip down her cheeks. “Sticks and stones may break your bones,” the children chanted, “but words will never hurt you.” She wondered whoever came up with such a thing because it wasn’t true at all. Sometimes Mrs. Ransom said things that ripped at Hildemara’s heart and left her hurting for days.

  Papa said to forgive, but forgiveness wasn’t easy. Not when the same thing happened over and over again.

  Summer passed in a haze of heat. Hildemara did chores around the house. She fed the chickens and collected the eggs, washed dishes and helped weed the garden. She took Papa’s lunch out to him while Mama tried to batten down the canvas sides of the tent to keep the dust from blowing in on a napping Rikka.

  As school approached, Hildemara worried and prayed continuously that Mrs. Ransom wouldn’t be mean to Clotilde, who would be in kindergarten this year. Maybe Mrs. Ransom just didn’t like ugly children, any more than Mama did. Hildemara prayed her younger sister’s pretty blue eyes and blonde hair would soften Mrs. Ransom’s heart in a way her own respectful silence and obedience never had.

  She decided not to warn Clotilde about Mrs. Ransom. She didn’t want her to have nightmares and start chewing her nails, too. When they bathed in the big tub together the night before school started, she told Clotilde to wash behind her ears and around her neck. Clotilde splashed soapy water in her face.

  The next morning, Hildemara felt sick to her stomach, but she didn’t say anything. She knew Mama would send her to school anyway, and she didn’t want to answer questions. Bernie ran ahead to meet his friends. Mama had put Hildemara in charge of Clotilde, so Hildie allowed her younger sister to set the pace. “Stay on the road, Clotilde! Don’t get dusty.”

  “You want a wagon to run over me?”

  “You have to keep your shoes clean!”

  “I can get dirty if I want!” Sticking her tongue out, she kicked dust all over Hildemara.

  “Stop it!”

  Clotilde took off running, and Hildemara ran to catch up. Laughing, Clotilde shrieked and ran faster. Hildemara tripped and fell headlong on the macadam, scraping her hands, elbows, and knees. Shocked by the pain, she pushed herself up. When she looked at her hands, she saw tiny pebbles under the bleeding skin. Now what was she going to do?

  Clotilde ran back. “Ohhhh.” She looked at Hildie’s knees and elbows.

  Still crying, Hildemara dusted herself off as best she could. “We’re going to be late.” She limped alongside her little sister. “When we’re called to line up, we have to be in alphabetical order. There’s no one after Waltert. So we’re last.”

  When they arrived at school, Hildie went into the girls’ bathroom to wash. Her hands stung like fire. She dabbed cold water on her knees, dismayed to see how the blood had already dripped down her legs and stained her socks. The blood from her scraped elbows had gotten on her dress as well. What would Mrs. Ransom have to say about that? What would Mama say?

  Giving up, she went outside, worried Clotilde might be frightened on her first day of school. But Clotilde had already met a girl her own age and was playing hopscotch.

  Mrs. Ransom came out. “Kindergarten, first, and second, line up here!” The other children ran to make two lines, boys and girls. Hildemara limped after them, taking last place in line behind Clotilde, who stood head high marching in place until the lines filed into the classroom.

  Mrs. Ransom looked at them as they entered. “Another Waltert.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hildemara flashed a bright smile that seemed to disarm Mrs. Ransom.

  “And this one is pretty.”

  Hildemara’s name had been taped on a front-row desk this year. Heart pounding with dread, Hildemara put her hand over her heart, recited the Pledge of Allegiance with the class, sang “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” and slid cautiously into her seat so she wouldn’t bump her aching knees. She prayed Mrs. Ransom wouldn’t say anything mean to Clotilde.

  She kept glancing back as Mrs. Ransom checked each child’s hands. Clotilde held her hands with limp wrists, turning them up and down so Mrs. Ransom could see. Mrs. Ransom looked dubious, but didn’t say anything. Letting out her breath in relief, Hildemara turned around and faced the front of the class.

  “Hildemara.” Mrs. Ransom stood beside her desk. Head down, Hildemara held her hands out, palms down. “Turn them over.” When she did, Mrs. Ransom gasped. “Your hands are a mess. Go wash them.”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t talk b
ack to me.” Mrs. Ransom grabbed Hildemara by the hair, yanking her from her seat. Hildemara banged her scraped knee on the desk and cried out in pain.

  Clotilde ran at Mrs. Ransom, screaming, “Leave my sister alone!” She grabbed the teacher’s skirt and yanked. When Mrs. Ransom let go of Hildemara and turned, Clotilde kicked her hard in the shins. “You’re hurting my sister!” Clotilde stomped on Mrs. Ransom’s toes.

  The class erupted in laughter and shouts.

  Terrified at what Mrs. Ransom would do to Clotilde, Hildemara grabbed her sister by the hand and ran for the door. Mrs. Ransom cried out. Hildemara didn’t stop running until they were around the side of the building.

  “Why did you do that, Clotilde? Why?”

  “She hurt you! She’s mean! I hate her!”

  “Don’t say that! Papa says we aren’t supposed to hate anyone.” She tried to calm her sister. “Papa said people were mean to Jesus, too, and He didn’t kick anyone.”

  Clotilde started to blubber. “I don’t want to be crucified.” Her blue eyes became glassy with tears. “Is Mrs. Ransom going to pound nails in our hands and feet?”

  “We have to be kind to Mrs. Ransom no matter what she does. Her brother got killed in the war, Clotilde. She hates us because Papa’s German. We have to pray for her.”

  Clotilde’s chin wobbled. “Papa didn’t kill anyone.”

  “She doesn’t know that, Clotilde. She’s very sad and angry. Jesus prayed for the people who hurt Him. I’ve been praying for Mrs. Ransom for two years. We have to keep praying for her. Mrs. Ransom is just like those people who killed Jesus. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.” Hildemara heard a strangled sound behind her and her heart raced in fear. Glancing up, she saw Mrs. Ransom standing at the corner of the building, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes wild with pain.

  Hildemara put herself in front of Clotilde. “She didn’t mean to do it, Mrs. Ransom.”