For Time and Eternity

by Allison Pittman

  “I can show you now. Take you right to it.”

  “After school. When you can help me dig.”

  “Yes, Father.” I moved to climb up into my little cart’s seat, but Papa blocked me.

  “No need. You’ll walk.” He reached inside the cart, took out a bundle wrapped in rope, and formed the rope into a strap, which he dropped over my shoulder. It wasn’t a staggering amount of weight, just uncomfortable, and I complained that I still had my lunch bucket and books to carry.

  “Think about that next time you dally bringing in the cows,” he said before leaving me alone in our yard with Mama.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking every bit as deflated as I felt. “I never imagined he would—”

  “I’ll be fine.” Shifting my bundle, I reached into the cart for my schoolbooks, slate, and lunch bucket. Once the books were satisfactorily cradled in one arm, I stood very still while Mama kissed my cheek. Then I set off down the road.

  We had a small rock wall, not quite three feet high, that flanked either side of our farm’s wide driveway. It wasn’t very sturdy, and it didn’t extend far on either side. It dwindled into nothing more than a bunch of rocks within about twenty paces, but I know Papa envisioned it as some regal gateway. When he spared himself a day of farm labor on the Sabbath, he filled his time hauling stones from the riverbed, stacking each one, extending first one side, then the other. He had us all believing in a great, victorious day when the two sides would meet at the back of our property.

  I’d barely made it past the wall when the rope bearing the weight of the bundled cheese and butter dug painfully into my shoulder. The ache in my collarbone was already so severe, I thought the pain would cut my head clean off before I reached the bend in the road to school. No amount of shifting helped, at least not for long. Soon I felt the strain of this burden down my entire back, and my step slowed to a precarious shuffle.

  I liked to think that Papa didn’t realize how heavy it was. That he was so strong himself, he couldn’t have imagined I wouldn’t be able to just sling it across my back and be on my way. I thought about the Bible verse telling us to lay our burdens at the feet of Jesus, and since home was a lot closer than school, I was about to turn around, walk back, and drop this burden at the feet of my father. Whatever punishment might follow would be well worth the relief.

  It was the thought of that punishment that made me hesitate, and it was during that moment of hesitation that I first saw him. He stood at the top of our road, at a place where, if I turned right, I’d head into town; if I turned left, I’d be heading for the river, to the place they camped. The Mormons. That’s the road he’d been walking.

  My head filled with all the bits of conversation I’d heard in town, at church, and around my own kitchen table. Added to the pain of the rope across my shoulders was the unique pain that comes with fear. As if my breath wasn’t strained enough, now it seemed to stop dead in my throat, and my feet stopped in my path.

  I must have looked every bit as frightened as I felt, because he held up his hands like an offer of peaceful surrender. Still, I might have summoned the strength to actually turn and run had he not taken off his hat, smiled, and said, “Would you let me help you this morning?”

  Those were his first words to me, and his voice was like honey. He had a smile wide and perfect. I’d never seen a smile like it before. Mama had a phrase she’d say about people who smile too much. Something about butter never melting in their mouth. I never liked that because it made me think of a person being cold—like they had a root cellar for a heart. This boy’s smile was warm, like he carried the sun itself between his lips. I worried for the butter in my bundle, that it might turn straight to liquid and pour out of the canvas. Still, I couldn’t hold back. I found myself moving again, straight toward him, not stopping until I had a clear look at his eyes—the palest brown I’d ever seen—and the faded green-checkered pattern of his shirt.

  “That looks heavy,” he said. “I’m heading into town. May I carry it for you?”

  For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about, and we stood there, just staring at each other until he put his hat back on, stepped forward, and took first my lunch bucket, then my books. These he stacked and balanced on his forearm and reached again, saying, “Here. Give that to me.”

  The next thing I knew I was shrugging myself free, and the relief of it felt like a hundred birds taking flight from my body. He took the bundle and looped the rope around one shoulder, not even a flinch at its weight.

  “After you?” He nodded in the direction of town.

  “I’ll take my books.”

  He extended his arm and I took my little bucket, then my books. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and I tried not to touch him as I lifted them away.

  As it turned out, the road was perfect for walking—not muddy as I had feared. There’d been just enough rain to pack down the earth, no mud squelching, no dust rising. Somehow our steps fell in perfectly with each other.

  “So,” he said once we’d established our pace, “do you mind telling me what I’m carrying?”

  “Cheese,” I said, keeping my eyes trained on the road in front of me.

  “You must plan on being really hungry.”

  I looked at him, but he was looking ahead, smiling, and I laughed, straight out loud. Mama always told me a lady politely covers her mouth when she laughs, but my hands were full. And even if they weren’t, there didn’t seem to be any way to stop it.

  That was the last sound either of us made until we reached the schoolyard at the edge of town. Other girls I knew were practiced in the art of chatting with boys, but anything I could think to say lodged in my throat. He wasn’t a boy to chat with. I don’t think he was a boy at all. More like a man in size and stature. Every now and then I took a sidelong glance only to see him striding so purposefully beside me. Even in profile his face was pleasant—smooth and round. He kept his head high and seemed to be just as familiar with this road as I was, even though he was a stranger.

  I was walking with a stranger.

  It wouldn’t matter if I held my silence now, or even if I never spoke to him again. When word got out that Arlen Deardon’s daughter walked to school with a stranger—let alone one of them, the Mormons—there’d be no telling what punishment I would face.

  Oh, Lord, I prayed. Don’t let them see me.

  “What’s the matter?”

  That’s when I noticed I’d stopped walking, and he was touching me. Not touching, really, but his hand hovered over the cuff of my blouse, and I clutched my books closer to me.

  “I shouldn’t be walking with you.” I don’t know if I was telling him, or myself. But that was the truth of it.

  “Oh.” He drew the word out, nodding like we had both come up with a grand idea. “Because a young woman is so much safer walking alone?”

  “No.” He’d called me a woman.

  “Because I’m some kind of monster?”

  That brought out my laughter again, but this time it died as it settled back on my lips. “I don’t know what you are.” Coming from any other girl, this might have been coquettish. But not from me. I didn’t know how to flirt.

  “My name is Nathan Fox. I’m from Springfield, Missouri.”

  “I’m—”

  “Camilla Deardon.”

  “You know my name?”

  “We’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

  “Hardly that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘hardly’?” He shifted the weight of the bundle and took a step away. “Your property line runs right along the edge of our camp. From what I hear, that makes us neighbors.”

  “We don’t speak to each other.”

  “We are now.”

  “We don’t know each other.”

  “We could.”

  Off in the distance I heard a familiar sound being carried on the morning air. It was Mr. Teague, the upper-grades teacher, my teacher, whistling the same tune he did every m
orning. The tune announced his presence more than any clanging bell ever could. In a matter of seconds he would round the corner, twirling his ring of keys on one long, extended finger, and unlock the front doors to each of the three buildings that made up our school. Being the only man, he alone was trusted with such a chore.

  “You have to go,” I said, shifting my books to my other arm so I could take the bundle Nathan carried.

  “Oh no.” He turned his shoulder out of my reach. “This hasn’t gotten any lighter, and you haven’t gotten any stronger. Where shall I take it?”

  “No.” I glanced around, nearly frantic. “You can’t be seen here.”

  “I come into town all the time.” His smile was back. He was teasing, and I felt the warmth that came through him touch my face.

  “Not with me. Not to my school.”

  The tune was getting louder. Discernible now: “Yankee Doodle.”

  “Then you just go on.” He made a scooting sign with his free hand and reinforced his grip on the bundle’s rope with the other. More than that, he took one, then another slow, deliberate step backward down the path, until his dismissive gesture turned into a wave.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Although he was moving farther away, I dropped my voice to a whisper. More like a hiss, because the whistling stopped, and I heard Mr. Teague calling out “Good morning!” to someone else about to round the corner and find me out.

  “Follow me!” Nathan Fox made no attempt to lower his voice, and it fascinated me to see he walked with just as much purpose when he walked backward.

  I spun on my heel to see Mr. Teague behind me, engaged in conversation with Miss Powers, the pretty lady from Philadelphia who taught the primary grades. Safe, for now.

  “You’re stealing!”

  He gave a wide shrug. “Shouldn’t those with plenty feed the hungry?”

  I thought of the wheels of cheese, the pounds of butter in that pack. And his original joke. “You cannot be that hungry!”

  His countenance changed then. Not to anything dour, but a new softness came through, and it seemed more of an effort to keep his smile intact.

  “But my people are, Camilla. And you have done the work of Heavenly Father in feeding us. He will bless you for that.”

  He lifted his hat and held it over his heart, keeping pace even as he offered me a deep bow, then turned around. I forced my feet to remain planted in the path.

  “Miss Deardon?” Mr. Teague’s voice called from behind. I inched myself around, hating the fact that I wouldn’t be able to see Nathan Fox disappear.

  “Y-yes, sir?”

  He stood, alone now, at the top of the schoolhouse steps. “Would you like to explain what just happened?” He craned his neck, looking well over me at the bundle of charity making its way down the path.

  “The cows got into an onion patch,” I said, trudging my way across the yard. “None of it’s any good.”

  “What a shame.” He looked down his long, beaked nose. “You’ll have to be more careful next time.”

  I squinted into the morning sun and thought of Nathan Fox.

  “I know.”

  Chapter 3

  I looked for him at noon as I sat beneath the shade tree eating my buttered bread before waiting my turn with the other students in line at the little spring well behind my school. I can’t remember a word of what my friends talked about, let alone what Mr. Teague tried to teach throughout the morning. When Mr. Teague finally released us from that endless day, I bade a quick farewell and ran through the school yard. I slowed my steps when I hit the main road, and even more when I got to the turnoff to the path that led to our farm. For a time, I even walked backward, trying to produce that same blind, confident stride he’d had when he backed away from me. But my steps were too unsure, and after one stumble I figured I’d better turn myself around lest he come out from the trees and find me flat on my bottom in the dirt.

  When I came to Papa’s rambling rock wall, I set my books and lunch bucket down and climbed up on it. Their camp butted up against the western edge of our property, and though the light of their fires could sometimes be seen through the darkness, I couldn’t see anything from here in the daytime. We’d hear their songs coming on a breeze, and they sounded just like the very songs we sang in our own church. Often the pounding of carpentry and a blacksmith’s hammer reverberated through the stillness of the afternoon. I remembered seeing the men in town, driving away with a wagonload of lumber purchased while the clerk behind them laughed about the price it had fetched. Until this morning, this was all I knew of the Mormons. Never did it occur to me that they could be so handsome. So charming. And hungry.

  “Camilla!” Papa’s voice carried from the barn. He held a hoe balanced across his shoulder and a shovel in one hand. “Get out after that onion patch.”

  “Yes, Papa.” I picked up my books and lunch bucket and headed for the house. Mama was stirring something in a pot. It didn’t smell delicious yet, but the day was young. I dropped my things on the table and reached for a corn muffin on a plate under a towel.

  “Better take some gloves,” Mama said without turning around. “Don’t want to get yourself blistered up.”

  We had a little wooden trunk just inside our back door with sundry work clothes. The lid creaked as it opened, and I was faced with a jumbled mess of hats and boots and gloves. All the while I looked for a matching pair, Papa was yelling my name out in the yard, and it seemed a fine thing to risk getting a few blisters compared to what might be waiting for me once his patience wore out. I slammed the trunk shut and ran out the door, pausing just long enough to grab my old calico bonnet. The sun was still up high and strong, and while a girl could hide the roughness of her hands, there’d be no disguising a sunburned face.

  Papa was waiting for me in the yard, just where I left him, and he said, “Show me,” when he handed me the shovel. I wondered what kind of man it was who couldn’t find an onion patch, especially when he’d been told real clear that it was on the south side of the property, but I said nothing.

  The shovel’s handle set heavy on my shoulder and I set my face toward the south pasture and started walking. I fought my skirt to keep my strides long, knowing Papa was probably frustrated with the shorter steps he had to take to walk behind me. We weren’t even halfway out before I was flat exhausted. The arm holding up the shovel was numb shoulder to elbow, and there was already sweat running down my back. By the time we were out of sight of the house, I could hear Papa getting impatient behind me. He still wasn’t talking, but he had a kind of scuffling to his step, and I felt him coming up on me, then backing off again.

  “Should be just over there.” I picked up my step and shifted west. I knew we were close to the spot where I’d found the cows yesterday. There was a trio of stumps from trees Papa had cut but hadn’t dug up yet, and it was just past them where I’d seen the pretty violet-colored blossoms. I should have told Mama and Papa last night what the cows had been into—should have warned them that the milk would be bad, but I honestly didn’t know how much they’d eaten. Or if they’d just nibbled the leaves or dug up the bulbs. Truth be told, I didn’t care, even if it meant I’d spend the rest of this day digging up my mistake.

  “Well?” The impatience had left my father’s feet and was full in his voice.

  “It was right here, I swear.”

  “You what?”

  “Sorry.” Stupid to swear. “But they were right over—”

  A few more steps and we walked right up on a story. Or a mystery, rather. The earth was littered with the same violet-colored blossoms I’d seen waving in the sunset breeze the day before. But that was the only evidence there’d been any wild onions growing in the southwest corner of our pasture. Instead there was a patch of dug-up earth, about six feet square. Freshly overturned, big, moist clumps of it.

  “What’s this?” I turned to my father and lowered my shovel, dropping it down by my side. “Why’d you drag me out here if you already dug
it up?”

  But I could tell from his face that he didn’t have any more answers than I did. He looked past me, his eyes scanning all across that dug-up field. Seemed right then a cloud crossed over his face, and one might as well have passed over the sun, too, because my body took on a chill that connected with the sweat running down my back and made me shiver.

  “It’s them people.” Papa’s voice might have been calm, but he swung that hoe down from his shoulder and shattered a clod of dirt into nothing but crumbs.

  Months ago—maybe even yesterday—I might have asked, “What people?” But since that time, I’d seen a smile full of sunshine and mischief, and I knew.

  * * *

  Nathan Fox appeared there the next morning, at that same little crook where the drive to our family’s dairy farm meets the main road into town.

  “Good morning, Camilla.” He touched his hat without tipping it, and I forced a steadying to my stomach.

  “I shouldn’t talk to you.” I didn’t even slow my step.

  “Then don’t.” Yet his stride matched perfectly to mine.

  “I shouldn’t listen to you either.”

  “If you don’t listen, how will you ever know just how grateful my people are for your generous donation yesterday?”

  “My father would beat me if he knew about that ‘donation.’”

  “Why would a good man be angry about feeding the hungry?”

  “Because that food was supposed to feed my hungry teachers; that’s why.”

  “I’ve seen your teachers. They don’t look hungry.”

  I somehow managed to stifle my laugh.

  “In fact,” he continued, “I’ll bet it’s been a long time since your teachers wept at the sight of butter. For some of us, it’s been months since we’ve had such luxury. And do you know there were children there—little children—who had their first ever taste of cheese? There they were, thinking it was going to be just another supper of grits and salt pork. Their little faces glowing in the supper circle. But it wasn’t the firelight bringing that glow. No, it was a little white wedge of cheese. A brand-new treasure on their plate. Ah, their faces. I wish you could have been there, Camilla.”