by Paul Colt
He went to Elizabeth’s room and crawled in bed with the girl. She snuggled into his warmth. He couldn’t sleep.
The situation did not improve by the gray light of dawn. Clare’s fever worsened. Retching emptied her stomach, though she continued frequent need of the chamber pot. Micah made Elizabeth a simple breakfast and dressed her in her warm coat. Together they waded through the snow down the lane to Miriam and Caleb’s place. Miriam met him at the door. She read his worried expression.
“Could Elizabeth stay with you a day or so?”
“Clare?”
“She’s sick.”
“Come in. Rebecca’s in her room, child.”
Elizabeth shed her coat and skipped off to join her friend.
“What’s wrong with Clare?”
Micah described her condition. Miriam pursed her lips.
“You go along home. Get some soup in her if you can. I’ll come by later to see how she’s doin’.”
“Thanks.”
Afternoon light had turned gray when Miriam’s knock came to the door. A winter gust followed her through the door.
“How she doin’?”
“About the same.”
“Did you give her some soup?”
“I did. She didn’t keep it long. She’s resting now.”
“You go along over to our place. I fixed some supper for you menfolk and the girls. I’ll stay the night with her. We’ll see how she is in the mornin’.”
“Thanks, Miriam.”
She patted his chest. “Don’t you worry none. She be fine.”
Micah returned home the following morning as Miriam came out on the porch carrying the chamber pot.
“How is she?”
“No change. You go inside. Do her good to see you. I’ll take care of this and be right along.”
Micah crossed the dimly lit parlor to the bedroom. Clare lay in the blankets looking frail and thin. He sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled.
“Sorry to be such a bother.”
“You could never be a bother.” He took her hand. Her usual strength and warmth felt cool and birdlike. He wiped a sweat sheen from her feverish brow.
“You feelin’ any better?”
“Some.” She lied.
Miriam returned with the chamber pot. “I’m gonna go on home and fix some vittles for them young’uns . . . Caleb too. I’ll be back later.”
Day turned to night and night to day with no improvement in Clare’s condition. She grew ever weaker by the ravages of fever and dysentery. Micah’s concern increased by the hour.
“Why doesn’t the fever break?” he whispered to Miriam when they were alone in the parlor.
“Sometimes they don’t.”
“You’ve seen this before?”
She nodded.
“What is it then?”
“I ain’t no doctor.”
“I’m goin’ to town for the doctor.”
“That might be best.”
He turned to new purpose. Miriam watched him go.
“You know what’s wrong, don’t you?”
The voice was small. Clare stood unsteadily holding on to the door frame.
“Come along now. You get back to that bed. You need your rest, girl.”
“Rest won’t help, will it?” She took a supportive arm to obey.
“We don’t know that.”
“Yes, you do.” She lay down exhausted. Miriam covered her.
“The doctor be along soon. Then it be in his hands.”
Gray winter sun was well past midday when the jangle of harness sounded in the yard. Old Doc Boyle followed Micah into the parlor. Miriam emerged from the bedroom.
“Any change?”
She shook her head.
“Let me have a look at her,” the white-haired doctor said.
Miriam followed him into Clare’s room. Micah paced. At length, the doctor returned, closing his case.
“What is it, Doctor?”
He held Micah’s eyes, his watery for a moment. “I’m afraid it’s cholera.”
“Cholera? What can we do?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve done what I can. Now it’s up to her.”
Micah buried his face in his hands.
“I can see myself out, son. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news.”
Miriam appeared at Micah’s side. “You go along to her. I’ll be here if you needs anything.”
He went to the bedside and took her hand. She smiled a small smile, a shadow of the girlish glow he’d first fallen in love with. She seemed to rest more comfortably in his presence.
Gray afternoon descended into evening. She slept. Micah rose. He found Miriam waiting in the parlor by candlelight.
“She’s asleep. Go on home to your family. You’ve done so much already.”
She shook her head. “No, you go. There’s a little girl over there who need her papa. I’ll stay by her. You get some rest. I’ll come for you if anything changes.”
He gave her a hug and left.
Winter moon rose over the old tree, bitter cold in its barren limbs. Micah paused on the porch. She loved that tree from the first time she laid eyes on it. He cast his gaze about the snow-covered yard to the frozen creek. She loved this land and all it stood for. They’d seen its promise together. They’d worked at that promise. All of them. He lifted his eyes to the heavens through frozen, gnarled branches to the cold light of the moon.
Please, God.
He hunched into the warmth of his coat against the wind and trudged up the moonlit lane to a little girl who needed him.
“Miriam.”
She woke with a start in her chair. The candle burned low. She carried it to the bedroom.
“What is it, child?”
“Tell me what it is.” A tear stained her cheek in the candle glow.
Miriam sat on the bed and took her hand. She took a confirming breath.
“The doctor say you has cholera.”
Her chin dropped to her chest. “You knew all along.”
She made no answer.
“There are some things I must entrust to you.”
Tears glistened in ebony shadows. “Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll look after Micah and my little Elizabeth.”
“You know I will.”
“Micah’s a good man. Sometimes he just needs a little woman’s wisdom.”
She smiled white teeth. “They all do. He is a good man. You both good people. You made us a promise of these here acres, and you kep’ it when you didn’t need to do neither. If I didn’t live these past years with the two of you and that promise, I never would have believed white folk and colored folk could be like us. No, you made us a promise, and now I make you mine: I’ll look after them two like they was my own.”
“I feel better for hearing that.”
“Don’t you worry none. Now you get some rest.”
It be in the Lord’s hands now.
She shook him awake near first light.
“Micah, you best come now. He’s here.”
He bolted up. “Who’s here?”
“The one the Lord done sent for her.”
“How do you know?”
“Hush. Hurry now.”
He ran up the lane through the snow, unconscious of the cold. Miriam followed along, alone with her thoughts. Much would need to be done. She closed the front door and listened. The murmur of faint voices seeped from the bedroom. She smiled. He’d reached her in time. She stirred the fire to light, made a pot of coffee, and sat down to wait.
He stood in the bedroom door by the gray light of dawn.
“She’s gone.”
“I know.” Miriam rose. She crossed the parlor to him, took him into her arms, and let him cry.
Boots crunched up the porch steps.
“Caleb,” Miriam said and let him in.
“What’s to be done with her?” Micah said.
“When you ready,” Miriam said, “we wrap her up gentle
-like and take her to the dugout. She can rest there ’til we give her a proper burial come spring.”
“Down by the old sycamore. She loved that old tree’s leaves in the fall.”
“Then she should lie by there so they warm her like a quilt when they fall.”
March
Dear Ma and Pa,
It is a heavy heart that takes this pen in hand. I’m not much good at this. Clare wrote our letters for us. She can’t write them now. We lost her to cholera last month. I write we lost her, but it is I who am lost. I am lost without my beloved Clare to light my days. Elizabeth lost her mother, and I am at a loss as to how to mother her. Her needs are simple now. In time, I don’t know what I shall do. Caleb and Miriam have been a great comfort. Miriam seems to know what we need even when I do not. When spring comes, we’ll put Clare to rest beneath the old sycamore. Perhaps then I can move on to planting.
Micah
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
* * *
Sycamore
Spring
She rested in her shade, comforted by a soft gathering of good earth and a bluebonnet spray there to take root for springs yet to come. Sycamore sighed with the wind in her boughs. Leaves bud forth, new shoots spring up, renewing their promises. Sun warmed her fields and sprinkled their offspring with gentle rain. Promise mingled with tears that planting season.
May, 1866
Sunday dinners continued to alternate between the Mason and Madison homes with Miriam shouldering cooking chores at both houses. This Sunday, with the planting finished, came as a special day of rest. Miriam bustled about the Mason kitchen while the girls played in the yard. Caleb sat on the porch and whittled. Miriam came out to the porch. She looked toward the river. Micah sat silhouetted in late afternoon sun beside the small headstone under the spread of the old tree.
“Seems like that all he want to do,” Caleb said.
“He’s grieving. It got to run its course.”
“How long you figure he be like that?”
“As long as it takes. Folks all be different when it come to such things.”
“I s’pect you be mournin’ me like that.”
She arched a brow. “You do, do you. You feelin’ poorly?”
“Me?” He shook his head.
“Good. I don’t know how I’d be mournin’ you, but I don’t have no need to find out.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“So how about me?”
“How about you what?”
“How about you be mournin’ me?”
“Oh, I’d be mournin’ you sure. Dinner done yet?”
“You wouldn’t be mournin’ me long. You’d starve to death soon enough.” She stomped back into the house, concealing a smile.
Lawrence
September, 1866
School opened on a bright, sunny morning with summer lingering on the doorstep to autumn. Micah drove Elizabeth to school. Miss Allen stood at the schoolhouse door greeting her students. Micah drew rein. Elizabeth hopped down from the buckboard and ran off, lunch pail in hand, with a wave and a grin. Miss Allen smiled and waved as she put her arm around the girl and showed her inside.
Micah drove into town with Miriam’s shopping list. He drove home past the schoolhouse later that day. He stopped on the road to watch the children at play over their lunch-time recess. Their laughter tugged at the wrappings of his sorrow. Miss Allen sat on the school steps keeping a watchful eye. He clucked to Sampson and drove along home.
Sycamore
October
The cabriolet parked in the Madisons’ front yard on a pleasant fall afternoon. Elizabeth scampered over to join in Rebecca’s lessons. The girls sat on the porch with Miss Allen. Miriam sat in on the lessons when she could. This day she busied herself preparing Sunday supper. Caleb went down to the barn to feed and water the stock. He looked across the Mason place down toward the river. Micah sat at her side watching the sycamore spread its orange-golden blanket over her.
Pretty. The air was still, a rarity on the Kansas plain in autumn. Leaves fluttered softly, red-orange raining out of a flawless blue sky. They covered the earth and soothed the hurt beneath. He listened, as he often did in his time with her. He heard her voice in the thoughts that touched him. Today, she felt the beauty of an autumn day and the comfort of the old sycamore. Her spirit rested. She was at peace.
Peace. It seemed like a long time since they’d had much of that. The war, the drought, Clare’s illness. He hadn’t found much peace since she passed. Today he felt some comfort in knowing she was at peace. The old tree shedding its finery seemed fitting somehow.
Elizabeth tugged at his thoughts. Girlish, womanly things of which he knew little would soon be upon her. He remembered his mother and sisters. Mother taught the girls the way; Father taught the boys. Her lessons taught cooking and washing and prettifying ribbons and such. How would he do for Elizabeth? You’ve left me a clumsy mother, Clare. She laughed. He heard it. He smiled. Clumsy indeed.
He sat still until the slant of the sun announced supper would soon be served. He pulled away. Watched the leaves cover the place where he sat, and walked up the lane.
He paused at the carriage parked in the yard and watched them. Elizabeth and Becca paid the golden-haired young woman rapt attention. They smiled and laughed at some conspiratorial secret passing between them. She glanced up and saw him watching. He came forward awkwardly. She smiled.
“You have a way with teaching, Miss Allen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason. I enjoy it.”
“It shows.”
“You made it just in time,” Miriam said from the door. “Supper’s on the table.”
Supper ended with coffee and apple pie.
“Miriam, this has been lovely,” Cora said. “Let me help you with the dishes.”
She raised a hand. “These girls here can help me with that. I don’t mean to shoo you out of here, but I feel best if you get back to town before dark.”
“Thank you for that.” Cora rose.
“Thank you for helpin’ Becca with her lessons. Me, too, when I sit in.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
“May I show you to your carriage?” Micah said.
She smiled. “That would be nice.”
Caleb cut an eye to Miriam. She winked as Micah followed Cora out to the yard.
She paused at the carriage. “I’ve enjoyed our time today, Mr. Mason. Elizabeth is such a wonderful girl. It’s easy to understand why.”
“Her mother gets most of the credit for that. Elizabeth thinks the world of you, you know.”
“She reminds me some of myself at that age.”
He gave her a hand up to the carriage seat. His touch might have lingered a fraction longer than needed. He unhooked the horse from the tie-down weight and hoisted it into the carriage.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Mason.”
“Might you consider calling me Micah?”
Her eyes smiled. “Then you must call me Cora, Micah.”
He liked the sound of his name on her lips.
As the carriage pulled away on the road to town, Cora Allen felt the tug of something left behind.
So, it began. Over the winter, Cora tutored Rebecca Sundays, weather permitting. She became a regular supper guest. She and Elizabeth grew close, and ever so slowly Micah again learned to laugh. Cora invited them all to dinner at the Eldridge House at Christmas time in thanks for all the Sunday suppers. Miriam and Caleb declined, not wanting to cause a fuss, but Miriam insisted Micah and Elizabeth go. One night in March, as Micah tucked Elizabeth in bed, she informed him that when she grew up, she wanted to be a teacher just like Miss Allen. He kissed her good night and took his chair in the parlor by the fire.
Cora Allen. She was a beautiful woman inside and out. He’d grown comfortable with her. She truly cared for Elizabeth, and the child doted on her every word. Still, was any of that reason to think she might see him for more than the father of one of her pupils
? Was he ready to see her for something more? He might be. And not simply for fear of his limits as father and mother. He thought it possible she could fill the empty space his beloved Clare had left in him. It was certainly something to bear further thought.
He went to the window and scraped at the frost. The old sycamore stood stark sentinel in moonlight blanketed in snow.
What do you think?
He listened.
Lawrence
May, 1867
An ice cream social followed Sunday services at the Lawrence Congregational Church. Micah, Elizabeth, Miriam, Caleb, and Rebecca took their sweet treat off to the shade of a gnarled beech tree. The girls finished their ice cream and ran off to play with friends. Micah watched them go.
Elizabeth skidded to a stop near a knot of townsfolk and ran to a familiar figure. He’d thought about it, agonized over the possibility really. He’d thought long enough. He licked the spoon in his empty bowl.
“That was mighty good. I believe I’ll see if they have any more left.”
Caleb and Miriam exchanged glances as they watched him take a wide route to the long table where the ice cream was being served.
“Beautiful day,” he said at her elbow.
She smiled. “It is.”
“Have you had any ice cream yet?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were blue as cornflowers.
“I was about to have a little more. Care to join me?”
“I’d like that.”
She took his arm on the way to the ice cream table. They filled their dishes. Micah noticed Caleb and Miriam had drifted off from the old beech.
“There’s a spot of shade over there.”
They settled beneath the tree side by side.
“This is good,” Cora said with her first spoonful.
“Nothing better on a warm spring day.”
“Have you finished your planting?”
“We have. School will be out soon; have you plans for the summer?”
“Last summer I worked at Spencer’s mercantile. I suspect Mr. Spencer will take me on again.”
He felt his small talk drying up. He wasn’t very good at it.
“Cora, would you mind . . . would you mind if I called on you sometime?”
