From This Day Forward

by Lauraine Snelling

  Toby lifted Agnes down from her high chair. “There you go, Nessie.” He glanced around. “Where did Benny go?”

  “He’s probably already outside with Gerald.”

  “And Mark? Out there too?”

  “He’s probably nagging Benny to push him on the swing. You go sit with your brother. He’s concerned about you.”

  Concerned? Other than the standard brotherly love they shared, why concerned? Toby wandered out to the porch.

  “It’s so nice to be harvesting tomatoes now,” Gerald said, coming back from the garden with a ripe tomato in each hand.

  “You’ve become quite the gardener.”

  “Thanks to Benny. He needed help digging and raking a couple of years ago, and we’ve been doing this together ever since. Rebecca was grateful to give it up.”

  “Push me, Onkel Toby,” Mark cried from the swing.

  “No, you need to go inside now. Come on.” Gerald scooped up his son, put him inside the door, and sank down on one of the chairs on the porch. “Come on, Toby, have a seat. Knowing that wife of mine, she’ll be bringing drinks out as soon as she has the children in bed.”

  “I thought you helped with that.”

  “I do, but in the summer, Benny and I garden.” Gerald picked up his pipe and scraped out the old tobacco, knocking it into the flower pot. “How come you never took up a pipe?”

  “No desire to.”

  “I’ve heard good things about what a fine job you’re doing.”

  Toby shook his head. “If we get that building weathered in, it’ll be a miracle for sure.”

  “You got outbid for Deborah’s box at the social.”

  “Money talks.”

  “Are you still going to invite Mr. Gendarme to share your house?”

  “Sure. For now he seems content to stay with Jonathan and Grace. But I offered before, and I’ll offer again. Why not?” Toby definitely smelled a rat. Which rat, he wasn’t sure.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I thought you were sweet on Deborah.”

  Oh. Of course. That rat. Toby didn’t answer, studying his hands instead. He swatted a mosquito.

  Benny clumped up the three steps, half pulling himself on the handrail, his crutches under one arm. “Onkel Toby, you want me to water your garden? Pa and I did ours. Pretty dry now.”

  “Which is good for harvest and not so good for gardens. Water if you want, but you’re still driving the wagon. So when do you have time?”

  Benny sank down on one of the chairs and rubbed his legs. “I need new padding for my stumps.” He removed one prosthesis and studied the cup, then rubbed the end of his leg.

  “Are you getting a sore spot?” Gerald leaned forward. “Unwrap and let me see.”

  “No, I think it’s okay for now. I prob’ly should go back to using my wagon for a while. Give my legs a rest.”

  When Benny went into the house, Toby said, “He seems so much older and wiser than his age.”

  “He always has. When I start to get impatient, I think of him, and right away I settle down.”

  Toby broke the silence beginning to stretch. “You ever wonder what happened to Pa and Ma? I mean, receiving Ma’s things in the mail like that—so strange. Even after that, I think sometimes he’ll step off that train. . . .”

  “He’ll never come back. He left under too big a cloud.”

  “Poor Ma. Why didn’t she come home? You think he left her?” Toby shook his head. “So very strange.”

  “All I know is he sure changed the last couple of years. He wasn’t the same man who raised us, that’s for sure.” Gerald nodded slowly. “But they took us in and gave us a good home. For that, I will ever be thankful.”

  Rebecca brought them each a glass of swizzle. “Mosquitoes aren’t so bad tonight?”

  “They don’t like us; we’re not sweet enough.”

  “Right. If I brought out a lamp . . .”

  “Don’t. No thanks.”

  She sat down in her rocker, but only on the edge of it. Obviously she was not intending to stay. “So, Toby, I was thinking maybe you’d settle down.”

  Toby grimaced. Here it was again. “You mean with Deborah?”

  “Well . . . ja.”

  “Maybe I’m not the settling-down type.”

  “Are you afraid of getting married?”

  The silence stretched like a new rubber band.

  Gerald banged his pipe on the porch rail. “Strange, isn’t it? You were always the lady’s man, but I’m the one who got married and settled in.”

  Toby stood. “I better be getting on home. Thanks for the pleasant evening.”

  Gerald stood as well. “We need to do this more often.”

  “Winter will come soon enough with long evenings and short days.” Toby crammed his hat onto his head.

  Rebecca stood up too. “I hope we don’t wait until then.”

  “We won’t be working Sundays anymore, now that we’re ready to start framing. Both Thorliff and Reverend Solberg made that decision.”

  “Wise.” Gerald walked Toby to the gate. “’Night now.”

  Toby mounted the three steps to his back porch. Why did he have a feeling his brother had wanted to ask something else but didn’t?

  The last time he’d had supper at their house, they had invited Deborah too. What a fine evening that had been. The Fourth of July celebration stepped into his mind. The walk home with her had been both memorable and comfortable. Like they had swept back in time to their younger years. When he used to tease her unmercifully but drew the line at anyone else teasing her.

  And now? She was changed. He was changed. Now what?

  His house was too quiet. Having someone else living here might help with that.

  Even if that someone else was Anton Gendarme, who shared Deborah’s box supper, outbidding him? With a show of wealth. Whoever heard of spending that much money for a box supper, even if it was for a good cause? What a show-off.

  He could always say he changed his mind. Assuming the guy ever actually wanted to move from Jonathan’s place.

  But that would seem rather strange, since he’d been the one to offer. It’s not like anyone asked him. But that was before that ten-dollar bid. Toby didn’t even have ten dollars at the moment.

  He headed for bed, even though it was early. It would be a busy week, as usual. Instead of falling asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, as he often did, he found himself on his back, staring up at the ceiling, hands locked behind his head.

  One would think that as much as he enjoyed Deborah’s company and appreciated all the food she had left for him, and the clean clothes and bedding, that he would be smart enough to pursue the relationship. Something told him she was willing. So why did the thought of marriage make him want to jump on the train and head west or east or anywhere else?

  Look at Gerald and Rebecca, how happy they are, how they love their children.

  Had Mor and Far Valders loved the two boys they adopted off the train? It was hard to tell, but they had taken good care of them. Toby had forgotten much of their former life on the streets of New York City. What he remembered was screaming and beatings and being hungry and running. Ah, the running. And hiding. The names the man they had called Pa had called them. Even now his heart picked up speed. His hands clenched of their own accord.

  Enough! He wrestled the door to those memories shut again. He inhaled a deep breath and held it before exhaling slowly. Perhaps he should talk with Gerald about what he remembered. Gerald was older. If it hadn’t been for him getting them on that train . . . and how they stayed hidden until hunger drove them to sneak off the train and into the Blessing Mercantile, trying to find something to eat before the train pulled out.

  He rolled over and punched his pillow into a fluffy mound. Probably the reason he couldn’t fall asleep was because it was still too light out. Yes, that must be it. Or he was still mourning his mother.

  He heard a dog bark somewhere. The breeze flirting with the curtains, a night
bird calling, the house creaking into evening rest. No, he would not take back his offer to Mr. Gendarme. This house needed more people.

  What it really needs is a woman’s touch. He remembered the huge work crew that had come in to clean the house before Anji and her kids moved in, a little more than a year ago. It had felt like a home when they lived here, but now it just felt . . . hollow.

  He flipped to the other side and reworked his pillow. What would it hurt if he spent more time with Deborah? And there was always Miss Lindquist or someone else. Lots of prospects. He’d had a nice time with Naomi at the box social. But he hadn’t offered to walk her home. Why not? Because as it turned out, some other fellow did, that was why. He had danced quite a few dances with her, though.

  You didn’t dance even once with Deborah. She didn’t seem to have time for him, not that he’d been in a hurry to ask her. But she had plenty of time to dance with Anton Gendarme.

  He glanced out the window; the sun was just now sinking out of sight. Maybe he should just give up and go downstairs to read or something.

  Toby Valders, is there even the tiniest bit of a chance that you are jealous?

  Could consciences snicker?

  Deborah stood on the riverbank as the sun began its final descent. Toby, Toby, Toby. In spite of the distraction of the handsome math teacher, her heart kept going back to Toby.

  And that was funny in a way. Anton had lots of money. Toby had almost none. Anton’s family spent the summer relaxing in a house on an ocean beach. Toby didn’t have much in the way of family, and he himself spent the summer supervising construction crews.

  But Toby was . . . well, he was Toby, and she loved him.

  However, was this practical? Anton could give her and her children a secure future with enough resources to live well. Anton was smart and witty. Would she be wiser to marry him and put thoughts of Toby away with the other memories of her youth?

  The river flowed past her in its casual way. The river did not care one bit about anything. Last year elephants had ripped up the streamside willows and eaten them. A few months ago on this riverbank, wild dogs had threatened children who were out fishing. Every now and then the river flooded, causing so much damage and loss. And it did not care; it simply rolled on. Perhaps Deborah cared too much. Was that possible? Should she quit trying to make all these impossible decisions and just let life, like the river, carry her along?

  She had hoped that taking a walk along the river at the close of day would clear her mind and help her make decisions. Ha. Her thoughts were as muddled as ever.

  She paused, frowning. Was that a human voice? Couldn’t be. She remembered hearing once that mountain lions sounded like a woman screaming. Surely not! But . . . there it was again, and it came from downstream.

  She was right! It was a human voice calling for help. She gathered up her skirts and broke into a run toward the sound.

  “No!” The voice ahead was cracked and dry, like an old woman’s voice. “Help me!”

  There! Beyond those reeds! It was no old woman at all; it was Clara, and she was screaming!

  Clara was clutching her baby in its sling against her chest while she kicked at a dog, shoving her booted foot at it. A huge, snarling gray dog. It feinted and lunged. It was trying to grab the baby! Oh, dear God, no!

  Deborah picked up the first big stick she saw, a torn limb, and ran toward the dog. This is crazy, Deborah, don’t! You can’t stop a huge dog!

  The dog grabbed Clara’s boot in its mouth and pulled backward. She lost her balance and fell on her side. Instantly she wrapped herself around her baby, protecting it beneath her. She was screaming and sobbing.

  Deborah knew she couldn’t just swing her stick at the dog like a baseball bat. She tucked it against her side and thrust it straight forward like a spear, jabbing at the dog.

  A stroke of luck: the dog turned on her and tried to grab the stick in its mouth, but it rammed partway down the dog’s throat. Deborah shoved with all her strength. The dog’s hind legs collapsed and it fell straight backward. She kept pushing and fell on top of it, her body weight and the stick pinning it to the ground. The dog squirmed mightily and its front legs clawed against her, but they ripped her skirt and petticoats without reaching her skin.

  She heard more human voices shouting from farther downstream. Clara screamed louder, but her voice was cracking. Deborah shrieked too. She heard people coming, but she couldn’t see who it was. It sounded like children.

  Manny! Manny was there! He dropped to his knees beside them, hooked his fingers in the dog’s nostrils, and dragged that ugly head back. His knife plunged down into the dog’s neck and sliced across it. Hot blood spurted onto the ground.

  The dog’s struggles became weak, and then they stopped.

  Manny was panting heavily. He drew in a huge breath. “We’re safe now.” He released his grip on the dog’s head and sat back.

  Deborah sat up. “The baby.”

  Inga was helping Clara sit up.

  Deborah crawled to them. “Let me see.”

  Still sobbing, Clara pulled Martin out of his sling. They were surrounded by children now; it seemed like dozens from the shrill little voices asking questions, but it was only three or four.

  Panting and wheezing, Ingeborg came staggering up. “Is the baby hurt?”

  Deborah started at the top as the baby squalled lustily, checking his head for injury, then examining his arms and legs. “I think he’s fine.” She handed the baby to Ingeborg and turned to Clara. “Are you injured?”

  And Clara’s newfound voice croaked, “No.”

  It was an hour later and totally dark now, but Deborah’s nerves had not stopped chattering. Her fingers still vibrated, and even her lip still trembled a little.

  They were sitting around the big slab table in the hospital kitchen. All of them. Ingeborg and the children were drinking juice, and they were giving Clara honey-and-lemon tea for her poor sore throat. Deborah’s stomach was still too upset to drink anything, let alone think about eating.

  Manny swallowed another bite of his sausage sandwich. “I looked that dog over good. He had healed bullet scars in his shoulder and back, but he was crippled up, and one front leg was useless. So he couldn’t chase fast game like rabbits or ground squirrels anymore. His ribs and backbone were all sticking out, so he was starving. Prob’ly why he tried to get the baby.”

  “So when the men went after the dog pack, one of the dogs survived.” Ingeborg looked older than usual.

  “I’d guess so.”

  Deborah asked Clara, “Why were you and Martin down at the river?”

  Clara rocked back and forth, holding her son, who was sound asleep. “Cutting wild herbs for Ingeborg. Then she would show me how to dry them.”

  “I’m thrilled you found your voice; we’ve been praying that this would happen. But what a horrible way to have to find it.” Ingeborg was smiling at Clara as if she were a long lost daughter come home. And in many ways she was, Deborah decided.

  Clara’s eyes got wet. “I didn’t want to lose another one. I couldn’t lose another one.”

  “Another one?” Deborah asked.

  Clara’s voice was a hoarse, dry whisper, and Deborah had to listen closely. “That man who left me here. He has a cabin in the hills out east, way out in the forest, no roads around. Just him and me, and he said he would kill me if I tried to leave. I had a baby, a tiny little girl, so beautiful. But she had a, uh . . . her foot was like this.” She twisted Martin’s tiny foot. “But more.”

  Martin’s little hand opened and closed, but he slept on.

  “It’s called a club foot,” Ingeborg explained. “It happens occasionally.”

  Manny cackled and burst into song. “‘Ole Satan wears a clubfoot shoe, way in de middle of de air; and if you don’t watch he gonna slip it on you, way in de middle of de air.’ We sung that back in Kentucky when I was a kid.” He grinned and finished off his sandwich.

  When I was a kid? Deborah smiled. Well,
he had performed a man’s heroic deed tonight; maybe he wasn’t a child anymore.

  Clara let out a shuddering sigh. “Cal said the baby was deformed and no good. He said, ‘I’ll take care of it.’ He ripped my baby out of my arms and went out the door, I don’t know where. I heard her crying and wailing and then they were gone. He was gone all day. He came back after dark without her and never mentioned her again.”

  Ingeborg stared, aghast. “Surely he didn’t kill her. He must have given her to someone or left her on some doorstep.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. When he yanked her out of my arms and left, that’s when my voice left. I tried to cry and shout and I couldn’t. Until now. When I was afraid I’d lose Martin too.”

  Deborah was crying. Just the thought that someone could do that, that Clara had to suffer . . . “Oh, Clara!”

  “I named her Lily.” Clara smiled slightly. “Every day when I get up, I think, Someday I will find Lily. And you know? Someday I will.”

  Several days later, after a day of canning, when Martin insisted on attention, Ingeborg and Clara adjourned to the porch with cups of tea.

  Ingeborg set her rocker in motion while she watched Clara settling Martin in his sling after the final nursing of the day. Since he had started to eat soft foods, he wasn’t as hungry as earlier, and he often patted Clara’s cheek with his fat little fingers.

  “He sure is a good baby.”

  “Ja, I am grateful.” Clara picked up her tea and sipped. “I bee thinking. . . .”

  “As always.” Ingeborg brushed away a mosquito.

  “You never ask me about my life before Blessing.”

  “I figured you would tell me when you wanted to.”

  “Why did you name me Clara?”

  Ingeborg rested her head against the rocker back. “I had a dear aunt named Clara, and I have always liked the name.”

  “I was named Sjorn.”

  “Would you like us to call you that?”

  Clara shook her head. “No. That life was not good. I don’t want to be reminded of it. Just thought you might want to know. I mean, after all, you gave me a new life, and I don’t never want to go back to any part of that.”