Prayers for Sale

by Sandra Dallas

Hennie grinned. “It would!” She stood and helped her friend to his feet. They put on their jackets, and Tom with his cane and Hennie with her walking stick left the house.

  At the drugstore, they sat at the counter eating fudge sundaes, scraping the dishes and licking the spoons, greedy as schoolchildren, remembering back to the early days when Hennie had made snow ice cream from fresh-fallen snow, milk, and a drop of vanilla. “I can’t say this is any better,” Tom said, pointing with his spoon at his dish.

  “The company is every bit as good,” Hennie replied.

  After they had finished and wiped their mouths with paper napkins from the tin dispenser, the two swiveled around on the stools and helped each other down. They buttoned their coats and went out into the night, which was cold but clear. Snow was on the ground now and would be until spring, but there was no sign of a fresh storm brewing. The sky was blue-black in the moonlight, and the stars twinkled like pieces of broken quartz.

  “The frost line’s gone deep in the ground,” Hennie said. She’d have to tell the Spindles to keep a drip of water going through the winter so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. There were so many things they needed to know that she’d made a list—who to call for coal, how to spread the stove ashes on the walk in winter, where the roof shingles were kept and the ladder and the garden tools.

  Dick and Nit had been overwhelmed when Hennie invited them to live in her house. She’d waited until a few days after the twins were born, until the Spindle cabin was so crammed with baby things that the couple barely had room to turn around. Then she’d said that it would be a kindness to her if they would look after her house while she was away, staying there so that nobody broke in. They protested, telling her the offer was too generous. So to keep them from feeling beholden, Hennie said she’d take seven dollars a month for the house, less than what they were paying for the Tappan place, and the couple could pay the electric, too. They all knew the house was worth twenty-five dollars anyway, maybe more, but paying her a little something was a way the boy could feel he wasn’t taking charity. And he wasn’t, Hennie told herself, because the place was better off with someone in it.

  “You’re thinking about your house,” Tom said, and Hennie almost replied how odd it was that the two of them always seemed to know what the other was thinking, just like an old married couple. But that was too familiar a thing to remark on.

  “I am.”

  “Don’t worry. The Spindles will take good care of it, just like he does the Yellowcat.” After he took over managing the Yellowcat Mine, Dick made the muckers clean up the adit, and low and behold, he found a nice little pocket of ore back behind a pile of waste. He named it the “pay chute.” “That was good advice you gave me to hire him,” Tom said.

  “I disremember it was me that thought it up. It was you.”

  “We did.” Tom took her arm, and they slowed beside the cribbing of an old mine. “I believe I’d like to sit awhile,” he said.

  “Are you tired, Tommy?”

  “No, not a bit, but I’ve got something to say, and now seems a good time.” He eased himself onto a rock, and Hennie sat beside him, looking up toward the heavens.

  She pointed out a falling star with her walking stick. “I wonder if I’ll ever be this close to the sky again.”

  “You’ll never be happy going to Iowa, will you?”

  Hennie shook her head. “I don’t know why I dread it so. Fort Madison is as nice a place as you could ask for. But I just don’t love it, not like Middle Swan. I just don’t. I guess I’m lucky to have a daughter that wants me, even though I wish she wouldn’t keep saying I can’t live alone anymore.”

  “And what do you say?”

  The old woman shrugged. “If I had my way, I’d never say ‘deep enough’ to the Swan. But the time’s coming when I might not be able to do for myself. I hate to admit it, but Mae’s right about that. So what else is there for me? I’m resigned to it.”

  Tom squeezed her hand but didn’t let go of it. “You could go to China.”

  Hennie gave him a curious look. “I could go to the moon, too.”

  “You said once you wanted to visit China.”

  “I’d like to see the King of England, too, but you have to have a pocketful of money to get anywheres.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  The dredge groaned and roared, and Hennie waited until it had settled down to a clatter before she spoke. “You’re going to send me around the world?” Tom was talking foolishment, and she was puzzled.

  “No, I won’t send you,” Tom said, then turned and looked Hennie full in the face. “But I’ll take you.”

  Hennie said nothing, just stared at her friend, the blood rising in her face, as an idea of what he meant crept into her mind.

  “I should have asked you to marry me all those years ago, after Jake died. But I was too busy making money. Besides, I was scared you’d turn me down, and if you had, we might not have been able to put it behind us and remained friends. And having you as a friend means the world to me. So I let the time pass, and then it seemed like it was too late. I contented myself with seeing you in the summers. I never thought you’d leave the high country. But now . . .”

  He smiled, a little embarrassed himself, and let go of her hand. “Now, maybe I have a chance. I wouldn’t like to wait any longer. I’ve been lonesome most of my life. There was somebody I cared about a long time ago, before I came to the Swan, but it wasn’t right for us. She was married. You’re the only other woman I’ve ever cared about. Now, I’d like a little companionship before I cross over. I believe maybe you would, too. So I’d like it fine, Hennie, if you’d be my wife and move in with me instead of your daughter.” He paused and added, “You and your quilt frame and your prayer sign. I’d get down on my knees to ask you, but I might not be able to get up again.”

  Hennie laughed, and something inside her let go, as if the stitching on a too-tight garment had suddenly broken. The cords that had bound her since Mae first asked her to move to Fort Madison were asunder. “You’re asking me to marry you? At our age? Why, I’m eighty and six. I can’t get married.”

  “And you’ll be eighty and seven next year whether you’re married or not.” He thought a minute. “You told me once you thought ‘can’t’ was the awfulest word you ever heard, so I don’t believe it when you say it.”

  “I did tell you that, didn’t I.” Hennie laughed, then grew silent. “Oh, Tom, we’d be a pair of old fools.”

  “I feel young right now and not so much of a fool. In fact, I believe this is a pretty smart idea I’ve come up with.” He rested both of his hands on his cane and looked out at the black humps of the Tenmile Range, barely visible in the moonlight. “What do you say, Hennie?”

  Hennie herself studied on the mountains for a time, then looked up at the sky. She didn’t believe she’d ever seen so many stars. “I left Tennessee to come to Colorado in a covered wagon to marry a man I’d never met,” she said slowly. “I guess it won’t be any trouble to go to Chicago and marry a man I’ve known for seventy years and loved for a good number of them. We let a long lonesome time go by, didn’t we? I believe we ought to make up for it.”

  “We will at that.” Tom leaned over and kissed Hennie then, harder and longer than she would have thought. It wasn’t a kiss of friendship, either, and Hennie surprised herself by wondering if a marriage to Tom Earley might be every bit as complete as her marriages to Billy and Jake had been. The idea made her blush, and she was glad the sky was too dark for Tom to notice.

  Hennie smiled at Tom and kissed him back. Then she pulled away and cocked her head and asked, “Could I really meet the King of England?”

  “Any king you want,” he said, taking her hand again and raising it to his lips. “We’ll spend the year going wherever you please—China, Persia, even the North Pole, which they tell me isn’t quite as bad as Middle Swan in January. And in the summer, we’ll come back to the Swan, take a private railroad car to Denver and hire a car and driver t
o bring us up here.”

  Hennie chuckled and then began to laugh. “Why, I’m not looking at the end of my life anymore but a beginning. I believe we could have some good years.”

  “That we could. Will you do it, Hennie?”

  “I’ll do it, Tommy. I’ll say yes to you.” He clasped both of her hands, pulling her to him and kissing her again. Then the two of them stood up, making their way back to Hennie’s house, Tom using his cane only a little now.

  “Imagine,” Hennie murmured, as she slipped her hand through his arm, “the King of England.”

  She told the Tenmile Quilters a few mornings later, after the Spindles were settled into the house, when the women had stopped by to present Hennie with a Friendship quilt that they had made for her in secret as a going-away present. This one was every bit as finely quilted as the old quilt that Hennie had brought with her from Tennessee seventy years before. Made in Chimney Sweep blocks and embroidered with the names of Hennie’s friends in Middle Swan, the quilt contained more than one block that had been pieced from the peacock blue that Hennie had given the quilters. The old woman ran her hand over the names, then said slyly, for only the Spindles knew of her plans, “I don’t know if you’re giving this to me because I’m leaving or because I’m getting married.” She looked down in hopes her friends wouldn’t see her face turning red.

  “At your age?” Monalisa asked, shocked.

  “You think she should wait till she’s older?” Zepha asked.

  “I think it’s wonderful!” Carla said quickly.

  “I bet Charlie Peace finally made you say yes!” Bonnie exclaimed.

  “Not Charlie. I’ll wager it’s Noah Justis,” Carla interrupted, and the other women frowned, because Noah Justis was an old batch, and most people thought his head was not done.

  “You’re both wrong,” Nit jumped in, too excited to let Hennie give out the name. “It’s Tom Earley. Tell them, Mrs. . . . that is, Hennie?” Nit still found it awkward calling Hennie by her first name. “Tell them.”

  “It is,” Hennie told them. “Tom and I are getting married.”

  “That’s a wonderful thing. I only wish the Reverend Shadd wasn’t too sick to officiate. He’s nearly crossed over,” Bonnie said.

  “They’re going to be married in Chicago. Mr. Earley went back yesterday to get the house ready for her,” Nit explained. “If she’s married there, we won’t fight over who gets to stand up with her.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Edna said, and the others nodded. “Tom Earley. Imagine.”

  The women crowded around Hennie then and told her what a lucky man Tom was. They asked about the wedding, whether it would be in a church or Tom’s house, which, after all, was a mansion as big as a cathedral. Edna said she had a piece of lace that Hennie might like to have as a veil, and not to be outdone, Monalisa told the old woman that she could have the borrow of her own wedding dress if she could remember who she’d loaned it to last. Hennie thought it unlikely that Monalisa ever had a wedding dress, since Monalisa and Roy Pinto had never had the words said over them, but it was a thoughtful gesture anyway. She shook her head. “Thanks to you, but I’m going to stop at Daniels and Fisher in Denver and buy me a whole new wardrobe. I never got married in a new dress before.”

  “If you ask me, you ought to buy you a silk nightgown with lace on it, lots of lace,” Bonnie said.

  “Bonnie!” Monalisa frowned. “At Hennie’s age!”

  “Well, I do,” Bonnie insisted.

  “I intend to,” Hennie said, looking Monalisa in the eye and not blushing.

  Nit scurried around, fixing coffee and cutting a cake that one of the women had brought, because, as Edna Gum had told the girl, “You’re the woman of the house, now.”

  Nit had nodded at that. “I’ve got it pretty good here,” she’d replied, as proud as if she owned the place. She took down Hennie’s fine china, and the women chattered about Hennie’s good fortune as they ate the cake.

  As soon as they were finished, Bonnie and Carla got up, because they had the duty of looking after the Reverend Shadd. They explained that they’d left him in bed with a terrible hurting in his head and had promised not to be gone long.

  “He does not expect to get better,” Bonnie said. “He’s living in the end of time.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder. He’s older than Abraham,” Zepha remarked.

  “I’m making him some beef tea. That’ll keep his strength up,” Carla said.

  “If he wants it up,” Bonnie replied. “If he’s ready to die, I don’t know that the Lord allows us to interfere with His will. It might be blasphemy.”

  “It might be starvation if you don’t,” Monalisa told her.

  “He’s been asking for you, Hennie,” Bonnie said. “I don’t know why. Maybe he still wants to save your soul. The man surely is at heaven’s gate.”

  “We didn’t tell you before, because we thought you wouldn’t want to see him,” her sister added. “But now that you know he’s ready to cross over, you ought to go. He wants to see you bad.”

  “Well, I don’t want to see him,” Hennie told them.

  “Quit that. You’re not a hard-minded woman. I don’t understand you,” Bonnie said harshly, then calmed down as the other women stared at her display of rudeness. “You with all the good luck you have now, you ought not to begrudge him a moment of your time.”

  Hennie didn’t reply but stared out the window, rousing herself only to say good-bye as the Tenmilers filed out of the house, leaving Nit and Zepha and Hennie. Zepha went upstairs to rock the twins in their cradle, saying she couldn’t get enough of Dickie and Collie, but Hennie wondered if Zepha had a presentiment that the old woman wanted to be alone with Nit.

  Hennie sat down in Jake’s chair then, her hands clasped between her knees, her head bowed, feeling the prickers that lurked inside clutch at her heart again, while Nit sat on a pillow on the floor beside her. “Is there a story you’d like to tell me?” Nit asked, for it was clear that the old woman was troubled. Hennie didn’t reply and sat there so long that Nit got up and folded the Friendship quilt and started to clear the plates and cups.

  At last, Hennie sighed and said, “I’ve got something that needs doing. The Lord’s answered all my prayers, and I believe He expects me to do my part, although I’d rather take a whipping than do what it is He wants.” She sighed deeply and went to the hook beside the door and took down her coat. “I believe He’s told me what He wants me to do, and it’s a hard task.”

  “It’s the Reverend Shadd, isn’t it?” Nit asked. “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Hennie shook her head, then stopped and pondered a moment before she decided that she did want the girl with her. Without someone to accompany her, the old woman might turn around before she reached the minister’s cabin. “I’d like that. Yes, I believe I would.”

  “I’ll get the makings for a horseradish poultice for his head,” Nit said, going to her medicine chest and taking out some dried bits, folding a piece of newspaper around them. She called upstairs to ask Zepha to stay awhile longer, then put on her own coat, and the two walked out into the cold.

  The sky was the color of lead, and the wind swept down off the Tenmile, bringing the dampness that heralded snow. They walked with their heads down, facing into the wind, which was so strong that it seemed for every three steps they took forward, they were blown back one.

  The Reverend’s shack was far across town from Hennie’s house, and the two women were near frozen by the time they reached it. Still, Hennie wished the man lived even farther away, for she had turned over in her mind what she would say to him and had come up only with confusion. Hennie paused as they reached the cabin, not sure whether she could go ahead, but Nit knocked boldly at the door, which Bonnie opened.

  “Why, here’s Hennie Comfort come to see you, Reverend,” Bonnie said with gladness in her voice. “Remember, you asked for her.” She smiled as she moved to a side wall to make room for the two women to enter. The pl
ace was that small.

  Hennie didn’t return the smile. “What I’ve got to say is of a personal nature. I’d like you to leave us,” she told Bonnie. “Please.”

  Bonnie glanced over at the bed, but there was no reaction. “All right. You take your time, Hennie. I’ll be back,” she said. Bonnie slipped on her coat and tied her scarf under her chin and went out into the cold, closing the door behind her.

  Alone in the cabin now with just Nit and the reverend, Hennie glanced around the room, unwilling yet to look at the man in the bed. The place was sparse. A fireplace instead of a cookstove provided the heat, and a spider and a heavy iron Dutch oven sat on the hearth. Besides the iron bed, which was so bent that it must have come from the dump, the only furniture was an old bureau, a table, and two wooden chairs that didn’t match. A Bible lay open on the dresser next to a shaving glass and a tin basin. A crude wooden cross aged the color of burnt toast, its bottom broken off, hung on the wall; it might have been salvaged from a graveyard.

  Hennie let her eyes go as far as the bed quilt, and after a moment, for the quilt was so washed and worn that it was hard to see the design, she recognized the Seven Sisters pattern, and she put her hand on the wall to steady herself. The wall was made of peeled logs, the wood as smooth as glass.

  Nit followed the old woman’s gaze and said, “There’s an awful lot of living in that quilt.”

  “And an awful lot of suffering, I expect,” Hennie added. She still had not looked at the man who lay under the quilt, and he seemed not to want to speak until she did.

  After a minute or two, Hennie went to the door and opened it wide. The sickroom was close, but that was not the reason that Hennie fussed with the door. She couldn’t find words to say to the man and wanted a reason to delay the moment of facing him. She stared out at the yard, where stinging bits of snow were starting to come down. Smoke scattered as soon as it left the chimneys, and the wind blew an old bushel basket down the street and into a bare aspen tree, where it lodged. Hennie pushed the door almost shut, until only a crack of light showed through the opening. Then she turned and walked purposefully to the bed, standing where the man could see her, and looked into his face, which was worn and wrinkled from too many years of living close to the sun. “Well, I’m here,” she said at last, for the man still had not spoken to her. “I brought Mrs. Spindle with me.”