by Janette Oke
There was no school close by for Lemuel to attend, but by his second winter rumors began to circulate that neighbors were working to bring one to the area. There was a sufficient number of children who needed the benefit of education. Lemuel began to hope that the strange mystery of “school learning” might be available to him as well. And sure enough, after he’d lived nearly two years with Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, a building was put in place and a teacher procured. Lemuel was allowed to ride one of the farm horses, a small bag of supplies tied securely through the handle of the tin pail that held his lunch, all of it slung on his back. He’d never been happier.
But his joy was not to last for long. Only two months into the school year, the woman became ill. Desperately ill. She struggled to keep going at the beginning, but day by day the illness cost her more. Lemuel needed to stay at home in order to help with household chores. Often she called him in to sit on the chair beside her bed, asking him to read to her from one of her books or from the well-worn Bible. He still labored to lift from the page some of the weightier words, but she seemed pleased by his progress.
Then the day came when she was no longer able to rise. And before it seemed possible, one dark night she left them. Lemuel awoke to the sobbing of the man who had said his last good-bye to his beloved.
The man wasn’t the only one to grieve. It wasn’t until they lost her that Lemuel realized what a big part of his life she’d become. Oh, there hadn’t been soft words of affection, no tucking in at night or tender touches of endearment, but somehow he knew that she’d loved him. He felt hollow. Confused. Adrift in a once-again foreign world. He no longer knew the rules. His comfortable position in the home was shattered. He was certain that the man felt the same way. They stumbled along together, making it from one day to the next. They didn’t discuss their grief—but it was there, hanging heavy between them, weighing them down in spite of the fact that they must continue on. Day after dreary day, they rose each morning, performed the needed tasks, and sought the escape of their beds at night. School became Lemuel’s only respite. The calendar hanging on the kitchen wall told them that time moved on, but in their hearts and souls they felt stuck in darkness.
But a change did come. It seemed too soon to Lemuel—though he had no idea how he would have wished to alter it if he’d been able to do so. The man began to make calls on a particular woman of the area. She’d also gone through grief. Three sons kept her dreary days advancing. Lemuel was acquainted with the two younger ones from his school classes, though he’d never really thought of them as friends. The oldest one was already fifteen and needed at home to keep the small farm operating.
And that was when the words came.
“Tomorrow is the wedding,” the man said. Everything changed.
True to his word, Mr. Wattley knocked at Lillian’s front door promptly at seven. However, the look on his face was rather grave as he rolled the soft brim of his felt hat with his hands. She greeted him, gathering her wrap and small bag.
“Miss Walsh, if you don’t mind waiting just a moment, I feel it’s best we speak here first.”
“Of course, Mr. Wattley. What is it?”
He cleared his throat. “Mr. Dorn’s investigation has exposed additional information about Grace Bennett.”
Lillian stiffened. “Yes?”
“Might we step into the parlor? Take a seat? It won’t take long.”
Lillian obeyed, turning around and sinking onto the edge of the padded chaise that was covered by a white sheet for protection from dust and cobwebs during their absence. Mr. Wattley stood nearby.
“As you were told previously, Grace Bennett was registered in a sanitarium for the consumptive. We had difficulty tracing her whereabouts following her release. But just yesterday, it seems, Mr. Dorn spoke with a cleaning lady at the sanitarium who happened to remember the name. She claimed she had heard Miss Bennett was eventually employed as a nanny somewhere south of Calgary, by a businessman of her acquaintance.”
Lillian’s heart pounded. Studying his face, she was anxiously aware that something unwanted would follow. She tried to form sensible words. “So they’ve—found her?”
“I’m afraid not.” He took a step closer and hurried on. “They attempted to contact the man, but this family moved back East. A full year ago. Neighbors have no information as to where in the East they might be. No one seems to have known them well. Even the pastor at their church claimed no knowledge of their relocation. He said he’d called at their home to discover the reason for their absence from services and found new owners instead. No transfer of membership. No further contact of any kind.”
Slowly, air escaped Lillian’s lungs. She felt her shoulders collapse around her. Grace is alive. But Grace has disappeared into the East. What hope is there now? And Father? Father is well on his way across Canada by train.
CHAPTER 4
The City
Tomorrow is the wedding.” The haunting words now repeated themselves in the darkness of Lemuel’s makeshift shelter. Thin lines of light through the rough boards indicated that morning was beginning to dawn. He shivered and drew his blanket higher.
Thinking back, the boy wasn’t sure how he’d known—but he had. The farmer’s wedding would cause much change. But even as he realized the fact, he was totally unaware of how extensive that change would be. It was announced matter-of-factly, as if the man were merely giving instructions about chores.
“I’ll see that you get back to the city. There’s yer case stored under yer bed—you may use it to carry yer . . . yer things. And a blanket—you’ll need a blanket. We’ll fix you some sandwiches and a bottle of milk and . . .” The man stopped and wiped a hand over his brow. “I’ll write you a letter of reference. Yer a good worker and you’ll be able to do odd jobs here and there until . . .” He stopped again, unable to go on. He sighed deeply. Finally, he found his voice again. “I’d keep ya on—if I could—but we’re gonna be hard-pressed for space here. Don’t know where I’ll find room for all of us. Guess I’m gonna have to build on another room before winter comes.” He shook his head. It seemed that the coming wedding was to be a blessing and a burden all at the same time.
“I’ll hitch the team while ya get things gathered up. Don’t short yerself none on vittles. Might be a few days before ya find payin’ work in town.”
And then he was gone. Lemuel stood in place, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He was just short of his fourteenth birthday. The farm had been his home for three years. And now?
He had to move, had to follow the orders. The man would soon be back to take him to the faraway city. Then what would happen? Would the society that brought him here take him back? That didn’t feel like a desirable option. Or was he simply out on the street again? Perhaps the man would explain.
He found the case under the bed and stuffed in his clothes. He wished he could take books from the shelf—but he knew they were hers, even though she was gone. He threw back the colorful crazy quilt and lifted the woolen blanket from beneath it. He’d been given permission to take a blanket, and he dared not take the one she’d sewn. He carefully remade the bed, patting the pillow that had supported his head for so many comfortable nights. He’d have no pillow now. Another boy would take his place in the security of the small storeroom.
He moved to the kitchen. He was to make sandwiches. He knew how to do that, having spent his last several weeks performing kitchen duties. He found a paper sack and stuffed several sandwiches inside, then moved to find a bottle for the milk. He added it to the bag. What else had the man said he was free to take? He wasn’t sure, so he rolled the bag shut and placed it on the table, thinking again of the shelves filled with provisions in the pantry, where he’d slept for these short years. But they were not his—even if they’d shared his small space, even if his hands had helped to provide them. No, he ordered himself as he turned away. Don’t think about that now. He was ready to go. Or at least, he had obeyed the man’s instructions.
&n
bsp; They didn’t speak on the way to town, but Lemuel was accustomed to silence. The June day was unusually warm. A stiff wind blew up puffs of road dust, and hazy shimmers rose from the nearby fields. The crops were already springing up. Lemuel found himself hoping that the fields would produce well—and then reminded himself that he wouldn’t be there to care about their bounty. He wondered if Rufus would miss him. The thought made him clear his throat suddenly. He had scratched at the dog’s ear and given him a final pat before they left the farm. But Rufus had no way of knowing that he wouldn’t return. He’d miss the spotted friend. If there were one thing he wished he could have stolen away, it would have been the dog, who was both company and devoted companion. The thought tugged cruelly at his heart.
Lemuel had tried to shift his thoughts. But he had nothing to grasp on to. The future was once again uncertain. He was alone, facing a frightening and hostile world, with no idea what was ahead nor how he’d navigate the unforeseen obstacles that loomed. His stomach turned sickly.
They didn’t linger over good-byes. The man lifted down the worn case stuffed tight with Lemuel’s belongings, made sure he had his bag of sandwiches and milk, and pulled from his pocket the carefully composed reference.
“Show this to the storekeeper when you ask about work,” he said, his voice so heavy it sounded gruff. For a moment the man seemed to falter, then fumbled inside his trousers pocket for the few coins hidden there. He held them out in front of himself for a moment in his open palm before placing them all into Lemuel’s hand.
Lemuel nodded dumbly. Was there no one to whom he was being entrusted?
The man surprised him by laying a hand on his shoulder. “Ya were a good worker. And yer old enough now. You’ll get a job and make yer own way,” he managed. Lemuel was astounded that with so little instruction he was being dismissed. But the big man sniffed back what might have been an unbidden tear and continued. “The missus thought highly of ya, boy. Don’t ever do nothin’ that would disappoint her.”
He turned away sharply and Lemuel heard him sniff again. Before the man climbed back up on the wagon, Lemuel found his voice. “Sir,” he managed—he’d never referred to the man as sir before. “She said it was—it was all right if I used your name. Andrews. She said I could be Lem Andrews. Is—is that all right?”
The man didn’t answer. The look of surprise changed to one of sorrow, but he nodded his head slowly, lost in thought. He nodded it a second time with more certainty, then climbed up into the wagon and clucked to the horses. Lemuel stood silently and watched him drive away. He was alone again. A crushing sense of being small and helpless overwhelmed him.
Miss Simpson’s boardinghouse was located in a neighborhood on the near side of Calgary. Lillian was relieved that they seemed to arrive rather quickly, without too much time spent making their way down the crowded city streets. Watching the cars, buggies, and riders on horseback each pressing for a position on the narrow roads was more than Lillian cared to endure. The frequent addition of a pedestrian or bicycle in the roadway caused her to hold her breath in horror.
At last Mr. Wattley offered his hand so she could emerge from his car. She walked ahead of him up the cobbled path to the front porch. But before she could knock, the door opened and a tall woman with a starched apron and hair drawn up tightly to her head appeared. “Greetings, I’m Miss Simpson. You must be Miss Walsh.”
“Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you,” Lillian answered shyly.
“Well, come on in. Welcome to my home.”
As Lillian was shown the common rooms and then her assigned bedroom, Miss Simpson seemed to speak without drawing a breath. She chatted about the furniture and the paintings and the carpets. She explained about the meals and the rules and her plans. After directing Mr. Wattley about where to place Lillian’s cases in the corner of her assigned guest room, she pointed out every feature from the wardrobe to the washbasin. Lillian merely nodded when it seemed appropriate. There were a generous number of rules.
Returning to the front room with Mr. Wattley, she asked, “How do we proceed from here?”
His felt hat in hand, the man answered rather bluntly. “Mr. Dorn’s office will send a car for you in the morning, if you like. I’ll need to return to Brookfield today, but I’ll come back as often as I can, if I can be useful. I’m sorry. I expect this will be tedious and frustrating, but it’s the only way. If you need to get in touch with me—if you need more funds or my assistance—Miss Simpson has a telephone. It should be quite easy to reach me at my office.”
“I see,” Lillian answered. For a moment she felt discouragement rising, but she drew back her shoulders instead. “Well then, I’ll be sure to prepare myself for a long haul. Thank you for bringing me to Calgary. I know it’s terribly inconvenient for you to make such a long drive. I appreciate your assistance more than I can say.”
“My pleasure,” he answered, and he left with a doff of his hat.
Lillian stood for a moment, watched his car pull away. Then she ascended the stairs and retreated to her new bedroom. Reading seemed the best way to pass the time until dinner. But her gaze returned over and over to the window. Where are you, Gracie? Are you far away by now—even in the East? Would we have been closer at this point if I’d just gone with Father? He must be almost to the East Coast by now. It’s so strange to finally know you’re out there somewhere—and yet we’re as distant as ever from each other.
At last she rose and set the book aside. Standing at the window, she tried to reach back in her mind for a memory of Grace. For so many years Lillian had worked hard to close the mental doors on such recollections. It was far too painful to remember. Now she struggled to reverse the process. At first she could merely recall the name spoken aloud by Papa in a singsong voice, “Gracie, Gracie, Gracie.” Lillian knew that it had been uttered that way in times of play. But what action had accompanied the teasing? After concerted effort, a sense emerged of Papa being on his knees—and then laughter. There was the bubbling laughter of a child. Lillian knew some of the giggles in her memory were her own, yet some of them must belong to Gracie—tiny, toddling Gracie.
Suddenly she could also recall a beard, a thick brown beard. That must be Papa. Yes, he was on all fours and chasing us around the dining room floor. Lillian could envision a leaf-print carpet beneath her bare feet, could see the table legs towering before her. At last she reassembled an image of the back of a head—a blond head with a ring of soft curls. That must be Gracie.
“I see Lilly, Lilly, Lilly,” Papa had teased, and sent the pair scampering into the parlor.
Lillian remembered a delightful sense of fear, fleeing from someone safe, wishing to be chased. And then, Mama was also there. A skirt first, a floral print with thick folds of fabric clutched in small handholds. And words, there were words. “Don’t tease them, darling. They’ll never sleep.”
It’s Mama. I remember Mama. If only the face were clearer.
Emotionally exhausted, Lillian turned away from the window and lay down on the bed. She tried to close her eyes, to make the ache in her heart quiet, but sleep refused to come. She wished there were some kind of work to do. Work had always seemed to ease the pain before.
CHAPTER 5
Discovery
Sitting in the waiting area at the offices of Mayberry, Parks, and Dorn, Lillian let her gloved hands rest properly in her lap, but her alert eyes darted about the room. An electric fan rattling loudly in an open window stirred the air around her but did little to cool it. A tepid cup of tea sat neglected beside her on a side table next to a book she was trying to read.
She watched the busy secretary in her narrow, high-waisted skirt and white cotton shirtwaist hurrying to keep up with the demands of her job. The young woman had long since forgotten about Lillian, going back to answering the telephone and delivering messages up and down the hallway where the solicitors had their offices. At times her heavy metal typewriter clattered away relentlessly. At others Lillian could hear her ink pen furiously
scratching across a page. Her hectic pace added to the misery Lillian felt at having nothing useful to do.
Is she working on my case at least? But no, the woman was soon speaking to one of the solicitors about another matter entirely.
Father would have been displeased to see a young woman working in the solicitors’ offices at all. It was a rare enough occurrence to see a woman employed, particularly in her little town of Brookfield, that Lillian found herself rather mesmerized. At home there’d been only shopkeepers’ wives and schoolteachers. As a single adult, Lillian was already a misfit in society. All of her girlfriends from town were already married.
And if it hadn’t been for Mother’s illness . . . Well, it’s not as if there weren’t boys who showed interest. On the other hand, I’m not pining away for any of them either. Perhaps someday I might come to have a job in an office too—and support myself. And then she admitted silently that no, it was unlikely Father would allow such an absurdity in his family. Unless she went to school to become a teacher, she could either marry or fade into the old spinster’s role while living in Father’s home and under his protection all her life—there were not really other options.
It hadn’t been as difficult to wait contentedly on the first day Lillian sat in this same chair. However, it was growing increasingly difficult. She offered to run errands whenever she could, took frequent walks to the lobby and back, even outdoors to brave the frenzied streets. But as the days began to slip past, a full week counted off, Lillian grew more frustrated. She knew it wasn’t necessary that she wait at Mr. Dorn’s office. She could have remained in Miss Simpson’s comfortable home. In fact, she felt quite stubborn for insisting. Still, there wouldn’t be much more to do elsewhere. So I might as well sit here as at Miss Simpson’s. Nonetheless, Lillian couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Dorn was working on other cases.
