Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (22 page)

“You’re welcome.” He panted, too. “Why don’t you stand here for a minute and catch your breath?”

“I can’t.” She snatched up her skirts, quickly looked back and forth, then set off across the street, calling over her shoulder, “I must return to the children. They shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

He followed on her heels. “Having their father in the hospital is a hardship for them, but you wearing yourself out or getting trampled by horses won’t help them much.”

She stopped without warning and spun to face him. Still caught in a forward motion, he nearly bumped noses with her. She took a stumbling step in reverse. Her mouth fell open, and she clapped her hand over it. “You don’t know …”

Her fingers muffled her words, but he heard them anyway. He frowned. “I don’t know what?”

Tears filled her eyes. “Mr. Holcomb died early this morning.”

She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d socked him in the stomach. He stammered, “But … but I prayed for him.” Such a foolish statement. He wished he could retract it.

Sympathy softened her expression. “We all did. But the infection took him anyway.” Her shoulders sagged. “I sent a telegram to the children’s aunt when we left the hospital, asking her to come and assist the children. Her reply came early this afternoon. She refused to come and instructed me to put her brother in a pauper’s grave.”

Oliver swallowed a growl of frustration. He didn’t know this aunt, but he didn’t like her.

Caroline went on in a tired voice. “So I sent a second telegram, hoping to convince her to change her mind, but now I.” She tipped her head, her forehead puckering. “You wanted to tell me something. Is it about the blueprint?”

He’d forgotten about the blueprint in light of his conversation with the minister. And now he didn’t want to admit he’d learned to pray. What good had it done? Mr. Holcomb was already gone by the time Oliver had discovered how to talk to God. He would look like a fool if he told her now.

He took her elbow and began guiding her forward at a slower pace. “It isn’t important.”

Actually, it was important. The deep longing to truly know God that he’d experienced in the midst of his prayer still ached at the center of his being. But would such a relationship benefit him? He’d prayed too late, but Letta, Kesia, and Caroline had been praying all through the man’s illness. And still he’d died. So did talking to God make any difference?

He pushed aside his musings. “You sent a second telegram, you said, but you didn’t finish your thought. But now you … what?”

She shivered. Dark clouds had rolled in, hiding the sun, and shadows shrouded them with gray. In his warm jacket he hadn’t realized how much the temperature had dropped. He whipped off the jacket and draped it over her
shoulders. He supposed he’d broken protocol by giving her a covering still warm from his body, and if she refused it, he wouldn’t be indignant, but he couldn’t stand idly by and allow her to catch cold.

To his gratification, she clutched the lapels and held the coat closed at her throat. “Thank you, Ollie.” She sounded more like herself, and the smile she offered appeared genuine.

He smiled in return, warmed even though the cool air now nipped at him. “You’re welcome.”

They fell into step, their strides evenly matched, and she finally answered his question. “Now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have sent the second telegram. If she comes, it will be only out of obligation or guilt, not true concern for the children. And they’ve suffered enough without being made to feel as though they’re a burden to their only remaining relative.”

Oliver decided to state the obvious. “If she’s truly the children’s only remaining relative, then she is obligated to them. She really has no choice.”

“But don’t you see, Ollie?” She turned a look of abject misery on him. “They deserve more than obligation. If she doesn’t intend to truly care for them, then she shouldn’t come at all.”

Oliver admired her convictions. Her concern for the Holcomb children touched him, but she needed to be practical. The children required shelter, food, and clothing. As their aunt, this unknown woman had a legal and moral obligation to provide it. He touched Carrie’s arm lightly, hoping to soften the blow his words would deliver. “Obligation is better than nothing. At least their needs will be met. You did the right thing.”

She stared at him in silence, the disappointment on her face stinging him worse than the cold drops of rain carried on the brisk breeze. She whipped off his jacket and pressed it into his hands. “My boarding hotel is just around the corner. You can take this now.”

“Carrie, I’m only trying to—”

“I know what you’re saying.” She skittered in reverse, her arms folded over herself. “I just don’t happen to agree with you. And I never will.” She turned and dashed off.

Oliver considered going after her, trying to make her see his point of view,
but she was too emotionally entangled with the children to listen to reason. Truthfully, he ached for the children, too. He’d done his best to help, verifying that their father would receive medical care and paying for meals so they wouldn’t go hungry. But what else could he do?

Thunder rumbled, and the scattered drops became a steady downpour. He should return to his apartment rather than stand there getting drenched, worrying over a situation he couldn’t change. Pulling the collar of his coat up to protect his neck and tugging his hat low, he turned toward the closest trolley stop. He’d gone only a few steps, though, when a frantic cry sealed him in place.

“Ollie! Ollie!” Carrie ran toward him, coils of soppy hair slapping against her wet cheeks. He met her halfway and caught her arms. Her eyes wide with fear, she gasped out, “Letta and the boys … They aren’t in my apartment!”

Letta yanked on her little brother’s arm. “C’mon, Lesley, hurry up. We’re gettin’ soaked to the bone.”

Lesley let out a wail. “Stop it, Letta! You’re hurtin’ me!”

She yanked him again. “Well then, stop draggin’ your feet. We gotta get out of this rain.”

Seemed as though the sky dumped buckets. If she’d known this storm was coming, she wouldn’t have taken the boys out. But when Miss Carrie left, it seemed a perfect time to make their escape. Not that she wanted to escape Carrie—she was nice enough. But Carrie was bent on bringing Aunt Gertrude to Sinclair, and Letta wanted nothing to do with Pa’s sister.

“I wanna go b-back to Miss C-C-Carrie.” Lesley shivered so bad his teeth chattered and made him sound like Lank. “Can’t we g-go back?”

“No.” Holding tight to Lesley’s sleeve, she dragged him along beside her. Lank trailed behind, coughing into his fist. Their feet splashed up muddy water with every step, and rain doused their heads. She hoped Pa had left a good supply of wood in the wood box so she could get the boys warmed up again quick. If they got sick, she didn’t know what she’d do. “Soon as we get to the house, I’ll fix you some cocoa like you’ve been wantin’.”

Lesley squinted up at her. “Honest?”

In her pocket she had three pieces of chocolate, snitched from a bowl on Miss Carrie’s bedside table. If the rain hadn’t ruined them by now, she could melt them in some warm milk. “Honest. But we gotta hurry.”

“All right.” Crunching his hands into fists, Lesley broke into a run.

Letta and Lank did the same. She wished she’d thought of cocoa earlier.
She wouldn’t have had to force Lesley out of Miss Carrie’s apartment. Gracious, but that boy was pigheaded. If it hadn’t been for Lank grabbing Lesley around the middle and wrestling him down the stairs, they might not have gotten away before Miss Carrie returned.

Guilt nibbled at Letta. Miss Carrie would be plenty worried when she got back and found out they were gone. And of course, leaving meant Letta wouldn’t be able to get those four dollars for going to school. Without those four dollars she’d have to find a job. But she’d make the boys go to school. They could share their lessons with her, same as they did the days she stayed at the hospital with Pa. She’d keep learning. Sure she would.

Lesley tripped over something and fell flat. He came up spluttering, both knees of his britches torn. Blood dripped from his chin, the heels of his hands, and his knees. He let out a screech loud enough to wake Pa from the dead.

Letta clamped her hand over his mouth. “Hush that! You want people to think someone’s bein’ murdered? They’ll set the cops on us!”

Lank scuttled forward and gave Lesley’s shoulder several pats. He looked at Letta, rain dribbling down his freckled face. “Yuh-yuh-yuh-you gotta cuh-cuh-carry him.”

Although she wasn’t keen on the idea, she knew Lank was right. Lesley wouldn’t take one step now that he’d hurt himself. She turned her back on the boys and bent forward. “Heft him on, Lank.”

Lesley’s weight settled on her back, and his skinny arms wrapped around her neck. She looped her hands under his knees and took off at a clumsy trot. At least they didn’t have far to go. Their house waited just on the next block.

Lank dashed ahead and had the door open and waiting when Letta stumbled into the yard. The moment she stepped over the threshold, she tipped sideways and dumped Lesley. Lank caught hold of him and kept him from tumbling onto the floor. She gave the door a slam, sealing them in the dingy room. Pa had kept a lamp on a shelf in the kitchen, and she pawed her way to it, leaving a trail of murky water. Lank and Lesley scuttled behind her, one of them holding tight to her soggy dress. She thought about shaking the hand loose, but it was kind of nice to know they were there.

A little box of matches sat next to the lamp, and after three tries she
managed to get one lit. She touched it to the wick, and immediately the glow made her feel warmer even though she continued to shiver.

“Lank, get some wood from the wood box so I can stoke the stove. Lesley, go fetch dry clothes from the bureau. You two can change while I get the stove goin’.”

Lesley hovered near, hugging himself and blinking away drops of water that ran into his eyes. “An’ you’ll make cocoa?”

“I’ll make cocoa. Now scoot.”

The boys scurried off in opposite directions. While Lank filled the stove’s belly with chunks of wood, Letta used Pa’s knife to carve one chunk into kindling, the way she’d seen Pa do a hundred times. It took more effort, though, than she’d imagined. By the time she got enough kindling to feed a fire, the boys had changed out of their wet things and stood beside the stove in their bare feet, wet hair straggling across their foreheads.

“Hurry up, Letta.”

“Goin’ as fast as I can, Lesley. While you’re waitin’, get me a pot an’ that can o’ milk. Make yourselves useful.” She cringed, hearing Pa in her words. But the boys moved off to obey, letting her focus on starting the fire. If she weren’t so wet and cold and shivery, she’d have no trouble. She’d started the stove every day since Ma left. Of course, Pa’d kept the wood box and kindling bucket ready. She reckoned that would be her job now. Worry struck. Had she taken on more than she could handle, running off with the boys?

She poked at the little pieces of splintered wood, pushing them together so they’d work better. Lesley limped over, pan in hand, and Lank followed with the can of milk and the can opener. Lank held out both items to her, and she snorted. If she was going to take on more responsibility, the boys would have to help. “You ain’t helpless, Lank. Poke that can your own self.”

Lank shot her a startled look. Pa had never let them mess with the opener—the sharp point could do some damage. But after a moment’s hesitation, Lank placed the can on the table, hooked the opener on the ridged edge, and gave a push. Frothy milk bubbled up around the hole and trickled down the side of the can. Pa would’ve been upset about the mess and the waste, but Letta didn’t scold.

“Pour it in the pan now. Lesley, step back and give Lank some room.”

When Lank carried the pan of milk to the stove, a grin creased his face. Letta’d never seen him look so proud. She rewarded him with a nod, then set the pan in the middle of one of the lids at the back of the stove. She didn’t want Lesley poking his nose over it and getting burned.

She dug the pieces of chocolate from her pocket. Their wrappers were sodden, but hopefully the candy inside wasn’t ruined. She laid them on the table and then pointed her finger at the boys. “Stay outta these. I won’t put ’em in ’til that milk’s steamin’ good. I’m gonna go change into dry clothes, and I’ll finish the cocoa when I get back. You two just sit close to the stove an’ get warm. All right?”

The pair nodded in agreement, then settled side by side on the bench closest to the stove’s heat. Satisfied they’d be fine, Letta hurried to the bureau. In the shadowy corner out of the boys’ sight, she scrambled out of her wet things and into a dry petticoat, camisole, and gingham dress. She started to pull on a pair of Pa’s wool socks—her toes felt close to freezing—but she couldn’t make herself put them on. So she crossed on bare feet to the stove and sat next to Lesley, slipping her arm around his narrow shoulders to make up for being rough on him during their walk.

“Your knees an’ hands feelin’ any better?” She used a gentle voice this time.