Emma's Gift (19 page)

I couldn't protest, though something inside me almost wanted to. We didn't have much either. We'd worked and worked and pinched what few pennies had come our way the whole summer long, just to get our small family ready for the winter. What could we do for so many?

“I've got the sleds,” Samuel told me, as if in answer. “I'm sure Robert and Sarah would understand sharing one of them. I might even have time to make another.”

“Oh, Sammy.”

“What else can we do, Juli? They need our help. There's no escaping it.”

“Emma was making a dress for the baby.” My mind went racing over such things. Samuel had made the sleds, one for Robert, one for Sarah. And I had made a hat for Robert and a new dress for Sarah's doll. If we gave one of those sleds to the Hammond children, they should each have something more besides. “Does Rorey have a doll?” I asked out loud. The girl dearly loved playing with Sarah's Bessie, but it had never occurred to me to ask if she had a doll at home.

“You've been over there,” Samuel said. “They have scarce little of anything. Except milk and bacon.”

“I didn't see a toy or a book in the place,” I agreed. Oh, we had so little time! What could we do? It was rousing in some strange way, knowing what a lot of purposeful work had to be done, trying to make them all something. But still I knew that no matter what we came up with, it could never make up for what was lost. Wilametta's absence would eclipse whatever else Christmas might mean for them this year, and maybe for years to come.

And I would be grieving for Emma. Already we'd shared stories of Christmas—things she used to do when Warren and Albert were little and things I'd done with the children back in Pennsylvania.

“I already give Rita my nativity set,” she'd told me once. “So sorry, honey. We'll come up with another'n by then.”

Cookies were what she had wanted. Star shaped and cane shaped and sprinkled with red sugar. Oh, how I would've loved sharing a Christmas with Emma! Apple-raisin pie. Sprigs of evergreen and little paper stand-up angels on the mantle. Lots and lots of Christmas songs.

Do it for the kids, she would tell me. Every bit of it, for all twelve of them. There was a little hope thinking of it. And a little dismay. What if none of them wanted any part of it at all?

“We'll figure something out,” Samuel said. “At least we can try to feed them something special. And make Rorey her birthday cake.”

Oh, the dear girl. I'd make her a cake all right. I would do all I could. But it would not be, and could not be, enough.

“Sammy, it's too much!” I protested again. “How can God expect us to manage all this! It would've been bad enough, just losing Emma! But why Mrs. Hammond? Why not George? He's been the same as useless to his own family all this time!”

Samuel didn't say anything, and my stomach twisted tight as a knot. Here I was so resentful over George, and yet I was making things harder the same as he was. I was making things harder for Samuel just talking like this. When had I gotten so coarse and unfeeling that I could talk about a grief-struck soul so harshly?

“I'm sorry,” I told Samuel. “Maybe I should get some sleep.” I turned from him, my head suddenly aching. I was angry, that's what it was. Angry at God, and nothing would ever be good again as long as that lasted. But I knew no way to change.

He took my hand and pulled me back into his arms. Samuel, my saint. He understood, maybe better than I did. “You want to talk about that night, honey?”

“No. I don't think I can.”

“It might help.”

The tightness in my stomach was suddenly painful. “They just died, Sammy! What else can I say? They just died! And there was nothing to be done about it. Except fix them up nice as I could for the folks that might see. Oh, Lord, why do we do that? Why do folks come and look and walk around and say things that mean nothing and tell us what we already know? It's useless! It's all useless!”

“I don't know,” he said quietly. “I guess it's the only way we can think of to say good-bye.”

“Emma took such care,” I managed to tell him. “She fussed over Wila. She did the best she could.”

He tried to hold me close, but I pulled away. “I didn't get her a dress,” I heard myself sob. “The best friend I ever had, and I didn't even get her a decent Sunday dress! I should've thought—when I first got back over here—”

Tears broke over me; I had no control over them whatsoever. Sammy hugged me, and I sobbed into his chest for I don't know how long, thinking of Emma in that rocker over there. I should've seen it coming. I should've never let her go to the Hammonds. She would still be here if I'd have just made her stay home and rest her selfless heart.

It was late before we got to bed. I ended up telling Sammy all of what it had been like. Admitting my anger was not easy, nor was my anger only toward God. Worrying about George and thinking he was dead had scared me dreadfully. And then to find him the way that he was! Better if he
had
been dead—that's what I'd come close to thinking. How dare he become such a broken vessel? If he'd been the one dead and Wila the one to go on, I could imagine her calling all her children in, telling them the news so gently, and then explaining to each and every one just what they must do from here on out. How dare he be so weak!

There was life to go on living. Despite all the bitterness in my heart about it, at least I was changing diapers, washing cheeks, cooking meals, and such. At least I was trying to do what needed to be done. But God have mercy on me. Even though it broke my heart to say good-bye to Emma, my pain was different from what George was going through. I wasn't losing a wife of twenty-some years. I wasn't George without his Wilametta.

“We have to have him over Christmas too,” Samuel said gently. “We need to find something we can give him and get him with his kids all we can. Maybe I can talk to him tomorrow and see if he'll give Lizbeth word for them all to come home. Maybe that's what he needs.”

“What if he says no? What if he won't even come Christmas?”

“He'll listen. Surely he will. It's just hard, that's all.”

“He's not quite like normal folks, Samuel. There was something less than sane in him, and I'm not sure if he'll listen or not.”

“Thank the Lord he hasn't gone to drink. The Post brothers say if he ever did that, there'd be no way to save him. He drank when he was younger, and it had him clear out of his mind. Wilametta put a stop to it then.”

“Surely we don't have to worry about that. Where would he get it?”

“Barrett says some people make their own around here. Even sell it, not caring much for the law, I guess.”

“Well, anyway, I don't know how anything could make him worse than he's already been. Not even drink.”

“Maybe he'll be better from here,” Sam said with hope.

I wondered what George was doing that night, the first night with the funerals done. I wondered if he was being warm and thoughtful toward his boys over there, or if he was pushing them away. Lord help him.

And help me. Help me forgive you, Lord, for what death has done to all of us. Even though it never was your fault, from Adam on down the line. Help me forgive you, anyway, for the sake of my peace and because I know you want me to. So I can love you again the way I want to love you. So I can rejoice in every raindrop, strawberry blossom, and mustard plant, the way Emma did. I want to be like her, Lord. Because she was like you.

FOURTEEN

Samuel

Lula Bell had never given generous milk, but she was down again the next morning, so I gave her extra feed, hoping it would bring production up. But Sukey was worrying me even more than Lula Bell, since I knew she was due to calve before spring. My city upbringing hadn't prepared me to work with cows, and I was glad that Julia'd had some experience at least. But I knew we could use some more help, especially when it came time for the birthing. Maybe if I could stir George even to give me some advice, it would help take his mind off his problems. Worth a try, at least.

Franky came looking for me in the barn as I was sorting through what was left of the lumber. I'd have to work on the sled at night or I'd never manage to make any kind of surprise with my new shadow right there looking on.

“Whatcha doin', Mr. Wortham?”

“Just thinking a while.”

“Gonna make somethin'?”

I couldn't answer that. “Up early, aren't you?”

“I'm always up early. Pa says I'll make a good farmer if I can keep from droppin' stuff an' tippin' over the milk.”

“You'll get over that. All boys are awkward some when they're young. I know I was.”

“Yeah,” he said with a frown. “But it's extra for me. I can't manage much a' nothin' right.”

I hadn't seen that to be so. Not a whit. He'd been good help to me, first with the planing and then with the sandpapering right alongside Mr. Mueller to get those casket sides smooth to the touch. He had a gift. I had to consider it so when an eight-year-old boy takes so natural to working wood, even pointing out a mistake I'd made while I still had time to fix it. Elvira Post had to be wrong about him, because he wasn't slow. I thought he was brilliant. She just didn't know how to see it.

“Franky, just because you don't do things like everybody else doesn't mean you're wrong. You've got a knack for making things, I can tell.”

“You gonna do a coffin again?” he asked solemnly.

Here I was, out here with the wood. Like before. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“You know what I think?”

I waited, knowing he would tell me.

“You oughta make a sled! I know you could! An' it wouldn't take long. You just needs a couple pieces curvin' just the same an' the crosspieces cross the top. I got it all figgered out, but Pa never did let me the lumber an' nails.”

His words came out all a rush, and I stood there with a strange new quandary. How could I tell him my plan? But how could I do it and
not
tell him? How could I look at him and say no?

“Franky? Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes. What?”

“I
am
going to make a sled. Maybe two. But you can't tell the others. I'll probably work when everybody's sleeping so they won't see.”

“Robert's going to love it!” Franky exclaimed, coming to an obvious conclusion. “Sarah too! I wish our pa made stuff like you do. You did the rightest, finest job on Emma's wheelchair. The whole country was proud of ya!”

I had to smile at such a wild exaggeration. “Thank you. But your pa's busy putting meat on your table, which is something I haven't been too good at.”

“He says you're tool smart, an' he's animal smart.”

“I consider that a fine compliment from him. And I suppose he's right, in a way. Everybody's smart at one thing or another.”

“Nope,” he told me. “Not me.”

“Now, Franky, I can plainly see how smart you are.”

But he only shook his head.

We went in the house together and found Juli making oatmeal. Sarah and Rorey were playing school practically under her feet, teaching Bessie-doll a few simple words they'd written on some old scrap paper. Right away when we came in, Sarah tried to get Franky to read along, but he got red-faced and flustered and ran off into the other room.

“He's always that way,” Rorey told me. “He can't read a stitch, not even his name, an' he oughta be goin' to third grade! Willy says it's a good thing he's sturdy, 'cause he sure is stupid.”

“Rorey!” Julia exclaimed.

“I only said what he said!”

“He's plenty smart,” I told her. “Just in his own way. God gives every one of us certain things.”

“He's got a double amount a' clumsy. Pa said that.”

Juli turned from the stove toward Rorey, but I didn't stay to listen. I found Franky in the sitting room, poking up the fire, and I went and stood beside him.

“School stuff comes hard, I take it.”

He didn't look up. “Worse'n hard. Ain't much use me goin'. All I do is take up a seat.”

“I bet you could make one of those old seats, though, couldn't you?”

“Well, yeah,” he said, suddenly brightening. “They ain't nothin' but a sanded plank an' a straight back with a ledge stickin' out for the folks sittin' behind ya to put their books on. Couple a' board legs too, curvin' thinner in the middle.” He stopped and gave me an almost conspiratorial look. “Are you still tryin' to tell me I'm smart?”

“Yes. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise.”

“But what if I don't never read?”

“Just don't give up. You may get it if you keep at it. But put in a good day's work and do a good job, and one day people may pay you a lot of money for the things you make.”

“Why don't
you
do that?” he asked. “Make things and sell? And fix stuff too, like you fixed Willard's tractor for Pa?”

“Times are hard, son,” I told him, as though he were old enough to understand. “Too many folks out of work. Nobody's got extra money to pay for anything they can possibly do without.”

I turned around to find Robert behind me. He stood there for a moment and then walked up the stairs. And I knew he was hurt. That was plain in his eyes. But I wasn't sure why.

“Excuse me, Franky, okay? I've got to speak a minute to Robert.”

He shrugged his shoulders and glanced over at Joe, who was cracking nuts in the corner. Joe handed him a nutcracker, and Franky sat down cross-legged on the floor to help.

Robert was sitting on the bed when I got upstairs, looking sullen. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder.

“I thought they'd be going home,” he said.

“They will. Soon enough.”