Love comes softly (6 page)

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them on what she hoped was the hottest spot to hurry them up.

The potatoes were certainly done, rather mushy looking from being over-cooked and over-stirred, and now they sat near the back of the stove looking worse every minute. The biscuits! Marty grabbed fiercely at the oven door, fearing that the added minutes may have ruined her efforts, but the minutes had not ruined them at all. Nothing could have done any harm to those hard-looking lumps that sat stubbornly on the pan looking like so many rocks.

Marty pulled them out and dumped one on the cupboard to cool slightly before she made the grim test. She slowly closed her teeth upon it-- to no avail; the biscuit refused to give. She clamped down harder; still no give.

"Dad-burn," murmured Marty, and opening the stove she threw the offensive thing in. The flames around it hissed slightly, like a cat with its back up, but the hard lump refused to disappear. It just sat and blackened as the flame licked around it.

"Dad-blame thing. Won't even burn," she stormed and crammed a stick of wood on top of it to cover up the telltale lump.

"Now, what do I do with these?"

Marty looked around. How could she get rid of the lumpy things? She couldn't burn them. She couldn't throw them out to the dog to be exposed to all eyes. She'd bury them. The rotten things. She hurriedly scooped them into her skirt and started for the door.

"Missie, ya stay put," she called. Then remembering her previous experience, she turned and pulled the coffee pot to the back of the stove.

Out the door she went, first looking toward the barn to make sure that her path was clear. Then quickly she ran to the far end of the garden. The soil was still soft and she fell on her knees and hurriedly dug a hole with her hands and dumped in the disgusting lumps. She covered them quickly and sprinted back to the house. When she reached the yard, she could smell burning ham.

"Oh, no!" she cried. "What a mess!"

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She washed her hands quickly at the outside basin, and the tears washed her cheeks as she raced for the tiny kitchen where everything seemed to be going wrong.

When Clark came in for supper, he was served lukewarm mushy potatoes and slightly burned slices of ham along with the few slices of bread that remained. There was no mention of the carrots which had just begun to boil, and of course no mention of the sad lumps called biscuits. Clark said nothing as he ate. Nothing, that is, except, "That's right good coffee."

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Chapter
7

A Welcome Visitor

Friday was clear and bright again though the air did not regain the warmth of the first part of the week. Marty had made no comment on the muddy chinking, but as they had eaten their supper the night before one small chunk in the corner had suddenly given way and lost its footing between the logs, falling to the floor, leaving a bit of a smear behind it. Clark had looked up in surprise, but then had gone on eating. Marty prayed, or would have prayed had she known how, that the rest of it would stay where it dad-burn belonged. It did, and she thankfully cleared the table and washed the dishes.

The light was needed now, as the days were short, and the men worked in the fields as late as they could before turning to chores. Marty was glad when darkness fell that night. The lamplight cast shadows obscuring the grayish chinking. As she washed Missie for bed, she thought that she heard another small piece give way, but she refused to admit it, raising her voice to talk to Missie and try to cover the dismaying sound.

That had been last night, and as Marty faced this new day she wondered what dreadful things it held for her. One thing she knew. The bread crock was empty and she had no idea at all of how to go about refilling it. She supposed that Clark knew how to bake bread, but she'd die before she'd ask him. And what about the chinking? Had the miserable stuff finally dried to white and become what it was supposed to be? She

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dreaded the thought of going to look, but lying there wasn't going to solve any problems.

She struggled up from her bed. Her muscles still ached from her strenuous efforts of the day before. She'd feel it for a few days she was sure. Besides, she hadn't slept well. Her thoughts had again been on Clem and how much she missed him. Now she dressed without caring, ran a comb through her hair and went to the kitchen.

The first thing that she noticed was the chinking. Here and there all around the walls, small pieces had given way and lay crumbled on the floor. Marty felt like crying, but little good that would do. She'd have to face Clark with it, confess what she had done and take his rebuke for it.

She stuffed a couple more sticks of wood on the fire and put on the coffee. Suddenly she wondered just how many pots of coffee she would have to make in her future. It seemed at the moment that they stretched out into infinity.

She found a kettle and put on some water to boil. This morning they'd have porridge for breakfast. But porridge and what? What did you have with porridge if you had no biscuits, no muffins, no bread, "no nuthin'," Marty fretted and, pulling the pot off angrily, went to work again making pancakes.

Missie awakened and Marty went in to pick her up. The child smiled and Marty found that she returned it.

"Mornin', Missie. Come to Mama," she said, trying the words with effort to see how they'd sound. She didn't really like them she decided, and wished that she hadn't even used them.

Missie came gladly and chattered as she was being dressed. Marty could understand more of the chatter now. She was saying something about Pa, and the cows that went moo, and the chickens that went cluck, and pigs-- Marty couldn't catch the funny sound that represented the pigs, but she smiled at the child as she carried her to her chair.

Clark came in to a now familiar breakfast and greeted his daughter who squealed a happy greeting in return.

After the reading of the Word, they bowed their heads for Clark's prayer. He thanked his Father for the night's rest and

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the promise of a fair day for the layin' in of the rest of Jedd's harvest.

Marty was surprised at the next part of the prayer.

"Father, be with the one who works so hard to be a proper mama for Missie, an' a proper keeper of this home."

The prayer went on but Marty missed it. Everything that she had done thus far had been a flop. No wonder Clark felt that it would take help from the Almighty himself to set things in order again. She didn't know if she should feel pleased or angry at such a prayer, so she forcefully shoved aside the whole thing just in time for the Amen.

"Amen," echoed Missie, and breakfast began.

At first they ate silently, Clark and Missie exchanging some comments and Clark scolding Missie.

"Don't ya be a throwin' pancake on the floor. Thet's a naughty girl an' makes more work fer yer mama."

Marty caught a few other references to `yer mama' as well, and realized that Clark had been using the words often in the past two days. She knew that he was making a conscious effort at educating the little girl to regard her as mama. She supposed she'd have to get used to it. After all, that was what she was here for-- certainly not to entertain the serious-looking young man across the table from her. Another piece of chinking clattered down and Marty took a deep breath and burst forth.

"I'm afeared I made a dreadful mistake yesterday. I took on to clean the kitchen-- "

"I'd seen me it was all fresh and clean lookin' an' smell- in'," Clark cut in.

Now why'd he do that, she stormed? She took another gulp of air and went on.

"But I didn't know what scrub water would be a doin' to the chinkin'. I mean, I didn't know thet it would all soak up like, an' then not dry right agin."

Clark said nothing. She tried again.

"Well, it's fallin' apart like. I mean-- well, look at it. It's crumblin' up an' fallin' out

"Yeah," said Clark, not even lifting his eyes.

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"Well, it not be stayin' in place," Marty floundered. "Whatever can we do?"

She was almost angry by now. His calmness unnerved her. He looked up then, and answered slowly.

"Well, when I go to town on Saturday, I'll pick me up some more chinkin'. It's a special kind like. Made to look whiter an' cleaner, but no good at all fer holdin' out the weather-- the outside chinkin' has to do thet job. There still be time to re-do it 'fore winter sets in. Water don't hurt the outer layer none, so it's holdin' firm like. Don't ya worry yerself none 'bout it. I'm sure thet the bats won't be a flyin' through the cracks afore I git to 'em."

He almost smiled and she could have gleefully kicked him. He rose to go.

"I reckon ya been pushin' yerself pretty hard though, an' it might be well if you'd not try to lick the whole place in a week like. There's more days ahead an' ya be lookin' kinda tired." He hesitated. "Iffen ya should decide to do more cleanin', jest brush down the walls with a dry brush. Okay?"

He kissed Missie good-bye and, telling her to be a good girl for her mama, went out the door for what he said might be the last day of helping Jedd Larson with his crop. She supposed he'd be around more then. She dreaded the thought, but it was bound to come sooner or later.

She put water on to heat so that she could wash up the rag rugs before winter set in, and then found a soft brush to dust the sitting-room walls.

It didn't take nearly as long to brush them as it had to scrub the kitchen, and it did take care of the cobwebs and dust. She was surprised to be done so quickly and did the windows and floor as well.

The washed curtains were still fluttering in the fall breeze and the rugs drying in the sun when she heard the dog announce a team approaching. Looking out of the window she recognized Mrs. Graham, and her heart gave a glad beat as she went out to welcome her. They exchanged greetings and Ma put her team in the shade and gave them some hay to

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make them more content to wait. Then she followed Marty to the house.

The dog lay to one side of the path now, chewing hard on a small bonelike object. Marty saw with horror that it was one of her biscuits. The dad-blame dog had dug it up. With a flush to her cheeks she hurried Mrs. Graham by, hoping that the older woman would fail to recognize the lump for what it really was.

As they entered the kitchen, Marty was overcome with shyness to a degree that she had never faced before. She had never welcomed another woman into her kitchen. She knew not what to do nor what to say, and she certainly had nothing at all to offer this visitor.

Ma Graham kept her eyes discreetly from the crumbled chinking and remarked instead about the well-scrubbed floor.

Marty bustled about self-consciously, stuffing wood in the stove and putting on the coffee. Ma talked easily of weather, and Missie and the good harvest. Still Marty felt ill at ease. She was thankful when the coffee had boiled and she was able to pour them each a cup. She placed Missie in her chair with a glass of milk and put on the cream and sweetening for Ma in case she used it. With a heavy heart she realized that she didn't have a thing to serve with the coffee-- not so much as a crust of bread. Well, the coffee was all that she had, so the coffee would have to do.

"I see ya been busy as a bee, fall cleanin'." Ma observed. "Yeah," responded Marty. She wanted it done before winter shut her in.

"Nice to have things all cleaned up fer the long days an' nights ahead when a body can't be out much. Them's quiltin' an' knittin' days."

Yeah, that's how she felt.

"Do ya have plenty of rugs fer comfort?"

She was sure that they did.

"What 'bout quilts? Ya be needin' any of those?" No, she didn't think so.

They slowly sipped their coffee. Then Ma's warm brown eyes turned upon her.

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"How air things goin', Marty?"

It wasn't the words, it was the look that did it. The look in Ma's eyes said that she truly cared how things were going, and Marty's firm resolve to hold up bravely went crumbling just like the chinking. Words tumbled over words as she poured out to Ma all about the pancakes, Missie's stubborn outburst, the bread crock being empty, the horrid biscuits, Missie's disappearance, the chinking, the terrible supper that she had served the night before, and, finally her deep longing for the man whom she had lost so recently. Ma sat silently, her eyes filling with tears. Then suddenly she rose and Marty was fearful that she had offended the older woman by her outburst, but Ma felt no such thing. She was a woman of action and truly she could see that action was needed here.

"Come, my dear," she said gently. "You air a gonna have ya a lesson in bread makin'. Then I'll sit me down an' write ya out every recipe thet I can think of. It's a shame what ya've been a goin' through the past few days, being' as young as ya are an' still sorrowin' an' all, an' if I don't miss my guess"-- her kind eyes going over Marty-- "ya be in the family way too, ain't ya, child?"

Marty nodded silently, swallowing her tears, and Ma took over, working and talking and finally managing to make Marty feel more worthwhile than she had felt since she had lost her Clem.

After a busy day Ma departed. She left behind her a reef of recipes with full instructions, fresh baked bread that filled the kitchen with its aroma, a basket full of her own goodies and a much more self-confident Marty with supper well under control.

Marty breathed a short prayer that if there truly was a God up there somewhere, He'd see fit to send a special blessing upon this wonderful woman whom she had so quickly learned to love.