Love comes softly (8 page)

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she could too, so that the house would be a fit place for a little girl to grow up in. It would be harder for her as she was all alone. She didn't have a Missie, or a farm, or anything really. He hoped that Mrs. McDonald had made the right choices. She really was going to need warmer things for the winter ahead. The thought that he was doing something special for her in getting her the things that she needed did not enter his thinking. He was simply providing what was needed for those under his roof, a thing that he had been taught was the responsibility of the man of the house. He had learned this when he was but a 'young 'un' tramping around, trying to keep up to the long strides of his own pa.

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Chapter 9

The Lord's Day

Sunday morning dawned bright and warm with only enough clouds in the sky to make an appealing landscape. While at breakfast, Marty, hoping that she wasn't too obvious, asked Clark if he was through at Jedd's or would he be going back for the day. Clark looked up in surprise.

"Jedd has him a bit more to finish off," he said, "an' I wouldn't be none surprised iffen he'd work at it today. Me, though, I al'ays take a rest on the Lord's Day. I know it don't seem much like the Lord's Day with no meetin', but I try an' hold it as sech the best thet I can."

Now it was Marty's turn for surprise. She should have known better if she had given it some thought, but in her eagerness to get Clark from the house she hadn't considered it at all.

"Course," she whispered, avoiding his eyes. "I'd plumb fergot what day it be."

Clark let this pass and was silent for a moment. Then spoke.

"I been thinkin' as how me an' Missie might jest pack us a lunch an' spend the day in the woods. 'Pears like it may be the last chance fer a while. The air is gettin' cooler an' there's a feelin' in the air thet winter may be a mite anxious to be a comin'. We kinda enjoy jest spendin' the day lazyin' an' look- in' fer the last wild flowers, an' smart-lookin' leaves an' all. Would thet suit yer plans?"

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She almost stuttered. "Sure-- sure-- fine. I'll fix yer lunch right after breakfast,"

"Good!"

It was settled then. Clark and Missie would spend the day enjoying the outdoors and one another, and she, Marty, would have the day to herself. The thought both excited and frightened her.

Clark went out into the shed and returned with a strange contraption which appeared to be some sort of carrier to be placed on his back.

"Fer Missie." He answered the question in her eyes. "I had to rig this up when I needed to take her to the fields an' a chorin' with me. She even had her naps in it as I tramped along." He smiled faintly. "Little tyke got right heavy at times, too, fer sech a tiny mite. Reckon I'd better take it along today fer when she tires of walkin'."

Marty completed the packing of the lunch. She realized that she was giving them far more than they needed, but the fresh air and the walk through the hills was bound to give them a hearty appetite.

Missie was beside herself with excitement and called goodbye over and over to Marty as they left. Ole Bob joined them at the door and Marty watched the trio disappear back of the barn. She remembered as she turned back to clear the table and do up the dishes that today would have been Ellen's birthday. Maybe their walk would include a visit to her grave. Marty somehow believed that it would.

She hurried through the small tasks of the morning and then fairly bolted to her bedroom and the waiting material and shiny new machine. She wasn't sure if she was breaking Clark's sabbath with her sewing or not. She hoped not, but she was not sure that she could have restrained from doing so even if she had known. She did hope that she would not offend Clark's God. She needed any help that He was able to give. She pushed the thoughts aside and let her mind be completely taken up with her task-- almost. At times she nearly caught her breath with feelings that came from nowhere.

"Wouldn't Clem be proud to see me in this?"

"This is Clem's favorite color."

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"Clem al'ays did poke fun at what he called `women's frivols'."

No, it seemed there was just no helping it. He was there to disquiet her thoughts even though his absence still made her throat ache. Stubbornly she did not give in to the temptation to throw herself on her bed and sob, but worked on with set jaw and determined spirit.

In the afternoon she laid her sewing aside. She hadn't even stopped for a bite to eat. She hadn't missed it, and her sewing had been going well. The machine worked like a dream and she couldn't believe how much faster seams were turned out with its help. She decided, however, that her eyes could use a rest. They had been staring at the machine foot for what seemed like years.

She walked outside. It was a glorious fall day and she almost envied Clark and Missie's romp through the crackling leaves. Slowly she walked around the yard. The rose bush had one single bloom-- not as big or as pretty as the earlier ones, she was sure, but beautiful just for its being there. She went on to the garden. The vegetables for the most part had already been harvested. Only a few things remained to be taken to the root cellar. At the end of the garden was the hole that she had dug to bury her biscuits. It was re-dug by Ole Bob who had hastened to unearth them again. A few dirty hard lumps still lay near the hole. Even Ole Bob had abandoned them. It no longer mattered as much, thought Marty, giving one a kick with her well-worn shoe. Funny how quickly things can change.

She walked on, savoring the day. The fruit trees that Clark had told her of looked promising and healthy. Wouldn't it be grand to have your own apples? Maybe even next year, Clark had said. She stood by one of the trees, not sure if it was an apple tree or not, but should it be, she implored it to please, please have some apples next year. She then remembered that even if it did, by then she would have left for the East. She didn't bother to inform the apple tree of this, for fear that it would lose heart and not bear after all. She turned and left, not caring as deeply now.

On she walked, down the path to the stream just behind

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the smoke house. She found that a stone platform had been built into the creek bed where a spring, cold from the rocky hillside, burst forth to join the waters below. A perfectly shaded spot was there to cool crocks of butter and cream in the icy cold water on hot summer days. Clark hadn't told her about this, but then there had been no reason to, it not being needed this time of year. She paused a moment, watching the gurgling water ripple over the polished stones. There was something so fascinating about water. She decided, as she pulled herself away, that this would be a choice place to refresh oneself on a sultry summer day.

She went on to the corrals, reaching over the fence to give Dan, or was it Charlie, a rub on his strong neck. The cows lay in the shade of the tall poplars, placidly chewing their cuds while their calves of that year grew fat on meadow grass in the adjoining pasture. This was a good farm, Marty decided-- just what Clem and she had dreamed of having. Clem had no need of a farm now, and she, Marty?

She started for the house, past the henhouse, when she suddenly felt a real hunger for pan-fried chicken. She hadn't realized how long it had been since she had tasted any, and she remembered home and the rich aroma from her ma's kitchen. At that moment she was sure that nothing else would taste so good. Preparing chicken was one thing that she had watched her mother do. It had seemed to hold a fascination for her, and whenever they were to have fried-chicken she would station herself by her ma's kitchen table and observe the whole procedure from start to finish. Her mother had never had to begin with a live bird, though. Marty had never chopped a chicken's head off before, but she was sure that she could manage somehow.

She walked closer to the coop, eying the chickens as they squawked and scurried away, trying to pick out a likely candidate. She wasn't sure if she should catch the one that she wanted and take it to the axe or if she should go to the woodshed for the axe and bring it to the chicken. She finally decided that she would take the chicken to the axe, realizing that she would need a chopping block as well.

She entered the coop and picked out her victim, a young

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cocky rooster that looked like he would make good frying.

"Come here you, come here," she coaxed him, stretching out her hand, but she soon caught on that a chicken would not respond like a dog. In fact, chickens were completely something else. They flew and squawked and whipped up dirt and chicken droppings like a mad whirlwind whenever you got to within several feet of them. Marty soon decided that if she was to have a chicken for supper, full pursuit was the only way to get one into the pan, so she abandoned herself to an outright chase, grabbing at chicken legs and ending up with a faceful of scattered dirt and dirty feathers. Round and round they went. By now Marty had given up on the cocky young rooster and had decided to settle for anything that she could get her hands on. Finally, after much running and grabbing, that had her dress soiled, her hair flying, and her temper seething, she managed to grasp hold of a pair of legs. He was heavier than she had expected, and it took all of her strength to hold him, for he was determined that he wasn't going to be supper for anyone. Marty held tight, just as determined. She half dragged him from the coop and looked him over. This was big- boy himself, she was sure, the granddaddy of the flock, the ruler of the place. So what, she reasoned. He'd make a great pan full, and maybe he hated the thought of facing another winter anyway.

Marty was panting with exhaustion as she headed for the woodshed, but felt very pleased with herself that she had accomplished her purpose.

She stretched out the squawking, flopping rooster across a chopping block and as he quieted, reached for the axe. The flopping resumed and Marty had to drop the axe in order to use both hands on the fowl. Over and over the scene was repeated. Marty began to think it was a battle to see who would wear out first. Well, it wouldn't be her.

"Ya dad-blame bird. Hold still," she hissed at him and tried again, getting in a wild swing at the rooster's head.

With a squawk and a flutter the rooster wrenched free and was gone, flopping and complaining across the yard. Marty looked down at the chopping block and beheld in horror the two small pieces of beak that remained there.

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"Serves ya right!" she blazed and kicked the pieces off the block into the dirt.

She headed again for the coop, determined not to be beaten, while one short-beaked rooster still flapped about the farm, screaming out his insults to a dastardly world.

Marty marched resolutely to the coop and began all over again. After many minutes of chasing and gulping against the flying dust, she finally got what she was after. This fellow was more her size and again she set out for the chopping block. Things still didn't go well there. She stretched him out and reached for the axe, dropped the axe and stretched him out, over and over again. Finally she got inspired and taking the chicken with her, she headed for the house. Into her bedroom she went and took from a drawer the neatly wound roll of store string. Back to the wood shed she went, where she sat down on a block of wood and securely tied the legs of the chicken together. Then she carried him outside and tied the other end of the string to a small tree. Still holding the chicken, she tied another piece of string to his neck and stretching it out firmly tied the second string to another small tree. She then moved the chopping block from the woodshed and placed it in the proper spot beneath the chicken's outstretched neck.

"There now," she said, with some satisfaction, and taking careful aim she shut her eyes and chopped hard.

It worked-- but Marty was totally unprepared for the next event, as a wildly flopping chicken covered her unmercifully with spattered blood.

"Stop thet! Stop thet!" she screamed. "Yer s'pose to be dead, ya-- ya headless dumb thing."

She took another swing with the axe, relieving the chicken of one wing. Still it flopped and Marty backed up against the shed as she tried to shield her face from the awful onslaught. Finally the chicken lay still, with only an occasional tremor. Marty took her hands from her face.

"Ya dad-blame bird," she stormed, and wondered momentarily if she dared to pick it up.

She looked down at her dirty, blood-stained dress. What a mess, and all for a chicken supper.

Out in the barnyard an indignant short-beaked rooster

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tried to crow as Marty picked up the sorry mess of blood and feathers and headed for the house.

All of those feathers had to come off, and then came the disgusting job of cleaning out the innards.

Somehow she got through it all, and after she had washed the meat in fresh well water and put it in seasonings, she put it on to simmer in savory butter. She decided that she'd best get cleaned up before Clark made his appearance. A bath seemed to be the simplest and quickest way to care for the matter so Marty hauled a tub into her room and supplied it with warm water. When she was clean again she took the disgustingly dirty dress that she had been wearing and put it to soak in the bath water. She'd deal with that tomorrow, she promised herself as she carried the whole mess outside and placed it on a wash table beside the house.

Feeling refreshed and more herself after her bath, Marty went back to resume her preparations for supper. When Clark and Missie returned, tired but happy from a day spent together, they were greeted by the smell of frying chicken. Clark felt surprise but tried not to show it. Indeed, he was on the verge of asking Marty if she'd had company that day, so sure was he that she must have had help to accomplish such a thing, but he checked his tongue.

On the way to the barn to milk the cows, he saw the mess by the woodshed. The chopping block was still where Marty had left it, though Ole Bob had already carried away the chicken's head. The store twine was there too, still attached to the small trees.

As he passed the coop he noticed the general upheaval there as well. It looked like the chickens had flopped in circles for hours, feathers and dirt were everywhere, including the overturned feeding troughs and watering pans.

What really topped all was the old rooster perched on the corral fence with his ridiculously short beak clicking in anger. "Well, I never," muttered Clark.

He couldn't help but smile at the sight of that rooster. Tomorrow he'd do something about him. Tonight he planned to enjoy fried chicken.