The House on Malcolm Street (6 page)

I had her wash her face and get dressed while I continued to dust all around the room. I’d been too tired last night to think about it, but now I wondered how long it’d been since the bedclothes had been laundered, considering that Marigold hadn’t been able to climb the stairs. It wouldn’t be appropriate to ask first thing this morning, of course, but maybe later I could offer to do the washing, including all the bedding in the house. The windows could use a good wiping too, the floors dust-mopped, and the rugs shaken out – eventually. There might not be time for it all the first day. And I certainly didn’t want Aunt Marigold thinking that I disapproved of her housekeeping. I just wanted to pitch in with things that must be especially difficult for her.

I could smell something baking as soon as we reached the bottom of the stairs, and then I felt guilty that I hadn’t been down earlier. If Aunt Marigold prepared breakfast this early then I should be up helping in the kitchen. I would have to tell her that I did not want to be treated like a special guest. I wanted to work for our board starting immediately.

But it was quickly apparent that Marigold had different ideas.

“My goodness!” she exclaimed as soon as she saw us. “You’re up so early! Did my clattering about wake you? I wouldn’t have called you down this morning at all. You need your rest after the trip.”

I knew what had wakened me, but I didn’t want to say a word about that. “We’ve become accustomed to rising with the sun,” I said simply, neglecting to add that the habit was a by-product of my own restlessness.

Her nephew seemed to be nowhere about. Perhaps he’d already left for work. If that were the case, we’d only need to concern ourselves with encountering him directly in the evenings, which would be far easier for me. Marigold seemed matronly in an immensely likeable way. And to all appearances she even needed us, as we needed her. Without Josiah Walsh’s presence throwing an unpredictable cog in the works, we could have a happy arrangement here.

Marigold was rolling out biscuit dough and Eliza was immediately fascinated. “Can I help?”

“Why, sure, child. You’re just the right age for this kind of thing.” Marigold reached to the wide pickle crock that held her kitchen utensils and grabbed out a much smaller rolling pin, just the size for Ellie. The handles were painted bright red with little yellow knobs on the ends. The little roller had probably been carved from a very lightweight wood, but it rolled just as easily as the big one.

Eliza was eager to do her part rolling out the biscuits, and Aunt Marigold was just as eager to teach. They made quite a pair, just as I’d expected. Ellie was beaming ear to ear as she bore down with her rolling pin over the smooth dough. I busied my hands with the little bit of dishes in the sink, and Marigold left Ellie alone for a minute to check the oven and pull out what I’d been smelling – the first pan of biscuits. She had the biggest cookie sheet I’d ever seen brimming full, and there’d be at least that many more. I’d never known anyone to fix such a big batch who didn’t have eight or nine children standing ready to eat them.

“I’m slow anymore,” she told me. “’Fore I get the second tray of dough ready, the first ones are comin’ out.”

“Do you always make so many? Goodness, we couldn’t begin to eat that much.”

She smiled. “Won’t have to. Twice a week I send a bundleful on the train.”

On the train? Biscuits? I didn’t have time to ask what she was talking about. The back door creaked behind me and I turned in time to see Mr. Walsh step into the kitchen with a wire basket filled with eggs.

“My, oh my, that’s a generous many,” Aunt Mari proclaimed. “Did Mr. Abraham insist on sharing again?”

“That he did,” Josiah answered. “Of course he knows it’s Tuesday, but he also said he saw the light in your room upstairs and knew it wouldn’t be you up there. So he figured you’d rented it out and had another mouth to feed.”

“Nosy old coot,” Aunt Marigold said with a mysterious smile. “It’s no business of his what we’re doing over here.”

“Maybe he’s hankering for a fresh-baked pie again.”

“Maybe. But it’ll have to wait. It’s biscuit day and when we’re done with these, I’m going to let the oven rest at least until this afternoon.”

Josiah set the egg basket on the counter, glancing in my direction for the first time. He looked so tall, far taller than he had last night. Fair-haired like John but broader of shoulder. I hoped he’d be in a great hurry to leave for his work.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

I nodded, not wanting to elaborate in any manner.

“Somebody have a bumpy start this morning?”

Had he heard my precipitous tumble from the bed? Or worse, had I cried out? I couldn’t remember, but it was certainly a possibility. John had wakened me from the nightmare more than once after hearing me yell.

I stared at him, wondering what I could answer without having to explain myself. He didn’t walk away and busy himself at something, which would have been the gracious thing to do. He just stood watching me and waiting.

“I assure you that we’re both fine,” I told him, a bit more curtly than I’d intended.

He narrowed his eyes a bit, as if questioning me, and then turned abruptly away. “Good. Has anyone carried the milk in?”

“Haven’t got to that yet,” Marigold answered immediately.

“I didn’t mean you,” Josiah told her. “I’ll get it.”

Why hadn’t I thought when I saw the milk wagon down the street that there might be milk on the front step? I could’ve saved someone some steps. Mr. Walsh obviously believed I should’ve. I’d have to be on my toes around here or he’d quickly draw the conclusion that I wasn’t doing enough. Maybe Marigold had told him she was letting me stay without paying. I could understand that the apparent double standard could be upsetting, but there was nothing I could do to remedy that yet.

He brought the milk in silence and then without waiting for anyone else, plopped jam onto a warm biscuit and began gobbling it down.

“Want eggs?” Aunt Marigold asked him without a shred of criticism.

“Sure.”

She turned to me. “How do you ladies like your eggs? I’ll be making some for everybody, but Josiah first. He’ll be out the door before we know it. I’ve got to get the rest of these biscuits in the oven. Don’t want to make anybody late.”

“Train won’t leave without me on biscuit day,” Josiah added, and I still had no idea what they were talking about but didn’t think it was my place to ask.

“We’ll eat eggs any way you fix them,” I answered Marigold. “But I’d be happy to cook them if you wish.”

“That’d be wonderful, dear,” she said quickly. “It’ll give me a chance to help the little baker here finish cutting the last few biscuits. Josiah likes three hard fried when he can get them and I’ll take one scrambled.” She turned happily to Ellie. “You’re doing a great job, sweetie.”

Eliza smiled as Marigold helped her fill a second tray of biscuits for the oven. But I noticed Josiah’s frown and got the sinking feeling that he was very unhappy with our presence.

“I can cook my own eggs,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Marigold told him. “I want you to read to me, same as usual.”

I wasn’t sure what to think as he moved to the table in silence and picked up a leather-bound book from a small shelf in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed before. Obviously, he respected his aunt enough to do what she asked even when he didn’t like it.

“Chapter 139,” Marigold prompted.

I didn’t know what to expect as he turned pages and began to read, but it was a psalm, from the Bible. I recognized it immediately, though I couldn’t remember when or where I’d heard it before.

“O Lord, thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off.”

Did Mr. Walsh appreciate the Scripture as much as his aunt did, or was he simply being nice? It was impossible to tell, but I wished he would refuse her request, or at least stop after the first verse or two. Marigold had set a skillet and grease beside the stove for the eggs, but it was frightfully hard to concentrate with the Word of God going on in the background.

“Thou compasseth my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways.”

I tried to busy myself and pay no attention. He wasn’t reading to me, and the words had no bearing on my situation. Why bother with them?

“There is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether. Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.”

Marigold’s wonderful gas stove lit with ease. Noisily, I fumbled in a drawer for the utensils I needed and melted a dab of grease in the pan. Mr. Walsh wanted three eggs, hard fried. Just what John had always requested. Must be a family thing. I reached for the egg basket as he read on.

“Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. Whither shall I go from thy spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence?”

The words stopped me cold. An egg slipped from my hand, I don’t know how. But before I could catch it, the thing cracked against the corner of the stove and slid to the floor with a squishy plop.

Josiah stopped reading and looked up at me. Wonderful. I certainly was not making a very good impression. Staring down at the egg on Marigold’s hard wood floor, my eyes filled with tears. This was so stupid. It was absolutely the worst moment to draw attention to myself. I hadn’t been trying to flee God’s presence. I’d only wanted a roof over our heads. And now – now here we were in this strange house in Illinois with perfect strangers. And I was acting like an absolute ninny in front of them, to be so clumsy and so . . . so emotional.

Marigold hurried toward me with a cleaning rag. “Don’t you worry about it, now, dearie,” she admonished quickly. “One egg is no big thing. Nobody here’s starvin’.”

Glancing over at my daughter, I could see the hint of anxiety in her eyes. Had she wondered if Aunt Marigold might get mad at my carelessness? Or even ask us to leave? Such an outcome would be devastating.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to say, maybe as much to Eliza as to anyone else.

“Like I said, it’s no big thing,” Marigold repeated. “We’ve got plenty more this morning.”

True enough. But that started me wondering. Did they have other mornings when they did without? Josiah had said a neighbor sent the eggs at least partly because he thought Marigold had extra boarders. Did she have any chickens of her own? Had she been struggling for enough food to put on the table? We would be a terrible burden if that were the case.

“Go right on readin’,” Marigold told her nephew, and I wished she’d let it go. I couldn’t remember the number of the psalm she’d chosen, but it had started out unnerving and hadn’t gotten any better.

“If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me . . .”

Suddenly I remembered where I’d heard those words before. John had read them late one night as I walked and prayed, trying to coax our baby to sleep. Poor little Johnny James had been so ill several times in the few short months of his life. And John had been so confident in his recovery. All for naught.

Marigold motioned at me to keep cooking. She insisted on cleaning up the mess herself. I tried to concentrate, to show her and her nephew that I could be a decent cook, a decent help to them. But I broke an egg against the side of the pan and another got a little overdone as I tried to scrape up the splatter. They’d not be very pretty eggs, but hopefully they’d taste all right.

Marigold had the last of the biscuits in the oven in two shakes and then sat down across the table from her nephew, bringing him more biscuits and jam. Eliza sat beside her and accepted a biscuit immediately. But Josiah just kept reading.

“Thou hast possessed my reins; thou hast covered me from my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”

I took him a plate of eggs. He stopped and looked down at it but didn’t say a word.

“Go ahead and eat,” Marigold told him. “You’ll have to be out the door pretty quick.”

He set the Bible aside, glanced at me, and then bowed his head for a moment before lifting his fork. I wished I knew if prayer was his regular habit or only a precaution under the circumstances. But I tried to act as if I hadn’t noticed and set to work scrambling a batch of eggs for the rest of us.

“What does ‘possessed my reins’ mean?” Eliza suddenly asked.

I drew a breath. It was hard enough to answer some of her questions privately, but in front of Aunt Mari and Mr. Walsh? I was about to reluctantly admit that I wasn’t sure when Marigold answered confidently.

“That means God had control of the making of you before you were even born,” she explained. “He knew all about you and worked out every detail to make you the special person you are.”

“Before I was born?” Ellie questioned. “Did I have curly hair even back then?”

“In God’s eyes you did.”

I hoped they would stop before the conversation progressed any further. But my Eliza was too much of a thinker and too full of questions for that.

“Did he know all about my baby brother too?”

Marigold put her arm around my daughter’s shoulders. “He knows everything there is to know about every one of us, child. No matter how old or young. He made us who we are.”

“Then did he make my brother sick?”

I would not have been prepared for such an abrupt question, nor would I have handled it very well. But the words were not spoken with any kind of bitterness, and Marigold didn’t seem troubled by them in the least. Her words were steady and strong, as though she’d had plenty of time to think them through.

“Whether God formed him weak of body or whether the enemy in this world caused that for trouble, I can’t say. But I know that child was purposed of God and loved by him just as much as anyone that’s ever been born.”

I suddenly realized that Josiah was watching me as he ate, probably waiting for some kind of reaction. Did he know about my baby? Surely he did. How could a relative staying here with Marigold not know? So what did he want to see? More tears?