Whispers from Yesterday (10 page)

Indignation welled in her chest. He didn’t have to sound and look so surprised. But before she could tell him to jump off a bridge
or something, he grinned, and the sting was removed from his words.

“We’d better hurry, boys. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

“So’m I!” Billy exclaimed before he took off running toward the bunkhouse. “I get the shower first.”

The other boys followed him.

“Will you stay and eat with us, Grant?” Sophia asked.

“Thanks, Miss Sophie, but I’ve got a date tonight. I’d better get home and clean up or Wendy won’t want anything to do with me.” He bent his hat brim at Karen. “Evening, Karen.” He turned. “See you on Sunday, Dusty.” Then he strode toward his pickup.

“That’s a man in love,” Sophia said as they watched him walk away.

“Grant?” Dusty asked. “You think so?”

“Without a doubt. Wendy Aberdeen is a lucky girl. He’ll make her a wonderful husband. He has the heart of a servant and will cherish her.”

Her gaze still on Grant as he got into his truck and drove away, Karen felt a twinge of envy for the “lucky girl.” What was it like to be cherished? To be loved and accepted? The entire concept was outside Karen’s realm of experience. She didn’t know if she believed in it.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

Karen blinked, then glanced at her grandmother. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I’d better check the roast.” Without looking at anyone else, she hurried inside.

The supper was surprisingly good. Dusty wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t tasted it himself. He suspected Sophia had given plenty of advice to her granddaughter.

Finished with his dessert, Dusty shoved his plate away and let out a sigh of satisfaction. “That was great, Karen,” he said, not for the first time.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Blushing, she rose from her chair and reached for his plate.

He stopped her with his fingers on the back of her wrist. “It’s Hal and Billy’s turn to clear the table.” When she met his gaze, he said, “Sit down and relax. You deserve it.”

Her blush intensified, but she did as he’d asked.

He tipped his chair back on two legs. “Hal’s got some good news for you.”

“Good news?” Karen glanced toward Hal. “About my car?”

“Yeah,” the boy answered. “I’ve located that carburetor we needed. Good price, too. And I think I’ve found a guy who’ll let me use his body shop to paint it when we’re ready.” Hal shifted his gaze to Dusty. “But we’re gonna have to raise some up-front money or nothing’s gonna get done.”

It was a challenge of sorts, and Dusty recognized it. Hal was asking how much faith and trust they were going to put in him. From the look on Hal’s face, he didn’t expect them to have much.

Unlike the other three boys, Hal Junker hadn’t been sent to the Golden T by his parents. He had none to send him. He’d come to Dusty by way of some concerned members of a local church who were aware of the boy’s situation, people who’d seen that this young man was headed for serious trouble unless someone intervened. And the Junker family, if it could be called that, didn’t particularly care if the camp made a difference for Hal or not.

Dusty didn’t want him to be disappointed again. Somehow, he had to raise the necessary funds so Hal could fix that car. He wanted the boy to succeed at something. He wanted to prove he trusted him.

We’re ripe for a miracle here, God. Show me what I need to do. Keep me on the right path.

“Dusty …,” Sophia said.

He looked at her.

“The Lord will provide. He always does.”

He nodded. Over the years he’d learned a lot from this woman. She’d been a good example of walking by faith and not by sight.

“Gosh, Miss Butler!” Billy exclaimed. “That looks awful. What happened?”

Dusty turned his head in time to see Karen pulling her arm from the boy’s grasp. She quickly rolled down her shirt sleeve, then rose from her chair and hurried out of the house. The screen door swung closed behind her with a
bang!

“I didn’t mean to upset her,” Billy said. “I thought she was hurt.”

Sophia comforted him with a pat on the back. “It’s okay, Billy.” She glanced at Dusty. “Would you mind talking to her?”

“No.” He rose and went outside, just in time to see Karen disappearing into the barn. He followed her. The old building was filled with shadows. Dusty paused inside the doorway to give his eyes a moment to adjust.

“You didn’t have to come after me.”

He looked in the direction of her voice. “Sophia asked me to.”

“I’m okay.” She stepped forward, into the faint light coming through the doorway at his back.

“Are you?”

“Trying to rescue me, Mr. Stoddard?”

He smiled, answering softly, “Maybe.” He moved across the barn. When he stood before her, he asked, “Care to tell me what happened?”

“You must have guessed by now.”

Yes, he had guessed, but he didn’t say so.

She held out her arms, wrists up, exposing the scars, clear even in the dim light. She held the position until he’d looked at what she defiantly showed him.

“Why?” he asked as he lifted his gaze to meet hers once again.

She released a humorless laugh. “Why not?”

“Many reasons.”

“Not for me.” She turned her back toward him.

He could have pressed her. He could have tried to force the story from her. He didn’t. Instead, he waited.

“My mother never believed I would amount to anything. She was right. I couldn’t even succeed at taking my own life.” Again Karen laughed, a harsh sound in the cavernous barn. “I’m completely hopeless. Just like she said.”

“No one is hopeless.”

She whirled around. Her eyes sparked with contempt. “Are you going to give me the Jesus-loves-you spiel like they feed you at your church? If so, don’t bother.”

“It’s true, whether you want to hear it or not. Truth isn’t altered by unbelief. It’s still truth.”

“You don’t know anything about me or my life,” she snapped. “Do you? “

He could hear the deep hurt behind her words. “Not as much as I’d like to know.”

“Why? Why would you like to know?”

He stared into her eyes, pondering her question, and was surprised when the answer came to him.

“Why?” she demanded again.

“Because I care about you, Karen.”

Thanksgiving Day, 1936

Dear Diary,

This has been the most delightful day, despite my misgivings about Sophia and me. Mikkel diplomatically (whether he knew it or not) placed himself between us, and he never seemed to prefer one over the other. He talked to us both, as well as to Mama and Papa.

Mama outdid herself. In addition to the huge turkey, roasted a golden brown the way Papa likes it best, there was dressing and stuffed celery and mashed sweet potatoes and cranberry relish and butternut squash soup and peas with baby onions in that yummy cream sauce. And for dessert, we had a choice of mince or apple pie and spiced ginger cake.

I heard Papa tell Mama it was almost sinful how much food we had on our table, and then Mama got all worried that her cooking was prideful rather than hospitable and maybe she had offended the pastor.

I do not think Mikkel was offended. I think he was happy. I think he loved being with a family for Thanksgiving. I have never before thought about him being lonely, so far from the rest of his kin, but I should have. I would be lonely if I were taken a thousand or two thousand miles away from Mama and Papa and Sophia.

But today he was happy. He laughed a lot. He has the most wonderful laugh. When I hear it, I feel all warm in my stomach. It is a beautiful feeling. And terrifying, too.

After we were stuffed full of Mama’s delicious dinner, we went outside and built snowmen. Mikkel made a competition of it, but we did not get far before a snowball fight broke out.

I do not know who started it, but I know we were all sopping wet when we came in. Even Mikkel. We stood dripping on Mama’s kitchen floor. Mikkel tried to look chagrined, but he was not successful. Even Mama was laughing, especially after he put on some of Papa’s bib overalls while his clothes dried by the stove. They hit him mid-shin and had room for half another person in the backside. He looked so funny.

Sophia told me later that it was not proper for me to be laughing at a minister the way I laughed at Mikkel. But I think she is wrong. I think God made laughter. I think He meant for us to laugh and play and enjoy the beauty of the world. And I do not think so simply because Mikkel has said it from the pulpit. I believe it in my heart. As if God were whispering it to me there.

Does God talk to people that way? Sometimes I think that is what Mikkel has been teaching. But then I think, Why would God bother to talk to me? I am nobody important. I am not special. I do not have any unique talents. Not like Mikkel. He can change lives with his preaching. He is the sort of person God can use. When I listen to him on Sundays, I feel different.

But I am not like him. I am just ordinary. I am just Esther. It is not a bad thing to be, but it is not special either.

But then I think Mikkel wants me to think that it is special. That I am special.

It is confusing sometimes.

Jeg forstår ikke.

That is Danish for, “I do not understand.”

Esther

Sunday, December 13, 1936

Dear Diary,

Jesus lives! Like scales falling from my eyes, I see it now. I understood today for the first time what I have been hearing preached since I was a little girl. I thought I understood, but I never did.

Jesus went to the cross to pay for my sins, and then He rose again. He is not just in heaven, far, far away. Like Grandma Jessie. He is here with me.

Oh, there are no words to explain it. But Mikkel understood, and he shares my joy.

I am reborn, and nothing shall ever be the same for me again.

Esther

NINE

With a groan of frustration, Karen opened her eyes and looked at the illuminated face of the clock radio. It was three o’clock, and she hadn’t slept a wink. The top sheet and blanket were a tangled mess around her feet from all her tossing and turning. The underside of her eyelids seemed made of sandpaper. She had a nagging headache, and her stomach felt as if it were tied in a knot.

No one is hopeless, Karen.

“Go away,” she whispered.

It’s true, whether you want to hear it or not.

She put a pillow over her face. “Leave me alone, Dusty Stoddard.”

I care about you, Karen.

How could he care about her? He didn’t
know
her. Why had he said it?

She pushed aside the pillow and sat up, reaching for the bedside lamp at the same time. Muted light spilled from beneath the rose-colored lampshade.

“I don’t want his pity.”

She got out of bed and stepped to the window. A sliver of moon bathed Sophia’s garden in a pale, white light. A warm breeze caused the branches of the old willow to sway, like a dancer to some unheard melody.

Karen opened the window as wide as it could go, then knelt on the floor and rested her arms on the sill. She drew in a deep breath and released it on a sigh.

“What am I doing in this place?”

I brought you here.

A quiver ran through her.

It wasn’t bad enough she’d lost everything she’d held dear. It wasn’t bad enough she’d wanted to die and had tried to take her own life. Now she was going insane, too. After all, only crazy people heard voices in their heads.

She turned from the window and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. Her gaze fell on the books on the nightstand. The journals her grandmother had wanted her to read.

Why not begin now? Those diaries would most likely put her to sleep in a hurry.

She reached for the top one and opened it. The first page was dated Saturday, February 14, 1931.
“Dear Diary”
Esther had written in a girlish scrawl.

My name is Esther Ruth Thompson, and today is my twelfth birthday. Because I am always writing stories on whatever paper I can find, Mama and Papa gave me this journal to keep my thoughts in. So today I begin writing the story of my life …

Karen scanned a few more entries. Esther described the family farm and introduced the members of her family, including her elder sister, Sophia. She even wrote about the dogs and the barnyard cats. The writing was childish and simple and not particularly entertaining. If there had been another book handy, Karen would have put the diary aside. But there wasn’t anything else to read, and it was better to read this than to imagine she was hearing things. It was
better than remembering the sound of Dusty’s voice as he’d said he cared about her or dwelling on memories of her own past.