A Winter's Promise (3 page)

Again she gauged the distance
to the light. It didn
’
t
seem that she had moved at
all.
I
’
ll just rest a moment,
she told herself,
and laid her head on her arm.
Just
like
a
great big warm featherbed,
she thought. She would rest
awhile and then crawl s
ome more.

The children! What
’
s the matter with me?
she
scold
ed
herself.
I
’
ve got to keep
on going. No resting now!

Summoning eve
ry last bit of energy, she set
the pail
ahead of her and crawled. Again. Again.
“
Lord, help
me!
”
she called into the h
owling wind. She didn
’
t dare
look to see how far she had to go.
Move!
she ordered her
body.
Move!
She knew she
’
d stay on the path; snow
banks bordere
d it
on either side.

The light was clos
e now. Dark wall dead ahead. Set
the pail down. Once more. Once more.

Emma pulled herself to her feet at the door of the
lean-to with a sob of r
elief and stumbled in the door,
blinking, panting, looking for the children.

She
heard them before she saw them.
As soon as they
felt the rush of
cold air, they dashed toward her. Thank
ful
that their squeals drowned out her groans, she reeled against t
he wall. When she got her balanc
e, she plunged
her hands into cool water.

“
If I can just get the l
ittle ones to bed,
”
she whispered.

“
I know there are other things to do, but I can
’
t think
—
”

The stove! Got to keep the fire burning.

She wrapped her stiff hands
in
the r
oller towl
a moment
and
then clumsily picked up a stick
of wood.
“
Al
bert!
”
she called.
“
Lift the stove lid for me.
”

He
lifted it cautiously, but still she warned,
“
Careful
now!
Don
’
t drop the poker.
”
When she had loaded in
several sticks of wood, she said,
“
Good boy! Put it back
on.
”

Albert frowned up
at her.
“
Mama? You hurt?
”

She nodded.
“
I fell. Hurt my back. You
’
ll
have
to help
me get
the little ones to bed.
”

His lip trembled.

“
There! There! Don
’
t cry! I
’
ll be fine in the morning,
”
she whispered.
“
You help me now!
”

She sat down to
take off her overshoes and cried out
in agony.

Only Albert, heard her.

“
Got to be careful how I sit down,
”
she explained,
managing a smile.
“
Go get
cups
…
and bread ... and the
syrup.

Off he went, glancing back apprehensively over his
shoulder.

She felt her stockings sticking to her knees and saw that spots of blood had soaked through her dress. She
was thankful that
the light was too dim for the
children
to notice
.

With
trembling hands Emma
poured the milk into
cups as th
e children clamored around her. There was
half a cup for each and a little for herself. She
took
a
swallow, but her
stomach threatened to revolt. Maybe
later she could drink it.

While t
he children munched their bread and syrup
she put more wood in the stove. She could grasp the
poker now, but
the pain
in
her hands as the circulation
returned overshadowed the pain in her thigh and tail
bone.

A
tear
splashed on the
hot
stove and sizzled. Please
Lord, help
me
stop crying.
Please take, this a
wful
pain away. I
’
ve got to keep going and get the children to bed.

Teeth clenched,
guarding
against a sudden groan,
Emma washed little hands and faces, answered
ques
tions
_,
tugged at tight sleeves, and
_-
fumbled with buttons.
When they were all, in their flour-sac
k nightgowns, she
kissed them, tolerated their hugs, and
shooed them
off
to bed.

But Fred whined, the baby began to cry, and Ellie
clung
to her, pleading to be rocked.

Emma hugged her.
“
Albert will sing to you,
Lieb
chen.
Mama
has to feed baby Georgie.
”

Albert dragged Ellie off to
bed,
and reluctantly she
cuddled in between the boys.
“
Du, du liegst mir im Her
t
zen,
”
Albert sang, and Ellie
twirled a yarn knot in the
comforter with her chubby little finger.

“
Shh
… Mama
’
ll
feed you right now,
”
Emma
crooned
to the baby as she changed him.
Only four dia
pers left. She had
planned to wash diapers, tomorrow,
but how could she possibly carry the water?

With George in her left arm, she unbuttoned
her
dress and s
at down in
the rocker. Albert heard her gasp
.

“
Mama?
”

“
It
’
s
all r
ight!
”
she giggled.
I just forgot I
’
d hurt
my
sitter.
”

He giggled, too.

She winked at him from the doorway on her
way to
the bed, and he began to sing again.

Even lying still, the pain throbbed. She hoped
the
baby wasn
’
t aware of the tension in her body.

How can I get the diapers washed? Maybe tomorr
ow someone will come.
Father,
she prayed,
please
send
someone
to help me.

She knew one way to make diaper washing easier
—
s
he would line tho
se last four diapers with clean
rags that she could burn
in the stove. It was a temporary measure
—
she
’
d soon run out of rags, too
—
but for now it would have to do.

Her thoughts rushed to the other tasks ahead of her. The cattle had to be fed and watered. Now that the river
ice was too thick for them to reach the water,
she had to
hoist buckets
of
water up for them. She groaned, at the
thought. And she
’
d have to milk Cora, too.

Surely
someone will come,
she encouraged herself.
,
Someone w
ill come.

Eight le
aden bongs floated through the
rooms
from the pendulum clock. Emma heard none of
them. Nine.
Then ten. Still she slept.

The baby stir
red, and Emma
’
s eyes flew open.
The hous
e was
quiet. Too quiet! All she could hear
was the tick, tick of the clock and the howl of the
relentless wind.

“
O
h, my goodness t
he stove!
”
she whispered, as
she rolled over and tucked the baby in his cradle be
side her bed.
She tried to get up, but a stab of pain
sent her groaning back onto the pillow.

Jaws clenched, she forced herself up and clutched
chair backs for support as she made her way to the
stove. No
t a crackle. Teeth chattering,
Emma crum
pled paper and tucked in slim
sticks
of
kindling
wood.
“
How could you go out?
”
She berated
the
cold black, stove, feeling as though a trusted
friend
had abandoned her.

She struck a wooden match and watched the pre
cious paper disappear.
Only a little left. Hope Al brings a newspaper when he comes home.

Ignoring her pain, Emma hovered over the frag
ile flames, feeding new wood into the stove as the
fire gained strength until it reared healthily up the chimney.
The frost, she noticed, had crept up to the
v
ery
top of the windows.

In the children
’
s room she pul
led
the covers high
around
their heads. Many times she had wished Ellie
could have a room of her own, but
t
onight she was glad
tha
t all
three were cuddled together in one bed

Again she fed the fire, aware that she could put off
tending her knees
no longer. She brought her medicine
box from the pantry and poured warm water from the
teakettle into the washbasin. Perched on the edge of a
chair, Emma mercilessly peeled the stockings from her
knees and let them sag around her ankles, wincing in
pain as she bathed the bleeding spots.

Her nose wrinkled as she tried to apply some of
Grandpa Verleger
’
s vile-smelling brown salve. Al
though Grandpa had never
had any medical schooling,
his own studying had given
him the status of neighbor
hood medical
“
expert.
”
The ointment slid off the seep
i
ng wounds, so Emma spread it on scraps of rags, laid
them on her knees, and wrapped bandages around
them. She would need to roll more the next time she
ironed. (Grandpa had taught her to how to prepare
bandages from muslin, too.)

Expertly she
wound
the bandage around her leg,
snug,
but not so tight as to hinder
movement. She tore
the last few inches of the strip in half lengthwise, then
wound one part in one direction, one the other, and tied
them where they met.

After she had und
ressed and pulled on her nightgown
she wedged another stick of wood into the stove,
adjusted the draft, and, blew out the lamp. Then, disgust
edly, she lit it again
. She had forgotten to wind the
Clock.

Finally in bed, jaw
clenched against the pain, Emma
thought how thankful she was to be there. The stove
was full,
the clock wound
…
The
geranium! It would
freeze if she left it on the windowsill.

“
Oh,
why didn
’
t
I think of that when I wound the clock?
”
she
chided herself.
For days
she
had
watche
d a
fat bud cluster emerge, and today she had seen
brilliant
red peeping through a crack
.

“
I just can
’
t
get
up again,
”
she muttered into her
pil
low.

But the remembrance
of that red cluster of blossoms
that had bl
oomed at Christmas came back to
her. It had
glowed comfortingly even in
the lamplight, and in the
sunlight it had fair
ly danced. How many times a day had
her
eyes sought it
out—the only spot of color amid the
wood-browns and grays.

For a little while the bed
’
s solace and
the flower
’
s
beauty hung in
the balance.

Beauty
won.

Keeping
the red blossom in her mind
’
s
eye, Emma.
gro
aned her way to the window, set the flowerpot on
the
table, and hobbled back to
bed. She couldn
’
t stop shiver
ing, and her stomach felt sick. She rolled Al
’
s pillow
tight against it.

Oh, Al If
only
you
’
d come home!
Maybe he
’
d sense
something was wrong.
Foolish thought! I
’
ve got to
face
it!
I
’
ll have to get up and do chores before the little ones
wake
up.

The baby usually woke about five. Emma would
nurse him, he
’
d go back to
^,
sleep, and she could slip out
to do the chores
before
the others woke. But now she
could rest, except to get
up every hour
or
so to put wood
in the stove. It was odd how her built-in alarm clock
alerted her hourly all winter but,
allowed her to sleep in summer
—
except
ton
ight, when she had been unusuall
y
exhausted.

Emma wriggled into a
more comfortable position, ex
pecting the sting of her freshly dressed wounds to ease
any moment. But that position hurt her bruised thigh
,
so she moved again. The nex
t position hurt
he
r back.

“
I
’
ll think of something pleasant,
”
she told herself,
“
and I
’
ll go right back to sleep.
”

Spring! First there
’
d be mayflowers in the woods, then trilliums, then violets all
along the riverbanks. Al
would spade a plot for her garden,
and she
’
d watch for
th
e tiny
green sprouts and teach the little ones the name
of each
plant. S
he could see the deep red soil
and the
rows
of green after she
had finished hoeing
them. And
Al
would clear more
land.
On,
how he
would work!
One
night he
’
d light the pile
of brush and logs,
and they
’
d feel the heat of it
all
the way to the cabin.

The waste bothered
her, a
nd she had told Al so
last
spring.
“
I know we need fields for crops, but it
takes so
long for
a tree
to grow
. It
’
s a shame to see all
that good
wood
burn—enough to heat every home in Phillips
all
winter.
”

Al had chuckled.
“
What you want
me
to
do? Can
’
t
sell it. Can
’
t burn it all
for firewood.
”

S
he knew he was right, but that
awful waste still
bothered her.

Emma turned over carefully and
sighed.
I supp
ose I
’
ll
feel the same way when I see that fire
this
spring.
If only there was
some way to use all that good wood.

But spring wouldn
’
t
come
for a long while.
A chill
raced through her, and a knot of fear lodged in her
sto
mach. It would be only a matter
of
time before this
pain would be gone and
she
would be able to
work com
f
ortably again.
But what if she
had
another
accident?
What if the little ones had an accident while they were
alone in the house?

I
’
ll
have to taker them to
the barn with me
she rea
soned.
I
’
ll bundle
baby
George
up
—
take the oval
clothes
basket out to the barn and
put him in that. He
’
ll
proba
bly cry
the whole while, but at
least
he
’
ll be
safe. And El
lie?
Emma sighed.
She
’
ll be into everything. Can I count
on Albert to watch her and Fred while I work? He
’
s only
five.
He gets
^,
interested in what. he
’
s doing. I
’
ll have to
carry the baby and Ellie out there and back. Albert can
carry the water for
the
chickens, but
I
’
ll
have
to make
another
trip
back for the milk. Oh, dear! I
’
ll be all worn
ou
t running back and forth. What
if
it
storms?
Or
gets
down to twenty or thirty below
zero?

She allowed
the same thoughts to circle,
through her
mind again.

No! Taking
the
m along to the barn won
’
t work.
I
’
m
going
to tell Al he
’
ll just have
to
stay
home. We
’
ll m
an
age, somehow, without the money from the
lumber
camp.