By the time March arrived, things had pretty well returned to normal—that is for Willie, Avery and me. We tried a bit of kite flying on the windy days—and there were lots of them. Not all of the snow had left us yet, but that didn’t slow us down none. We were used to trying to fly kites with snow still on the ground. Truth was, I guess we just couldn’t wait for real spring to come.
It was obvious now to the entire congregation that Aunt Lou was expecting her first baby. When news started to circulate about the coming big event, young women exclaimed with redflushed cheeks, girls tittered and got all excited and matronly ladies had lots and lots of advice to give to the mother-to-be. Aunt Lou took it all good-naturedly. I think she loved the attention. I do know for sure she was plumb excited about that baby. Already she was busy filling the cedar chest with all sorts of special little tiny garments. Made me think about my ma—had it been that way with her when she knew I was on the way?
All the menfolk at the farm were talking about that baby, too. Grandpa was busy fashioning a wooden cradle, and every weekend when I went home, he would show me how far along he was on his project. He worked on it in the near-empty parlor, and it was coming along very nicely, too.
Uncle Charlie had a project of his own. He was making a woven hamper for Aunt Lou to keep all of the baby’s soiled laundry until washday. He couldn’t do too much with wood, he said, but that laundry hamper sure did look nice.
Even Gramps was busy. His project I found the most interesting of all. He was piecing together a quilt just big enough for the baby’s bed.
“If your great-grandmother were here, she would insist on a homemade quilt for that little bed,” Gramps told me. “She could do the most beautiful stitching, your great-grandmother. Well, I can’t do it as fine as she could have done, but that baby is going to have a quilt anyway,” and he went to town and purchased materials and started to work on that quilt. I guess he must have watched Great-grandmother do the job many times, for he seemed to know just how to get on with it.
I wanted to do something for the new baby, too, but I didn’t know just what it would be. I couldn’t work with tools much, and I didn’t have any idea how to weave. I wasn’t about to have the fellas find out I was sewing—I’d had my fill of teasing for the year—so quilting was out of the question. I finally decided to see what I could find for odd jobs so I might earn myself a bit of money to buy something for the baby.
There really wasn’t that much opportunity for paying work in our small town, but I did hang around the stores all I could and let it be known that I was willing to run errands or do some sweeping up or whatever else came about.
It was while I was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the downtown hotel one sunny spring day in mid-April that Mrs. Foggelson came along. She smiled nicely at me and I doffed my cap like I had been taught and smiled back at her. After all, she had been awfully kind to me.
“Good afternoon, Joshua,” she said, and then remarked about what a fine day we were having.
I agreed and moved aside so she could pass more easily. It was then that I noticed that her arms were full of packages. I was finished with my sweeping and had a few extra minutes before choring and I knew what Aunt Lou would wish me to do.
“I just need to give Mr. Powell back his broom,” I said to Mrs. Foggelson, “an’ I’ll be glad to help you home with your packages.”
“How thoughtful of you, Joshua,” she said, giving me another smile.
I ran to report to Mr. Powell and was soon back out on the sidewalk again. I eased some of the packages from Mrs. Foggelson’s arms and we started out together.
“I’ve missed you, Joshua,” she said to me.
I didn’t know quite how to respond so I said nothing, just sort of pretended I didn’t hear her. We walked along in silence for some minutes, talking only now and then about the sunshine, the spots of new green grass and Mrs. Jones’s daffodils that were nodding golden heads in the slight breeze.
We were almost home when Mrs. Foggelson spoke again.
“I know that it must have been very difficult for you, Joshua.
I’m sorry about it.”
I was about to assure Mrs. Foggelson that I did not blame her in any way for what had happened, but she went on in a quiet, sad voice, “When I married Mr. Foggelson I was a believer, too. I wasn’t strong like you, Joshua. I didn’t stand up to him.
His arguments sounded so logical, so profound. How could I, a mere girl turning woman, with no education higher than the eighth grade, possibly know more than this man who had trained in one of the country’s best colleges? I gave in and I shouldn’t have. I lost far more than I realized at the time.”
I just sort of stumbled to a stop and looked in the sad face of this distressed woman. I had no words of comfort or of counsel.
“But it’s not too late,” I finally stammered.
“Oh, it is, Joshua, it is,” she said with a resigned sigh.
“But—“ I started to protest, wishing that Uncle Nat was there and hardly able to wait to get home to talk to him about Mrs. Foggelson and her problem.
She stopped me.
“I have shared my little secret with you, Joshua, because I know what you are feeling—because I admire you for standing strong—but, please, please, keep our secret. Promise me, Joshua?”
I had to promise. Standing there facing Mrs. Foggelson with the tears just ready to slip from her eyes and course down her cheeks, I could do nothing else. But it was a hard promise for me to make. Now I would be unable to tell Uncle Nat or Aunt Lou about her, about how she needed to be helped to understand that she could still come back to the church, and to her God.
“I—I promise,” I reluctantly agreed.
She lifted a gloved hand to carefully wipe away the unwanted tear and then smiled again. No one would have known that she had been so sad looking just a moment before.
“Thank you, Joshua,” she said in almost a whisper. “Thank you for sharing my load—and my groceries.”
We were at her door then, and I waited while she took in the things she was carrying and returned to take the parcels from me.
She smiled at me again and said another thank you and I doffed my cap and hurried back down the walk. I didn’t especially want to meet Camellia or Mr. Foggelson.
I was just leaving the yard when I unexpectedly ran into Jack Berry. And I mean just that. I wasn’t paying very close attention to where I was going, I guess, and I swung around some shrubbery and smacked right into someone starting up the Foggelson walk. We both started to mumble our apologies and then Jack got a look at who he was talking to.
Before I knew what had happened he had a fist full of my shirt front and he was pulling me toward him with his face going red with anger.
“You been sneakin’ around callin’ on Camellia?” he hissed.
I attempted to get my shirt front back.
“I have not,” I hissed back, and jerked on Jack’s hand.
“Are you sure?” he shot back at me.
“I don’t lie an’ you know it!” I spat at him. “Let go a my shirt.”
He did let go but his face was still red and angry.
“I’ll ask Camellia,” he assured me, “an’ if you have, you’re gonna be sorry. Next time you won’t get off with just a bump on your poor dumb head.”
I pushed past Jack and started for home, inwardly raging. My shirt wasn’t damaged badly but one button hung loose. Stupid Jack Berry!
I never did care too much for the guy,
I told myself, but I quickly amended the thought. It wasn’t true. There had been a time when I counted Jack Berry as one of my friends.
But that was before Camellia had come to town and he had gone off with his craziness over the girl. He acted like one who had lost his mind or something, the way he carried on. Well, he could have Camellia. I didn’t care. No, that wasn’t quite true, either. I still thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I still enjoyed her silvery laughter and the toss of her coppery curls. I still prayed for her every night when I said my prayers. I prayed for her pa, too, and now that I knew the situation I would pray for her ma most of all.
I continued on home, still riled by my encounter and trying to sort through the whole silly mess. Life sure could get complicated. How did one ever get it all put together anyway?
In the back of my mind the old chant started again.
Jack Berry, Jack Berry.
The whole thing just made me feel madder. And now I was a little late for choring as well. I knew Aunt Lou would understand when I told her my reason, but that wouldn’t help my chores to get done any faster.
I was just passing by the schoolyard when I met Old Sam. He was stumbling along, the coat Uncle Nat had found for him open and flopping back and forth with each staggering step. It looked to me like it had all of the buttons torn from it, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. He was muttering or humming to himself and clutching a nearly empty bottle close against his chest as though he was afraid someone might try to wrest it from him.
He waved his bottle in the air when he saw me. I guess he knew it was safe enough. I wouldn’t be wanting it.
“Hi, Joshsh,” he slurred his greeting to me and hiccupped.
“Hi, Sam,” I answered without stopping.
“Now, don’ ya go fall ag’in, Joshsh,” he said and chuckled. Without even meaning to I looked aside and there, sure enough, was the big rock that I was said to have hit my head on.
Jack Berry, Jack Berry
chanted my mind. What had Jack just said? Next time I wouldn’t get off with just a bump to my dumb head. Suddenly, without warning, everything fell into place.
It was Jack’s voice I heard that night!
We had fought. He had hit me and I had stumbled. That was when I must have hit my head. And good old Jack Berry had run off and left me there, knowing full well I might die of cold before I was ever found.
An anger took hold of me such as I had never felt before. It was all that I could do to keep myself from turning around and heading straight back to the Foggelsons’ to confront the dirty, yellow good-for-nothing Berry right on the spot and make him pay for what he’d done.
I likely would have, too, had it not been for Aunt Lou. Somehow the fact that she needed me, needed me to haul the wood and water, and needed to not worry about where I was, kept me heading for home. There was no way I wanted to cause any anxiety for her—especially with the birth of that baby getting closer and closer.
S
PRING SLID FROM APRIL
through May and into June. After everything that had happened to me, the days seemed lazy and uneventful. At school, Mr. Foggelson’s attitude toward me was to either ignore or avoid me, and I preferred it that way. Camellia was too busy telling secrets to the other girls to pay much attention to any of us fellas. We all knew that Jack Berry was still a frequent visitor at Camellia’s house.
I no longer cared. I still burned with anger every time I thought about Jack. Since my memory had come back, I had never discussed with anyone the details of the night he had laid ambush for me. Maybe I was afraid someone would try to talk me out of my anger, I don’t know. Anyway, I nursed my anger and conjured up all sorts of evil and torturous things that I hoped would one day happen to Jack Berry.
By June the sun became warm in the sky. Old Sam no longer wore his ragged, buttonless coat, not even in the cooler evenings. Uncle Nat still watched out for him, but Sam seemed to fare well enough. I had the impression that he was without any normal feelings for hot or cold, right or wrong, and I dismissed him from my mind. Uncle Nat didn’t though—not for a moment. I couldn’t really understand his deep concern. The old man seemed content enough in his drunken state of fantasy.
June arrived bringing yellow splashes of sunlight, young rhubarb pushing its way up in a corner of Aunt Lou’s garden, and new calves and foals frisking in the fields along the road leading to the farm. I was thinking that spring must be about the best time of the whole year—and then I thought about harvest and knew I really liked that even better. And then of course there was Christmas . . . Well, anyway, I liked spring a lot.
I had some extra chores after school each day, but they didn’t bother me none. It stayed light much longer now and so choring was no problem. The extras involved Aunt Lou’s garden patch. The long rows of vegetables were sending up little spikes of green that gradually unfurled to be a pair of leaves, then four, then six, until a new plant was born and reached up for sunlight.
As you may have guessed, along with the plants came the weeds. It was my job to get them out of there. I didn’t mind the hoeing, but I wasn’t too keen on getting down on my knees and shuffling my way through the dirt to pull weeds. I did it though.After all, I sure didn’t want Aunt Lou out there doing it with that new baby’s birth only about four weeks away.
Aunt Lou loved her garden, and it was hard for her not to be out there picking weeds herself, but the doc had told her she would be wiser to let me do the pulling for this year. Reluctantly she agreed.
We were all counting the days till that baby joined us. The new crib Grandpa had fashioned was already in a corner of the little room that Aunt Lou called the nursery, the woven basket for the baby laundry beside it. Aunt Lou had made new ruffly white curtains and hung them at the window and framed a few pictures of somebody else’s chubby babies to hang on the wall. Uncle Nat had bought a used rocking chair and revarnished it, and it sat there all ready for use with a knitted baby afghan tossed over one arm. The little chest was filled with baby clothes that Aunt Lou had sewed on her old machine, and on the crib, looking as good as any woman could have done by my way of thinking, was the baby quilt that Gramps had sweated over.
I stopped at the door and looked in on that little room ’most every time I walked by. We spent our time around the kitchen table discussing names and stating why we thought the baby would be a girl or a boy. It was fun planning together for the baby like that, and I think each one of us grew to love one another even more than we had before.