A Woman Named Damaris (17 page)
For a moment his hand rested on her hair as he looked deeply into her moist eyes; then he turned to Damaris.
“And this is for you,” he said, reaching into his other pocket.
Damaris caught her breath. She had not expected any such thing. She had not even considered giving him a gift. She was unable to extend her hand to accept the package.
“But I—” she began.
“I didn’t bring a gift my first Christmas here, either,” he said easily. “Mother has a way of making people feel at home—giving or receiving.”
Damaris extended her hand. She still felt embarrassed, but terribly curious.
A length of lace tumbled from the small package that her hands nervously unwrapped. Damaris was too moved to speak.
“It will be perfect for that new dress you will make,” enthused Miss Dover.
Damaris lifted her eyes and nodded her head. She could not find her voice, but she did manage to look up at him for just a minute. She saw understanding in the blue eyes before she quickly looked down again.
Confusion made her head whirl. A minute ago she had decided to stay out of his way. It had seemed so settled. And then he offered her a gift, a beautiful gift. If she accepted it, how could she then refuse to become a part of this—this strange yet beautiful family?
She wished he had not brought the gift for her. She wished she could hand it back. She wished they were not standing there looking at her. Accepting her. Welcoming her.
It was all so—so much. Damaris wasn’t sure whether to smile or to weep. She had never felt so full of emotion. She didn’t want to be feeling—feeling everything so deeply now. She wished to rush home to her little room, bury her head in her pillow, and shut out all the strange, disturbing thoughts and sensations that were washing through her.
As Damaris fought to gain control of herself, the man moved out into the coldness and darkness of the night. Damaris felt the chill wind as it swept into the room, sensed the movement of the older woman, heard her sighs of concern as she thought of his long ride home, then heard the door close sharply against the night.
Damaris finally brought herself under control. She was still holding the lace, letting its delicate pattern run through her fingers. She pictured it on the bodice of the dress she hoped to sew. It would be so beautiful. Her new dress might just match the becoming little bonnet in elegance, after all.
“I suppose you are anxious to get home, too,” Miss Dover was saying.
“Yes. Yes, I must,” Damaris responded, her voice sounding to herself as if it were somewhere off in the distance.
“Oh my,” responded Miss Dover with such force that Damaris lifted her eyes in response, giving her total attention to the older woman.
“I almost forgot in all of the excitement of the day,” she said hurriedly. “I found the verse.”
Damaris looked puzzled.
“The verse,” repeated Miss Dover. “The Bible verse about your name. I found it. I wrote it down right here. You can look it up when you get home.”
Damaris felt her heart begin to pound. Miss Dover had found her name. Her Bible name. The name she had been searching for so long. Damaris wondered how she could have possibly forgotten to share it with her until now. She reached eagerly for the piece of paper and stared at the words. Acts 17:34. Acts 17:34. She couldn’t wait to get home to read the passage. But it did seem strange that it was only one verse. The story of Daniel took several chapters. So did the accounts of Joseph, Noah, and Moses.
She must mean this is where it starts,
reasoned Damaris as she tucked the small scrap of paper protectively in her dress pocket. Damaris knew that even if she should lose the bit of paper, she would not forget the reference. It had been burned into her mind. Acts 17:34. She would never forget it.
She thanked her hostess for a wonderful day, clutched her shawl tightly about her shoulders, and dashed out into the cold darkness and across the street to the boardinghouse.
She hoped there would be no one about when she entered the back door and slipped off to her room. She wanted no delay or disturbance as she settled herself in her room to read the verses she had for so long wanted to read. The story of the woman whose name she bore.
“He can’t stay here tonight and that’s final!” Mrs. Stacy shouted in anger.
Damaris closed the door as quietly as she could and held her breath so that no one would hear her enter.
A male voice that sounded like the sheriff’s answered. She could not make out the words but the tone sounded as if they were meant to calm the distressed woman.
“I will bide no excuses,” returned Mrs. Stacy in her loud voice, this time raised a pitch higher. “He was told before. He’s ruined Christmas for all of us. I will not have it. Do you hear? I will not.”
The sheriff spoke again. Damaris caught the last few words. “…in the jailhouse until he sobers…but it is unbearably cold there.”
A shiver made its way through her body. Someone—someone in the boardinghouse had found a Christmas bottle. She moved forward another step wanting to escape to her room. Surely she would be safe there.
“I don’t care about the cold. He brought it on himself. Perhaps the chill will bring him to his senses.”
Damaris paused in her flight. Perhaps Mrs. Stacy needed her. Needed her to fend off the drunken attacks like she had always done for her mama. Damaris froze to the spot, anger and fear gripping her. She wished to run, to hide, but she could not move.
A new voice joined the din. Someone was moaning—or singing—Damaris wasn’t sure which. “Oh, hush up!” Mrs. Stacy cut in harshly. “You’ll waken everyone in the place.”
Damaris wondered how Mrs. Stacy could think that anyone could be sleeping with the commotion that she herself was making.
“I can bed him down in my room on the floor,” said the sheriff. “He’ll pass out an’ sleep until—”
Mrs. Stacy interrupted the sheriff. “Not with my bedding and on my carpet. I won’t have him—”
“Very well,” said the sheriff, his voice weary and filled with resignation. “I’ll git one of the fellas to help me git him over to the jailhouse.”
“And the sooner the better,” insisted the woman. “Look what he’s done. Just look. And Damaris still out celebrating. Maybe if she’d been here—”
“Thet wouldn’t have made any difference and ya know it,” the sheriff argued, his voice raised for the first time. “He was out to make a ruckus and he woulda done it no matter who was or wasn’t here.”
Damaris felt her stomach tighten. What had gone on in the dining room? Had she been wrong to take the day off? She took another silent step toward her bedroom but just as she moved, the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs. Stacy stepped through. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen from tears, and her face dark with anger and frustration.
“Oh, there you are,” she said as she jerked to a stop at the sight of the girl. “I was about to send someone over to get you. We’ve got a terrible mess in the dining room. That—that ol’ fool of a miner—”
But Mrs. Stacy got no further. She flung her apron over her face and burst into tears again.
Before Damaris could take another step the sheriff poked his head through the door.
“Mrs. Stacy could use a cup of good strong tea,” he said to Damaris. “Her place has been pretty much torn apart.”
Damaris managed to nod her head. She lifted the shawl from her shoulders and hung it on the hook by the door. Then she crossed to the stove to check on the kettle. It was still steaming, so she went for the teapot and the tea.
Her hand stole into her pocket and fingered her slip of paper. “Acts 17:34,” she said to herself. “Acts 17:34.”
While she prepared the tea she heard commotion in the dining room. More than one voice spoke as the sheriff and his helper manhandled the drunken miner and removed him from the premises. Damaris had no desire to enter the room until all the men had left.
“Here you are, Mrs. Stacy,” said Damaris, passing the woman the cup of strong tea. Damaris wasn’t sure if Mrs. Stacy heard; she was still crying loudly into her apron.
Damaris eyed Mrs. Stacy. She could detect no cuts or bruises, but Damaris knew that many painful injuries could be hidden.
At last Mrs. Stacy removed the apron from her face, dabbed her eyes, and sniffed away her remaining tears.
“He was even worse than last time,” she fumed. “I told him then that he couldn’t come again if…But he promised. Oh, he swore he was off the liquor. ‘Turned over a new leaf,’ he said. Humph!”
“Where are—are you—hurt?” asked Damaris. She had never even asked her mother such a question. Not in all of the years they had silently suffered together.
“Oh, he didn’t touch me,” the woman said quickly. “The sheriff was right there. But no one was quick enough to stop him from tipping the table and scattering my best china all over the floor.”
She began to weep again and Damaris recoiled. The sympathy she felt a moment before suddenly evaporated. Why was the woman making such a fuss over broken china? Her mother had responded with less emotion to a broken arm.
“I’ll clean up the china,” said Damaris woodenly as she moved to the dining room.
It truly was a mess. Two tables had been tipped. Broken china was strewn across the room, and food had scattered and stained the rug. A tablecloth lay with its hem drinking from a pool of cranberry sauce. The drapery at the window was half pulled from its mooring and dangled haphazardly. A plant of red geraniums had been uprooted from its pot, and dirt trailed across the floor to where the plant now lay, its roots bare and broken.
Damaris let a hand reach into her pocket again before she went for the brooms and mops to clean the mess. It would not be an easy chore and she knew that it would be some time before she would settle in her own room with her Bible propped up before her. If only she could have read the story before she’d had to take on this unwelcome task.
Without warning, anger started to burn within her. It was the whiskey. No, it was those who were foolish enough and selfish enough to drink the vile stuff. Selfishness—that’s what it was. No consideration for anyone else, for how they felt, or for how they suffered. Pure selfishness. Such people didn’t deserve love. They didn’t even deserve to live. It would serve them right if they fell in their stupor and bashed in their stupid heads. Mrs. Stacy was right. Let the no-good miner freeze to death in jail. It would be no more than he deserved.
Never in all of her years of being the victim of her father’s rages had Damaris felt such sudden and intense anger. It shocked her, but she did not repent. For an awful moment she wished she had stayed at home. Stayed and fought back. She was older now. Stronger. She was sure that she, with her mama, could put up quite a fight. They might not win, but they could inflict some damage before they were beaten. In that awful moment, Damaris longed for the chance, the opportunity to cause bruise for bruise, cut for cut, cruelty for cruelty.
And then, as quickly as it had come, the rage was gone, leaving Damaris trembling and troubled. Should she feel shame? Remorse? Damaris could not sort her troubled thoughts. She cleaned the mess as quickly as she could so she could retire to peace and quiet as soon as possible.
———
It was late when Damaris finished cleaning the room. Things were now in order. The broken dishes had been cleaned up and thrown into containers for disposal. The drapery had been rehung, though it still looked a bit disturbed after its ordeal. The carpet had been cleaned and rinsed, but not all of the stains would come out. The tables had been righted and covered with fresh tablecloths. The stained tablecloth was soaking in the kitchen in an effort to remove the cranberry stain. Damaris had done all that she could do. She sighed and blew out the light.
Mrs. Stacy had taken to bed hours before, begging a terrible headache. Damaris was no longer angry with the woman. She was no longer angry with anyone. She felt numb as she threw out the dirty water and hung up her mop.
“I’m still going to read it,” she promised herself. “No matter what time I have to be up in the morning.”
Damaris was about to go to her room when she remembered the doors. The sheriff had not returned. Mr. Starsky, the man who helped lug the drunken miner to the jailhouse, had come back to inform Damaris that the sheriff would be spending the night at the jail to keep the fire burning in the big iron stove. Surely he would not get much sleep on this cold night.
Damaris went to secure the bolt on the front door. Then she checked the door at the back. It was firmly locked. Damaris sighed again and glanced once more around the kitchen before heading for her bedroom.
As she set the lamp on her small stand, she reached up and slipped the bolt on her own door. She seldom bolted her door, but tonight she had been unnerved. The curse of whiskey had followed her all the way out West. Perhaps she would never feel safe again.
Damaris looked down. She was still wearing her best gown. In her confusion and anger she had forgotten to change it. She wanted to cry as she looked at it. It was so soiled and stained that Damaris wondered if she would ever be able to get it clean again.
She removed it carefully and slipped on her worn, secondhand robe. Then, lamp in hand, she went again to the kitchen and pressed the dress into the tub of water with the tablecloth. She did hope that the stains would not be permanent.
As she prepared for bed she heard the wind. It was blowing gustily now and the temperature would drop quickly.
I wonder if Gil has reached home safely?
she thought, glancing at the bedside clock. It was almost one o’clock. She nodded to herself. “He’ll be in. Long ago,” she mused with some satisfaction, surprised at the relief she felt.
Then she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up as far as she could and still be able to turn the pages of the Bible.
Acts 17:34,
she reminded herself. She flipped through the book until she found Acts. She had lately been reading in the book of Acts herself.
“Just look,” she murmured. “I would have discovered it for myself soon. I was almost to it.”
