Julia's Last Hope (7 page)

Two sets of eyes lit up. “Are we going out?” asked Felicity.

“No.”

“Are we having guests?” asked Jennifer.

“No—it will just be us.” Then Julia answered the question that she could read in their faces. “They’re Papa’s favorite dresses,” she explained.

Jennifer turned to study her mother. Julia also was wearing one of John’s favorite dresses.

“Will Papa be feeling sad tonight?” she asked.

Julia tried to keep her voice steady, her chin from quivering. “He—he may be. Just a bit. The mill is gone now. Papa hated to see it go. This was a hard day for him.”

Jennifer’s face grew serious. Felicity looked more buoyant. “Should I tell him my joke?” she asked.

“I’m not sure he will be ready for jokes,” Julia said softly. “Just try to be cheerful—and as agreeable as you can be. No fusses.”

Both girls nodded.

Julia closed the door quietly behind her as she left the room.

“I think I should tell him my joke,” insisted Felicity.

“What joke?” asked Jennifer.

“A man had twins and they were both the same size and had the same color hair and the same color eyes, so how did he tell them apart?”

Jennifer looked dubious. She slipped her blue calico over her head and then asked the question Felicity was waiting to hear, “How?”

Felicity whisked on her own blue dress, her eyes sparkling in anticipation of the punch line.

“The boy wore britches and the girl didn’t!” she exclaimed, then laughed uproariously at the humor of her story.

Jennifer did not even smile. “It’s silly,” she declared. “Silly and stupid.”

But Felicity was still laughing—so hard that she could not tie the bow of her sash.

“It’s silly,” Jennifer said again.

Felicity’s face sobered. “You’re just cross ’cause you didn’t think of it,” she challenged.

“Am not,” Jennifer shot back. “I’d never tell such a silly joke.”

“You never tell any jokes at all,” Felicity threw at her. “You are so—so sour—and—and dull. You never even laugh.”

“I laugh when things are funny.”

“No, you don’t. You never think anything is funny.”

“I do too,” Jennifer declared. “When Papa tells a funny joke—I laugh.”

“Papa doesn’t tell jokes.”

“He does too.”

Felicity shook her head. “He hasn’t told a joke since—since—”

“Well, he used to tell them. And he will again when—”

Jennifer stopped as her tears began to fall. Would Papa ever tell jokes again? Would he ever laugh and play with them? Would he ever tease Mama good-naturedly? When would their world get back to normal again?

“See! You don’t even know how to laugh. You just cry,” Felicity taunted.

Jennifer slapped her.

Julia was not at the door to greet John when he arrived home. She was in the bedroom settling the dispute between her daughters. Both girls were in tears, and Julia herself felt ready to cry. She had wanted a warm, serene welcome for John on this most difficult day. Hettie had fixed his favorite dinner, and Julia had groomed herself to please him. The girls were to have presented themselves in their father’s favorite dresses, hair carefully combed, happy faces inviting him into the warmth of the family circle. But it had all gone wrong.

“Poor John. Poor, poor John,” wept Julia.

Chapter Eight

Hard Work

The scene that greeted John as he entered his home that night did more to lift his spirits than Julia could have imagined. Weeping daughters and a distraught wife reminded him in a very real way that he was still needed.

His eyes lifted to Julia’s tearfilled ones as he wordlessly asked the reason for the fuss. Julia shrugged weary shoulders and her tears increased. He nodded her from the room, followed her out and shut the door softly behind them.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, turning Julia to face him.

Julia blinked back her tears. “It’s just—just a little spat over some silly joke.” As soon as she said it she realized that it was really much more than that. “Oh, John,” she sobbed, leaning against his broad chest. “I thought we could have a special night to—to—” She couldn’t say “celebrate.” The day’s events hardly called for a celebration. “To show our thanks that we are here—together,” she finished lamely. “I wanted your favorite dinner, a happy family, the girls in their prettiest dresses—but the girls—the girls—” Julia burst fully into tears and buried her face in his shoulder, the sobs shaking her.

John held her and stroked her back to ease her tension. He still didn’t understand what the trouble was all about.

When the tears began to subside John spoke again. “Should I discipline the girls?” he asked.

Julia jerked to attention, her eyes opening wide. “Oh my, no,” she quickly responded. “That would spoil our dinner.”

John pulled her close again.

“It’s so strange,” Julia murmured against him. “I thought they had become—so—so—grown up. They worked so hard—and so well in the garden with me. Why, I’ve been thinking that they are now young ladies. I was all set to enjoy their company—their help—and then—all of a sudden—this.” Julia sniffed.

“Have you forgotten their age?” John asked, patting her shoulder. “They’re only thirteen. I don’t think anyone knows at that age whether she is an adult or a child. Remember?”

Julia shook her head. She couldn’t remember. She had been forced to go from childhood to adulthood when her mother died.

“I do hope you are not implying that I’m going to have to live with this—this fluctuation—for some time,” Julia said as she wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a lace handkerchief. A sparkle of humor had returned to her eyes.

John nodded.

“Oh my!” exclaimed Julia. “We’ll never know from one minute to the next whether we have children or adults!”

“Would you like me to talk to them about this incident?” John’s arm tightened.

“No, I will,” Julia said softly, straightening her shoulders. “You wash for dinner. Hettie will be anxious to serve us before the meal gets cold.”

John kissed Julia on the forehead. Then he released her so she could speak to the girls.

Julia found two contrite young ladies sitting solemnly on their beds. Their tears had ceased, though the traces remained.

“Wash your faces and prepare yourselves for dinner,” Julia said in a calm voice. “And after you have apologized to each other, you may join your father and me in the dining room—where I will expect you to conduct yourselves as young ladies. Understood?”

Both girls nodded.

Julia left the room and went to inform Hettie that she could serve dinner.

The meal turned out to be a joyous occasion in spite of the preceding event. Felicity did not tell her joke, but John told a few. The family needed something to laugh about. Even Jennifer smiled.

After the evening meal and the family devotional time, the girls led their father to the large backyard where they proudly pointed out the growth in the family garden.

“See, Papa, this is one of the rows I planted!” Felicity said excitedly. “It’s peas.”

“I planted the row beside it,” Jennifer added, her voice more controlled.

“My peas look a little bigger,” Felicity boasted. “Don’t you think so, Papa?”

John was not to be drawn into such a foolish argument. He eyed the rows of peas. “They all look healthy to me,” he observed. “I can hardly wait to taste them.”

They returned to the house. The girls were sent to bed, and Julia picked up her handwork. John settled himself at the small desk in the library and drew out his account book. He had one more paycheck—and a number of bills to pay. Would the money go far enough? Would there be any left over to care for their needs in the days ahead?

John figured and refigured, but the numbers always came out the same. After the bills were paid, there wouldn’t be much left. He pushed the book aside and left the room, snapping off the light with an impatient gesture.

Julia was still in the parlor, her handwork spread across her knees, her fingers fluttering silently as she turned a skein of white thread into an exquisite doily.

John’s thoughts were miles away, but he tried to act interested in Julia’s project. “What are you making?” he asked.

Julia lifted the doily for him to see. “It’s for our tourist craft shop,” she answered, an edge of excitement creeping into her voice. “All the ladies are making things. We’re working hard to get it stocked as quickly as possible.”

So,
John thought,
Julia has not given up her dream.

“We are getting quite a selection of items,” Julia continued. “You should see the lovely lace collars Mrs. Shannon has made. And Mrs. Clancy has specialized in calico aprons—beautiful things. Mrs. Adams is working a quilt. She has already made two crib quilts. One in pinks, the other in blues, and—”

“It’s been a long day,” John interrupted. “I think I’ll head up to bed.” It hurt him to hear how hard the women had been working on a dream that would never be any more than that. John wondered whether he should be honest with them or let them continue to work and hope. The work did keep their spirits up.

Julia laid aside her crocheting and lowered her hands to finger the fine silk of her gown. Her eyes sought his.

“Is your last paycheck enough to cover the accounts?” she asked.

John nodded, and Julia sighed in relief.

“The garden will be ready shortly,” she hurried on. “And I have another piece of material on hand for new dresses for the girls. Hettie is good at making stews and soups so the—”

“We’re all right,” John tried to assure her.

“Mr. Brock says there is plenty of wild game in the woods,” Julia felt compelled to add.

John had often hunted in the local woods and knew that animals were plentiful.

He reached a hand to her, and she stood. “We’re fine,” he said again.

Julia was unconvinced. Looking directly into John’s eyes, she pleaded, “If there is some way—any way—that we can cut back—make do—you will tell me, won’t you?”

John saw the seriousness in her face and he loved her for it. He leaned to kiss her forehead. “I’ll tell you,” he promised, and then closed his eyes against the pain of the dreadful thought. He would do almost anything rather than tell his Jule that she had to find ways to cut back.

Spring passed into summer. The eight women on Julia’s committee continued their industrious labors. Each week they placed more items on the shelves in their little craft store. Julia laid aside her plans to use the new linen tablecloth herself. Instead, she pinned a price tag in one corner of it and placed it on the merchandise shelf.

Soon they would be receiving requests for accommodation in their new resort town. Those who had extra bedrooms had them ready and waiting—with outdoor-fresh linens on cozy beds, newest towels hanging on door racks, and shining windowpanes behind freshly laundered curtains.

But with every mail delivery, letters requesting accommodation were conspicuously absent. In spite of brave smiles and determined brightness, morale began to sag. They tried not to let it show—but it was there, dogging their footsteps, causing them to add more water to the soup pot, less meat to the stew.

For Julia it meant more feverish involvement. Her efforts increased. More letters written. More doilies crocheted. More hours spent coaxing and caring for her garden.

John walked the streets, pretending that he would soon find work—but deep in his heart he knew that the town had no jobs to offer.

Jennifer and Felicity were like yo-yos. One day the enormity of the family’s situation would have them down. The next day, something as small as a smile from a boy could have them up again. For Julia every moment was as fragile as spun glass. She never knew when something might snap—when she might snap. The strain was almost unbearable.

Two more families moved away. The residential streets looked deserted. Houses were boarded and left. No children played skip-rope in those front yards, no weekly laundry fluttered on wire clotheslines, no smoke curled lazily from the chimneys.

Julia hated to pass the empty houses. Where there had been neighbors, now there was only emptiness, nakedness, pain. She avoided looking at them and hurried past as quickly as her clicking heels would carry her.