Love comes softly (5 page)

40

mama went noisily about starting another fire in the kitchen stove, the last one having died out.

Another meal to prepare-- but what? It caused her further embarrassment, but Marty knew that it would have to be pancakes again. That was about the only thing that she really knew how to make. Well, let him choke on them. She didn't care. Why should she? She owed him nothing. She wished that she had stayed in her wagon and starved to death. That's what she wished.

Amazingly enough, Marty's fire started and the fine cook- stove was soon spilling out heat. Marty didn't even think to be grateful as she stormed about the kitchen, making coffee and preparing her batch of pancake batter. She'd fry a few pieces of ham rather than bacon, she decided.

She really couldn't understand why it bothered her so much that all of her efforts since coming to this house had met with such complete failure. She shouldn't care at all, and yet she did-- much as she didn't want to. Underneath, Marty felt deeply that failure was a foe to be combated and defeated. It was the way she had grown up and it was not easily forsaken now.

While the griddle was heating, she cast an angry look at Missie.

"Now you stay put," she warned, then hurried out to bring in all of her washing before the night's dampness set in.

When Clark came in from the barn, supper, such as it was, was ready. If he was surprised at pancakes again, he did not show it. Marty burned to realize that his pancakes had been just as good as hers.

"So what?" she stormed. "My coffee be okay."

It must have been too, because when she again missed seeing Clark's empty cup, and he got up to refill it, he remarked, "Good coffee," as he poured her second cup. Marty's face burned again.

After supper she cleared the table and washed Missie up for bed. She still felt like shaking the little tyke each time that she touched her but refrained from doing so.

When Missie had been tucked in and Marty had washed

41

her own hot, dusty feet, she excused herself with a murmur, and, gathering her things from a chair in the sitting room, took them to her bedroom and shut the door. It would soon be necessary to light the lamp. She carefully folded her worn dresses and undergarments, laying them on her bed. If only she had a needle and some thread. But she wouldn't ask him, she determined. Never!

She sat down on her bed to allow herself a more comfortable position for her self-pity. It was then that she noticed a small sewing basket in the corner behind the door. For a moment she couldn't believe her amazing find, but upon crossing to the basket she discovered more than she had dared to hope for.

There was thread of various colors, needles of several sizes, a perfect pair of scissors, and even some small pieces of cloth.

Determinedly Marty settled down. Sewing, now that was one thing that she could do. Though mending hardly fit into the same category as sewing, she felt.

She was dismayed as she tried to make something decent out of the worn things before her, and the longer she worked the more discouraged she became. She had attacked the least worn items first, but by the time she reached the last few articles she was completely dejected. They'd never last the winter and it was a sure thing that she'd never ask him for anything. Never! Even if she was forced to wear nothing but rags.

She remembered his words as she pulled the torn dress over her head and replaced it with a mended nightie.

"We've never been fancy, but we try an' be proper."

"Well, Mr. Proper, what could ya do when ya had nothin' to make yerself proper with?"

Marty fell into bed, and as the events of the day crowded through her mind-- the spilled coffee, the tantrum-throwing Missie, the frantic search, more pancakes-- a sob arose in her throat, and again she cried herself to sleep. If Clem were only there, her world would be made right again.

42

Chapter 6

Housecleanin'

The next morning showed a cloudy sky as Marty looked out of the window. The weather was changing. It wouldn't be long until the beautiful Indian summer would have to give way to winter's fury, but not yet, she told herself. The day was still warm and the sky not too overcast. Perhaps the clouds would soon move away and let the sun shine again.

Slowly she climbed from her bed. Surely today must be an improvement on yesterday she hoped. Already yesterday seemed a long way in the past-- and the day before-- the day that she had buried Clem-- . Marty could hardly believe that that had happened only two brief days ago. Two days that had seemed forever.

Marty slipped into the gingham that she had mended the night before, cast a glance in Missie's direction and quietly moved toward the door. She did hope that the early morning scene of yesterday would not be repeated. She didn't know if she could take it again.

She put on the coffee and set the dishes on the table, then started the preparations for the morning pancakes.

"Dad-blame it." She bit her lip. "I'm tired of pancakes myself."

It hadn't seemed so bad to have pancakes over and over when that was all that was available, but with so much good food at her disposal, it seemed a shame to be eating pancakes.

43

She'd have to figure something out, but in the meantime they needed breakfast. She went out for another piece of side bacon.

Missie awoke and without incident allowed Marty to dress her. Score one point for that! She placed her in the homemade chair and pulled it back from the table to keep small fingers from pulling things off.

When Clark came in from the barn the breakfast was ready and Missie sat well behaved in her chair. Clothed and in her right mind, Clark mused. He did not bother to say it aloud, for he feared that the context would be missed by Marty.

They sat down together at the table and after the morning reading and prayer, breakfast proceeded without anything out of the ordinary happening.

Marty watched carefully, even though on the sly, for the emptying of Clark's coffee cup, but when she jumped for the pot he waved it aside.

"I'd like to but I'd better not take me a second cup this mornin'. The sky looks more like winter every day an' .Jedd still has him some grain out. I'm gonna git on over there as quick as I can-- " he hesitated "-- but thet's good coffee."

Marty poured her own second cup and put the pot back. The only thing that he could say about her was that she made good coffee. Well, maybe she was lucky that she could do that much!

Clark stopped at the door and said over his shoulder. "I'll be eatin' my dinner with the Larsons agin." Then he was gone.

This time Missie's complaining lasted only a few minutes. Marty's thoughts turned to his words. "Bet he's tickled pink to be able to have 'im one meal a day to the Larsons. Wouldn't it be a laugh should Missus Larson give 'im pancakes."

In spite of herself Marty couldn't keep a smile from flitting across her face. Then she sat down to leisurely enjoy her second cup of coffee and plan her day.

First she would completely empty and scrub out the kitchen cupboards and then she'd go on to the rest of the kitchen, the walls, window, curtains. By night, she vowed, everything would be shining.

44

She didn't spend as long over her coffee as she had intended, for, as she planned her day, she became anxious to begin it.

She hurriedly washed up the dishes and found Missie some things that she hoped would keep her amused for a while. Then she set to work in earnest. She might lack in a lot of ways, she thought, but she could apply herself-- and apply herself she did.

By the time the ticking clock on the mantle told her that it was twelve-thirty, the cupboards were all scrubbed and rearranged to suit her own fancy. She had discovered things too, like ground corn for muffins and grains for cooked cereals. Maybe breakfast wouldn't always have to be pancakes after all.

She stopped and prepared a meal for herself and Missie, consisting of fried ham and a slice of bread, with milk to drink for both of them. She was glad that milk was plentiful. Clem had fretted that she should be drinking milk for the baby on the way. Now there was milk in abundance, and Clem's boy would be strong when he arrived.

After Marty tucked Missie in for her nap, she set to work again. She felt tired but under no circumstances would she lie down and give Missie a chance to repeat her performance of yesterday. The little tyke must have walked over a mile before she met her pa. At the thought of it Marty felt again the sting of humiliation. No sirree, there was no way that she would let that happen again even if she dropped dead on her feet.

On she worked, washing the curtains and placing them out in the breeze to dry. Then she tackled the window until it shone, and went on to the walls with more energy than she knew she possessed. It was hard, slow work, but she was pleased with her accomplishment. As she scrubbed away at the wooden walls she was amazed at the amount of water that it took. A number of times she had to stop and refill her pan. Remembering the curtains, she stopped her scrubbing and went in search of anything resembling an iron so that she could press the curtains before rehanging them. She found a set of sad irons in the shed's corner cupboard and placed them

45

on the stove to heat. It was then that she realized that in her preoccupation with her scrubbing, she had let the fire go out again, so the task of rebuilding it was hers once more. She scolded herself as she fussed with the small flame to try to coax it into a blaze. When finally it began to sustain itself she returned to her scrubbing. She refilled her pan many more times and had to take the buckets to the well for more water. Finally the task was finished. The logs shone even if they had 'drank' water.

By the time she brought in the curtains the irons were hot enough to press them. They looked fresh and crisp as she placed them at the window.

Missie wakened and Marty brought her from her bed and got a mug of milk for each of them. Missie seemed cheerful and chattery after her sleep and Marty found her talkative little companion rather enjoyable. It kept her mind off other things-- just as her hard work had been doing.

She placed Missie in her chair with a piece of bread to nibble on and set to work on the wooden floor with hot soapy water and scrub brush. By the time she was through, her'arms and back ached, but the floor was wondrously clean. She gave the rug at the door a good shaking outside and replaced it again, then stood and surveyed the small kitchen. Everything looked and smelled clean. She was proud of herself. The kitchen window gleamed, the curtains fairly crackled with cleanness, the wall-- the walls looked sort of funny somehow. Oh, the logs looked clean and shiny but the chinking-- somehow the chinking looked strange, sort of gray and muddy instead of the white it had been before.

Marty crossed to the nearest wall and poked a finger at the chinking. It didn't just look muddy. It
was
muddy-- muddy and funny. Marty wrinkled her nose. What had she done? The water of course! It wasn't the logs drinking the water, the chinking had slurped up the scrub water thirstily and now it was gooey and limp. She hoped with all of her heart that it would dry quickly before Clark got home. She looked at the clock. It wouldn't be long either. She'd better get cracking if supper was to be more than pancakes.

46

She had noticed that the bread was as good as gone; then what would she do? She had never baked bread before nor even watched her mother do it that she could remember. She hadn't the slightest idea how to start. Well, she'd make biscuits. She didn't know how to bake them either, but surely it couldn't be too hard. She washed her hands and went to the cupboard. She felt that it was more 'her' cupboard, now that she had put everything where she wanted it.

She found the flour and salt. Did you put eggs in biscuits? She wasn't sure, but she'd add a couple just in case. She added milk and stirred the mixture. Would that do it? Well, she'd give it a try.

She sliced some potatoes for frying and got out some ham. She supposed that she should have some vegetable too, so she went to work on some carrots. As she peeled them she heard Ole Bob welcome home the approaching team. Clark would care for the horses and then do the chores. He'd be in for supper in about forty minutes, she guessed, so she left the carrots and went to put the biscuits in the oven. They handled easily enough and she pictured an appreciative look in Clark's eyes as he reached for another one.

She went back to her potatoes in the frying pan, stirring them carefully so that they wouldn't burn.

"Oh, the coffee!" she suddenly cried and hurried to get the coffee pot on to boil. After all, she could make good coffee!

She sliced some ham and placed it in the other frying pan, savoring the aroma as it began to cook. She smelled the biscuits and could barely refrain from opening the oven door to peek at them. She was sure they'd need a few minutes more. She stirred the potatoes again and looked anxiously at the muddy chinking between the logs. It wasn't drying very fast. Well, she wouldn't mention it and maybe Clark wouldn't notice it. By morning it would be its old white self again.

The ham needed turning and the potatoes were done. She pulled them toward the back of the stove and put more wood in the fire box. Then she remembered the carrots. Oh, dear, they were still in the peeling pan, only half ready. Hurriedly she went to work on them, taking a small nick out of a finger in her haste. Finally she had the pot of carrots on the stove, placing