Opal (8 page)
Opal groaned. She pulled her rifle from the scabbard, knowing she had to clean the gun before she went to bed. That was one of the rules Rand had taught her. You took care of your horse, your rifle, and your rope, and they’d take care of you.
Ruby thought she should take care of more around the house. But how could Opal build a reputation as a horse trainer if she never had time to train horses?
‘‘I want my mama.’’
Jacob stared at the boy. Was this really his son? When he forced himself to think, he knew there could not be much doubt, considering Joel looked enough like Jacob’s younger brother to make him homesick. And his younger brother was not only too young to have a seven-year-old son, but he had not been the one to make love to Melody.
All Jacob wanted to do was go kill some more firewood.
‘‘I’m sorry. I don’t think she plans to come back.’’
What a cruel
monster you are!
He squatted down to be eye level with the child.
What would my mother do in this situation? First of all, she’d never be
caught in such a mess, and secondly, she’d . . . she’d offer food
.
‘‘Are you hungry? Have you eaten?’’ he asked the boy.
‘‘Not since breakfast.’’
‘‘I see. I have some cookies and . . . and . . .’’ His mind searched the larder. ‘‘Do you like bread and cheese?’’
The boy nodded. ‘‘But I don’t want to stay here. I want to go with my mother.’’
‘‘Yes, I’d like your mother to come back too, but in the meantime why don’t you come and eat something?’’
The boy hesitated. His brow furrowed in a manner that Jacob had seen on his father all his life and been told he did the same.
How can that be? The boy has not been around any of us.
Jacob stood and held out his hand. ‘‘Come along, and let’s see what we can find.’’
The boy looked toward the door, then up at Jacob. ‘‘Maybe she will come back soon.’’
Jacob only nodded. He had a very definite feeling Melody would not be back. She had always lived up to her word.
Jacob indicated the chair by the table, and the boy sat on it, his dark eyes tracking every movement Jacob made. He took out a loaf of bread, sliced two pieces, and asked, ‘‘Can you eat three?’’ At the shake of the boy’s head, the father brought out a block of cheese, some jam, and butter, freshly churned the day before by one of his flock.
Often members of his congregation who lived out in the country brought him gifts when they came to church. Those in town dropped things by the church or the house. Jacob cut off several slices of cheese, motioned toward the jam, and waited until Joel nodded. ‘‘All right, bread and jam, with cheese on the plate. As soon as you finish this, I’ll bring out the cookies.’’
Am I talking just to hear myself make noise? Or because I don’t have
any idea what to say? I can talk with children easily. I do so all the time.
They even appear to like me. But this. . . ? What do you do when you meet
your son for the first time and he is seven years old? And his mother leaves
him and flees?
He pushed the plate across the table. ‘‘There’s water or buttermilk to drink. Which would you like?’’
‘‘Water.’’ The boy nibbled on a piece of cheese.
After dipping out a cup of water from the bucket, Jacob set it in front of the boy and went to stand at the back door, looking out over his garden and to the woods covering the hillside that grew steeper the farther he looked.
Dear Lord, what do I do here?
What would you do? Dumb question. You’d welcome him and surround
him with love
. Did Joel bring a suitcase with him? Jacob had been so shocked, he’d not thought to look.
‘‘Pardon me, but did you bring any extra clothes with you? A nightshirt?’’
Joel nodded. ‘‘By the door.’’ He went back to nibbling on the bread and jam. Mouselike, he ate around the edges, small bites as if being polite.
‘‘Would you rather have something else?’’
‘‘No. Yes. I want my mother.’’ His eyes filled with tears, and while Jacob watched, one tear meandered down the boy’s cheek.
Jacob could feel his heart crack. He crossed the room and knelt beside the chair. ‘‘Ah, Joel, I am so sorry she left. Of course you want your mother. If there was any way to get her back here, I would do so.’’ He put his arm around the now shaking shoulders and leaned his cheek on the boy’s soft hair.
‘‘I-I wa-want my m-mother.’’ Sobs so strong it shook them both made Jacob scoop his son up in his arms and carry him to the big chair in front of the fireplace. Sitting down, he held the shuddering body close and murmured words he hoped were comforting.
The shudders turned to sobs, the sobs to sniffs, and periodically the child’s body jerked as he fell asleep, his head on Jacob’s chest.
One minute Jacob felt like crying too, the next minute he wanted to rage at the woman who had been so heartless as to leave her son with a total stranger. What was the matter with her? Why had she not let him know of this child? How had she found him now? Questions tumbled through his mind like rocks from a cliff. Would there be a landslide to bury everything?
Where would Joel sleep? There was only one bed in the house, and Jacob had never shared a bed since he left home. Tall as he was, he slept kitty-corner on it already.
Only two choices
, he told himself.
A pallet on the floor or he sleeps
with me. What if he wakes in the night and is terrified?
He rose with the child in his arms, carried him to the bedroom, and laid him on the bed. He returned to the front room, where a tattered satchel waited by the door. He snatched it up and headed back to the bedroom, not opening it until he set it on the bed. Joel hadn’t moved. He lay on his back, long eyelashes like his mother’s feathered on cheeks red from crying. Dark shadows purpled under his eyes, and a narrow line of scar on his right cheek looked like a cat scratch.
Jacob sank down on the foot of the bed. How could his life have changed so in an instant? One moment he’d been alone, and now he had a son and a whole mess of muddle. What a heyday the gossipmongers would have with this.
Forcing himself to tend to the matter at hand rather than succumb to the dither going on in his head, he unbuckled the flap on the satchel and reached inside. He withdrew a sweater, a shirt, trousers, drawers, a nightshirt. Several pairs of socks lay in the bottom, and an envelope. With his name on it.
He put the other things back in the bag, keeping out the nightshirt and the envelope.
While he unlaced Joel’s shoes, he fought the anger that attacked again like a waiting cat. A big cat, one that threatened to rip his throat. What kind of mother would dump her son on a stranger and run off? What kind of mother never let the father know he had a son? Where had she gone? How had she found him? Where had she been all these years? Questions snarled at questions, fighting and clawing for supremacy.
But no matter, he couldn’t let his feelings loose on this poor scared child. Hadn’t he been through enough?
At the thought of how she—he could scarcely think her name or say it—had hurt her child, it was probably a good thing she wasn’t around. Once Jacob had him undressed and in his nightshirt, he tucked the covers around him and left the room, leaving a small candle burning on the washstand in case he woke and was afraid in the dark.
Out in the front room he lit the kerosene lamp by his chair and collapsed into it. ‘‘Dear God, how could she do such a thing?’’
Only the silence answered him, a friendly silence but for the songs of the peeper frogs now that spring had arrived.
He stared at the envelope. Her handwriting was familiar except for the hint of wavering—from weakness or hurry? What did it matter? It was addressed to him. Staring at it would not change that. He leaned back in the chair to dig out his pocketknife, opened the blade, and slit the envelope. After closing the blade again, he leaned back in the chair to return the knife to his pocket. Had the fire been burning, he might have succumbed to the temptation of throwing the letter in the fire, but the warm night had saved him from the action. No fire. No cheery fire, only an envelope that could be the snake or rat in his woodpile, ready to leap out and bite him should he draw too close.
‘‘Jacob Chandler, you are not a coward,’’ he declared.
Right. As if saying the words was sufficient to make it so. His hands shook with reluctance. He pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope and flipped it open.
Dear Jacob, How often he’d seen those words on the notes they’d exchanged.
When you read this, I will again be out of your life, this time forever, as I had thought once before. Were the situation not so dire, you would not be reading this now. How life changes, and we are unable to control that. While I have never been strong, I have provided a life for Joel. My husband, Patrick O’Shaunasy, who believed Joel to be his son, died in an accident last year. Shortly after that the consumption, which I have battled forever, it seems, became rampant, and I know I do not have long to live. I wrote to your mother and asked for your address, something I should have done long ago, but I thought I had everything taken care of.
Is God in his heaven laughing at my pitiful attempt to keep our sin from tarnishing our son? Or is this his judgment? I can no longer be depended upon, and I cannot leave Joel to the mercies or lack thereof of fate. So I have brought him to you with the prayer that you will treat him well. He is your son and a good lad. I cannot bear for him to suffer watching me die. May God bless and keep him and you. I have told him you are truly his father.
Do not waste your time trying to find me, for I shall be gone.
Please tell Joel that his mother loved him beyond life itself. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me for keeping him from you, I will rest in peace.
Yours,
Melody
Jacob ignored the tears that made him blow his nose and read the letter again. He checked the envelope. No return address. No forwarding address. Nothing. Nothing but a single sheet of paper that described the havoc one hour of heaven had cost.
Though he lay down beside the boy later, sleep eluded him and memories haunted him.
Their dreams so long ago had been fresh and full of aspirations. They had talked of the life they would have together, a life that would start when he had finished his schooling. She would wait for him.
Wait
. The one thing he had been unable to do.
He got up, lit the lamp, and read the letter again.
Do not try to
find me, for I shall be gone
. What did she mean by that? She’d disappear? Die? Surely she wouldn’t kill herself. Not one more thing on his conscience now so raw as to be dripping blood.
Blowing out the lamp, he lay down again, only to stare at the ceiling he couldn’t see, his arms locked behind his head.
The boy puffed gently in his sleep, a sound so innocent it rent Jacob’s heart even more.
He watched the window, waiting for the light. After all, the Bible promised that joy would come with the morning. How often he had promised that to others suffering through a long night. Could his heart, which felt as heavy as an ancient millstone in his chest, not feel it? Or was the Scripture only for others, not applicable to a sinner like he?
When dawn barely lightened the windows, Jacob rose and returned to the chair, where he stared at the ashes left over from previous fires in the fireplace. Gray and black, charred bits—like his life. And it was no one’s fault but his own.
Reading letters was such a pleasure, and a lazy Saturday morning was the perfect time to partake.
Ruby sighed, one of pure delight rather than of exasperation, which seemed the more usual, at least as far as Opal was concerned. Here she was, on the brink of young womanhood, and she’d become more hoyden than ever. If only Rand would stop encouraging her.
‘‘Stop thinking of Opal and enjoy your visit with a friend.’’
Per looked up from playing with some blocks of wood at her feet. ‘‘Ma?’’
‘‘Yes, dear little one, I am your ma.’’ He said few words yet, but Ma and Da could be said many ways.
She returned to her letter.
Dear Ruby,
How good it was to hear from you. I long for a real visit to catch up on these years that have fled so swiftly. The children still speak of you and Opal with delight, and even little Bernie says your name, feeling he remembers you even though he was still a baby, all because the others talk of you so often.
To think you are married and have a son of your own. God grant you wisdom and joy as you watch him grow. It is hard to believe that Alicia is graduating from high school this year and will leave for Philadelphia Women’s College in the fall. My first child to leave home, other than you and Opal. I felt at that time much as I am feeling now. That is how dearly I love you both.
Forgive me for sounding so sentimental here, but now that Penelope has her health back, I am more aware of time passing than ever. She was so ill this winter that I was beginning to think we might need to find a warmer climate for her health. I thank God that the others contracted only light cases. Influenza is a vicious beast. I know I should be grateful that we have remained so healthy—except for Jason’s broken arm, which happened when he fell out of a tree.
You would not believe how Bernie has grown. He loves school, as do the others, and for that, much of the thanks goes to your years of encouraging them to think and dream. You have a gift for creating a love of learning.
Ruby looked up. Her eyes misted so that she had to blink several times to clear them.
‘‘Per?’’
‘‘Da.’’ Thankful again that he always answered when she called, she laid the letter aside and went to the bedroom to fetch him. She would have to remember to put up the small gates Beans had built for her to keep her son corralled where she could see him. He had learned to pull himself up now, and any day she was sure he would break out in a run. Walk would not even enter his mind. She brought him back to sit by her chair and handed him a piece of the bread she had left in the oven until it was solid as the hardtack of early years.
