A Winter's Promise (19 page)

She started to go for the broom but came back and
leaned her head against Al
’
s shoulder.
“
I still can
’
t be
lieve she
’
d really come and stay here. It
’
s so far to walk! Do you think she
’
s doing it
‘
cause she knows how bad I
need her?
”

Al shrugged.
“
Partly, maybe. But it
’
s not easy to live
where you aren
’
t welcome, you know.
”

“
I
’
ll try real hard to make it nice for her, but our food
is awful plain.
”

“
Don
’
t worry. She
’
s used to plain food.
”
Al gave
Emma a quick hug.
“
I gotta go now and water the stock.
”
Over and over, as
she swept and put clean flour sa
ck
sheets and pillowcases on the bed, Emma wanted to
thank God, but she couldn
’
t get the words out. After all
the times she had choked back those prayers, He surely
was as disappointed and angry with her as she had been
with Him.

When she heard Al come in, she scrambled down the
narrow stairs. She wanted to creep back into his arms
and never let go! And she had thought he didn
’
t care! It
d
idn
’t
matter now that he hadn
’
t told her she had done well. Didn
’
t matter if he
ever
told her.

Ellie, bewildered by all the commotion, clung to Al
and cried when he picked her up to say good-bye.

P
apa
’
ll be home soon,
”
he assured her.
“
You watch
by the window. I
’
ll wave at you before I get around the bend.
”

Only little Georgie was not at the window as Al hiked off.

He was almost to the bend when he wheeled around and hurried back

Emma bustled to the door.
“
What did you forget?
”
she called out. Time was precious. Maybe she could run and get it for him.

He, didn
’
t answer. She called again but he still didn
’
t
answer—just kept walking all the way to the lean-to
door. Then he said,
“
I just
wanted
to tell you—those
days. . . .
”
He tapped snow of
f his boot against the doorsill, cleared his throat, and loo
ked up at her, eyes glisten
ing.
“
Those days last week when you were hurtin
’
so
bad. . .
you did real good, Emma.
”

With a self-conscious wave that was more like a sa
lute, he turned and headed back down the trail.

Emma squeezed her eyes tight a moment and tried to
see him again, so she
’
d remember those tender, glisten
ing eyes. Then she walked out to the lean-to door and waved until he was, out of sight.

She wanted to stay out there, hugging his words close, cherishing the moment, but there was work to be done.
She gave her eyes a quick dab with her apron and hur
ried back in.

Usually after Al left each Sunday, Emma
’
s throat would ache until she found an opportunity to cry. Not today! She was too excited about Miss Clark
’
s arrival to feel lonesome.

Once Al was out of sight, she hurried back in the
house, rolled up the braided rug from beside her
bed, and climbed the steep stairs. She put the rug in place and surveyed the little board-lined room. The
bare window stared at her. She
’
d make a curtain
as
soon as she had time, and put a cushion on the straight-backed chair.

She frowned at the two shelves and wished there were a chest of drawers. Maybe Miss Clark would
change her mind when she saw the homemade
bed, wooden pegs for clothing, and the unfinished stand with the plain white bowl and pitcher.

Emma fluffed the pillow and straightened the patchwork quilt so the pattern lined up with the
edge of the bed.
Then,
hands on her hips,
she
sighed and shivered. Even though she had left the
door open downstairs, the frost on the window
hadn
’
t begun to melt.

Downstairs again, she filled the stove and
pushed the dratf wide open.
She changed her apron
,
smoothed her hair, washed the children
’
s faces and
han
ds, changed the baby, and paced from the window to
the stove.

“
Children! Children, quiet down! You
’
ll scare Miss
Clark right back to Grandpa
’
s if she hears you!
”
Emma
yelled over the din.

She glanced at the clock
. Al had been gone an hour;
Miss Clark could be here any minute. She decided to start supper while she waited.

“
Hope she likes potatoes,
”
Emma muttered, as she peeled some for the soup. She shook the coffeepot. Thank goodness
—
at least two cups
’
worth left.

“
Here she comes!
”
the boys yelled.

Quickly Emma washed and dried her hands.
“
Stay in
here
—
it
’
s cold outside,
”
she ordered. She took a deep breath and stepped out into the lean-to.

Miss Clark was stumbling up the bumpy path.
“
Hel
lo,
”
she called, as soon as she saw Emma.

“
Hello!
”
Emma called back, striving to keep the ner
vousness out of her voice.
“
Here! Let me take your
bag.
”

“
Oh, no! I
’
ll carry it,
”
Miss Clark insisted.
“
Your hus
band
told us about your back. Is it better?
”

“
Oh, yes,
”
Emma assured her. In the dim room she
introduced the now quiet children. Little Al smiled, but
Fred and Ellie simply stared. Emma motioned to the cradle.
“T
his is Georgie. He
’
s almost three months.
”

Miss Clark nodded and smiled, but she didn
’
t try to
start a conversation with the little ones as she unbuttoned her coat.

Emma tried not to stare at her tiny waist and pretty
white blouse.
“
Will you have a cup of coffee?
”

“
Well. . .I rarely drink coffee,
but just this once I
will.
”

Thank goodness,
Emma thought as she went to get
cups.
There isn
’
t much left.

“
I can
’
t tell you how glad I am that you
’
re going to
stay with us
. I could
hardly believe that you’
d be
willin
g
to—it
’
s so much
farther to
walk, and your room will, b
e
awfully cold, and we eat plain food and
. . .
”

Miss Clark chuckle
d and waved her slender hand as
she sat down with a swish of her long black skirt.
“
Bel
ieve me, none of those things compare with
—
”
She
stopped, midsentence, a
nd glanced toward the children.

Emma smiled and nodded.
“
I know,
”
she said.

Miss Clark returned her smile and nod. They both knew Grandma Verleger.

Ellie clamored to get up on Emma
’
s lap, and the boys
hovered nearby.

“
I hope you like potato soup.
”

“
Oh, I do! Please don
’
t worry about the food. Give me
enough milk to drink, an egg for breakfast, plenty of po
tatoes and bread, and I
’
m happy. Of course, it would be
nice to have a raw onion sandwich when I get home from school each afternoon.
”

“
Raw onion sandwich?
”

“
Oh, yes! Haven
’
t you ever eaten one? My grand
mother used to say it wards off colds, but I eat them be
cause they taste so good!
”

Emma chuckled.
‘
Well, we have plenty of onions
—
and
bread.
”

At the supper table Emma was grateful that shyness
kept the children quiet. Miss Clark said the soup was de
licious, and she smiled so openly at Emma that her ner
vousness vanished. Emma found herself freely asking questions.

“
I know you come from out East, but I don
’
t know where.
”

“
I was born in Connecticut, but I lived most of my life
near Boston.
”

“
Why did you come here? Didn
’
t you like it there?
”

Miss Clark chuckled.
“
Oh, I liked it there well
enough, but when I heard of the opportunity to teach in
the Northwoods, I felt an excitement that
’
s hard to ex
plain. I knew I had to
co
me.
I had
been
praying for
the
Lord
’
s will
for my
life, and I knew this was where He
wanted me.
”

Emma was both startled and happy to hear this frank
statement of faith in the Lord
’
s guidance. The only per
son she knew who came
close to talking about her faith
like, that was Kate. But in spite of her gladness that Miss
Clark was a special kind of Christian, Emma felt uncom
fortable—as though Miss Clark might somehow know that Emma wasn
’
t on speaking terms with God at the moment.

Quickly she asked,
“
Were you ever in New York
City?
”

Miss Clark nodded.

“
What
’
s it like?
”

“
Oh, it
’
s noisy and crowded. I like to see the skyline
from a distance, but I don
’
t like to be in it. I enjoy nature
more than what man has built.
”

“
The only city I
’
ve been in is Oshkosh—and Phillips, of course, but that
’
s just a town. Do you have brothers
and sisters?
”

Miss Clark finished her soup before she replied.
“
I
have two sisters—both married—and a brother who is
younger.
”

“
And your parents?
”

“
They still
live near Boston. I wonder how they are,
”
she said pensively.
“
It takes so long for our letters to get
through. Someone usually goes to the post office on
Mondays. I
’
ll have to stop at Grandpa Verleger
’
s tomor
row night and see if I have any mail.
”

“
Al said Grandpa didn
’
t like it much that you were moving here.
”

Miss Clark sighed,
“
I
’
m sorry about that. He
’
s a nice
old man. I know he wanted me to come for your sake, but still it hurt his feelings to think I
’
d leave.
”

“
He
’
ll get over it.
”

“
I suppose he will. But he warned me not to come
crying
to him
if I got in trouble.
”
Her brow
furrowed.

“
That puzzles me. What kind of trouble could I
h
ave?
He said he didn
’
t mean that the two of us would ha
ve trouble
getting along.
”

Emma shrugged.
“
Who knows? He has a way of look
ing at the dark side of things.
”

They talked a while longer and then made plans
for
the morning. Miss Cla
rk said she wanted to leave the
house by seven.

A long while after Miss Clark—Jenny—had gone
to
bed, Emma was still awake, thinking over all the thi
ngs
they had talked about. They had decided to call each
oth
er by their first names, except when the children were
around. Emma said it wouldn
’
t be proper for them
to call her anything but Miss Clark.

It had surprised Emma to learn that Jenny was twe
n
ty-eight—five years her senior.
She looks younger tha
n I
do, and she
’
s so pretty,
Emma thought, as she recalled
Jenny
’
s slim waist, glowing red hair piled high, and long,
graceful fingers. And their differences went far beyond
the obvious physical ones.

Jenny
’
s family had been in America
since before the
Revolutionary War; Emma
’
s parents, only since the
War Between the States. Jenny had grown up in Con
necticut, lived near Boston, and visited New York, Phil
adelphia, and even Washington, D.C. Except for
her
move from Oshkosh
at age ten, Emma had never trav
eled outside a thirty—
mile radius of Ogema, Wisconsin.

Jenny had gone to school until she was eighteen; Emma, only as far as the third reader. Jenny
had read
more books than Emma knew existed; Emma had
actu
ally
never read a complete book.