Carla Kelly (6 page)

“I'm not sure,” Julia said, gathering up the dishes. “I hoped he'd want to tell me about his sister's life in England, but he seemed to be almost stalling, because he didn't want to talk.”

“It may be a harder subject than we know, Jules,” Papa said, after some thought. “Go easy there.”

“Why?”

He moved aside the pudding and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “When I was a little boy, we lived a little higher on the avenues. I was home sick one day, and my mother had gone visiting teaching. I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat in my room, looking down on the houses on the other side of the street.”

“I've done that,” Julia said.

“I knew the people in each house. I knew all about them, or I thought I did.” His expression turned faraway. “It had been a tough year in the ward—after all, the ward was my boundary, when I was little. People had died, babies had been born, two families lost their homes to bankruptcy, and one of the widows in the ward committed suicide.” He looked at her. “You don't know where I'm going with this, do you?”

Julia shook her head.

“Julia, I stood in the window, looked at the houses, and realized I had no idea what really went on inside them. People can hide big secrets, and we are none the wiser. Go easy.”

Julia went upstairs slowly, thinking about what Papa had said. She opened the door to her room when Mama called up the stairs:

“Jules, Paul's suit came just before you got home. I hung it in the closet in your brothers’ room.”

Julia went into the room that Paul had used. The new suit hung in the closet, black and totally elegant. She took the suit, hanger and all, and carried it to her room, laying it across the foot of her bed, just as Paul had said. She sat there, her hand on the sleeve, until the room grew dark.

She would have visited Uncle Albert the next day, but it was Relief Society, and Mama had put her on the planning committee for the Christmas bazaar. On Friday, Sister Hickman called to say that her father-in-law was indisposed. Saturday was spent getting ready for Sunday dinner, now that she was cooking again, and Sunday was Sunday.

On Monday morning, Julia took a loaf cake with Paul's favorite opera crème frosting to the Hickmans. She knocked on the door, waited, and knocked again, when no one answered. She had turned to leave when Uncle Albert opened the door.

He looked more cheerful than when she had seen him last. “I made you a cake,” she said. “I iced it with Paul's favorite frosting.”

“You're going to spoil that boy, you know,” he said as he ushered her inside.

“I know. I can't wait.”

He laughed, and she relaxed. He pointed to the chair she had occupied on her last visit and took the cake into the kitchen. When he returned, he had herb tea for both of them. “Even after all these years, it's a poor substitute for Earl Grey tea. My dear, once an Englishman, always an Englishman, but rules are rules.”

She smiled and accepted the cup and saucer. They sipped in companionable silence, and then Albert put down the cup with a click.

“You would like me to tell you about my sister Mary Anne, would you not?”

“I would. I'm also interested in what it was like to be part of the Willie and Martin handcart companies.” She reached in her bag. “If you don't mind, I'd like to take notes. I'm certain Paul wants to hear everything you have to say.”

“I will tell you then, but it may surprise you,” he said. “I've been thinking about this since our last meeting. I put you off even, and avoided you, because part of this narrative is painful.”

“I imagine it is,” she said softly.

“Painful in ways you
can't
imagine, believe me,” he said. He looked at her. “Are you entirely ready for the truth?”

She hadn't expected that. “Well, yes. Everyone knows how valiant the Willie-Martin handcart pioneers were.”

Uncle Albert sighed. “My very dear Julia, can you imagine how hard it is to be the Church's good example of what it is to endure?”

He had her there. “Hmm,” was all that came to mind on short notice.

“Let me suggest this: Once begun on some enterprise, whether it is a handcart journey to Zion”—he leaned closer to look into her eyes—“a terrifying time crouched in a cut bank, or childbirth, as my dear wife once pointed out to me, you are compelled to see that enterprise through to the end. Would you agree, Julia?”

“I would,” she said, feeling her face grow hot as she remembered, and wondered why he was doing this to her.

“Let me suggest something else. Whether you are lost in the snow”—he stopped for a deep breath—“or about to die in a blaze, you have no agency in the matter beyond this:
how
you endure that trial. Breathe slowly, Julia. It makes it easier. Believe me, I know.”

She did as he said. Without even realizing it, she found her hand held tightly in Uncle Albert's grasp.

“I fear that future generations will make us hand-cart survivors into noble icons of suffering. Believe me, Julia, we did complain!” He said that with a twinkle in his eyes that reminded her forcefully of his nephew. “We complained about everything, but there was a certain zeal I would have a hard time explaining to you of this generation.” He released her hand and stood up, as though the idea was too big to contain. “We were headed to Zion, and we knew the Lord would help us. In our minds, we were descendants of Moses’ Camp of Israel, make no mistake.”

“Heavenly Father did help you,” Julia said. She stood up and helped him back to his chair, when he appeared to wobble. “I know He did.”

“I agree completely. But should we have set out in August, when wiser people told us to wait and travel the next season? Certainly not, but once enterprises begin, they create a life of their own.”

He took her hand again as though he needed the comfort this time. “Once the whole thing began to unravel, all we could do was endure.”

I know how that feels
, she thought suddenly.

“Was that how you felt in the cut bank?”

She nodded, and it was a long moment before she could speak. “I hung on, said my last prayers, and trusted God.”

“There it is, the lesson. You turned it over to the Lord.”

The room was silent, except for their breathing. “I don't think anyone really understands that, do they?”

He shook his head. “Not until it happens to them, my dear Julia. Some people never learn. Or some people learn and then forget, and that is the danger.”

Julia looked down at the tablet in her lap. The page was blank. She couldn't speak, so she wrote,
You endured
.

He shook his head and motioned for the tablet. With a firm stroke, he crossed out the
You
and wrote
We
.

Stunned, she sat back, staring at the sentence.
We endured
. When she spoke, she tried to keep her voice calm. “Uncle Albert, I am
not
on the same level as you in the Willie and Martin companies.”

“That's where you're dead wrong, child. You endured.”

She couldn't even hear herself breathing now. The only sound in the room was the clock ticking. “I've been such a complainer! My hair is coming in like a wild mop, and my scars are ugly.” Julia blushed and was almost afraid to look at Paul's uncle. “I'm used to being the pretty girl. But now…”

“You're still the pretty girl.” He took her hand. “Paul sees you that way. It's in his eyes when he looks at you. Julia, you and I are survivors. We know more than most, and we have a real stewardship, you and I.”

As she sat in the quiet parlor, it became quite clear to her. “What we learned isn't worth much if we don't remember what we learned.”

It was her turn to leap to her feet and walk to the window, to look out of it at the snow and think of the cut bank. “I turned it over to the Lord.” She didn't try to stop her tears. “I let Him carry the load, because I couldn't. Is that the lesson you want to teach me, Uncle?”

He surprised her again. “Julia, I've been vacillating and agonizing since our last visit. I must be honest: that's the lesson you're teaching
me
.”

“
Me?
How could I teach you anything?” Her hand went to her scarred neck.

Julia, say the right thing
, she told herself.
Heavenly Father, help me to say the right thing
. She closed her eyes and felt Paul's hands on her head by the stream where she lay after the fire, then at the depot only days ago. She chose her words carefully.

“Paul told me of all the remorse he felt about his first wife and remorse at some of his other regrettable deeds.” She touched her neck again. “I suppose some scars are on the outside and some are on the inside, aren't they?” She looked at Albert. “I think you need to tell me what happened to Mary Anne.”

She knew it was a gamble. Maybe she was totally off the mark. With his hands on her head, Paul had blessed her to think of others.
I'm trying my best, my love
, she thought.

She sighed when Uncle Albert gave her a hard look.
I was wrong
, she thought.
Why did I
ask
that?

As she watched, unhappy with herself, he struck an obvious pose, sitting there in his easy chair. “What do you see, Julia? Let me tell you what the good people of Koosharem and now Salt Lake City see: a successful merchant who survived the handcart ordeal. My, isn't he special? What a good man he is!”

She had to remind herself to breathe. In the painful silence that followed, what he was trying to tell her struck home like a lightning bolt.
What scars are you carrying?
she thought and willed him to continue.

The clock seemed to tick louder. Uncle Albert glanced at it, and suddenly deflated; the pose disappeared. “You see a willful boy who teased his sister and was the reason she was left behind and abandoned by the handcart company.”

“No!”

“Yes! Mary Anne was fourteen and I was ten.” The words came out of him in a rush. “Before she died near Chimney Rock, Mama told Mary Anne to watch over me. It… happened before we reached Devil's Gate, where we stopped for good. Mary Anne had scolded me about keeping up, and I was angry with her. I ran away and made her follow me, then ducked behind a snow bank. She kept walking and calling my name, and I went back to the handcart company. The joke was on her. No one missed her until the next day, and no one knew I was to blame.”

“Uncle Albert, I am so sorry,” Julia whispered. “It's over now.” She reached for his hand, but he pulled back.

“No, you need to hear it all. The very last person on earth I ever wanted to see was Paul Otto. His existence has forced me remember what I tried to bury. I even thought I had, until that letter came from your father.” He managed a crooked smile. “Paul was so delighted to meet me. He was the last person I ever wanted to see.”

Julia gasped as though some cosmic hand had pounded all the air out of her. She sat back in astonishment. She closed her eyes again, saying her little prayer for Albert Hickman this time.

“Surely it wasn't as bad as all that,” she said finally, opening her eyes. “You were but a boy and those were desperate times. Surely no one thought harshly of you.”

He raised his eyes to hers, and she saw all the misery and the truth. There was no sense in flogging him, because he was doing a good enough job of that, himself. “You never told anyone, did you?” she asked gently. “Am I the first?”

“The second. I told my wife on her deathbed last year.” He shook his head. “She said she loved me anyway. You can tell Paul my story, if you wish. You should, actually.”

“He has his own scars on the inside. I know about them, and I don't love him any less.”

He let her hold his hand then. They sat together as the afternoon passed. The enormity of what she had heard and what she suddenly knew made her stand in awe of the Lord. How to tell this good man? He was a valued pillar of his community, a priesthood holder, an honored member of the Willie and Martin handcart companies, no matter how cynical he had sounded. She had needed reminding of what she learned in the cut bank, and she needed to tell him and then never forget it.

She picked her words carefully. “Uncle Albert, I'm no Biblical scholar.” She laughed softly. “I'm about as far from being a Biblical scholar as you can imagine. Just ask your nephew! But I do know this, and I learned it in a terrible place. I think you learned it too, in a terrible place, but maybe you just need a little reminder. And I need to never, ever forget.”

“And that would be…”

“Just leave it in the Lord's hands. Give away your scars. That's what the atonement is about, isn't it? Let's make a pact. I'm convinced the Lord has forgotten all about our scars and moved on to bigger matters. I'll forget my scars if you'll forget yours.”

To her own ears, she sounded presumptuous.
I'm only twenty-eight, and what do I know?
she asked herself, hoping she had not offended Uncle Albert. She tried again.

“You need to understand this: Mary Anne was found by wonderful people who took her in and loved her. She married a good man from North Carolina who loved her too. Paul is really happy about the way things have worked out for him.” She leaned forward and kissed Uncle Albert. “I am too. If what happened to Mary Anne hadn't happened, I wouldn't be getting married in March to the man I love. That's where it rests, at least, for me.”