Spring's Gentle Promise (17 page)

The weather was fine—though we never did get our Christmas snow, nor any other snow, for that matter. The families arrived early and left late, and we all had a great time together.

Of course Lou’s four little ones added a lot of spark to the occasion. Sarah was too grown-up now to be relegated to the children’s status. Jonathan too had matured a lot over the summer months and wasn’t nearly as hard to keep track of, but Timmy more than made up for him. Someone had to watch the boy every minute. I finally had to carry Pixie up to the bedroom and shut the door on her. Timmy insisted on petting her and holding her, and poor old Pixie’s bones were too fragile for Timmy’s kind of handling. He tried to be careful, but being a small boy he was pretty awkward at showing his affection.

Baby Patty slept a good share of the day. Aunt Lou ruefully commented that it might mean a long, wakeful night. I had no idea what that was like and wasn’t particularly interested in finding out.

Pa Turley really seemed to enjoy being with the family. He watched the antics of the children with loud guffaws and slaps to his knees. I couldn’t help but wonder,
What’ll he think of
having grandchildren of his own
?—though I felt I knew.

Lilli was quiet. She helped Mary in the kitchen, but her mind didn’t seem to be on it much. I wasn’t too surprised when along about midafternoon Avery appeared at our door. I invited him in, but he declined. Said he’d come to take Lilli for a bit of a drive. We teased them some, but they just flushed and bundled up to get away from all of us.

When they returned Avery accepted our invitation to share leftover turkey and homemade buns. We formed a little foursome and played dominoes. Mary and I won, hands down, but I don’t think our opponents were doing too much concentrating on the game. Avery and Lilli were the last to leave that evening.

We were all tired but happy when we retired. Mary and I cuddled close in Aunt Lou’s old bed and talked over each of the day’s happenings. It was fun to go over it all again.

“You know which gift I liked the very best?” Mary asked me.

“Which?”

“The mirror. The new mirror.”

I wasn’t really surprised. I’d noticed her stretching or stooping, trying to see herself in Lou’s old mirror. The gilt was wearing off at just the wrong place.

“What was your favorite?” asked Mary.

“Oh, boy! That’s tough. I liked them all.”

But Mary wasn’t to be put off so easily.

“Come on, Josh. Favorite.”

I reviewed the gifts Mary had given to me. “I guess the pullover sweater,” I said after much thought.

“The sweater?”

“And do you know why? Because you made it yourself. For me.” I paused a moment and then went on with a chuckle, “And you know why else?”

“
Why
else?” teased Mary. “Is that proper English?”

“Of course it is.
Why
else would I say it?” I bantered back and Mary gave me a little jab in the ribs.

“Okay—so
why
else?” she asked me.

“Because it actually fits,” I laughed. “It has two arms—and they are the same length. It has a hole up top for my head and one at the bottom for my waist.”

By now Mary was chuckling too but she gave me another playful jab. “Are you saying you didn’t think I could knit?” she accused me.

“No,” I answered, dodging away from another jab, “but I have seen a few sweaters in my day that were made by girlfriends or new brides. You had to ask to be sure what the thing was.”

Mary gave me one more jab. That one I figured I deserved.

On a cold, windy day near the middle of the month, I came in one morning to find Mary in tears. I couldn’t think of anything I had done, and I was sure Grandpa or Uncle Charlie wouldn’t do anything to make her weep. For a moment I feared Mary might be ill, and that scared me something awful.

I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t have time. Mary threw herself into my arms and sobbed against my shoulder. By now I was really worried. My eyes traveled to meet Grandpa’s across the room, but he wouldn’t look at me. He was busy staring out of the window at the bleak, sunless day. Uncle Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

In my mind I frantically reviewed family members, wondering if bad news had come in some way while I’d been out. But I hadn’t heard a horse, and the farm dog had been with me all the time. His ears were sharper than mine, and he most certainly would have heard if someone had come.

“Sh-h-h. Sh-h-h,” I tried to quiet Mary, brushing aside strands of fine hair from her tear-streaked face.

“Sh-h-h. Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mary swallowed hard and tried to get control. “It’s Pixie,” she finally managed to gasp out. “I found her in her box behind the stove.”

“Pixie?”

Mary burst into fresh tears and clutched me even more tightly.

I wanted to free myself and check on Pixie. The little dog might be in need of some attention. But I couldn’t just leave Mary. Not the way she was feeling now. I held her more tightly and rubbed her shoulder and patted her back.

When her tears finally subsided, I put her gently from me and went to kneel beside the stove to check on Pixie. It was far worse than I had feared, and my whole being rushed to deny it. The little body was lifeless. There was nothing I could have done. She was already stiff and cold.

Tears came to my own eyes. I picked her up as gently as I could and ran my hands again over the silky sides and let my fingers toy with the floppy little ears.
She’s been a good dog—a
good friend,
I mourned. Pixie had been with me ever since my dearly loved Gramps had found her for me so many years ago. Boy, would I miss her. It reminded me of how much I missed Gramps.

I knew Pixie was old, that she had been stiff and arthritic and in pain much of the time. She was far better off having just slept her way out of life. But I still fought against the reality of it. If I’d had the power right then, I’d have brought her back.

I didn’t have that power, so all I could do was hold her up against my chest. The small body sure didn’t feel like it usually did. I was used to her little tail wagging gently as I petted. I was used to a little lick with a pink tongue every now and then. I was used to warmth and energy. And now there was only the quiet, stiff, lifeless little form. I felt almost repelled by it—but I couldn’t put her down. I just kept running my hand over her, speaking to her as though I thought she should awaken.

Mary came to where I knelt and laid a hand on my head, running her fingers softly through my hair.

“I’ll fix a box,” she said quietly.

For a moment I wanted to protest. Pixie had been
my
dog. I would fix the box. And then I remembered how much Mary had loved her too and I nodded in agreement, the tears flowing again.

I pulled Pixie’s small bed out from behind the stove and laid her gently back down. Without a backward glance I arose, pulled my heavy mittens back on and left the kitchen.

I found the shovel and a pick and chose a spot in the garden. I wanted her to be down under the trees beside the grave of my first little pup, the one I had named Patches.
Gramps brought me
that puppy too,
I remembered as I raised the pick above the frozen ground. It was hard digging. Maybe that was good. I needed something difficult to concentrate on for the moment. I put my full strength behind each swing of the pick. Then I shoveled out the frozen clumps of dirt, making a hole big enough to hold a small box. A small box with an even smaller dog.

Tears froze on my cheeks as I worked.
She might’ve been
small,
I thought,
but she was all heart.
All heart and love. I’d never known anyone who had loved me like my small dog had. She asked no questions, demanded no apologies. She just loved me—Josh Jones—just as I was.

I guess I got a little carried away on the size of the hole. I made it bigger than it needed to be, but perhaps I wasn’t ready to go back to the house yet. I needed a little more time to be alone. With Pixie’s death went my last visible memory of Gramps. Oh, I had lots of memories. Things that I treasured as I pulled them out and thought on them—which I did often. But with Pixie those memories had been different, more vivid. Each time I picked up the little dog I could see the age-softened hands of Gramps as he handed her to me for the first time.

I remembered Aunt Lou sharing with me how Gramps had walked into town after my first puppy was killed and searched the town streets until he had found me another puppy. I remembered too how small Pixie was, and how Gramps had told me that she would need special care and love.

Pixie had been my little love-gift, that’s what she had been. It was Gramps special love for me that prompted the giving, and it was Pixie’s and my special love for each other that had helped us share so many things over the years.

And now she’s gone
. I had known all along that one day it would happen, but I had just kept pretending in my heart that I could hold it off somehow.

I finally stopped my digging, wiped the frozen tears from my cheeks and went to put away the pick. I would still need the shovel.

Mary had the box all ready. She had lined it with some soft material that made Pixie look as though she were all cuddled in and snug as she liked to be. The lid was next to it, and I knew Mary expected me to put that in place after I’d told my little dog goodbye one last time.

I ran my hand over the silken fur and then placed the lid on the box. I pulled on my heavy mitts and looked at Mary.

She had wiped away all her tears, but I could still see the sadness in her face.

“I thought you might like to be alone,” she said softly to explain why she didn’t have her coat on. I nodded, surprised that she knew me so well so soon, and then I picked up the little box and went back to the garden.

After I had completed my sorrowful task, I stayed outside for a while finding little chores I could do. Mary didn’t come looking for me. When I finally decided I was ready to face the family and go on with life, I went back to the kitchen. I could smell the coffee brewing even before I opened the door, and I realized just how chilled I was.

Mary’s eyes met mine and we spoke to each other even without words. She smiled then, just a tiny little one, and I gave her a bit of a nod.

Uncle Charlie reappeared. We tried to talk normally at the table. Didn’t seem much to talk about, save the weather. It worked for a time. By then I had thawed out a bit and was feeling some better, though I knew it would be a long, long time until I got over my hurt. Mary knew it too. I could feel her love and understanding even when a whole room separated us. It was a marvel, this being man and wife. I began to wonder how I had ever functioned before Mary had changed my whole life. I hoped and prayed I would never need to function without her again.

For the first time in my life I began to realize what Grandpa had suffered over the years without Grandma—and why Gramps had commented to me about being anxious to get to heaven. It gave me a new respect and sympathy. And I think it opened up a whole new understanding of the word
love
for me too.

C
HAPTER
18
Life Goes On

I
CAME IN FROM the morning chores expecting breakfast on the table as usual. It was—after a fashion. The pot of rolled oats still simmered on the stove, the coffee bubbled in the coffeepot. Thick-sliced bread was toasted, the table set, but it didn’t take sharp eyes to know that something was amiss.

“Where’s Mary?” I asked Uncle Charlie, who gave the lumpy porridge another stir while Grandpa poured the coffee.

“She’s not feeling well,” Uncle Charlie informed me and went on quickly when he saw the look in my eyes. “Nothin’ serious. Jest a tummy upset, she said. Bit of the flu, I ’spect.”

I didn’t even wait to remove my outside wraps but headed for the stairs.

Mary was lying on the bed in her clothes, so I knew she had been up.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured me wanly. “Just—”

I’d already heard that little speech from Uncle Charlie. I sat on the bed and laid a hand on her forehead.

“I don’t have a fever, Josh,” Mary protested. “I already checked it myself.”

“You feel hot to me,” I argued.

“As cold as your hand is from chorin’, anything that isn’t freezing would feel hot,” Mary reminded me. “Go on,” she prompted. “Go have your breakfast.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“It would be pointless,” insisted Mary. “I’d just bring it right back up again.”

“Could I bring—”

“Josh,” said Mary with a bit of impatience, “I can’t even stand the
smell
of it.”

I tucked a blanket about her and left her then, though I was still worried even with her assurances that she’d be up soon.

True to her word, Mary came down later. She still looked pale, but she insisted that she felt just fine. She proved it by taking over her kitchen chores.

For the next three mornings the scene was repeated. I was getting kind of tired of Uncle Charlie’s version of our breakfast porridge—even though I’d eaten it most of my life. I was also getting very concerned about Mary. One morning she didn’t make an appearance until almost noon, and even then she looked as if she should be back in bed. I tried to talk her into staying in for the day so she could lick this thing, whatever it was. But who was I to argue with a woman who’s made up her mind?

When it happened the fifth morning in a row, I decided something must be done. Without saying anything to Mary, I saddled Chester and headed off to town. I figured it was about time Doc was consulted about the matter.

Doc arrived at the farm soon after I had returned home again. By then Mary was up and about. She looked pale and often turned her face away when she lifted the lid to stir a pot, as though she couldn’t bear the sight or smell of whatever she was cooking.

Mary looked surprised when I ushered Doc into the kitchen. Then she set about putting on the coffeepot, probably assuming that he had just popped in to warm up on his return from a neighborhood call. Doc was content to wait, visiting with Grandpa and Uncle Charlie, but I could see that he was watching Mary carefully out of the corner of his eye.