Spring's Gentle Promise (24 page)

Relieved to hear that they were not in dire straits, I told her, “I’ll look after the account as soon as I’m able. Things are a bit tight right now, but I hope to get a job and then I can send some money month by month.”

“There’s nothing to pay, Josh,” she told me softly.

“But there must be. I owe him a fair bit of money—Uncle Charlie, our baby. Just haven’t been able to look after it yet.”

Mrs. Doc went to a corner desk and withdrew a rather large ledger. “Come here,” she said, and I went as bidden.

She leafed through the account book and I saw the names of our neighbors and friends listed there. They seemed to have fared better financially than the Joneses—I didn’t spot a one of them who was owing Doc money. And then Mrs. Doc flipped another page and there was my name—Joshua Jones. Each entry was carefully made. Each sick call to our house and each of the deliveries, and the cost was clearly and carefully recorded in the column to the right. But it was the bottom of the page that made me gasp. There written beside the total was the distinct notation: “Paid in full.”

“I—I don’t understand,” I stammered. “I didn’t have money. Who—who—”

“Doc did,” she said simply, the tears filling her eyes again. “The night of his attack. He must have known that something was wrong. He got up in the night. I found him here at his desk. Cancelled out every account in the ledger—every debt—Doc did.”

“But—but—”

She closed the book softly and slipped it back into the desk drawer.

“He loves his people, Josh. His community. He never wanted to take—just to give. He likely would never have taken payment if he hadn’t been looking out for me. I’m cared for now, and he doesn’t need any more.”

I couldn’t speak. All I could do was embrace the elderly woman. Then I returned to the brisk, cool air of the autumn day. I had much to think about as I trudged the street, still inquiring about work.

I heard about a government work project that was hiring. Mary hated the thought of it, for it would take me miles away from home and the family. We talked about it until way into the night and finally decided that it was the only thing we could do. With most of the stock gone, there wasn’t much choring; and with no feed to speak of, the few remaining farm animals mostly had to forage for themselves anyway. Even Mary’s chickens had been turned loose to fend for themselves. There still was a cow to milk, but Grandpa insisted that he could manage that.

With great reluctance I packed a few things in a carpet bag and prepared to take my leave. I wouldn’t be needed at home for the next spring’s planting. There was no seed grain in the bins—nor any hope of getting the money to buy any. I would just simply work out until our world had returned to normal again. And who knew just when that might be?

It was heart-wrenching to have me leave. Mary wept as she stuffed worn and oft-mended socks into a corner of the bag.

“They’ll never get you through another winter,” she sniffed. “They’re nothin’ but patches now.”

“Where ya goin’, Papa?” William asked, but the lump in my throat was too big for me to be able to answer him. I pulled the young boy into my arms and buried my face against his hair. He thought it was some kind of a game and started messing up my hair and tugging on my ears, squealing with glee. I wondered just how long it would be before I heard the boyish voice again. The thought made my chest constrict and brought tears to my eyes.

I continued to wrestle with William until I had myself under control. It was hard enough for Mary. I was supposed to be her strength.

We did the rounds with hugs. I guess it was the hardest moment of my life. William cried when he couldn’t go with me. As I looked at little Daniel sleeping peacefully in his cradle, I tried to picture how big he’d be by the time I returned. I would miss so much of his growing up.

“Don’t forget to write,” reminded Mary for the third or fourth time. “I’ve packed the paper and envelopes in the side pocket there.”

I nodded. I’d write. That would be all I’d have of home.

“Don’t worry about things here,” repeated Grandpa. “We’ll manage just fine.”

Oh, God,
I groaned inwardly,
why does it have to be this
way?

Mary stepped out onto the cold back veranda for one final goodbye. She clutched her sweater tightly around her and turned to me with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Don’t worry, Josh,” she whispered encouragingly in spite of the tears. “We’ll manage—somehow.”

I held her for a long time, trying to shield her from the cold, from the pain of parting and the heavy task of assuming all the responsibilities that I should be there to shoulder.
Why? Why?
I kept wondering, but the wind that whipped across the yard and tore at the weather-worn shutters had no answer.

“You’d best get in. You’re freezing,” I said to Mary, and I kissed her one last time and stumbled my way down the steps to the wagon. Grandpa was waiting to drive me to town to catch the local train.

I’d never realized how far it was to town before—nor how quickly our farm faded from view as we topped hill after hill.

The work camp was filled with men like myself. Desperate men—trying hard to make it through another winter in the only way that seemed open to them. Decent men—forwarding every penny they could spare back home to wives and family.

We talked about home in the evenings, after the work of another chilling, grueling day that numbed our bodies and tortured our muscles. We lay on our hard bunks and told one another stories about our wives, our children. It was the only pleasure we had. Except for the times when we allowed ourselves to use one more of our carefully rationed pages—one more envelope—one more stamp—so we could write a letter home. We lingered over those letters, savoring every word, pouring our love and longing into each sentence.

No one ever bothered a man who was writing. A hush fell over the bunkhouse and each man took to his bunk in respect for the one who held the hallowed position at the single, crude desk. Writing home was a sacred rite. It was as close to the family as we could get.

Mail day was even more special. We each hoarded every speck of privacy as we pored over our letter. And then we did a strange thing—we went over and over every tiny item of news it held with everyone in the bunkhouse.

The work was difficult. I’d considered myself used to hard work, but this new thing—this swinging of a pick into hard-as-granite soil as we chopped to make way for a new canal across the arid, frozen prairie—was something quite new for me.

Many gave up and went home. Their backs simply could not endure the strain. It was never a problem for the job foreman when men quit. He had a long waiting list of men who yearned for a chance to put their bodies to the test and earn precious money for their families.

We had four days off for Christmas. Most of us walked the fifteen miles to town that night after putting in a full day’s shift. We wanted to catch the train in the morning.

When the train pulled in to my familiar station, I stopped in town just long enough to buy a small trinket for each family member before I hoisted my bag and hurried home.

You should have heard the commotion. They hadn’t known I was coming. We hugged and cried and hugged some more and everyone tried to talk at once, knowing full well that the time would pass too quickly for us to get everything said.

I couldn’t believe how the boys had grown. I kept saying it to Mary over and over and she’d just smile.

We had a simple Christmas together with Lou’s family. In spite of bare cupboard shelves, Lou and Mary managed to put together a tasty meal. The children didn’t seem to miss the turkey and trimmings. They had fun just being together. That night Mary stayed up into the wee hours of the morning trying to darn my socks again. She patched my overalls and sewed buttons back on my coat, but there didn’t seem to be much she could do about my worn-out mittens. The pick had been awfully hard on them.

“Josh,” she said, “there’s just no way to fix them.”

I nodded. “They’re fine,” I assured her.

But the following morning when I joined the family at the breakfast table there was a new pair of mittens. She must have stayed up again most of the night in order to knit them. They were the same color as her chore sweater, which I noticed was no longer hanging on the peg by the door where she always kept it. I tried to swallow away the lump that grew large in my throat.

I left again right after breakfast. It was no easier than the first time. I had no idea when I’d be home again.

I guess it was my Bible and the time I was able to spend reading it and praying that got me through that long winter. Several other men in the bunkhouse turned to worn Bibles too. We talked about the things we were learning. It helped us to sorta put other things into proper perspective.

I told them about Willie one night. About how much he had loved God and how much I had loved him and how we had named our first son after him and all. They listened quietly.

“It’s funny,” I admitted. “He always went by ‘Willie’ even though his name was William. We named our boy in honor of him, and I think of Willie most every time I look at my son— and yet—yet—I’ve never been able to call him Willie. Never. Don’t know why. Guess it still just hurts too much.”

Heads nodded. I’d never been able to share that with anyone before. I guess I figured they wouldn’t understand. But these men—there was a strange friendship between those of us who shared the simple, crude bunkhouse. Maybe because we were all so vulnerable. Maybe we had nothing to hide. We all knew just where the other one was coming from. None of us had reason or cause to boast. We were sorta laid bare, so to speak, before one another. And we needed one another.

I told them about Camellia too. Though I didn’t bother to try to explain what Camellia had meant to me at one time. I just told them about Camellia and Willie and how she had gone out to Africa even after Willie had died there.

They were rightly impressed with Camellia.

And then I told them about the letter I’d had to write to the Mission Society, how it had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life. How I’d told the Mission Society I just didn’t have the money to support Camellia for the present and that just as soon as the rains came and I had another crop, I’d take up the support again.

A nice letter came back from them saying they understood and had managed to piece together Camellia’s support from some other sources; but that hadn’t taken the sting out of it for me.

“It’s sure tough right now,” mused a fella, Eb Penner. “Not just fer us, but fer the churches. I hear as how some missionaries have even been brought home. Jest no money.”

“Hard fer the preachers, too,” continued Paul Will. “Our parson hardly gits enough to git ’em by—an’ he has ’im a family of seven. Grabs any job he can to make a dollar or two, an’ so do his younguns—but ain’t no work fer anybody.”

“I stopped goin’ to church,” came from the corner bunk where Tom reclined, rubbing his hands as though he could work off some callouses. “ ’Tweren’t no comfort there, far as I could tell. Ever’ Sunday, there was just more bad news of someone losin’ their place or bein’ outta food or some such. We was all asked to pray. I got tired of prayin’. Nothin’ ever come of it anyway. Seemed I should be doin’ more fer those in need than jest sayin’ a prayer or two—an’ I had nothin’—nothin’ left to give.”

No one in the room expressed shock. We’d all fought the same thoughts, the same feelings at one time or another.

“I kept on goin’ anyway,” admitted Eb. “I mighta felt a little helpless in the midst of my sufferin’ brethren—but I’d a been downright lost without ’em.”

“You see the collection plate?” Paul said. “Pittance. I don’t know how any preacher’s family can git by. Sure, a chicken here, a jug a milk there, but still I can’t figure it. Tithe of nothin’ is still nothin’.”

The man was right of course. We’d always given our tithe. Even Mary’s egg money was carefully counted and a tenth laid aside. But even at that we only dropped a few cents in on Sunday, and ofttimes there was nothing at all. We wondered, too, how Nat and Lou ever managed, but they made no complaints. God provided, Lou always said with a smile, but their clothes were threadbare and their table scantily served. It had been hard, all right, on those serving the churches.

“Well, one of these days it’ll all get turned around again,” said someone on a brighter note, and the conversation went in another direction. We all had great plans about what we’d do just as soon as the dry spell was over. For many it meant starting from the bottom again. They had already lost all they had. Businesses, farms, belongings. But still, to a man, we clung to that seemingly illusionary promise of the future.

I wrapped old rags around my hands to try to keep Mary’s new mittens from developing holes. I wasn’t worried about my bare hands on the cold pick handle. It was just that I couldn’t stand the thought of ruining her gift to me—the mittens her love had kept her up all night to provide for me. The rags worked after a fashion, and then the weather finally began to warm up, and I tucked the mittens away and went barehanded. The frost left the ground, making the pick work a bit easier.

Being a farmer at heart, the melting of the ice and the warmth coming up from the soil sent my blood to racing. It was hard for me to keep my eyes off the skies. If only—if only the rains would come.

But even if they do,
I reminded myself,
I’ll still need to stay
with my pick and shovel
. I had not been able to save even a few pennies. I sent all that I made back to Mary and the family so they could get by.

C
HAPTER
25
Another Spring,
Another Promise

T
HAT NIGHT
I
WROTE another letter to Mary. I seemed to get more and more lonesome with each passing day. Would the ache in my heart never ease? I had thought that it would get easier with time. It hadn’t. Not at all.

After I’d written my letter, I lay on my bunk for a long time just thinking. Then I took my Bible and began to leaf through it, looking for some kind of comfort in its pages. I read a number of Mary’s Psalms and they helped, but I was still aching with the intensity of my loneliness.