For Time and Eternity (2 page)

Chapter 2

I never did feel there was much to me to distinguish myself from the other young people in our town. Nobody would ever call me the prettiest girl in school—or the smartest. Far from either, as a matter of fact. Mama used to tell me I was so plain and quiet, I’d blend into a wall if I stood still long enough. On days when we had recitations, other girls would stand at the front of the class with ribbons in their hair and talk for five minutes, standing straight and tall. Those were the days I tried to get Mama to let me stay home. And most times she’d let me because I think she understood. She was a quiet girl too, and truth be known, I think she sometimes liked having someone else around the house to talk to. She might never have made me go to school if Papa and the county didn’t insist.

We had three teachers and divided up grades. Our family helped contribute to their pay by giving them milk, butter, and cheese from our farm. About once a week I got to drive our cart and pony to school. Well, not exactly a pony. More like our old mule, Gracie, and the cart wasn’t more than a hand wagon with a seat. But still, it made me feel important, and I enjoyed it especially on early summer mornings when a late night shower made the path into town a muddy mess.

The morning after that meeting in town was just such a morning. Chilly and damp, but with a promise of warmth later in the day. Papa had just loaded the final milk can when Mother came storming out from behind the springhouse.

“Arlen! Stop!”

He’d never been one to obey my mother, and this morning was no exception. He settled the can in place and lifted the latch at the back of the cart.

“Wait! She cannot take that milk in. It might be bad.” By this time, Mama was at Papa’s side, holding his arm.

“Might be?” He peered at Mama from under his hat brim.

She turned to me. “Camilla, do you remember when you brought the cows in from grazing yesterday?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Didn’t you say some had wandered off?”

“Just Missy and Peggy, clear down to the southwest corner.” And I had to beat them with a stick to get them in before dark.

“There must be a patch of wild onions sprouting there, is all I can figure,” Mama said. “And it’s flavored the milk. We won’t be able to sell any of it for days.”

I stood staring at the ground, the back of my neck burning despite the chilly morning. Somehow this would turn out to be my fault, no matter that I didn’t know about the onions and I’d been at school all the day they’d been grazing. Papa’s lips narrowed and his jaw clenched; when he spoke, his voice had the haunting control that always made me nervous.

“How bad is it?” He spoke to Mama but looked right at me.

“Bad enough to ruin our reputation.”

“Go get a dipper.” This, clearly, was directed straight at me, and I turned on my heel and walked as slow as I could, muttering all sorts of horrible things just under my breath. Even though I was certain Father expected me to get the ladle out of the bucket that hung beside our well, I strolled right past it and waited for him to bark at me to hurry up. He didn’t. I walked clear into the kitchen, where I pinched a corner off a cinnamon scone and grabbed the long-handled dipper from a hook on the wall. By the time I returned, Father had taken the milk can down from the cart and had it open.

“Taste.” Only my father could compress an entire lecture into one word.

I dipped the ladle in the still, white liquid and brought it to my lips. I couldn’t detect any odor, and the first tiny sip seemed fine.

“More,” he said. “Take a big drink.”

Bracing myself, I emptied the dipper with one big gulp, and while the initial taste was fine, soon after I swallowed, the inside of my mouth was coated with a bitterness I could not expel.

“I’m sorry,” I said, determined not to make a sour face.

“Today, when you get home, I want you to show me exactly where you found those cows, and we’ll dig up that patch.”

“I can show you now. Take you right to it.”

“After school. When you can help me dig.”

“Yes, Father.” I moved to climb up into my little cart’s seat, but Papa blocked me.

“No need. You’ll walk.” He reached inside the cart, took out a bundle wrapped in rope, and formed the rope into a strap, which he dropped over my shoulder. It wasn’t a staggering amount of weight, just uncomfortable, and I complained that I still had my lunch bucket and books to carry.

“Think about that next time you dally bringing in the cows,” he said before leaving me alone in our yard with Mama.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking every bit as deflated as I felt. “I never imagined he would—”

“I’ll be fine.” Shifting my bundle, I reached into the cart for my schoolbooks, slate, and lunch bucket. Once the books were satisfactorily cradled in one arm, I stood very still while Mama kissed my cheek. Then I set off down the road.

We had a small rock wall, not quite three feet high, that flanked either side of our farm’s wide driveway. It wasn’t very sturdy, and it didn’t extend far on either side. It dwindled into nothing more than a bunch of rocks within about twenty paces, but I know Papa envisioned it as some regal gateway. When he spared himself a day of farm labor on the Sabbath, he filled his time hauling stones from the riverbed, stacking each one, extending first one side, then the other. He had us all believing in a great, victorious day when the two sides would meet at the back of our property.

I’d barely made it past the wall when the rope bearing the weight of the bundled cheese and butter dug painfully into my shoulder. The ache in my collarbone was already so severe, I thought the pain would cut my head clean off before I reached the bend in the road to school. No amount of shifting helped, at least not for long. Soon I felt the strain of this burden down my entire back, and my step slowed to a precarious shuffle.

I liked to think that Papa didn’t realize how heavy it was. That he was so strong himself, he couldn’t have imagined I wouldn’t be able to just sling it across my back and be on my way. I thought about the Bible verse telling us to lay our burdens at the feet of Jesus, and since home was a lot closer than school, I was about to turn around, walk back, and drop this burden at the feet of my father. Whatever punishment might follow would be well worth the relief.

It was the thought of that punishment that made me hesitate, and it was during that moment of hesitation that I first saw him. He stood at the top of our road, at a place where, if I turned right, I’d head into town; if I turned left, I’d be heading for the river, to the place they camped. The Mormons. That’s the road he’d been walking.

My head filled with all the bits of conversation I’d heard in town, at church, and around my own kitchen table. Added to the pain of the rope across my shoulders was the unique pain that comes with fear. As if my breath wasn’t strained enough, now it seemed to stop dead in my throat, and my feet stopped in my path.

I must have looked every bit as frightened as I felt, because he held up his hands like an offer of peaceful surrender. Still, I might have summoned the strength to actually turn and run had he not taken off his hat, smiled, and said, “Would you let me help you this morning?”

Those were his first words to me, and his voice was like honey. He had a smile wide and perfect. I’d never seen a smile like it before. Mama had a phrase she’d say about people who smile too much. Something about butter never melting in their mouth. I never liked that because it made me think of a person being cold—like they had a root cellar for a heart. This boy’s smile was warm, like he carried the sun itself between his lips. I worried for the butter in my bundle, that it might turn straight to liquid and pour out of the canvas. Still, I couldn’t hold back. I found myself moving again, straight toward him, not stopping until I had a clear look at his eyes—the palest brown I’d ever seen—and the faded green-checkered pattern of his shirt.

“That looks heavy,” he said. “I’m heading into town. May I carry it for you?”

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about, and we stood there, just staring at each other until he put his hat back on, stepped forward, and took first my lunch bucket, then my books. These he stacked and balanced on his forearm and reached again, saying, “Here. Give that to me.”

The next thing I knew I was shrugging myself free, and the relief of it felt like a hundred birds taking flight from my body. He took the bundle and looped the rope around one shoulder, not even a flinch at its weight.

“After you?” He nodded in the direction of town.

“I’ll take my books.”

He extended his arm and I took my little bucket, then my books. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and I tried not to touch him as I lifted them away.

As it turned out, the road was perfect for walking—not muddy as I had feared. There’d been just enough rain to pack down the earth, no mud squelching, no dust rising. Somehow our steps fell in perfectly with each other.

“So,” he said once we’d established our pace, “do you mind telling me what I’m carrying?”

“Cheese,” I said, keeping my eyes trained on the road in front of me.

“You must plan on being really hungry.”

I looked at him, but he was looking ahead, smiling, and I laughed, straight out loud. Mama always told me a lady politely covers her mouth when she laughs, but my hands were full. And even if they weren’t, there didn’t seem to be any way to stop it.

That was the last sound either of us made until we reached the schoolyard at the edge of town. Other girls I knew were practiced in the art of chatting with boys, but anything I could think to say lodged in my throat. He wasn’t a boy to chat with. I don’t think he was a boy at all. More like a man in size and stature. Every now and then I took a sidelong glance only to see him striding so purposefully beside me. Even in profile his face was pleasant—smooth and round. He kept his head high and seemed to be just as familiar with this road as I was, even though he was a stranger.

I was walking with a stranger.

It wouldn’t matter if I held my silence now, or even if I never spoke to him again. When word got out that Arlen Deardon’s daughter walked to school with a stranger—let alone one of them, the Mormons—there’d be no telling what punishment I would face.

Oh, Lord,
I prayed.
Don’t let them see me.

“What’s the matter?”

That’s when I noticed I’d stopped walking, and he was touching me. Not touching, really, but his hand hovered over the cuff of my blouse, and I clutched my books closer to me.

“I shouldn’t be walking with you.” I don’t know if I was telling him, or myself. But that was the truth of it.

“Oh.” He drew the word out, nodding like we had both come up with a grand idea. “Because a young woman is so much safer walking alone?”

“No.” He’d called me a woman.

“Because I’m some kind of monster?”

That brought out my laughter again, but this time it died as it settled back on my lips. “I don’t know what you are.” Coming from any other girl, this might have been coquettish. But not from me. I didn’t know how to flirt.

“My name is Nathan Fox. I’m from Springfield, Missouri.”

“I’m—”

“Camilla Deardon.”

“You know my name?”

“We’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

“Hardly that.”

“What do you mean, ‘hardly’?” He shifted the weight of the bundle and took a step away. “Your property line runs right along the edge of our camp. From what I hear, that makes us neighbors.”

“We don’t speak to each other.”

“We are now.”

“We don’t know each other.”

“We could.”

Off in the distance I heard a familiar sound being carried on the morning air. It was Mr. Teague, the upper-grades teacher, my teacher, whistling the same tune he did every morning. The tune announced his presence more than any clanging bell ever could. In a matter of seconds he would round the corner, twirling his ring of keys on one long, extended finger, and unlock the front doors to each of the three buildings that made up our school. Being the only man, he alone was trusted with such a chore.

“You have to go,” I said, shifting my books to my other arm so I could take the bundle Nathan carried.

“Oh no.” He turned his shoulder out of my reach. “This hasn’t gotten any lighter, and you haven’t gotten any stronger. Where shall I take it?”

“No.” I glanced around, nearly frantic. “You can’t be seen here.”

“I come into town all the time.” His smile was back. He was teasing, and I felt the warmth that came through him touch my face.

“Not with me. Not to my school.”

The tune was getting louder. Discernible now: “Yankee Doodle.”

“Then you just go on.” He made a scooting sign with his free hand and reinforced his grip on the bundle’s rope with the other. More than that, he took one, then another slow, deliberate step backward down the path, until his dismissive gesture turned into a wave.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Although he was moving farther away, I dropped my voice to a whisper. More like a hiss, because the whistling stopped, and I heard Mr. Teague calling out “Good morning!” to someone else about to round the corner and find me out.