Jacob's Way (35 page)

The day passed agreeably for everyone. Ben took the boys out to where the flat-bottomed boat was tied up on the river, and they ran the trot line. He had deliberately chosen not to run the line for twenty-four hours so that there would be a catch for the boys. Sure enough, the lines were half full, and the boys were thrilled as they moved across the river removing catfish. Ben had to warn them to be careful because they seemed to be fearless.

When they returned with a burlap bag full of fish, Ben taught them how to clean them. Cleaning catfish was a difficult matter, but Ben had learned to skin them with little trouble. He had caught a large bass the day before, and had kept it for Jacob and Reisa, knowing they would not eat catfish.

When the fish were cleaned, Sam came ambling over to say, “Ben, why don't you teach the boys how to shoot?”

Pru, who was taking the fish inside to prepare for cooking, said at once, “Oh, they're too young for that.”

“Let them learn, ma'am. At least they can watch.”

Of course all three boys were excited about this. Sam went inside to get his Le Mat, and he also brought the Whitworth that Ben had won the shooting contest with. Dov accompanied Ben, Sam, and the boys out to a clearing far from the house.

For over an hour Ben amazed the boys with his marksmanship. He knocked down cans that he had saved for target practice with the pistol, and then he handed Robert a can. “Toss this up in the air and see if I can hit it.”

Robert threw the can high in the air, and Ben, apparently without aiming, lifted the Le Mat and fired. The bullet struck the can, sending it flying. When it was almost to the ground, Ben fired again, the slug driving the can farther along. He shot three more times, each time hitting the can. Turning, he saw the boys' eyes all big.

Johnny demanded, “Teach me to shoot like that, Uncle Ben!” “Yes, me too!” David said. Of course Robert could not be left out, so all three were pleading with him.

“I'll tell you what, fellows, this gun's too big for you, but the next time you come, I'll have a small pistol, and then I'll start teaching you how to shoot.”

When they returned to the house, the smell of frying fish was in the air. The boys all tried to outshout each other, telling their parents what a wonderful shot Ben was.

Pru moved closer to Ben, smiling and squeezing his arm. “I think you are going to be a
wonderful
uncle, Ben!”

“Well, I don't have much practice at it, but they're fine boys, Pru. You and Martin are to be envied.”

“You'll have your own boys one day, Ben,” Pru whispered.

Dinner was wonderful: fried catfish and bass, hushpuppies, green onions, and Dorrie's vegetables. All this was followed by the cake and pie that Marianne had brought.

With a little persuasion from Ben, Phineas got his fiddle down and played for the boys. All the men except Dov and Jacob knew the war songs, many of them comic, and they joined together to sing for the visitors. Phineas finally said, “This here song's allus been my favorite.” He started singing, joined by Sam and Ben:

O, I'm a good old rebel
,

Now that's just what I am
,

For this “Fair Land of Freedom”

I do not care at all;

I'm glad I fit against it
,

I only wish we'd won;

I don't want no pardon

For anything I've done.

I hates the Constitution
,

This Great Republic, too
,

I hates the Freeman's Buro
,

In uniforms of blue;

I hates the nasty eagle
,

With all his brags and fuss
,

The lyin', thieving Yankees
,

I hates 'em wuss and wuss.

I followed old Marse Robert

For four year near about
,

Got wounded in three places
,

And starved at Point Lookout;

I cotch the roomatism

A campin' in the snow
,

But I killed a lots o' Yankees
,

I'd like to kill some mo'.

Finally Robert said, “Uncle Ben, Mother said you were a good soldier. Did you kill lots of Yankees?”

Ben had been smiling, but now he sobered up. “Robert, they were fellows just like us. I always hated it when I had to shoot at them. I hope you never have to go through a thing like that.”

“I hope so, too,” Martin said quickly.

Phineas put his fiddle away, and they all filed outside on the porch as the evening closed down. There they said their goodbyes, shaking hands, hugging, the boys still talking a mile a minute.

When they were in the carriage and rolling down the road toward home, Pru turned and faced Martin. “What did you think about Ben?”

“There's a great sadness in him, isn't there?”

“Yes, there is, but he'll get over it.”

“He won the boys over so easily. I can't believe it.”

“They need an uncle. If we move here, I know they'll get to see him often.” She sat silently for a while, then she asked, “What did you think about Reisa?”

“About Reisa? Why, she's a nice girl.”

Pru struck him playfully in the chest with her fist. “You are a fine doctor—and a rotten observer! Don't you have any romance in your soul? Can't you see the way they look at each other?”

Martin was not as obtuse as she implied. “I caught some of that, but nothing can ever come of it.”

She put her arms around him and drew him close to whisper, “Yes, it can. If a man and woman love each other, there'll be a way. And I think they love each other.”

Twenty-Seven

T
he following morning Dov set out for the Swenson house. The sun had just risen, tinting the eastern landscape a delicate crimson. He carried in his hand some pieces of iron for repair at the forge. Two days ago, when he and Ben had gone to shoe the mules, Mrs. Swenson had been too ill to see him, and Hilda had told him with fear in her eyes that the doctor was very concerned. Dov had tried to be as encouraging as he could, but he saw that Hilda was frightened by this sickness. So he was using the iron repairs as an excuse, really wanting to check up on Hilda and her mother.

Going at once to the forge, he lit the fire, and as it caught, he moved outside to glance toward the house. With some surprise he saw that Hilda was standing on the front porch. At once he moved forward, and when he was twenty yards away, lifted his hand to greet her—but then he saw that something was odd about the way she stood. Moving closer, he saw that she was leaning against one of the pillars and her face was very pale and worn. Mounting the steps quickly, Dov said, “Miss Hilda—is something wrong?”

Hilda did not move, in fact she did not seem to hear him. Her body was stiff, but Dov saw that her hands were trembling almost violently.

“What is wrong?” he repeated gently.

Hilda started, then turned her face toward Dov. Her eyes were staring blindly, and her lips were pressed tightly together. She swallowed hard, then whispered hoarsely, “Mother—she is dead.”

A cold shock ran through Dov. He had not known the woman well, but had admired her gentleness and the stoic way in which she bore her painful illness. “I ver' sorry,” he said quietly. He was not a man to whom words came easily, especially words in a language not his own. He longed to comfort her, to say something, but for the life of him could not think of a word.

Hilda stood motionless for a moment, then her shoulders began to shake. She closed her eyes tightly, but tears coursed down her cheeks. Her body trembled violently, and she swayed uncertainly, seemingly about to fall.

Dov Puskin was not an eloquent man, but he did have enormous sympathy for anyone who suffered. He was fond of this woman in a way that he could not explain, and now he simply reached forward and put his arms around her. “Maybe,” he said quietly, “I can help.”

Hilda came against him helplessly. It seemed that all strength was gone, for she nearly fell. Dov held her, and as she put her face on his broad chest, she clutched his shirt desperately. And then great tearing sobs from deep down inside began to shake her body.

Dov held Hilda tightly, a great pity welling up in him.
Her mother was all she had. Now she's all alone.
His mighty arms held her as easily as if she were a child, but he said nothing.

Finally the deep sobs began to modify, then finally ceased. Hilda put her hands on Dov's chest and stepped back. He released her but held to her upper arms. “Come. Sit down,” he said gently. He guided her to one of the three rockers that sat on the front porch and helped her sit down. He himself was too large for any normal chair, so he simply knelt down on one knee and took her hands in his. “When did it happen, Miss Hilda?”

“Sometime just before dawn. She—she was feeling so well last night.” Here the tears began to flow again, and Hilda bowed her head and groped in her pocket for a handkerchief. She found one and for a moment did not speak. Finally she whispered, “Last night she ate a little, and I thought she was better. She went to bed, and I sat and read to her out of the Bible for almost an hour.”

It seemed to Dov that it was good for Hilda to talk as much as possible. He stayed on one knee beside her, his hand on the chair arm, listening as Hilda related how strange it had been that her mother was free from pain.

“She had been hurting so bad for so long, but last night it was as if God took it all away. After I read the Bible, she wanted to pray, so I knelt down and we prayed.”

“What you pray, Miss Hilda?”

“I just prayed that God would be merciful and take away her pain for good.”

“And the good God has done that. She has now no pain.”

Quickly Hilda looked up into the broad face of the big man. Reading the compassion in his dark eyes, she whispered, “Thank you, Dov.”

“It is nothing—but now we must do things. I will hitch wagon and take you to Reisa.”

“No! I must stay with Mama!”

“No. You will with Reisa stay,” Dov said firmly. He took her hand and said, “You have done all you could for your mother. The good God—he has seen all that; he has her to himself taken. Now, you must stay with Reisa. I will do what is to be done here. Do you have other people?”

“No.”

“Then I will tell the neighbors. I will get the doctor—and minister?”

“Reverend Luke Berry. He lives across from the white church on the road by the river.”

“I know church. You wait—I get wagon.”

Dov left, and Hilda sat quietly in the chair. Finally he came back with the team, pulled it up, then jumped out. She followed him to the wagon, and all strength seemed to have left her. “I don't know what's wrong with me,” she said holding onto the side. “I feel—”

“You ver' weak.” Dov suddenly reached down and picked her up as if she were a child. He seated her in the wagon, then smiled. “All right?”

“Yes. I'm all right.”

Dov nodded, then went around and climbed in. He spoke to the horses, and as they moved out, Hilda said, “She always wanted to be buried by the river in the cemetery down by the church.”

“I will tell minister. All be done.”

Hilda said nothing for ten minutes. Dov stole glances at her, and finally she spoke haltingly, “I'm—I'm all alone now, Dov.”

Dov Puskin extended his right hand, placing it gently on her shoulder. “No, my Hilda, you not alone—never while Dov is here!”

Reisa spotted the wagon coming down the drive, carrying Dov and Hilda. Sensing something was wrong, she went outside to meet them. Quickly, Dov explained the situation.

Reisa turned to Hilda, who by this time had more control of herself. “I'm so sorry, Hilda. What can I do for you?”

“I would like to go back to my house—if you would go and stay with me.”

“Of course I will. Dov, let me tell Grandfather what has happened. I'll have Sam go for a doctor. I'm sure there has to be a certificate.” She turned and went quickly into the house. Jacob looked up from the kitchen table as she came in. “It's Hilda's mother—Mrs. Swenson. She died last night.”

“How terrible for Hilda,” Jacob said quickly. “What can we do?”

“She wants to be in her own house with her own things. I'm going with her,
Zaideh
, if it's all right with you.”

“Of course. What else can we do?”

“I'm sure arrangements will have to be made, but I'll send Dov to do whatever needs to be done.”

“Let us know if we can do anything.”

Going back to the wagon, Reisa climbed into the seat beside Hilda. Dov said, “I will take you back. Then I will go find the minister.”

Dov turned the horses around, and they began the journey back. Reisa put her arm around Hilda and squeezed her. The woman was very large, but now she was like a child. Hilda's face was stiff, and Reisa well understood that she was grieving deeply inside.

When they reached the house, Dov jumped down. He handed Reisa down, then carefully lifted Hilda. He held her arms until they had ascended the porch, and then he took her hand. “Your mother is with God,” he said simply. “I go find the minister.”

As Dov left, Reisa saw Hilda looking after him in a peculiar fashion.

“What is it, Hilda?”

“It is so strange.”

“What is strange?”

“When we left here I was too weak to get into the wagon, and Dov reached down and picked me up as if I were a child. No man has ever done that. There was no man strong enough.”

“He is a giant, but with the gentle spirit of a woman,” Reisa said warmly. “Come now, you must change clothes. Dov will see some of the neighbors and find the minister.”

Hilda continued to talk. “While we were going, I told him I would be all alone. Do you know what he said?”

“What? What did he say?”

“He said, ‘You'll never be alone—not while Dov is around.'”

“He's very sweet, and you won't be alone. You'll have me and Grandfather and Phineas and Sam and Ben, so many of the neighbors, and you have many friends in church. You won't be alone, Hilda.”

Jacob sat in the pew next to Reisa. On Reisa's right Hilda sat quietly, with Dov on her right. Sam, Phineas, and Ben were seated just beyond Dov. Since there was no family, Reisa had insisted that they all sit with Hilda.

Jacob glanced over his shoulder, noting that the church was almost filled. Dov and Sam, he knew, had gone throughout the country notifying people of the funeral. Jacob, who had never been to any funeral except a Jewish one, sat quietly taking it all in.

Everyone was quiet, and then a door beside the platform opened. A tall man in his forties came to Hilda. Leaning over, he said something to her in a gentle tone. Hilda bowed her head and nodded, then the minister, Reverend Luke Berry, walked to the small platform and sat down. A short man with a handlebar mustache stood up in front of the congregation and began to sing. There were no books, but everyone except the visitors seemed to know the songs well. Jacob listened intently to the words. Most of them were about heaven—a subject that interested him greatly. He could not see the faces of those behind him, and he wondered if they were as sure of their place in this heaven as the song seemed to indicate one might be.

Finally Berry rose and in a clear voice read from a single sheet of paper the facts of Mrs. Swenson's birth, briefly mentioning her departure from this life. He opened a worn black Bible and stood loosely before them for a few moments. Jacob studied his face and found him to be a man of true compassion, if a countenance can reveal such a thing.

Reverend Berry began to read Scripture. He read quite a few of them, remarking once, “These are all Scriptures that our dear sister loved greatly. She left behind a note giving instructions that the songs that we have just sung would be sung at her funeral, and the verses that I have just read were favorites of hers. She also asked me to speak on the resurrection of the dead.”

A silence fell over the church as the preacher's voice seemed to fill it. Reverend Berry had a powerful voice, and Jacob had the impression that if he chose to lift it, he could have been heard a mile away. Still there was a warmth and an intimacy in his tone, and his eyes often fell on Hilda as she sat drinking in his words.

“It is always a joy to me to speak on the resurrection—especially at times like this when one of our own has passed onto the other side. Naturally we are sad and grieved, but that's the human side of us. Our dear sister suffered so much while she was alive that not a one of us would wish her back again to endure that pain—least of all this precious daughter of hers.”

Jacob glanced quickly at Hilda's face, noting a peace that had not been there the previous day. The shock of her mother's death had devastated her, but now a calmness seemed to surround her as she listened.

“The apostles always spoke of the resurrection of Jesus—and of the resurrection of all who believe in him. When they chose another apostle to replace Judas, he had to be one who had been a witness of the Resurrection. When Peter stood up before the multitude, he declared unto them that they had killed ‘the Prince of life, whom God hath raised from the dead.' When Peter and John were taken before the council, the great reason for their arrest was that the rulers were ‘grieved that they taught the people, and preached through Jesus the resurrection from the dead.' After they were set free, the Scripture tells us, ‘With great power gave the apostles witness of the resurrection of the Lord Jesus: and great grace was upon them all.' When Paul mentioned the resurrection in Athens, some laughed, but others were touched, and when he stood before the council of the Pharisees, and the Sadducees, he said, ‘Touching the resurrection of the dead I am called in question.'”