Patterns of Swallows (45 page)

"And how would you know
that? You understand Hebrew?" Mom asked in astonishment.

"Before I was a medical
doctor, I was very nearly a doctor of divinity," Dr. Moffet
explained, chuckling at Mrs. MacKellum's amazement. "I was in
my last year of seminary when I finally gave in and admitted that I
wasn't cut out to be a man of the cloth. My talents and interests
were all medical, but my old mother had high hopes of having a
reverend among her sons, and I was her last hope. Poor Mother. She
never did get that minister she hoped for. I did get a fair
education in Greek and Hebrew though."

"Imagine!" Mom said
with new respect.

"It's perfect," Ruth
said. "Gabriel Haskell MacKellum. 'God is my strength.'”

*
* *

Now that we've seen the last of
Lily in this story, I should say a few words about her – a kind
of eulogy, as it were (though an odd kind of eulogy as you'll
discover).

As to her funeral, I will just
mention that it was well-attended, and to see the tears shed at it
and to hear the speeches made at it, it would seem that Lily had
never made as many dear and close friends in her life as she made in
her death.

No doubt my readers will take
exception to my portrait of Lily and call it a caricature, unfairly
emphasizing only her faults. No doubt, they'll be right.

The raw materials from which she
was made were, very likely, no better nor worse than the raw
materials which make up the rest of humanity. Privilege and power
and a path kept free from pain – all except the pain of one's
own making – are burdens that most raw materials cannot
withstand.

For my own part, I've been kept
from her particular temptations, and as a result, I could never
understand Lily. I could never understand what made her the way she
was other than her privilege and power which bred the desire for more
power. But not having had either, I can't understand, and not being
able to understand, I can't sympathize.

In the interests of justice, I
should have tried to paint Lily a little more charitably. An
omniscient eye would be able to do so. My eyes are not omniscient,
and I can paint only what I see. Unfortunately, I have not been able
to portray her with many redeeming qualities.

But fortunately for us, our
redemption does not depend on our redeeming qualities.

*
* *

The church's Christmas Eve
candlelight service was pronounced an unequivocal success by all who
attended. Ruth's solo verse in "O Little Town" was much
talked-of.

Her pure, untrained voice rang
out with no trace of quaver, and many compared it to the voice of an
angel (though, in fairness, I must admit that those making the
comparisons were all ill-qualified to do so. None present had
first-hand knowledge of any actual angelic singing).

Though the listeners were moved,
no one listening had any notion of the depth of meaning the words had
gained for the soloist.

"How silently, how
silently, the wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of His heaven ..." she sang. And she understood
in a new way the wonder and the blessing, as well as the cost, of the
Gift.

"Ruth,
I think you'd better come down here," Mom called up the stairs.

From
the tone of her voice, Ruth knew she should waste no time. She left
the pile of diapers she was folding and galloped down the stairs.

"The
Turnbulls just pulled up," Mom whispered though why she was
whispering it was hard to say. If she was shouting, the Turnbulls
wouldn't have heard her from their car in the driveway, and little
Gabe (as he was coming to be called) was fast asleep in his crib
upstairs.

"Why
on earth ... Why now?" Ruth said. Then fear moved in and held
her in a vise-like grip. Surely, they wouldn't! Would they?

"Only
Gus is getting out," Mom whispered, spying from behind the
yellow-checked curtains of the kitchen window.

She
moved to the door to open it for him. Ruth stayed in the background.

"Gus,"
Mom said, not smiling. "This is a surprise. What brings you
out our way?"

"I
think you know. We've come to talk about what's to be done with our
grandson."

"Your
grandson. Yes, I suppose he is. First time you've seemed to realize
it, however. I wasn't sure you remembered that Lily was your
daughter. I suppose you know that Gabriel's also my grandson."

"Are
you sure about that?"

"So
Lily led us to believe. What are you suggesting? Do you really
think so little of your own daughter?"

"Let's
just say she proved herself capable of almost anything. Why would it
be better to think that Lily had a child by another woman's husband
than by some other man?"

"No
one seriously questions who the father of Gabriel is, Gus. You're
using it as a smokescreen. It won't work on me, so give it up."

"Just
pointing out to you that our case for raising the child is stronger
than yours."

Mrs.
MacKellum laughed harshly.

"Oh,
I see. You don't think the fact that we were willing to take in his
mother – your own child – when you weren't is going to
have some sway on the question of who's more fit to raise this child?
His name is Gabriel, by the way. He's not just 'the child.' "

"I
heard the tom-fool name your daughter-in-law gave him. That can
always be changed."

"Except
it's not going to be changed. Did you think you were going to come
out here and buffalo us the way you do your men at the mill? We're
not about to be buffaloed, Gus Turnbull, just so you know. We made a
promise to your daughter that we would look after her baby. We
promised her on her death bed. And we intend to keep that promise.
So why don't you turn around and head right back the way you came?
Give my love to Edie, of course, will you?"

Ruth
learned new things about her mother-in-law constantly. She'd had no
inkling previously that Mom was capable of sarcasm. Or of open
warfare. This mother-bear side of her had never been so clearly
revealed before.

Ruth
was content to stay in the background and watch. She'd do more harm
than good if she jumped headlong into this battle.

Gus
shrugged.

"If
you want to fight us on this, have it your way. You don't stand a
chance. You think the courts would give this child to a coupl'a
widow ladies living on their own, barely making ends meet – one
of whom has no connection to the child except that he may or may not
be her husband's bastard child and the other of whom may or may not
be the child's grandmother? You think you stand a chance against a
solid, two-parent home, the home of his grandparents, that can give
him all the advantages? You can try 'n' fight us on this if you
really want, but I'm warning you; you'll only be wasting your time
and money. We'll drag this through the courts if we have to. I'll
have my lawyer contact you before the week's out." He turned
and headed for his car.

"You're
too late, Gus. I've already applied for legal guardianship,"
Mom called to his retreating back.

There
was no answer from Gus, and in a moment, the Turnbulls were gone as
quickly as they had arrived. The whole encounter had taken no more
than ten minutes.

But
what turmoil that ten minutes left in their wake!

The
vise that gripped Ruth's heart tightened.

Within
the week! They'd hear from Turnbulls' lawyer within the week.

Ruth's
thoughts flew into panic mode.

They
couldn't afford a lawyer.

True,
Ruth was still working. The packing shed had a few year-round
employees, and after Christmas, Eddie Hoffstetter had kept her on as
one of them. She was now working in the office – answering
phones and correspondence and doing the books. (Bo wasn't sorry to
relinquish his duties in that area.) The pay was slightly higher
than her apple-picking wage, but it wasn't a high-salaried job. Her
earnings were perfectly adequate for the simple needs of the three of
them, but if it came down to a court battle and the court's only
concern was with dollars and cents, then Gus was right. There was no
way for them to win. Barring a miracle.

And
that miracle was what Ruth began praying for the instant the
Turnbulls' car pulled out of their driveway.

It
wasn't only for her own sake she was praying for a miracle. It was
for Mom's. And for little Gabe's. Despite what the Turnbulls
thought about all the advantages they could give their grandchild,
Ruth had her own ideas about how much good all those advantages would
do him. About as much good as they'd done Lily.

During
the weeks that followed, she prayed and wept and pleaded for that
miracle. And she waited. On tenterhooks.

All
that first week after the run-in with Gus Turnbull, she went to work,
unable to keep her mind on the job, waiting on tenterhooks. At home,
she waited on tenterhooks, and every time the phone rang or a car
pulled into the driveway, her stomach knotted up.

But
by the next week, she was still waiting on tenterhooks.

Another
week passed. The encounter with the Turnbulls had occurred the
beginning of January. It was now approaching the end of January, and
still, there had been no word from the Turnbulls or from their
lawyer.

"You
see? He found out he didn't have as solid a case as he thought he
did," Mom tried to comfort Ruth. "I always thought he was
just spitting in the wind. As soon as he found out we'd applied for
legal guardianship, he knew he was too late."

Ruth
couldn't tell if Mom believed it herself or if she was only saying it
because she hoped it was true. At any rate, Ruth was sure their
application for legal guardianship could easily be overturned by the
likes of Gus Turnbull and his lawyer. Their only hope was the
miracle she was praying for.

And
she continued to pray for it. And to wait. On tenterhooks.

By
the beginning of February, she'd had enough. Her insides were tied
into a permanent knot like a string of Christmas lights. She was
sleeping badly (and not only because she was up for most of the two
o'clock feedings). She was making mistakes at work. She'd lost
weight. Something had to give.

"I
can't play this waiting game anymore," she told Mom. "I'm
going over to Turnbulls' myself to find out what's going on."

"Don't
do that," Mom pleaded. "If they've given up the idea, your
stirring them up again can't do any good. Just wait it out. And
trust. Just trust that it will all work out the way it's supposed
to."

But
that was the problem! What if "the way it was supposed to"
meant that Gabe was "supposed to" be raised by the
Turnbulls? The thought was unthinkable!

But
she didn't rule the universe. Unthinkable things happened every day
that were apparently part of the master plan.

On
reflection, she'd seen it in her own life. Some of the "unthinkable"
things that had happened to her she had seen take their place in an
unfolding, grand, master plan. Some of the "unthinkable"
things that had happened to her she had not yet been privileged to
see the good and loving and necessary results from. Still, she had
seen bits and pieces of the grand, master plan unfold in her own
life, even through some of the "unthinkable" events of it.
It gave her the confidence that there were good and loving and
necessary reasons for everything, and that someday, though probably
not on this earth, she would understand the grand master plan and see
the place all her "unthinkable" events had in it.

But
that wasn't to say that she ever wanted to relive some of the events
she had already lived through. Or some even more painful events. If
Gabe was taken away from her, that was one event she wasn't sure she
could live through. True, other women had lived through the loss of
a child. But after every other kind of loss she'd experienced?!!!
It would be too much! It really would. Surely God wouldn't do that
to her.

After
one particular two o' clock feeding around about the middle of
February, she tossed and turned until daybreak. It was her day off,
so she stayed in bed later than usual, hoping to convince her mind to
shut down for a few hours of much-needed rest. Mom would look after
Gabe and let her sleep. If only she could.

I'm
at my wits' end here
,
her thoughts cried out.
I
can't go on like this. Please, let something happen soon, so we'll
know one way or the other.