The House on Malcolm Street (15 page)

Even now I thought of the nearly grown children of the couple that had died in Tuesday’s train wreck. What would they be doing this morning? How long would it be before anything began to feel real or ordinary again?

It didn’t help me to be thinking such things. But maybe if I took the time to pray for that family again, there could be at least that much good in it.

Seeing the grieving mourners had taken my mind back to rushing and straining to pull that woman from the mud, only to find her already gone. It was too much like the horrible day when I’d lifted Rosemary from the ditch after our awful accident.

Mr. Abraham’s rooster jarred me with its belated crowing, and I shoved away Aunt Mari’s bedspread and pulled myself up. As much as I’d like to lie in bed all day, I’d have to present myself downstairs before long or Mari would send Leah Breckenridge my way, thinking I might be late for work. I hadn’t told them I wouldn’t be working today. I usually knew several days in advance when I would be free on a Saturday, but this time Mr. Behrens had simply said to stay home, take some time. Of course it was because of the way the funeral had affected me. I wished he had decided to attend alone.

I would rather have worked, to take me away from here until evening. I tried to think of errands, but there weren’t any. I wouldn’t be able to just close myself in my room or aimlessly wander about town when there were chores Aunt Mari needed done. But how would I find solitude with Leah and her daughter around? I didn’t want them to witness the struggle I was having. That would make everything worse because it wasn’t just the train wreck this week that was giving me trouble, hard as that had been. John’s family was a large share of the problem. Their loss kept staring me in the face, reminding me of everything I wanted to bury away inside me.

It didn’t help matters that Mari expected me to be able to minister to Leah in her loss. She hadn’t told me in exactly those words, but I knew what she meant when she first shared her intention to invite them: “You can understand better than other people what they’re going through. They’ll need that sort of friend.”

It was too much for me. Because I
didn’t
understand. I tried. But I couldn’t understand why tragedies happen, why we can never know from one day to the next whether our loved ones will remain healthy, safe, and whole. I’d prayed when I was a youngster for God to give me a complete family. Yet here I was alone in this world, except for Mari.

A lot of things about God I just didn’t understand. I couldn’t doubt his power, considering the world and everything he’d made. And I didn’t doubt his love after being saved in Aunt Mari’s living room and realizing the forgiveness he’d sent his Son to gain for me. It was his reasoning that had me puzzled sometimes. The choices God made. Like accepting me, with no particular reason to. But also giving life within Rosemary’s womb and then allowing that life to be cut short before it ever had a chance to blossom.

I pulled on trousers and sat back down on the edge of the bed. In some ways, the loss of our child had been harder on my mind than the loss of Rosemary. At least Rosemary had lived long enough to bless me and others with a little of her sunshine. But that baby – what could be the purpose of a few short months in the womb, never even being held by its mother? At least John and Leah’s baby had lived long enough to be rocked and cuddled and to offer a loving look or contented smile in return.

Lord, you know Mari wants me to be a comfort to John’s wife. But she’ll be sadly disappointed. I’d make a miserable comforter. I don’t know how to begin.

I took a deep breath, wondering if Leah Breckenridge had the same sort of questions I did. I hadn’t been praying for her. I hadn’t thought I could manage it. But I should at least try.

Give her peace. Help her realize your love for her, just as you showed me. Help her to know that you are good, even when we don’t understand.

With my head in my hands, I thought of the John I’d known, so sprightly and full of life. I’d only seen him briefly once or twice since the summer we turned eleven together and got in enough trouble to remember for a lifetime. It was difficult to imagine such a boisterous boy grown up, let alone dead and gone already. If Leah had trouble accepting that, it was no wonder. With a sigh, I tried to continue my prayer, but my thoughts seemed muddled now, my mind almost numb. It was suddenly hard to string one word after another, but I did the best I could.

Lord, I know there’s tribulation in this fallen world. I know there’s an enemy who wants to destroy our lives and our faith if he can. I don’t understand why you seem to let him have his way sometimes. But I know you’re not at fault for all the wrong that happens. You’re the one who’s been reaching out with answers since time began. Help Leah understand that somehow. Help her to know your comfort and love.

For some reason the prayer exhausted me, and I felt like climbing right back into bed. But I heard a distant
clank
and knew that Aunt Mari was up already, just like always, working in the kitchen despite the arthritic pain that now accompanied almost every movement she made.
Bless her too,
I added briefly.
Bless her deeply. You know where I’d probably be without Mari. Thank you so much for her.

I pulled on a shirt that had hung from a hook on the wall. Maybe it would be nice to have a day to work at home. Mari’s home. It was still strange how deeply my heart had accepted her love and God’s love along with the shelter here. So of course it wasn’t right that I should resent her opening her home to John’s family in the same way.

But it did lead to questions: What was this place anyway? A boardinghouse? Or a halfway house for the disconsolate? Mari would never turn a profit by giving space to the struggling, as she so often did. But she didn’t care about the money anyway. She’d make do and trust the Lord, content with the ministry he’d given her. She’d probably never stop opening her doors to the needy, even if she succeeded in wooing and winning Saul Abraham to Christ and gaining him for a husband. She’d just add him in to the work at hand, which in many ways she already had.

Through the wall I heard little Eliza stirring, whispering to her mother, and then apparently jumping rather emphatically out of the bed. I wondered that I hadn’t heard even the slightest noise sooner. Usually I heard small sounds first thing in the morning. Leah’s delicate movements, I’d decided, as she started her morning being careful not to disturb anyone else.

Before I knew it, Leah and Eliza were on the stairs together, their quiet footsteps barely out of rhythm with each other. This was the first morning I hadn’t gone down ahead of them. Aunt Mari would be wondering about me by now. I crossed the room for a pair of socks, but my mind was suddenly stuck on Leah.

I’d wondered that first night what sort of a time we’d have with her. She’d seemed snobbish and curt. After that immediate impression, I’d expected a whining, aristocratic sort who only wanted to be waited on while she sniveled over her misfortunes. But instead, she’d proven herself a hard worker. She’d helped Aunt Mari accomplish things that we’d thought might not get done at all, and Mari loved her for it.

We might be in for more than a visit. Mari was liable to invite Leah to stay just as long as she liked, even after she got “on her feet” again. And that would mean Mari’s expectations of me in the situation would not go away. Instead, they’d only increase. And I wasn’t sure I could handle that.

I pulled on the socks and finished buttoning my shirt. Aunt Mari might be putting breakfast on the table by now. I didn’t take the time to lace my work boots but carried them down with me instead. I could lace them in the kitchen and at the same time appear to be at least somewhat sociable.

Suddenly I thought of a job I could do that would leave me entirely to myself. There was a hole under one side of the attic roof just big enough for a squirrel to squeeze through. I’d have to seal it before winter, or regret not doing it, almost certainly. And that meant time at the top of Mr. Abraham’s ladder, two stories above Leah Breckenridge and her troubles. It made me feel better just to have that in mind as I went down.

12
Josiah

“Sleep well?” Aunt Mari asked me as I got to the kitchen and sat down to put my boots on.

I nodded, very aware that little Eliza was watching me while her mother, across the room, was very careful not to.

“Train leave at the regular time today?” Mari continued.

“Far as I know. But I won’t be on it. Mr. Behrens told me I needn’t work today.”

Aunt Mari flipped a pancake and turned and looked in my direction. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

She could read me like a book. I knew she could. So of course she knew I was lying, or at least covering the truth as much as I was able. But she didn’t say anything. And before she could ask me for help with a job that would have me in the middle of things with her and Leah, I spoke up quickly with my own plans for the day.

“Looks like good weather. I’d better take the long ladder and fix that squirrel hole under the attic overhang. We don’t want nestlings running around up there all winter wreaking havoc.”

“Indeed we don’t,” Mari readily agreed. “Thank you for thinking of that. I completely forgot.”

“Will you see squirrels in the squirrel hole?” Eliza suddenly asked.

“Possible, I guess. But not likely. If there’re any about, they’ll probably hear me coming and be long gone.”

“They won’t go far,” Leah added. “They’re still enjoying the apples and pears I couldn’t reach.”

She’d been avoiding words in my presence, so for her to speak so conversationally was startling. Especially since I’d been so abrupt with everyone last night. I’d thought she might be even more cautious now.

She was gathering dishes to set the table. I watched her a moment, content that she was turned just enough not to notice my gaze. What in the world made her tick? Was she an aristocratic snob or not? A cheerful laborer? A saint?

Whatever she might have inside her, she was certainly a closed book to me. Even her words this morning seemed to be designed to offer just a moment’s friendliness, her contribution to a smooth-flowing superficial day, rather than revealing anything consequential about herself or her thoughts. But maybe she was finally trying to break the ice and be congenial. As Mari had once told me, just because I so often hid myself behind an outward face didn’t mean everyone else did the same.

We barely talked at breakfast. Eliza quietly watched me pack away six of Aunt Mari’s pancakes before she ventured a word.

“Jeepers.”

“What is it, dear?” Leah asked.

“Mr. Josiah eats a lot.”

Leah’s face reddened just a little at her daughter’s bold comment, but Aunt Mari spoke before she had the chance.

“Working men need to eat aplenty to keep their strength up.”

“Oh.”

Eliza watched me down my coffee and two more pancakes. Then I thought I’d better quit before she thought me a glutton. I rose from the table and set my chair back in its place. “Think I’ll go drag out the ladder and get started.”

“Josiah,” Aunt Mari said in a soothing sort of voice. “You haven’t read this morning. Would you mind doing that while we’re all here handy?”

Eliza was looking at me with such expectation and once again Leah wasn’t looking at me at all. I should have agreed. There was no real reason not to. But for some reason, I couldn’t manage it this morning. Not yet.

“I’ll be here all day. Can I read to you later? I feel like I need to push myself right into the job first thing.”

“All right,” Mari told me. “But mind you, I won’t forget, even if you do.”

“Okay.”

I walked off, glad to leave them in the kitchen and get myself up under the eaves where they were sure not to follow. I couldn’t cope today with that little girl’s bright eyes and quiet curiosity. Nor her mother’s cool civility. So I dragged Mr. Abraham’s tallest ladder from our shed and set it up against the east side of the house. Maybe I would encounter squirrels, despite what I’d told little Eliza. I could see what looked like shredded leaves and weed stalks poking out from under the eaves. Something had been preparing a nest.

I was halfway up the ladder with a stick in my hand when a voice suddenly called behind me.

“Is that really a squirrel hole?”

Eliza. Down at the base of the ladder.

“Sure looks that way.”

“How does a squirrel get to it?”

I took a deep breath. “You’ve seen squirrels hop from one tree to the next, haven’t you?”

“Yep. That looks scary.”

“Not for squirrels. God made them that way. They hop from tree to tree, and from a branch to the roof of the house. Then they just have to walk over and chew a spot till they get a hole big enough to crawl through.”

“Is there a squirrel in the hole right now?”

“Hope not. I wouldn’t enjoy having to pull him out.”

Maybe with her questions answered, she’d run back in and join her mother and Mari at whatever they were doing. But the questions weren’t finished.

“Why can’t the squirrel stay in our house if he made himself a spot? Will it hurt the house?”

I stuck the stick into the hole and started raking out the debris. Fortunately there was no sign of an occupant. “If we let squirrels do as they please, they’d make an awful mess and damage more of the wood chewing more holes. Rain can come in the holes and do a lot of water damage to the walls inside.”

“Oh.”

Why did this girl linger? Me cleaning out a hole could not possibly be fascinating viewing. And I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. I wasn’t the grouch I’d been last night, but I wasn’t ready to be completely civil yet either.

“If they can hurt people’s houses,” Eliza asked on, “why did God make them able to get inside like that?”

I let go of the ladder for a moment and scratched my head. “Does your mother know you’re out here?”

“Yes. She said I could follow you if I don’t get in the way. So did Aunt Marigold. And Aunt Marigold even said I might learn something.”

That figured. Leave it to Mari to be an instigator and make me uncomfortable. All for a good cause, of course.