The House on Malcolm Street (16 page)

“So how come God made squirrels like that?” she persisted.

I was some kind of expert now? Unbelievable. But I couldn’t just refuse to answer. “God made them to have homes in trees. That’s what they’re supposed to do. But sometimes they get out of order, like some other critters, and invade our space. They aren’t supposed to. They just do, and we try to drive them out.”

“If God don’t like it, then why do they do it?”

I glanced down at her. This was more than a little odd, to be having a discussion bordering on the theological with someone so small. “I can’t say that critters know God didn’t make them to get in people’s houses,” I answered with a sigh. “They’re just looking for the easiest possible way to get shelter and food. That’s really all they want. Easy survival.”

“Isn’t it easy for squirrels to make homes in trees?” she persisted.

“I don’t know why it wouldn’t be,” I told her offhandedly, at the same time yanking down a big chunk of nesting material. “It looks like all they have to do is cram a bunch of leaves into a fork or knothole in the branches.”

“So why do they like people’s houses?”

“Maybe storm protection.”

“Did you ever
make
a squirrel house?” she asked on. “Like people make birdhouses?”

“No. Never even thought of such a thing.”

“Maybe they’d like it. Maybe they’d not make holes in people’s houses anymore.”

“This is the most I’ve heard you talk since you’ve been here,” I told her.

She smiled. “It’s the most I’ve heard you talk too.”

“Yeah.”

She watched me in silence but only for a moment or two. I had the hole cleaned out as well as I could, still with no sign of an inhabitant. Now I’d have to fetch a board and nails to cover it over.

She looked around the yard as I was climbing down. “Is all that stuff you pulled out a squirrel’s bed?”

“Probably.”

“Will the squirrel get mad?”

“Won’t be able to do much about it if he does. I’m going to board up the hole.”

I moved past her and she followed me to the shed.

“Is there more squirrel holes in this house?”

“I guess I should check. This is the only one I’ve noticed.” I selected a piece of scrap board from a heap in the shed’s corner. It was a little long, but it would do. I grabbed the hammer from its hook and handed her the can of nails from a shelf. “Fish out four about an inch and a half long.” I figured that if I had to put up with her sticking around, I might as well give her a job to do.

She shook the nail can and then felt around in it for a while. I wondered if I should have asked her. She was pretty little, and a girl besides. “Do you know how long I mean?”

“Yep. Mommy showed me once how big a inch is.”

“How old are you?” If Aunt Mari had told me once, I couldn’t remember now.

“Six,” she said, barely looking up.

“Isn’t that old enough for school before long?”

“Yep. Mommy says I have to go on Monday.”

Monday? I hadn’t expected that answer, though there was no reason for it to be a surprise. Of course she’d have to be enrolled in school. It was just that for her to be enrolled
here
gave Leah incentive to stay. And I’d never felt as positive about that as Aunt Mari had.

I’d been under the impression that Leah had nowhere else to go, and if that were true then I couldn’t fault her being here. But then I remembered the letters I’d delivered for her last night. Obviously, she had loved ones elsewhere. People important enough to her that she’d felt the need to write when she’d been here less than a week. Other than Rosemary and perhaps Marigold, I’d never had such a relationship, and it made me a little hot inside. She wasn’t truly destitute. So why was she here?

“I wish I didn’t have to go to school so soon.” Eliza kept right on talking. “I’d rather be here and bake some more with Aunt Marigold. We’ve made pie and cimmanum tarts and all kinds of stuff.”

“I know,” I muttered.

“Did you like them all?”

“Yes. I guess I did.”

She smiled, a happy, generous smile showing one missing front tooth. “I found a good nail for you. Maybe two. I’ll find some more.”

“That’s a good start.” I walked back in the direction of the ladder and she followed me again, bringing the nail can with her.

When I’d first moved to Marigold’s boardinghouse, the son of her sister Petunia had stopped to tell me that if I’d come to get anything from his aunt except a room at a fair price, then I’d have to answer to the whole family. Now I wondered if Petunia and the others knew that Leah was here. Would they distrust her too? Maybe not, because she was John’s widow. But what kind of person was she? Would it matter to her what Marigold had said back then, that there was no use anyone squabbling over her material things because it was all promised to her church when she was gone?

Leah didn’t seem like someone who would strive to get into someone’s good graces for the hope of material gain, but she had endeared herself rather quickly. Made herself indispensable, more like. What was I to think? She didn’t carry herself like the frail, distraught, helpless creature that Aunt Mari had initially described. On the contrary, she seemed quite capable. So much that I wasn’t sure why she’d needed to come.

Now here was her daughter, with bright eyes and childish innocence, searching through the nail can again. What was I to do?

“Here you go,” she said cheerily, handing me three nails to get started with. “I’m trying to find another one the same size.”

“Let me.” I set down the board and hammer and dumped the little can into my open hand. In moments I found what I was looking for, fished it out, and then plunked all the rest back in the can again.

“Jeepers,” Eliza exclaimed. “You have really big hands.”

“Compared to yours, I guess.” How could I get her to leave me alone? “Thanks,” I muttered to her. “You’ve been good help. But maybe your mother has something for you to do in the kitchen now.”

“She said it was fine for me to be outside on a nice day. She’s coming outside in a while too, to work in the garden.”

What could Leah hope to accomplish in that sadly neglected corner of the yard? “You ought to go help her,” I said, hoping to sound dismissive. “You could learn something there too, and it’s your mother you ought to be learning from, not some odd fella up a ladder.”

“But I
like
watching you. I never seen nobody fix a squirrel hole before.”

Somehow I couldn’t argue with her and ended up mumbling under my breath. “Exciting, I guess. In a town this small.”

I went back up the ladder with the nails in my mouth and the board and hammer in hand. “Can I come up and hold stuff for you?” she suddenly asked.

I grabbed the nails. “Absolutely not! Wouldn’t want your mother to come outside and find you two stories off the ground.”

“I could go ask if it’s okay.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Forget it. She might get the idea that the notion came from my head.”

I pounded in the first nail.

“Aunt Marigold says you’ll be friendlier when you’ve knowed us longer.”

“Really?” I looked down at the girl. “She told you that? I guess she thinks I’m being unfriendly.”

“I don’t think you’re unfriendly,” she assured me. “Just busy on the inside same as on the outside.”

“Where’d you hear that sort of thing?”

“From my daddy, I think. He said when grown-ups get that way, they don’t have time for the things kids want to do. Then they need prayers, for God to hush them up and give them rest.”

I smiled. “Your father was a wise man.”

“I know. He’s a angel now, helping my baby brother grow up in heaven.”

Her words expressed an absolute certainty, without a shred of doubt tainting her assertion. Faith like a child indeed. This girl could probably picture the two of them together, doing all the normal father and son things, just like earthly life, only so very much better.

I also believed that my family was in heaven. I could imagine Rosemary with her beloved grandmother, both of them joyful and satisfied. But I still wondered whether our unborn child, such a tiny person, could ever really have the sense of purpose, the feeling of fulfillment, of someone who had lived to grow up and experience life.

I pounded in the second nail, remembering some of the verses of the psalm I’d read earlier in the week:

“Thou hast covered me from my mother’s womb . . . Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when yet there was none of them. How precious are thy thoughts unto me, O God.”

The words had not sunk into me as I’d read them that morning. Were they really saying that God had each of us in his mind and heart before we were born? My eyes misted wondering the sort of precious thoughts God had held for my dear little unborn son or daughter.

I dropped a nail and nearly lost the other one sputtering a frustrated complaint at myself. Incredibly quickly, Eliza found the nail in the grass for me and called with real excitement. “Can I bring it up to you?”

“No! Stay there!” I nailed the third corner and then started down the ladder to retrieve the last nail. Eliza was looking at me far too seriously, and I was glad she didn’t ask for my thoughts the way Marigold sometimes did.

Just in time, I heard the back door. That would surely be Leah coming out. Good. It gave me the perfect excuse to send this child away. “Go see if your mother needs help,” I commanded. “Hurry, so she doesn’t have to come looking for you.”

She still didn’t want to go. I could see that plainly. But she obeyed. Glad to be alone, I returned to the top of the ladder, very quickly absorbed again.

You’re a fool to get emotional in front of a six-year-old
, I thought to myself.
She’s liable to tell her mother, who’ll think I’m an imbecile.

But then I scolded myself further for caring a hoot what Leah Breckenridge thought anyway. She’d been maddening since her first night here, when she’d refused to give me even the courtesy of an introduction. I’d only been trying to help, and she’d treated me as though I were a supreme nuisance.

I pounded the last nail and gave the board a tug, satisfied that it wouldn’t budge for the most hardheaded squirrel. But then I noticed that a trim board along an upper-story window had pulled loose an inch or two. Might as well fix that while I was out here. I only had to move the ladder a foot or so to the left, and it didn’t take long to have the piece hammered back into place. But then I wondered if rain might be able to seep around those window cracks where it had come loose. Maybe I ought to have some sort of sealing putty to smear around it just in case.

I didn’t want to ask Aunt Marigold what she thought because she would tell me to do whatever I thought best. That was her usual response to most of the repair efforts around here, and maybe that was the best she could do. Mr. Abraham, on the other hand, was very knowledgeable about all sorts of home repair. He’d know the kind of putty I needed and where to get it. So I left the ladder and walked over to his yard, hoping he’d already be outside.

He wasn’t, and I realized that I’d completely forgotten Marigold sending me over to his house with a pie last night. His father was visiting, an incredibly old man. Hopefully, it would not be a terrible time to disturb them. Hesitantly, I knocked at the back door.

“Ah, Josiah,” Mr. Abraham greeted me quickly. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

I apologized for disturbing him, explained the problem with the window, and asked for his advice. “Does Schuller’s Hardware have what I need? I wasn’t completely sure what to ask for.”

“They’d have it, but no need going across town,” he said. “I’ve told you before. My tools are yours, any time you need them. I’ve got what you need for decent window putty right here. The box of whiting powder is in the drawer of my worktable. Mix some of that with a squirt of linseed oil from the can on the top shelf to the left. All you need is a stiff paste. But not too stiff, so it doesn’t dry before you’re finished working with it.”

“But you don’t have to supply – ”

“I’ve got the stuff. Why not?”

“Can I pay for your ingredients then?”

“Oh no.” He smiled. “Ask your aunt to make me another pie someday. What a blessing. That’s all I want right now.”

He was the blessing. Most definitely. Mr. Abraham had been the best neighbor a person could ever ask for. It made me glad to know that even when I was away at work, he was here if Aunt Marigold needed anything. She had a big old farm bell she could ring in case of emergency. I’d made her test it and we could easily hear it at Mr. Abraham’s house even with the doors and windows closed. But even without the bell, I knew he would check on her.

Sometimes I wondered why he was so kind. But when it came right down to it, there was really no mystery at all. Saul Abraham loved Marigold McSweeney, it was as simple as that, and was always willing to help when it came to Mari or her property. I wasn’t sure how long he’d loved her, but it was plain that he did. I could tell it in the way he looked at her and spoke of her.

I wasn’t sure if either of them had done much thinking about their feelings for each other. And I’d wondered if they’d ever be open enough about their feelings to marry each other. It would make the newspaper in this town if it ever happened. And it’d be time for me to move on.

I went to Mr. Abraham’s shed, found the whiting powder and linseed oil, and mixed them like he told me in an old tin can. Then I walked back to the ladder in Mari’s yard, still considering the notion of her marrying again, so long after losing her husband who’d brought her here. I’d never seen a gray-haired bride, but it was a dandy thought in some ways. I liked the sparkle in her eye when she spoke of her neighbor. I liked the idea that love could be found in the later years, and that, whether they ever married or not, friendship meant the widowed didn’t have to grow old alone.

Leah and Eliza were in the garden. I couldn’t tell what they were doing and told myself that I didn’t care. With the can of putty and the mixing stick, I was back up the ladder in a jiffy, smearing the whitish gunk into the biggest cracks around the window.