What Once Was Lost (4 page)

Miss Willems looked after Mrs. Beasley, released a heavy sigh, then hung her head.

Cora folded her arms over her chest and huffed. “That Miz Beasley … She might’ve given us a room to share, but she didn’t do it out of kindness. She just wanted somebody to take over all her work.”

Miss Willems sent a mildly disapproving look in Cora’s direction. “Now, now, we mustn’t complain. We did agree to kitchen duties in exchange for the room. We should be grateful her former housekeeper chose to leave last week, providing us with a room and means to pay for it.”

How could Miss Willems stay polite when Mrs. Beasley was so fractious? Cora had never met anyone as even-tempered as Miss Willems. Cora sniffed. After only a few hours in the Beasley Boardinghouse, she suspected she knew why the former housekeeper had left. That Mrs. Beasley was persnickety and bossy. But if Miss Willems wouldn’t complain, neither would she. Cora eased up beside the other woman and touched her arm. “If you need to go an’ see to
the others, I can clean up in here on my own.” It was the least she could do, considering all Miss Willems had done for her, treating her kindly and taking her in after Ma told her to git.

Even though dark circles rimmed her eyes, Miss Willems still offered Cora a warm smile of thanks. Cora couldn’t help wondering why a pretty lady like Christina Willems wanted to spend her days caring for a bunch of misfits.

Miss Willems’s gaze drifted over the pile of dishes, mugs, pots, and silverware. “I can’t leave all this to you. You need to rest. You’re pale and unsteady on your feet after your bout of sickness this morning.”

Cora looked away, shame igniting within her. Miss Willems had heard her retching into the bushes?

Miss Willems slipped her arm through Cora’s and led her back to the dry sink. “With two of us working together, we’ll finish these in no time, and then you can lie down until we need to start lunch. Our short night and all the excitement must have worn you out. So you wash and I’ll dry, hmm?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cora busied herself ladling water from the stove’s reservoir into the wash pan. Apparently Miss Willems didn’t understand the reason for Cora’s sickness. Relief made her knees weak. She had to keep this secret as long as she could, because when she was found out, she’d be set loose again. And then what would she do?

Steam rose from the dishwater, carrying the scent of lye soap. Nausea rolled through Cora’s middle, but she braced herself against it. She wouldn’t get sick again. She wouldn’t! She couldn’t let anybody guess the truth.

Tommy awakened to the sound of metal clanking against a tin plate and the smell of ham and beans. They’d eaten lots of beans at the poor farm. Beans with ham. Beans with pork fat. Beans without ham or pork fat. He liked them best with ham. For a minute the smell made him think he was home, but the stiff fabric beneath his cheek and the unfamiliar woven blanket covering his body reminded him he wasn’t.

Opening his eyes—although why he bothered, he couldn’t explain, since the darkness was the same whether his eyes were open or closed—he pushed the blanket aside and sat up.

A deep voice came from somewhere behind him. “You awake, boy?”

Tommy hugged himself. He wished Mr. Jonnson wouldn’t call him “boy.” Before his accident Pa called him “Son.” After his accident Pa called him “boy” in a voice that always sounded angry.
“Get outta my way, boy.” “What’d you do now, boy?” “You’re so blamed clumsy, boy!”
Tommy didn’t want to think about Pa, and he didn’t want to be called “boy.” So he sat with his lips clamped tight and didn’t answer.

“Need the outhouse?”

Tommy wished he could say no. He didn’t want anything from this man who took care of him only because he had to. But need overcame stubbornness. He nodded.

Feet clomped on the floor, growing louder as the man neared, then a hand grabbed his arm. Mr. Jonnson’s fingers held tight as he guided Tommy through the house and out the door. After the warmth of the blanket, the cold air seemed even colder than it had last night. Tommy shivered, the chill from the ground making the bottoms of his feet sting.

“Should’ve had you put on some of my old boots,” Mr. Jonnson said. “They’d be way too big but still better than nothing.”

Although the man’s voice was gruff, Tommy appreciated him thinking of boots. He might trip in too-big boots, but as Mr. Jonnson had said, it’d be better than nothing. The hinges on the outhouse door creaked, and Mr. Jonnson gave Tommy a little push.

“There you go. I’ll wait right outside.” The hinges creaked again.

Tommy felt his way to the single hole and took care of business. Then he called, “I’m done.” Hinges creaked, firm fingers clasped his arm, and once again he plodded over cold, rough ground, guided by a man he knew only by the sound of his voice and the hard calluses of his work-roughened hands.

Blessed warmth surrounded him when they entered the house, and Tommy
couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief to be out of the cold. He hoped Miss Willems could afford to buy him a coat. The walk to Mr. Jonnson’s outhouse was seventeen paces farther than the one at the poor farm.

“Sit down here.” Mr. Jonnson pressed Tommy into a chair. Wooden. Spindle-backed. Tommy inched his hands forward, and his fingertips encountered a tabletop. A cool, smooth plate sat directly in front of him. He fingered the plate’s rim, searching for warm spots that would indicate whether it had been filled yet. A hand grabbed his wrist.

“Stop that. You can’t eat with your fingers. Those beans are hot. You’ll burn yourself.” Tommy knew what he’d been doing, and he considered saying so, but what good would it do? Nobody thought a blind boy had any sense. Mr. Jonnson pushed a slim utensil into Tommy’s hand. “Use this.”

He ran his thumb up the length of the utensil and found a smooth bowl instead of tines. A spoon. Good. He had mastered a spoon. He leaned forward, sniffing. Yes, the plate held beans. Gripping the spoon in his fist, he dipped, scraping the plate until he connected with something soft. He scooped and lifted the bite.

Hot! With a startled gasp he spat out the beans and fumbled in search of something to drink to cool his tongue. The backs of his fingers collided with a mug, and he heard a clatter, followed by Mr. Jonnson’s sharp intake of breath. Chair legs screeched across the floor. Boots thundered. Tommy sat, listening, knowing what had happened, and waited for the scolding to begin.
“Clumsy! You’re so clumsy, boy! Can’t you do nothin’ right?”
The angry words rang through his mind.

He let his burning tongue hang from his mouth while he hunkered against the back of his chair, his fists tight against his chest, ready for the blows to fall from the darkness. He yelped when fingers grasped his wrist, but then something cool and smooth was pressed against his hand. A glass. He groped for it. Liquid sloshed over its rim and splashed across his fingers. He gripped the glass with both hands and raised it to his lips, slurping eagerly.

Tommy drank every drop of the water, then lowered the glass, panting. He bobbed his head in every direction, his ears tuned for a scrape or a bump that would tell him where Mr. Jonnson now stood. Finally the sound of Mr. Jonnson clearing his throat came from nearby. Hands plucked the glass from his grip, and a soft
thunk
let him know it had been placed on the table. Chair legs scratched the floor, muffled
whisks
indicated trousers meeting the seat of a chair, and then a wry voice spoke from across the table.

“Before you put the next bite in your mouth, blow on it. Like I said before, those beans are hot.”

Tommy stared straight ahead, his heart bumpity-bumping in amazement. Mr. Jonnson hadn’t hollered at him. Hadn’t whopped him. And he hadn’t called him “boy” this time.

Midafternoon, Christina guided the horses up Mr. Jonnson’s lane. A trail of gray smoke rose from the rock chimney, flavoring the air. It was such a relief to know Tommy was safe and warm. And the clothes in the bag behind the seat would add to his comfort. The new mercantile owner, Jay Creeger, had carted in a good supply of ready-made clothing in all sizes when he and his wife, Mary Ann, had moved to Brambleville from the Outer Banks of North Carolina. After Christina told the friendly pair about the fire, Mrs. Creeger insisted on extending Christina credit. Thanks to the Creegers’ benevolence, all her charges now owned two pairs of underclothes, stockings, one complete outfit, shoes, and a coat. She hoped the mission board sent funds quickly so she could repay the mercantile owners without delay.

She drew the team to a halt, set the brake, and grabbed the bag containing Tommy’s clothes. Holding the collar of her new wool coat closed beneath her chin, she stepped onto the porch.

Mr. Jonnson opened the door even before she knocked and gestured her in. “Tommy heard the horses. I figured it was you.”

Christina crossed directly to Tommy, who was perched on the sofa in the same spot she’d left him hours ago. He looked so small and alone. Sympathy twined through her middle. She smoothed his hair with her fingers as she sank down beside him. “Hello, Tommy.” She placed the bag of clothes in his lap. “I have a treat for you—new clothes! I’ve been delivering clothing to the other poor farm residents, and all of them asked me to tell you hello when I saw you.”

Tommy’s somber expression didn’t change. As hard as she’d tried, she’d never managed to coax a smile from the boy. It seemed the accident had stolen more than his sight. She’d never met such a joyless child, and the desire to put him at ease and to assure him that he was loved filled her with such intensity she struggled to breathe.

Pulling the sullen boy into a snug embrace, she whispered, “We’ll be together again soon.” How she prayed her words proved true. She and Wes had ridden out to the poor farm that morning so he could care for the chickens, goats, pigs, and cow. In the full sun of morning, the charred shell that had once been their kitchen seemed even sadder than it had in moonlight. She leaned back and spoke brightly. “For now, let’s get you changed, and I’ll take the pants and shirt you’re wearing back to Francis.”

Tommy didn’t protest, so Christina reached for the buttons on his shirt. From his spot by the door, Mr. Jonnson emitted a grunt. He charged to the sofa and snatched the bag from Christina’s lap. She reared back, startled by his behavior and his furrowed brow.

“Come here, Tommy.” The man took hold of Tommy’s arm and tugged him upright. With the bag swinging from his fist, he propelled Tommy across the floor and past an elaborately carved fireplace mantel and a drop-leaf wood table with two spindled chairs before stopping in front of a raised panel door with a carved medallion gracing its center. He released the boy long enough to open the door, then gave Tommy a little push into the room. Dropping the bag on the floor, he said, “Get yourself changed and then come out. Miss Willems and I will be waiting.”

Christina leaped up and darted for the room. But Mr. Jonnson closed the
door and stepped into her pathway. Arms folded over his chest and feet widespread, he shook his head. “Let him be.”

She reached for the brass doorknob, her heart banging against her ribs. “But he can’t see. How can you expect—”

“He has fingers, doesn’t he? And he’s smart enough to figure out how to push a button through a buttonhole. He’s what—nine, ten years old?”

“Eleven,” Christina said. “But—”

“Then he’s old enough to dress himself. So let him do it.” He stood guard in front of the door, his eyes daring her to try to get past him.

She balled her hands on her hips. “Mr. Jonnson, I will not allow you to mistreat Tommy. He’s—”

The man took a wide step forward and caught her arm. He aimed her toward the sofa, and she had no choice but to scuttle along beside him, her face flaming at his high-handed treatment. When he gestured to the sofa, she sat, but she glowered at him.

Mr. Jonnson perched on an oak rocking chair across from her and rested his elbows on his knees. As he brought his face near hers, the crackling flames in the fireplace brightened his features and brought out the strands of honey in his thick blond hair. The stubbornness she’d glimpsed when he’d yanked Tommy away from her disappeared, and she found herself mesmerized by the fervency in his gaze.