The weaving of life, p.24
The Weaving of Life, page 24
She dumped the oats and corn mixture into the feed boxes, fed blocks of hay, and filled the watering trough before opening gates to allow them to drink, stroking and petting the skittish little colt, smoothing manes, and running a hand along the warm, silky spot beneath it. She talked to them, before putting them back in their space, then went to check the water supply for the cattle.
Cold, her knee throbbing, half sick to her stomach, she made her way back to the house, collapsed into a kitchen chair, and ran a hand across her forehead. Sunday, and she was expected to do chores two more times before going to school in the morning.
She made scrambled eggs, added salt and pepper, ate half before heading for the couch and falling asleep immediately. She awoke to find the gauze pad stuck to her painful knee and that she had a headache and a powerful irritation at Roy and Edna, Isaac, and Wyoming in general.
Why couldn’t he have had the common sense to leave fresh gauze and adhesive tape? What was he thinking?
By late afternoon, she realized the gauze would have to come off, and she’d have to use more of the tea towels. She found duct tape in a small drawer with thumb tacks, screwdrivers, and flyhangers, so she set to work applying hot compresses to loosen the gauze. She was shocked to see the gaping wound. She applied the tea towel, slapped duct tape to hold it, and went out to do chores.
She watched the driveway, wondering how he could leave her without checking up on her. Surely he wondered how she was doing, alone with these chores and an obvious wound. But then, he had his children today, and likely never even thought of her, which was fine with her.
She called home, swallowing the lump in her throat to hear her father’s voice, then spoke to Mark and Beth, then her mother and Elmer.
All the hometown news made her long to be there, to be a part of the humming beehive of activity that was Lancaster County. Weddings were coming, benefit auctions, get-togethers for the holidays were being planned.
“Susan, Levi misses you terribly. Mark says he’s not himself at all.”
Susan smiled to herself, a smile of victory, of accomplishment. So she had done exactly the right thing, hadn’t she? He was so in love with her, he found it hard to go on without her, which was a good thing.
Before they began a serious relationship, they would have a foundation built of faith in one another, faith in God and His leading.
He had led her to this place to find her heart, and she had found it.
“I miss him too, Beth.”
“Oh, good. You’re serious, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
Susan smiled as she held the receiver away from her ear, the squeal of excitement too shrill to be comfortable.
“Oh, Susan! I can’t wait for you to come home. We’ll spend every weekend together, we four. And after we’re married, we’ll still do that, make ourselves at home at each other’s places. In fact, Susan, we’ll grow old together, won’t we?”
“We will.”
Life seemed suddenly safe and predictable, completely laid out in an understandable sequence. The pattern had been cut by her parents and their parents before them, to get married, raise a family, make a living, live among acquaintances you had known since birth, a way of life holding the promise of a secure future.
DOING CHORES, GETTING dressed, pinning her cape and apron—all of it seemed impossibly hard, her knee red and painful. She set her mouth in a determined line, was ready by the time the driver pulled in, and set about starting her day of teaching.
It was bitterly cold for October, the air holding a puzzling quality. There was the scent of mountains and pines, but something else too, making the hair on her arms tickle. The woodstove at the schoolhouse was cranky, smoking and spewing ashes, which made her long for the turn of a knob on a propane gas stove.
The children were all sympathetic, examining the tea towel and duct tape with serious faces. Titus and Sharon were late again, their coats unbuttoned, faces red from the cold. Sharon’s hair was straggly, uncombed, and Titus’s shirt was wearing the unmistakable dribbles of cereal and milk. Sharon cried, putting her head in her hands and sobbing, unable to accomplish the addition in her workbook.
Susan comforted her, sitting with her at the table adjoining the desk, but it seemed as if the lesson was overwhelming.
Titus raised his hand.
“I’ll help her.”
Susan frowned. “You have your own work, Titus.”
“I’m done.”
Susan knew he wasn’t, so she walked over and peered over his shoulder. As she suspected, his arithmetic had barely begun, so she told him firmly he needed to stay busy and finish his own work.
She was shocked when Titus brought a small fist down on his desktop, scattering papers, pens, and pencils, his face a mask of fury.
Without thinking, she brought a hand down to grip his shoulder, which only increased the frenzy. He slid out of his desk and whipped both arms in a furious assault, hitting Susan’s legs, her stomach and hip, screaming and crying incoherently. Little Sharon increased her own sobs, with the remaining children sitting in a confused silence.
“Titus, no. Don’t.”
It was all Susan could think to say, reaching out to subdue the child. One good hard whack to her injured knee, and Susan sank to a desk, half sitting, half standing as she reeled with pain.
Mercifully, Darryl Miller’s Harry, the oldest boy in class, subdued Titus by taking him in a stronghold, as he kicked and cried out with rage and childish sobs.
Order was restored slowly. Titus went to his desk, red-faced and disheveled.
Something was way out of line in that house, and she was going to find out what it was. Maybe it was Bertha, but she did not rule out Isaac being an abusive father, taking out his frustration at losing his wife. Unable to accept his loss.
She kept them both in for recess, in spite of fearing another tantrum. Sharon dissolved into another fit of weeping, and Titus glared like a cornered rat.
She faced them both, sitting on a desktop. The wind rattled the roof edging; sounds of children on the playground filled the empty stillness. The sun shone through the east windows, casting rectangles of light on the pine floor.
“Titus, can you tell me what went wrong this morning?” she began, feeling her way as if on thin ice.
A belligerent look, the slight lift of one shoulder.
“Sharon?”
Fresh sobs.
“Sharon, look. We can’t have you crying like this every day. Why do you cry?”
“She doesn’t know how to add numbers,” Titus said, in a flat monotone.
Susan looked at Sharon, who had her face in her hands, shuddering with more sobs. Impatience pounded at her temples.
“Sharon, you can always raise your hand and I’ll help you, okay?”
Sharon uncovered her face, her pretty lips in a full pout, and shook her head from side to side.
“She doesn’t want to do that,” Titus offered.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Here in school, those are the rules. If you need help with a problem, you need to raise your hand.”
Again, the pout and wild head shaking from side to side.
“She doesn’t want to.”
“Well, I guess that means she’ll not be able to finish first grade. Sharon, if you want to continue coming to school, you’ll have to learn to obey the rules. If you don’t want to do that, you’ll have to stay at home.”
Indignant, red-faced, Titus blurted out, “But our mother died.”
“Which is a very unfortunate thing. But we still have to go on. Sharon, I’m sorry for you that your mother is gone, I really am. But the fact that you had to go through this loss doesn’t mean you don’t have to do arithmetic. I’m sure if your mother was here, she would want to you to be good in school.”
“Not my Dat. He doesn’t care. He don’t like teachers. He says they’re about as irritating as coyotes,” Titus said, a touch of pride and a lot of audacity in his voice.
Susan swallowed her outrage. “He said that?”
“Yeah. Last year.” Proud of his father.
“Alright. Well, I’ll have a talk with him. Now, Titus. I want you to know I am truly sorry for the loss of your mother. But if you ever display another tantrum like this morning, I’ll have to call in the school board and they’ll have to deal with you.”
“Huh. Dat’s on the school board.”
Susan chose to ignore the statement and turned to Sharon and began to explain addition, bringing out a jar of colorful plastic clothespins for her to sort in numbers, leaving Titus staring at her with a puzzled expression.
Classes resumed without incident, with Susan being more convinced these two motherless children did indeed need love, but a love that set boundaries, a love that could no longer take the death of their mother as an excuse to be allowed special privilege in school. And a very, very absent father, a selfish, self-absorbed giant of a man who handed his children over to a lazy, incompetent caregiver who had no heart for these children at all.
The whole situation would have to be addressed again. Seemingly, her first visit had accomplished nothing. She felt the resolve building, felt the clenching of her fists, and the determination to fight this man until he saw the light.
CHAPTER 20
INFECTION SET INTO HER KNEE, FORCING SUSAN TO CALL ON TWO OF the children’s parents, Trisha and Millie’s Abe and Louise, who welcomed her gladly. They exclaimed over the horribly swollen and heated knee, called a driver, and accompanied her to the Urgent Care in Wayne.
She was reduced to tears of gratitude, accepted the kindness, swallowed antibiotics, and applied professional bandages and an expensive salve that healed the wound like a miracle.
Roy and Edna returned, weary from days of van traveling, glad to be home to resume their life. Or Roy was. Edna remained in a deep-seated funk, kept to herself, and said very little to anyone.
So Susan kept the trouble at school to herself, sent a note home with Titus that was never delivered, and finally hired a driver in a fit of frustration and went to his house at seven o’clock on a Wednesday evening.
Titus came to the door.
“Hi.”
No answer, only a sullen stare.
“How are you, Titus?”
A shrug, another baleful glance.
“Is your father here?”
A slight shake of his head from side to side.
“Where is he?”
Another shrug.
“Is Sharon here?”
Real fear made her voice rise, her breathing accelerate.
“Yeah.”
“Bertha?”
“No. She goes home at six.”
Speechless, Susan tried to peer inside, but the door was opened only wide enough for Titus to appear.
“Have you been by yourself for long?”
Another shrug.
“Look. I’m coming in. Is that okay with you?”
He stepped aside, an unspoken welcome.
She was confronted with the jumble of misplaced items, the dirty floors and smeared windows, but this time the floor and countertops were even worse.
A sour smell came from the vicinity of the trashcan, and the ripe smell of an unwashed dog hovered over the entire house. None of this was as troubling as the fact that these two small children were completely alone.
Nervous energy compelled her to empty the sink, clattering dishes, scraping pans and caked-on bowls. She fired questions, received sullen answers. She asked Sharon to pick up toys, received a resounding no, a vehement shake of the small blond head.
A dual-wheeled pickup truck roared up to the house, diesel fumes spouting from two smokestacks. It ground to a halt, a door was flung open, and Isaac sprang out. He reached on the back to extract a monstrous chain saw, two five-gallon buckets, and a hard hat.
A hand went up, and the truck roared off.
Titus ran to the door, the expression on his face changing immediately. Isaac put the tools of his trade on the stone patio, came through the side door, and stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly, he hung up his outer jacket, or what remained of it, then turned, letting his shoulders slump.
He said one word. “Caught.”
“That’s right,” she said sharply.
“I’m sorry.”
Susan drew herself up to her full height, crossed her arms at the waist, and gave him the full benefit of her green eyes as he sank into a kitchen chair. He saw her thick auburn hair, the white heart shape of her covering, the tiny freckles on her nose that were obvious as her face paled with anger.
“You can’t go on this way.”
For a long moment, their eyes held and locked, hers with righteous determination, his with defense. In the corner, Wolf thumped his tail on the floor, spreading dust and the odor of dog through the kitchen.
“And who are you to tell me how to live my life?” he asked, his voice thick with bitterness.
“You’ll wish you listened to me after one of your children is kidnapped or has a fatal accident.”
“I told you before. Wolf will never let anyone in the house.”
“I’m going to alert the authorities if you don’t change things immediately. You are in danger of having your children taken from you. How would you feel if they were placed in foster homes?”
He snorted, got angrily to his feet.
“They wouldn’t be. Look, if you’d be so kind, I’m starved. Did Bertha make something, Titus?”
“We had chicken noodle soup.”
He nodded at a Campbell’s soup can, the lid still attached by a thin wisp.
“Was it good?” Isaac asked, making a fatherly attempt.
“It was okay. I ate Honey Nut Cheerios.”
“Me, too!” Sharon shouted from the living room.
“What’s here?” he asked Susan.
“How would I know?”
“Alrighty. I’ll get something. I have to wash up. We laid the skidder on its side,” he chuckled, as if it was quite the accomplishment. “I’m covered in diesel fuel.”
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He was a walking fuel-covered disaster, smelling to high heaven. His blond hair was matted and streaked with it, the front of his shirt and trousers slick with the detestable stuff.
He disappeared into the bedroom, or what she guessed was in that vicinity. She returned to her dishwashing until she heard the steady sound of the shower, then opened the refrigerator door, unnerved to find an alarming collection of rotten vegetables lying in thick gray slime, packages of cheese left to dry out, a large amount of Pepsi and Mountain Dew, a gallon of milk past its expiration date, bowls of food covered in gray fungus. But there were eggs, and a bit of questionable ham, cheese, and one green pepper with a half of it still firm.
She made an omelet, put bread in the broiler of the gas stove for toast. She noticed the colorful dishes, the heaviness of the utensils. His wife must have had expensive taste in her choice of dishes and cutlery.
When the door to the bathroom opened, she set the skillet on the table, added the plate of toast and jelly, then moved away to join Sharon in the living room. She was engrossed in a book, pointing a finger, mumbling to herself, so Susan sat stiffly, wishing she could walk out the door and never come back, simply wash her hands of this whole needy mess and go back home to her normal life.
He looked at her. “You made this?”
“Who else?” she answered, with what she hoped was enough disapproval.
He didn’t answer, but bent his head and prayed. She blinked, surprised.
He lifted his head, upended the whole skillet over his plate, and wolfed it all down in two minutes, with Titus hanging over the side of the table for a slice of toast. He pushed back his chair, went to the pantry for a covered cake pan, and proceeded to cut a chunk of cake and inhale that before drinking a glass of milk, making a face, and lifting the plastic jug to squint at the date.
“I don’t know why she can’t keep fresh milk here.”
It was the perfect opening, so Susan walked over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
He sighed, tilted his chair back, ran a hand through his thick wet hair. He was clean, for the first time she’d ever seen him, and there was a difference. His blond beard was trimmed evenly, his shirt was an unlikely faded brown, but clean. She denied the scent of him, a mixture of soap, laundry detergent, and something powerful.
“Alright. Let me have it.”
“You have to get rid of Bertha. She is clearly not capable. You need someone who’s going to actually watch the kids and who can do something about . . . this.” She spread her hands to indicate the mess around her.
“I know, I know. But who else?”
“I have no idea. I’m new here.”
“There are sixteen families, all fairly young, with families. A few fifteen and sixteen-year-olds who wouldn’t consider keeping children and running a house. The church women supply an occasional meal or cake or something. We’re making do.”
“You’re in denial.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me what to do. I know things aren’t ideal.”
“The children need you.”
“But I have to go to work.”
“I realize that. But when you’re home, are you here for them?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Obviously, you’re not much of a father.”
“Ouch.” Then, “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners? Is that the way you Lancaster people operate? Just blotch (throw) everything out there? I’m beginning to think there’s a reason why you don’t have a boyfriend.”
That comment was like salt to a wound.
“I’ll have you know, I do have a boyfriend. Sort of. It’s just not official until I make up my mind, and being here in Wyoming has done just that. I can hardly wait to return to my home and begin the relationship I wasn’t sure I wanted before.”
