A Thousand Little Blessings (2 page)

Her father and four other men sat in wicker chairs beneath the live oaks that shaded the house. As she approached, all of the men stood.

“Keep your seats, gentlemen. I've brought fresh coffee. Who would like a refill?”

Judge Thompson raised his cup and saucer. “Right here, Henrietta. I was just telling your father what a lovely service your mother had.”

Etta set the tray on the wicker table and turned to fill his cup. “Thank you, Judge.” She turned to the man on his right. “What about you, Mr. Mayor?”

Edgar Robinson rubbed his balding head. “I probably shouldn't but…oh, go ahead, fill ‘er up.”

Etta complied and moved on to James Moore, owner of the largest store in town.

Mr. Moore put his hand over his cup. “None for me, Henrietta. If I drink any more I'll be awake until three in the morning.”

She moved to her father's side and offered him the pills. He shook his head, declining the medication, but held up his cup for more coffee.

The youngest of the men stood. “Why don't you take my chair, Miss Davis?”

Etta smiled at William Clark, the county prosecutor. He had a reputation as a tenacious lawyer with a notable record of convictions, but his round baby face and blond hair gave him the appearance of a young boy, rather than a determined officer of the law. “Thank you, Mr. Clark.” She returned the coffeepot to the tray and settled into the chair.

The men were curiously quiet. Perhaps her presence put a damper on their conversation, but she'd sat in on many of their meetings before. The four men formed the bank's Board of Directors.

Etta studied her father. His graying hair was combed as meticulously as usual, and his starched collar showed no sign of wilting, but his face bore witness to his grief. The lines on his forehead had deepened and his usual quick smile had abandoned him. He rubbed a palm along the crease in his trousers and broke the silence. “I plan to stay home tomorrow. I have quite a bit of correspondence to catch up on. I'll be in the office the next day.”

Judge Thompson's bushy white eyebrows drew together. “Don't rush it, Henry. The bank's not going anywhere.”

“The judge is right,” Mayor Robinson said. “The bank will run as smoothly as ever until you come back.”

“I need to keep busy,” Papa said. “Otherwise…”

“Perhaps you'd like some time to work with your horses,” William Clark suggested. “My mother says you're sure to win top prize at the Travis County show this summer.”

Etta sent silent thanks to William. Her father's only interest outside the bank was his Arabians, and William had hit just the right note to lift his mood.

“I hope you're right about that,” Papa answered. “My wife used to say my horses were as beautiful as a well-kept secret. My stallion--”

“Here you all are!” Everyone turned to see who had hailed them in such a jolly manner. Uncle Carl lifted a hand in greeting. “I see you're enjoying this beautiful spring weather.”

The men sighed unanimously as they turned their attention away from Carl.

Oblivious to their unenthusiastic response, Uncle Carl pulled a small side table into the circle and sat on it. He looked like a parrot in a group of crows. All the men had dressed in black, but Carl sported a beige suit with a bright blue vest. His sharp-pointed shoes were polished so brightly they reflected the sunlight. “What were you all talking about?”

Mayor Robinson answered first. “We were just advising Henry to take a few days off.”

“I hope you do,” Carl said to Henry as he straightened the blue bow tie that matched his vest. “I'm simply bereft at having lost my dear sister. I can hardly imagine going back to work right away. You take your time, Henry. I'll take care of any business that can't wait until you return.”

The members of the board exchanged gazes.

“Carl,” her father said, “would you please carry that tray to the kitchen for Etta?”

“Of course.” Carl smoothed his sandy-blond hair and lifted the tray. “You coming, Etta?”

Her father's request was as transparent as a liar's promise, but Carl didn't see through his ploy to get him to leave.

Etta trailed Carl into the kitchen.

Most of the visitors had left, and the women of the Bereavement Committee were packing up.

“Thank you, ladies,” she said. “My father and I appreciate your help.”

Carl placed a hand over his heart. “Losing someone is never easy, but the kindness of neighbors eases the pain.”

Mayor Robinson's wife slipped her arm around the crook of Carl's elbow. “I know you'll miss your only sister. We'll all miss Catherine.”

The other ladies made noises of assent.

Sara Benson held out her arms the way a hen uses its wings to gather chicks. “Time for us to leave, ladies. Etta and Henry need their rest now.”

“Allow me to carry those boxes,” Carl said to Mrs. Stoutman. “I'll be leaving as well, Etta,” he said over his shoulder. “But I'll call tomorrow to see how you and Henry are doing.”

Etta accompanied them to the front door, thanked them again, and watched them drive away. When the last automobile had disappeared, she slumped against the door frame and allowed the quiet to seep into her bones. Things would never be the same without her mother, but at least she and her father could relax now that everyone had left.

Sara walked through the front parlor and hurried to Etta's side. “Oh, Etta. Are you all right?”

Etta straightened her spine and faced the other woman. “I'm fine.”

Sara wrapped her arms around Etta's shoulders and held her close. “I know I'm not your mother, but I hope you'll call when you need something. I'm only a few minutes away.”

Etta returned Sara's embrace, glad to have her mother's best friend looking out for her. Sara had been part of her mother's life as long as Etta could remember. She'd often traveled to Pennsylvania with her mother to visit Etta at school, and her mother's letters always contained news about what she and Sara were working on. They co-chaired church committees, worked on numerous fund-raising campaigns for the town library, and hosted one social after another. If Etta could step away from her own sorrow, she'd surely see how sorely Sara grieved the loss of her best friend. “Thank you for all your help, Sara. I couldn't have handled everything without you.”

“I don't believe that for a second, but it's the least I could do. Would you like to walk over to my house? We could have a cup of tea and a long talk, or simply sit and do nothing.”

Sara's house was only five minutes away, but even that short walk seemed overwhelming. “Maybe later. I want to make sure Papa gets some rest.”

“That's good advice for you, too.” Sara kissed Etta's forehead and stepped through the front door. “I'll check on you both tomorrow.”

After watching Sara make her way to the footbridge connecting the Benson property to the Davis land, Etta closed the front door and walked quietly to the wall of windows in the dining room. Her father sat by himself in the courtyard, his head resting in his hand. “Help my Papa, Lord,” she whispered. “Only You know the depth of his grief. Only You can alleviate his pain.”

Etta's footsteps echoed on the stairs as she made her way to her bedroom. She'd wanted the visitors to leave, but now that the house was silent, the hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach intensified. Her mother's gentle presence was gone from the house but not from her heart. She'd see her mother again someday, but Etta dreaded the years of sorrow that lay ahead of her.

At the top of the staircase, Etta came face-to-face with the closed door of her mother's sewing room. A shaft of afternoon sunlight blinded her as she swung the door open, and her mother's scent, a blend of lavender and vanilla, wafted around her. A man's unfinished dressing gown lay on a table, probably a gift for her father, and piles of folded fabric were stacked on a ladder-back chair. How her mother had loved to sew. Etta knew little more than how to hem a skirt or mend a torn seam, but her mother had loved to design everything from evening gowns to curtains.

Etta sat at the machine and ran her fingers over a stack of blue and white quilt squares. Her mother hadn't made many quilts, but she did occasionally join Sara's quilting bees when the ladies of the church gathered to make one as a way to raise funds.

Etta caressed her cheek with one quilt square. Just last week, her mother had been her usual busy self, softly singing a hymn as she arranged yellow roses in a crystal vase. This week, she was gone, one of the many victims snatched away by Spanish influenza.

How long would it take until grief loosened its jagged talons? If Etta could open a doorway to heaven, she'd step right in, pay a visit, and then return to her normal life. She yearned for her mother's loving touch, but she wouldn't feel it again for many, many years.

 

****

 

Lantana shrubs brushed the hem of Etta's brown cotton work skirt as she stepped into her mother's flower garden the next morning. So much needed to be done. She retrieved hand pruners from her basket of tools and began to deadhead the yellow roses.

From the nearby stable, horses sounded their morning greetings as her father led them from their stalls and turned them out to pasture. He allowed no one to care for his prize-winning Arabians except himself, a task which included mucking their stalls. Her father, who was seldom seen wearing anything other than a three-piece suit, donned work pants and a chambray shirt to work in the stable.

Etta pulled on her mother's gardening gloves and dropped to her knees. Nettles grew beneath the bright green foliage of Mexican heather, and she'd learned the hard way that pulling them with bare hands would lead to painful stinging. Growing flowers was yet another skill she'd neglected to learn. But then, she'd never had to work for her mother's affection and approval. Her mother's esteem had been given as freely as the air she breathed.

If only her father's approval could be so easy to attain. It was no secret he'd wanted a son to carry on his name and his business. But complications from Etta's birth had sealed her mother's womb. She was his only heir, and, although he'd provided for her care and education, it had been her mother who'd lavished love and affection.

Etta rested on her heels and watched the antics of the half-feral cats that made the stable their home. As a child, Etta had begged for a kitten as a pet, but her father hadn't allowed that indulgence. “No animals in the house,” he'd pronounced in his strictest voice.

“Except for little monkeys,” her mother had said with a wink and a hug, soothing away the hurt of her father's denial.

A painful yearning rose from Etta's heart to her throat, and she wiped away tears with the back of her gloved hand. “Am I still your little monkey, Momma?” she whispered.

No answer came, but the horses neighed loudly as they cavorted around the large field. The bay stallion, Antares, made his way to the lead mare, Mira. He nuzzled her neck and huffed a loud breath. Mira shook her head and turned away from him, but the stallion was undaunted. He repeated the action with the three other mares.

How easy it was for the horses, Etta mused as she moved to another part of the garden where chickweed had invaded. The Arabians knew their places in the world and managed the give-and-take of equine society. But as a dutiful daughter who worked alongside her father six days a week, Etta was on her way to spinsterhood.

Things could be worse, she reminded herself. The world of finance intrigued her, and maintaining a healthy balance between fiscal risk and security was challenging. If she kept at it, perhaps her father would reward her with more responsibility.

Etta pushed a strand of hair away from her face and watched her father stroke the stallion's neck. She loved the horses almost as much as her father did and often ended the day grooming them by his side. In June, they would travel to the state capital for the annual horse show. It had always been her mother's favorite trip, although Etta suspected her mother went for the many social gatherings rather than anything related to equine husbandry.

Etta repositioned herself near the green shoots of the daffodils. How her mother had loved their cheerful announcements of spring. But as Etta worked in the dirt, a chorus of horse calls pulled her attention back to the pasture.

Antares's head pointed to the sky as he trumpeted one squeal after another and the mares formed a circle. Perhaps they smelled a predator, or one of the horses was hurt.

Etta rose to her feet and scanned the field.

The mares snorted in agitation and moved restlessly in their defensive circle.

Etta dropped the gloves into her basket of tools and walked down the hill toward the stable. The stallion galloped to the wooden fence and neighed loudly as she approached.

“Papa?” she called as she entered the stable. The opened stall doors and the empty wheelbarrow meant her father was half-finished with his morning chores. “Papa?”

The horses answered, but there was no response from her father.

Etta passed through the stable, opened the gate that lead to the pasture, and closed it behind her.

What was her father doing?

Then Etta recognized a dark shape within the mares' protective circle. “Papa!” The frigid hand of fear grasped her heart as she picked up her skirt and ran.

The mares parted, allowing Etta access to her father. Panic gripped her throat as she dropped to the ground and turned him over.

A deep moan came from his twisted face and his left arm swung wildly.

“What's happened, Papa? Did you fall?”

Her father answered her question with an unintelligible grunt.

“Can you stand, Papa? Or sit up?”

His eyes were dazed and his body rocked from side to side.

Etta slipped her arm beneath his back to help him to a sitting position, but he pushed her away with a wordless groan. She gasped for air as she fought her rising panic. She couldn't leave him alone, but he needed help. The house was too far away for Rosa to hear her shouts. Etta removed a handkerchief from her father's shirt pocket and wiped his face. “I'm going for help, Papa. I'll be back as soon as I can.”