A Woman Named Damaris (15 page)

She loved many of the characters of the stories, but the man Jesus drew her like no other. He was different from any man she had ever known. She brushed away tears as she read of the birth in a cattle shed, with no bed for Him but a cow’s manger. She could picture it in her mind from memories of her family’s farm. She exulted as He walked the dusty roads speaking words of peace and healing the sick. She chuckled with glee when He put down the proud Pharisees who tried to trick Him with their questions. And she agonized as He was sentenced to death and forced to drag His cross through the streets of the city to Golgotha.

When she came at last to the story of the open tomb, Damaris hugged her knees and choked back the words she wished to say out loud. It was all so exciting, so perfect. She had never read another story quite like it.

“I wish He had really lived. I wish He had lived right here in Dixen.”

At last, here was a man Damaris felt she could trust. Oh, it was true that Mr. Brown had never been harsh with her—but she had always wondered what might happen if he put a bottle to his lips. And it was true that the captain had been more than kind in finding her work, but she had been careful not to anger him. It was true too that Mr. MacKenzie was decent enough, but Damaris had smelled whiskey on his breath once or twice and feared what might happen if one day he had more money in his pocket than he knew what to do with. And it was also true that Miss Dover’s Gil was always kind, but he paid little more attention to Damaris than she did to him. But with the man in the book—this Jesus—Damaris could find no reason not to trust this man.

———

Mrs. Stacy began to talk of a Christmas party again. Damaris tightened up at the thought. She would do just as she had done the year before, she decided. Mrs. Stacy hadn’t questioned her much—and she
had
felt sick. Her story had not been a lie.

And then, just two days before Christmas, Miss Dover came to call on Mrs. Stacy. They visited over cups of tea for a few minutes as Damaris worked about the room. Then she heard Miss Dover ask, as calmly as you please, “I was wondering if Damaris might have Christmas Day off. I would like to have her join me for dinner.”

Mrs. Stacy squirmed in her chair before she gave her answer, and

Damaris held her breath. She knew that the woman really counted on her help.

“For the whole day?” asked Mrs. Stacy, making a single day sound awfully long.

“She hasn’t had a day off for ever so long,” continued Miss Dover, and Mrs. Stacy nodded rather reluctantly. The fact was, Damaris had never had a day off—not since she had reached their little town.

Damaris had no idea what a day off was, nor what to do with one if she had it, but if it allowed her to spend more time at Miss Dover’s house, she would be in favor of it.

“Would you like that, Damaris?” Mrs. Stacy swiveled in her chair to ask.

Damaris tried not to appear too eager. “I guess so,” she said, trying to still the hammering of her heart. She wondered what special task Miss Dover had for her, but she didn’t really care. She was willing to sew or mend or scrub or anything.

“Then it is settled,” beamed Miss Dover. “We will plan dinner for one o’clock, but you can come as early in the morning as you wish.”

Damaris thought she understood then. Miss Dover was having guests and needed help preparing dinner. It suited Damaris just fine. She nodded her head and tried to hide her pleasure.

———

Damaris was up early on Christmas Day. She had decided she wouldn’t leave until she had helped Mrs. Stacy with breakfast and washed the dishes. But everyone seemed to be reluctant to climb from their beds. The guests straggled into the dining room, one by one, and Damaris soon ran out of patience.

“Why is everyone so slow this morning?” she asked Mrs. Stacy.

“Oh, on Christmas everyone likes to loaf a bit,” replied the lady, seeming not to mind in the least.

“They’ll be late for work,” said Damaris.

“Oh, no one works on Christmas,” Mrs. Stacy returned. “None of the shops will be open.”

It was news to Damaris. She had paid no attention to the shops her first year in town.

“You run along,” said Mrs. Stacy good-naturedly. “Ah, but before you go, I have a little gift for you.”

Mrs. Stacy left the room and came back with a small package. “Here,” she said. “I hope you like it. Merry Christmas.”

Damaris opened the package and found a lace handkerchief. Her eyes widened. She couldn’t understand why Mrs. Stacy had given her the gift.

“But why—?”

“It’s Christmas,” said the woman. “People give gifts at Christmas.”

Damaris had not received a Christmas gift since her mama stopped giving them when Damaris reached age seven. She assumed that such things were no longer done—at least not for anyone past childhood.

“But—but you never—” Damaris stopped. To continue her statement would have sounded like criticism when instead it was simply confusion.

“Last year I wasn’t thinking,” the woman admitted. “None of us were thinking. We talked of it later and all felt terrible—but it was too late to go back and do something about it.”

Damaris had no idea what Mrs. Stacy was talking about.

“But I—does everybody give gifts?”

“To family—and special friends,” Mrs. Stacy answered.

“But I don’t have gifts,” said Damaris. “Not for anyone.” Her head was whirling. Who were her special friends? Well, Miss Dover, certainly. And she supposed, especially as she stood with the hankie in her hand, that Mrs. Stacy was also a special friend. Edgar was one—but he was miles away, and the captain had been—well, rather special, but she had no idea where he was.

“I—I thank you,” Damaris finally managed to stammer. “It is a most pretty hankie. Too pretty to use—even to wipe one’s brow.”

Mrs. Stacy smiled at the comment. “Run along now,” she said. “I’ll manage just fine.”

Damaris returned to her room to lay the hankie tenderly in the little drawer of her night stand. Then she reached for her shawl and laced on her high-top boots. As she worked she made up her mind. She would run down the street to Mr. MacKenzie’s store. Even if it was Christmas, she was sure he would let her in to do some picking from the stock on the shelves. She had to have a gift for Mrs. Stacy and Miss Dover. She just had to. She had money on her account. She had been hoarding it for a new summer bonnet. She had unpacked a number of attractive ones and placed them on a shelf. Now that she was older, it was quite improper for her to be out on the streets without a hat on her head. Damaris cringed as she thought of the account money and the need for gifts. Then her chin lifted. “I’ll just do without the bonnet for a bit longer,” she told herself and rushed through the cold December morning to rap on the MacKenzie door.

———

When Damaris reached Miss Dover’s house, a card of shining new needles clutched firmly in her hand, she was surprised to be ushered directly to the rooms at the back.

“Merry Christmas, Damaris,” said Miss Dover.

Damaris thrust forward her small gift. “For you,” she said. “For Christmas.”

Miss Dover fussed over the gift until Damaris flushed with embarrassment.

Then Miss Dover turned to a little cupboard and drew forth a package.

“And I have a gift for you,” she said. “It isn’t exactly new—in fact, it isn’t new at all—but I have redesigned it. It’s a bit summery,

I’m afraid, but perhaps by next winter you will have a brand new one picked out from—”

Miss Dover was cut short by Damaris’s squeal of delight. It was a bonnet. A bonnet far prettier than any Damaris had unpacked at the store. The young girl who so carefully guarded all thoughts and feelings could not hide her pleasure with the gift.

“Oh, Miss Dover. It’s—it’s lovely,” she managed to say, and her eyes told just how much she meant the words.

“I’m pleased you like it,” said Miss Dover. “The color will suit you beautifully.”

Damaris looked again at the soft cream material. Pretty bows clustered against the sloping brim and a large feather plume swept gracefully up one side and over the top.

“We must sew a dress to go with it,” said Miss Dover and then amended her statement. “You can sew it yourself on the machine—perhaps in the evenings when your other work is done.”

Damaris couldn’t imagine a dress beautiful enough to compliment the wonderful bonnet. Suddenly she realized that she should have been assuming her household chores instead of standing there admiring her new hat. She placed the hat lovingly back in its box and turned to Miss Dover.

“What do you wish me to do?” she asked. Already the rooms were filled with delicious odors.

“All is done—for the moment,” said the woman. “Why don’t we just sit down and chat ’til our other guest arrives.”

At the surprised look on Damaris’s face, Miss Dover explained, “Gil is coming for dinner, too. But he won’t be here until a bit later. He had things to do in the morning and it is rather a long ride, I’m afraid. But he promised he’d be here as soon as he could.”

Damaris panicked. She hadn’t realized that she would be asked to serve Gil.

“Now, why don’t you run on home and put on your prettiest dress. The one we made you last summer. Why, I have scarcely seen you wear it.”

Damaris hesitated. The dress was special to her. She hated to get it spotted with grease or spatterings.

“If we should clean-up together later,” Miss Dover went on, “I promise that I’ll give you an ample, heavy apron to cover it completely. But as my guest, I want you to feel ladylike and lovely.”

“Your guest?” Damaris could not stop the words.

“You didn’t know you were to be my guest? Why, yes. For Christmas dinner. You and Gil. The two people dearest to me.”

Damaris stood still, unable to move or speak. She had never been anyone’s dinner guest. She knew how to serve, but she wasn’t sure she knew how to sit.

“Now hurry,” urged Miss Dover. “We have a lot to talk about before Gil gets here.”

Damaris turned and left then, clutching her shawl tightly about her. As she slipped out of her plain dress and into the “special” one, a daring thought entered her mind. She would wear the brooch. Her mama’s. If she was to be a dinner guest she wanted to look her very best. Perhaps the brooch on the bit of lace at her throat would give her confidence.

She withdrew the brooch from her drawer and held it up to the light, admiring again the sparkle of the stones. Then she reached for the watch and let it dangle from her hand as she grasped the chain. She still did not have the blue velvet or the domed glass. The watch must remain in its hiding place. She slipped it back into the drawer, covered it with her undergarments, and pushed the drawer quietly shut.

When she reappeared at the house across the street, dressed as bidden, Miss Dover exclaimed over and over how nice she looked. “The brooch is beautiful,” she admired. “It must be a family treasure.”

“Yes,” said Damaris, lowering her eyes. “Yes, it is.”

Then Damaris was seated in a chair in Miss Dover’s own bedroom while the woman skillfully pinned her long, silky dark hair into a becoming style on top of her head. As Miss Dover worked, she talked, sharing with Damaris the fine art of table manners. It was not difficult for Damaris to listen. She realized that the pointers were given out of love and to keep her from embarrassment. Over and over in her mind she reviewed the “rules.”

“If you get mixed up,” said Miss Dover, “just watch me. I’ll give you a little wink—or nod.”

Damaris agreed. There were so many things to remember. She wondered if she could ever keep them all straight.

“Now—just before Gil comes I want to tell you a bit about him.”

Damaris wondered why, but she held her tongue. Her head was so full of new information that it would be silly to ask for more.

“Gil came here when he was about thirteen,” said Miss Dover, plunging right into her story. “Oh, my! That’s fourteen years ago. How time passes!” Miss Dover was silent for a moment, seeming to think back; then she went on with her story. “He was skinny and scared and filled with mistrust—and I don’t blame him one bit. He had lost his parents when he was only three and had been placed in an orphanage some place. He never has told me where. He doesn’t like to talk about it and I try not to push. Well, he’d had enough by the time he was thirteen—and he ran away, somehow ending up out here. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for days and his clothes were little more than rags. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. You see—I had always wanted a boy of my own.”

Miss Dover stopped. Damaris wondered if she would be able to continue, but she did not hesitate for long.

“Well, it took a lot of doing, believe me, but I finally earned his trust. We found him a job with a local rancher—a friend of mine, and Gil worked hard and saved every penny he earned, determined to have his own spread. And then Gil came up with a plan to share-crop the calves. He took those that would have died without special care—or something like that. I never could understand exactly how it worked, but both parties seemed more than satisfied with the arrangement.

“The man would gladly have let Gil work for him for the rest of his days. He was so pleased with Gil’s care of the animals. In fact, I think he would have even left him the spread in his will. He hinted as much to me. But that wasn’t what Gil wanted. He was determined to make his own way. So he got a small piece of land, put a few head of stock on it, mostly the calves he’d earned, which had grown and had calves of their own, and spent part of his winters cutting timber to sell in town. In short, after a few years and much hard work, he now has a paying spread. It’s small, but it will grow. And Gil seems quite pleased with his accomplishments.”

She gave the girl’s hair one final pat. “I think of him as my boy. Oh, I never formally adopted him—just sort of ‘accepted’ him. But he’s mine—nonetheless.” She laughed softly, then added, “And anything else you wish to know—you’ll have to get from Gil himself.”

Damaris, though touched by the story, couldn’t imagine why Miss Dover would expect her to show further interest.

Chapter Sixteen