Beauty for Ashes (23 page)

“See? You’re mad at me. And so hateful.”

What was the point of arguing? Carrie turned on her heel. “I’m going to make supper.”

In the kitchen, every plate, pot, and pan was caked with dried food. Flies buzzed about the table. The water bucket and the wood box were empty. Truly, it was a wonder they weren’t all dead from living this way. Had anyone been feeding the animals and milking the cow?

She went to the foot of stairs and called, “Joe Stanhope.”

“Yes’m?”

“Time to earn that dime Mr. Chastain gave you. I need wood and water.”

“In a minute. I ain’t picked out my story yet.”

“If you’re interested in supper, you’ll do it now.”

He clattered down the stairs and grabbed the water bucket.

Carrie started clearing the table. “Where’s Caleb?”

“I dunno. He don’t stay around here much these days. Mama has to yell and yell to get him to come in at night.”

“Well, I’m not going to yell for him. If he wants to sleep in the woods, I don’t care. But if you happen to see him, tell him I need a lot of firewood. Tomorrow is wash day.”

“Yes’m.”

When Joe returned with wood and water, Carrie lit the stove, heated water, and washed and dried the dishes. In the icebox she found a few eggs and a blob of rancid butter. She rummaged for lard, salt, and pepper, and cobbled together a supper of fried eggs, fried potatoes, and coffee. She made a tray for Mary and sent Caleb to deliver it.

In a moment he was back. “Mama says anything made with lard makes her stomach hurt worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but until I can churn some fresh butter, lard is all there is. This place is a disaster.”

“You were supposed to stay and help us. But you ran away.”

Carrie suppressed an angry retort. What good would it do to argue with an eleven-year-old? “Sit down, Caleb.”

She joined the two boys at the table. “Now, can either of you say a blessing for our food?”

Joe shook his head, but Caleb said, “I learnt one at school ’fore it shut down.”

“Excellent. Let’s bow our heads.”

Caleb bowed his head and cleared his throat. “Past the teeth and past the gums, look out stummick, here it comes.”

Joe giggled.

Caleb poured himself a cup of coffee and sent Carrie a defiant look.

She returned his hard gaze. “I doubt very much that you learned that from your teacher.”

“Never said I did.” He stabbed a forkful of potatoes from the serving platter and shoveled them into his mouth. “I said I learnt it at school. Jimmy D. Washburn taught it to me.”

“Well, it’s not the sort of blessing we say in our home. Now put your fork down and bow your head. You too, Joe.”

She offered a quick blessing and passed the food around the table. Both children ate as if it was to be their last meal on earth. Joe wolfed down his eggs and potatoes and ran his finger around the rim of his plate, scooping up the last bite.

Carrie’s heart twisted. The poor child was half starved. In the morning she’d see about baking some bread. The massive washing awaited, but somehow she must find time for a trip to the mercantile too.

Caleb shoved his plate away and stood. “I’m going outside.”

“Please clear your plate first, Caleb.”

“That’s woman’s work.”

“Very well. But if you leave it there you will not get any breakfast in the morning.”

He went still and she held his gaze, regretting the need to threaten hunger to make him obey. But something had to be done. The boy was too stubborn to listen to reason.

Wordlessly he picked up his plate and with exaggerated slowness and dropped it into the sink. Then he walked out the back door.

“Do I get my story now?” Joe scooped up his plate and took it to the sink.

“As soon as I wash up these dishes.”

His grin warmed her heart. He stuck around while she heated water on the stove and washed and dried the dishes. Clearly Joe missed his mother’s companionship. He kept up a constant stream of chatter and questions until she felt her head would explode. But at last, after she’d read the story of Jack and the beanstalk, he staggered up the stairs to the attic bedroom.

Darkness fell. Carrie lit the lamp in the parlor and went to check on Mary, who had fallen asleep, one leg protruding from the coverlet. Mary looked so thin and sick that Carrie couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She closed the window against the cool night air and went up to her own room. She lit the lamp and looked around. Someone, Joe most likely, had made an attempt to tidy things up. The pillows had been fluffed. A single daisy in a glass of water rested on the night table.

Overwhelmed with conflicting emotions and the sheer enormity of the job in front of her, Carrie dug her Bible from her bag and opened it at random, but it was impossible to concentrate. Closing her eyes, she prayed the simple prayer Granny Bell had taught her, the one that never failed to bring comfort when she was facing a difficult task.
Father, have mercy. Grant me the grace to do what I must do
.

The front door crashed open, and Caleb pounded up the stairs.

Lord, help me deal with this child. And please keep Henry safe
.

She washed up, changed into her nightgown, and slipped into bed, exhausted but determined. Somehow, she would hold this farm and this family together until Henry could come for them. She closed her eyes.

Then she smelled smoke.

TWENTY

Shoving down a rise of panic, Carrie threw her shawl over her nightdress and ran barefoot down the stairs. Through the kitchen window she spotted a faint glow near the toolshed. Something was definitely burning. Water bucket in hand, she rushed out the back door and across the yard. Smoke rolled from the roof of the shed. Flames licked at the eaves. A narrow trail of fire snaked across the weedy grass.

She tossed the bucket of water onto the smoldering wall of the shed, sending a cloud of acrid smoke curling into the sharp night air. But the grass still burned. She ran to the watering trough beside the barn, scooped out a bucket of water. Heat scorched her face as she doused the flames. Sparks glittered and went out. Only when the last of them smoldered and died did she realize the bottoms of her feet were blistered. She hobbled back to the house.

The lamp in Mary’s bedroom flickered and then Mary herself appeared in the darkened hallway, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide and questioning. “What are you doing up? What happened?”

The fear and anger Carrie had kept at bay while she doused the fire came roaring back. She dropped the bucket onto the floor and sank onto the bottom stair. She fought to control her quaking voice. “What happened, Mary, was that your son tried to burn the place down.”

“My . . . you mean Caleb?”

“I heard him running up the stairs just before I smelled smoke. One wall of the toolshed was already on fire when I got out there. Another ten minutes and it would have been lost, and the fire might have spread to the house.” She got to her feet, wincing as pain shot through her.

“Where are you going?” Mary pushed her unruly hair off her face.

“To get Caleb, of course, and make him answer for this dangerous and irresponsible behavior.”

“He’s my son. He’ll answer to me.”

“Then discipline him.”

“I will, if he’s to blame.” Mary leaned against the door frame. “You’ve never liked him, and now you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“What other explanation could there be?”

Mary shrugged. “Maybe it was some stranger off the train.”

“A complete stranger who, for no reason, decided to come all the way out here to start a fire?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was Jimmy Washburn. He and Caleb are always getting into scrapes. Maybe they had a fight and Jimmy wanted to get even.”

Carrie clenched her teeth to stop a torrent of furious words. How could Mary be so naïve? Couldn’t she see that Caleb was headed for big trouble? It was almost as if she loved Caleb more because of his willful nature. But maybe that was what mothers did—defended their young in the face of irrefutable evidence. Even in the midst of her outrage and exhaustion, Carrie envied Mary the unconditional love she felt for her child. A kind of love she herself might never know.

She went to the kitchen for some lard to sooth her blistered feet. Up in her room, she soaked her feet in cool water from the ewer, dried them gingerly, and applied the lard. She turned up the wick in her lamp and examined the soles of her feet. Her skin was red, but at least it wasn’t broken. Defeated and bone weary, she was unable to stop a rush of bitter tears. How on earth could anyone get along with Mary and Caleb?

They were part of her family now. Christ commanded her to love them. But she felt so overwhelmed and confused that she didn’t even know how to pray about it. How could God help her if she didn’t even know what exactly it was that she needed or how to ask him about it?

“The Holy Spirit talks to God for us, when we can’t find the right words.”
So said Granny Bell as she lay dying in her little cabin in Muddy Hollow, when grief had stopped the words in Carrie’s mouth.
“The Good Book says the Spirit makes intercession for us with groanings that cannot be uttered.”

For the second time this long night, Carrie found herself in prayer before falling into sleep—a prayer without words.

In the morning, moving gingerly on her sore feet, she made flapjacks with the last of the flour. The boys devoured them, even though there was no butter or molasses. Caleb took his plate to the sink and headed outside.

“Where are you going?” Arms akimbo, Carrie blocked his path.

“Mama told me to draw you some water for doing the washing. I already brought the big kettle into the yard. And I brought some wood for the fire.”

“Speaking of fires.” She pinned him with a hard stare until he blinked and looked away.

“It was an accident. I already told Mama I’m sorry.”

“You should be. You could have burned the house down last night, Caleb. And then what would we do?”

“You wouldn’t care.” He crossed his arms over his thin chest. “You don’t like us.”

“What I don’t like is the way you are behaving. I’m doing my best to help your mother and look after this place. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t make my job any harder than it is.”

Joe let out a loud burp. “Carrie Daly, is there any more flapjacks?”

“I’m afraid not, Joe.” She looked around the bare kitchen. “Not until I can make a trip to the mercantile.”

“Can I go?”

“We’ll see. For now, I need you to go upstairs and bring down everything that needs washing. And that includes your—”

“Carrie?” Mary’s voice was sharp enough to shatter glass. “I need you. Now.”

Caleb went outside, letting the door slap shut behind him. Carrie shooed Joe up the stairs and hurried to Mary’s room. “What is it?”

“These . . . buttons. I can’t reach . . .” A soiled nightdress, stinking of sweat and vomit, lay in a heap on the floor. Mary struggled to get into another one.

“Here.” Carrie fastened the buttons and helped Mary to the chair by the window. “Sit here while I strip the bed.”

She removed the dirty linens and fluffed the feather mattress. “Where do you keep the clean sheets?”

“In the trunk. But there aren’t any clean ones. I—I got behind on the washing.”

An understatement if there ever was one. “Then the bare mattress will have to do until the laundry’s done.”

Mary glanced out at the bright sunlight streaming through the trees. “It’s such a beautiful day. September is my favorite month. Maybe I’ll sit here for a while and read. Doc Spencer said I could, if I’m careful.”

“I made flapjacks.” Carrie bundled the dirty laundry. “You should eat something.”

Mary lifted one thin shoulder. “I don’t really want to.”

“For mercy’s sake. I don’t really want to be here cooking and cleaning and doing washing and looking after your rowdy boys. But I’m here—because of that little baby that’s coming. That baby who is a part of my brother. You’re his mother. Think of him for a change. If you care nothing for your own health, at least have the grace not to deprive the child of his.”