Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (11 page)

Parker Jones, neat and trim even with his best suit turning shiny and his white shirt showing wear, was a figure of quiet authority. Well-mannered, educated, handsome in a dark, lean way, he might well have filled the pulpit of a grander, larger church. But he was in Bliss at the call of the Lord and was content. Most folks knew long before his proposal that Bliss’s own Molly Morrison was the object of his attention. And certainly she was worth catching. All Bliss watched and waited, but Pastor Jones delayed, hesitating to subject Molly to the sacrifices demanded of a pioneer pastor.

From the beginning—as soon as axe bit into the virgin growth of the bush—the church had played an important role in the early settlement of the Territories. Many churchmen, like Parker Jones, were men of higher education, well-read and musical, men of training, exceptional leaders. Their zeal for the work of the Lord brought them on the heels of the first homesteaders, themselves pioneers in every sense of the word. Their presence brought a degree of dignity and wisdom to the newly opening West and to people who were starving for a touch of culture, desperate to believe that life would not always be so hard for them, relying on the good Lord
as never before. There was no doubt about it, and history would record it: Churches contributed to the spiritual and educational life of the community, bringing hope, comfort, even much-needed social contacts.

Parker Jones was highly thought of in the hamlet and surrounding community of Bliss. Brother Jones, as he was customarily called, cared faithfully for the “flock” entrusted to him and saw with humility the assembled congregation on this day, a fine representation. The Lord’s day was honored in the bush, and even though work beckoned and winter crouched on the horizon, threatening and blustering, the good people of Bliss gathered together faithfully to honor their God.

Some, of course, had less than exalted reasons: young men more interested in girls than religion; bachelors desperate to find a wife and having no better opportunity to look over the possibilities; children who would rather romp and play but who meekly followed parents setting a good example.

Looking out over the expectant congregation—crowded into desks often too small and too cramped, feet shuffling on the oiled floor, callused hands opening Bibles carted thousands of miles when most costly items had been left behind—Brother Jones announced his text. If he, poor human clay that he was, should say not one word worth hearing, the Word would minister richly, for he had chosen today’s text wisely: “He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.... But they that wait upon the L
ORD
shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint” (Isa. 40:29, 31).

Refreshing the spirit, resting the body, encouraging the heart, Sunday did for the people of Bliss what it was intended to do. And when, after the benediction, horny hand gripped horny hand—stiffened as though to grasp a plow handle or a cow’s teat or a pitchfork—they were bonded in very real ways. Not only as neighbor to neighbor, pledged to help one another make it through an adventure that challenged the best of them, eliminated the weakest, and
tested them all, but spiritually, as brother to brother and sister to sister.

Free of the worries and concerns that plagued their parents and eager to see each other after a separation of less than two days, children pushed impatiently past the lingering adults, escaping to the outside and a few moments of play before heading home.

First, of course, following the benediction, even if one was a child, one must pause politely at the doorway to shake hands with Brother Parker Jones. Then, free, leap from the step and join the other children gathered around the swings and seesaws. Here there was some happy squabbling and shoving, with impatient cries of “It’s
my
turn!”

Harold Buckley, “Buck,” teetering between the last days of childhood and the beckoning of young manhood, pulled a handmade ball from his pocket, and soon several boys were divided on each side of the schoolhouse in a game of Annie-Annie-over. After a few raucous shouts and a few tosses over the school’s roof, a scandalized mother or two bustled over to scold and shut down the unrestrained hilarity and exertion on the Lord’s day. After all, Sunday was intended as a day of rest, not of fun and games!

It was like old times. With the benediction, Ellie and Marfa and Vonnie made a beeline for one another. Laughing and crying, arms around each other, they all spoke at once, to the amusement and sympathy of bystanders.

“It’s so good to see you—”

“I didn’t know you were back—”

“How long will you—”

“I’m so sorry about Vernon—”

“When can we get together?”

It was finally agreed that they meet sometime that week. With none of them having children to care for, plans were simple—Tuesday, ironing day, was decided upon, but not without a laugh, each of them recognizing the others’ dislike of that particular chore and willingness to put it off.

“We haven’t changed much, have we?” Marfa smiled.

“More than we care to admit, probably,” Vonnie answered, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Not enough, probably,” was Ellie’s response, and they all laughed again.

It was decided to meet at Marfa’s, the birth of her baby being close and her friends deeming it risky for her to be driving a buggy.

And then it was time for Vonnie to greet Tom, his arms going around all three girls with more laughter, more tears, more chatter.

“You’d think I’ve been gone forever,” Vonnie said finally,“rather than four years. Letters are good, but oh, my—”

“We’ve so much to talk about,” Ellie reminded, turning and following Tom to his rig, “but it’ll wait.”

Vonnie’s eyes, as blue as ever under her saucy lavender hat, watched as Tom handed Ellie up into the buggy.

“I thought,” Marfa said casually, “that you had already seen Tom since you got back.”

B
irdie Wharton had blushed that Sunday morning to find herself dressing with extra care.

But what, after all, was there to change, to improve? Her Sunday shoes were newer replicas of her everyday shoes; her skirt, kept for Sunday and special occasions, was not much different than the two she wore, turn and turn about, to school. Cut from the same pattern, made to the same dimensions and fitting the same, it varied only in its color, being gray where the others were black and navy. Her shirtwaist, instead of being black percale, durable and neat, was white pique, its severity relieved by the addition of an Alastor choker collar and with a small but definite puff to its sleeves. In it Birdie felt quite another person, more poised, more important, more dignified.

Birdie’s small salary, by the time she paid a modest amount for her board, left little money for necessities, let alone luxuries. Occasionally she invested in a book or magazine, which she doted on and counted her only extravagance. Necessary equipment and supplies were selected thriftily from the Bliss store’s limited selection
or ordered from the catalog as need demanded: tooth powder, hairpins, yarn and thread, pen nibs and ink, shoe polish, hosiery—for summer “Black Cotton with patent finished seams, 24 gauge. Fast color and stainless, price per pair $0.05.”

Winter hosiery was more costly, but it must be paid—warmth was essential: “All Wool Full Seamless Hose, extra length, double heels and toes, elastic ribbed top, black only, $0.19 per pair.” Birdie did a lot of darning and mending on her wardrobe, hosiery in particular. Sometimes the darned stockings rubbed her heels raw, calling for further expense: Petroleum Jelly.

Petroleum Jelly was her only concession to health and beauty. “This is another name for Pure Vaseline or Cosmoline and other titles given to it,” the catalog explained. “It is one of the most valuable and also the most harmless and simple articles to have at hand in cases of bruises, chaps, roughness of the skin, etc., price, each, $0.06.”

Five cents here, five cents there, and one needed to save
something
for a rainy day. Remembering a time when she had been thrust out on her own with little or no money, desperate and alone, Birdie determined it would never happen to her again. And so she pinched and saved, accumulating a nest egg in case—God forbid—another such grim situation arose in her life.

And so what was there to improve about herself or her wardrobe on this particular Sunday? Why did she suddenly regret the absence of certain fripperies—a modest Chatelaine watch, perhaps, to pin on the bosom of her shirtwaist. Or a simple pair of cuff buttons, chosen from among the more than 80 pairs pictured in the catalog, beginning with “Ladies’ or boys’ onyx settings, ornamented edges, per pair, $0.25,” to “Solid gold, very fancy, raised ornamentation, set with two diamonds. Per pair, $5.50,” and a great variety in between. Or how about a fan—the weather was warming, and a fan, to snap open and cool one’s self casually, certainly would be acceptable; she’d forgo the “New Empire Fan, that all of the most stylish ladies are using at present,” and settle for a “Japanese Folding Fan, made of good quality paper, beautifully decorated, handsomely corded. $0.03.” Three cents!
Why, oh why hadn’t she had the foresight to invest that much in her own comfort, not to mention self-perception?

Watchless, cuff buttonless, fanless. Giving herself a shake, Birdie studied herself in the beveled mirror, frowning at her foolishness in giving a minute’s consideration to blatant tommyrot. Frowning because, in spite of doing her best, it was the same Birdie looking back at her, the Birdie who had not been enough... before.

The memories threatened...

Hastily Birdie picked up her hair, twisting and pulling, forming it into a bun at the back of her neck. Then, on an impulse, she pulled a few strands loose, as Lydia had done, allowing them to curl wispily around her face, remembering other days and other mirrors when her eyes had held a gleam and her hair had frisked free, tempting a man to run a hand through it—

The memories! And why today?

It was the letters, of course. Much as she disdained them, much as she determined to ignore them, she found herself thinking of them over and over. Perhaps it was the emptiness of her life, the dull routine of her days, the very pointlessness of her future, burgeoning the nameless correspondence all out of perspective until she, who was dedicated to common sense and service, should find her heart lifting with expectation.

Suddenly, in a blaze of anger at her foolishness, calling herself addlepated, Birdie snatched open the dresser drawer and withdrew the two envelopes. About to rip them into shreds, she found herself immobile, unable to bring herself to so summarily destroy the one ray of light in her otherwise humdrum existence.

Hesitating, staring down at the misspelled
Saskachewan
, trembling on the brink of a decision, she found herself smoothing out the envelopes, gently replacing them in the drawer. Replacing them and shoving the drawer shut with some small explosion of feeling, though whether of finality, anger, or frustration was not clear, even to her.

“Birdie! Ho, Birdie! Are you ready?” It was Lydia Bloom at the foot of the stairs, hatted, gloved, Bible in hand, ready to take off for church.

“Coming!”

Hastily now Birdie swept back every recalcitrant tendril of hair, fastening them severely. Reaching for her hat, she pinned the neat but well-worn “Leghorn Flat” on top of her head. Bought untrimmed, it was worn untrimmed. Lydia had offered a bunch of silk and velvet violets for decoration, but until today they had been ignored. Now, at the last minute, Birdie snatched the humble violets from the dresser top, set them on the hat brim, and, with a thrust of a hat pin, affixed them. Startled at her own action and with her hands going to her hat ready to remove the nosegay, Birdie heard Lydia’s voice again, more urgent this time.

“Birdie! Herbert is waiting, my dear. Are you all right up there?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be right down!”

At the last moment Birdie picked up the “lapidary cut stopper bottle of diamond brilliance” presented to her at Christmastime by Lydia and dabbed a restrained amount of Queen Victoria Lily of the Valley perfume behind one ear.