Caleb's Story (3 page)

6

 

 

T
here was no school for the next few days. The cold was hard for the horses and children. I would have liked it any other time, staying home. But not in this house. Not with Papa and Grandfather passing each other without talking, the only sounds in the house the clicking of Sarah's knitting needles, Cassie's chattering, Min batting a marble across the floor. Two times I heard Sarah and Papa's voices, sharp and soft at the same time, behind their closed bedroom door. Once Papa had burst out of the room, brushing past me in the hallway. He had stayed in the barn most of the day.

“Why won't they talk to each other?” I whispered to Sarah.

“They are stubborn, Caleb.”

“But they are family,” I said.

“I know. That's what makes it so hard.”

“Can't you do something? Can't you make Papa—”

“Caleb,” Sarah interrupted me. “Your papa has to do this himself.”

“I don't know, Sarah. Papa's angry. Will he hurt Grandfather?”

Sarah's look changed and she put her arms around me.

“Oh, no, Caleb. They are grown-up men. They won't do that. They will talk about their differences.”

“Sarah?”

“Yes, Caleb?”

“I think Grandfather is sick.”

Sarah looked at me closely.

“Why do you say that, Caleb?”

The door opened, and Grandfather came into the kitchen. The dogs followed, snow on their noses. Grandfather stamped his feet, leaving snow on the rug by the door. He sat down, the dogs surrounding him.

“They've adopted you, Lottie and Nick,” said Sarah. “And Seal,” she added as Seal jumped out of her basket and came over to Grandfather.

Grandfather was out of breath.

“Grandfather!”

Cassie came into the kitchen and leaned against Grandfather.

“I drew seven more pictures of you!”

She had dozens of pictures of Grandfather: Grandfather sitting, running, standing, sleeping, riding a horse (Grandfather was much larger than the horse), and Grandfather on the barn roof.

“Cassie has adopted you, too,” said Sarah, smiling.

Grandfather looked at Cassie quickly, then away again, not inviting any questions from her. He stroked Lottie and Nick.

“We always had good farm dogs here.”

Grandfather looked surprised at his own memory. Or maybe he was surprised he was talking about his memories.

“What kinds of dogs did you have?” I asked. “What were their names?”

Grandfather raised his eyebrows.

“You'll write about this, won't you.”

“Maybe.”

Grandfather looked at my journal on the table, then shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair.

“Pal was the big one, part hound, with long ears. She could jump over the tallest fences. Jacob . . .” He stopped for a moment. “Jacob used to try to get her to jump over the cattle.”

“Did she jump over a cow?” asked Cassie.

“Don't know that,” said Grandfather.

“And then there was Maudie,” Grandfather went on. “She was small and black, like Lottie here.”

Lottie wagged her tail at the sound of her name.

“Maudie loved winter. She would stay out all day, even in storms. We would have to go out and find her and bring her in at night. Then we found Rags one day, out in the slough, drinking water. He had wandered from somewhere far away. He looked like a heap of rags . . . thin and sorry lookin', but he was the sweetest dog of them all.”

Grandfather looked at us, suddenly aware of the silence.

“Well,” he said, embarrassed, “that was a lot of talk from me.”

There was a small sound by the kitchen door. Lottie and Nick looked up, wagging their tails again. Papa stood there.

“Was that your dog, Papa? Rags who was sweet?” asked Cassie.

Papa didn't speak.

“Jacob?” asked Sarah, softly.

Then, as if waking from a daydream, and without a look at anyone, Papa went outside.

Sarah sighed. She went to the window and looked out.

Grandfather started to get up, then he sat down hard, his face showing pain. Sarah didn't see, but I saw. He put his hand on his chest. Then he took out his bottle of pills, but it dropped from his hand. Lottie, always hoping for play, picked up the bottle in her mouth and raced around the table.

“Lottie! Stop!” said Grandfather sternly.

But Lottie wanted to play. As soon as Grandfather got close to her, Lottie jumped back and raced away. Nick barked and ran after the two of them.

Finally, it was Sarah who stopped Lottie.

“Drop that,” she said.

Lottie, who loved Sarah, dropped the bottle of pills at Sarah's feet.

“That is mine,” said Grandfather.

Sarah looked at the bottle.

“What are these pills for, John?” asked Sarah. She turned the bottle around and read the label on the back.

“Heart? These are for your heart?” she asked.

“Where does it say that?” demanded Grandfather. “Where?”

I could see the words
FOR HEART
written on the bottle. Why couldn't Grandfather see those words, too?

“This is not your business,” he added rudely.

“Yes it is,” said Sarah carefully. “You are family. Your health is important to us.”

Grandfather reached out for the bottle, but Sarah moved back.

“There are only a few pills left, John. We can drive to town and see Sam. He's our doctor.”

Grandfather's face was still and angry.

“Those are my pills!” he said loudly.

“And you are
my
family!” said Sarah.

 

 

Grandfather was lying on his bed, Seal next to his pillow.

“Grandfather?”

“I'm resting, Caleb.”

“Don't be angry with Sarah, Grandfather.”

“She shouldn't meddle in my business.”

“Sarah has a strong mind,” I said.

Grandfather made a small sound.

“Before Sarah came to the prairie, Papa was sad,” I said. “Sometimes he didn't talk. He didn't sing. He had been alone for a long time. Except for Anna. Except for me.”

Grandfather turned away from me, facing the window. I picked up Anna's journal. “Anna wrote about that. About why Sarah made a difference in Papa's life. In our life.”

I read.

“‘Sometimes Sarah dances, and she makes Papa dance, too, his face shy, his smile like Caleb's smile.

“‘Sometimes, when Papa worries about the farm or the weather, Sarah takes his hand and pulls him outside.

“‘“Come, Jacob, come walk with me,” she says.

“‘And he does.

“‘They walk the fields and the country road, Lottie and Nick following them. Once they chased each other through the rows of corn and we could hear the sounds of their laughter.'”

Grandfather didn't speak. But there was a sound behind me, Cassie in the doorway.

“Maybe
we
should dance,” she said, her voice small in the room. “Don't you think, Grandfather?”

Still, Grandfather didn't speak.

“Would that be good?” she asked.

After a moment I took Cassie's hand, and together, we left Grandfather alone.

7

T
he day was sunny, the sun on snow so bright that my eyes watered. Snow was melting. I could hear it dripping off the fences and the barn roof.

Papa was silent, his hands light on the reins. The wagon hardly made any sound on the snow-covered road. I sat in back with Cassie, Grandfather next to us, facing the farm, watching it disappear.

We passed the west meadow, Bess and May running alongside the fence with us, as if they wanted to go to town, too. We passed the slough, thick with ice. There were no clouds. The land stretched out so far that my eyes couldn't even see the places where the sky came down.

“Sing a song, Grandfather,” said Cassie.

Grandfather ignored her.

“Please,” said Cassie.

“I don't sing songs,” said Grandfather.

“Never?” asked Cassie.

“Never.”

“Never once?” asked Cassie.

Grandfather was quiet. But Cassie wasn't.

“Didn't you sing to Papa when he was a little boy?”

Very slowly Grandfather turned to look at Cassie. But before he could speak, Sarah cried out.

“Oh, no! Jacob, look!”

Sarah stood and Papa slowed the wagon.

A bonfire was burning in the cemetery. A family stood there next to the tiniest pine coffin I had ever seen.

“Jacob,” said Sarah. “Stop. Please.”

“Don't go over there, Sarah,” said Papa. “It's the sickness.”

“Stop the wagon,” said Sarah.

Papa stopped and Sarah got down.

“
What's wrong?” asked Cassie.

I put my arm around Cassie to protect her.

“Nothing important,” I said.

“A fire to thaw the ground. To bury the dead,” said Grandfather flatly. “By the looks of it, it's a baby who died.”

Papa whirled around.

“Don't! It isn't your place to tell her anything,” he said in a harsh whisper.

Grandfather stared back at Papa.

“I told her the truth.”

I watched Sarah making her way through the snow to where the family stood. One of their children turned and watched her. And then the mother turned. Even from where we were in the wagon I could see the look of her. It made it hard for me to breathe, to see her face. Sarah put her arms around the woman.

Beside me Grandfather sat still. Cassie put her head on his shoulder. He didn't put his arm around her. But he didn't move away either.

Papa got down and went to meet Sarah. I could see she was crying. Papa took her in his arms and led her back to the wagon. Cassie began to cry, too, and Grandfather put an arm around her. Sarah and Papa climbed up in the wagon.

“We will stay together in town,” said Sarah. “No wandering, Cassie. John will see Sam. Then we'll come straight home.”

“But, Mama,” protested Cassie. “I wanted to go to the store.”

“No, Cassie,” said Sarah. “You'll have to stay close to us.”

Papa flicked the reins over the horses' backs. Slowly the wagon started off again, leaving us watching the fire burning, the small coffin, the family. We watched for a long time, until the fire became a tiny, faraway flickering light on the prairie.

 

There were not many people in town, only a few wagons and some cars. The streets looked lonely, and as we drove to Sam's office I could see pictures of flags hung in windows. These families had sons who had gone to war in Europe. On other doors were black wreaths that meant someone had died there, of influenza or in the fighting.

“Caleb!”

Anna ran down the steps of Sam's house, smiling at us.

I climbed down from the wagon.

“I didn't know you were coming!” she said.

Papa and Sarah hugged Anna. Anna picked Cassie up.

“You're so big, Cassie! So tall!”

Slowly Grandfather climbed down from the wagon.

“Jacob?” said Sarah.

“This is John Witting, Anna,” Papa said. “I'll take your list to the store, Sarah.”

Sarah turned and watched Papa walk across the street to the store.

“John Witting?” Anna asked, curious.

Grandfather put out his hand.

“I'm your grandfather,” he said bluntly. “You look like your papa. I've come to see the doctor.”

Grandfather began to walk across the yard to the office.

Anna looked at Sarah.

“He's your papa's father,” said Sarah.

“You can call him Grandfather,” said Cassie.

“But Sarah . . . where has he been?” asked Anna.

Sarah shook her head.

“He's been lost,” said Cassie.

Anna looked past the wagon, watching Papa go into the store.

“And Papa's not happy,” she said.

“I wish you were home,” I said to her. “You'd know what to do.”

Anna turned.

“Wait. I'll take you in to the doctor,” she called to Grandfather.

Grandfather waved his hand and climbed up the steps.

“I'll do this myself,” he said.

Anna smiled.

“I was about to ask what he was like,” she said.

“That's easy,” I said. “He's like . . .”

“Papa,” we said at the same time, laughing.

Sarah put her arm around Anna.

“You look tired. Are you getting enough rest? Have you heard from Justin?”

“I'm fine. I got a letter this past week. He's homesick.”

Sarah sighed.

“First the war, then the influenza . . .” she said. “An early winter . . .”

“And then Grandfather,” I said, making her smile.

“I like Grandfather,” said Cassie. “He calls me the Queen of Questions!”

Anna laughed.

“Cassie will tell you all about him. She asks him questions from morning until night,” said Sarah.

“And Caleb writes everything down in his journal!” said Cassie. “Someday I'm going to write everything down, too,” she added.

“Heaven help us,” said Sarah. She and Anna began to laugh.

Then Sarah's face was serious again.

“I want you to be very careful, Anna. We passed the Morgans . . .”

“Oh, their baby, I know . . .” Anna's voice trailed off.

Tears came to Sarah's eyes.

“I'm careful. It's getting better. It really is,” said Anna.

Behind us the door opened and Grandfather came out, Sam behind him, frowning.

“Well?” asked Sarah.

Grandfather waved off her question.

“I'm fine. I'm fine. I don't want to talk about it,” he said.

“He's a very stubborn man,” said Sam.

“Is he all right, Sam?” asked Sarah.

Sam looked at Grandfather. Grandfather glared at Sam.

“I'm not allowed to talk about my patient, John Witting. It is confidential,” said Sam.

“Confidential!” protested Sarah. “He's family, Sam.”

Sam shrugged his shoulders.

“If he says it's private, it's private.”

Papa came back then, a small box of groceries in his arms.

“Let's go,” said Grandfather. “Time to go.”

Grandfather climbed up in the wagon. Papa looked at Sarah.

“It's private,” said Sarah crossly.

Sarah hugged Anna and got up in the wagon. Papa kissed Anna.

“I hope everything goes well with Justin,” Sarah called to Sam.

“I hope so, too,” said Sam, taking Anna's hand. “
We
hope so,” he added.

The wagon started off.

“Take your medicine!” Sam called to Grandfather.

Grandfather didn't answer.

“Let me see your medicine, Grandfather,” said Cassie.

Grandfather grunted.

“It's in your pocket,” said Cassie helpfully.

Grandfather sighed and took two bottles out of his pocket.

“What does this say?” asked Cassie.

“I can't tell you,” said Grandfather. “I don't have my eyeglasses.”

Eyeglasses?

Cassie said what I was thinking.

“I never saw you with eyeglasses,” she said. “Never once.”

Grandfather leaned back and closed his eyes.

We rode home through the quiet, empty town in afternoon light. We passed the train station, where Sarah had gotten off the train, her first step onto our prairie, and we passed the granary. We passed the empty cemetery where the fire had died out. The sun went lower in the sky that spread out above us. The only noise was the sound of the horses' hooves. We came up the road and passed the slough and turned into our yard.

I looked at Grandfather.

What eyeglasses?

 

I pushed open the door to Grandfather's room.

Grandfather was folding his clothes on the bed, the two or three shirts he had brought, his worn pants.

“It's late, Caleb,” he said. “You should be sleeping.”

“You should be, too,” I said.

“Good night then, Caleb.”

Grandfather leaned over to blow out the oil lamp.

“Wait,” I said. “Before you go to sleep I want you to read my book. I want you to read what I've written about you.”

“Not now, Caleb,” said Grandfather.

I took a deep breath.

“I'll read it to you, Grandfather,” I said.

I opened my book. I began to read to him.

“‘I love that Grandfather has come to our farm.
His
farm. I love having a grandfather who will teach me about a time I never knew. Someone who can tell me that he had a sweet dog, Rags, and that once he fell out of a tree in the west meadow. Someone who will teach me about Papa.

“‘I know a secret about Grandfather.'”

I looked up at Grandfather. He stared at me.

“‘I know that Grandfather doesn't wear eyeglasses. I know why he doesn't read my journal, Anna's journals. I know why he never wrote a letter to Papa when he went away.'”

I stopped. I felt tears at the corners of my eyes.

“You don't know how to read, Grandfather, do you?” I said very softly, almost whispering. “So you didn't know how to write a letter to Papa.”

Grandfather didn't say anything. I moved closer to the bed and showed him my book.

“You can learn,” I said. “You can.”

“That's enough, Caleb,” he said.

Grandfather moved to the window. He stared out into the dark.

“I'm too old,” he said more softly.

I went over and took Grandfather's hand.

“Grandfather,” I said, looking up at him. “I am going to teach you.”