Forsaking All Others (27 page)

“Elias mentioned your . . . circumstances,” she said.

I thanked her and went into my parents’ stripped room to change. Mother was already dressed in a simple, sturdy black frock that she had begun sewing the first day Papa couldn’t get out of bed.

In the meantime, Elias Dobbins and the hired hands transferred Papa’s casket to Dobbins’s wagon and headed for the cemetery. Mama and I were driven in our neighbor’s carryall. We arrived to find some dozen mourners, though it was their presence more than their demeanor that would classify them as such. Nobody wept, though it did warm my heart to see how sweetly my mother was received. At some point it occurred to me that I might have better served my father by staying home today, as I could not escape the curious sidelong glances of those gathered under the pretense of paying respect to the man being lowered into the ground.

It wasn’t until Reverend Harris stood at the head of the grave and cleared his throat that the eyes and attention of those gathered turned to the circumstances at hand. The minute he began to speak, I was transported back to my childhood, when I’d spent every Sunday morning of my life in a wooden pew listening to men who sounded just like this. This morning, like all of those, the pastor’s voice held so little life, such a lack of passion, that I found my mind wandering even at my own father’s funeral. I know he quoted Scripture after Scripture: the vanity of life spoken of in Ecclesiastes and the reminder that we had come from dust and to dust would return.

I wanted to scream. All around me heads nodded in solemn agreement. Meaninglessness and dust. But my father’s life had not been meaningless. He loved his work, loved his farm, loved his family, and though his stern nature masked his passion, loved his Lord. He was not dust. His body, yes, was now an empty shell—it had nearly become such the moment he fell ill. But he himself was beautifully restored. Healed. Why couldn’t Reverend Harris speak of that?

I had fled this church, run from these teachings, chasing the light in Nathan Fox’s eyes—a light I didn’t see in a single person gathered here. I thought about the promises given to the Mormons. No good Saint ever considered himself as meaningless dust. His work on earth bought him glory hereafter. He would be glorified, blessed with wives and children, himself a god. None of it true, but all of it enticing. Why, then, at the funeral of a good Christian man must we dwell on the emptiness of life? Who would trade deity for dust?

My hands clenched into fists at my side, and God himself held my mouth shut. Somehow, above the arguments whirling in my head, I heard Reverend Harris speak my name. Torn from my silent tirade, I looked to him, questioning.

“I have one more Scripture I would share on your behalf.”

It was, as far as I can recall, the first time he had ever spoken to me directly.

“I should like to read the words of our Lord from the fourteenth chapter of the Gospel of John.” The pages of his Bible rustled in the spring breeze as he read the familiar words: “‘Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.’”

He closed his Bible, holding the place with one finger, making the book an extension of himself. “Camilla, Ruth, let not your hearts be troubled.” Then, to those gathered, “Our friend and neighbor Arlen Deardon has been received unto Christ. Even now, he resides in the house of our Lord, in a place prepared for him. Such a place is prepared for all of us. Jesus Christ has said it is so.”

This time when the heads nodded, I joined them, privately humbled at my criticism of Reverend Harris’s message.

“There are those,” he continued, looking at me again, “who would have you believe that the hereafter is a mystery, and they would seek to solve that mystery by creating their own vision. But we must be ever vigilant to seek only the truth in Scripture. Jesus promises to give us what we long for every day. A home. After life’s long journey, we are given a home. What more could man want?”

The question hung between us, but I felt no accusation. Only questioning, as if he needed confirmation. Silently I held out my hand, requesting his Bible, which, after a brief raising of his eyebrows in surprise, he handed to me.

Carefully, I took the book, keeping the same passage marked with my own finger. “May I continue?” I asked, startled at the strength of my own voice.

“Of course,” Reverend Harris said, his eyes full of knowing.

“‘Thomas saith unto him, Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’”

I was given no chorus of agreement, which I attribute to the crowd’s shock at having a woman—a recently heretical woman—read Scripture at the funeral of a good Christian man. It was my mother who responded first, saying, “Amen.”

Gently, Reverend Harris retrieved his Bible from me. “I would hope that thus is the testimony of all gathered here.”

At that, a subdued amen tumbled through the crowd, my own affirmation a choked whisper.

“Then it would seem,” he continued, “that we gather today to acknowledge another homecoming as well. Just as Arlen Deardon is welcomed to his mansion in heaven, so is his daughter welcomed into our lives. Let us gather together in rejoicing.”

Chapter 22

The rest of the day following Papa’s service was an endless round of curiosity veiled as sympathy, much like the previous day, though the presence of Reverend Harris proved to be a comfort in the end.

“I should like to have a long talk with you sometime, young lady,” he said when given the opportunity to corner me in the parlor. “I feel you have much to teach me.”

I smiled at the compliment. “I don’t claim to know very much. Only what I have read in the Scriptures.”

“I mean about
them
, their teachings. Is it, after all, so very different from what we as Christians believe?”

For a fleeting moment I felt such pity for this man, a man of God, to have even the slightest hint of doubt. “One wouldn’t think so, at first,” I said by way of sparing his pride.

“And so it is a movement birthed in deception.”

“I can think of no better description.”

“May I ask, then, what it was that brought you back to the truth?”

“The Holy Spirit,” I answered without hesitation. “God never left me.”

Thankfully, our friends had mercy on us and our house was empty just after noon. Mama and I were both walking dead on our feet, and it was Reverend Harris’s wife who finally shooed the last of our guests out the front door.

While we were at the graveside service, helpful neighbors had come into our home, sweeping it from top to bottom and organizing the gifts of food that had been brought. This, of course, proved a great help during the time of reception, but it wasn’t until Mama and I found ourselves once again alone that we realized the greatest favor of all. The room that had served as a place of sickness for so long had itself been renewed—scrubbed clean, with fresh, light curtains hanging in the place of those meant to block out the sun. A new, plump tick sat on the bed, covered with a thick, luxurious-looking quilt. Nothing in the world had ever looked so inviting. The countless sad hours piled on top of each other, and in one motion, Mama and I dropped down on top of it.

Side by side we rested, holding hands, cooled by the afternoon breeze coming through the open window.

“When you was very little,” she said, speaking to the ceiling, “I would put you down for an afternoon nap in here. And I would tell your father, ‘Oops! I just heard the baby cry,’ and then I’d sneak in here and lie down beside you. You was always fast asleep, but I’d pretend you needed me, just to get some rest for myself.”

“I do the same with my girls.” My mind filled with visions of those long, snowbound days when we might cuddle and rest for an entire afternoon.

Mama squeezed my hand. “I can’t wait for you to bring them home.”

“They’ll love it here. Lottie especially. She loves cows. She might prove to be a better hand than I ever was.”

I paused, giving Mama time to respond with something—maybe a reassurance that I’d always done the best I could or even a joke about just how inept I was at dairy farming—but all I heard was a low, whistling snore. Her grip went lax, and I turned on my side to look at her. Lying down, her face smoothed back to the one I knew as a child. Never beautiful, but familiar. I curled up beside her, drawing my knees as close as I could to my body, and after a few minutes wondering if I wasn’t actually too tired to sleep, found myself slipping into sweet, safe darkness.

We slept until morning—late morning, actually. I awoke with such a pressing need, I worried I would not make it out across the yard in time. I threw myself off the bed, leaving Mama in a fit of childish giggles, and flung open our front door. The sight of the man on the other side nearly made me lose my battle with the morning’s necessities. Not that he was frightening, just unexpected, and this sight of him with his hand raised midknock made me think that perhaps it was he who woke us.

“Good morning.” He actually tipped his hat, revealing a head full of thick, ash-gray, close-cropped hair. “Is Mrs. Deardon at home?”

“Yes, yes,” I said, ushering him in. I yelled, “Mama!” over my shoulder before excusing myself and, as dignified as I could, blustering past him. I made sure the door was firmly closed behind me before tearing out for the privy.

Later, relieved, I walked back into the house to see Mama and our guest sitting at the table, an open portfolio in front of them and the kettle hissing on the stove.

“So that
is
you, Miss Camilla. I thought I’d heard that you were back, but one can never take too much stock in rumors; at least I’ve always thought so.”

I looked at him harder.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He held out his hand. “Michael Bostwick. My son, Michael Junior, was your schoolmate.”

“Ah yes,” I said, barely able to recollect a soft, round-faced boy who even as a child wasn’t nearly as handsome as the distinguished gentleman now in our kitchen.

“Mr. Bostwick’s son is at Harvard,” Mama said, offering an oddly unnecessary bit of news.

“Law school.” He puffed with pride. “Like his father.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, unconvinced.

“I’m here to go over the details of your father’s will. Oh, pardon me—so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

The hissing kettle begged for my attention, and I busied myself making tea while Mr. Bostwick settled into his place at the table.

“You need to join us, Camilla,” Mama said. “This concerns you as much as it does me.”

“Very well,” I said, stalling. Something about Mama’s cool, calm demeanor unnerved me. It was as if every minute of the past few days—the past few months, maybe, with Papa’s illness and death—had led up to this moment. I poured each of us a steaming mug of tea and found a bowl full of assorted muffins left over from yesterday’s meal. Mr. Bostwick looked over the selection with a critical eye, finally choosing a perfectly rounded specimen. He brought his tea to his lips, sniffed, blew, and slurped before setting the mug down in front of him.

“Now,” he said, “you’ll be happy to know that I have a buyer for the farm.”

“You’re selling the farm?” Nothing—not one word—had been said about this as even a possibility, let alone a plan, but from the look of relief on Mama’s face, it was clear this came as no surprise.

“It’s what your papa wanted,” she said. “And me, too. I can’t run it on my own. Don’t want to even if I could.”

“Who’s buying it?” I tried to picture strangers sitting at our table, cooking at Mama’s stove. But then, I’d abandoned this home long ago. Perhaps I had no right to question.

“Nobody you know.” Mr. Bostwick shuffled through papers as he talked. “A family moving into the community. Cousins of the Lindgrens, I believe.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mama said, recapturing his attention. “How soon can they be here?”

“Mama, where are we going to live?”

The
we
seemed to have caught her attention, and I instantly regretted my selfishness. Of course she’d had no way to know of my arrival or my plans. Still, I was here now, and pregnant, and if nothing else, she needed a roof over her head. Like her, I turned to Mr. Bostwick.

“You have options.” He found more papers to shuffle. “Mr. Deardon—God rest his soul—owned a building in town that he currently rents to, well, me. My office is downstairs, and since my wife’s passing, I live in the apartment above. You would be perfectly within your legal rights to evict me from the living quarters, if you would like to occupy those for yourselves. But I would appreciate some notice—”

“I have no plans to evict you from your home, Mr. Bostwick,” Mama said.

“Which I appreciate,” he said, lifting his mug of tea in tribute. “Not to mention that my continued tenancy will provide a modest income. Now, your husband—your father, Miss Camilla—also owned the adjoining lot, which is currently vacant, and a smaller piece of land right on the edge of town, just behind the school.”

My head swam with all of this. “How long has he owned these properties?”

More paper shuffling, but it was Mama who provided the answer. “He was always a good businessman. I knew about the lots in town, but not about the other.”

“It was purchased about six years ago.” He looked up at me. “Maybe soon after you left?”

“So you’d have a place to come home to,” Mama said softly. “Do you think, Mr. Bostwick, with the sale of the farm and the lot next to your building we’d be able to build a house on that land?”

“Mama, I don’t want to be a financial burden to you.”

“Now wait,” Mr. Bostwick said, “you have an inheritance of your own coming to you.”

“I do?” I wrung my hands as I always did when I was nervous, especially worrying the place where my fingers had been amputated. I caught Mr. Bostwick’s eyes staring, a hint of discomfort in them, and I stopped, bringing them to rest in my lap.