Mittman, Stephanie (5 page)

"Sure,
Sissy," he agreed easily. He made no move, though, to do it.

"Maybe
you best have a look before it gets dark," she suggested.
Shoo!
her
eyes said.
Go. Go.

Ethan
looked outside as if to judge the darkness. There was at least an hour more of
light, maybe more.

"Tell
you what," he said. "You give me another piece of pie and I'll not
only look at the gate, I'll fix it." He smiled at the minister.

"You
can eat pie in the dark," Annie said. "Which is more than I can say
for fixin' the fence. Now go."

Ethan
looked surprised, but he didn't argue with his sister. For that, Annie was
grateful.

"What
did you mean," Annie asked once Ethan was out of the house, "about my
making a good wife?"

Miller
looked up. Annie's hand rested on the table between their plates. The table was
as scrubbed as Annie could get it, but there were burn marks and pot charrings
that couldn't be cleaned away. And a new layer of dust had already settled around
them, as though she hadn't spent the hours between church and supper dusting
the very room they sat in.

Not
surprisingly, Miller's hands remained in his lap. He sighed heavily. "You
are a fine woman, Sissy Morrow. Not to mention a good cook. You've kept a fine
house from a young age. And when poor Elvira was suffering so, you were a
comfort to her beyond measure."

"And?"

"And
I owe you a good deal. And I hope someday to repay it. After all, you surely
have the makings of a very fine wife. A man would be lucky to call you his
own."

She
waited, but he seemed to have nothing further to say on the subject. He made it
sound as though it was his duty to marry her and that he felt he wasn't getting
too bad a bargain. She was a good cook, a good housekeeper, and an honest
woman. If he was looking for more than that, she didn't know what it could be.

His
fingers played with the rim of her dishes. At least she knew they had started
out clean, tucked away carefully in the cupboard with the cheesecloth spread
over them. She wondered what would happen to her precious dishes if Willa had
china of her own that she wanted to use.

Annie
had taken such care of their china. It had been her mother's treasure, brought
all the way from England by Annie's great-grandmother. The children had never
been allowed to do anything but eat off it. No setting the table, no clearing
the plates. It was Annie's responsibility, and she had taken it so seriously
that even now, seventeen years after her mother's death, all that the set lacked
was the one bowl her father had smashed the day her mother died.

He
had been spooning broth into her, trying to build up her strength, when she had
pushed his hand away and shook her head. "Sissy," she had said,
calling the little girl to her side. "Love them for me, Sissy. Love them
all like they was your own." Then she'd smiled at the nine-year-old and
her father and sighed. It was her last smile and her last sigh. Her eyelids
hadn't even fluttered when Jack Morrow had thrown the bowl across the room, to
shatter into a million pieces.

Less
than an hour later she was gone and Annie was diapering the week-old Francie
and giving her a sugar teat.

"Bart
is plannin' to ask Willa to marry him," Annie told Miller. "Maybe
right now he might be talkin' to her pa."

"Well,"
Miller said with a nod, "that'll be one wedding I'll be happy to perform.
Bart and Willa are both good people. I'm sure they'll do honor unto the
Lord."

"Yes,"
she agreed. "But you see, Bart has managed the farm since well before Pa
died, and—"

"And
done a good job too," Miller said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and
looking around the room. Annie saw his gaze linger on the dusty floor.

"Drought's
been real hard on the house. Soon as I sweep, a new layer settles. Anyway, the
farm is really Bart's, and when he marries Willa, they plan on settlin' here.
Not surprisin', really. But it kinda leaves me in a pickle."

"Oh,
I see." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then took her hand in his.
"Sissy, if you're asking me to accelerate our proposed nuptials—"

"Ain't
nothin' wrong with that gate that I can see," Ethan said as he barged into
the house, the door slamming behind him.

Annie
felt her cheeks pinken slightly as Miller quickly took his hand away. "I
can't," he said quietly. "Give me a few more months, for Elvira's
sake and Van Wert's."

Van
Wert, she thought. The whole town had them as good as married already. Was
there anyone who would raise an eyebrow if she were to marry Miller tomorrow?
Yes, she thought. Miller would.

***

Ethan
plopped down in his seat at the table and reached for a slice of pie. He was
still young, so it was hard for Miller to fault him for his impatience, his
constant champing at the bit to be off to his next adventure. Still, sitting
across from a young man who seemed to be perched on hot cockles was not his
idea of a relaxing evening. The truth was, his sister had done the best she
could with him, as she had with the rest of her family.

And
there seemed to be so many of them. Miller wondered what it would be like to
have so many relatives coming out of the woodwork all the time. He didn't think
he'd care for it overly.

"So,"
he said to Ethan in an attempt to make polite conversation with the young man,
who was quickly making his third piece of pie disappear. "You like working
for Mr. Eastman?"

"That
I do," Ethan answered, his mouth full of pie. "He's a gentleman and a
gentle man, fair, honest, hardworking, and real good to his girls."

"They
even remember their mama?" Sissy wondered.

"Oh,
surely they must. The flood was only last year, and the little girl is what,
two or three?" Miller asked Ethan.

"This
many," Ethan said with a laugh, holding up two fingers and bending a third
at the knuckle. "That's what Julia says, this many!"

"He
seems to be a good father," Sissy went on.

"Yes,
but he don't know much about farming. Don't know what he done before. Lucky for
him he's got me to show him the ropes."

"Shame
about his wife," Miller said.

He
expected Sissy to agree, but she was oddly silent. Perhaps she was busy with
thoughts of her own. Who knew what women were thinking about when they went all
quiet and seemed to withdraw? His Elvira would sometimes be silent for hours.
But those were peaceful, contented times for him. Now the silences of being
alone were somehow not as welcome.

"He
don't talk about her at all," Ethan said.

"That's
not good for a man, keeping everything bottled up inside," Miller said.
"I surely know that."

"Maybe,"
Sissy said, "it's best to put the past behind you and go on from
there."

He
knew she was referring to Elvira, not Mrs. Eastman, but he pretended not to
notice. It was his job to do the mourning, not hers.

"Sissy,"
he said, "I think it would be a kindness to the man and his family to find
a way to help him honor his wife. It must have been a terrible thing, leaving
her behind in Johnstown. Why, we don't even know if there was a body. We have a
duty to help him." He kissed the cross around his neck.

"Maybe
he just wants to be left alone about it," she counseled. "If he
wanted to share his grief—"

"But
that's just it," he said. "We have to help him share his grief
whether he wants to or not. Didn't you hear my sermon today? If you and the
others hadn't helped me, I don't know what might have happened to me. Now I
must pass on that help, reach out my hand to someone else crossing that bridge
of despair."

When
he'd finally gotten them both to agree, he assigned to Ethan the task of
finding out more about Mrs. Eastman. With reluctance, because of both her poor
penmanship and her grammar, he asked Sissy to write to the Johnstown Methodist
Church and find out what might be an appropriate memorial for Wylene Eastman.
The task of soliciting contributions he reserved for himself, knowing his
discretion was far better than any of the Morrows, who were incapable of keeping
secrets. He had always admired Sissy's candor, but the thought of a wife with
that quality did unnerve him just a little.

In
fact, everything about Sissy Morrow unnerved him: her strength, her directness,
her spirit. The women in his life—his mother, his wife—had been quiet, demure
beings who saw to his needs and rarely voiced an opinion of their own. When
they were alive, they depended on him for everything, both physically and
intellectually.

His
status conferred on them a respectability and a place in the community that was
a minister's stock in trade. He elevated them to a level neither could have
achieved without him, a thought that made his chest swell with pride. Sissy
Morrow, on the other hand, needed none of his importance, for she was already
one of the most beloved and respected members of his congregation. She had
managed so well, from such a tender age, that he felt almost superfluous around
her.

Perhaps
she didn't know the finer points of upper class society. He was sure she'd
never read Thomas Hill's
Manual of Social and Business Forms,
which
suggested that a husband be "strong, brave, and wise" while a wife
need only be "confident in his bravery, strength, and wisdom." He
didn't know if she'd read any book on etiquette or, for that matter, any book
at all.

He'd
get used to Sissy, he supposed. She had many fine qualities he would no doubt
come to treasure as he got older still. There was so much he admired about her
already. She cooked and cleaned better than any hired help and had a good head
on her shoulders despite her lack of education. She was already performing most
of the duties a minister's wife was expected to see to. Their marriage would be
almost a formality.

Except,
of course, for the one thing which only marriage provided. Elvira had been sick
for years. Remembering back to their earlier years he was forced to admit that
their time together in the marriage bed hadn't been one of God's miracles, even
when she'd been well. Elvira had been a frightened, shy woman who was deathly
afraid of pain. There had never been any question about children.

But
Sissy was a young woman. Who knew what she would expect from him? It was
something that, as a man of the cloth and as Elvira's husband, he had never had
to give much thought to before. Now, sitting across from his bride-to-be, he
found the idea daunting.

But
he had an obligation he wouldn't shirk. Sissy had been there in his wife's hour
of need—which, in all honesty, was many, many hours of many days, weeks,
months, and even years—and he would do what was expected of him. When the time
was right, of course.

***

"I'll
walk you out, Miller," Annie offered, when it seemed like the discussion
was over. Ethan appeared to be nailed to his seat and ready to start a fourth
slice of pie.

Out
in the dusk she stood by his fine carriage. It wasn't fancy, but it was more
elegant than anything her family had ever owned. The horse, too, was a beauty,
one of the finest driving horses in all Van Wert County.

He
stood with his hat still in his hands, fingering the brim as though he were a
schoolboy with a bad case of nerves.

"What's
bothering you, Miller?" she asked. With three brothers, she'd seen enough
nervous men to recognize the signs.

He
swallowed hard. "You're a lot younger than I," he said.

"So?"

He
put the hat on his head, searched for a place to put his hands, and then
stuffed them in his armpits. "Folks might talk about how I could nearly be
your father."

Well,
at least he was thinking about marrying her, even if he didn't sound exactly
eager. If it wasn't for Willa Leeman taking over her house, Annie wouldn't be
all that anxious herself. But their age difference? That hadn't even occurred
to her.

"Do
you really think so?" she asked, a little flattered. No one ever thought
of Annie as young, least of all Annie herself. After all, she'd been mother to
five siblings who were now all grown.

"I
suppose not most," he admitted, "but some might."

"Oh."
And, she thought, it wouldn't just be Willa taking over her house. Unless Annie
was mistaken, there was a bun in Willa's oven that would be popping before they
all knew it.

"A
man of God has to be careful about these things. If I can marry a woman
fourteen or fifteen years my junior, what's to stop someone else? Think of your
brothers."

She
could hardly think of anything else. Bart had already announced his intention
to marry Willa, who was roughly the same age as he was, twenty-tree. Charlie
was married to Risa, two years his senior. That left only Ethan. And Annie
didn't really think there was much danger of him marrying a five-year-old.

"And,
of course, there is Elvira's memory. A year of mourning is the least I can do
to show my love and respect for the woman who was my wife for eighteen
years."