The Gift of a Child. Laura Abbot
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embers. Pulling a shawl around her shoulders and carrying a lantern, she went out the back door toward the small barn behind the house. Night had fallen, and quiet, broken only by the occasional barking dog, had descended on the neighborhood.
Inside the barn, she placed the lantern on a hook near the door and made several trips carrying kindling into the kitchen. Then she returned for the lantern. Picking it up and preparing to leave, she was overcome by the eerie sense she was not alone. All the talk of drifters had made everyone skittish. It occurred to her that she was virtually defenseless in the darkened barn. She should scurry inside the house and bolt the doors, but before she could act, she heard a sound coming from the haystack at the back of one of the horse stalls. A high-pitched hiccupping, followed by a soft sigh. She steeled herself, knowing she had to investigate. Holding the lantern high, she tiptoed toward the sound. What she saw on the bed of hay nearly caused her to drop the lantern.
It couldn’t be. Not here. Not in her barn.
She knelt beside the figure of a little boy not much older than Mattie. He was fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth, his long, dark eyelashes closed, his chest rising and falling with his breathing. But what was on that chest was the most surprising of all. Rose raised the lantern to better read the note pinned to his tattered little shirt:
PLEEZ. TAKE KIR OF ALF. I KIN’T DO IT NO MORE.
Rose’s hands shook. She couldn’t grasp the miracle of it. Tears moistened her cheeks, yet she was oblivious to them. She kept staring at the child. Finally, she stood and set the lantern back on the hook.
Returning to the boy, she gently gathered him up in her arms and carried him into the house, all the time marveling at the loving God who had answered Rose Kellogg’s prayers.
And then her heart skipped a beat as she suddenly strangled on a new thought. Dear God, her gain might surely be some family’s worst nightmare. When she gazed once more into Alf’s peaceful face, she made a vow. Despite what tomorrow might bring, for tonight she would love him.
Rose brushed straw and grass from Alf’s grubby clothes and laid a soothing hand on his forehead, brushing away his crow-black hair. She knew soon enough her father would return and questions would abound. For now, though, she treasured this time with “her boy,” as she already thought of him. “Suffer little children to come unto me,” Jesus had said. Rose lifted her eyes heavenward. “Thank You,” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears of joy.
Every now and then, Alf shifted in her arms and then, with a sigh, settled back to sleep. Rose knew she needed to think beyond the present moment. Reason cried out that she shouldn’t become too enamored of the boy. Someone who loved him must be wild with worry. Yet, for this wonderful moment, he was in her care. What could she feed him? How would she clothe him? How would he react to the bath he so desperately needed? Her thoughts raced with plans. He could sleep in the trundle bed in her room and surely friends and neighbors would help supply his immediate needs. But that meant telling them about the foundling. Sharing him. All the more reason to cherish this quiet time together before the world intruded.
She must’ve dozed because the next thing she knew, a hand had settled on her shoulder. “Rose, my dear.” Looking up, she saw her father gazing down at her with love and concern. “What have we here?”
“Oh, Papa. It’s Alf.” She moved her arm so he could read the message.
“How did this come about?” Ezra knelt and gently ran his hands over the boy’s body while Rose explained about finding the child in the barn.
“I’ve been thinking that whoever left him knew from the sign out front that you’re a doctor. Or somehow knew we would care for him.”
Her father rose to his feet. “And so we will until we locate his people. Sheriff Jensen must be notified.”
Rose’s breath caught in her chest. So long as she had forbidden herself to form those words in her brain, she had maintained hope. “Please, Papa, must we?”
“You know we must.” He sank wearily onto the divan, removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes. “We do not know what extremity led someone to leave him here, nor how we might help such a person overcome the obstacles preventing them from caring for the tyke. For now, though, we will do all we can to restore this little one to health and security.” The clock chimed one, and the two sat in silence until Ezra roused himself. “We all need to sleep. In the morning, I’ll examine the boy, and we’ll figure out what to do for him until he’s returned to his family.”
Rose stifled a sob. “Papa, please, can’t we keep him? Someone purposely has entrusted him to us. He’s the answer to my prayer.”
Ezra’s voice was husky when he answered. “My dear, I have suspected your need for a child. You will be a wonderful mother...some day. But you will court greater hurt if you become overly attached to this little lad. We cannot predict how his story will end.”
“I know you’re trying to spare me heartache, Papa. But, you see—” she stood, cradling the child “—I can’t help loving him.”
Her father shrugged in dismay. “Oh, Rose” was all he managed to say.
“If you will pull out the trundle bed, Alf and I will retire. In the morning, I would appreciate your help bathing him and examining him further.”
“Of course.” Ezra squared his shoulders. “And after that, I will go to the sheriff.”
Never had Rose’s intellect so warred with her emotions. Yet she knew her father was right. If Alf was not to be hers, the separation needed to come quickly. Otherwise, she understood that with each passing day, the little boy would become more firmly grafted to her heart. Surely God would not be so cruel as to take from her this gift so wondrously bestowed.
* * *
Sunlight filtering through Rose’s bedroom window woke her from fitful dreams. Disoriented, she gasped in recognition when she saw the small boy sitting cross-legged on the trundle bed, weaving and reweaving strands of the afghan fringe through his little hands. “Alf?” she said quietly. Ducking his head, he cringed, shrinking in on himself in a self-protective fashion. His cheeks were rosy from sleep. He waited still as a statue, like a wary animal daring her to approach. She slowly sat up, then faced him, her hands outstretched in invitation. Finally he turned his head and cautiously stared up at her through long, dark lashes. When she gathered him in her arms, he stiffened but did not resist. She sensed he was a child who had been schooled to keep quiet and attract little notice. “Alf,” she said again. “I won’t hurt you. You are safe.”
He relaxed against her. “Nawah,” he said in a cracked voice.
She had no idea what the nonsense syllables meant, but she decided to answer in kind. “Nawah,” she crooned. “Nawah.”
He laid his head on her shoulder and began sucking his fist.
“Oh, little one, you must be hungry.” She stood and still clutching him to her, managed to put on her wrapper. “Let’s see what we can find.”
In the kitchen, her father had already stoked the fire and was boiling water on the stove. Rose had an inspiration. “Nawah,” she said to Ezra, who raised his eyes speculatively.
To her surprise and joy, the boy pointed at Ezra and whispered, “Nawah.”
Catching on to Rose’s ploy, Ezra looked straight at the child and said, “Nawah, Alf.”
“Alf,” the boy echoed as if commending the older man for his acumen.
Rose gently set the boy on her father’s lap. “Let me get him some bread.”
Rose sliced a thick piece, buttered it and slathered on some plum jam. Alf picked up the bread and attacked it as if he hadn’t seen food in days. How distressing to think he’d been ill fed, Rose thought, as she quickly set a skillet on the stove for ham and eggs