The Gift of a Child. Laura Abbot
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and happiness.
A memory swept over him, one that threatened to unman him—his mother’s presence was so real he felt as if he could reach out and touch her. He longed just once more to hear her say, “My wonderful Seth, my dear boy, I love you so.” Just once more to wrap his arms around her neck and inhale her special cinnamony fragrance. But she was gone, and he had never quit missing her.
That must be why the sight of Alf and Rose moved him so. Seth worried, though, that the day would come when Rose would have to relinquish Alf to his parents. She would be devastated. “Are you coming home with us?” Caleb clapped a hand on Seth’s shoulder. “Sophie’s going to be disappointed if her roast is overdone.”
Seth shook his head in mock despair. “Heaven forbid. Isn’t Charlie Devane invited to partake of our Sunday dinner?”
Caleb laughed. “You know very well he is. Our sister has been slaving over the stove for days now.”
“Is a burnt roast enough to discourage him?”
“Do I detect the words of an overprotective big brother?”
“You do.”
Caleb dropped the playful tone. “She’s a woman, Seth. With a mind of her own. This day was bound to come.”
The brothers started walking toward the wagon. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Seth mused that it seemed like only yesterday he had tended his baby sister, changing her nappies and feeding her oatmeal when his father had been paralyzed by grief.
“No, it just means you need to worry about your own life, not Sophie’s.” He poked Seth in the ribs. “I saw the Widow Spencer eyeing you—like you were a prize bull at a cattle auction.”
Seth groaned audibly.
They were nearly to the wagon, when Caleb asked, “Did you speak with Lars Jensen today?”
“I was busy with the children. Why?”
“He’s called a meeting for Wednesday late afternoon to discuss the drifters and gangs moving through the territory.”
Any lingering euphoria Seth had experienced with the little ones faded with the thought that danger could be lurking on the vast prairie, threatening those he loved.
* * *
Rose awakened Monday morning to the patter of rain on the roof, which in a matter of minutes, grew in intensity to a fierce downpour. Rivulets streaked the window panes and thunder rumbled in the distance. She left Alf sleeping and dressed quickly. In the kitchen she stoked the cookstove with kindling from the wood box, fed Ulysses and put on the kettle, all before mixing up pancake batter. Her father arrived just as the coffee was ready. “Some storm,” he said, blowing on his scalding drink.
While her father read his daily Bible lesson, Rose finished her breakfast preparations. She worried about the way he pushed himself and wished he could find some help. Lily had filled that role before leaving for St. Louis, but Rose had never had her sister’s knack for medicine. As she poured batter into the skillet, she remembered that she had not acted on her hope that Bess Stanton might be of use in her father’s practice.
Rubbing his eyes, Alf stumbled into the kitchen, his hand-me-down nightshirt hanging around his ankles. “Rain,” he whispered.
Her father set his spectacles aside and held out his arms. “Naweh,” he said. Alf climbed into Ezra’s lap, hiding his face. “Did the thunder wake you?”
“Loud.” The boy’s voice was muffled.
“You’re safe here with us,” Ezra reassured him.
“E-nah?” Rose barely heard the word, but she had grown quite familiar with it. Often in his sleep, Alf would cry out for his mother. She hoped he had had one who loved him, even as she would never understand how a caring parent could’ve abandoned the boy.
After breakfast, she helped him dress while her father went out in the deluge to make house calls. Alf would have to play indoors, so she settled him with the blocks he seemed to love. She was amazed by the concentration with which he constructed a high wall and then knocked it down, only to begin the whole process again. She set up the ironing board and hummed along as she bent to the task. The periodic collapse of the block wall and the hiss of steam were the only sounds until she became aware that each time Alf knocked down the wall, he muttered, “Good.”
Rose laid the iron on its rest and went over to the boy and sat on the floor beside him. “It’s a very fine wall,” she said.
“No.” He put another block on top. “Cage.”
She was puzzled. Where would he learn such a word? “Cage?” Then just beyond the wall she saw the small rag doll she had given him. She picked it up. “Who is this, Alf?”
He didn’t look up, just continued placing block on block. Finally he mumbled, “E-nah,” then grabbed the doll from her and put it on the far side of the wall. “Cage,” he said again. Then added more loudly, “Stay there.”
Rose felt her heart pounding. “Was your E-nah in a cage?”
As if he hadn’t heard her, Alf triumphantly destroyed the block wall. “Good.” He picked up the doll and handed it to Rose. “Run away.”
Could it be that somehow he and his mother had been held in jail? By whom? Where? The answers would have to be coaxed from the boy over a period of time. Rose sighed, praying for the patience to let the boy progress at his own pace. What she wouldn’t give to know about his past.
With a flash of inspiration, she remembered the sack of marbles one of the soldiers had given her father in gratitude for his recovery from malaria. Rose led Alf to a chair, then slowly opened the bag. Twenty or more marbles of varying colors nestled inside. She quickly retrieved several cereal bowls, then showed him the contents of the bag. Withdrawing one agate, she said, “Green,” and placed it in a bowl. Next, she found a blue marble, and mouthing the color, she put it into a second bowl. She handed a black marble to the boy, who studied it intently. Rose pointed to the first bowl. “Green?”
He shook his head vehemently.
“Blue?”
“Not blue,” he said, pulling a third bowl toward him.
“Black,” Rose instructed, saddened to think no one had taught him his colors and unsure how much English he’d heard from his parents.
Just before twelve, the back door opened, and Ezra stepped inside, raindrops pooling at this feet. He took off his broad-brimmed hat, shook it and hung it on the peg inside the door. “I feel like Noah.”
Alf looked up. “Noah. Sett told me. Big boat.” Then he went back to sorting marbles that Rose had found for him and repeating the colors under his breath.
Ezra took off his spectacles and wiped them on a kitchen towel. “The marbles. What a good idea.”
Rose wanted to tell him about her morning, about the hint Alf had given concerning what might have happened to him and his mother, but before she could begin, her father thrust out a letter he must’ve picked up at the post office. “Mighty big news,” he said. “It’s from your Aunt Lavinia.”
My dear Ezra,
As you know, Henry died this past autumn, and it has been difficult to adjust to his absence. I continue with my social engagements and charity work here in St. Louis, but my heart is no longer in them. It was our custom to summer in Newport with dear friends, but I find that prospect daunting without my husband. In casting about for an alternative, I have hit upon a solution. Other than the months Lily lived here with us, I have scarce spent any time with the only family remaining to me—you, Rose and Lily. And now little Mattie, my great-niece!
Through the auspices of a Kansas agent, I have let a house in Cottonwood Falls for the months of June through November and should arrive sometime during the first week of June.
I