Redemption. Carolyn Davidson
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late last evening had borne results, Jake thought, and for a moment he shared Jason’s exhilaration. The spelling paper bore a bright red score at its top. An A was written with a flourish there, and Jake looked at the precise lines of the grade Miss Merriweather had given the boy.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Jake said, holding the paper in his lap. He wondered when he’d last said those words to the boy.
“Are you, Pa? Really?” The brown shirt was dingy from wear. How many days had Jason donned it early in the morning. Four? It exuded an odor of boyish sweat and a definite doggy smell.
“I think you might want to put that shirt in the trash bin,” Jake told him. “How about you taking a bath today?”
“A bath?” Jason cringed. “It’s only Thursday, Pa. I took a bath last Saturday.”
“No,” Jake said, correcting him. “It was a week ago Saturday, I believe.”
“I don’t think it’s healthy to be scrubbin’ up all the time,” Jason said earnestly. “It lets all the germs into your skin.”
“What do you know about germs?” And where on earth had he gotten that idea?
“Miss Merriweather has been teachin’ us about science stuff.”
“Well, if you ask your teacher, I’m sure she’ll tell you that a little soap and water never hurt anyone.” His words were firm, implying a stance he would not budge from, and Jason appeared to get the message.
“Do I hafta get the tub out? Or can I just wash in the basin like you do?”
“I wash in the basin because I can’t get in and out of the tub easily,” Jake told him, and wished for a moment that he might soak his body beneath hot water and allow the warmth to penetrate his skin.
“I could help you,” Jason offered, and Jake was hard put not to smile at the eager offer. The boy would collapse under his father’s weight should he attempt such a project.
“Let’s just concentrate on your own.”
Jason’s shoulders slumped as the ultimatum was delivered, and he trudged away toward the kitchen. “I’ll get out the kettles to heat the water,” he muttered.
Then Jake could only hold his breath and watch as his son poured the hot water into the round wash tub. The chance of Jason being scalded was slim, since they only heated the water until it was barely hot enough to allow steam to rise. The danger was in the kettles, and the fact that Jason was not tall enough to handle them readily.
Another housekeeper was becoming a necessity, Jake decided. The boy was in need of help. He scanned his mind for another prospect for the job, and came up blank. As Cord had said, he’d already gone through all the widow ladies and the women who were willing to work outside their own homes. His reputation had been blackened by the stories those women told—tales of his foul moods, the angry tirades he’d aimed in their direction when they’d attempted to open the windows and doors.
Jake looked now out of the single window that bore no covering to soften the glare of sunlight through fly-speckled panes. Rena would be aghast at the sight.
His chair rolled across the bare, wooden floor to the second window and he grasped the draperies in his fist, and tugged them from their moorings until they landed with a muffled thud on the floor. Somehow the act was satisfying, as if he rebelled against the darkness that had gripped him for so long.
“What’cha doin’, Pa?” Jason stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, as if the disturbance in the parlor had frightened him.
“Your uncle Cord told me we needed to open the windows in here,” Jake told him. “Do you think you can push them up? Let some fresh air in?”
“I can try.” And wasn’t that the crux of the matter? Jake thought. If the boy was willing to try to change things, how could his father do any less?
“Let me know when the water’s hot and I’ll come out to the kitchen and help you,” he told Jason. “In the meantime I’m going to write a note to Miss Merriweather, and once you get cleaned up, you can deliver it.”
“I’m gonna get new clothes?”
Jake looked at the shaggy locks that covered Jason’s head and hung against his collar. “And a haircut,” he said firmly.
CAN YOU COME BY to talk with me?
The note was brief and to the point, Alicia thought, and looked into Jason’s face, aware that his eyes shone with a hopeful light. The man hadn’t even had the courtesy to sign his name, she thought, exasperation making her cross. It would do no good, though, to take it out on the boy.
“Tell your father I’ll come by tomorrow at suppertime.” A sudden urge prodded her to action. “Tell him I’ll bring a picnic with me. We can eat in the parlor.”
“A picnic?” Jason’s mouth curved into a smile. “I can’t remember havin’ a picnic since my mama died, ma’am. We used to go to the celebration on the Fourth of July when I was real little. Mama got someone to help and my Pa would go, too.”
Real little? The boy was far from grown now, she thought sadly. And living on memories of a better time in his young life.
“Do you like fried chicken?” she asked, and at his enthusiastic nod, she determined to borrow the kitchen of the house where she resided and make the most mouthwatering meal she could put together. There was no time to waste.
Friday was Alicia’s favorite day of the week. Two whole days, in which she could please herself, loomed ahead. She’d sometimes found herself walking beyond the town and exploring the countryside during the nice weather. She had a lonely life, but had learned to enjoy her own company. A light quilt tucked under her arm, she frequently took her current volume of history or novel of adventure, finding a tree under which to sit, the book on her lap. Pure heaven, she thought. The whole of an afternoon in which to enter another world, where her imagination could run riot and her mind be refreshed.
Today was Friday, and for another reason she felt the swell of anticipation. A stop at the butcher shop gained her a plucked chicken, one the butcher was happy to cut into pieces. The general store yielded a supply of small new potatoes, fresh from some industrious soul’s garden. Early carrots and a large crimson tomato for slicing filled her basket and she set off for the house where the parents of one of her students had offered a room for her use.
Her landlady, Mrs. Simpson, was willing for her kitchen to be used for Alicia’s project. By the time the chicken was fried and the potatoes made into a salad, Alicia was ready to walk out the door.
Her meal was packed into the market basket and covered with a clean towel. She set off at a determined pace down the street toward the big house where Jake McPherson lived with his son. The front gate sat permanently ajar and the yard was still weed-infested, but the front parlor windows were barren of covering. She looked at them in surprise, noting the shadow of a man in a chair almost out of sight.
Edging past the broken step, she climbed the stairs and crossed to the front door. Before her knuckles could rap, announcing her presence, the door was opened wide, Jason standing before her. His hair was combed, still wet from the dousing he’d given it, marks of the comb he’d used still apparent. That the part was crooked and the dark locks hung to his shoulders was of little matter; the boy had made an effort.
“Come on in,” he said. “My pa’s in the parlor.” He lowered his voice and bent closer. “I don’t know if he’s happy about this or not, ma’am. He looked kinda cross when I told him you was bringin’ supper with you.”
“It will be just fine,” she said, offering assurance and wishing she felt some of the same. The basket was heavy and she sought for a flat surface upon which to deposit it. A library table stood near the door and she placed her bundle there and then turned to face Jake. “I hope I didn’t intrude with my offer,” she said, addressing the man with a confidence she did not feel. “Jason thought a picnic