Roses for Mama (6 page)

“I remember a little bit,” broke in Louise. “I remember the color of her hair. I even remember Papa calling it ‘spun gold.’ I remember her apron with the big pockets. And I remember one time when I scratched my knee and she fixed it—then she rocked me and sang me a song—about little birdies or something. I forget that part.”

Angela was disturbed that her sisters had so few memories of their wonderful mother. No wonder it was so difficult for her to pass along to them all the lessons of proper conduct and correct attitudes. There was no base there, built solidly by their mama.

“Do you remember Mama?” Angela asked, turning to look at Derek. The boy did not lift his eyes from his plate but nodded slightly. Angela saw him swallow. Her eyes misted as she wondered just what memories Derek had tucked away in his heart.

Angela blinked away the tears and responded quickly lest her emotions would overcome her, “Well, it is important for each of us to remember Mama and Papa. If you don’t remember much about them, Thomas and I—and Derek—are going to have to share our memories. From now on we’ll play a little game and the three of us will share memories about what they did—what they said—what they were like—so all of us will know them and have memories.”

Sara clapped her hands, her eyes shining. She approved of the game. Louise nodded her head.

“Thomas, you start,” Angela encouraged.

“Well, let’s see. Where do I start? There are so many things.”

“Wait,” said Angela, jumping up from the table. “Let’s write down each one—then we won’t be getting mixed-up and telling the same ones over and over. And later we can read them.”

Angela returned with a sheet of paper and a pencil.

“The next time I’m in town I’ll buy a proper book. For now this will do.”

“Let’s call it our Memory Book,” put in Sara excitedly.

“And we could divide it into how they looked, what they did, and what they said,” Louise offered, adding, “That way, Sara and I will get to say something, too.”

“Great idea,” Angela agreed. “Instead of Thomas going first, you start, Sara.”

Sara puckered her brow and thought deeply. “Well,” she said at last, “I ’member Mama in her bed with a blue blanket tucked up close around her chin. I thought she was sleeping, but when I tiptoed in she reached out her hand to me—and smiled.”

Angela swallowed the lump in her throat. She knew from Sara’s account that the incident had happened shortly before their mother left them. Angela wrote quickly, for she knew Louise was anxious for her turn.

“I remember,” began Louise, “Mama sitting in her chair, by the fireplace. And she was knitting me mittens. Red ones. Remember? They were my very favorites—but I lost one and—I don’t know what happened to the other one.”

“I guess you lost them both, huh?” teased Thomas.

“I did not. I just lost one,” insisted Louise.

“Derek?” encouraged Angela.

Derek fidgeted with his fork, his eyes downcast. He swallowed a few times and eventually spoke. His voice was low and strained, as though speaking was difficult for him.

“I remember Mama baking pie” was all he said.

Angela struggled with the few words. She found it difficult to control her emotions. Poor Derek. He was suffering far more deeply than she had ever known.

“Thomas, now you,” Angela managed to say.

“Well, I’m going to share a memory of Papa,” said Thomas. “I remember how big Papa was.” Thomas stretched his hand in the air to emphasize his point. “I only reached about to the top of his boots—or that’s the way it seemed to me. I was so proud when I got as high as his pockets. He used to tuck penny candies in them when he went to town. I remember when I could reach candies on my own.”

Angela wrote hurriedly, pressed to keep up with Thomas.

“Your turn. Your turn,” her family finally was shouting.

Angela chose to share one of Mama’s simple lessons.

“I remember one day when I didn’t want to do the washing,” she began slowly. “There were lots of grimy clothes. Piles and piles, it seemed, and I thought I would never finish the wash. Mama said, ‘Angela, never let your task become a drudge. You are special. You are unique. No matter what your duty, no matter how distasteful you might find it, inside you can be whatever you decide to be. Outside, your hands might be soiled with daily toil—inside, your soul and spirit can be refined and elegant. You can be just as much a lady leaning over a tub of hot, sudsy water scrubbing farm-dirty socks as you can sitting on a velvet cushion, fanning yourself with a silk and ivory fan.’”

“What did she mean?” whispered Sara.

“Well,” responded Angela, “I think she was trying to tell us that work is necessary—but it is honorable. It is what you are—deep inside—not what you do that is important.”

“You mean,” asked Sara, “I can pretend to be a grand lady while I’m washing the dishes?”

“You don’t have to pretend,” answered Angela. “You can actually be one.”

Chapter Seven

Growing

Angela was pleased with the children’s excitement over the memory game. Sunday after Sunday they exchanged their stories. With their memories refreshed by the discussions, Louise and Sara were surprised at how many events even they could remember. And Derek always added his brief account.

“Derek still isn’t saying much in our game time, is he?” Thomas mentioned one evening as he and Angela sat on the porch together.

“Just a line—a brief sentence,” Angela responded. “I hadn’t realized how—how many deep hurts must be buried inside him.”

“I guess he was right at the age where he needed Papa and Mama the most. And we—you and I—were so busy trying to keep body and soul together that we missed seeing what it was doing to him.”

“Poor soul,” sighed Angela. “Thomas, do you think we are doing enough?”

Thomas pondered the question. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I just don’t know. But I’m not sure what else we can do.”

“Do you think the minister might be able to help him?”

“Maybe. I just don’t know.”

“He is so withdrawn—yet so strangely sweet. It’s as though—as though he lives in fear of—of causing someone pain or something. He tries so hard to be good. Yet he—he seems so reluctant to even talk about the folks. I’m not sure he even likes our game—though there have been times when I’ve thought I have seen some light in his eyes at a memory we have discussed.”

“Well, for now I guess we’ll just continue as we are. I think—I think maybe he is enjoying the company of other boys more. I see him at church joining the group of fellows outside after the service. He didn’t use to do that.”

“At least he responds now, a little anyway. Though he never initiates a friendship, that’s encouraging.”

Thomas was about to make another comment when their attention was drawn to a horse and rider coming down the lane.

“It’s Thane,” announced Thomas, rising from his chair to wave a welcome.

“He hasn’t been out for a while,” responded Angela.

“His pa has been working him pretty hard in the store. He says he hardly has time to take a Saturday night bath,” Thomas laughed.

“I’d better get something ready to eat,” Angela said as she stood up. “He’s always hungry.”

Thomas laughed again, but he didn’t argue with her observation.

Angela left for the kitchen as Thomas descended the porch steps to greet their visitor.

Angela heard the voices and the laughter as she stirred lemonade and placed cookies on a plate. Then the voices lowered as though the topic of conversation had become more serious. She stepped out onto the porch in time to hear Thomas ask, “When did it happen?”

“Almost a week ago. Word didn’t get out very soon—even though Doc knew about it. Guess Charlie asked him to keep it quiet.”

Angela’s heart skipped a beat. Something had happened.

“Is something wrong with Charlie?” she questioned, concern making her voice shake.

“No, not Charlie,” Thomas quickly assured her. “Mr. Stratton has had a stroke.”

“A stroke?” Angela thought of the man with his dour face and his curt nods. She had always been a bit afraid of him. Now she pitied him. Perhaps if they had been kinder, more neighborly, the man might have softened a bit.

“Is it serious?” she asked, directing her question to Thane.

He nodded slowly. “According to the report Pa got in the store, he’s in pretty bad shape.”

“So that’s why we haven’t seen much of Charlie for the last week or so,” mused Thomas. “I was wondering why he hadn’t been over to check on my spring plowing.”

“Guess he’s had his hands full just caring for his boss. Won’t let anyone else do it, so I hear.”

Charlie was withered and poorly himself. He shouldn’t have to spend full time nursing another.

I must get over there
, Angela said to herself, vowing she would go first thing the next morning.

Thane surprised her by changing the conversation abruptly. “I hear Trudie is throwing another party—she had so much fun at the last one.”

Thane gave Thomas a teasing grin and punched him on the shoulder. Thomas reddened slightly but responded good-naturedly. “Jealous, old man?”

“Not on your life,” continued Thane. “I have my eye on better things, but if you enjoy the chatter of a—” Thane stopped, suddenly realizing his remark would be in poor taste—” of a pretty little redhead,” he finished lamely, “so be it.”

For just a moment Angela felt a bit smug. Thane shared her opinion of Trudie. She stole a quick look at Thomas. Would he be offended? Hurt? But Thomas seemed totally unruffled by Thane’s little slip. Angela sighed in relief and passed the cookies again.

“I’m planting a bit of that new seed,” Thomas was saying. “The handful I tested is germinating well.”

Thane turned to Thomas with a glow in his eyes. “Where is it?” he asked. “I’d like to see it.”

Thomas ran for a lantern so he could lead Thane to the shed where he did his experimenting. Angela noticed excitement in both of them as they bounded down the steps, deep in conversation all the way to the small building.

———

Early the next morning Angela wrapped a cake, fresh from the oven, and started off for the Stratton farm. It was a short distance across the stubble field and soon she was knocking on the door of the big house. She had never visited the Stratton home, and she held her breath as she stood before it, remembering the scowling face of the owner. The door opened tentatively at first, and then Charlie poked his head out. When he saw Angela he swung the door fully open.

“Come in. Come in, girlie,” he invited.

Angela stepped into the wide front hall. The heavy shades on the windows had not been raised, so it took a minute for Angela’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. When she got used to the veiled light she began to make out the objects lining the walls.

The place was much more formal and feminine looking than she would have guessed, having been inhabited by men for so many years. Angela knew Charlie was allowed the privilege of a downstairs bedroom, and Gus, the cook, lived somewhere else inside the big house. Mr. Stratton, according to town gossip, occupied the upper portion. Angela let her gaze lift gently up the long, ornate staircase. She wasn’t sure who did the housekeeping chores. Rumor had it that Mr. Stratton would not allow a woman within the walls.

Charlie spoke from beside her, and Angela broke off her daydreaming.

“He’s quite poorly,” Charlie was saying as he accepted the cake Angela held out to him. “I don’t s’pose yer anxious to be seein’ him—him being like he is.”

“No. No-o,” faltered Angela. “I really came to see you, I guess. How—how are you managing?”

Charlie shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “Never thought I’d live to see the day when that big man had to take to his bed,” he said simply.

“How are you managing?” Angela asked again.

“Me and Gus take turns. He needs someone night and day.”

“Should you—should you get some outside help? Maybe Mrs.—”

“Boss wouldn’t like thet much. He’s not used to women fussin’ around here.”

“But if you need—”

“We’ll manage jest fine,” Charlie insisted. Then he turned their attention to other things. “C’mon to the kitchen. I’ll fix us a cup of coffee.”

Angela followed. She had never been in a man’s kitchen before and she wasn’t sure how Gus would keep his. When she saw him in town she had noticed that he was none too fussy about his own appearance. She expected his kitchen to reflect the same casual approach to things, but to her surprise the large, sunny room was in good order.

“My!” she exclaimed before she could check herself, “it is nice and clean in here.”

Charlie grinned and then said soberly, “Gus’d have the head of anyone who messed up his kitchen. He’s as fussy as an old woman ’bout it.”

He cast a glance at Angela to see if she would take offense at his expression, but Angela paid no heed. She was much too busy gazing around the big room with its spacious cupboards and gleaming stove.

“It’s nice,” Angela murmured, more to herself than to Charlie. He nodded in acknowledgment and poured a handful of coffee into the pot. After adding some water, he placed the pot on the stove and put a few more sticks of wood on the fire.

“Sit down,” he invited. “Sit down and tell me how things have been goin’ at yer house. Since this here happened, I ain’t been nowhere—or heard nothin’.”

“Well, I guess nothing much has happened over our way,” began Angela as she removed her bonnet and seated herself in a kitchen chair.

“Thomas started in the field yet?”

“Oh yes. He has most of the plowing finished.”

“He gonna try some of thet there new seed?”

“A little. He doesn’t dare plant much in case something happens. He doesn’t want to lose all his work. He did tell Thane the seed seems to be germinating fine, though.”

Charlie shook his head and a bit of a grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. Angela knew he had a fatherly interest in them and was pleased with Thomas’s success.

“If he gets him a good, sturdy seed for these parts, he will have done us all a great favor,” Charlie commented.

As soon as the coffee boiled, Charlie poured a cup, cut a generous piece of the cake Angela had brought, and started for the door.