Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (12 page)

"I already made cookies with Aunt Min," replied Rebecca a bit dourly.

"Well—then—we won't make cookies. We'll—play a game."

"I don't feel like playing a game," said Rebecca.

"Well—what do you feel like doing?"

Too late Sarah realized her mistake. Rebecca looked at her calmly and then replied, "I feel like being a fam-i-ly. I hate always having to come home just when it's time for Uncle Boyd to come home from work. I hardly get to see him anymore."

Sarah drew in her breath. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. She would not allow herself to cry—especially not in front of Rebecca. But it didn't seem fair that Rebecca should care more about her personally adopted Uncle Boyd than she did about her own mother. It just didn't seem fair. It was she, Sarah, who filled her days with back-breaking work to care for her young child. Boyd just pampered and spoiled her—had fun with her. Why should he be the one to receive her love and devotion?

But as quickly as Sarah's hurt and anger washed over her, it also drained away.

It's not the child's fault,
she told herself firmly.
Boyd has been good to her. She misses her father. She misses
me. I should
—
as her mother, be caring for her myself. Then there wouldn't be this
—
this wrenching of loyalties. She would have a home. A constant. She wouldn't be shuttled back and forth between people. No wonder she is confused and
—
and longing for a real home. No wonder.

Sarah reached out a hand and pushed back Rebecca's soft hair. "This has been hard for you," she wished to say, but she knew if she tried to speak, the tears would fall, so she said nothing, just stroked the child's hair and longed with all of her heart to be able to stay at home—as a real mother.

"How would you like to go to school?" she asked at length.

Rebecca clapped her hands. She had begged to go to school with the other kids in the small town. Ever since she had turned four, she had been asking when she would be able to go.

"Not—not right away," hurried on Sarah, lest Rebecca run and change her clothes for the upcoming event. "Not until next fall—when you are six. Past six."

For a moment the eyes clouded.

"It will be for the fall term," went on Sarah, "the next school year."

It began to sound better to Rebecca. She had never been promised any school before. Maybe "next year" wouldn't be so long after all.

"I need to tell Mary," she said with excitement. "She's been waiting for me for a long, long time."

Not such a long time,
thought Sarah. Mary, from across the street, was only a year older than Rebecca.

"Can I go tell her?" coaxed Rebecca.

"Not—not tonight," said Sarah firmly. "You see— I've—I've been doing a lot of thinking—and praying about—about school—for you. I—I've thought that maybe—maybe we would let you go to—to a special school."

Rebecca's eyes grew wide. One emotion after another seemed to move across her face. Sarah wondered just where they would lead her. At last Rebecca spoke. "What special school?" she asked directly, her eyes showing her doubts.

"Well it's a—a special school for—for girls. They teach you all sorts of—of special things like—like how to—to ride horses and care for them—how to play the piano—how to—"

But Sarah got no further. It seemed that she had just named two of Rebecca's favorite dreams.

"Really?" she said, her eyes shining.

"Really," replied Sarah, her eyes shining to match her daughter's.

"When can I go?" asked Rebecca eagerly.

"Well—not until next school term."

For a moment Rebecca looked disappointed; then she seemed to regain her enthusiasm. "Next term— that's not too long, is it, Mama?"

"No. Not too long at all," responded Sarah.

"Where is the school?" asked Rebecca. "Is it very far away?"

Sarah nodded. That was the hard part.

"Yes," she answered truthfully. "Yes, it is rather far away."

"As far as the train depot in West Morin?" asked Rebecca.

"Oh—even farther than that," said Sarah sadly.

"Then how do I get home each night?" asked Rebecca.

"Well—I'm afraid that—that you wouldn't come home each night. You'd—you'd stay. Have your own room—with a roommate or maybe more than one roommate. Other girls. Your age. I'm sure you would like them."

As Sarah talked hurriedly she watched the changes in Rebecca's eyes. They mirrored her every emotion, and now, as the child listened to her mother, her eyes showed excitement, fear, concern, eagerness, and doubt.

"I don't think I want to go," she said when Sarah stopped.

"But you have no—" began Sarah.

"I wouldn't get to see Uncle Boyd, would I?" said Rebecca. "And Aunt Min—I wouldn't get to see her either. And you. I wouldn't even get to have visits with you, would I?"

"No-o," agreed Sarah slowly, her own eyes clouding with the thought.

"I don't think I'll go," repeated Rebecca firmly.

"You don't want to learn to play the piano?" Sarah wondered if she was being fair. Was this too much pressure, too big a decision, for the little girl?

Rebecca looked caught between two desires. She shook her head sadly, then nodded it instead. "I'd like to play the piano," she admitted, "but I'd get lonesome."

"I—I think that you might—well, rather enjoy it— once you made friends with the other girls," continued Sarah.

Rebecca looked doubtful.

"Well—we don't have to decide now," went on Sarah. "We'll just think about it and make up our mind later."

"I'll ask Mary," Rebecca said simply.

"No. No, I don't think that we'll—" She stopped, then went on. "Let's not talk about this to anyone until—until we have made up our minds what we plan to do," cautioned Sarah. She didn't wish to get the gossipers started on something else that was none of their business.

Rebecca nodded slowly, but she did look disappointed.

"Do we have to decide—all by ourselves?" she asked her mother.

"I think—I think that you and I are quite capable of deciding ourselves," Sarah assured her.

"I—I guess," said Rebecca, and she sighed deeply.

"But we don't have to decide right now," Sarah reminded her. "We have lots of time."

The thought seemed to please Rebecca. She nodded. She could put off the weighty decision and concentrate on things at hand.

"Is it time to go to Aunt Min's now?" she asked Sarah.

Sarah was about to reply that they still had some time to play a game or do something fun together, but she bit her lip. Rebecca seemed anxious to leave her mother's company.

"Uncle Boyd is making me my own table and chair—just for me. He might have it finished now," Rebecca continued, reminding Sarah again of how their conversation had started.

She nodded reluctantly. "If you wish to go right away, I guess we can go," she said. Mentally she was thinking ahead to the extra time it would give her to finish some of her household chores.

Rebecca ran for her cape and bonnet.

"I hope he made a red one," she called. "He knows I like red best."

***

The table and chair were finished and they were red. Rebecca beamed her pleasure, though Sarah could not help but wince at the bright, bright color that rather clashed with Mrs. Galvan's kitchen.

"You remembered," squealed the little girl. "You remembered I like red."

Boyd just smiled, happy with her excitement over the simple homemade gift.

After giving Boyd a big hug, Rebecca set about playing with her new possession while Mrs. Galvan went to fill the teapot to prepare a cup of tea.

Mr. Galvan laid aside his paper and pulled his chair up to the table, and Boyd took a seat opposite him. Adult talk. Sarah often longed for it. She prepared herself for enjoyment now. It was so good to have a real conversation with something other than her horses.

They talked of local affairs. Plans for a new store. The sale of the livery stable. The move to try to bring water from the nearby spring into the town. The recent accident of Widow Harlow while doing her window washing. Little things. Really of no import. Yet important to the life of the town, part of the fabric of everyday life.

Sarah could scarcely believe how quickly the time passed. As she glanced at the clock, she found that she had already squandered the extra time she had promised herself.

Sarah turned to interrupt Rebecca's playing. "You'd better get ready for bed, Rebecca," she told the child, "so Mama can kiss you good-night and hear your prayers."

The child opened her mouth as though to protest but then cast a glance at Boyd. Sarah wasn't sure just what transpired between the two, but Rebecca said no more, just went to do as bidden.

When Rebecca returned to announce that she was ready for bed, she made her rounds to say her good-nights.

"Good-night, Mr. Galvan," she said, giving him a quick hug. "Good-night, Aunt Min." The hug was much longer and with more warmth.

"Good-night, Uncle Boyd," she said, reaching up to encircle his neck with her arms. She lingered there, Sarah noticed, as though she hated to leave him behind.

"Good-night, Becky," he said to the top of her head. "Sleep tight."

And he kissed her forehead.

"When I go away to school—" began Rebecca and then caught herself and cast a quick look at her mother.

Three pairs of adult eyes looked from Sarah to Rebecca and back again.

"I didn't mean to—" began Rebecca again, drawing more attention to her error.

"That's okay," said Sarah in an effort to downplay the little slip. She looked at the three people around the table. "Rebecca and I have been discussing some possibilities," she said in what she hoped was a casual manner and then went on lightly, "Time for your prayers now. Come—I'll tuck you in."

When Sarah returned to the kitchen, it was painfully quiet. She wanted to discuss the inadvertent announcement of family plans, but she didn't know where to start. Besides, it was all so unsettled. And the three around the table looked so glum. What were they thinking? Didn't she, as Rebecca's mother, have the right to plan for her daughter's future?

"I—I think I should be going home," she said as naturally as she could. "I have all sorts of things to get done tonight."

Mrs. Galvan nodded. Mr. Galvan did not even look her way. He fidgeted with a corner of the paper.

Boyd met her eyes squarely. "So when is this to take place?" he asked directly. There was no condemnation in his voice, simply interest.

"Well—I—I don't know. It is—as I said—just something I am looking into—at this point," Sarah said defensively.

"You don't like Renville's school?" put in Mrs. Galvan, a bit of an edge to her voice.

"Oh—I've—I've nothing—nothing personal against the school. No. It's—it's not like that. I mean—I just think that Rebecca could—should have some—some things I'm not able to give her."

"Like?" prompted Mrs. Galvan with a shrug.

"Like—like—piano. She'd like to learn to play the piano."

"Maybe the preacher's wife would teach her," put in Boyd.

The preacher's wife played the church pump organ to accompany the Sunday hymns. She wasn't an expert, by any means. In fact, her mistakes often grated on Sarah's ears and nerves.

"She is very busy—with her family and all," Sarah said softly in answer.

Mrs. Galvan nodded.

"Well—anyway—I am—am just thinking about— about possibilities," went on Sarah lamely. "She won't be ready for school until next fall term anyway. No hurry. I'm—I'm just thinking."

She nodded her good-night to the three, mumbled her thanks for the refreshments, and hurried from the house.

Plans and Parting

"Do you really think you're doin' the right thing?" Mrs. Galvan asked Sarah as they shared a cup of coffee at her kitchen table.

Sarah was slow to answer. When she did she was still a bit hesitant.

"I've prayed about it. I—I'm—well, I think it would be best for Rebecca. There is—so much that she could learn at this girl's school that she would never get here. She has always been interested in music, in the piano. She loves books. She needs to learn how to sew—"

Sarah stopped, remembering that Mrs. Galvan had expressed the desire to teach Rebecca how to sew.

"You don't think she can get those things here?" asked the older woman.

"Look at me," said Sarah. "Here I am with no training—in anything. Well, in anything but piano—and I don't have a piano. When Michael died—well—I had to try to learn a man's job. Look at my hands. They certainly don't look like the hands of a lady."

"But you went to a fine school," Mrs. Galvan reminded her gently.

For a moment Sarah was shocked and then embarrassed. It was so. She had gone to a fine school. She had learned to be a lady. It had not helped her when it came to finding her way in this western town.
If Father had been content to stay in the East,
she found herself thinking, J
would have managed much better.