As Lambs to His Fold, Page 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Earth With Her Ten Thousand Flowers...

  When people had stopped exclaiming over the babies’ startling recovery, Daddy asked me, “How did you know, Beth?”

  “I dunno. I just — thought of it.”

  But the more I considered, the more I was certain I hadn’t thought of it all by myself. Had an angel flown down and whispered it in my ear? an angel sent by Heavenly Father? But if so, why me? I couldn’t shake off the feeling that the message had been misdirected. I had done so many bad things that summer; why would He choose me?

  __________

  About a week later, Mamma was clearing off the shelves in her fruit room to make space for the fruits and jellies she was bottling. She called, “Beth, come down here, please, and bring a step stool, and a brush, and the dust pan. I want you to clean out the window well where you threw all that dirt.”

  I did as Mamma asked. I climbed on the stool and swung the window in and up until it latched. I prepared to sweep away the debris I had hurled into the window well in my anger and disappointment in a time that seemed long ago.

  My chin rose above the window level; I reached out with the brush, then stared, unable to believe what I saw. I dropped the dustpan and brush, shut my eyes, opened them again. The wonder was still there. All around in the window well, dark green, heart-shaped leaves were pushing through the dirt I had flung there. Warmed by the sun and watered by a leaking tap nearby, African violets had come to life.

  Something swelled to bursting in my heart; something so marvelous I put my head down on the windowsill and sobbed. I knew who had sent the violets. The same one who had sent me the knowledge that the babies wanted to be together. My Father in Heaven. He loved me.

  Mamma was calling, “Beth, have you finished?” I could not answer her. She called again; then she came from the fruit room to see why I had not replied. She found me kneeling on the stool, weeping.

  “Beth, what on earth?” She looked over my shoulder and saw what lay in the window well. The next thing I knew, she had her arms around me and was hugging me like the living dickens, rocking me back and forth and exclaiming, “Oh, Beth! Oh, Bethy!”

  And that was the second wonderful thing — Mamma hugging me like that. She ran up the stairs and called in great excitement, “Paul! Irene! Come and see!” Irene arrived first, and when she saw my miracle she let out a whoop and began to jump up and down and clap me on the back.

  Next came Daddy, leaning over me, his arms around me, his hands braced on the window ledge, saying, “Well, well. Beth, I do believe your Father in Heaven has sent you a message. Can you read it?”

  I managed to whisper, “He loves me.”

  Experience has taught me that an African violet can, indeed, be grown from just a fragment of leaf. Does knowing this make it any less a miracle?

  When Mamma, Daddy, and Irene had gone on to other pursuits, I continued to kneel on the stool, gazing at my own personal gift from heaven. There was no question of removing the dirt now — not until the violets could be carefully transplanted into a pot to take back to Miss Biggs. There were so many of the little plants I just marveled.

  I was next aware of someone outside, kneeling on the lawn, peering down. It was Leatrice, and she was exclaiming, “Oh, Bethy! It’s a real honest-to-goodness miracle, isn’t it, Bethy?”

  “Yes,” I breathed; and on that breath went the last of my sorrow and guilt. I jumped down from the stool, ran up the stairs, out the back door, and around to where Leatrice knelt.

  “Whatcha gonna do now, Bethy?”

  I didn’t know; but I felt it ought to be something significant. Then, it came to me. “I’m gonna go downtown.”

  “What for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  First, I went in to find Daddy in his study and ask him if I could get my George and Louise dollar out of the bank.

  “Is this for something important, Beth? Not just for candy?”

  “It’s something important.”

  He handed me my bankbook.

  Leatrice and I walked downtown together, holding hands. It was like old times before our terrible, shared experience. As we approached the corner of Welcome Road and Birch Avenue, we heard the cheerful beep! beep! of an auto horn. There was Uncle Jack slowing down to ask us if we wanted a ride.

  We crowded in beside him, and he asked us where we were going.

  “To the bank,” I said, “to get my dollar out.”

  “Oh, going to make whoopee with it, eh?”

  “No,” I said seriously, “it’s for something special.”

  “Well, be sure they give you the interest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When money is put in the bank, it earns more money. That’s called interest.”

  I had never heard of that before, but I determined to remember it.

  He let us out in front of the bank. We waved our thanks and then climbed the steps and entered the marble-pillared lobby. A young woman, busily typing, had replaced Aunt Francie. We didn’t see Roger anywhere. I supposed he must be somewhere in the back making money. Across the lobby, a young man with fuzzy, blond hair and fuzzy blond eyebrows that came together like a caterpillar across his forehead, stood behind a barred opening. I wondered if he was shut in there so he wouldn’t steal the money. I wondered if someone checked his pockets before he was let out.

  Nevertheless, something told me he had my dollar.

  I marched up to the bars and stood on tiptoe. The young man was busily writing something in a ledger. He ignored me. I cleared my throat loudly.

  “Yes?” he said, looking up. Then, seeing that I was a child, he spoke in that irritated tone of voice grownups use when they are annoyed with youngsters. “What do you want, little girl?”

  “I want my dollar.”

  “What makes you think we have a dollar of yours?”

  “My daddy put it in here, and I was with him.”

  “I can’t give you any money without a bankbook to show you actually have a deposit with us.”

  “Here,” I said, and shoved the booklet under the bars. The young man examined it, reached in a drawer, pulled out a dollar bill, and pushed it toward me.

  “That’s not my dollar. Mine’s silver.” I pushed it back.

  He heaved the sigh of a martyr and handed me a silver dollar.

  “Now, gimme the interest.”

  “We don’t pay interest on just a dollar,” he said in a tone cold enough to give me frostbite.

  “Yes, you do! My Uncle Jack said so!”

  “And if you don’t hand it over,” said Leatrice, “we’ll call the cops!”

  He reached in the drawer once more. “Here”, he said in glacial tones, handing me a penny. I took it. “Thank you”, I said, not forgetting my manners. As we left, the young man was pulling down the blind behind the bars, as a safeguard, I guess, against any more children like us.

  My next stop was Woolworth’s. With dignity born of lofty purpose and trailed by Leatrice, I marched in with head high. No mooching around this time. I had money. Mr. Hobbs gave his customary sigh as we entered. But we surprised him. Instead of lingering to read the comics, we headed for the far side of the store where a long shelf held vases and flowerpots.

  I walked the length of the shelf, examining each piece of pottery. Some I picked up and looked at carefully. Just a vase would not do. I was looking for one with a hole in the bottom for drainage. And there, near the end of the shelf, I saw something that to a nine-year-old was quite beautiful — a Dutch girl with a basket at her feet. I picked it up. Yes, it had a drainage hole in the bottom of the basket. It was meant to be a planter. There were two Dutch girl planters — one pink and one blue.

  Mr. Hobbs hurried toward us, his hands clasping and unclasping, a look of agony on his face. “Please don’t handle the merchandise, girls! You may drop something!”

  He reached to take the Dutch girl from my hands and replace it on the shelf. I clung to it tightly.

  �
��How much is this?”

  “Fifty cents.”

  “I’m gonna buy it. An’ the other one, too. I want them both.”

  Mr. Hobbs took off his glasses and stared. He hadn’t expected such a statement, I am sure, short of the Millennium. “That will be a dollar; and a penny tax.”

  “I’ve got it.” I held out the silver coin and the copper one.

  Shaking his head, Mr. Hobbs took the two planters over to the counter and wrapped them in paper and string. As we left, he was staring after us in wonder.

  I walked out with my head high, feeling grown up — I wasn’t just a kid, I was a shopper.

  “Whatcha gonna do with ‘em, Bethy?” Leatrice asked as we walked back up the street.

  “One’s for Miss Biggs, an’ one’s for Aunt Francie.”

  “I wish I had something to give Aunt Francie,” Leatrice said wistfully.

  “It’ll be from both of us.”

  Heavenly Father had not only been kind, but generous. There were more than enough of the small violet plants to take back to Miss Biggs — enough for Aunt Francie, and for Leatrice, and for me, as well.

  __________

  We walk down the road toward Aunt Francie’s place. I carry the pink Dutch girl with her basket full of violets.

  “That was a swell miracle, wasn’t it, Bethy?”

  “Yes.” I take her hand.

  Aunt Francie opens the door when we knock. She smiles when she sees us, and she asks us in.

  Close to tears, I say hesitantly, “Aunt Francie — I’m sorry — for what happened.”

  Leatrice echoes, “Me, too.”

  She draws us to her. “I never blamed you girls; it was just an accident. Has this troubled you? That you thought you were to blame? Don’t. Don’t. You mustn’t cry. Not any more.”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, and then remember the gift.

  “Here,” I say holding the pot of violets toward her. “It’s for you — an’ Roger. A present. To keep. Heavenly Father sent the violets. It’s a miracle.”

  Then I am telling her the story of the miracle. “An the pot broke when it hit the window well; an ol’ Titty-Poo grabbed the plant in his teeth, an’ shook it, an’ clawed it, an’ ripped it all to bits. But, even though it was broken up like that, Heavenly Father put it all back together again.”

  “Yes, I see. Thank you, Beth. I’ll tell that story to Roger. I know he’ll like it.”

  “It’s from me, too,” chimes in Leatrice.

  “Well,” says Aunt Francie, “you’ve told me your wonderful story. Now, I have one to tell you.” She leads us to the sofa. When we sit down, she puts her arms around us and says, “When little Clare and Emily were born, I held them in my arms for a few moments before they were whisked off to the nursery. I could see they were perfect — tiny, but beautifully formed. As I looked at them, I saw a light all around their dear, little heads. And then, the light just seemed to float upward and disappear. They were so newly come from heaven, I knew that was God’s love accompanying them. And I knew that whether they lived or died, that love would always be with them.

  “And there’s more good news,” adds Aunt Francie. “Little Clare and Emily are gaining weight and getting strong enough so that we’ll be bringing them home soon.”

  Another blessing in a day of miracles.

  As we leave, I give Aunt Francie instructions on how to care for the African violet: water it from below, not on the leaves; give it plant food about once a month; set it in some light — but not too much; pinch off the dead blooms so new ones would come.

  It was some time before I was able to make the connection between violets and people. The Lord has His own way of pinching us for our good.

  __________

  I was in my pajamas that evening, ready for bed, when the wonderfulness of the day came over me. I went downstairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, and around to the window well where my miracle lay. I stretched out on the grass and lay with my head propped in my hands, gazing down to where, in the long, summer twilight, the violet babies nestled. They were still quite small. But they were unmistakably violets, and they were unarguably alive.

  As I lay there, marveling. Daddy approached. He got down on one knee, his hands on my shoulders, and looked down at the violets. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  “And, Honey Bee, this is just the beginning of wonderful things.”

  CONCLUSION

  I have come back to Welcome to say a last goodbye to Leatrice. She was elderly by any standard, but still I feel she died too soon. To me, she would always be the child who took my hand and skipped down the road to Grandpa’s place.

  Mamma, who has lived with me ever since Daddy died, was too frail to go with me to the funeral. Irene and her husband are on a mission in Europe.

  I shake hands with Bishop Norman Higpen. He gives me a warm smile. His formerly red hair — what little remains — is white. The old Norman has also disappeared somewhere. To me, it is proof of the scripture that says: “Is anything too much for the Lord?”

  Nothing seems changed in the tabernacle. There is still the pipe organ — “every bit as good as the one in the Salt Lake Tabernacle”; the stained glass window showing Jesus holding a lamb; and the slick pine benches.

  After the funeral, I stand in the old Welcome Cemetery, looking down at the graves of loved ones who have died: Grandma and Grandpa; Uncle Roland and Aunt Mabel; Daddy; the tiny grave of the first little Emily; Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis and her husband; and now, Leatrice.

  We stand there, the family that is left: Uncle Jack, and his wife, and four sons; Dorajean, five redheaded children, and twice as many grandchildren; myself; Aunt Francie and Roger; their daughter, Clare, who is beautiful like her mother and has children of her own; Emily would be along presently, but late, as usual.

  Leatrice’s husband stands beside the grave. She had married Bill Hoffman, who, as a child, could never get Muriel Harris’s name right.

  Promising Uncle Jack that I will come out to the farm presently for pictures and visiting, I begin a memorial tour of Welcome.

  On the surface, at least, downtown seems not to have changed much — except that there are no longer any green-striped awnings on the store fronts. Nowadays, every building has air conditioning.

  I miss the awnings. Leatrice and I used to walk beneath them, greedy eyes clamped on the store windows and the marvels inside, never looking up at the terra-cotta facades which today would cost a fortune to duplicate.

  There are two other movie theaters in Welcome, now, besides the Titanic.

  Woolworth’s and Mr. Hobbs are gone. J.C. Penney, where Uncle Jack used to sell vacuum cleaners, has moved out to the new shopping mall. These days, people in Hope and Prosperity come over to Welcome to shop.

  The highway doesn’t go through town anymore. Instead, multi-lane I-15 zips right by it.

  Brother Nickelbee’s log cabin, as he wished, is now a pioneer museum with his old artifacts inside, as well as other pioneer treasures.

  I finish my tour at the once familiar school grounds. The area is now a park. Our old building was razed long ago, the high school has become the elementary school, and high school students are now bussed over to Prosperity.

  I see, with a real sense of loss, that the old wagon wheel merry-go-round is no longer there. In its place is a bench with grass around it and a drinking fountain nearby.

  I park the car and go over to the bench to sit for a bit — and remember:

  __________

  It is the second week in September, the day before school is to start. Leatrice has just observed her tenth birthday. I will have mine in a couple of months.

  We have decided to go over to the school and walk around, to get the feel of being in the fifth grade, among the big kids. We both have new shoes. Mine are penny loafers and Leatrice’s are two-tone saddle oxfords. We walk along importantly, honoring our new shoes.

&nb
sp; At the school grounds, we sit down on the merry-go-round, straddling the spokes of the wagon wheel.

  Leatrice idly scuffs the dirt with the toe of her new shoe. Then, “Bethy,” she begins.

  “Yah?”

  “I’ve been thinking. We did some things this summer that weren’t very good.”

  “We didn’t mean to be bad.”

  “Well, do you think we’ll have to tell Heavenly Father every last, itty-bitty thing we did — before we can get into heaven, I mean?”

  “I’ll bet He knows about ‘em already.”

  “But there are some things we didn’t repent of, like teasing ol’ Titty-Poo. D’you think Titty-Poo’ll be mad at us when we get there?”

  When we had discussed who would go to heaven, I had completely forgotten about Dorajean’s cat. “Well,” I say a bit defensively, “ol’ Titty-Poo isn’t so all-fired righteous, either! He chases birds, an’ he claws people, an’ he ripped up Miss Biggs’s violet. What makes you think he’ll get into heaven?”

  “Maybe,” suggests Leatrice, “if we didn’t tease him so much he’d be a better cat.”

  The idea that our tormenting Titty-Poo is the reason for his being such a bad cat makes me pause and think. If he doesn’t go to heaven, will it be our fault?

  Leatrice is tracing a pattern in the dust with her new shoe. “D’you think we’ll go to heaven?”

  Our confident assumption of last spring that we would be ushered through the pearly gates without any argument had been seriously shaken by the events of the summer. But I answer stoutly as I give the merry-go-round a push with my feet. “Oh, we’re gonna be there, all right; an’ our families, an’ all our friends; an’ Brother Nickelbee, an’ his wife; an’ Aunt Francie, an’ Roger, an’ Clare, an’ Emily; an’ George an’ Louise.”

  The merry-go-round is revolving slowly. Leatrice gives it another push. “An’ Doctor/Bishop Lindblum’ll be there, of course, an’ his wife; an’ Brother an’ Sister Hopper; an’ Sister Woolsey.”

  Leatrice had meant the humans so named. I am quick to include their animal namesakes: “An’ Brother an’ Sister Hopper, an’ their rabbit children; an’ our Sister Woolsey, ‘cause Jesus likes sheep.”

  We are spinning very fast now, trees and school flashing by.

  “An’ the Three Wise Men’ll be there, an’ Santa Claus.”

  Leatrice puts down her feet to slow the wagon wheel. “It’s gonna be a really swell place. I bet Sister Posey’ll be there tending her flowers.”

  “An’ Grandma’ll be baking cookies.”

  “An’ Grandpa’ll be telling stories.”

  “An’ Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis’ll be there with the Brigham Young Temple cane, an’ — an’ Ancient Of Days; an’ Great-Uncle Gideon Golden Rule Gillis’ll be watching the stars.”

  “An’ eveybody’ll be nice, an’ beautiful, an’ happy.”

  The merry-go-round slows to a stop. I give a sigh of satisfaction. “Yep.”

  Someone has said, “You can have everything — but not all at once.” And it’s true. But the now can be so beautiful that waiting for the rest holds no privation.

  I remember Brother Nickelbee’s dying testimony: “The Lord may seem t’ take away, but He allus gives back — in plenty an’ runnin’ over.”

  Oh, He does, He does....

  __________

  I return to the present: I have come a thousand miles to express my love for Leatrice once more. I think of my family, both here and in the world of spirits; and our town of Welcome; and beautiful Welcome Valley; and the faith that brought our people here. My heart lifts with joy and gratitude for all the blessings my Father in Heaven has given me.

  Oh, Leatrice, are you sitting down front close to Jesus; and are you saving a place for me?

  The End

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Did you like this book? Please rate it or review it.

  Then check out Kurt Kammeyer’s other publications here:

  The Clan of the Stone series:

  The Clan of the Stone

  The Defender of God

  The Empress of Edom

  By Ailad’s Bootstraps (Short story)

  The President Elect series:

  Book One: Joseph Smith the Prophet

  Book Two: Joseph Smith the Candidate

  Book Three: General Joseph Smith

  The Rejuvenated

  The Last Stradivari (Short story)

  Bath-time Anomalies (Junk science at its best)