The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [131]
“I came because I read in the paper, about Arthur,” I said. “I’m so very sorry.”
A woman stood beside Mama, a child huddled behind her. I wondered if it was Agnes, the name I’d read in the directory. A toddler sat on the rag rug picking at loose threads. “We haven’t met,” I said. I put my hand out. “I’m Arthur’s sister Clara, and I’m so sorry that he’s left us all.”
The woman’s eyes pooled with tears. “Agnes,” she said. She patted her daughter’s shoulder and pulled the girl to stand in front of her, arms soft on the child’s shoulders. “This is Thelma. And that’s Roland, our son.” He had a small piece of Hardanger lace pinned to the front of his shirt. Her voice broke, and I watched as Mama moved to stand beside her, handing her a tissue. I stared at the lace piece.
“It was Arthur’s,” Agnes said in explanation. “I have no idea why he kept it. You’re the sister Arthur wouldn’t talk about.”
I winced. What despicable crime might she think I’d committed?
“I’ve been gone a long time.”
“Well, come in, sit down,” Mama said. “Lillian, help your sister. You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you? People have been so generous, bringing food. Meningitis,” she said then. “As bad as diphtheria, tuberculosis. Poor Arthur. Survived the flu and then … so very sudden.” Her eyes pooled again with grief.
“I’d be pleased to, but I don’t want to disrupt.” I looked at Agnes. “I came … to pay my respects. To witness to our loss.”
“Hardly your loss,” Ida said, holding the tray with coffee on it. “You haven’t seen him in more than twenty years.”
“Ida,” Mama said.
“To me he’ll always be that young man who loved horses and dogs—”
“And cats,” Thelma said. The child’s lip trembled. “We had to leave our cat. Grandma and Aunt Ida say there’s no room here.”
“Hush,” her mother cautioned.
“I’ve … rental property,” I said. “You’re welcome to it, and a cat would be fine. Your family could stay until—”
“They don’t need charity,” Ida said. “They need family around them, and that’s what they’ll have living here. We can take care of you, can’t we, Thelma?” She set the tray down and with one hand hugged the child, a gesture genuine and warm. Thelma hugged her back. “We’ll find ourselves an alley cat to feed. He’ll be an outdoor cat. Take care of those mice.” Thelma nodded her head, wiped at her eyes.
I wished I hadn’t made the offer of the property. It sounded crass—or worse, boastful that I had something like that to give. Ida was right. They needed family now to ease the pain. All the money in the world could not relieve that. Money never could.
“The service will be Thursday, in Wilbur,” Agnes said. “That’s where we live. Lived. I’m not sure what we’ll do …”
“You’ll let us take care of you,” Mama said. “It’ll be good to have the voice of children echo in these walls for however long you need. You’re doing us a favor by joining us. That’s what families are for.”
Agnes dabbed at her eyes, and Mama nodded once in that firm way she had that indicated, Well, that’s settled. “I’ll get us cookies.” She left the room.
“So,” Bill said. “What have you been doing all these years? Been in jail?” He grinned.
“Not the kind with walls,” I said. “I haven’t really been held hostage except by my own doing.” He frowned. “I’ve ranched, out at Coulee City.”
“You, a farmer?”
“Yes, and then I trapped for a while, got involved in the fur trade.”
“Wouldn’t have pictured you doing anything like trapping. Not exactly a woman’s task, that.”
“No, but I learned to do it. Not all that well, but adequate.”
“Wait,” Mama called from the kitchen. She stuck her head out through the door opening. “Wait until we’re out there so we can catch up too.”
I asked Bill what made him decide to become a butcher.
“Oh, I fell into it mostly. A friend told me about the work, and it pays good. Always thought it odd to call it butchering when it requires such precision.” He shrugged. I wondered if he’d been in the war, then