“You can tell him he can stay until he’s well enough to go,” said Papa.
“You can tell him that yourself, Jacob,” said Sarah. “You are his son.”
She walked out of the barn, past Papa, past me.
I stood quietly for a long time. Then, when I heard Papa begin to shovel hay again, I went out into the winter day.
Dusk came, and it was colder. Sarah and Cassie and I set the table for supper. Papa came in at last. He looked around.
Sarah shook her head.
“He hasn’t come back from his walk.”
Papa looked out the window. Daylight was nearly gone. Papa washed his hands.
“Is supper ready?” he asked.
“We can’t eat without Grandfather!” said Cassie.
Papa dried his hands. He sat down at the table.
“We ate without him all these years,” he said firmly. “We can eat without him tonight.”
“I’ll go look for him,” I said.
“Caleb! Sit down!” Papa’s voice was sharp.
I sat down.
“I think we should wait for him, Jacob,” said Sarah. “He’s our guest.”
Papa stood up angrily.
“A guest! Of all things he is not . . .”
The door opened and Papa stopped. Grandfather came in and took off his coat, then saw Papa standing.
“Sorry to be late,” said Grandfather. “I lost my way. It’s been a long time . . .” His voice trailed off. “You should have eaten without me.”
“That’s what Papa said,” said Cassie.
Grandfather looked at Papa.
“Your papa was right,” Grandfather said.
Grandfather sat at his place. Papa sat, too.
“Grace, Caleb?” said Sarah.
“Thank you for our food,” I said. “And thank you for friends who came to share it.”
“That means you, Grandfather,” said Cassie.
“I know, Cassie,” said Grandfather softly. He turned to Papa. “I see you cut down a stand of trees in the west meadow, near the barn. Don’t know if I would have done that. I fell out of one of those trees once,” he said to me.
Papa said nothing.
“Do you like children?” asked Cassie, staring at Grandfather.
Grandfather took a spoonful of soup.
“Do you? Like children?” asked Cassie again.
Sarah reached out her hand and put it on Cassie’s arm to stop her talk.
“Don’t know many,” said Grandfather.
“Do you like the ones you know?”
“No,” said Grandfather.
Cassie was surprised at Grandfather’s answer. Her mouth fell open.
“But what about Papa?” asked Cassie. “Did you like Papa when he was little?”
“Cassie! Eat,” said Papa.
“But . . .”
“Hush,” said Sarah.
Cassie was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at Grandfather.
“You are not a nice man,” she said.
“Now, I told you that,” said Grandfather.
No one spoke for the rest of the meal. Even Cassie was quiet. Lottie and Nick watched us, waiting for talk. But there was no talk.
“Good night, Grandfather.”
I stood in the doorway of his bedroom. His oil lamp was burning. Grandfather stood by the window looking out.
“There’s a moon,” he said.
I went over and saw the moonlight on the barn, the meadows, the road going to town.
“I watched a lot of moons from this room,” said Grandfather.
“You must have missed the farm,” I said.
Grandfather was silent.
“You can read Anna’s journals,” I said. “There on the table. You can read all about the farm. And about us. While you were gone.”
Grandfather didn’t turn around.
I picked up one of Anna’s journals and opened it. I began to read to Grandfather.
“‘Papa married Sarah on a summer day. There were no clouds in the sky, and Papa picked Sarah up in his arms and whirled her around and around, her white dress and veil surrounding them like the summer wind. Caleb was so excited and happy, he burst into tears.
“‘Everybody was happy.’”
There was silence, but Grandfather was looking at me.
“I did cry, I remember,” I said. “And I was happy.”
“Good night, Caleb,” he said finally. “Close the door behind you.”
Just before I closed the door, Seal crept into Grandfather’s room and jumped up onto his bed.
Grandfather hasn’t opened Anna’s journals. He hasn’t read mine. He doesn’t talk to Papa. Only to Sarah, who makes him talk to her. Sometimes to Cassie and me.
I’m glad Grandfather came.
But I don’t like the silence.
6
I didn’t have to tell Sarah about Grandfather’s pills after all. It was the dogs, Lottie really, who showed her in the end, and Grandfather running after Lottie all over the house. All that noise. The dogs.
There was no school for the next few days. The cold was hard for the horses and children. I would have liked it any other time, staying home. But not in this house. Not with Papa and Grandfather passing each other without talking, the only sounds in the house the clicking of Sarah’s knitting needles, Cassie’s chattering, Min batting a marble across the floor. Two times I heard Sarah and Papa’s voices, sharp and soft at the same time, behind their closed bedroom door. Once Papa had burst out of the room, brushing past me in the hallway. He had stayed in the barn most of the day.
“Why won’t they talk to each other?” I whispered to Sarah.
“They are stubborn, Caleb.”
“But they are family,” I said.
“I know. That’s what makes it so hard.”
“Can’t you do something? Can’t you make Papa—”
“Caleb,” Sarah interrupted me. “Your papa has to do this himself.”
“I don’t know, Sarah. Papa’s angry. Will he hurt Grandfather?”
Sarah’s look changed and she put her arms around me.
“Oh, no, Caleb. They are grown-up men. They won’t do that. They will talk about their differences.”
“Sarah?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“I think Grandfather is sick.”
Sarah looked at me closely.
“Why do you say that, Caleb?”
The door opened, and Grandfather came into the kitchen. The dogs followed, snow on their noses. Grandfather stamped his feet, leaving snow on the rug by the door. He sat down, the dogs surrounding him.
“They’ve adopted you, Lottie and Nick,” said Sarah. “And Seal,” she added as Seal jumped out of her basket and came over to Grandfather.
Grandfather was out of breath.
“Grandfather!”
Cassie came into the kitchen and leaned against Grandfather.
“I drew seven more pictures of you!”
She had dozens of pictures of Grandfather: Grandfather sitting, running, standing, sleeping, riding a horse (Grandfather was much larger than the horse), and Grandfather on the barn roof.
“Cassie has adopted you, too,” said Sarah, smiling.
Grandfather looked at Cassie quickly, then away again, not inviting any questions from her. He stroked Lottie and Nick.
“We always had good farm dogs here.”
Grandfather looked surprised at his own memory. Or maybe he was surprised he was talking about his memories.
“What kinds of dogs did you have?” I asked. “What were their names?”
Grandfather raised his eyebrows.
“You’ll write about this, won’t you.”
“Maybe.”
Grandfather looked at my journal on the table, then shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back in his chair.
“Pal was the big one, part hound, with long ears. She could jump over the tallest fences. Jacob . . .” He stopped for a moment. “Jacob used to try to get her to
jump over the cattle.”
“Did she jump over a cow?” asked Cassie.
“Don’t know that,” said Grandfather.
“And then there was Maudie,” Grandfather went on. “She was small and black, like Lottie here.”
Lottie wagged her tail at the sound of her name.
“Maudie loved winter. She would stay out all day, even in storms. We would have to go out and find her and bring her in at night. Then we found Rags one day, out in the slough, drinking water. He had wandered from somewhere far away. He looked like a heap of rags . . . thin and sorry lookin’, but he was the sweetest dog of them all.”
Grandfather looked at us, suddenly aware of the silence.
“Well,” he said, embarrassed, “that was a lot of talk from me.”
There was a small sound by the kitchen door. Lottie and Nick looked up, wagging their tails again. Papa stood there.
“Was that your dog, Papa? Rags who was sweet?” asked Cassie.
Papa didn’t speak.
“Jacob?” asked Sarah, softly.
Then, as if waking from a daydream, and without a look at anyone, Papa went outside.
Sarah sighed. She went to the window and looked out.
Grandfather started to get up, then he sat down hard, his face showing pain. Sarah didn’t see, but I saw. He put his hand on his chest. Then he took out his bottle of pills, but it dropped from his hand. Lottie, always hoping for play, picked up the bottle in her mouth and raced around the table.
“Lottie! Stop!” said Grandfather sternly.
But Lottie wanted to play. As soon as Grandfather got close to her, Lottie jumped back and raced away. Nick barked and ran after the two of them.
Finally, it was Sarah who stopped Lottie.
“Drop that,” she said.
Lottie, who loved Sarah, dropped the bottle of pills at Sarah’s feet.
“That is mine,” said Grandfather.
Sarah looked at the bottle.
“What are these pills for, John?” asked Sarah. She turned the bottle around and read the label on the back.
“Heart? These are for your heart?” she asked.
“Where does it say that?” demanded Grandfather. “Where?”
I could see the words FOR HEART written on the bottle. Why couldn’t Grandfather see those words, too?
“This is not your business,” he added rudely.
“Yes it is,” said Sarah carefully. “You are family. Your health is important to us.”
Grandfather reached out for the bottle, but Sarah moved back.
“There are only a few pills left, John. We can drive to town and see Sam. He’s our doctor.”
Grandfather’s face was still and angry.
“Those are my pills!” he said loudly.
“And you are my family!” said Sarah.
It was a contest of sorts. Sarah won, surprising Grandfather. Sarah, smaller than Grandfather, but just as fierce. Sarah won because it was decided—Sarah decided—that Grandfather would go to town in the wagon so he could see the doctor. Grandfather went upstairs, frowning. He was angry with Sarah.
Grandfather was lying on his bed, Seal next to his pillow.
“Grandfather?”
“I’m resting, Caleb.”
“Don’t be angry with Sarah, Grandfather.”
“She shouldn’t meddle in my business.”
“Sarah has a strong mind,” I said.
Grandfather made a small sound.
“Before Sarah came to the prairie, Papa was sad,” I said. “Sometimes he didn’t talk. He didn’t sing. He had been alone for a long time. Except for Anna. Except for me.”
Grandfather turned away from me, facing the window. I picked up Anna’s journal. “Anna wrote about that. About why Sarah made a difference in Papa’s life. In our life.”
I read.
“‘Sometimes Sarah dances, and she makes Papa dance, too, his face shy, his smile like Caleb’s smile.
“‘Sometimes, when Papa worries about the farm or the weather, Sarah takes his hand and pulls him outside.
“‘“Come, Jacob, come walk with me,” she says.
“‘And he does.
“‘They walk the fields and the country road, Lottie and Nick following them. Once they chased each other through the rows of corn and we could hear the sounds of their laughter.’”
Grandfather didn’t speak. But there was a sound behind me, Cassie in the doorway.
“Maybe we should dance,” she said, her voice small in the room. “Don’t you think, Grandfather?”
Still, Grandfather didn’t speak.
“Would that be good?” she asked.
After a moment I took Cassie’s hand, and together, we left Grandfather alone.
7
The day was sunny, the sun on snow so bright that my eyes watered. Snow was melting. I could hear it dripping off the fences and the barn roof.
Papa was silent, his hands light on the reins. The wagon hardly made any sound on the snow-covered road. I sat in back with Cassie, Grandfather next to us, facing the farm, watching it disappear.
We passed the west meadow, Bess and May running alongside the fence with us, as if they wanted to go to town, too. We passed the slough, thick with ice. There were no clouds. The land stretched out so far that my eyes couldn’t even see the places where the sky came down.
“Sing a song, Grandfather,” said Cassie.
Grandfather ignored her.
“Please,” said Cassie.
“I don’t sing songs,” said Grandfather.
“Never?” asked Cassie.
“Never.”
“Never once?” asked Cassie.
Grandfather was quiet. But Cassie wasn’t.
“Didn’t you sing to Papa when he was a little boy?”
Very slowly Grandfather turned to look at Cassie. But before he could speak, Sarah cried out.
“Oh, no! Jacob, look!”
Sarah stood and Papa slowed the wagon.
A bonfire was burning in the cemetery. A family stood there next to the tiniest pine coffin I had ever seen.
“Jacob,” said Sarah. “Stop. Please.”
“Don’t go over there, Sarah,” said Papa. “It’s the sickness.”
“Stop the wagon,” said Sarah.
Papa stopped and Sarah got down.
“What’s wrong?” asked Cassie.
I put my arm around Cassie to protect her.
“Nothing important,” I said.
“A fire to thaw the ground. To bury the dead,” said Grandfather flatly. “By the looks of it, it’s a baby who died.”
Papa whirled around.
“Don’t! It isn’t your place to tell her anything,” he said in a harsh whisper.
Grandfather stared back at Papa.
“I told her the truth.”
I watched Sarah making her way through the snow to where the family stood. One of their children turned and watched her. And then the mother turned. Even from where we were in the wagon I could see the look of her. It made it hard for me to breathe, to see her face. Sarah put her arms around the woman.
Beside me Grandfather sat still. Cassie put her head on his shoulder. He didn’t put his arm around her. But he didn’t move away either.
Papa got down and went to meet Sarah. I could see she was crying. Papa took her in his arms and led her back to the wagon. Cassie began to cry, too, and Grandfather put an arm around her. Sarah and Papa climbed up in the wagon.
“We will stay together in town,” said Sarah. “No wandering, Cassie. John will see Sam. Then we’ll come straight home.”
“But, Mama,” protested Cassie. “I wanted to go to the store.”
“No, Cassie,” said Sarah. “You’ll have to stay close to us.”
Papa flicked the reins over the horses’ backs. Slowly the wagon started off again, leaving us watching the fire burning, the small coffin, the family. We watched for a long time, until the fire became a tiny, faraway flickering light on the p
rairie.
There were not many people in town, only a few wagons and some cars. The streets looked lonely, and as we drove to Sam’s office I could see pictures of flags hung in windows. These families had sons who had gone to war in Europe. On other doors were black wreaths that meant someone had died there, of influenza or in the fighting.
“Caleb!”
Anna ran down the steps of Sam’s house, smiling at us.
I climbed down from the wagon.
“I didn’t know you were coming!” she said.
Papa and Sarah hugged Anna. Anna picked Cassie up.
“You’re so big, Cassie! So tall!”
Slowly Grandfather climbed down from the wagon.
“Jacob?” said Sarah.
“This is John Witting, Anna,” Papa said. “I’ll take your list to the store, Sarah.”
Sarah turned and watched Papa walk across the street to the store.
“John Witting?” Anna asked, curious.
Grandfather put out his hand.
“I’m your grandfather,” he said bluntly. “You look like your papa. I’ve come to see the doctor.”
Grandfather began to walk across the yard to the office.
Anna looked at Sarah.
“He’s your papa’s father,” said Sarah.
“You can call him Grandfather,” said Cassie.
“But Sarah . . . where has he been?” asked Anna.
Sarah shook her head.
“He’s been lost,” said Cassie.
Anna looked past the wagon, watching Papa go into the store.
“And Papa’s not happy,” she said.
“I wish you were home,” I said to her. “You’d know what to do.”
Anna turned.
“Wait. I’ll take you in to the doctor,” she called to Grandfather.
Grandfather waved his hand and climbed up the steps.
“I’ll do this myself,” he said.
Anna smiled.
“I was about to ask what he was like,” she said.
“That’s easy,” I said. “He’s like . . .”
“Papa,” we said at the same time, laughing.
Sarah put her arm around Anna.
“You look tired. Are you getting enough rest? Have you heard from Justin?”
“I’m fine. I got a letter this past week. He’s homesick.”