A Woman Named Damaris Read online

  “I’ll clean up the china,” said Damaris woodenly as she moved to the dining room.

  It truly was a mess. Two tables had been tipped. Broken china was strewn across the room, and food had scattered and stained the rug. A tablecloth lay with its hem drinking from a pool of cranberry sauce. The drapery at the window was half pulled from its mooring and dangled haphazardly. A plant of red geraniums had been uprooted from its pot, and dirt trailed across the floor to where the plant now lay, its roots bare and broken.

  Damaris let a hand reach into her pocket again before she went for the brooms and mops to clean the mess. It would not be an easy chore and she knew that it would be some time before she would settle in her own room with her Bible propped up before her. If only she could have read the story before she’d had to take on this unwelcome task.

  Without warning, anger started to burn within her. It was the whiskey. No, it was those who were foolish enough and selfish enough to drink the vile stuff. Selfishness—that’s what it was. No consideration for anyone else, for how they felt, or for how they suffered. Pure selfishness. Such people didn’t deserve love. They didn’t even deserve to live. It would serve them right if they fell in their stupor and bashed in their stupid heads. Mrs. Stacy was right. Let the no-good miner freeze to death in jail. It would be no more than he deserved.

  Never in all of her years of being the victim of her father’s rages had Damaris felt such sudden and intense anger. It shocked her, but she did not repent. For an awful moment she wished she had stayed at home. Stayed and fought back. She was older now. Stronger. She was sure that she, with her mama, could put up quite a fight. They might not win, but they could inflict some damage before they were beaten. In that awful moment, Damaris longed for the chance, the opportunity to cause bruise for bruise, cut for cut, cruelty for cruelty.

  And then, as quickly as it had come, the rage was gone, leaving Damaris trembling and troubled. Should she feel shame? Remorse? Damaris could not sort her troubled thoughts. She cleaned the mess as quickly as she could so she could retire to peace and quiet as soon as possible.

  ———

  It was late when Damaris finished cleaning the room. Things were now in order. The broken dishes had been cleaned up and thrown into containers for disposal. The drapery had been rehung, though it still looked a bit disturbed after its ordeal. The carpet had been cleaned and rinsed, but not all of the stains would come out. The tables had been righted and covered with fresh tablecloths. The stained tablecloth was soaking in the kitchen in an effort to remove the cranberry stain. Damaris had done all that she could do. She sighed and blew out the light.

  Mrs. Stacy had taken to bed hours before, begging a terrible headache. Damaris was no longer angry with the woman. She was no longer angry with anyone. She felt numb as she threw out the dirty water and hung up her mop.

  “I’m still going to read it,” she promised herself. “No matter what time I have to be up in the morning.”

  Damaris was about to go to her room when she remembered the doors. The sheriff had not returned. Mr. Starsky, the man who helped lug the drunken miner to the jailhouse, had come back to inform Damaris that the sheriff would be spending the night at the jail to keep the fire burning in the big iron stove. Surely he would not get much sleep on this cold night.

  Damaris went to secure the bolt on the front door. Then she checked the door at the back. It was firmly locked. Damaris sighed again and glanced once more around the kitchen before heading for her bedroom.

  As she set the lamp on her small stand, she reached up and slipped the bolt on her own door. She seldom bolted her door, but tonight she had been unnerved. The curse of whiskey had followed her all the way out West. Perhaps she would never feel safe again.

  Damaris looked down. She was still wearing her best gown. In her confusion and anger she had forgotten to change it. She wanted to cry as she looked at it. It was so soiled and stained that Damaris wondered if she would ever be able to get it clean again.

  She removed it carefully and slipped on her worn, secondhand robe. Then, lamp in hand, she went again to the kitchen and pressed the dress into the tub of water with the tablecloth. She did hope that the stains would not be permanent.

  As she prepared for bed she heard the wind. It was blowing gustily now and the temperature would drop quickly. I wonder if Gil has reached home safely? she thought, glancing at the bedside clock. It was almost one o’clock. She nodded to herself. “He’ll be in. Long ago,” she mused with some satisfaction, surprised at the relief she felt.

  Then she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up as far as she could and still be able to turn the pages of the Bible.

  Acts 17:34, she reminded herself. She flipped through the book until she found Acts. She had lately been reading in the book of Acts herself.

  “Just look,” she murmured. “I would have discovered it for myself soon. I was almost to it.”

  With great anticipation she found chapter seventeen and ran her finger across the verses until she came to verse thirty-four.

  What was the woman like whose name she bore? What mighty deeds of bravery or kindness had she done? Damaris could not wait to find out.

  “Howbeit certain men clave unto him, and believed: among the which was Dionysius the Areopagate, and a woman named Damaris, and others with them.”

  Damaris let her eyes quickly pass down to chapter eighteen. Now she would read the whole story.

  “After these things Paul departed from Athens, and came to Corinth; and found a certain Jew named Aquila, born in Pontus, lately come from Italy, with his wife Priscilla; (because that Claudius had commanded all Jews to depart from Rome:) and came unto them.

  “And because he was of the same craft, he abode with them, and wrought: for by their occupation they were tentmakers.”

  Damaris was disappointed in the turn the story had taken. She read on and on, hoping to return again to the woman Damaris. But the more she read, the more it was apparent that the story of Damaris was sadly lacking. There was just no more there. Nothing about the woman. The next chapters and verses went on to speak of others and what they had done.

  Damaris concluded that she must have missed something. She flipped back again to Acts 17:34 and reread the verse. She read it again and again. Finally her mind accepted what her brain had been trying to tell her. There was nothing more there about Damaris. No words, no mighty exploits, no acts of kindness or deeds of bravery. She had done nothing. Said nothing. She had just been. Damaris felt disappointment seep all through her body and soul.

  With an angry thrust she pushed the Bible from her and heard it fall to the floor with a sickening thud. She did not even lean over to blow out her lamp. She pulled her blankets up about her ears, buried her face in her pillow, and let the tears flow.

  Never had Damaris felt so completely defeated, so alone and miserable. Even the Bible had nothing to say about Damaris. She had been rejected by both heaven and earth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Truth

  Damaris felt a heaviness as she climbed from her bed and dressed for her duties of the day, and not all of it was due to her lack of sleep.

  She could not put into words the deep sorrow that settled over her after her discovery of the night before. There was nothing—nothing to the story of the Bible Damaris. No wonder Miss Dover had looked at her blankly when she mentioned that her name came from the Scripture. Nobody, not even one as faithful at reading her Bible as Miss Dover, could possibly have paid any attention to the one-line account.

  Damaris felt her cheeks grow warm with shame. How would she ever be able to face the kind woman again? The woman who knew her secret. Damaris had thought her biblical name gave her worth; now she knew that the woman in the Bible also was of no account. Damaris left her room with a heavy heart and put her mind to the morning tasks.

  Burying herself in her task had worked in the past, but it did not work well for Damaris on this difficult morning.

  Mrs.
Stacy appeared in the kitchen just as Damaris was ready to serve the few boarders who showed up for breakfast. The woman was still out-of-sorts and complained that her headache was no better. Damaris had just suggested that she take a pot of tea and retire to the dining room when the sheriff appeared. He was starving, he informed Damaris, and also needed some hot black coffee for the man at the jail. Damaris quickly complied. She did not want to annoy the sheriff when he was in such a foul mood.

  “Crazy man snored and moaned by turn all night long,” the sheriff continued as Damaris poured his coffee and served him bacon and eggs at the kitchen table. “I was ’bout ready to take Mrs. Stacy’s advice and let ’im freeze to death.”

  Damaris said nothing.

  “Never got more’n a few winks sleep all night long,” he continued, rubbing his hand over his unshaven face.

  Damaris placed the toast on the table along with a small pot of jam and turned back to the tub of soaking items to find a job for her hands. She lifted the tablecloth. It still bore the stain of the cranberry juice.

  “Thet from last night?” asked the sheriff.

  Damaris was surprised that he was watching her.

  She nodded her head and wrung out the tablecloth. If the stain had not been removed by now, more soaking would not help.

  She placed the tablecloth in another pan and turned to her dress. Most of the stains and soil had soaked out of it, she found with relief. She lifted it in the air to let some of the water drain from the garment before she wrung it out.

  “Thet yers?” asked the sheriff around his bite of bacon and eggs.

  Damaris nodded again.

  “Messed it pretty bad?” asked the sheriff.

  “I—I plumb forgot I was wearing it,” Damaris admitted, a flush touching her cheek. “When I came in and—and everything was in—in such a—a state, I just went to work.”

  The sheriff nodded, seeming to understand.

  “Ya figgered out the damages?” he asked her.

  Damaris’s eyes widened with surprise. “No-o,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Well, you git thet fer me as soon as you can. I’ll sober him up and send him on home. But iffen he’s goin’ to celebrate in such grand style—it’s goin’ to cost ’im. He don’t have nothin’ better to spend his gold pieces on. Figger the dishes, the carpet, the wasted food, the tablecloth there, yer dress—and yer time, too. Itemize it all out and I’ll give the list to ’im.”

  Damaris, though still surprised, nodded in agreement. How would she ever make such an estimate?

  “You just write the things down,” the sheriff went on. “Anything thet was broke—or damaged. I’ll put the prices to it.”

  “I’ll get right to it,” Damaris agreed, “just as soon as I have finished serving the breakfasts.”

  ———

  Later in the morning the sheriff returned with the pail in which he carried his hot coffee—now holding several gold pieces. He passed a few to Mrs. Stacy, who promptly forgot her aching head. Then he turned to Damaris. “These are fer you,” he said. “Fer your dress and your work.”

  Damaris looked at the coins. She had no idea how much they were worth, but she guessed they were of considerably more value than her simple gown and her time.

  “But—” she began.

  “Take ’em,” said the sheriff, pressing them into her hand. “I coulda charged him twice the amount an’ he woulda known it was fair. Ya jest can’t run around breakin’ up other people’s property fer them to clean up after you.”

  Mrs. Stacy nodded vigorously in agreement, a smug look on her face. “You can’t,” she agreed. “That’s a fact. I’m goin’ to have to travel all the way to the city to replace those broken dishes and that damaged carpet. And the drapery needs to be replaced, too. And my tablecloths. Even my dress. It was all splattered.”

  It seemed to Damaris that Mrs. Stacy had compiled herself quite a lengthy list.

  Damaris dropped her coins into her apron pocket. What would her mama think if she could see her with the money? Even though her thoughts turned to her mother, she would not let them rest there. No good could come of allowing herself to think of home.

  Instead, Damaris thought of Mr. MacKenzie’s store and his yard goods. Perhaps she would be able to pick out some material that would be worthy of the delicate lace she had tucked away in a corner of her drawer. Damaris felt her cheeks redden and her breath quicken at the thought.

  And then her thoughts went further. She would need to sew the dress on Miss Dover’s machine. Damaris dreaded their next encounter. The woman was sure to ask her about Acts 17:34.

  ———

  The next day she showed Mr. MacKenzie her gold pieces and asked him what she could afford with the coins. His eyebrows shot up and he whistled softly.

  “Must have been some dress ya ruined!” he exclaimed.

  Damaris felt a tinge of guilt. “But the dress isn’t ruined,” she hastened to explain. “Oh, it has a few small stains—but you can scarcely see them.”

  Mr. MacKenzie nodded. “Well, he still caused it damage, I guess, or the sheriff wouldn’t have charged him for it.”

  “Some of the money is for my work,” Damaris continued in her effort to explain.

  “Had lots of cleanin’ up to do?” asked the man. “Suppose it took ya most of the night.”

  Damaris flushed again. “I—I was done by one—actually,” she admitted.

  Mr. MacKenzie nodded again. “An’ on Christmas, too,” he said as though that made it much more costly.

  Damaris was surprised to learn that her money would purchase the nicest piece of material in the store with a good amount still left on her account for future use. She held the beautiful fabric protectively as she left the store later in the day. As much as she dreaded the conversation that was sure to ensue with Miss Dover, Damaris could not resist slipping in to show her the fabric.

  Miss Dover clucked and fussed over the material in fitting manner. Damaris had forgotten her anxiety when the woman suddenly turned the conversation to the dreaded subject.

  “Did you get a chance to read Acts 17:34?” she asked, excitement still touching her voice.

  Damaris did not look up. Her cheeks warmed as she nodded her head.

  “Wasn’t it exciting?” continued Miss Dover. “It made me wish that I could put my name in there. Just imagine, ‘A woman named Katherine.’ You must have been so excited.”

  Damaris still did not lift her eyes.

  “Funny I never noticed it before,” went on Miss Dover. “But if it had said Katherine, I’m sure I would have paid more attention.”

  Damaris looked up then. She still said nothing, but her troubled eyes looked directly into the dancing eyes of the older woman.

  “What is it?” asked Miss Dover candidly. “You don’t seem pleased.”

  “I—I guess—I guess I was—was disappointed,” stammered Damaris, knowing that her words did little to convey her emotion.

  “But why?” asked Miss Dover.

  “Well, she—she didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything,” blurted Damaris, her eyes threatening to flood with tears. Damaris jerked herself stubbornly to attention. She refused to allow tears to spill.

  “But she did!” said Miss Dover, her face showing shock at the words. “She did!”

  Damaris looked confused. “What?” she asked blankly. “What?”

  “Why, she did the most important thing anyone can ever do,” went on Miss Dover. “Didn’t you read it?”

  “I—I read the verse. That’s all I found. Just the one verse. Did you find more—someplace?”

  “No,” admitted Miss Dover. “I just found the one verse—but it contained so much.”

  “But she didn’t do anything,” insisted Damaris again. “It just went on to another story—of someone else.”

  “But it had already said all that needed to be said,” argued Miss Dover. “Here, let me show you,” and she hastened into the back rooms and came out with her Bi
ble in hand.

  Damaris felt relief wash over her. Miss Dover had more in her Bible than Damaris had in hers. It would soon be straightened out. She would be able to see for herself the whole story.

  Miss Dover seated herself on the little bench and nodded Damaris to her side. Then she opened the book to the seventeenth chapter of Acts and began to read the familiar verse.

  “Howbeit certain men clave unto him and believed: among the which was Dionysius the Areopagate, and a woman named Damaris, and others with them.”

  Miss Dover looked up from her reading and beamed at Damaris as though she should be pleased. Damaris was more confused than ever. Those were exactly the same words she had read for herself. There was nothing there about Damaris.

  “But—” Damaris began, then let her words hang lifeless.

  “Don’t you see?” asked the woman beside her.

  Damaris shook her head. The tears were hard to hold in check. “She didn’t do anything,” she repeated stubbornly.

  “But she did! She believed! She believed! Oh, Damaris, that is the most exciting, the most important thing anyone can ever do. Then—and now.”

  It was Miss Dover who now let tears fall unheeded. “She believed. She believed,” she repeated. “It’s wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  “Believed what?” asked Damaris, puzzled.

  “Why, the message Paul brought to Athens. About Jesus. About Him being the Son of God. The Savior. That we can be freed—forgiven—by trusting Him. You must go back. Read the chapter again and again until you understand it. Look! Here in verse three, ‘Christ must needs have suffered, and risen again from the dead: and that this Jesus, whom I preach unto you, is Christ.’ And here, in verse twenty-seven, ‘That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far from every one of us: for in him we live, and move, and have our being.’

  “Go back, Damaris. Go back and read it all slowly and carefully. Find out for yourself why it was so important that Damaris believed. I’ll be praying for you as you read—that you might discover the truth for yourself.”