The Bluebird and the Sparrow Page 7

  “Then, I guess you should be thankful for Mama’s prayers,” Berta retorted and swung her feet over the side of her bed and into the waiting slippers.

  Glenna only sighed and let the curtain drop back into place.

  “Berta—” she began.

  Berta did not look her way. She went to the dressing table that they shared, lifted her brush, and began to stroke the tangles from her long hair.

  In the mirror she could see her sister’s reflection. She was standing with a bemused look on her pretty face, studying the ring on her finger.

  “I am so—blessed,” she said at last, but Berta didn’t know if she was speaking to her or to herself. “So very blessed. Imagine me—marrying the—the most sought-after young man in town.”

  Her head swung up, and she clearly began addressing her comments to Berta.

  “He is so—so wonderful. Everything about him is so wonderful. I—I feel like—Cinderella.”

  “Well, Cinderella,” said Berta dryly, “if you don’t get out of your flannel and into that new dress, you’re going to miss the ball.”

  Glenna giggled. “Oh, Berta,” she exclaimed, “I’m going to miss your—your crazy sense of humor.”

  And Glenna crossed impulsively to her older sister and gave her a warm hug.

  It caught Berta totally by surprise. They were not used to sharing intimate moments. There was nothing she could do but return the embrace, and as her arms enclosed the shoulders of the younger girl she suddenly realized that she was going to miss Glenna as well.

  Who would be her champion? Who would make her laugh with her bubbling stories of school mishaps? Who would sense her every mood and respond to it with love and understanding?

  Berta fought back the tears, then released Glenna and pushed her back from the embrace. “I’m going to put on the coffee,” she said in an impatient tone. “You’d best get yourself dressed. We have plenty to do today.”

  Mrs. Berdette was already in the kitchen. There was much to get done in preparation for the meal that would follow the wedding service. Berta knew it would take all three of them scurrying about all morning to accomplish the tasks.

  “Is Glenna awake?” asked her mother.

  “Awake—and swooning,” replied Berta, not looking her mother’s way.

  “No wonder,” replied Mrs. Berdette, and Berta could tell from the sound of her voice that she was smiling.

  “What a lovely couple they make,” her mother went on. “She’s so beautiful and he’s so handsome. They will be so happy.”

  “I didn’t know that one’s degree of happiness was determined by how one looks,” mumbled Berta as she set the coffeepot to boil.

  Mrs. Berdette looked up quickly. “Oh, Berta,” she said with a hint of impatience. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”

  Berta was silent for a moment as she went for the bread to make toast.

  “Still,” she said to her mother, “there is truth to it. It was Glenna’s—’prettiness’ that got her the most prized man in town. And I daresay it was his good looks that drew her attention.”

  She saw the expression on her mother’s face and knew she wished to deny the statement—yet in her honesty could not.

  “But it—” began Mrs. Berdette.

  “Doesn’t seem too fair,” continued Berta. “What about us plain people? What chance do we have?”

  “You’re far from plain, dear,” her mother answered.

  Berta did not even reply to the remark. She was plain and she knew it. Only a mother would argue against that fact.

  Berta was about to speak again when the bride-to-be appeared in a burst of Glenna-energy and a wealth of glowing smiles.

  “Mama,” she said before she even got through the door, “thank you for your prayers. Look at this glorious day.”

  Mrs. Berdette put down the pan in her hand and reached out her arms to her younger daughter.

  Berta went back to her toast making.

  ———

  Even Berta had to admit it was a beautiful wedding. Glenna was glowing and more lovely than ever, and Berta heard many comments from the gathered crowd concerning that fact. “And so sweet, too,” people often as not would add.

  “And he’s so handsome. They do make a stunning couple, don’t they?” the talk went on.

  Berta moved away from the voices, her thoughts churning. It didn’t seem fair that what happened to one in life was governed by how favored one had been in good looks. Glenna had won Parker. Yet hadn’t she, Berta, seen him first? Hadn’t he smilingly handed her back her retrieved hankie? But he would have never taken a second look her way, she was sure. She wasn’t pretty like Glenna.

  She shrugged her shoulders and moved on to check the tables. The food seemed to be evaporating into thin air as the long line of guests moved past to fill their plates.

  Without thinking Berta put her hand up to touch her hair, making sure that the tight knob was securely fastened. She was glad she hadn’t succumbed and worn it looser and soft about her face. It would be “giving in” to society. Trying to be “pretty” to match its demands. She had no intention of yielding. She would fight the unfair system until the day she died.

  ———

  Berta had not realized how much she would personally miss Glenna. She had expected her mother to mope. But Mama seemed reasonably cheerful, as though she had made up her mind that life must move on and she didn’t intend to let the change get the better of her.

  Berta turned her thoughts back to the long-ago conversation. There were more changes ahead. She knew that. She was sure her mother had not forgotten the idea of moving in with Granna.

  Berta decided that she would make the first move. She no longer would be at the mercy of others’ decisions.

  She began to make discreet inquiries in town. There was very little that she would be able to afford on her library salary. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. She would just have to keep inquiring until she found something inexpensive. Surely there was something—somewhere.

  She was beginning to feel discouraged about the whole process when Miss Phillips brought word of a Mrs. Cray who had a room to let. “It’s small—but comfy. You may take your meals with the family or she’ll send them up to your room,” the woman went on.

  It sounded wonderful to Berta. She went immediately to check on it.

  Much to her delight the room was well within her means. She produced the first month’s rent on the spot.

  “I will be moving in over the weekend,” she informed the lady and hurried back to the library to thank Miss Phillips for the tip.

  Berta’s walk home that night was slow and very thoughtful. She was happy to have taken the initiative and found a room. Yet she was ashamed of the way she had gone about it. She should have talked with her mother first. Should have told her of her intention. Now she would have to walk in and inform her mother that the deed was already done. It hadn’t been wise—nor fair.

  Berta dreaded the ordeal ahead. Her cheeks flushed at the very thought of her selfish act.

  Just to prove I’m in control, she scolded herself. That’s what it’s all about. Just to “show” Mama that she doesn’t rule my life. And furthering her guilt came the thought that Glenna would never have done such a thing.

  But the reminder of Glenna’s considerate ways and the truth of the statement just made Berta’s back stiffen.

  Well, I’m not Glenna, she huffed. Glenna was never selfish because she did not need to be. She always got whatever she wanted by her good looks alone. And what credit should she get for her good looks? None. She was just born—lucky, that’s all.

  So Berta’s mood was not a yielding one as she entered the door.

  She didn’t wait to exchange comments with her mother when she was greeted. She hurried to her room and changed the skirt and shirtwaist that she wore as a librarian to those she used for chores in the barn. She would get that work over with as quickly as possible. And, she thought thankfully, she w
ould soon be rid of it altogether. Someone else could have the care of the horses, cows, and chickens.

  As she forked hay and tossed out grain, she was reminded that arrangements had not yet been made, that the farm was not yet sold. Well—she didn’t care. It wasn’t her responsibility. Her mother could see to that. Mama was the one who had made the plans to move in with Granna.

  The evening meal began in silence. Mrs. Berdette seemed to sense the dark mood of her daughter and didn’t try to force conversation. At last, with grim determination, Berta burst right in with her news. She did not try to ease the blow, did not seek for gentle openings to the subject; she just threw out the bold statement with no advance conversation.

  “I’m leaving.”

  Mrs. Berdette looked up, her eyes registering her surprise.

  Berta could only stumble on, trying to get it all over with as quickly as possible.

  “Miss Phillips knew a woman with a room to let. I’ve taken it.”

  Still Mrs. Berdette did not speak.

  “I move in on the weekend,” Berta went on.

  Her mother’s gaze lowered.

  “I … see,” she managed to say quietly.

  “Well, you did say you were planning to move in with Granna,” Berta flung at her defensively.

  “I’ve been asked … yes,” replied her mother, still in the same soft tone.

  “I’m tired of tending the team—the—the cows and—chickens. I’m worn out by the time I come home at night. It’s a long walk into town and—”

  “Yes,” said her mother, “it’s been hard for you.”

  They again fell into silence.

  “This weekend?” her mother asked.

  Berta nodded.

  “Do you need furnishings?”

  “No. It’s furnished.”

  Silence again.

  “Will you board as well?”

  “She’ll send the meals to my room. I preferred that to joining the family.”

  Her mother nodded and pushed the peas around on her plate with the tine of her fork.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said finally. “You’ve always been—my dependable one.” She looked up and managed a smile.

  Berta choked back tears and the words that she knew would come out all wrong if she spoke them aloud. Your “dependable” one? Glenna was your beautiful one—your sweet one. I was your dependable one. Is that—some kind of compliment? If so—I fear I miss it. It sounds like an old shoe—a favorite worn-out chair.

  Berta pushed back her plate. “I’m very tired,” she managed. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Her mother only nodded, but before Berta could turn to go she noticed the tears in her mother’s eyes.

  ————

  Things happened very quickly. Within a few days the team had been sold. Uncle John took the two cows to his farm. The chickens were crated up and sent off to market. There were suddenly no chores for Berta to see to when she came home at night.

  Her mother gave her time and attention into gathering up household items, like bed linens and towels. She stacked them in Berta’s little room on the empty bed that had been Glenna’s.

  Her solicitude annoyed Berta. With her mother hovering over her, fetching this and presenting that, Berta felt her independence being lost again. The move was no longer “her move” while her mother scurried about helping it to happen smoothly.

  “Mama—I do wish you wouldn’t fuss,” she said in exasperation. “I can look after things myself.”

  “Of course you can,” replied her mother, “but I take pleasure in helping.”

  “But—” protested Berta.

  Her plea to be left on her own seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  “When are you going to pack your own things?” Berta asked frankly.

  “Don’t you worry about me. I have plenty of time. I’ll arrange for selling the farm in the spring.”

  “In the spring? What will you do over the winter?”

  “I’ll stay here.”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been on my own before, you know.”

  “But, Mama—”

  “Now don’t you go worrying about me. I want a little time. I don’t like to rush into things. I will have all winter to think about what I wish to keep and what I’ll sell. It will be good for me to have the time. I’m so thankful that I won’t have the stock to worry about. We should have done something about them long ago. Saved you all that work and trouble. I don’t know why I put it off so—but you know that I’ve always had a dreadful time making up my mind. Your papa was the decision maker.”

  Berta did not like the way things were left—but it seemed that the die had been cast.

  Chapter Nine

  A New Home

  “Mrs. Cray is a good cook,” Berta remarked to Miss Phillips as the two of them replaced books on shelves at the closing of another day at the library.

  Miss Phillips looked up and pushed her small round glasses farther up her straight nose. She made no reply, and Berta wondered for a moment if she had heard and understood her comment.

  “She’s a good cook,” Berta repeated. “She sends me up a fine plate each evening.”

  Miss Phillips nodded.

  “I don’t eat much breakfast,” Berta added. “I have asked her for just toast and jam. She continues to argue that I should have a nice bowl of porridge, but I—”

  Berta stopped. She was rattling on in a most unusual way. She and Miss Phillips rarely said more to each other than “Good morning” and “Good-night.” Berta felt embarrassment coloring her cheeks. She turned slightly away from the older woman to indicate that she had no intention of boring her with further comments.

  To Berta’s surprise the woman continued the conversation. “That’s good. It would be so nice to sit down to a full dinner. I—I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook. When I get home I just take my book and—” She stopped.

  Berta found herself taking a closer look at Miss Phillips. She was dreadfully thin and frail. Berta wondered if she ever cooked for herself at all. What did she eat?

  “I never did like cooking,” the other woman continued firmly as she smacked a heavy tome into place as though that settled that.

  She turned and made her way back to her desk by the entrance, where she began to gather her belongings for departure.

  Berta continued to study her.

  How old is she? she asked herself. She seems ancient—yet she can’t be that old. Older than Mama? Younger. She’s not very gray—but she is hollow cheeked and pale. Very frail looking. Tired? Or just bored with life?

  Berta had never seen her on the streets of town. She knew the woman carried home library books to read each evening. And she often exchanged the book the next day. Berta had never thought to wonder how she could read so many books so quickly. Was that all she ever did? Didn’t she socialize—even a little? Didn’t she have friends? Household chores? Did she even feed herself properly?

  No. No, she supposed not. It seemed that Miss Phillips stayed to herself—in her boarding room. Apparently the only appetite she fed was the appetite for reading. One could starve—physically and socially, living in such a way.

  Is that what I will become? wondered Berta uneasily as she turned back to the last few books to shelve. Is that the road I’m taking? I have been holed up in Mrs. Cray’s little bedroom, reading my life away ever since I moved into town. Why, I even skipped church last Sunday.

  Berta felt her cheeks warming.

  I haven’t even been to see Mama. I’ve still—still been too—annoyed? Proud? I don’t know—but I’ve surely been trying to prove a point. I guess I wanted her to—miss me. To realize how much she’d lost. Not just in Glenna—but in me.

  Rarely was Berta so totally honest with herself. Her frankness, even in thought, surprised her now.

  So what have I gained? she asked herself. I’ve shut myself away in my room with my wonderful books and pretended that I didn’t need anything el
se. Well, maybe I don’t—much. But I refuse to become like Miss Phillips—old—and cold—long before my time.

  Was that why Berta had tried to start a conversation with the reluctant Miss Phillips? Had she been missing human contact? And if she didn’t make a point of getting out, would she soon be satisfied to just stay in? Always?

  Berta slipped the final book into place and turned just as Miss Phillips was pulling on her gloves.

  “Good-night, Miss Berdette,” the woman said as she gathered up her book for the evening. “I’ll see you in the morning. Be sure to lock the door.”

  Her words rankled Berta.

  “I am sure to lock the door every night, Miss Phillips,” she replied curtly.

  For a moment Miss Phillips looked surprised, then she nodded, turned, and left the small building.

  Berta went to gather her own things. “You’d think I was a child,” she said aloud.

  Berta cast one more glance about the room to make sure everything was in its rightful place, pulled on her light coat, and picked up her gloves and book.

  For a moment she stood looking down at the new publication that she held. She was anxious to read it. Already Miss Phillips had perused the book and had returned with a look of satisfaction on her pale face.

  With a quick movement before she could change her mind, Berta crossed to the fiction shelves and placed the book firmly into its designated spot. Then she turned away, stepped lively to the door, secured the lock, and pulled the door tightly closed.

  There’s plenty of daylight left, she mused to herself. I’ll just stop off at Mrs. Cray’s, change into some walking shoes, and tell her I’ll? not be needing a supper tonight, then walk out to see Mama.

  With her resolve in place, Berta began to walk briskly.

  ————

  The walk to the little farmstead on the edge of town was pleasant. Berta was surprised at how much she had missed walking.

  I must get out and walk more, she scolded herself. I’ll be turning into a pumpkin, she noted as she turned into the lane.

  With a face flushed from the exercise and the slight breeze that tugged at her coat sleeves and toyed fruitlessly with her well-secured dark hair, she made her way past the little barn and on toward the house.