Love takes wing (Love Comes Softly #7) Read online

  It had taken Clark many minutes to help the young lad gather his papers back in the stack, and then Belinda had seen him slip the young boy a bill, pick up a paper, and join the family, his jaw set and his eyes filled with anger.

  By then Belinda was in tears, and Clark reached out to draw her close while Marty fished in her handbag for a fresh handkerchief, clucking all the time over the injustice of it all.

  "Why . . . why did they do thet . . . be so mean?" Belinda had quavered out.

  Shaking his head, Clark said, "I don't know, little one. I don't know," he soothed. "Our world is full of unkindness. It wasn't meant to be . . . but it is. Thet's why it's so important that we, as God's children, never add to the grief of any of His creatures. He put us here to love an' help an' heal, an' we need to be extry

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  careful thet we're a doin' thet. Not hurtin' or harmin' our fellowmen."

  But Belinda still was unable to understand why the boys would taunt and tease the boy, and she could not erase the scene from her young mind. There followed a time when she had bad dreams about it and would waken in the night crying, and Marty would come to her bed and comfort her.

  And now. . . now their own Abe was destined to be crippled. Belinda felt she understood Luke's concern. Surely . . . surely there was something to be done about it . . . some way to make Arnie see reason.

  "Well, I think we have no choice," she said firmly. "Ma and Pa have to know. They are the only ones who can talk some sense into Arnie."

  Belinda placed the sterilized instruments in a sheath of clean gauze and returned them to the cabinet.

  "But Arnie would be angry. . . I know he would," Luke said thoughtfully.

  Belinda nodded. "Fer a time. But surely in the end he would see thet we've done the right thing. Surely. . . surely when young Abe is . . . is whole again, he will be thankful thet we persisted." Belinda lowered herself to a chair near Luke and allowed herself a few moments of deep thought. "It's a terrible thing to be handicapped if it doesn't really need to be," she finished sadly.

  Luke lifted his pencil back to the paper before him. He shook his head and sighed again deeply. "Maybe you're right," he said wearily. "Maybe I shouldn't give up so easily. If only there was some way to do it without hurting Arnie further."

  Strange! mused Belinda. It's Abe's accident, Abe's pain, but it's Arnie who's sufferin' the most.

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  "It's too cold for you to be riding horseback," Luke said on Friday afternoon after the last patient had been sent on his way. "I'll get the team and drive you home."

  Belinda did not protest. The buggy wasn't a lot warmer, but if she were to take Copper, by the time she reached the farm her feet and hands would be numb and her cheeks tingling. Besides, this would give Luke an opportunity to speak to Clark and Marty and Belinda was convinced that such a talk was a must.

  The two rode most of the way in silence. They were both weary and had already discussed the main things on their minds-- and besides, they felt comfortable with silence. Now and then, they would discuss something briefly and then fall silent again.

  Marty was at the door to meet them.

  "My, my!" she exclaimed. "I was worryin' some 'bout ya comin' on horseback, but Pa said ya'd jest stay on at Luke's fer the weekend." Belinda had often stayed in town for one reason or another.

  Marty hurried about the big farm kitchen, putting on the coffeepot and slicing fresh bread for sandwiches.

  Clark came in from the barn to join them at the table. He gently massaged his injured leg to take the sting of the cold from it without attracting too much attention. Luke, as usual, noticed but made no comment.

  Belinda knew without Luke's saying so that he would talk to his ma and pa about Arnie and little Abe. She didn't particularly wish to be involved in the conversation, knowing it would be difficult for all involved. Excusing herself "to change into a housedress," she left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to her room.

  She spent some time changing from her office clothing, puttering around tidying her dresser, and straightening a few drawers, and at last she went back down to the kitchen. All during this time she had been praying for her family.

  Luke and her parents were still seated at the table when

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  Belinda entered the room. The coffee cups were empty and pushed to the side. Belinda read concern and distress in the three faces. Marty's eyes were red from weeping, and she held a damp handkerchief in her hands, abstractedly twisting it back and forth. Clark's hand rested gently on the worn family Bible, and Belinda knew they had been drawing counsel from its pages.

  Belinda poured herself a glass of milk and joined them at the table.

  "We've got some money laid aside," Clark was saying softly,

  'an' we'd be glad ta help. I s'pose sech an operation would cost a great deal."

  Clark reached out and took Marty's hand, and Belinda saw them exchange silent messages--Clark seeking her agreement and her giving it without hesitation.

  "It would cost, to be sure--the trip, the hotel, the surgery," Luke answered them. "It would cost. But Arnie didn't mention money. That's not what's holding him back. If he was convinced it was the right thing to do, he wouldn't stop to consider the money. He'd take Abe tomorrow. Even if he had to sell his farm to do it," said Luke.

  Clark nodded. They all knew Arnie would do that.

  "We jest have to convince 'im thet there's more'n one kind of pain," Marty said thoughtfully. "Abe might suffer far more from a useless arm than from the operation."

  Belinda wondered if her mother was remembering the young lad on the street corner.

  Luke suddenly looked at the kitchen clock and stood to go. "I've got to get home before it gets dark," he said. "Promised the boys we'd play some Snakes 'n Ladders tonight."

  "We'll talk to Arnie," Clark promised. "First chance we git, we'll talk to 'im."

  Luke nodded, looking satisfied with that. Surely Arnie would

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  listen to his parents, whom he loved and respected. He shrugged into his coat and hurried out to his team.

  Clark and Marty did talk to Arnie. Anne was there, as well, and she was shocked to hear about the condition of her son's arm. Arnie had said nothing to her.

  But though Clark and Marty urged Arnie to take Luke's advice, Arnie held firmly to his position. His young son, just a child, had suffered enough. His own father should not put him through any more. Besides, who knew for sure if the operation would even be successful. Luke himself had admitted that there wasn't one-hundred-percent certainty. What if Abe went through the pain and ended up with no improvement?

  Clark and Marty returned home with heavy hearts.

  The next Sunday only Anne and the boys were in church, and she offered no explanation. Afterward she simply said that they would not be joining the rest of the family for Sunday dinner.

  The pain in Marty's heart grew worse. Besides the anguish over her grandson's arm, her family was no longer a close-knit, openly loving unit. She wiped tears and tried to swallow the lump in her throat as she dished up the fried chicken. Where would it all end?

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  TWELVE A New Kind of Suffering

  The situation did not get better. Arnie was not back in church during the next Sundays. Anne came with the boys a few times, and then she, too, began to miss more often than she attended.

  "Surely they will all be there fer Christmas Sunday" Marty said hopefully to Clark, but she was wrong. Again they were missing, and word came through Clare's children from school that Arnie's family wouldn't be coming home for Christmas celebrations. They would be sharing Christmas dinner with Anne's folks.

  The pastor called on them but was given no real explanation for the change. It seemed that things just kept "croppin' up" on Sundays. Then Arnie resigned from the church board.

  Hoping that something would help, Clark and Marty called at the farm. They were welcomed openly by the children, civilly by Anne, and reluctantly by Arnie.
After a short and strained conversation over teacups, they left for home, their hearts even heavier than before. There seemed nothing more to do but wait and pray.

  Marty's heart ached as she felt the burden of it. "I never woulda dreamed," she confessed to Belinda, ". . . I never woulda dreamed it could happen to us. Ya hear of sech things in families--rifts thet break a family apart, but I never woulda dreamed it could be our family"

  "Do . . . do the rest know?" asked Belinda soberly. "Missie and Ellie and Clae?"

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  "I finally wrote 'em," Marty confided. "I waited an' waited, hopin' an' prayin' thet things would . . . would heal. Thet Arnie would change . . . but I finally decided thet they should know" Marty stopped to blow her nose. "They were the hardest letters I ever had ta write in my entire life," she continued, "even worse'n when I had to write on home 'bout yer pa."

  Belinda nodded.

  "Clare went to see Arnie, too--did ya know?"

  Belinda hadn't, but she wasn't surprised.

  "It was way back 'fore Christmas. He didn't git nowhere, either."

  Marty stopped to think back over the exchange between the two boys.

  "What did Arnie say?" asked Belinda quietly.

  "Said lots of things. Mean things. Things thet Arnie our old Arnie--never woulda said."

  Marty brushed at more tears.

  "He said it was no one else's business. Said he and Anne loved Abe the way he is--crippled in others' eyes or no. Said Luke had no business being' a doctor iffen he .. . he couldn't even proper- set an arm." Marty's voice broke in a sob, and the tears ran uncontrolled down her cheeks.

  "An' then he said thet the whole thing was really Clare's fault. He never shoulda had him an unsafe bull in the first place."

  Belinda blinked back her own tears. It was hard to believe that her own brother--tender, sensitive Arnie could say such cruel things. He had always been so loving . . . so caring. Arnie must be deeply hurt to have changed so much . . . so completely, she told herself inwardly.

  "I've never felt so heavyhearted in all my life," admitted Marty. "To see those I love so much hurtin' and not speakin' is jest more'n I can bear."

  "How's Pa doin'?" asked Belinda.

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  "Never saw yer pa suffer so. Even his leg didn't lay 'im as low as this has. His leg was jest . . . jest flesh an' bone . . . but this . . . this is . . . is flesh an' blood," Marty sobbed again.

  "How's Abe?" asked Belinda after a pause.

  "The boys see 'im at school. Say he's fine. Jest fine. . . though he don't use thet arm much a'tall. They say it's beginnin' to twist off to the side some. Dack had 'im a fight over it last week. One of the other boys called Abe some name. Dack wouldn't even say what it was . . . but the teacher sent him home with a note to his pa an' ma, after givin' both fighters the strap."

  Marty halted her account long enough to wipe her nose again.

  "Clare went on over to the school an' had 'im a long talk with Mrs. Brown. Guess she was real nice 'bout it, but Dack has been warned no more fightin'."

  Marty shook her head slowly. "Maybe we're in danger of takin' the family fer granted," she said. "When ya have it all together, lovin' an' supportin' one another, ya don't realize how blessed ya are. Iffen ya got yer family, then ya have most of what ya really need."

  Belinda wiped her eyes and rose from her chair. "I hear Pa out on the porch. I'll bring 'im a cup of coffee to chase away the winter chill."

  Marty nodded, but she knew it would take more than hot coffee for the chill on his soul.

  Marty finally decided to take matters into her own hands. On the first day the cold let up some, she asked Clark for the team, bundled up warmly, and set out for Arnie's. The boys were at school and Anne was alone in the kitchen when Marty arrived. Anne seemed genuinely pleased to see her mother-in-law and expressed sincerely how she had been missing their visit's.

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  "Me too," Marty said frankly. "An' thet's exactly why I'm here. It's jest not right fer a disagreement to keep the family apart. The boys need their cousins . . . an' their aunts and uncles . . . an' their grandma an' grandpa, too. An' we need them .. . an' you an' Arnie. Ain't right or natural fer a family to be apart like this."

  Anne nodded, but she made no comment.

  "I came to talk to my son," went on Marty. "Is he here?" "He's at the barn," Anne said softly.

  "Did he see me comin'?" asked Marty outright.

  "I think maybe. . . he. . . he might. Yes, he did." Anne hung her head.

  "Then I guess I'll jest have to go out to his barn," said Marty briskly, and she moved to put her coat back on.

  "No. No, don't do that," Anne quickly responded. "I'll go. I'll go get Arnie . . . tell 'im you want to see 'im."

  "Ya think .. . ?" Marty began and Anne nodded. Surely Arnie would have to agree to see his own mother.

  Arnie did come. His face looked drawn, his expression distant, but he nodded agreeably while seeming to steel himself against whatever Marty had come to say.

  He sat down at the table with her and accepted the cup of tea from Anne. Marty made small talk about the weather and the children and asked a few questions about his stock. Arnie appeared to relax some.

  Marty reached out a hand and laid it on Arnie's. She had to be careful, very careful in what she said. She knew Arnie so well.

  "Arnie," she said, and in spite of her resolve, the tears began to form in her eyes. "Arnie, you have always been the tenderest member of the family. . . have felt things the deepest . . . an' said the least. I. . . I know how the hurtin' of young Abe has brought ya deep pain. We have all suffered--we love the boy--but you have suffered the most."

  Marty paused. Arnie's eyes were fastened on his cup, but he

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  had not withdrawn his hand. Marty took courage and went on. "We miss ya, Arnie--you an' the kids--an' Anne. We need yaas a family we need ya. It's jest not the same when yer not there. The family isn't . . . isn't whole anymore. We all feel it. It hurts. Real bad. It's not as God intended it to be."

  Arnie stirred and Marty was afraid she was pressing too far . . . too fast. She withdrew her hand and sat silently for a moment. Then she said carefully, "We've pushed ya . . . an' we're sorry. We haven't been . . . been thoughtful of yer feelin's like we shoulda been. We know thet ya can't stand to see anyone ya love suffer."

  Then Marty changed direction, her voice taking on a new lilt. "Well, we won't push anymore. We'll promise ya thet. Abe is a dear, good boy. We got no shame concernin"im jest the way he is. An' maybe thet arm will git better 'stead of worse. God has done such miracles before. But whether He chooses to heal our Abe or not won't make any difference to how we feel 'bout 'im. He's ours . . . an' we love 'im an' miss 'im."

  Marty waited for some response on Arnie's part, but he said nothing. Anne was standing by her kitchen cupboard crying softly, silently.

  "Would ya come back, Arnie?" Marty pleaded. "Would ya come back to yer family? To yer church? We love ya, Arnie. We need ya. Please. Please come home."

  Marty's tears were flowing unashamedly as she made her plea, and suddenly Arnie's face convulsed, and he laid his head down on his arms and let the sobs shake his body. Marty leaned over to hold her broken son. She soothed and comforted and stroked his hair much as she had done when he had been a child. Then she kissed his cheek and slipped into her coat. She had done all she could.

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  Arnie did come back. He came to church the next Sunday, though he sat stiffly in the pew. The children were thrilled to be back, and Marty noticed a more peaceful look in Anne's eyes.

  Arnie also joined the family at Clare's house for dinner. Marty had warned all of them that not one word should be said about the young Abe and his need for corrective surgery. Everyone was very cautious about the words they spoke so much so that the conversation often lagged. At times the tension in the air was so heavy that one felt choked by it.

  The family was back together--at least bodily. But it wasn't the sa
me, not the same at all. They all tried so hard--too hard-- to make things seem as they had always been. The chatter, the teasing, the concerns over one another's affairs--all meant to bring back the feeling of family--all failed miserably in doing so. There was a strain about it all that seemed to draw more attention to the fact that there was friction, not harmony, in the family circle. The unity had been broken. The bond had been weakened. They were not as they had been.

  Marty talked to Clark about it on the short walk home. She longed for the old relationship to be restored, but she was at a loss as to how it could be done. She didn't have any answers, and there seemed to be so many troubling questions. Marty wept again as she walked.

  Belinda, too, suffered under the strain of the family rift. It weighed heavily upon her as she went about her daily nursing duties. There were times when she wished she could get out from under it all, even for a brief season. She often thought of asking for some time off so she might go out west for a visit, but she always dismissed the idea. Luke needed her. It sounded like in just a few months they might get their new doctor, and then she

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  would be free to take some time for herself. She would hang on until then.

  Rand still called when he was free. He had taken Belinda to see the Kirby house on a number of occasions. Belinda thought it was beautiful and was amazed that Rand could build such a lovely home. Rand smiled at her praise, his eyes saying more than he dared to say in words.

  Once the Kirbys were established in their new home, there was no longer that small diversion. Rand was busy working on another house for the town grocer but not nearly as grand as the Kirbys'.