Redemption

“What did he do?” Her voice elevated with each word.

“That’s what I asked you,” Jake said softly.

“I don’t need to listen to your smart mouth, Mr. McPherson. I worked in this house. I know the sort of man you are and what you expect of your help. And I certainly know that your son is capable of any number of pranks.”

“What did he do?” Jake asked again, his voice a bit stronger, his anger beginning to match that of the woman before him.

“He tore up my vegetable garden. That’s what he did. The tomatoes were just about ready to put in mason jars and the corn was ready to pick.” She took a deep breath. “On top of that, he tore down my scarecrow.”

“When did he do this?” Jake asked mildly, hoping against hope that Jason was not the culprit, and fearful that he was.

“Just about an hour ago,” she said.

Relief ran through his veins. “How do you know it was my son?’ he asked.

She sniffed, her gaze triumphant. “I saw him myself, a boy with a blue shirt and brown hair. Watched him run from my backyard, I did.”

Jake smiled grimly. “I’ll warrant there are a number of boys Jason’s size with blue shirts and brown hair.” He looked back over his shoulder, and his voice rose as he called his son’s name. “Jason? Come out here.”

Wearing a brown shirt, Jason came through the kitchen door and down the hall.

“Did you tear up Mrs. Blaine’s garden?” Jake asked him.

“No, sir,” the boy answered. “I’ve been here since school got out.” He looked at the Widow Blaine. “You can ask my teacher. She was here and we was talkin’ for a long time with my Pa.”

“Did you change your shirt within the past thirty minutes?” Mrs. Blaine asked, her eyes moving over the boy’s form.

“No, ma’am,” he answered politely. “I’ve worn this one all day long. Yesterday, too.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe the day before, too.”

Jake winced at that revelation. “Does that answer your question, Mrs. Blaine?” he asked, motioning Jason to step closer. From his chair he drew the boy to his side, his long arm circling the narrow shoulders, his hand gripping Jason’s upper arm. “You’re welcome to check with Miss Merriweather if you like. I think you’ll find she’ll verify my son’s story.”

“Well, I know what I saw,” Mrs. Blaine said with a good amount of righteous indignation. Turning on her heel, she stepped from the porch, almost tripping over the broken step. Only a quick grab at the railing stopped her from landing head over heels on the sidewalk.

She turned back and shook her finger at Jake, a good imitation of a schoolmarm if he ever did see one. “This place is a disgrace. You need to get it fixed up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake called after her as she stormed off. “Just as soon as I get my new legs I’ll do that very thing.”

“What new legs, Pa?” Jason asked softly, bending to look into his father’s face.

“I was being sarcastic,” Jake told him. “Joking.”

“You never joke around, Pa.” The boy looked dubious and Jake reached up to touch Jason’s face with his fingertips.

“Do you know that I love you, son?” he asked. “I know I don’t tell you often, but I do.”

“I don’t remember you ever tellin’ me that,” Jason said bluntly. “You just holler a lot. Especially when we get a new housekeeper.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Jake said. Frustration struck him a low blow as he shut the door, lending it a push that vibrated through the floorboards. He turned his chair back to the parlor and rolled to his desk. The single sheet of paper lay there with but a single word written on the top line. Without a word, he picked it up and crumpled it in his hand.

He would not, could not ask the woman to take Jason in hand. It would not only ruin her reputation to be hanging around his house, but make him look like an absolute failure as a father. He could not transfer his responsibility so readily, let her take the boy shopping, tend to his needs. Some way, he’d figure out another plan.

“I KNEW the meaning of it, Pa.” Jason’s eyes were bright with the joy of accomplishment as he waved his spelling paper before Jake’s face. “See, there it is. Exemplary. I knew how to spell it, too.”

The moments spent with the boy late last evening had borne results, Jake thought, and for a moment he shared Jason’s exhilaration. The spelling paper bore a bright red score at its top. An A was written with a flourish there, and Jake looked at the precise lines of the grade Miss Merriweather had given the boy.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Jake said, holding the paper in his lap. He wondered when he’d last said those words to the boy.

“Are you, Pa? Really?” The brown shirt was dingy from wear. How many days had Jason donned it early in the morning. Four? It exuded an odor of boyish sweat and a definite doggy smell.

“I think you might want to put that shirt in the trash bin,” Jake told him. “How about you taking a bath today?”

“A bath?” Jason cringed. “It’s only Thursday, Pa. I took a bath last Saturday.”

“No,” Jake said, correcting him. “It was a week ago Saturday, I believe.”

“I don’t think it’s healthy to be scrubbin’ up all the time,” Jason said earnestly. “It lets all the germs into your skin.”

“What do you know about germs?” And where on earth had he gotten that idea?

“Miss Merriweather has been teachin’ us about science stuff.”

“Well, if you ask your teacher, I’m sure she’ll tell you that a little soap and water never hurt anyone.” His words were firm, implying a stance he would not budge from, and Jason appeared to get the message.

“Do I hafta get the tub out? Or can I just wash in the basin like you do?”

“I wash in the basin because I can’t get in and out of the tub easily,” Jake told him, and wished for a moment that he might soak his body beneath hot water and allow the warmth to penetrate his skin.

“I could help you,” Jason offered, and Jake was hard put not to smile at the eager offer. The boy would collapse under his father’s weight should he attempt such a project.

“Let’s just concentrate on your own.”

Jason’s shoulders slumped as the ultimatum was delivered, and he trudged away toward the kitchen. “I’ll get out the kettles to heat the water,” he muttered.

Then Jake could only hold his breath and watch as his son poured the hot water into the round wash tub. The chance of Jason being scalded was slim, since they only heated the water until it was barely hot enough to allow steam to rise. The danger was in the kettles, and the fact that Jason was not tall enough to handle them readily.

Another housekeeper was becoming a necessity, Jake decided. The boy was in need of help. He scanned his mind for another prospect for the job, and came up blank. As Cord had said, he’d already gone through all the widow ladies and the women who were willing to work outside their own homes. His reputation had been blackened by the stories those women told—tales of his foul moods, the angry tirades he’d aimed in their direction when they’d attempted to open the windows and doors.

Jake looked now out of the single window that bore no covering to soften the glare of sunlight through fly-speckled panes. Rena would be aghast at the sight.

His chair rolled across the bare, wooden floor to the second window and he grasped the draperies in his fist, and tugged them from their moorings until they landed with a muffled thud on the floor. Somehow the act was satisfying, as if he rebelled against the darkness that had gripped him for so long.

“What’cha doin’, Pa?” Jason stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, as if the disturbance in the parlor had frightened him.

“Your uncle Cord told me we needed to open the windows in here,” Jake told him. “Do you think you can push them up? Let some fresh air in?”

“I can try.” And wasn’t that the crux of the matter? Jake thought. If the boy was willing to try to change things, how could his father do any less?

“Let me know when the water’s hot and I’ll come out to the kitchen and help you,” he told Jason. “In the meantime I’m going to write a note to Miss Merriweather, and once you get cleaned up, you can deliver it.”