The Bluebird and the Sparrow (15 page)

“So what does one hope to accomplish in teaching history? When we learn of wars, revolutions, inhumanities—does it really improve our thinking? Are those students with their knowledge any better than the generation that preceded them?”

It was spoken as a challenge. He did not seem to take it as such. His answer, rather than refuting her statement, agreed with her position.

“We don’t learn in the classroom any better than we learn from direct observation, do we? It’s a shame—but it’s a truth. As you said, you’d think that after all these years of seeing the pain and suffering—the absolute futility of war—that we would have learned that it is not the answer. But greed and avarice and hunger for power seem to dog each generation. That wasn’t what God intended for mankind. As you say, it would seem that God is powerless to change man.”

I never said that,
Berta could have defended herself. But in a way he had seemed to know what her query had intended. She had never had such a discussion with anyone else, nor had she known anyone to read her so well—anyone who had been interested enough in her thoughts to try.

“Well—I think we both know that God is still powerful—man is the problem. Too wayward to listen.…” He paused, then, “But I must go. I have a luncheon meeting and I’ll be late if I don’t hurry. Thank you so much for all your help.”

He smiled again, picked up his book and his hat, and departed.

Berta stood still long after his tall figure disappeared through the door.

————

Berta soon became accustomed to seeing Thomas in the library. He would enter with a warm smile and a nod of greeting and begin his search through the shelves.

Then the fall classes at the university began, and his visits were less frequent. Berta would never have admitted the fact that she missed him, even to herself.

————

When winter arrived again, Berta did not really mind, though it did make the trips to the farm on Sundays more difficult. She did not attempt it if the weather was stormy, since her mother worried about her out alone on the roads.

One Sunday after the church service, Berta gathered her books and prepared for her quick walk home before going for the mare and buggy. She paused on the front steps to look at the sky. The bright sun and light wind meant her buggy ride would be comfortable.

“Not a bad day,” Thomas observed, falling into stride beside her as he often did.

“Rather nice,” answered Berta.

“You’ll be going to the farm?”

“Yes—I’m planning to. I didn’t make it out last Sunday. The wind was too cold.”

“Do you mind if I tag along?”

Before Berta could even answer he continued, “I haven’t seen your grandmother for years. Nor have I had the chance to drive by our old farm. Still have a bit of a soft spot for it. Like to see if it looks the same. If you don’t mind.…” His words trailed off as he waited for her answer.

Berta was still mentally sorting out her response to the request. Was he being terribly forward? Yet how could she refuse an old neighbor the offer of a ride?

“If you like,” she said at last, “though it may not be that short or pleasant a trip. Mama usually takes a rest when I am there, and Granna sleeps most all the time now.”

He nodded. “Then perhaps I can busy myself with chores of some kind. Haul wood. Water.”

Berta smiled. “Uncle John does those things—or one of the boys,” she answered.

“Well, then,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I guess I’ll just ride along and view the countryside. Do you mind?”

Berta did wish he hadn’t asked her that. She did mind. In a way. But why should she? He was an old school friend. A neighbor. There really was no harm in him tagging along. Yet she did hope he wouldn’t presume on the courtesy and make a nuisance of himself.

“It’s fine,” she responded, her tone carefully expressionless.

She could feel his eyes on her face, but he made no comment.

When they reached her house she wondered if he expected her to ask him in.

“It takes me about half an hour to be ready to go,” she said before he could ask. “Do you wish to meet me at the livery stable?”

“I’ve never been to the livery—not having a horse,” he replied. “If it’s all right with you I’ll just come back here.”

Berta nodded.

“In half an hour?” he repeated.

Berta nodded again.

“I’ll be here,” he said and walked on.

Berta had no idea where he lived or how long it would take him to get home, change, eat, and be back again.

If he’s not here, I’ll go without him,
she said stubbornly to herself as she went into her house.

But he was there. And he had changed. He was wearing a much heavier coat and warm mittens, and a scarf dangled about his neck.

Berta began the walk to the livery.

“It could get nippy before we get back,” he commented as he moved along beside her.

“Perhaps you’d rather not go,” replied Berta.

“I think I can manage it,” he said with a grin.

It was obvious he had no intention of letting her sharp retorts disturb him.

————

The trip was not as unpleasant as Berta anticipated. He was not a constant talker, but he did make occasional comments that she found either amusing or interesting.

“Look at it,” he said as they neared his old farm site. “It looks almost the way it did when Pa sold it and moved out.”

“Why did he sell?” Berta asked him, surprising even herself with her direct question.

“Mama never did like the farm,” he responded. “Couldn’t wait to get back to the city. Pa hated the city. It was an impossible situation. I think it meant the early death of Pa.” He shrugged. “Of course, how can one ever know if it would have been different had he stayed on the farm? Ma said he worked himself to death trying to make a crop grow. Maybe she’s right.”

“Your mother is still living?”

“She remarried,” he replied, his answer explaining why he felt free to come back to his old home area.

“What’s he like?” she asked him. She had at one time feared her own mother might remarry. She was sure she never could have accepted another man in the place of her father.

“He’s—nice. A gentleman. Rather—well situated. Mama is nicely taken care of.”

“But you don’t think of him as a father?” queried Berta, turning slightly so she could look at him.

“A father? No—no, I don’t think of him in that way. I was too old, I guess, before it happened. I had already gone to the university. I never did live with them.”

“Did you mind?” asked Berta frankly.

He did not answer immediately. When he did his words were thoughtful. “I don’t suppose one ever welcomes a second marriage for a parent. You know, you sort of see your parents as a team. You just can’t picture the one without the other. So—in a way, though I didn’t mind—I was happy for my mother—still it wasn’t—easy to make the adjustment in my thinking. Silly, isn’t it?” and he turned to her.

“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” she responded. “I would have been very angry with my mama if she’d decided to remarry. It would have been like losing Papa all over again.”

He thought for a long time. Then he nodded. “Something like that,” he agreed and fell into silence again.

He took care of the mare when they reached the farmyard, and Berta hurried into the house to see how her mother and grandmother were faring.

Her mother greeted her warmly.

“I was so hoping you’d come today, dear,” she said, inviting Berta into the warmth of the fire. “The week seems so long when I don’t see you. Glenna wasn’t able to come out, either. I don’t know how much I will see of her these days. I don’t think it’s wise for her to travel about now.”

“How’s Granna?” asked Berta as she removed her heavy coat.

“She’s having a better day today. She might even visit with you some.”

That was good news to Berta.

“Who’s with you?” Mrs. Berdette asked, looking out the window.

“With me?” repeated Berta.

“There’s someone caring for your horse,” Mrs. Berdette explained.

“Oh—him,” acknowledged Berta with a little wave of her hand. “That’s Thomas.”

“Thomas Hawkins?”

Berta nodded. Mrs. Berdette smiled. “That’s nice, dear,” she said. “He’s a fine young man. I’ve chatted with him some in church since he returned. He’s matured into a fine gentleman. It’s nice—”

Now just a minute,
thought Berta.
Don’t make this into something it is not.
To her mother she said, “He just rode along because he was interested in what had become of their old farm.”

The smile left Mrs. Berdette’s face.

“And he wanted to visit—you and Granna,” Berta hurried on.

“That’s nice,” Mrs. Berdette said again, and the smile returned.

It was not long until Thomas too was in the house and out of his heavy coat. Mrs. Berdette refused Berta’s invitation to take an afternoon nap. Instead she busied herself setting out tea things. Berta left them visiting and went to check on her grandmother.

Granna
was
having a better day. She appeared bright and even requested that her pillows be raised a bit so she might see what was going on.

“Do you wish for me to read to you?” asked Berta after she had her grandmother settled.

“Who’s that?” asked her grandmother loudly, her hearing loss making her speak at a higher volume.

“What do you mean?” asked Berta. “I’m Berta—your granddaughter.”

“‘Course you’re Berta,” replied the old lady with a snort of disgust. She had become caustic and forthright with aging and illness. Berta often was shocked at the change in her. She had always viewed her grandmother as such a gentle, sweet woman.

“I know my own granddaughter,” the elderly woman went on frankly. “Who’s that talking? In the kitchen with your mother. That’s not John’s voice.”

“No, it’s not Uncle John,” replied Berta, surprised that Granna could hear the difference in the voices between the two men. “That’s Thomas Hawkins.”

“Thomas who?” asked her grandmother, cupping her ear.

Embarrassed, Berta shouted, “That is Thomas Hawkins visiting with Mama, Granna.” She was sure he could hear her yelling his name all the way from the kitchen. At least he would know why she was shouting about him, she thought.

“Thomas Hawkins? Do I know him?” asked her grandmother.

“He used to live nearby,” replied Berta in a loud voice. “His folks were neighbors.”

“You mean that Jedd Hawkins with the uppity wife?” her grandmother yelled back.

Berta felt her face turning crimson. How was she to answer that?

“Would you like your back rubbed, Granna?” Berta hollered in the hope of changing the topic.

But her grandmother was not to be easily diverted.

“This Hawkins fella,” she said loudly, “he your beau?”

Berta felt so embarrassed she wanted to run from the room. “No, Granna,” she responded as quickly as she could. “He is a friend of the family. He wished to visit Mama.”

“Sounds mighty fishy to me,” said the old woman with a knowing snort. “Your mama is beyond the courting stage. Why a fella be wanting to visit her?”

Before Berta could answer, her grandmother continued, “Wondered if you’d give my back a bit of a rub. Got a spot of misery right by that left shoulder.”

Berta at once obliged.

Chapter Fifteen

Questions

“Do you have plans for tonight?”

Berta’s head came up from the list of books that she was checking and looked into the gray eyes of Thomas.

Her mind did not grasp his simple words. She shook her head to clear it and muttered, “Sorry. I—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

He smiled.

“I was wondering if you have made plans for tonight,” he repeated.

Why were her plans of any concern to him? She just looked at him blankly.

“I thought if you are free we might have dinner,” he explained slowly.

Berta finally understood the full import of the question. Her face began to flush, but not with embarrassment. She was angry. Angry that Thomas had presumed she would wish to dine with him just because she had allowed a small friendship.

Or was it even a friendship?

Certainly in her thinking it was not a special friendship. He was an old schoolmate. A member of an old neighbor family. He was a library patron. A part of their town.

And that was all.

Berta wanted no association other than that. Why did Thomas wish to take advantage of the tenuous relationship? Why push for more than she had any intention of giving?

She stood to her full height. Even at her five feet five, Thomas seemed to tower above her, but she lifted her chin and looked directly into his eyes.

“Actually,” she said precisely, “I do have plans for tonight. But if I did not—I still would not accept your invitation. I have no intention—none whatever—of forming any kind of—attachment—to any man.”

Her eyes held his. She saw the confusion, then disappointment, that darkened his.

“I see,” he said at length. He nodded slightly.

Berta still did not drop her gaze, though it was most difficult for her to see the hurt in his face.

“I—I am sorry for assuming more than I had a right to,” he said with measured politeness. “Though to be perfectly honest—since we have chosen to be direct—I did not really think of having dinner together as becoming—attached.”

Berta dropped her gaze as her cheeks again flushed. She had read far too much into the simple invitation.

“However, to be further honest,” he paused for a moment and then went on, “I must admit that I did hope our relationship would extend beyond tonight’s dinner invitation.”

Berta looked up again. She could see the plea for understanding in the gaze he turned on her. She could say nothing. She was thankful there were no other browsers in the library. Even Miss Phillips had gone home early.

“Are you saying that is an impossibility?” he finally asked her directly.

“I can’t imagine why—why you’d even—desire it,” Berta stammered, one hand smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her well-pressed gray skirt.

He looked surprised. Then he smiled softly and shook his head. “You mean you didn’t understand all my teasing when we were kids?”