Letting Go of Sacred Things
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Letting Go of Sacred Things - Sally J. Walker
J.Walker
"Letting Go of Sacred Things is more than mainstream; it’s finely crafted literature. So subtle is the writing that the first time you read it, you want more: more pages, more about the characters. But as you reflect and think about the story, you realize there was more already; what first seems sparse becomes rich. Layers seeped into the subconscious that only rise with reflection, perhaps discussion and definitely another reading (or two)." — Midwest Review
In memory of my beloved grandmother,
Minnie Opal Harwood, a simple Iowa
woman who cherished people more than
the sacred things of a material world.
Special thanks to Richard Ford, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Independence Day, who critiqued one of the episodes in this collection. His lengthy, enthusiastic comments to my creative writing class at the University of Nebraska at Omaha motivated me to finish this collection. I humbly thank you, sir.
Chapter 1
Sacred Things,
Winter 1910, Age 9
Opal Marley plinked the rim of the glass lamp chimney with her forefinger then glanced over her shoulder. Her mother did not appear. The nine year old sighed. A crevice of sunlight from the kitchen window struck the chimney’s curve. Momentarily she couldn’t see her hand or its cleaning rag inside the chimney. A breeze fluttered the curtain, blocking the brightness. There was her hand, still waiting, surrounded by glass. Again she sighed and gently pulled her hand free.
After inspecting the chimney, Opal set it alongside the others. Nine. Today’s nine done. And not one cracked. Of course, she had chosen a smaller rag this time and had not hurried. She had been just as careful as Calvin or Aggie or Royce. Probably more so.
She mentally checked off her completed chores. The breakfast dishes. Tinder box. Chamber pots. Laundry collected, all except Aggie’s. She was not to snoop in her sister’s things. Bed linens folded back to air. Last night’s Gazette added to the pantry pile. Flour sifted for her mother’s morning baking. And the chimneys. She couldn’t think of anything left to do.
Quietly she moved from room to room, replacing the chimneys, grateful that Royce had trimmed the wicks and filled the lamps. She always seemed to spill the smelly kerosene and could never clean it up enough to escape her mother’s reprimand.
Opal stopped before the hat rack mirror in the hall. She arched her neck, wrinkled her nose, shook her finger at her reflection, and silently mimicked her mother’s Waste not, want not!
A smile died as she examined the girl before her. Frizzy brown hair protesting the tie-back. Never cut and yet not even below her shoulder blades. And big brown eyes, too big and staring. She squinted then glared. Faint crow’s feet already traced the corners of her eyes, and shadows hung under her eyes, as if she was sick all the time. Her nose appeared narrow, straight, snippy. And just look at the thin lips and pointed chin! Ugly—
Will you stop admiring yourself and get busy, young lady!
Opal whirled, staring at her mother descending the steep staircase. The line of the woman’s ankle-length split skirt and high-necked white blouse emphasized her height and elegance. The folds of a blue work shirt fell from a mending hoop in her hand.
I’m-I’m done, Mama.
All those chimneys sparkling clean?
Yes’m.
I won’t have to replace any, will I?
No, ma’am.
Everything else I told you to do at breakfast?
Yes’m. The flour’s in your big bowl with a towel over it—
Oh, dear! It is getting on toward dinner, isn’t it.
Her mother looked at the shirt tear she had been reweaving. Well, I suppose you can go outside. For a little while. Just stay out properly clean for once.
Opal headed for the door, hearing her mother mumble something about if she could only learn to cook . . .
After easing the screendoor closed behind her, the girl skipped down the wide porch stairs. Just as she rounded the evergreen at the porch corner, she stopped to look up at her sister’s bedroom window. Yeah, learn to cook like Aggie,
she whispered and stuck out her tongue. Then she flipped her head back and flounced a few steps, mimicking her sister’s tantrum of the night before. If I acted like that, Miss Priss, I’d get a whippin’, sixteen or no,
Opal told the window. She tried to picture her mother then her solemn father turning Aggie across a knee. The image wouldn’t appear.
Wagon wheels creaked and horses feet thudded on the lane from the fields. Opal ran down the sloping farmyard to the water trough at the base of the barn’s windmill. She pulled at the pump handle, straining with the stiffness of the thing. A warning gurgle preceded an eruption of water, sending muddy droplets onto her apron, stockings, and high-topped shoes. She resignedly sighed and kept pumping.
The trough was nearly full when Calvin leaned back on the reins stopping the bay team before her. A whisper of wind carried forward the scent of the manure spreader. She wriggled her nose then bit her lip and stopped pumping.
Where’s Royce?
Calvin wrapped the reins around the brake handle and climbed to the ground ignoring her. He pulled a faded bandana from his pocket and dipped it into the trough. Opal leaned against the pump handle, wanting to stick out her tongue at her oldest brother. Behind the tall, thin fifteen year old she noticed the team shaking their heads and stretching their necks against the harness toward the water. Calvin finally looked at her.
You been watchin’ the pigs?
He pointed at her apron. Ma’ll tan your hide.
Opal shrugged. I was tryin’ to help with the horses. Royce lets me.
Well, I ain’t my little brother!
He hesitated, squinting one eye at her. But . . . if you can reach them reins to loosen’em and can lead those horses over here, I’ll let you water ‘em.
She looked from her grinning brother to the wide-backed, towering workhorses. Her eyes blurred. She turned and walked stiffly toward the house. Calvin’s laugh bounced off her back.
* * *
Wearing her only other apron, Opal carried bowls of boiled potatoes and pickled cucumbers and platters of fried ham and sliced tomatoes to the dinner table. Her mother fretted and directed. The three male Marleys sat down, immediately reaching for the food. Opal and her mother joined them only after cutting the fresh cherry pies.
Opal saw her father’s fork and knife come to rest. Jerome Marley looked around the table with steady gray eyes.
Where’s Aggie?
She’s not feeling well,
his wife answered.
Yeah, her chewin’ out last night put her on her deathbed.
I didn’t ask you, Calvin, did I?
"No, sir.
Long moments passed, interrupted only by the sounds of clinking forks. Opal concentrated on cleaning her plate. Her father broke the silence.
I’ll be going to town about two, Mother. You’ll have to send your list with Opal since Aggie’s sick.
She blinked in disbelief. Her mother stiffened. Oh, Jerome! Don’t you think Calvin or Royce—
I’ll take Opal. The boys have their work.
Opal glanced at her brothers. Calvin stabbed at his meat. Royce winked at her. His little smile made him seem older than Calvin.
* * *
The ride into town meant enduring three miles of bouncing on a hard wagon seat. Opal didn’t mind. She held her right hand over her apron pocket where the shopping list nestled. Her mother had rewritten the list three times, explaining her notes and preferences, then simplifying them. Opal had recited her instructions perfectly, then kept mentally repeating them enroute. Caught up in his grownup thoughts, her father had not interrupted her rote exercise.
Little puffs of dust rose around the horses’ feet as they trotted down the wide, quiet main street of Guthrie Center, Iowa. A window groaned as it was opened. Opal looked up at the second story of the Cafe-Hotel and saw a pale arm beating a dust rag against the windowsill. The only other movement was the tail of a saddle horse dozing at a hitch rail farther up the street.
Her father stopped before the green-striped awning of Baker’s Store. Opal thought of the green-striped peppermint sticks inside and smiled. She wondered if Mr. Baker had bought the awning to go with his peppermint or the peppermint to go—
Well, are you going to sit here all day? I’ve got business at the bank.
Opal bit her lip and quickly scrambled to the ground. She didn’t look up or even wave as her father went on his way. Suddenly confronted with actually attending to family business, she cautiously stepped onto the wooden walk and into the shade of the awning. Her hand fumbled for the list as she passed through the open doorway of the mercantile.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the store’s darker interior. She drew a deep, deeper breath to savor the smells of the place. New cloth, bolts of it. Perfumed soap. Denim overalls. Vinegar from the pickle barrel. And the oil and saddle soap of new leather. She tripped over something stacked on the floor and sprawled forward, her feet tangled in leather straps.
Mortification produced an unladylike groan. Almost immediately, big, gentle hands turned her over. Are you all right, little one?
Opal quickly nodded, aware of the deep heat in her face creeping, spreading down over her body. She flitted the briefest of glances into the face of her rescuer, the young Dr. Tom Bartlett. She managed a tiny Thank you, sir
and bent forward to pull the offending leather straps from around her ankles. A moment later Dr. Bartlett pulled her to her feet and brushed the dust off her skirt.
My list!
Opal dropped back to her knees searching frantically for the folded paper. Without hesitation, Dr. Barlett joined her.
Here it is.
He picked up the scrap of paper and held it out to her.
Opal’s stomach shriveled until she thought she would choke with the pain. She snatched the list and held it against her chest as they stood facing one another.
Mr. Baker’s footsteps echoed in the confines of the store. Here’s that special shaving soap, Tom. This won’t make your neck itch, I’m sure.
The young man patted Opal’s shoulder and turned to the storekeeper. Opal thought about taking the list to her father for him to take care of, but then she remembered her mother’s expectations. She hoped Dr. Bartlett would just pay for his soap and leave. Instead, he thumbed through some magazines on the counter, chose one, and seated himself on a nearby keg to scan its pages.
Did you need something, Opal?
Mr. Baker’s voice lost its friendliness when he spoke to her. Opal just nodded and handed him the list as he rounded the counter. His lips moved as he read the list to himself. He tapped it with a knowing finger. Okay. Yes, all except this ribbon.
And he wandered off behind the counter, scratching his bald spot and talking to himself.
Opal stood alone with Dr. Bartlett. She shifted from one foot to the other, clasped and unclasped her hands. She studied the wide shade pulled half-way down the store’s big front window. As if really interested, she bent and squinted at the glare of the empty afternoon street.
Here it is!
Dr. Bartlett held up the magazine.
Opal jumped. Pardon me?
Tom Bartlett looked up. Oh, I’m sorry, Opal. I-I guess I was talking to myself.
Opal dropped her gaze to the floor. She bit her lip and tried to keep the heat from her cheeks. The young doctor leaned forward and tilted her chin up with one finger until she looked at him.
Didn’t mean to embarrass you. Um, can you keep a secret?
he asked.
Opal’s uncertain frown faded the pink of her cheeks. She looked at his red hair flowing neatly into full side-burns, the sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the crystal blue of his eyes, totally focused on her. His lips broadened in a half smile.
I guess I can.
He stretched to look over his shoulder where the merchant had disappeared into the back room then dramatically waved her closer. Opal stepped nearer the counter and looked over his shoulder at the magazine page he was pointing to, a picture, a life-like drawing of one of those new automobiles.
An automobile,
she whispered, liking the sound of the word.
Isn’t it a beauty?
Dr. Bartlett whispered back.
They both admired the picture a moment more before he closed the magazine. Now, you promise not to tell a soul?
Opal nodded solemnly.
I’m going to get one of those!
Opal gasped. You really, really are?
Sh-h-h! I just ordered it a couple of weeks ago. The people in Council Bluffs said they could drive it out just before Christmas.
They’ll bring it right here?
And teach me how to drive it! What do you think of that?
Opal grinned and clapped her hands. A real automobile right here!
Couldn’t believe what I read about them. Had to go see one. Opal, you wouldn’t believe how fast they get you from one place to another. Bad weather will be nothing. Time will be nothing. And time, now, time is what is important to a doctor, to anyone I guess.
He stopped himself and winked at her. But you can’t tell anybody. You’re the only one in town to know.
Opal’s eyes widened with her own wonder and his enthusiasm. Oh, I promise I won’t tell. Not even Royce.
Mr. Baker emerged from the back room carrying a crate laden with packages and small tins and canned goods. Dr. Bartlett threw a quick wink at Opal and stood to put the magazine back on the counter. He bid the store owner good-day and shoved his hands in his pocket and exited the door humming.
Mr. Baker handed the list back to Opal. Just as her mother had instructed, she began checking off the things in the box. Her father’s heavy tread stopped her.
Howdy, Simon. Got her all fixed up?
He laid a possessive hand on his daughter’s small shoulder.
Sure do. And I got that large box of harness goods all ready to go, if you’re set.
Opal had never seen her father so cheerful and talkative, not even when his brother came to visit. Calvin had told her that was the best time to ask for something, out in the barn, after the men had visited for an hour or so while sampling the progress of the corn mash still. Opal had never tested the advice, though she often wondered what happened out there to change him from solemn to laughing. Her father had always returned to the house cheerful yet subdued, like a young horse trained to walk but wanting to run. Now he looked like he had just had that run.
Yep, I’m all set.
He pulled a small roll of money from his pocket. Got an advance on my corn. Just a little so I could get started.
Mr. Baker took the money and counted out most of it. Her father looked from the dollar he got back to the end of the counter where several glass jars stood in a neat row.
I don’t suppose you’d like a peppermint stick or two?
he asked Opal.
* * *
Opal licked and crunched the heady sweetness all the way home. The closer they got to their lane, the more solemn her father’s expression. Opal noticed he kept glancing at her as if he were trying to make up his mind.
You got all the things your Mama wanted?
Opal almost dropped her candy stub. Yes, sir.
She squirmed on the hard seat and waited politely.
Um, Opal, I don’t want you to say anything about me going to the bank, I mean to either your mother . . . or anyone else.
Yes, sir.
She popped the stub into her mouth and sucked hard.
Or about that big box I paid for at the store.
Opal looked over her shoulder at the large wooden box her father had heaved onto the wagon bed. She nodded but her father didn’t seem to notice. He concentrated on the reins bouncing lightly on the backs of the team. Regretfully she finished chewing the precious candy so she could properly respond.
All right, Papa. I won’t say anything.
It’s not like lying. Saying nothing, that is. This is like a secret. A surprise.
"Oh, just