Do You Feel What I Feel. a Holiday Anthology Page 19

  Glossary:

  Drash: A talk about any topic

  Gelt: Money/coins

  Hag Sameach: Happy Holidays

  Kipa: Yarmulke/head-covering

  Latkes: Potato Pancakes

  Savta: Grandma/Granny

  Shabbat Shalom: Greeting made on the Sabbath to wish someone well

  Sufganiot: Donuts

  Tallit: Prayer shawl

  Torah: Scripture

  KICKER’S CHRISTMAS

  by Lois Cloarec Hart

  Christmas Eve, 1917

  Kicker paused in front of the door to stomp her boots. It had snowed much of the afternoon, but by the time she’d sent her employees home, the storm had tapered off to a few persistent flakes. She pushed open the door and entered the log cabin.

  Madelyn looked up from the stack of papers on her desk and smiled. “Welcome home, dearest. How was work? Is everyone excited about being off for the holidays?”

  Kicker hung up her coat and kicked off her boots before crossing the room to kiss Maddie. “All but Pudge.”

  “What’s wrong with Pudge?”

  “He was still madder than a wet hen about yesterday. Din’t I tell you ’bout that?”

  Madelyn shook her head. “No. What happened?”

  “I sent Pudge and Clarence into Calgary with the las’ of the deliveries and to talk to our suppliers. Some damn fool woman saw them walking down the street, came up behind ’em, and stuck a white feather in the collar of Clarence’s coat.”

  “Oh no, not again.”

  “Aye. Pudge was so mad, he near took the woman’s head off. If Clarence hadn’t pulled him away, Seamus pro’ly would’ve had to make his brother’s bail.”

  “Oh, poor Clarence. That’s so terribly unfair.”

  “Aye. Clarence says Pudge swore a blue streak and tol’ the woman plain that Clarence was no coward. Said the lad was first in line to join the 10th Battalion, and the only reason he wasn’t in some trench in France was ’cause of his heart condition.”

  “I hope the woman had the good grace to slink away.”

  “Ran like a weasel caught in a chicken coop, according to Clarence.”

  Madelyn took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “I worry so, dearest.”

  “’Bout Clarence?”

  “Not really, though I do hope this war doesn’t go on so long that they take even men with medical conditions. I’m thinking more about all the boys I’ve taught who are over there, particularly Laird. He’s been in battle for so long now. Since Billy’s death, Laird’s letters to Wynne have been terribly despondent, though I know it is not his wish to worry his mother.”

  Kicker snorted. “Like he stood any chance of that, eh? Wynne worried sum’pin fierce from the moment the king declared war and the firs’ Canadian contingent sailed for Britain with Laird and Billy on board.”

  “It’s so sad to think of our local lads shedding their blood on foreign soil.”

  “E’en Archie Mason?”

  Madelyn smiled. “Can you believe he’s a decorated officer? He was such a bully as a boy. I find it quite amazing that he turned into a leader of men.”

  “Guess he jus’ had to fin’ his station.”

  “You’re right. As we have done. But I so wish this war would end and they’d come home.”

  Kicker wrapped her arms around Madelyn and pressed a kiss into her hair. “I know, love. May the good Lord bring ’em all home safe and soun’.”

  Billy won’ e’er come home.

  The thought made Kicker’s breath catch. Her memory drifted back eighteen years to when she and Madelyn had first stepped off the train in Galbraith’s Crossing. Young Billy Donnelly had been sent to wait for their arrival. He’d been small of stature, all bright blue eyes, messy, straw-coloured hair, and bubbling with eagerness to earn enough money for a new wagon. But when he left for war in 1914, he’d been a married man with a pregnant wife. His son was born while Billy survived the first use of poison gas at Ypres.

  Laird and Billy had grown up together on the Steeple Seven Ranch; Laird, the son of the owner, and Billy, the son of the foreman. One was rarely seen without the other, and when the Canadian Expeditionary Force was raised in the fall of 1914, they’d gone together to enlist.

  Madelyn had been Laird and Billy’s teacher for many years, and they worshipped her. She, in turn, loved them, and Kicker felt the same. They had become like family. When word arrived in Galbraith’s Crossing of the death of Corporal Billy Donnelly on Vimy Ridge, Easter Sunday, 1917, they had joined the entire town in mourning alongside the Donnelly family.

  Madelyn squeezed Kicker’s arms. “I miss him too, dearest.”

  “Aye.”

  As always, Kicker was amazed by her partner’s uncanny ability to read her thoughts. It hadn’t always been thus. They’d mucked about and misread each other often in their early years together, to the point of a disastrous miscommunication that had split them apart for many weeks. But in the years since, they had committed utterly to one another, even as the townsfolk, with few exceptions, regarded them as the widowed schoolteacher and her oddball blacksmith cousin.

  Kicker’s rise to prosperity through her ornamental ironworks factory had quieted gossip about her unconventional lifestyle. The factory had converted to wartime production in 1915 and, given the shortage of available manpower, provided employment for fifty local women and older men.

  Kicker smiled. Wealth had a way of stilling criticism and smoothing one’s path in society. It worked similar magic for their equally unorthodox friend, Wynne. Despite her gender, she was the most powerful rancher in southwestern Alberta.

  “Is Seamus joining us for dinner tonight?”

  “Aye. He said he’ll be out after the six-twenty train.”

  Madelyn stood and stacked her papers. “And Pudge? Will he be joining us as well?”

  “No. B’lieve it or not, Pudge has a date.”

  Madelyn spun and stared at Kicker. “Our Pudge? A date?”

  “I know. It shocked me, too. Apparently the Widow Boyle invited Pudge to dinner and Mass t’night. At leas’ should lift his mood after the white feather smear.”

  “I know he’s gotten much better about socializing, but this positively stuns me.”

  Kicker grinned and went to wash her hands in the basin. “Seamus always says that e’er since Turtle Mountain tried to kill Pudge and failed, Pudge has been working his way back to his ol’ self.”

  “Coming to work for you was certainly a huge step.”

  “Aye. Bes’ foreman I e’er had, and having e’ryone accept him, ruined face and all, has bin good for him.”

  “I’m pleased about the date, but I’m still stunned.”

  Kicker dried her hands as Madelyn slipped her arms around Kicker’s waist. Kicker leaned back and enjoyed her partner’s familiar warmth. “I still remember the Pudge we met on the S.S. Assiniboine. He was such a ladies’ man, I thought sure some father would be after him with a shotgun to get him to the altar. It was only after the fire that he drew away from e’ryone.”

  “Everyone but you and Seamus.”

  “Aye.” Kicker turned in Madelyn’s arms and drew her head down for a lingering kiss.

  When they parted, Kicker nodded at the kitchen end of the great room, where the table was set and the scent of roasting chicken filled the air. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Madelyn stole one more kiss. “Would you make your biscuits, dearest? They’re always a treat.”

  “Aye.” Kicker bustled about and, as always, blessed the memory of the cook in Madelyn’s London family home who had taught her culinary basics.

  “Did you stop to check the mail?”

  “Aye, but t’was none for us, nor the Steeple Seven.”

  Madelyn resumed her seat at the desk and put her glasses on. “Har
dly surprising, with mail being so slow these days. I had hoped there might be something for Wynne, though. It’s been so long since Laird’s last letter.”

  Kicker measured out the flour. “But there’s been no telegram, and that’s good news. Laird ain’t dead or missing, or Wynne would know.”

  “Then why hasn’t he written? Wynne looks more drawn every time I see her, and I’m terribly worried about her.”

  Kicker’s heart clenched. Wynne had aged a decade in the three years since her son had boarded the troop train leaving town. “As am I, love. But all we can do is be there for her, bes’ we can.”

  “I wish I could keep all the newspapers from her. The news is so grim, and I know she obsesses over every article about the Western Front.”

  “Aye. I thought sure when we won provincial suffrage last year t’would be a distraction, since she fought for it so long. But she barely celebrated. She don’ e’en care that having a soldier-son means she can vote federally now, an’ her so ad’mant about women’s rights. These days all she talks about is the debate over conscription.”

  “That’s because she fears greatly that conscription will mean her young nephews will be the next to join their brothers and cousins. You know Samuel has been begging his father to let him go.”

  “Aye, and him only sixteen. Tis far too young.” Kicker shook her head as she cut the lard into the flour.

  “The last time we were at Wynne’s, I overheard the two of them arguing. Albert forbade Samuel to even consider enlisting, but Sam raged that his father was preventing him from doing his patriotic duty. I believe, conscription or not, Samuel will be on the first train out after his seventeenth birthday next spring.”

  “I fear you’re right, love, but tis naught to be done. Samuel has been hard-headed since the day he was born.”

  Kicker turned the conversation to lighter matters. By the time the rattle of Seamus’ beloved 1912 McLaughlin motorcar sounded in their lane, dinner was nearly ready.

  Madelyn swung the door open. “Merry Christmas, Seamus.”

  Seamus greeted her and Kicker with his usual hugs, but their smiles faded at his serious demeanour.

  Kicker tensed. Their gentle friend emanated distress. “Seamus? What’s wrong?”

  Madelyn’s hands flew to her mouth. “Has news come? Is it Laird?”

  Seamus nodded. “It’s Laird, but not news.”

  “What d’you mean, not news? Ha’ you heard sum’pin?” Kicker rested her hands on Madelyn’s shoulders as she eyed Seamus. “Out with it, man.”

  Seamus shrugged out of his coat. “Could I trouble you for a drink? It was a cold drive from town.”

  “Of course.” Madelyn took his coat and hung it up.

  Kicker hastened to pour him a whiskey. She handed it to him as he took his customary seat, and watched with concern as he drained it in two gulps.

  Seamus rolled the empty glass in his hands but shook his head at Kicker’s offer of a refill. “I was shutting down after the six-twenty. It was pure happenstance that I glanced out at the platform before leaving. I didn’t think any passengers had gotten off, but someone was sitting outside on the bench. It was a soldier. I waited to see what he’d do, and then thought perhaps he needed a ride somewhere, so I went out to make the offer. It was Laird.”

  Madelyn clapped her hands. “Oh, thank God, he’s home!”

  But Kicker studied Seamus’ grim face. They didn’t have the whole story yet. “What’s wrong?”

  Seamus took a deep breath. “He had crutches resting beside him. He’s missing a leg.”

  Madelyn gasped.

  Kicker closed her eyes. “Bless’d Jesus.” Then she opened them. “Matters not. He’s home from the war. So many will not return.”

  Seamus nodded. “As I thought, too, but… I don’t know how to describe this. When I greeted him, he stared at me blankly, like he knew not who I was, and me knowing him since he was a young lad. I offered him a ride home, and he looked through me as if my words made no sense. I tried to coax him into the warmth of the station, but he paid me no heed. He just sat there, staring off into the dark. I got a blanket and put it around his shoulders. He didn’t throw it off, so I left and came right here. I thought with you being as close to Wynne as family, you might know what’s best to do. Do you think I should go straight on to Wynne?”

  Madelyn started to nod, but Kicker laid a hand on her arm. “I think we should talk to him firs’, love. I’ll go ready the sleigh. Seamus, can you go to Wynne and bring her here? Don’ tell her why, jus’ yet. We need to suss out the lay of the land. Could be we’ll keep Laird in the station for the night if it seems bes’. Per’aps he’s jus’ tired and needs to rest before he sees his ma. Seamus, you kin stay with us t’night if tis necess’ry.”

  Seamus nodded and rose to put his coat back on.

  Madelyn took the chicken and biscuits out of the oven and moved the soup to the counter. The celebratory dinner was forgotten as all three were out the door within moments.

  The silence of the winter night was broken only by the creaking of the sleigh’s runners over the fresh snow and the jingle of the horse’s harness as Kicker drove swiftly to town.

  When she pulled to a stop in front of the train station, Madelyn turned to her. “Would you allow me to speak to him first, dearest?”

  “Aye. Without hes’tation.” Kicker had a great deal more confidence in Madelyn’s ability to communicate than in her own. Give her a horse or a forge, and none were better, but stress still returned her speech to the patterns of her youth.

  They pushed the thick lap blanket aside and clambered out of the sleigh. Kicker offered Madelyn an arm as they negotiated the platform around to trackside.

  Laird sat hunched on a bench in front of the station. It appeared that he’d gone no further than he had to when he had disembarked from the train. His empty left pant leg was rolled up and pinned at the thigh. A duffel bag lay next to his right foot, and crutches rested against the bench. The blanket Seamus had placed around him had fallen in a heap on the bench. He didn’t raise his head as Kicker and Madelyn approached.

  Kicker knelt in front of him.

  Madelyn sat beside him and took his hand.

  Laird flinched and shuddered.

  Kicker stood and pulled the blanket up around his thin shoulders.

  He looked at her, and she understood what Seamus had told them. The boy who had left in high spirits, determined to bring honour to King and Country was nowhere to be found in this gaunt man’s bleak stare.

  Madelyn raised Laird’s hand to her lips, and his head slowly swivelled to her.

  “Laird, do you remember me?”

  “Mrs. Bristow. You were my teacher.”

  “Yes. I’m so pleased to see you again. I—”

  “You were our favourite teacher, me and Billy’s. You went away for a while. We didn’t like the new teacher.”

  Madelyn shot a glance at Kicker. “I did go away for a little while, but I came home, didn’t I?”

  Laird nodded.

  “And now you’ve come home, too. We’re so glad to see you again, aren’t we, Kicker?”

  “Aye, that we are.”

  “Billy won’t be coming home.” Laird’s voice was as arid as the prairie in a rainless summer.

  Madelyn slipped her arm around Laird’s shoulders. “No, he won’t. We were all so sorry to learn what happened to him.”

  Laird shook his head. “You think you know what happened? Did you know he saved my life from a potato masher? That it took half my best friend’s face off and blew out his guts? Did you know that I held him while he tried to speak his last words, but he had no mouth to say them? Did you know that I had to leave him behind as some sodding half-wit ordered us over the top for a useless charge across no-man’s land? I ran between the trenches with Billy’s blood soaking me as much as the rain
. Once the shooting stopped, it took me half the night to find him again. Did you know the rats had already been at him, and the only way I could recognize him was his wedding ring? I took that off him. I’ve worn it on a chain every goddamned day since, and I brought it home for the son he will never see, the son who will never know his father.”

  Kicker softly blew out her breath and glanced at her partner. “Maddie, would you wait for us inside the station?”

  For a moment, Madelyn studied Kicker’s face in the dim haze of the platform’s gaslight, then she rose and patted Laird’s shoulder before she walked away.

  Kicker took her place beside Laird. They silently stared into the darkness until the station door opened and closed.

  “D’you remember Pudge Kelly, Laird?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twas a long time ago and you a wee lad, so you might not recall this. Pudge saved my life from an evil man who was seconds away from blowin’ me to bits.”

  “I remember.”

  “You pro’ly don’ remember Pudge before he was burned so bad in the fire at our Shadow Creek home.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “He was a handsome man, full of fun and music and life.”

  “Billy was like that too.”

  “I know. Well, Pudge, he was ne’er in battle with people shooting at him, but his heart and soul warred for many years.”

  Laird shot Kicker a shame-faced glance. “We called him the melting man.”

  “B’cause of his face run together?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that. I hope he never heard us.”

  Warmth rose within Kicker. The sweet young man she’d known was still there inside. “If he did, he ne’er said anything to me nor Seamus. I wouldn’t worry about it. ’Sides, worse things happened to him. D’you know a mountain fell on his head?”

  Laird blinked at her. “And he lived?”

  “Aye. He was working a shift the night half of Turtle Mountain slid down on the town of Frank. He and the other miners had to tunnel their way to the surface, but they survived. He tol’ me that when he poked his head out into the morning light, he made himself a promise.”