turn, so she handed
him the gloves and pruners. He swallowed hard and stared at the
bush like it might grab him with its thorny arms and never let
go.
“ You can do it. See these
thin, twiggy stems? Cut those out,” she said.
With his tongue poking from the corner
of his mouth, he obeyed, holding the pruners awkwardly at first.
His confidence grew with every snip.
She knew he would feel satisfaction in
a job well done, so she continued to instruct and encourage, using
the calm, patient voice she had employed in the schoolroom. “And
these here that are crossing each other — cut one of those back.
Pinch off the suckers next. Perfect!”
When he finished, he lowered the
pruners and stood back, eyeing the rosebush with a “that’s not too
shabby” frown. Portia helped Jonny prune the other rosebushes next
to the porch and the garden. By the time they were done, he had
worked up a good sweat and had earned a few battle scars on his
arms from the thorns. But he wore a relaxed smile of pure
accomplishment.
“ Now that the sun’s had
time to dry the dirt, let’s go help Bessie plant the potatoes and
beets,” Portia said.
When they arrived back at the garden,
Bessie was hard at work on evenly spaced potato hills. Portia
fetched a hoe and showed Jonny how to dig a nice, straight row. She
handed him the hoe, and he did his best. His row looked more like
one side of a parenthesis, but it would suffice.
Portia followed along, dropping seeds
into the furrow. When he reached the end of the row, he came back
behind her, covering the seeds and gently tamping down the dirt
with the bottom of the hoe. Finally the last few beet seeds were
safely under the soil. Jonathan stood up straight and arched his
back to stretch his strained muscles. He brushed the dirt off his
hands and scowled.
“ What’s wrong?” Portia
figured he would show her blisters on his palms or a rock in his
boot.
“ I hate beets.”
He said it in such a clear,
matter-of-fact voice that no one would have guessed he hadn’t
spoken in nearly a year. He walked to the shed, put the hoe away,
and went back inside the house.
Portia’s jaw dropped. “Did you hear
that? He hates beets.”
“ He always
has. ” Bessie
stared at the back door and wiped the sweat from her forehead with
the back of her hand. “You did it. You got him to
speak.”
“ No, he did it,” Portia
said, leaning on her hoe. “All he needed was enough work to
distract him from keeping his voice to himself.”
“ If I’d known that, I
would have had him workin’ from sunup to sundown.” She pursed her
lips into an impressed smile. “We should tell Beau.”
“ It might be best to wait
a bit, see if Jonathan takes the initiative and speaks to him
without prompting. If we put too much pressure on him, he might
hold back even more.”
“ Hmm, maybe you’re
right.”
Mr. Stanford didn’t utter more than a
few words at dinner. He didn’t bring up any more serious matters as
he had on her first morning there. Harry was as chatty as he’d been
from the start, Ezra just as humorous.
The indifference didn’t hurt her so
much as she hurt from watching Jonathan trying to catch his
father’s attention. Now and then his eyes would linger on Beau, and
his mouth would twitch as though he wanted so badly to share
something with him. She was tempted to tell them about Jonathan
breaking his silence, but held her tongue. She had to let him speak
on his own terms.
But Beau never looked at him, and
Jonathan’s hopeful countenance fell. He played with his stew and
nibbled some cornbread, reclaiming the silence he had possessed
before today’s three-word marvel. Beau left the table and went to
bed without even a farewell or goodnight.
Certainly indifference was better than
the brutality she had suffered at the hands of her own father.
Still, her heart ached for Jonathan, and she didn’t know how to
make it better.
Chapter Eight
The next morning’s lessons consisted of
him the gloves and pruners. He swallowed hard and stared at the
bush like it might grab him with its thorny arms and never let
go.
“ You can do it. See these
thin, twiggy stems? Cut those out,” she said.
With his tongue poking from the corner
of his mouth, he obeyed, holding the pruners awkwardly at first.
His confidence grew with every snip.
She knew he would feel satisfaction in
a job well done, so she continued to instruct and encourage, using
the calm, patient voice she had employed in the schoolroom. “And
these here that are crossing each other — cut one of those back.
Pinch off the suckers next. Perfect!”
When he finished, he lowered the
pruners and stood back, eyeing the rosebush with a “that’s not too
shabby” frown. Portia helped Jonny prune the other rosebushes next
to the porch and the garden. By the time they were done, he had
worked up a good sweat and had earned a few battle scars on his
arms from the thorns. But he wore a relaxed smile of pure
accomplishment.
“ Now that the sun’s had
time to dry the dirt, let’s go help Bessie plant the potatoes and
beets,” Portia said.
When they arrived back at the garden,
Bessie was hard at work on evenly spaced potato hills. Portia
fetched a hoe and showed Jonny how to dig a nice, straight row. She
handed him the hoe, and he did his best. His row looked more like
one side of a parenthesis, but it would suffice.
Portia followed along, dropping seeds
into the furrow. When he reached the end of the row, he came back
behind her, covering the seeds and gently tamping down the dirt
with the bottom of the hoe. Finally the last few beet seeds were
safely under the soil. Jonathan stood up straight and arched his
back to stretch his strained muscles. He brushed the dirt off his
hands and scowled.
“ What’s wrong?” Portia
figured he would show her blisters on his palms or a rock in his
boot.
“ I hate beets.”
He said it in such a clear,
matter-of-fact voice that no one would have guessed he hadn’t
spoken in nearly a year. He walked to the shed, put the hoe away,
and went back inside the house.
Portia’s jaw dropped. “Did you hear
that? He hates beets.”
“ He always
has. ” Bessie
stared at the back door and wiped the sweat from her forehead with
the back of her hand. “You did it. You got him to
speak.”
“ No, he did it,” Portia
said, leaning on her hoe. “All he needed was enough work to
distract him from keeping his voice to himself.”
“ If I’d known that, I
would have had him workin’ from sunup to sundown.” She pursed her
lips into an impressed smile. “We should tell Beau.”
“ It might be best to wait
a bit, see if Jonathan takes the initiative and speaks to him
without prompting. If we put too much pressure on him, he might
hold back even more.”
“ Hmm, maybe you’re
right.”
Mr. Stanford didn’t utter more than a
few words at dinner. He didn’t bring up any more serious matters as
he had on her first morning there. Harry was as chatty as he’d been
from the start, Ezra just as humorous.
The indifference didn’t hurt her so
much as she hurt from watching Jonathan trying to catch his
father’s attention. Now and then his eyes would linger on Beau, and
his mouth would twitch as though he wanted so badly to share
something with him. She was tempted to tell them about Jonathan
breaking his silence, but held her tongue. She had to let him speak
on his own terms.
But Beau never looked at him, and
Jonathan’s hopeful countenance fell. He played with his stew and
nibbled some cornbread, reclaiming the silence he had possessed
before today’s three-word marvel. Beau left the table and went to
bed without even a farewell or goodnight.
Certainly indifference was better than
the brutality she had suffered at the hands of her own father.
Still, her heart ached for Jonathan, and she didn’t know how to
make it better.
Chapter Eight
The next morning’s lessons consisted of
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