Michael’s outburst as his father had. Mark would have taken the time to explain the situation to Michael, and listened to Michael’s point of view. And in the end he (and she) would have decided that the trauma of Michael having to leave his friends with no final goodbye outweighed the expense of that last trip to New York, even though logic dictated that they stay where they were.
But here, away from the city and its environment of advanced thinking and experimentation, the same thought kept drumming in Janet’s head:
Amos is right
.
These people did things as they had always done them, and if they seemed in some ways backward or reactionary, they had other qualities that made up for it. They had a sense of community, of caring, that refugees to the cities had lost. They retained values that people of Janet’s own environment had shed long ago and with no remorse.
There was a solidity to Amos, to all the people of Prairie Bend, that Janet was just beginning to realize she had missed in the years of her marriage.
She stood up and moved around to where Anna still sat, and rested one hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Thank you so much for all you’re doing.”
Anna covered Janet’s hand with her own. “Don’t be silly, dear. You’re family. We’re only doing what any family would do. And it’s our pleasure. I lost Mark years ago, but at least now I have you and Michael.”
Though neither of them could see the other’s face, each of them realized the other was weeping, one for a lost son, the other for—
For what? Janet wondered.
If she’d been asked, which she was blessedly not, Janet would not have been able to say exactly why tears had come to her eyes. Partly for Mark, she supposed, though of that she was no longer sure, but partly for something else, something she was only beginning to discover. Mixed with her sense of loss, there was that something else, a sense of something recovered, a sense of values she had once held, but lost along the way, that were now being restored. She squeezed Anna’s shoulder gently, then, wanting to be alone with her thoughts, she slipped out into the fading evening light.
Amos Hall stood at the door to the room that should have been Mark’s and was now occupied by Michael, about to put his hand on the knob and open it. Then, out of a sense that he owed the boy the same courtesy he intended to demand, he knocked.
“Go away,” Michael replied, his voice tight with anger. Ignoring the words, Amos opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He stood still, saying nothing, waiting for Michael to respond. For several long minutes, the room was still. Then, his movement involuntarily exposing the uncertainty he was trying to conceal, Michael rolled over, propped himself up against the cast-iron bedstead, and folded his arms over his chest.
“I didn’t say you could come in here,” he challenged. “This is my room.”
Amos’s brows arched. He moved further into the room, seating himself on a wooden chair a few feet from the bed. “If I ever hear you speak that way to me again,” he said, in a tone so low Michael had to strain to hear, “or speak to your mother or any other adult the way you did a few minutes ago, I will take you out behind the barn and give you a whipping such as I haven’t given anyone since your father was your age. Is that clear?”
“You can’t—”
“And when I knock at your door,” Amos went implacably on, “I’m not asking for permission to enter. I’m simply warning you that I’m coming in.” Michael opened his mouth once more, but Amos still gave him no opportunity to speak. “Now, three things are about to happen. First, you are going to have an experience I’m sure you’ve never had before. Ever heard of washing your mouth out with soap and water? Nod or shake your head. I’m not interested in anything you might have to say right now.”
Michael hesitated,
But here, away from the city and its environment of advanced thinking and experimentation, the same thought kept drumming in Janet’s head:
Amos is right
.
These people did things as they had always done them, and if they seemed in some ways backward or reactionary, they had other qualities that made up for it. They had a sense of community, of caring, that refugees to the cities had lost. They retained values that people of Janet’s own environment had shed long ago and with no remorse.
There was a solidity to Amos, to all the people of Prairie Bend, that Janet was just beginning to realize she had missed in the years of her marriage.
She stood up and moved around to where Anna still sat, and rested one hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Thank you so much for all you’re doing.”
Anna covered Janet’s hand with her own. “Don’t be silly, dear. You’re family. We’re only doing what any family would do. And it’s our pleasure. I lost Mark years ago, but at least now I have you and Michael.”
Though neither of them could see the other’s face, each of them realized the other was weeping, one for a lost son, the other for—
For what? Janet wondered.
If she’d been asked, which she was blessedly not, Janet would not have been able to say exactly why tears had come to her eyes. Partly for Mark, she supposed, though of that she was no longer sure, but partly for something else, something she was only beginning to discover. Mixed with her sense of loss, there was that something else, a sense of something recovered, a sense of values she had once held, but lost along the way, that were now being restored. She squeezed Anna’s shoulder gently, then, wanting to be alone with her thoughts, she slipped out into the fading evening light.
Amos Hall stood at the door to the room that should have been Mark’s and was now occupied by Michael, about to put his hand on the knob and open it. Then, out of a sense that he owed the boy the same courtesy he intended to demand, he knocked.
“Go away,” Michael replied, his voice tight with anger. Ignoring the words, Amos opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. He stood still, saying nothing, waiting for Michael to respond. For several long minutes, the room was still. Then, his movement involuntarily exposing the uncertainty he was trying to conceal, Michael rolled over, propped himself up against the cast-iron bedstead, and folded his arms over his chest.
“I didn’t say you could come in here,” he challenged. “This is my room.”
Amos’s brows arched. He moved further into the room, seating himself on a wooden chair a few feet from the bed. “If I ever hear you speak that way to me again,” he said, in a tone so low Michael had to strain to hear, “or speak to your mother or any other adult the way you did a few minutes ago, I will take you out behind the barn and give you a whipping such as I haven’t given anyone since your father was your age. Is that clear?”
“You can’t—”
“And when I knock at your door,” Amos went implacably on, “I’m not asking for permission to enter. I’m simply warning you that I’m coming in.” Michael opened his mouth once more, but Amos still gave him no opportunity to speak. “Now, three things are about to happen. First, you are going to have an experience I’m sure you’ve never had before. Ever heard of washing your mouth out with soap and water? Nod or shake your head. I’m not interested in anything you might have to say right now.”
Michael hesitated,
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