Kathy Little Bird by Nancy Freedman, Benedict Freedman

first, and that gets you through. It’s afterward, when things return to normal and you pick up the old routines, that’s when you feel the loss, the emptiness.
    Jellet never acted on my request for a girl to help in the house, but threw his dirty clothes in the hamper as always. When he had no clean shirt to wear to the pub, perhaps then he would open negotiations.
    It was a standoff. Jellet kept changing his clothes, shirt, underwear, socks, even his cap, and tossing them into the hamper, making sure I saw him—then stomped off to work.
    Jas and Morrie cheered me on. They even offered to help me do nothing. Kids can be wonderful.
    As I passed the hamper I slammed down the lid. It was time to start the stew for dinner. I cut up onions and potatoes, but was short on carrots. I substituted celery and sliced bell pepper.
    I brought it to a boil and turned down the gas. What next? Usually this was the time I did the wash, so I could keep an eye on the dinner. I peeked into the hamper. Of course I wouldn’t do his stuff, but the boys deserved clean shirts. I fished out their clothes. There were a couple of towels at the bottom. One was his, leave it. Also, his handkerchief.
    Actually, Jellet’s stuff wasn’t enough for a separate wash. I might as well do the whole thing rather than spend time sorting it out. It would save a lot of arguing and yelling. Maybe he would appreciate it and—
    Whoa! What was I doing?
    I was giving in.
    I slammed the hamper shut.

    T HE upshot was, Maggie Toland, thirteen, came twice a week after school to help with the house. But I didn’t have Mum. I didn’t have her to talk to or sing to.
    How little I had known her. She had been a nurse. And she’d gone overseas to Cassino. She’d been in that battle. But she didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t know what it meant in her life. I wish I’d asked more. I’d never know her now as a woman.
    I had to see Abram. I’d die if I didn’t.
    I found him sitting on the bottom step of his porch, whittling. I sat down beside him, put my arms around him, and kissed him.
    He didn’t seem surprised, but kissed me back. At first hiskissing was a bit hit-or-miss. But it improved. So did mine. We made it last a long time. I felt surrounded by him, absorbed into him, part of the healthy, clean young male smell of him.
    When he finally let go of me we looked at each other differently.
    I tried to look behind his eyes to get at his thoughts. “You wouldn’t think less of me if I was in love with you, would you, Abram?”
    Abram wasn’t the boy I’d met for years outside the Mennonite church; he was a man, known and yet unknowable. He kissed me in a different way, a way that made me dizzy, in a way that made me want to hold him. I ran my fingers through that thick shock of blond hair. Our breath mingled, our body warmth was shared. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.
    Abram pulled back. I could see he was as shaken as I was. He told me I should go home now.
    I nodded. I respected him for this. On the instant I knew I’d be safe with Abram all my life long.

Chapter Five
    I T’S odd how you can go along day after day and things stay the same, then some incident occurs, perhaps trivial, perhaps unimportant, even ridiculous, that changes your life. With me it happened over a head of lettuce, July 1963.
    I’d been marketing and was on my way home with a loaded shopping bag. A car backfired and suddenly I was conscious of ordinary time jamming together. A horse that had been tied into traces reared, pawing the air. It broke loose and plunged down the street. Rolling bloodshot eyes, frothing mouth, laid-back ears, nostrils that snorted and flared as he dashed at me.
    I pressed into a doorway. The animal’s breath scorched my face as it charged past. I stayed as I was, unable to move, hardly daring to believe I had escaped being trampled.
    In a numb state I watched as the horse was coralled by its owner and led docilely back to the wagon, where it was