through the night. On Jack’s orders, Jewell had just left the house with Mary to fetch a newspaper.
Caroline plopped a porridge bowl into the tub and watched suds take wing overhead. The man had lost a leg in battle, and he was letting it take his heart and mind too. Jack had been sour as vinegar for more than a year now. Fellow soldiers and others in the community had tried to reach out to him. Even his own family, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Labeled it pity .
She dunked the dish and scrubbed. Mrs. Brantenberg would say the war had given Jack a ragged scrap of fabric, a remnant that didn’t fit the pattern he’d laid out for his life. Caroline hadn’t lost a limb, but she knew about scraps that didn’t seem right for her quilt. Clearly, her brother-in-law had no intention of allowing God to have this piece of his life, to make something useful of it.
Gilbert and Cora were at school. Now that she was alone with Jack, she had a mind to hold a mirror up in front of the ungrateful man’s face. Had Phillip lived, even if he’d lost a leg, he wouldn’t have chosen to wallow in self-pity. At least Jack had his life. His family. A home, though it be humble. And crowded.
Dunking another bowl, she blew out a long breath. Best she kept her opinions to herself. Jewell had enough troubles … didn’t need her stirring a pot full of Jack’s discontent. Caroline didn’t blame him for experiencing melancholy. She’d felt it herself—grieved her loss, sank into despair. But he’d let it eat at him until he was just a shell of the man Jewell had married ten years ago. The worst part was that he didn’t see it.
Or didn’t care.
Shaking her head, Caroline recalled the support she’d received in her own distress. She was grateful for the love of her sister and her quilting circle friends. God had used them to help her see that He still had a plan for her.
Although, standing here with her hands in a tub of dishwater in another woman’s kitchen, she didn’t have a clue what that plan might be.
The scrape of colliding furniture in the next room pulled Caroline out of her ponderings. Jack’s wheelchair was on the move, and the slap of his foot on the wood flooring told her he was headed her way.
Turning her back to the kitchen doorway, she busied herself with the breakfast dishes.
“Where’s your sister?” Jack’s growl sent chills up her spine. However did Jewell tolerate his gruffness? And why?
Caroline drew a fortifying breath and faced him.
His chair rolled to a stop at the sideboard.
“You sent Jewell to the store.”
“Hours ago, I did.” His eyes narrowed to slits.
Swallowing her frustration, Caroline walked to the table, but remained standing. “She has Mary with her, and it hasn’t been twenty minutes.”
“Should’ve gone myself. Would’ve been back by now.” His hand shook on the arm of his wicker chair.
Water dripped from her hands, wetting the wood surface of the table, and she wiped them with her apron.
“It wasn’t a newspaper you really sent her for.”
He spun the chair to face her. “You got somethin’ on your mind?”
Caroline pulled a chair from under the table and seated herself.
“You women think you have all the answers.”
A vein in her neck throbbed. He was the one who had made the mistake of asking, and she wasn’t one to turn down such a rare opportunity.
“You gonna tell me what a rotten husband I am? And a rotten father?”
He knew and hadn’t done anything to make amends. Her stomach soured. “I don’t know why Jewell stays with you”—she raised her hand, hoping to stop his canned response—“and it has nothing to do with you having one leg.” She pressed her hand to her queasy stomach. “Nothing directly, that is.”
“Is that so?”
Caroline fussed with the edging on the plaid table runner she’d given Jewell at Christmas. “You’re not the only one who suffers, Jack.” Countless folks flashed in her mind. Anna. Mrs. Brantenberg.
Caroline plopped a porridge bowl into the tub and watched suds take wing overhead. The man had lost a leg in battle, and he was letting it take his heart and mind too. Jack had been sour as vinegar for more than a year now. Fellow soldiers and others in the community had tried to reach out to him. Even his own family, but he wouldn’t have any of it. Labeled it pity .
She dunked the dish and scrubbed. Mrs. Brantenberg would say the war had given Jack a ragged scrap of fabric, a remnant that didn’t fit the pattern he’d laid out for his life. Caroline hadn’t lost a limb, but she knew about scraps that didn’t seem right for her quilt. Clearly, her brother-in-law had no intention of allowing God to have this piece of his life, to make something useful of it.
Gilbert and Cora were at school. Now that she was alone with Jack, she had a mind to hold a mirror up in front of the ungrateful man’s face. Had Phillip lived, even if he’d lost a leg, he wouldn’t have chosen to wallow in self-pity. At least Jack had his life. His family. A home, though it be humble. And crowded.
Dunking another bowl, she blew out a long breath. Best she kept her opinions to herself. Jewell had enough troubles … didn’t need her stirring a pot full of Jack’s discontent. Caroline didn’t blame him for experiencing melancholy. She’d felt it herself—grieved her loss, sank into despair. But he’d let it eat at him until he was just a shell of the man Jewell had married ten years ago. The worst part was that he didn’t see it.
Or didn’t care.
Shaking her head, Caroline recalled the support she’d received in her own distress. She was grateful for the love of her sister and her quilting circle friends. God had used them to help her see that He still had a plan for her.
Although, standing here with her hands in a tub of dishwater in another woman’s kitchen, she didn’t have a clue what that plan might be.
The scrape of colliding furniture in the next room pulled Caroline out of her ponderings. Jack’s wheelchair was on the move, and the slap of his foot on the wood flooring told her he was headed her way.
Turning her back to the kitchen doorway, she busied herself with the breakfast dishes.
“Where’s your sister?” Jack’s growl sent chills up her spine. However did Jewell tolerate his gruffness? And why?
Caroline drew a fortifying breath and faced him.
His chair rolled to a stop at the sideboard.
“You sent Jewell to the store.”
“Hours ago, I did.” His eyes narrowed to slits.
Swallowing her frustration, Caroline walked to the table, but remained standing. “She has Mary with her, and it hasn’t been twenty minutes.”
“Should’ve gone myself. Would’ve been back by now.” His hand shook on the arm of his wicker chair.
Water dripped from her hands, wetting the wood surface of the table, and she wiped them with her apron.
“It wasn’t a newspaper you really sent her for.”
He spun the chair to face her. “You got somethin’ on your mind?”
Caroline pulled a chair from under the table and seated herself.
“You women think you have all the answers.”
A vein in her neck throbbed. He was the one who had made the mistake of asking, and she wasn’t one to turn down such a rare opportunity.
“You gonna tell me what a rotten husband I am? And a rotten father?”
He knew and hadn’t done anything to make amends. Her stomach soured. “I don’t know why Jewell stays with you”—she raised her hand, hoping to stop his canned response—“and it has nothing to do with you having one leg.” She pressed her hand to her queasy stomach. “Nothing directly, that is.”
“Is that so?”
Caroline fussed with the edging on the plaid table runner she’d given Jewell at Christmas. “You’re not the only one who suffers, Jack.” Countless folks flashed in her mind. Anna. Mrs. Brantenberg.
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