Page 12 of Hope’s Enduring Echo

Jennie

Mama shut the worn leather cover on her Bible, bowed her head, and closed her eyes. Jennie mimicked her pose. While Mama talked out loud to God, Jennie battled temptation to peek and see if Daddy had bowed his head or if he was still sideways in his chair, staring out the window, the way he’d sat through their version of Sunday service.

Sunday had been Jennie’s favorite day of the week from the time she was little. Even when they lived in town and attended services at church, her family slept a little later and got themselves ready for the day a little slower. Since moving to the cabin and only going to church services in town once a month, Sunday mornings were even lazier and more relaxed. Sometimes they didn’t have breakfast until almost nine o’clock, which meant a late lunch, too. But nobody minded, because it was Sunday. A relaxed day.

But it was also the Lord’s day, as Mama said, so they worshipped. Their home service was nothing elaborate. They didn’t have an organ to play or a preacher to listen to. But they spent time with God, and Mama claimed that was what mattered. Until he got hurt, Daddy led their home services. Jennie had loved listening to him read words from God’s Holy Book in his deep, rumbling voice. In her girlish mind, it was like hearing God Himself speak. But she wasn’t sure if Daddy still read his Bible on his own. And he never led them in worship anymore. Most Sundays he stayed in the bedroom while Mama read Scripture to Jennie and shared her thoughts about it.

But today he’d limped from the bedroom as Mama was opening her Bible to read. Jennie’s heart had given a leap of joy when he pulled out a chair and joined them. Having him at the table today was a treat, even though he didn’t sing along when she and Mama sang the hymns Jennie picked out. She’d chosen “Onward, Christian Soldiers” because Daddy used to sing it when the two of them went traipsing, and “Redeemed, How I Love to Proclaim It!” because it was a happy, bouncy song. How could anyone sing the words to Fanny Crosby’s hymn about being redeemed by the blood of the Lamb with a sad voice? She’d thought for sure those hymns would put some joy in Daddy again. He had them memorized, the same as she and Mama. He could’ve sung them if he wanted to.

She reminded herself again that he was at the table with them. Him being at the table for their simple worship was something to celebrate. Even so, she wished he’d sung. She missed hearing joy in her daddy’s voice.

“Amen,” Mama said, and Jennie realized she hadn’t paid a bit of attention to her mother’s prayer. A bit ashamed, she echoed, “Amen,” and hoped God would forgive her for drifting away in her thoughts.

While Daddy shaved his stubble and combed his hair, Mama and Jennie prepared a simple lunch of fried ham, stewed tomatoes, baking-soda biscuits, and some wild mustard greens Mama wilted in the meat drippings. While they were eating, the midday train rumbled by as usual at half past one. The cabin vibrated, and Mama’s porcelain teacups in the cupboard softly tink-tink ed against one another. Jennie was so used to the train’s coming and going she hardly noticed it anymore. But Daddy paused and looked out the window while it passed. Was he thinking, as Leo had said, about the times he’d ridden the train to town and taken his family to the Presbyterian church on Sunday mornings?

When they finished, Jennie helped Mama with kitchen cleanup. Now that Daddy had his belly filled, Jennie expected him to close himself in the bedroom. Both Mama and Daddy rested on Sunday afternoons. Jennie preferred to take out her sketch pad and pencils. As long as she was quiet, her parents didn’t mind how she entertained herself. On this Sunday, though, Daddy limped to his chair by the window, sat, and stacked his forearms on the sill.

After a few minutes of sitting and staring, he leaned forward and propped his chin on his arms. Something in Jennie’s middle stirred with a desire to draw him the way he was just then. The pose seemed to carve years away, making him look like a little boy yearning for Santa Claus’s sleigh to appear in the sky. Eager to get out her drawing materials, she sped up drying and stacking dishes. Just as she put the last plate on the shelf, Daddy sat straight-up.

Jennie stifled a huff. It was always easier to draw something when she was looking at the subject. Would she be able to do the drawing from memory? She waited, hoping he would resume the position, but he pointed out the window and glanced over his shoulder to Mama and Jennie.

“Did you know Prime and Delia were comin’ out today?”

Mama’s eyebrows pinched. “I sure didn’t.”

“Well, here they come up the rise. Looks like Prime’s totin’ a picnic basket.”

Mama hurried to the window and looked out. She sighed. “Oh, my. I’m happy for the company, but I wish I’d known they planned to come by. They could’ve eaten with us instead of bringing their own food.” She went outside.

Jennie stood in the open doorway and watched Mama half skip the distance to meet their unexpected visitors. The sisters embraced, and Aunt Delia turned Mama toward Uncle Prime. He lifted a flap on the picnic basket. Mama peered inside and immediately drew back, her hands flying up in surprise or delight. Jennie’s mouth automatically watered. They must have brought something good from the hotel kitchen to share. Dessert, in all likelihood. Maybe pound cake and strawberries. Daddy would love that.

Mama and Aunt Delia linked arms and headed for the cabin. Uncle Prime followed, holding the basket with his arms wrapped around it the way Jennie carried a full laundry tub. When they got close, Mama called, “Jennie, you and your daddy come outside. Prime has something to show you.”

Jennie looked at Daddy. He looked at her. Their matching brown eyes stared unblinking at each other for a few seconds. Then they shrugged in unison, which tickled Jennie more than she understood. He pushed up from the chair, and the two of them ambled out.

A sliver of sunlight fell across the basket Uncle Prime set on the sloped ground. He grinned at Jennie and Daddy, his hand braced on one of the slatted flaps. “You ready?”

“For what?” Daddy said.

Uncle Prime winked. “You’ll see.”

Excitement—an excitement she couldn’t explain—filled Jennie’s middle. She linked her hands and pressed them to her chest. “I’m ready.”

Uncle Prime folded back the flap. A puppy dog with a tan-speckled white face and floppy ears—one snow-white, one tawny brown—poked its head from the basket. The bow from a wide blue ribbon hung cockeyed around its skinny neck. It wriggled for a bit, then plunked one thick white paw on the edge of the basket and released a sharp yip.

Jennie gasped, all thoughts of dessert abandoned. She scooped the pup from the basket. She expected it to be heavier based on the size of its head and paws, but the animal seemed to be mostly skin stretched over bone. “Oh, you poor little thing.” She tried to cradle it, but it squirmed so much she was forced to put it down. It scrambled on gangly legs to the basket and hunkered next to it, looking around the circle of humans with round, uncertain eyes.

Jennie turned to Uncle Prime. “Where did you get him?”

He rolled his eyes. “We didn’t get him. One of our employees found him behind the hotel near the waste cans. He brought the dog to us and asked us to take him in.”

Aunt Delia held out her hands in a gesture of futility. “Oh, the temptation…but after talking it over, common sense prevailed. We can’t keep the dog at the hotel, and we aren’t home enough to take proper care of a pet.”

“So we decided to bring him out here and see if you folks were interested in raising a pup.” Uncle Prime leaned over and ruffled the dog’s ears. “I think he’s got some hound dog in him, which is a real smart breed. And if he grows into those feet, he’ll be big enough to be good protection for Jennie and Etta.” He grimaced. “But he sure needs some fattening up. And a big dose of patience. He’s pretty skittish.”

Jennie sat on her bottom and crisscrossed her legs. She laid her hand palm up on the ground a few inches from the pup’s moist black nose. “Hey, little fellow. Nobody here will hurt you. Won’t you let me pet you?”

The pup’s wary brown eyes shifted from Jennie’s fingers to her face—up and down, up and down. Its apprehension nearly broke her heart. She sensed he wanted to come close, to be loved, but fear held him captive. Uncle Prime was right—he needed a lot of patience. For some reason, the verse from James that the reverend in town shared at the close of last week’s service whispered through Jennie’s memory.

Knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.

Were the trials with Daddy over the past two years, trials that tested her patience, meant to increase her faith? Might the effort needed to win the confidence of this scared little dog help her grow even more in faith? Awareness brought a rush of warmth through her frame. She whirled on her seat and turned a pleading look on her father.

“Daddy, may we please keep this puppy? He’ll grow up into a good watchdog, don’t you think?”

Daddy scratched his ruddy, freshly shaved cheek. “I don’t know, Jennie. He might chase the chickens.”

“I can teach him not to.”

Daddy’s lips twisted into a doubtful scowl. “He’s a scrawny thing. It’s gonna take a lot of food to put meat on his bones. And you’re gone most of the day. Who’ll look after him? Your mama sure doesn’t need more to do around here.”

Although his words carried resistance, she witnessed a glimmer of desire in his eyes. She stood—slowly so she wouldn’t frighten the pup into bolting—and took Daddy’s hand. She hadn’t held his hand in a long time. So much softer than she remembered, its calluses smoothed out from lack of activity. It didn’t feel right. She swallowed a lump of longing for what used to be and squeezed his fingers. “If you’d keep an eye on him until he’s a little bigger, he could walk the line with me the way Rex used to do with you. Remember?”

He shifted his head aside, his gaze turning inward. “Yeah, I remember.”

She gave his hand a little tug, and he looked full in her face. She gave him a hopeful smile. “Please, Daddy? I know you miss old Rex. We all do. I think we need this sad little pup as much as he needs us.”

Daddy stared hard at her for several seconds, chewing the inside of his cheek. Jennie held her breath, preparing herself for his refusal. Then he sighed. “I reckon if you want to give him a try, it’s fine with me. As long as your mama doesn’t mind.”

Jennie aimed her smile at Mama. “Mama?”

Mama crouched down and ran her fingertips over the puppy’s wrinkly forehead. “I don’t mind.”

Jennie released a little squeal of happiness and grabbed Daddy in a hug. “Thank you!”

After a moment’s pause, his arms closed around her and his hand patted her back a couple of times. Then he pulled loose and shook his head. “I don’t hold out much hope for him to be half the dog Rex was.”

Jennie blinked back happy tears. “That’s okay, Daddy. I’ve got enough hope for both of us.”

Mama waved her hands the way a hen guided its chicks. “Everyone, let’s go in and introduce the puppy to its new home.”

Uncle Prime returned the puppy to the basket, and they all trooped into the cabin. Mama and Delia settled on their lone settee. Jennie perched on its arm next to Mama, and Daddy went to his usual spot by the window. Uncle Prime sat at the kitchen table. He set the basket on the floor and opened the flap. Leaning sideways, he toyed with the dog’s ears. “Have you got a name in mind for the pup, Jennie?”

Jennie nodded. It had come to her when she locked eyes with the cowering creature. “Oliver, after the little orphaned boy in the story by Charles Dickens. I’ll call him Ollie for short.”

Daddy released a little humph. “Oliver…”

Jennie peered past Mama and Aunt Delia to her father. “You don’t like the name?”

“There was a boy named Oliver in my neighborhood when I was growin’ up. He was a sneaky little tattletale who made up affronts if no real ones happened just so he could get other kids in trouble.”

Mama and Jennie exchanged a look. Daddy hadn’t talked so much at one time in weeks. Months. Jennie’s heart fluttered. Could she keep him talking? “I can see why you wouldn’t want a reminder of that boy. It was just a suggestion, anyway. Do you want to call him Rex, instead?”

Daddy shook his head. “Already had a Rex. This one…” The pup’s shining eyes peered over the rim of the basket, his white ear hitched slightly higher than the brown one. “He’s no Rex.”

Uncle Prime leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. “How’d you come to choose the name Rex for your shepherd dog, Claude?”

Daddy sat quiet for a bit, long enough that Jennie wondered if he’d drifted away somewhere again. Then he sucked in a breath, as if gathering fortitude. “I’d read somewhere—don’t rightly recall where—that the name Rex means ‘king.’ Even when Rex was a puppy, he had a regal bearing. Remember, Etta?”

Mama chuckled softly, her eyes holding a sheen of moisture. “Oh, yes, I do. He pranced around as if he owned the world.”

Daddy pointed at the puppy. “Nothing like that little scaredy-cat.”

Uncle Prime peered into the basket, his lips quirking into a wry grin. “I agree this dog is more like the storybook character Oliver Twist than any king. What do you expect? He got plucked up out of a lonely, stinky alley. But now he’s in a place where he’ll be treated well.” He snickered. “Since Oliver Twist and the puppy are both rags-to-riches situations, maybe you should stick with the name Ollie.”

Daddy shook his head. “Not Ollie. We’ll call him”—he turned a side-eyed peek at Jennie—“Rags.”