From the Improvement Era, December 1935 –

“Fer Onct”

By Dorothy Clapp Robinson

With a vast sigh of relief Susie jerked the mailbox open. Empty? Empty! It just couldn’t be. Why, this was the last mail day. In swift, desperate panic her eyes searched the ground about the mailbox. There was not a trace of a package, or a letter even.

Maybe the mailman was late. Maybe he hadn’t come. The heavy laboring of her heart changed to a hopeful staccato. With intense care she scrutinized the road. Two brazen paralleling lines of brown cut the light snow skiff. They had been made today, not an hour ago – — but who said the mailman made them? Mother had never failed her before, so, of course, it couldn’t be the mailman’s tracks. She would sit down on a rock and wait.

The air was biting, and Susie drew her shabby coat close about her. She knocked her shoes, with their thin soles, together. Coonrod’s mailbox was a mile farther up the draw; she might as well walk up there while she was waiting. That would make twelve miles by the time she got home, unless she climbed the hill; but anything was better than waiting. It was warmer walking, too.

The road turned and twisted up a narrow ravine whose stream bed was stony and dry. Snow, like a puff of cotton, capped each rock and boulder; and the stark serviceberry and choke-cherry bushes had gathered about their roots a protecting blanket of white.

Around a bend she came upon a wild rose bush still flaming with bright scarlet berries. She stopped long enough to fill both coat pockets. They would look pretty on a Christmas tree. Helen had always liked them. The wind sweeping down the draw struck suddenly at her body and she shivered with the cold: a terrible, terrible cold that went deep into the roots of her being. Soon now, oh, so soon, they would put Helen into this harsh, pitiless ground where icy wind and flying snow would keep vigil over her. Precious little Helen, who loved flowers and bright summery skies; — and— and there just had to be a Christmas package.

Before she reached the mailbox Susie was lifting each foot and putting it down with leaden precision. Beside the post leaned a huge box generously plastered with gay stickers. Maybe the mailman had made a mistake. With hands shaking so she could scarcely use them she turned the box and read the address. Of course! Numbly she opened the mailbox and looked at the stack of letters and cards. No mistake there either.

She had been a fool. She had known all the time. Nothing came to them — all this to Coonrod’s, nothing to them. She put a cold hand to her head to ease its throbbing. She might have overlooked a letter at her own box — she had been so concerned about the package.

Slowly she made her way back down the road. As she passed the rose bush she turned her eyes. There was no letter; and in sudden fury Susie gave the post a hard kick. It was old and insecurely set, and under the impact it toppled over. She sat down on it. Maybe if she waited a few minutes that heaviness within her would lighten.

She looked at the tin mailbox now bent and out of shape. It didn’t matter. There was never any mail for them. She didn’t want any more mail. She hoped she never heard from anyone again. If a letter came she’d return it unopened. If Helen’s last Christmas couldn’t be happy nothing would matter again — ever.

The family were at the table busily eating bread and milk when she reached home. Her husband, after one look at her face, dropped his eyes to his bowl. The boys with one voice demanded to know why she hadn’t let them go for the mail. When they were in bed and she was setting sponge her husband looked up.

“Well?”

Tears, long denied sprang to her eyes. For a minute she beat the dough savagely.

“What’ll we do?” he asked.

“There’s only one thing to do.”

Rising he went to the door and opened it.

“It’s goin’ to storm.”

“I know it.”

He closed the door and went into the cabin’s second room. When he came back he had heavy leggings, and overshoes, a sheepskin coat and fur cap. As he pulled them on he said:

“I ain’t got no money.”

Standing on the baby’s high chair she reached to the top of her cupboard and from under a pile of old papers brought down a condensed-milk can. There was just one slit in the top. With the can opener she cut away part of the lid and poured its contents on the oilcloth. The man’s eye widened.

“How in — ”

“Ever since we knew — since the Doctor said — I — I wanted her beautiful fer onct. I knew if I didn’t save it, it’d be the same old story.”

The man took a paper dollar from the scant pile of small change. He put it in his pocket.

“This’ll do.”

At the door he paused. “You’ll hav’ta keep the cows kinda close until we find out what this storm’s goin’ to be. Have the boys put the pigs in the end a’ the barn whur I made the pa’tition; an’ whatever you do, have ’em put all the wood that’s chopped in the shed.”

She nodded, then asked: “Don’t you want the lantern?”

“I could use it, but you might need it worse. Well, guess I’ll be goin’.” But he lingered in the open doorway.

Susie brought an old quilt made from pieces of overalls.

“Take this to put over your legs; and Jim — ” she came close, “Do be careful. You’re apt to get caught in a bad storm.”

“I’ll be a’right,” he answered. “I bin in storms b’fore. I’ll take the bobs as fur as Jolly’s so’s I’ll have ’em comin’ back if it snows.”

“I’ll help you hook up,” she volunteered.

“I reckon you better git in bed. You’ll have more work with me gone.”

Half timidly she raised her face. He bent and placed an awkward kiss on her lips. One moment he held her close then went out into a night that was warming perceptibly. Presently she heard the crunching of wagon wheels as he went through the gate. With good luck he would be home tomorrow evening. That dollar wouldn’t buy much but it would be something.

When Susie awoke next morning the ground was white and huge soft flakes were drifting lazily about. She built the fire hurriedly, then went to the boys’ bed.

“Boys,” she cried softly, shaking them, “pile out of here. It’s snowin’ and there’s lots to do. Come now. Don’t you dare to go back to sleep.”

With many grunts and whines the boys tumbled sleepily into the kitchen and dressed by the fire.

“What you gettin’ us up so early fer?” Joe demanded.

“That wood’s got to be put in the shed before the snow covers it — an’ them pigs have to be put under shelter. Besides, Young Man, if you go to growling Santa Claus won’t bring you anything.”

“Heck. He won’t anyway. He never does —.”

She turned upon the complainer sharply.

“Has he ever forgot you yet?”

“Well, he—.”

“Has he?”

“Gramma ain’t. It’s her thet sends it — .”

“Yes, an’ you make the cookies,” put in Ben.

“What’s the difference as long as you get ’em. I’m goin’ to milk now. You be careful throwin’ the wood in the shed so’s you don’t wake Helen or the baby.” .By noon the flakes were driving with a force that bespoke unlimited reserves. Susie and the boys scurried about, heads bent to the wind, doing the thousand and one jobs that must be attended to before the winter close-up.

By four o’clock the large flakes had changed to hard, stinging pellets. She did her evening chores early; even then she could scarcely see the outlines of the house from the barn. She did hope Jim would get there before dark.

Dark came early and no signs of him. As soon as the children were in bed she examined her sugar sack. She could spare enough to make some cookies and one batch of taffy, she thought. As she worked, the wind tore about the little house shrieking its defiance and maliciously piling snow against the window panes. It didn’t matter; she couldn’t see out anyway. As she put her last pan of cookies in the oven, the wind, that had died down for an instant, came creeping back with a high, rising moan. From somewhere in the coulee above a coyote threw down a faint, wailing protest.

Susie shuddered, afraid; coyotes are way; but she was shelter and plenty Jim would only come — whatever could be keeping him? He should have reached town by daylight. It wouldn’t take him half an hour in town after the stores were open. Even with the storm he should home by this time, darning needle she with twine and restlessly began stringing roseberries. She had trouble stringing her popcorn and angrily promised herself she’d raise a decent kind next year. After Jim reached Jolly’s he’d have the bobs — a good thing for the wagon would never make it. There now, she was all through except putting the things on the tree. It was just a mile from Jolly’s but that flat was deceiving — a crazy flat, that stretched miles to the east. In this storm he might go straight on.

A whimper from the bedroom caught her sharp ears. In an instant she was beside Helen’s bed. There was a pallor on the little cheeks that even the sickly oil lamp could in no way account for. In sudden panic she set the lamp on a chair and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Her accustomed eyes caught the faint fluttering of the pulse in the little throat. She knelt, breath suspended, watching, watching — a long, long minute, then the fluttering became more regular, the breathing easier. The child presently opened her eyes.

“Mama.”

“Yes, darling,” bending her head to catch the faint sound.

“I dreamed Santa Claus came and brought me a doll with real hair. He was dressed — in white — an’ — had wings with spangles on ’em.”

“No, no, darling! not with wings, not with wings.”

“I didn’t hear you, Mama.”

“Go — to sleep. That’s — that’s a good girl. Santa will come with your doll.”

When the breathing was normal she went to the boys’ bed. They were both awake.

“Has Santa come yet?” Ben asked, sniffling inquisitively.

“No, an’ he won’t if you don’t go to sleep.”

The youngster buried his head in the bedclothes.

“Ma, is Helen bad?” Joe asked anxiously. Susie swallowed hard.

“She’s restless. I wish you’d get into my bed so you can watch her.”

The boy slipped out of his bed and patted across the cold floor. He snuggled in beside Baby but turned his face toward his sister’s crib. Susie tucked them in.

“I’ll leave the light,” she whispered, “An’ if she changes call me.

Turning the light low she placed it on the bureau and tip-toed out.

A glance at the clock showed the small hand at eleven. Would he never come? She went to the door and opened it. A mad flurry of snowflakes struck her face and the wind whistling past put her lamp out. It took all her strength to close the door. She didn’t light the lamp but stood watching the glow from the stove.

What could she do — what could she do? If he would only have sense enough to stay at Jolly’s — but he wouldn’t. If he got that far nothing would keep him back. Peeping into the bedroom first to be sure all was well, she slipped into some overalls and put on a coat. Opening the door she slipped through and closed it behind her. For a moment she pressed hard against it, struggling to stand. Then clutching the wall for support she felt her way to the corner of the house. As she stepped from its shelter the wind struck, tooth and nail, cutting her face with its sharp, blinding icicles and driving them ruthlessly up her sleeves and under her collar. Remembrances of other such storms paralyzed her reason. Panic leapt suddenly and overwhelmed her. Out there, somewhere on that moaning flat was Jim — and Helen’s doll. She must go meet him, find him, do something. If she rode Nell maybe she could find him. The stable was only a little way. Turning she started toward it. With her coat for a canvas the wind made short work of the distance. There — the stable — was — somewhere — here.

Out of the blackness hands suddenly clutched at her coat. She jerked back with a terrifying scream that muffled out in embarrassment. A woman her age, and screaming over the pasture fence; but, that meant she had missed the corral entirely. Holding to the wire for support she tried to think. If she couldn’t keep her bearings for two hundred yards what could she do on the flat? There was no use trying. She must think of something else.

She turned into the face of the storm and with a grim prayer for help fought her way step by step back up the slope. She hoped she was going in the right direction but wasn’t sure of it. Every two or three steps she turned her back to the wind to ease her breathing. Distances are greater in a storm but surely the house should be — near. Then way to the right she saw light from an open doorway. Dimly it called to her through the madly driving flakes. When she reached it Joe was standing there, white-faced and shivering.

“Is Helen — .”

“She ain’t no worse,” he stammered, teeth chattering with cold, “but I was scared — I heard you go out — ,” but she was reaching for the match box.

“I got an idee;” she cried feverishly. “I got an idee. You stay here an’ watch Helen.”

“Whur you goin?” he whimpered. “You can’t go out — it’s too black —.”

“I’m goin’ to set fire to that there old chicken house — .”

“But, Ma, you can’t. Dad’ll be sore. All his new fence posts are in there.”

“That’s the reason — that open door give me an idee.”

“It won’t burn in this storm.”

“Maybe not, but I’m tryin’ it. I’m going crazy doin’ nothin.’ As she talked she had lighted the lantern and taken from back of the door a coal oil can.

“Push the door to after me;” she told Joe breathlessly, “an’ watch Helen and keep the fire goin’.”

She made her way to a small dilapidated shed where were stored some quaken asp posts cut for fencing. It was only a few rods from the house, but, she remembered, the wind was right. Against the shed was a pile of small branches and trimmings from the posts. Groping her way inside she found the shed quite dry; the trimmings had sheltered it.

Aided by the faint glow from the lantern she gathered some dry chips and piled them against the posts. On the chips she laid sticks of wood. Then opening her oil can she saturated her pile. After repeated efforts with matches she got a flare that caught the oil soaked wood. The draft fanned it to a blaze. Carefully she twisted a dozen posts so their one end was in the fire. Over the whole she flung more oil. More quickly than she had dared hope the place was in flames and she had to retreat. Vaguely outlined against its uncertain glare she watched and waited. Her fingers were stiff with cold, her feet and legs had long since lost all feeling. The wind whipped and tore at her shabby coat. Her breath, rasping in her throat, rose and fell spasmodically.

If the storm didn’t put the fire out — if Jim wasn’t already down — if the glow could be seen through this storm curtain — if it would burn long enough — oh, dear God, if — .

Pushing back to the door she stood with her back to it and watched the blaze mount slowly, slowly, hesitatingly, and then enthusiastically. The posts meant Jim’s every spare minute for the entire summer and fall. Sheep would ruin the crop again — it couldn’t be helped — it didn’t matter — nothing mattered except that point of light — and a doll with real hair. He should come now — he must come now, while the flame is its brightest. If he didn’t — if the snow put the fire out too soon — it couldn’t! It must find him; but things didn’t usually turn that way for them. This time the breaks had to be with them. Joe, who had come out and was watching with his hand in hers writhed under the grip of her fingers.

“Git to bed,” she told him hoarsely.

“I’ll watch with you.”

Now the wall of the shed was gone. The pile of trimmings were catching; they were burning — no, the snow on them was putting the fire out. Snatching the broom she rushed out with a wild idea of sweeping the snow away. It was too icy, too deep. With the broom handle she tried to stir the fire, she tried to pry up half burned posts and branches. She blew lustily as if to fan the embers. The wind gleefully, maliciously snatched her puny effort and hurdled it into nothingness across the flat; then with damp finality smothered her fire.

“Ma,” from the doorway. No answer.

“Ma, you can’t do any more. Come in. Please come in, Ma. I’m freezing.”

She stood, rooted to the spot; the cold creeping up and up over her numb feet, through her limbs to her tired, helpless will.

“Mother,” the boy was weeping wildly. “Come on in. Come in — you’ve done all you can.” He stumbled toward her whimpering with fear at this vision of agonized defeat. Even as he put out his hand to touch her she poised, electrified. One spring and she was around the fire facing the inky blankness. Then Joe heard it, a faint, uncertain “hoo-oo.” He rushed inside and dropping by the stove sobbed brokenly, “He’s come — he’s come.”

Loudly, persistently Susie’s guiding cry went tearing through the storm. Faintly, persistently, more loudly, more closely the answer came. Threshing heavily the man emerged from the night. Joe opened the door for them. The man dropped exhausted to a chair while she swept some of the hard crust from his boots and overalls. Joe took the bundle from his nerveless fingers and laid it gingerly on the table. Then Susie turned to him. “You can go to bed now.”

Thrilled with the warmth and thankfulness of her voice Joe scampered back to her bed. When the bedroom door had closed the man raised his gaunt head.

“I smelled the smoke even ‘fore I saw the light. I wusn’t fur away but guess I’d been goin’ in circles.

I left the team to Jolly’s, I knew they’d never make it.”

“Did you — why didn’t you stay there?”

“Well,” slowly, “I knowed you’d be waitin’.”

Her fingers were fumbling with the frozen knot in the flour sack. She drew forth a package stamped, addressed, plastered with labels.

“Why, it’s—.”

“Yeh. It’s from your Ma. I went to the post office the first thing and the parcel wus there, I tore a hole in one end to make sure about the doll. Mrs. Jolly give me the sack to carry it in.” He fished in an inner pocket and drew forth a paper dollar. “Here’s yer money; an’ give me somethin’ to eat. I ain’t had a bite since I left here.”

But Susie did not hear him. Her eyes were devouring the gorgeous vision she’d taken from the package. Not in all her dreams had she visioned anything so beautiful. Her voice thickened with throaty sobs.

“Fer onct;” she whispered brokenly, “she can have jest what she wants. Fer onct!”