Sarah, Plain and Tall

Chapter 1

“Did Mama sing every day?” asked Caleb. “Every-single-day?” He sat close to the fire, his chin in his hand. It was dusk, and the dogs lay beside him on the warm hearth stones.

“Every-single-day,” I told him for the second time this week. For the twentieth time this month. The hundredth time this year? And the past few years?

“And did Papa sing, too?”

“Yes. Papa sang, too. Don’t get so close, Caleb. You’ll heat up.”

He pushed his chair back. It made a hollow scraping sound on the hearthstones, and the dogs stirred. Lottie, small and black, wagged her tail and lifted her head. Nick slept on.

I turned the bread dough over and over on the marble slab on the kitchen table.

“Well, Papa doesn’t sing anymore,” said Caleb very softly. A log broke apart and crackled in the fireplace. He looked up at me. “What did I look like when I was born?”

“You didn’t have any clothes on,” I told him.

“I know that,” he said.

“You looked like this.” I held the bread dough up in a round pale ball.

“I had hair,” said Caleb seriously.

“Not enough to talk about,” I said.

“And she named me Caleb,” he went on, filling in the old familiar story.

“I would have named you Troublesome,” I said, making Caleb smile.

“And Mama handed me to you in the yellow blanket and said . . .” He waited for me to finish the story. “And said… ?”

I sighed. “And Mama said, ‘Isn’t he beautiful, Anna?”

“And I was,” Caleb finished.

Caleb thought the story was over, and I didn’t tell him what I had really thought. He was homely and plain, and he had a terrible holler and a horrid smell. But these were not the worst of him. Mama died the next morning. That was the worst thing about Caleb.

“Isn’t he beautiful, Anna?” Her last words to me. I had gone to bed thinking how wretched he looked. And I forgot to say good night.

I wiped my hands on my apron and went to the window. Outside, the prairie reached out and touched the places where the sky came down. Though winter was nearly over, there were patches of snow and ice every where. I looked at the long dirt road that crawled across the plains, remembering the morning that Mama had died, cruel and sunny. They had come for her in a wagon and taken her away to be buried. And then the cousins and aunts and uncles had come and tried to fill up the house. But they couldn’t.

Slowly, one by one, they left. And then the days seemed long and dark like winter days, even though it wasn’t winter. And Papa didn’t sing.

Isn’t he beautiful, Anna?

No, Mama.

It was hard to think of Caleb as beautiful. It took three whole days for me to love him, sitting in the chair by the fire, Papa washing up the supper dishes, Caleb’s tiny hand brushing my cheek. And a smile. It was the smile, I know.

“Can you remember her songs?” asked Caleb. “Mama’s songs?”

I turned from the window. “No. Only that she sang about flowers and birds. Sometimes about the moon at nighttime.”

Caleb reached down and touched Lottie’s head.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice low, “if you remember the songs, then I might remember her, too.”

My eyes widened and tears came. Then the door opened and wind blew in with Papa, and I went to stir the stew. Papa put his arms around me and put his nose in my hair. he said.

“Nice soapy smell, that stew,”

I laughed. “That’s my hair.” Caleb came over and threw his arms around Papa’s neck and hung down as Papa swung him back and forth, and the dogs sat up.

“Cold in town,” said Papa. “And Jack was feisty.” Jack was Papa’s horse that he’d raised from a colt. “Rascal,” murmured Papa, smiling, because no matter what Jack did Papa loved him.

I spooned up the stew and lighted the oil lamp and we ate with the dogs crowding under the table, hoping for spills or hand outs.

Papa might not have told us about Sarah that night if Caleb hadn’t asked him the question. After the dishes were cleared and washed and Papa was filling the tin pail with ashes, Caleb spoke up. It wasn’t a question, really.

“You don’t sing anymore,” he said. He said it harshly. Not because he meant to, but because he had been thinking of it for so long. “Why?” he asked more gently.

Slowly Papa straightened up. There was a long silence, and the dogs looked up, wondering at it.

“I’ve forgotten the old songs,” said Papa quietly. He sat down. “But maybe there’s a way to remember them.” He looked up at us.

“How?” asked Caleb eagerly.

Papa leaned back in the chair. “I’ve placed an advertisement in the newspapers. For help.”

“You mean a housekeeper?” I asked, surprised.

Caleb and I looked at each other and burst out laughing, remembering Hilly, our old housekeeper. She was round and slow and shuffling. She snored in a high whistle at night, like a teakettle, and let the fire go out.

“No,” said Papa slowly. “Not a house keeper.” He paused. “A wife.”

Caleb stared at Papa. “A wife? You mean a mother?”
Nick slid his face onto Papa’s lap and Papa stroked his ears.

“That, too,” said Papa. “Like Maggie.”

Matthew, our neighbor to the south, had written to ask for a wife and mother for his children. And Maggie had come from Tennessee. Her hair was the color of turnips and she laughed.

Papa reached into his pocket and unfolded a letter written on white paper. “And I have received an answer.” Papa read to us:

“Dear Mr. Jacob Witting,
I am Sarah Wheaton from Maine as you will see from my letter. I am answering your advertisement. I have never been married, though I have been asked. I have lived with an older brother, William, who is about to be married. His wife-to-be is young and energetic.
I have always loved to live by the sea, but at this time I feel a move is necessary. And the truth is, the sea is as far east as I can go. My choice, as you can see, is limited. This should not be taken as an insult. I am strong and I work hard and I am willing to travel. But I am not mild mannered. If you should still care to write, I would be interested in your children and about where you live. And you.
Very truly yours,
Sarah Elisabeth Wheaton
P.S. Do you have opinions on cats? I have one.”

No one spoke when Papa finished the letter. He kept looking at it in his hands, reading it over to himself. Finally I turned my head a bit to sneak a look at Caleb. He was smiling. I smiled too.

“One thing,” I said in the quiet of the room.

“What’s that?” asked Papa, looking up.

I put my arm around Caleb.

“Ask her if she sings,” I said.