Day by Day

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

She washed her hands with the slippery, wet remainder of the lye soap, as her father and Lettie Firedancer worked to pry the salt pork barrel open. Christmas Eve. It certainly did not feel as magical as it used to, but it felt happier than normal days did.  

Caroline could almost taste the pungent flavor of the meat, and recalled the stringy horsemeat they had partaken of the last five days. They didn't have a tree, but they were going to light the last candle they had for Christmas. She wore her fading green dress, a white apron, and her slippers around in the kitchen. Mimma and Mary were preparing "makeshift" johnny cakes, using maple syrup as a sweetener, and corn as a substitute for flour. She was waiting for the salt pork so she and Lettie could cook that, and put it away to warm up for tomorrow.  

Christmas landed on a Wednesday that year. 

"Oh no," her father said. 

"Idn't that just luck fer ya?"  

She turned, and took a step forward to look into the barrel.  

Maggots.  

Little white, squirming and living and polluting the meat. 

Lucinda saw it, clapped her hand over her mouth, and barely made it from the room.  

Caroline felt the drag of disappointment, gagging as she stepped away from the disgusting sight. She felt the tears prick at her eyes, felt the wanting, and looked at herself, feeling sick and hungry and thin. 

Their Christmas was ruined. Completely and entirely ruined.  

Her mother had said that the Lord provided. And for a minute, He had. But as quick as a vapor in the wind faded to nothing, He seemed to have taken away from them.  

Spiritless, she backed away, leaning against the wall weakly. If things were better, she thought. If only she could have the yesterday she wanted so badly. If only she could have a glimpse of an old Christmas, when things were prosperous and it seemed God was always there.  

Did any of them feel the same way? Oh, she was sick and tired. She had looked for food in the wild and scrimped and she had hoped until she couldn't stand being sick and tired and hungry another minute. Caroline dreaded Orry being gone and dreaded another week of war. It had to end soon. She couldn't understand how God could let the world stand the way it did. But, what she did not know was that He wasn't finished with her yet.  

Then she remembered the root cellar. Perhaps there was something down there. She doubted it, because the Yankees had came and they had seemed to have taken everything. But there was no hurt in looking.  

"Have you checked in the root cellar, Pip?" 

He shook his head, exhaling, his jaw flexing. The white light from the sun reflecting off the snow revealed unshed tears in his eyes. He seemed so strong- like he was Samson. And then- then, Caroline realized her father was a great deal like Samson and she was weak, like Delilah. Not that she had betrayed him. But she was weak and pulled away easily. 

God couldn't want her if she was so weak and spineless. Could He? 

She didn't follow up with a thought, but slid by, and donned her wraps so she could check for a jar or two.  

When she was ready, she went out, and trudged through the seventeen inches of snow and ice to the mound where the root cellar lay beneath inches and inches of white.  

Dropping to her knees in the snow, she dug like a dog would have, working to free the door. It was so bitterly cold that she felt the bite in the layers of her skirts and her wraps, but she pressed on, and hoped despite the fact she did not want to hang onto hope. But she did and she did not have any idea why. 

Mary wondered what her son was doing on Christmas Eve. 

She wondered if he was marching or if he was celebrating. Maybe he was sitting with friends around a small fire, or perhaps he was struggling to keep warm. She wondered if he was fed or if he was hungry.  

She looked around, at Lettie, and she looked at Preacher. Lucinda was sipping a glass of water, over her illness, and holding a damp rag to her head.  

Caroline was still outside, still in the root cellar, looking for a jar the soldiers had hopefully overlooked.  

How tired they all looked. How thin they looked.  

"Since Caro's outside...I thought I'd tell ya all thet this is it." He looked around, honest and trying hard not to worry. "After this, nothin' else...we have nothin' else. Tha four a ya are m'main concern." He looked down at his wife, and smiled as widely as he could. "Things're hard, I know. But we gotta keep faith. We gotta keep our eyes on Jesus...n'not on tha waves comin' up. They can't hurt us." 

She smiled tightly, and felt a dull pain in her forehead. She had had a headache for a day or so, and felt a slight chill. Noting this, she wrapped her shawl more snugly around her shoulders. She didn't feel her best. In fact, she hadn't felt so clammy in years, nor as achy. But she dismissed it as nothing. After all, who would not feel achy and perhaps a little ill if they were cooped up?  

Her shoulders tensed with the tangible uneasiness as she sat down with everyone.  

Lucinda still looked a bit green, her hair seeming to all in listless waves around her sallow face. The weak candlelight shed dark shadows over the small room and the withered faces at the table. For their Christmas dinner, they had a few pieces of bland horse, and unsalted, pasty looking cornpone, with a few dabs of spiced apple butter from the one jar the soldiers had accidentally overlooked. Caroline felt so tired and thin and weary- she knew she made the picture of a skeleton with skin stretched over it.  

And she had always been a fairly willowy girl. But now, she thought, I look like a wispy little twig.  

"Let's be thankful we have this," her mother said, and they all joined hands as Pip lead them in a sincere prayer of thanksgiving. 

And, not knowing what would happen tomorrow or even the next moment, Caroline bowed her head to pray. 

But her heart was not in it.