Jinny knobbed her fingers, cautiously opened the bedroom door, and scooped up her sleepy little sister, who had turned to watch Conor. He stood in the bathroom, soaking wet and naked as a J-bird, drying with a towel.
“CONOR!?” He briskly closed the door. Jinny kissed Isabelle on the forehead then twirled round and round—her imitation of the Flying Dutchman at the Dickinson County Fair. Isabelle arched her back and warbled, “Put me down, put me down.” They crash-landed on the bed.
Isabelle giggled. “Jinny, I’ll pretend I’m Snow White and go to sleep. Tomorrow, you can be my prince and kiss me to wake up. No wait, you be Happy, and Conor, you can be Grumpy.”
Conor stood ten feet away, his mouth full of toothbrush, wrapped in a towel. He growled, “Can’t you get it through your head? The prince is dead.” The laughing stopped. Jinny instinctively pulled Isabelle into her arms. “By the way, Jinny, I haven’t seen your mangy dog Toto, today. Did he drown, too? No, wait, wait. Right state, wrong movie. Right?”
“Conor, how dare you?” For Isabelle’s sake, Jinny sifted, stirred, and sweetened the rest of her reply: “Well you see, Auntie Em, after I read that book five years ago, Toto wagged his tail goodbye, barked goodbye, climbed back into chapter one, and fell asleep. Maybe you should, too.” She piggy-backed Isabelle from the bed, whinnied, and galloped from the room. “Close my door, please.”
Toothpaste frothed from Tyler’s lips. He chased his sisters like a mad dog into the dining room, slid into the table, and sent puzzle pieces flying. “Oops.” He put both hands to his mouth and feigned alarm.
Lance was indignant. His jaw dropped; he stood and stomped from the room wailing, “Conor! How could you? We were almost done.”
Gemma erupted. “Conor Caleb O’Dwyer, you are done. I’ve had it with you.” She rolled back her wheeled chair, extended her lower lip, and blew a stream of air to her forehead. “When you marry, I hope you have a son just like you. It’ll serve you right!” Wrong. Neither Gemma nor Conor knew how tragically his life would end.
“What do you mean? It was an accident. Sheesh!” Conor groaned and pushed his palms against the sides of his head as if he were trying to mediate a migraine or squash a sour grape. “Okay, okay, I get it!” He slapped the table, stormed out of the kitchen, exited the screened back porch, and slammed the door behind him, leaving Gemma to pick up the pieces. Isabelle cried. Jinny consoled.
Caleb—who rarely raised his voice except to cough, or sneeze, or sing in the shower—heard the commotion and ducked out the front door. He trudged around back hoping to intercept his firstborn and offer a listening ear. Caleb was good at listening. Conor yelled. He was good at yelling. His words were incoherent to those in the house; then for the first and last time in his life he pushed and watched his father tumble to the ground. Shrieking, Conor bolted into the barn and climbed into the loft.
Caleb wasn’t injured. He calmly rolled to his knees, pushed from the frozen ground, and brushed mud from his pajamas. “Well, my boy, at least I know where you are . . . and how we all feel. Chilly.”Caleb calmed his heartache with a shallow smile, drew a halting breath, and stepped inside to join his family at the table where Jinny paper-toweled the dirt from his knees.
“Papa, I don’t like what’s happening. Conor and I are drifting apart.”
“Then paddle back and drop anchor next to him; pray for him; love him; give him some space to think things through. Right now, he’s a needle trying to find himself in a haystack.” Caleb’s response spoke volumes. About Caleb.
Gemma regretted her own frustrated outburst. She removed her wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I’m ready for bed. I hope Conor comes in after his temper defrosts . . . and before he freezes to death. Leave the back door unlocked.”
“Mama, before you go, let’s kneel and pray for the Corkers. Isabelle, come to Papa, darlin’.” With his little girl nestled in his arms and Jinny snuggled up next to him, Caleb gently touched his burly index finger to Isabelle’s trembling lips, pushed back her blonde curls, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Hush now, my baby girl, and I will tell you of two miracles :One happened at the canal; the other at the old sycamore tree in the front yard.”
Wrinkling her brow, Gemma straightened her arthritic back and fastened eyes on her husband’s sober face. “I thought we were about to have family prayer. It’s a little late for a sermon, don’t you think? What miracles are you talking about? Start over and speak English.”
“Life, my dears, is a puzzle; but unlike you, most folks don’t keep looking at the picture pasted on the box. That’s where God comes in.”
“Don’t over complicate the message. You’re trying to say our religion reveals the big picture.”
“Right, Mama, but the Lord does the revealing. Our job is to patiently assemble the puzzling pieces of life together, one at a time. If we keep the bigger picture in mind, and if we do our darndest to keep His commandments, eventually we’ll understand His plan. Caleb extended his cupped hand toward the partially completed landscape on the table and asked, “Gemma, please hand me two pieces.”
Lance returned to the warm room and quipped, “Pieces? Do we get pie tonight? Count me in, Mama.” Jinny laughed.
Caleb held up a single puzzle piece and asked, “Gemma, what’s the best way to describe this?”
“I believe it’s called a puzzle piece dear, and its nearly bedtime. Everyone’s elbows are on the table, our funny bones are too tired to be funny, and Isabelle is falling asleep.”
“Yes, yes, thanks, Mama. So here is miracle number one: Last night I was drowning in the canal. A warm hand reached down and took hold of my wrist. I felt a pulse. Somebody pulled me free of the rolling truck and over to the curb. My life was spared. Did you see anything Jinny?”
“Oh my gosh, no Papa.” Caleb inserted the small, light blue, multi-edged cardboard into the puzzle. It fit. He held up the second piece and said, “Our old sycamore tree stopped a car tire— wheel and all—from crashing through the window and killing Jinny at the sink.” He laid the second piece in place. It fit. “The day of miracles has not ceased. When you speak of such things, be reverent.” But for the sound of the grandfather clock, the room fell silent. Caleb choked down a dozen tears and steadied Isabelle’s sleepy, curly head against his shoulder.
After a nod from Gemma—who was about to impersonate a soldier playing taps— the back door swung open and then closed. Jinny turned to watch Conor step inside, remove his boots, walk slowly into the room, and sit down. “Papa, I’m sorry I shoved you. It won’t happen again, I hope.” He buried his face in his hands while the family savored a moment of symbiotic silence. Jinny’s eyes teared up.
Caleb bowed his head and Gemma, discerning a rare teaching moment, perked up. “Because I know you are all very bright, even at night,” she smiled and continued, “I have a simple arithmetic question for you.”
Caleb looked up in disbelief. “Huh?”
Gemma winked and, as she gazed into each child’s eyes, repeated the question, “One plus one, what do they equal?” Lance knew but tried to be funny.
“Three.”
“No, but nice try.” Caleb added his elbows to those collected on the table and slumped forward, hoping Gemma would get the hint. She directed the question to Jinny, who was lost in thought. “Jinny, one plus one, what do they equal?”
Jinny shrugged. “If it isn’t two, I have no idea.”
“Well then, here comes a clue.”
After kissing Caleb’s leathery cheek, Gemma put her work-worn left hand on his and gently squeezed. “Did you see it? Did you see the clue?”
Surprising everyone, Conor wiped his nose with his arm, looked across the table, and answered, “Curly’s parents are divorcing. But you and Papa? No way. One plus one equals one. Your heart plus Papa’s heart.”
Gemma brightened. “Very good.” Conor smiled, warming everyone except Isabelle.
Jinny whispered, “Conor’s answer and the Savior’s plea in John 17 are the same. Be one. Right, Papa?” Immersed in Isabelle’s sleeping hug, Caleb held up thumb and nodded.
As unpredictable as the weather, Gemma felt an adrenaline surge, caught a wave, and paddled her wheel-driven secretary’s chair from the dining room through the archway and into the kitchen. She dropped anchor next to everyone’s favorite door—the old Kelvinator, of course—and elicited grins from those along the shore. Her eyes darted up and down the fridge until they located the quote of the month, pinned alongside a flower-petal circle of school photos and an outdated calendar.
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. [Marcel Proust].” Gemma paddled back and docked at her slip. Had Isabelle been awake, she’d have splashed giggles around the room. Marina, the family cat, meowed and ran under Jinny’s chair.
“Time for prayer, then everyone off to bed.” As they turned and pushed chair-backs against the table, Jinny’s gaze met George Washington’s. He stood tall but looked cold on the fading print, purchased on sale at Woolworths. The Delaware was jammed with ice and the wind blew, but no one kneeling complained. Jinny closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on Lance’s prayer, but, like Washington’s barge, it was difficult for a dreamer not to drift.
Lance—still chafing at not having been invited to Caley Colley’s all-girl birthday party—concluded his prayer with, “Please bless the Corkers and help everybody know that life isn’t fair.”
Before standing, heads turned to the side, yawned in tandem, and inhaled like a swim team warming down. As they surfaced above the table, Gemma kissed each one. “If you choose the right, your minds and hearts will find safe harbor, unless you pull up anchor and let yourselves drift out to sea. Now brush your teeth and paddle off to bed.” Conor already had.
Once in their shared bedroom, Jinny shouldered the door shut, shuffled her precious cargo to the four-poster, and tucked Isabelle beneath the comforter. Eyes still closed, she whispered, “Thank you, Mama.”
Jinny trailed her congenital compass to an unlatched window. After locking it down, she touched her nose to the cold glass. “That was stupid.” Her warm breath fogged the window. She rubbed it clear, squinted at the truculent tundra, and longed for summer’s arrhythmic serenade of fiddling crickets and half a thousand fireflies flitting about like fledgling tinker-bells. But even her vivid imagination couldn’t hatch such a scene.
Cold knees hobnobbed on the hardwood floor and kept Jinny alert. “Heavenly Father, please anchor me, my parents, brothers, and little sister for another night in a safe harbor.” Taking care to leave Isabelle undisturbed, she slipped between the sheets and snugged beneath three layers of soft reassurance. Chocolate brown eyes shuttered shut. Jinny’s dreams, grey and white-shaded mottled memories, exposed General Washington’s rag-tag army–shivering courage—the wide Delaware—polled barges—dry powder—the fall of Trenton—the victory won. Jinny felt warm and cold at the same time. The warmth—patriotism’s flickering flame; the cold—New Jersey and Kansas in the dead of winter.