“We drew the cross window at church,” Daniel says. “It’s yellow cuz the sun is shining through it.”
“Gracie, what’s those green things you’re makin’? Green eggs?” Benji asks, his mouth full and a splash of juice on his chin.
“I know what they are!” Daniel says. “Green eggs and ham, like in the book.”
Grace shakes her head and continues to make circles with a fat green crayon, first stretching her arm in front of Saffee on one side, and then in front of Daniel and Grandpa Nels on the other, so as to rim the table edge. Coming to the extent of her reach, she jumps up to color the paper in front of Jack.
“Okay, finished!” Gracie says when she has encircled the entire table, obviously enjoying that she has puzzled the others. “Give up?”
“I think you drawed a necklace, Gracie,” Grandpa Nels says.
“No-o-pe.”
“It’s a train!” exudes Benji.
“No-o-pe.”
“We give up. Tell us, Grace,” Jack says.
“Olives!” Grace sings out in triumph.
“Olives? Don’tcha know olives are black?” says her big brother.
“Not mine! Cuz mine are still growing!”
Smugly, Grace waves her crayon in the direction of the framed calligraphy that Saffee penned for the wall—the ancient blessing that Leif Bergstrom had translated, the words Saffee’s great-grandfather had burned into the wood under the table almost one hundred years ago.
“I made lots of green olives around our table, just like Mommy’s picture says!”
Saffee is more pleased than Grace could know. She looks at Jack; he winks back. Saffee has read the words to her children, telling them it means they are a special promise from God.
“Why don’t you read it to us, Gracie?” Saffee says.
Grace pushes her chair to the wall and stands on it for a better view, and also, Saffee suspects, for effect, reminiscent of her theatrical Aunt April.
Grace reads:
Your wife . . .
“That’s Mommy, Benji,” she informs him.
. . . shall be like a fruitful vine
in the very heart of your house.
Your children . . .
Grace expansively gestures toward her brothers. “And that’s us!”
. . . like olive plants around your table.
Psalm 128
1976
She sleeps in earth’s darkness . . .
“Joann, My beloved, Joann, My Joy!”
. . . and awakens to brilliant Light.
Jesus takes her hand. “Come, My Joy. Come to My banqueting table.”
The unread morning paper rests on Nels’s lap as he sits in his recliner. From the kitchen, Saffee watches her father, wanting to share new happiness with him, waiting for the right moment. Although he is looking in the direction of Benjamin who is revving matchbox cars over and under sofa pillows, she suspects he is lost in sadness and sees nothing. Skye sleeps on the floor beside him. Nels’s right arm extends downward, his hand slowly strokes the dog’s black fur. Saffee suspects that her father has been thinking about what might have been and wondering why.
The midnight call from the nursing home came two weeks ago. Nels’s vigil by his wife’s side was over. Regarding her father’s long devotion, “Love me for my imperfections” is an adage that Saffee has replaced with another:
People are not perfect—until you fall in love with them.
The funeral was small. Attending were Nels, Saffee’s family, April and her husband, and two caregivers from the nursing home. Also, out of respect for Saffee and Jack, Gail and Bill and a few people from church were there. When it was over, Saffee and April fell into each other’s arms.
“I think we’ll always have a part of Mother tugging at us,” April said.
“That’s right,” Saffee agreed, “the best part.”
Since April returned from Europe, still her perky self, but more worldly-wise, she and Saffee have become best of friends.
“Want to join me for a cup of tea, Dad?”
He snaps out of his reflection and takes on his usual lighthearted voice. “Nah . . . you know I don’t drink that stuff. Tea’s for womenfolk. I had my coffee.”
“I knew you were going to say that.” Saffee draws up a chair beside him. “It’s been a sad time, hasn’t it? I can see it in your face today.” He nods in agreement.
“Tell me something, Saffee.” He interrupts himself to search through his pants pockets for a handkerchief. “Here it is.” He doesn’t use it, just holds it at the ready and continues, “Tell me”—another pause—“tell me why you think your mother had to go through so much hell.”
“Oh, Daddy. I don’t know. But, Daddy”—she covers his hand with hers—“I want to tell you about a wonderful dream I had about her last night.”