Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(4)

For three days Bartholomew did not go to the mine. He sat beside his wife repeating prayer after prayer, beseeching God to save her from the fate that had fallen upon so many others. It was Paul who kept a pot of water boiling and brought it to his mama’s bedside hour after hour. It was Paul who cooked the food and fed the toddler who had begun to cling to his leg like a koala bear.

On the fourth morning when Ruth could sit up and sip a lukewarm broth and sassafras tea, Bartholomew returned to the mine. Although Ruth’s temperature went back to normal and she claimed that she felt almost as good as new, the truth was she had become frail and weak. For the remainder of that winter, Paul stayed home from school. Once Bartholomew had gone off to the mine, Paul did the cooking, cleaning, and tending to Jubilee. Ruth told him how to do each task, and he followed her directions so precisely that Bartholomew never thought to question the change.

When the weather finally turned warm Ruth could sit outside and a hint of color gradually returned to her cheeks, but the weakness never left. Her back ached constantly, and at times taking a breath seemed to require more effort than she could muster. Although she did small bits of cooking there was no garden that year and the care of Jubilee, who was not yet two, was left to Paul.

Jubilee learned to call Paul’s name whenever she wanted something. “All,” she’d say, holding out a cup that needed to be filled. She hadn’t yet learned to say the first letter of his name, and that’s when Paul began teaching her.

“Pa…” He said repeatedly. “Pa…” Paul put his lips together, then rounded them open as he pushed the sound out emphasizing the P. “Pha..aul. Now you try it.”

Mimicking what her brother had done, Jubilee scrunched her face, squeezed her mouth closed, then spit out, “All.”

That summer he worked on getting her to say his name but to no avail. He continued to be All. Paul read the same books Ruth had read to him and the words came quickly to Jubilee, but the sound of a P was never there. “All, leese lay wif me,” she’d say.

“You mean, ‘Paul, please play with me’?” he’d ask tolerantly. Then he’d stop what he was doing and follow along to see what she had in mind.



On the second Tuesday of September Paul did not return to school when the other children did. The week prior Ruth had collapsed on the kitchen floor as she stood there trying to slice apples for a pie. “Mama!” he’d screamed, then lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bedroom. By that time Ruth was thin as a skeleton, and her bones were lighter than those of a sparrow.

“Please don’t tell your daddy,” she begged Paul. “He’s already got enough worry.”

“But, Mama,” Paul argued, “maybe Doctor Hawkins can—”

“There’s nothing.” Ruth grimaced, remembering the blood-stained hankie she had tucked in the pocket of her apron.

That evening Paul told his daddy what had happened.

“Is that the honest truth?” Bartholomew asked. “Because your mama don’t look sick.”

“It’s just pretend, Daddy. That’s all. Mama puts pink stuff on her face so you won’t know. But when she coughs, blood comes out of her mouth.”

“Lord God,” Bartholomew said with a moan as he dropped down into a chair. “How long has this—?”

“A long time,” Paul answered tearfully. “A real long time.”





And Thus It Happened…



Ruth died of tuberculosis in early December. The hard part of winter that crusted the mountain with layers of ice and snow came early that year, and with it came the heartache of reality. On the day Bartholomew returned from work to find Ruth gone, he howled with such heartache that it shook the mountain. It was said that men working the night shift deep in the belly of the mine felt the earth tremble beneath their feet.

Paul was the one who explained the situation to Jubilee. Although the two-year-old girl’s eyes often grew teary and saddened, she was too young to accept that gone meant gone forever. For months afterward Jubilee would speak of Ruth as if she’d be back momentarily.

“Where’s Mama?” she’d ask, then look around with a puzzled expression.

“Mama died,” Paul would explain patiently. “She’s gone to heaven.”

“Oh. Okay,” Jubilee would answer. Then she’d turn back to whatever she’d been doing.

Unfortunately, Paul did understand. And at times the weight of understanding was more than a boy of eleven could carry. The day his mother breathed her last, he stumbled into the woods behind the house, sat on a felled tree, and gave way to all the fear and sorrow he’d held inside. It started with a silent stream of tears, then, feeding upon the ugly truth, it grew into heartbreaking sobs heard a mile away. Lost in a misery that went far beyond words, he sat with his head dropped between his knees and his back hunched. When he heard the small voice it startled him.

“Don’t cry, Paul.”

He lifted his head and gave a weak smile. “Jubie, you said Paul!”

She nodded and smiled. “Paul,” she repeated.

He pulled his baby sister to his chest and held her there for such a long time their heartbeats mingled and bonded them one to the other for the rest of their lives—however long or short that time might be.