Page 19 of Mail Order Mercy

Then he built a storage chest from spare boards Everett had sent over. It stood beneath the new shelves and served as a bench when the lid was shut. Tommy climbed onto it three times before the hinges were even fixed, and Clara declared it a fine place to sit if one wished to think serious thoughts.

“Do all these tools truly need to be inside?” Dorothy asked, holding up a small plane.

“Only if you want repairs done before spring,” Albert said.

Dorothy looked toward the crooked shelf. “Then the tools may stay. But Tommy’s stones need to stop multiplying.”

Dorothy watched Albert fit his few possessions into the corners of her life and realized the cabin was not the only thing being rearranged. Her habits had to make room for him too. So did her silences, her worries, and the careful ways she had learned to take up as little space as possible.

Having his things among hers made the marriage feel suddenly real in a way the vows had not. Albert’s shirts hanging near her apron, his tools on the shelf beside her sewing basket, his bootlaces in a box Clara opened three times out of curiosity—all of it seemed ordinary, and ordinary frightened her because it could become precious before she noticed.

While sorting one of Albert’s boxes, Dorothy found a small wooden horse wrapped in an old handkerchief. It was smoother than Tommy’s little horse, worn from the care with which Albert had handled it during the past several months. One leg was a little uneven, and the mane had been carved with patient, careful cuts.

“Henry made that,” Albert said from behind her.

Dorothy turned it gently in her hands. “For you?”

Albert nodded. “Months ago. I told him no grown man needed a wooden horse. He said every man needed one thing that reminded him not to become dull.” He shook his head. “Henry always did think a man ought to have something useless and cheerful. He said useful things kept a body alive, but foolish things reminded him why.”

Dorothy ran her thumb over the uneven carved mane. “He never told me he made you this.”

“He likely feared you would ask him to carve one properly,” Albert said. “This was one of his early attempts.”

Dorothy smiled, but tears stung her eyes. She had feared Albert would crowd Henry’s memory out of the cabin. Instead, here was proof that Albert had carried part of Henry with him before either of them imagined this marriage. He had not come to replace her first husband. He had come carrying his own grief, his own memories, and one foolish little horse he had kept wrapped carefully since Henry gave it to him.

“We should put it where the children can see it,” she said.

Albert’s throat worked. “Henry would like that.”

The next afternoon, Tommy ran into the cabin with snow on his mittens and shouted, “Papa, look!”

Albert froze with one hand on the storage chest.

Tommy did not seem to notice. He held up a lump of snow that had somehow formed into what he believed was a bear. “It has ears.”

Albert looked from the melting snow bear to Tommy’s bright face. Papa. The word had come so easily from the boy, as if it had been waiting behind his teeth and slipped out the moment it found room. Albert’s chest tightened until breathing took effort.

Dorothy stood near the stove with Grace on her hip. She had heard it too. Her eyes met Albert’s, and he saw the same question there that had risen in him. Was it too soon? Was it wrong?

Albert crouched in front of Tommy. “That is a fine bear. And Tommy?”

“What?” Tommy asked.

“You may call me Albert if that feels better. Or Mr. Albert. Or Papa Albert, if you are sure. You do not have to decide today.”

Tommy frowned as if Albert had made breakfast unnecessarily complicated again. “But you live here.”

“I do.” Albert’s voice softened. “And I mean to stay.”

Clara had been listening from the new bench; her hands folded in her lap like a small judge considering a serious matter. “We already have Papa in heaven,” she said.

Albert nodded. “Yes, you do.”

Clara looked toward Henry’s carved horse on the shelf, then back at Albert. “Then I can have Papa in heaven and Papa Albert at home.”

Dorothy pressed her lips together, but a tear slipped free anyway. She had feared the new name would erase Henry. Instead, Clara had simply made room for both men in the only way a child could—plainly, practically, and with more grace than most grown people managed.

Albert bowed his head for a moment. “That would be an honor, Clara.”