Page 5 of Mail Order Mercy

Dorothy looked away. “Sorry doesn’t mend doors.”

She regretted the sharp words as soon as they left her mouth, but she could not call them back. Apologies were easy to offer when a man had a full belly and somewhere warm to sleep. Dorothy had heard enough kind voices after Henry died, enough murmured sorrow and promises to pray. None of those words had kept the wind from creeping under the door at night.

The words fell between them, simple and heavy.

Albert set his jaw and took off his coat. “No. But hands can.”

He had tools in the small roll he carried to the mill. Tommy followed him from the door to the table and back again, asking why hinges squeaked, whether nails got cold, and if Albert knew how to fix a sled runner. He handed Albert a spoon, two buttons, and one of Clara’s stockings before finally bringing the screwdriver Albert had actually asked for.

“You’re a fine helper,” Albert said.

Tommy puffed out his little chest. “Papa said I was good at holding things.”

Albert bent lower over the hinge until he could trust his face. “Your papa was right.”

As he worked, he noticed the places Dorothy had already tried to mend the cabin herself. A strip of cloth stuffed into a crack near the floor. A broken chair leg braced with twine. A tin cup set beneath a leak where melting frost must drip when the stove was hot enough. She had not been waiting helplessly. She had been fighting alone. The thought settled heavily in Albert’s chest. He had pictured Dorothy surrounded by women, fussed over by neighbors, protected by Yeti because no decent town would let Henry Peabody’s widow suffer. But he had never come to see whether the picture was true. He had preferred imagination because imagination did not ask anything of him.

Watching Albert notice each poor repair made Dorothy feel as if he were reading pages from a diary she had never meant anyone to see. She had been proud of those little fixes yesterday. Proud that the chair still held, proud that the worst crack was stuffed, proud that she had caught the drip before it ruined Clara’s blanket. Under Albert’s eyes, every bit of cleverness looked like poverty instead.

By the time he had tightened the hinge and wedged a strip of scrap cloth into the worst of the gap, the cabin felt no warmer, but the draft had less bite. Dorothy thanked him stiffly, as if gratitude cost her something. Albert understood that it did.

He was late to the mill, and Everett noticed the moment Albert walked into the yard.

“You’re never late,” Everett said.

“I was at Dorothy’s,” Albert said. “Brought supplies. Fixed her door some. She needs wood.”

Everett’s expression changed from surprise to understanding. “Take from the scrap pile. Anything short enough to cut for her stove. Take an ax if you need one.”

Albert nodded. “I’ll pay for it.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Everett looked toward the mill, then back at Albert. “Belle’s been worried about Dorothy for months. Ella too. They bring what Dorothy will accept and pretend it is extra. But pride can make a locked door out of an open one.”

“She has reason for pride,” Albert said.

“She does,” Everett agreed. “But pride won’t keep those children warm.”

After the day’s work was finished, Albert loaded scrap wood into a handcart and cut the longer pieces down behind the mill. Every swing of the ax brought Henry back to him. Henry laughing because Albert had split a crooked log and called it useful. Henry wiping sawdust from his face with the back of one hand. Henry talking about Dorothy’s biscuits and Clara’s questions and Tommy’s new tooth.

Albert had thought avoiding those memories kept grief from swallowing him. He understood now that hiding from Henry’s family had protected only himself. Dorothy had not been spared by his absence. The children had not been warmed by it. Henry had not been honored by it.

He pulled the loaded cart to Dorothy’s cabin as dusk settled low and cold over Yeti. This time, when he knocked, Clara opened the door and smiled before remembering she was supposed to wait for her mother.

“Mr. Albert brought wood!” she called.

Dorothy came from the stove with Grace in her arms. “Albert, you didn’t have to—” She paused for a moment as he came in with another armful. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“I can keep carrying wood.”

“That isn’t what I mean.” She followed him to the door, Grace tucked close. “If people see you here morning and night, they’ll talk.”

Albert paused with one hand on the latch. “Let them talk about me, then. They should have been talking to me before now.”

Dorothy’s mouth tightened. “I don’t want pity.”

“Good,” Albert said. “I’m not very good at pity. I’m better at chopping wood.”

Dorothy almost smiled at that, which irritated her because she did not want to smile at Albert Travis. She wanted to stay properly angry with him. Anger was easier than remembering how often Henry had come home with stories about Albert’s steady hands and dry humor. Anger was easier than admitting that the sound of wood landing in the box made her want to weep with gratitude.