Back to Bed Now

Back to Bed Now

           Oma was cutting lard into the flour. Oma made the best biscuits. There was only a little bacon frying in the pan on the stove, but the flavor from the fat would become a thick gravy to spread on the biscuits. She had saved up some eggs from the slow laying winter hens and there’d be eggs and biscuits with bacon gravy for breakfast.

           “Clive,” Grandma pointed the fork she was using toward the pantry. “Get some more flour for me – here, take the cup.”

           At seven, Clive was old enough for chores, but today he was told to help his Oma in the kitchen. Clive liked the warm smells and friendly noises in the barn. There was only one cow left, and she was petted and pampered. Her calf would come soon and then in a few months there would be milk and butter and cheese again. Clive headed for the pantry, sulking at first, but Oma quickly put an end to that. Clive scooped into the big pot Oma kept flour in, and carefully replaced the mouse defying lid. As he turned, he noticed a knife – a folding knife! He dared not touch it, but maybe Opa would show it to him later.

The long walk to church through the new snow was something to look forward to. With his belly full and the good breakfast tastes still in his mouth, Clive ran ahead with Will, the neighbor’s son. This wasn’t like going to school to Mr. Ruler – the name the students gave their teacher due to his frequent hitting the desks with it to get their attention. No, in Sunday school their gentle teacher let them whisper and laugh, as long as they learned the lesson.

           The knife was forgotten. Until almost five weeks passed.

           Opa was shaving down some fine kindling from the dry inner wood of a thick branch he’d cut from the tree line. Everything was damp from the spring rain and poor Oma was struggling to keep enough flame in the stove to cook.

           Opa’s knife was always in the sheath on his belt. Opa had no shortage of uses for it, but oddly few that involved cutting things. Clive watched the sharp blade slice off thin curls from the dry inner wood. “Opa, why don’t you use the other knife?” Clive asked, remembering the tempting knife.

           “What other knife, Clive?  Do you think your Opa is rich enough to have two knives?”

           “The one in the pantry.”

           “Oh, so you want your Oma to come after me with a switch for using her knife for this?” Opa chuckled.

           “Was that knife Oma’s?”

           “Who else’s, or are you keeping something secret?” 

“Me? No, but I saw it; it was this big folded up.” Clive stretched his thumb and middle finger to show how big.

           Opa continued to shave wood. “I think maybe you’ve been dreaming.”

           “No, Opa. It was in the pantry” Clive got up and went in search of it.

           “What are you doing in there!” Oma had come in with a pan of potatoes from the cellar.

“I’m looking for something.”

           “What would you need to look for in the pantry? There are no sugar treats in here if that’s what you think.”

           “No, Oma. I’m looking for the knife.”

           “Don’t you touch my knives. I keep them sharp and there’re not for little boys to handle.”

“No, Oma, the folding knife”.

“You get out of there. Folding knives. What will you dream up next? Out.”

           A person didn’t disobey Oma. Opa maybe, but not Oma. But there were times when Oma was out of the house and ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there, every chance Clive had he searched.

           At first it was random, but then it became systematic. Lower places at first, in case it had fallen off the counter. That wasn’t likely; Oma kept the floor so clean that she’d have seen it. Behind things, carefully putting everything back exactly where it had been. Under things. In the flour pot. In the smaller, almost empty, sugar pot. Under the oats. In the barley.

           When he thought she’d be gone long enough, Clive used a chair to climb to the higher shelves, always careful to clean off his shoe marks and return the chair neatly under the table the way Oma kept it.

           There was no knife.

           The spring rains final subsided. All the stubborn snow in the shady places was gone and the mud wasn’t making Oma cross any more.

           Clive had a birthday hardly a week before school would finish. I bet they’ve hidden it because it’s my birthday present. And he knew he shouldn’t, but he began to search the other rooms. Behind books, in Oma’s precious vase on the mantle, under mattresses – Oma almost caught him because the bed wasn’t left as neat as she had fixed it. “I was looking under the bed for the cat,” he lied.

           Clive never doubted himself. He saw it. He knew he did. But his birthday came and instead of the knife there was a newish pair of boots to replace the ones that pinched his toes. They had new soles and were polished almost like new. His toes were happy, but it was hard not to let Oma and Opa see his disappointment. Maybe they had to trade the knife for the boots. Even at eight, he knew how hard it must have been for Oma and Opa to get him new boots. So, he tried not to think about the knife anymore.

           But a day came when Opa was prying a stone from the sole of his own boot with the tip of his knife. “That was such a pretty knife.” It just slipped out without Clive planning to say it.

           “What knife?” Opa put his foot down a bit too hard.

           “The one that was in the pantry.” The look on Opa’s face told Clive he should not have mentioned it, but Clive also realized that he just at least needed for Opa to acknowledged it had been there.

           “Clive.” Opa had that same look on his face that Oma got when he disobeyed. “Never. I am telling you, never - mention – that – knife - again. Not to me, not to Oma, not to your friends. Not – to – anyone!” Opa was almost shouting but at the same time his voice was making a hissing sound like the cat when she was mad or scared. “Never. Did you hear me?”

           “Yes, Opa.”

           “Never!”

           “No, never, Opa. I’m sorry I asked about it.”

           By dinner, Opa was calm again, but Oma seemed off. They had had one of those grown-up conversations that he wasn’t allowed to hear. It stayed that way for several days.

           It wasn’t light yet when Clive woke. He knew it was much too soon to get up, but he thought he heard the snorting sound of a horse outside. His window was open for the cool night air, so Clive got off his bed and went to look.

           Oma and Opa were outside with someone, someone from church? It was too dark to tell. They stood next to a wagon behind a sleepy horse. The wagon was full of – just stuff. Clive couldn’t see what was in the wagon, he could only see that it was full. Why would anyone be going somewhere so early? Why would Oma and Opa be up so early? It’s not even time to milk the cow yet.

           Opa looked up at Clive just as a man limped out of the barn, hugged Oma, then disappeared into the wagon.

           Clive felt his way down the dark stairway to the kitchen and waited. “Never,” he said as his grandparents entered. “Never,” he repeated. He was only eight, but he understood.

           Opa patted his shoulder. “Never. No one. Back to bed now.”

           Almost two years later, a few months after the war was over, a letter came. There were only two words on the paper: “Thank you”. It wasn’t signed; there was no return address. Oma put the back of her hand to her lips that had started to tremble and handed the letter to Opa who put it on the mantle next to the vase.