A Sample Chapter from Here & Hereafter
4—Frances
“It’s starting to melt. I don’t think we should cross.”
Edward said, a bit wearily, knowing it was unlikely his older sister would
listen to him. Edward didn’t want Frances to think he was a chicken, but he was worried. Besides, before school that
morning, their mother had said, “Don’t take the short cut! The ice isn’t safe
this time of year. Go the long way. Promise!” She had looked at him intently as
she helped him put on his boots. Frances had already headed out the door on her
way to their country school and did not hear her mother.
Now on their way home, when Frances turned down the shortcut road Edward tried to protest. “Mama said…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Frances responded. “C’mon. Let’s play ‘Follow the leader.’ You can be the leader if you want.”
Soon they were at the creek and Edward was even more worried. Maybe his mother was right. Even though it would be a long walk back to the road and they would be late coming home from school, he thought they should turn around. Frances was always brave and daring; Edward knew he should stand up to her. “Mama said not to cross the creek. I’m not going. Let’s turn around,” he said.
“Edward…” Frances pleaded. “C’mon. Don’t be a chicken.”
“I’m not going with you,” he said, continuing to follow her. At the creek’s edge he managed to protest. “I’m not a chicken. The ice... the ice isn’t safe.”
Nestled in a valley between two hills by their farm, the creek appeared frozen, even though much of the snow had melted in an early thaw. Edward looked upstream for running water. Frances was already testing the ice with one of her boots. “See. It’s fine.”
“No it isn’t,” Edward said, feeling his throat close. “It’s starting to crack.”
“It’s not cracking.”
“Yes, it is. It’s cracking.”
“It’s just cracking a little bit. C’mon. We can make it.”
“No.”
“We’ll go one at a time. I’ll go first.”
The two had crossed the creek a hundred times but now—? Edward could feel the warmth of the early spring through his damp mittens. He wished the sun was not shining so brightly; he wanted to feel the cold chill of an early spring day on his face, but he could not.
Edward watched as Frances moved one step at a time.
“Ed-ward,” she said in her sing-song way.
“I don’t want to. I’m staying right here.”
“Be a baby. Stay there.” First, she had called him a chicken; now, she said he was a baby. He wanted to protest. He wasn’t a chicken and he wasn’t a baby. He just didn’t like to go against what he had promised his mother.
“Mama said not to cross the creek.”
“Well, do you want to go all the way back, all the way around now? It’s going to start getting dark.”
“No…” he said lamely. He looked down at his goulashes. Frances was crossing the creek. He was afraid to watch her. The ice had cracked in a few places upstream.
He looked up just in time to see a giant zig-zag of a crack break loose, and spread over the wrinkled face of the aging ice. Edward could see water! “Come back!” he yelled.
“Edward,” she said, with less confidence and a mere shred of terror in her voice, while maintaining the calm authority of an older sister, “I can’t go back. I have to keep going now.”
He looked at her in disbelief. Frances was standing in the middle of the creek. Suddenly, the other side began to break up too. Cracks were coming from all sides—pop, crack—making the eerie sounds of a giant bowl of cereal.
“Hurry!” he cried out to her. “Hurry, Frances!” His voice cracked; his stomach was in knots.
But Frances stood motionless.
“Hurry!” Edward cried. “Frances, hurry up!”
She stood frozen, looking at both sides of the creek. “Edward,” she said softly, almost tearfully. “Help me.”
“I…I…I can’t.”
Frances stared at him a moment. A torrent of escaping waters divided them, making it impossible for him to reach her.
“Hurry, Frances,” he said, tearfully. “Please hurry! Hurry to the other side!”
Frances turned and looked at him desperately, realizing she had been wrong about the creek, and now there was nothing to do about it, but even now, she did not want him to know he had been right. Edward saw tears falling down her cheeks, and he was engulfed by his cowardice. Then she nearly screamed “Help me, Edward! He...lp me!”
Edward knelt down, crawling out on the ice as far as he dared, feeling the cold beneath his snow pants. “Go for it!” he said, looking up at her. “I can’t reach you. Get out of there. Hurry. Hurry up. Hurry before…”
She finally moved, stepping as quickly as she could to the other side of the creek as the ice on the creek peeled away behind her. Torrents of water escaped, nipping at her heels.
“Hurry, Frances. Hurry….hurry up!” he said, which was silly, because now she had to move slowly, carefully, deliberately. Frances was almost to the other side when the ice underneath her gave way.
A dog-like yelp…a muffled call…a cry or a howl…then strange gulping sounds. Some came from Edward; some from Frances as Edward’s life companion, his second mother, his blessed sister slipped below the ice. The last thing he saw was the top of her purple knit hat their mother had made for her. He stared where she had fallen through. Where was she? Where did she go? He couldn’t see her at all. “Frances,” he cried. “Frances! Frances!”
But Frances was in the water under the ice. Edward lay down on the ice that remained, reaching out as far as he could. The ice began to separate beneath him. His clothes became sopped with frigid ice water, and now he was soggy through his underwear down to his skin. Edward had to make the decision of his life—whether a choice or a reaction, he would never know. Suddenly he was squirming and crawling backwards to the shore as the water rushed in on his small body. Scrambling to his feet on the shore, he looked once more for a sign of Frances, and saw none. He turned and ran, yelling as loudly as he could, “Help! Help!” crying hysterically all the too long way to the road, all the way to the bridge, all the way to the white frame house. “Help! Help! Frances ...Frances went through the ice! Help! Help! Somebody come, help! Frances…. Frances!…Somebody…Help!”
²²²
Mrs. Thomsen, a short square-shaped woman, invited Ida Mae, the oldest of the Petersen children into the mortuary. She had been surprised by the call. “I want…” Ida Mae had said. “I want to fix her hair. I want to fix Frances’ hair for the funeral.”
I probably should not allow it, the undertaker thought, but it seemed the right thing to do in this case. Funerals for children were always difficult. One of the few women undertakers in the state, Mrs. T., as she was called in town, understood Ida Mae’s feelings. How the hair looked made so much difference and the child’s body was in good condition. The father had run down to the creek right away and been able to pull her body out downstream. The cold, of course, helped too.
“You are sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother says it is all right.”
“We want her to look… nice.”
“All right then.”
“She’s right in here,” Mrs. T. said. She brought Ida Mae into a room, where Frances’ body lay in a white casket ready for the funeral the next day.
Ida Mae was less sure than she pretended to be. Because of cheerleading practice, Ida Mae had not been home the afternoon her sister died, had been absent when they brought Frances, limp, blue and icy, up to the farmhouse. In fact, Ida Mae had seen only one other dead body, her grandmother’s, and that was a long time ago.
After a moment of looking straight ahead at a vase of artificial flowers across the room, Ida Mae finally looked down at her sister’s body…so unusually still, so quiet. She thought of how fast Frances could run—she would have been great in high school track. The two sisters had often run through the pasture, racing each other between haystacks. She remembered when Frances was a newborn, and her mother had first let her hold her baby sister. Frances had seemed like a real live doll to Ida Mae and from the beginning she had cherished and loved her plucky little sister.
For her funeral Frances was dressed in her Christmas dress, a dark green velvet with a white lace collar. Frances had loved that dress; she had been so excited—twirled and whirled around in it in the farm house parlor. Frances was always excited, always running around; she was not afraid of anything, which was the problem with Frances.
Ida Mae had brought a hairbrush and comb with her and she bravely began to carefully, gently brush Frances’ hair. She was shocked at how different it was now. Frances no longer could move away from the brush or say “ouch.” Thankfully, there were no snarls. Mrs. T. had already taken care of that. Without a tear, Ida brushed one side of Frances’ hair, at first afraid to touch her with the other hand, and then she did touch her, and it was all right. She brushed the other side of Frances’ hair. But how to brush the back of her head?
She looked at Mrs. T.
“Let me help you,” the undertaker said. Mrs. T. lifted Frances’s body for a moment, and Ida Mae quickly brushed the hair on the back of her head, as if she must hurry so that Frances could once more rest. Mrs. T laid the child’s body back down. Ida Mae lightly brushed both sides again, turning in the little wisps of blonde curls toward Frances’ small freckled cheeks. Tears started to come and Ida alternately brushed back tears with her left forearm as she brushed back Frances’ hair with her right hand, curling the sides so they would match.
Ida Mae tried to speak, “Someone said…,” but she had difficulty mouthing the words: “Does…Does…”
“Does the hair continue to grow?” Mrs. T asked the question for her.
Ida Mae nodded, her face stiffly holding in tears.
“Just…a little. Especially in one so young.”
Ida Mae nodded. She finished up with the soft bangs. “She looked good in bangs,” she said.
“Okay, now?”
Ida Mae touched her sister’s head ever so gently with her hand. “Goodbye, Squirrel,” she said quietly. “Squirrel” had been Ida Mae’s pet name for her little sister.
²²²
Not one single person blamed Edward for his sister’s death. His mother kept telling him. “Thank God, I didn’t lose both of you. Remember that, Edward. Don’t ever blame yourself.” It was because people kept saying that he was not to blame, that Edward became convinced that somehow he was to blame or why would they keep saying it? Edward knew the truth—if he had refused to follow Frances and starting going the long way home, Frances would have joined him and still be alive. He should not have followed Frances to the creek—or maybe he should have gone first and turned around. They were going to play ‘Follow the Leader.’ She had said Edward could be the leader, but he didn’t like being the leader.
For the rest of the school year Edward dragged himself to their country school, walking alone, missing Frances so much his heart hurt every step of the way. He had trouble doing his homework, and didn’t even like recess. When his teacher Mrs. Burns pleaded with him to play tag or softball, he reluctantly joined the other kids; he hated trying to have fun when he didn’t feel like it. Frances had been a better soft ball player than he was; she made a hit almost every time she was up to bat—sometimes a homerun. Frances should be there. She should be playing instead of him.
When Edward awoke in the morning, he sometimes forgot that Frances had died; he would think she was still alive, and then he would remember and feel like not getting out of bed. At home everything seemed an unpleasant chore. The house was quiet, way too quiet. Edward’s mother was given to fits of crying, and his father seemed touchy, even ill tempered. In the evening Edward did his homework, because he didn’t want to cause difficulty, but he hated it, and his grades were not good. He hated everything. He just wanted Frances back.
Finally, it was the last day of school. Edward would receive his report card at his school in the morning and then attend a final assembly in the afternoon of all the Turner County elementary school students from both country and town schools. All country schools were closing; it would be the very last day—forever—not only of Edward’s country school, but all the country schools in South Dakota. Next year Edward would go to school in the nearby town of Viborg; he would ride a bus. Edward hated the thought of riding a bus every morning, but at least he wouldn’t be walking to school alone anymore. His parents said it was time for the change; there were advantages to attending town school; Edward would meet more kids his own age and have more opportunities. But his aunt said the best education in the world took place in one-room country schools.
One of the kids in Edward’s class complained she had to go to town school because of Frances. But his teacher said that wasn’t true; the schools were not closing because of Frances; it was because it was the way of the world. Edward believed his teacher. All the country schools in the whole state surely would not close just because of Frances.
²²²
Frances shouldn’t have tried to cross that creek; she should have taken the long way home, been more careful. But what did she know? She was just a kid; she was too brave. Before his sister drowned I didn’t know Edward, but on that last country school afternoon I sat across the aisle from him. I was one of the “town students” who sang in the Turner County School chorus that day. I remember Frances from track meets. She got a lot of ribbons—blue ones, red ones, never yellow ones for third place. Everyone now knew who Edward was; he was the brother who had been with Frances when she drowned; he was the only one who could have saved her.
We were more than a hundred kids sitting on the bleachers that day, singing in the final Turner County School chorus. Every once in a while I would take a look at Edward across the aisle. He was always staring straight ahead with no expression on his face.
At the end of the program, Miss Hemphill, the county school superintendent, a tiny, dark-haired woman, powerful as a freight train, came to the microphone. “This is the last time that all the Turner Country Schools will all be together,” she said, craning her neck upwards. She hesitated, her voice seemed to waver. “We will dedicate our final number to Frances Petersen. We will all sing ‘I walked today where Jesus walked.’ Please, rise.”
I glanced at Edward who looked straight ahead at the stage where Miss Hemphill, Mrs. Burns and the other teachers stood in a row between three flags—the United States, South Dakota, and another one I didn’t recognize.
A pianist played an introduction and we began to sing:
“I walked today where Jesus walked
In days of long ago...”
It seemed a strange song to sing. Jesus had walked on the other side of the world, never on the Petersen’s creek. I felt awfully sad, singing that song and when I looked up, I saw that I wasn’t the only one. Miss Hemphill, the principal, was crying! Miss Hemphill, who was in charge of everything in all the schools, was weeping! Whether she was weeping for Frances or because the country schools were closing, I didn’t know.
“I wept today where Jesus wept
In days of long ago...
I looked across the aisle at Edward and saw tears were now running down his cheeks. He made no effort to stop them, probably so he wouldn’t be noticed. His face had a hungry look and in spite of biting my lip, I started crying too. Frances was just a kid like the rest of us. Now things would never be the same, not for any of us.
²²²
Now, many years later, I too have known the hunger I first saw in Edward’s face that day when we sang—“I walked today where Jesus walked” in memory of Frances. It is the hunger for self-forgiveness, the pain of regret where there is no recompense, no going back to the way things could have been, no possibility of changes that could result in things turning out differently.
Without forgiveness life becomes entangled in a Gordian knot of regret and resentment; with forgiveness we learn to be merciful to ourselves as well as others. Frances is best remembered by enjoying life, being courageous, avoiding thin ice, and sometimes even turning back.
Now on their way home, when Frances turned down the shortcut road Edward tried to protest. “Mama said…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Frances responded. “C’mon. Let’s play ‘Follow the leader.’ You can be the leader if you want.”
Soon they were at the creek and Edward was even more worried. Maybe his mother was right. Even though it would be a long walk back to the road and they would be late coming home from school, he thought they should turn around. Frances was always brave and daring; Edward knew he should stand up to her. “Mama said not to cross the creek. I’m not going. Let’s turn around,” he said.
“Edward…” Frances pleaded. “C’mon. Don’t be a chicken.”
“I’m not going with you,” he said, continuing to follow her. At the creek’s edge he managed to protest. “I’m not a chicken. The ice... the ice isn’t safe.”
Nestled in a valley between two hills by their farm, the creek appeared frozen, even though much of the snow had melted in an early thaw. Edward looked upstream for running water. Frances was already testing the ice with one of her boots. “See. It’s fine.”
“No it isn’t,” Edward said, feeling his throat close. “It’s starting to crack.”
“It’s not cracking.”
“Yes, it is. It’s cracking.”
“It’s just cracking a little bit. C’mon. We can make it.”
“No.”
“We’ll go one at a time. I’ll go first.”
The two had crossed the creek a hundred times but now—? Edward could feel the warmth of the early spring through his damp mittens. He wished the sun was not shining so brightly; he wanted to feel the cold chill of an early spring day on his face, but he could not.
Edward watched as Frances moved one step at a time.
“Ed-ward,” she said in her sing-song way.
“I don’t want to. I’m staying right here.”
“Be a baby. Stay there.” First, she had called him a chicken; now, she said he was a baby. He wanted to protest. He wasn’t a chicken and he wasn’t a baby. He just didn’t like to go against what he had promised his mother.
“Mama said not to cross the creek.”
“Well, do you want to go all the way back, all the way around now? It’s going to start getting dark.”
“No…” he said lamely. He looked down at his goulashes. Frances was crossing the creek. He was afraid to watch her. The ice had cracked in a few places upstream.
He looked up just in time to see a giant zig-zag of a crack break loose, and spread over the wrinkled face of the aging ice. Edward could see water! “Come back!” he yelled.
“Edward,” she said, with less confidence and a mere shred of terror in her voice, while maintaining the calm authority of an older sister, “I can’t go back. I have to keep going now.”
He looked at her in disbelief. Frances was standing in the middle of the creek. Suddenly, the other side began to break up too. Cracks were coming from all sides—pop, crack—making the eerie sounds of a giant bowl of cereal.
“Hurry!” he cried out to her. “Hurry, Frances!” His voice cracked; his stomach was in knots.
But Frances stood motionless.
“Hurry!” Edward cried. “Frances, hurry up!”
She stood frozen, looking at both sides of the creek. “Edward,” she said softly, almost tearfully. “Help me.”
“I…I…I can’t.”
Frances stared at him a moment. A torrent of escaping waters divided them, making it impossible for him to reach her.
“Hurry, Frances,” he said, tearfully. “Please hurry! Hurry to the other side!”
Frances turned and looked at him desperately, realizing she had been wrong about the creek, and now there was nothing to do about it, but even now, she did not want him to know he had been right. Edward saw tears falling down her cheeks, and he was engulfed by his cowardice. Then she nearly screamed “Help me, Edward! He...lp me!”
Edward knelt down, crawling out on the ice as far as he dared, feeling the cold beneath his snow pants. “Go for it!” he said, looking up at her. “I can’t reach you. Get out of there. Hurry. Hurry up. Hurry before…”
She finally moved, stepping as quickly as she could to the other side of the creek as the ice on the creek peeled away behind her. Torrents of water escaped, nipping at her heels.
“Hurry, Frances. Hurry….hurry up!” he said, which was silly, because now she had to move slowly, carefully, deliberately. Frances was almost to the other side when the ice underneath her gave way.
A dog-like yelp…a muffled call…a cry or a howl…then strange gulping sounds. Some came from Edward; some from Frances as Edward’s life companion, his second mother, his blessed sister slipped below the ice. The last thing he saw was the top of her purple knit hat their mother had made for her. He stared where she had fallen through. Where was she? Where did she go? He couldn’t see her at all. “Frances,” he cried. “Frances! Frances!”
But Frances was in the water under the ice. Edward lay down on the ice that remained, reaching out as far as he could. The ice began to separate beneath him. His clothes became sopped with frigid ice water, and now he was soggy through his underwear down to his skin. Edward had to make the decision of his life—whether a choice or a reaction, he would never know. Suddenly he was squirming and crawling backwards to the shore as the water rushed in on his small body. Scrambling to his feet on the shore, he looked once more for a sign of Frances, and saw none. He turned and ran, yelling as loudly as he could, “Help! Help!” crying hysterically all the too long way to the road, all the way to the bridge, all the way to the white frame house. “Help! Help! Frances ...Frances went through the ice! Help! Help! Somebody come, help! Frances…. Frances!…Somebody…Help!”
²²²
Mrs. Thomsen, a short square-shaped woman, invited Ida Mae, the oldest of the Petersen children into the mortuary. She had been surprised by the call. “I want…” Ida Mae had said. “I want to fix her hair. I want to fix Frances’ hair for the funeral.”
I probably should not allow it, the undertaker thought, but it seemed the right thing to do in this case. Funerals for children were always difficult. One of the few women undertakers in the state, Mrs. T., as she was called in town, understood Ida Mae’s feelings. How the hair looked made so much difference and the child’s body was in good condition. The father had run down to the creek right away and been able to pull her body out downstream. The cold, of course, helped too.
“You are sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother says it is all right.”
“We want her to look… nice.”
“All right then.”
“She’s right in here,” Mrs. T. said. She brought Ida Mae into a room, where Frances’ body lay in a white casket ready for the funeral the next day.
Ida Mae was less sure than she pretended to be. Because of cheerleading practice, Ida Mae had not been home the afternoon her sister died, had been absent when they brought Frances, limp, blue and icy, up to the farmhouse. In fact, Ida Mae had seen only one other dead body, her grandmother’s, and that was a long time ago.
After a moment of looking straight ahead at a vase of artificial flowers across the room, Ida Mae finally looked down at her sister’s body…so unusually still, so quiet. She thought of how fast Frances could run—she would have been great in high school track. The two sisters had often run through the pasture, racing each other between haystacks. She remembered when Frances was a newborn, and her mother had first let her hold her baby sister. Frances had seemed like a real live doll to Ida Mae and from the beginning she had cherished and loved her plucky little sister.
For her funeral Frances was dressed in her Christmas dress, a dark green velvet with a white lace collar. Frances had loved that dress; she had been so excited—twirled and whirled around in it in the farm house parlor. Frances was always excited, always running around; she was not afraid of anything, which was the problem with Frances.
Ida Mae had brought a hairbrush and comb with her and she bravely began to carefully, gently brush Frances’ hair. She was shocked at how different it was now. Frances no longer could move away from the brush or say “ouch.” Thankfully, there were no snarls. Mrs. T. had already taken care of that. Without a tear, Ida brushed one side of Frances’ hair, at first afraid to touch her with the other hand, and then she did touch her, and it was all right. She brushed the other side of Frances’ hair. But how to brush the back of her head?
She looked at Mrs. T.
“Let me help you,” the undertaker said. Mrs. T. lifted Frances’s body for a moment, and Ida Mae quickly brushed the hair on the back of her head, as if she must hurry so that Frances could once more rest. Mrs. T laid the child’s body back down. Ida Mae lightly brushed both sides again, turning in the little wisps of blonde curls toward Frances’ small freckled cheeks. Tears started to come and Ida alternately brushed back tears with her left forearm as she brushed back Frances’ hair with her right hand, curling the sides so they would match.
Ida Mae tried to speak, “Someone said…,” but she had difficulty mouthing the words: “Does…Does…”
“Does the hair continue to grow?” Mrs. T asked the question for her.
Ida Mae nodded, her face stiffly holding in tears.
“Just…a little. Especially in one so young.”
Ida Mae nodded. She finished up with the soft bangs. “She looked good in bangs,” she said.
“Okay, now?”
Ida Mae touched her sister’s head ever so gently with her hand. “Goodbye, Squirrel,” she said quietly. “Squirrel” had been Ida Mae’s pet name for her little sister.
²²²
Not one single person blamed Edward for his sister’s death. His mother kept telling him. “Thank God, I didn’t lose both of you. Remember that, Edward. Don’t ever blame yourself.” It was because people kept saying that he was not to blame, that Edward became convinced that somehow he was to blame or why would they keep saying it? Edward knew the truth—if he had refused to follow Frances and starting going the long way home, Frances would have joined him and still be alive. He should not have followed Frances to the creek—or maybe he should have gone first and turned around. They were going to play ‘Follow the Leader.’ She had said Edward could be the leader, but he didn’t like being the leader.
For the rest of the school year Edward dragged himself to their country school, walking alone, missing Frances so much his heart hurt every step of the way. He had trouble doing his homework, and didn’t even like recess. When his teacher Mrs. Burns pleaded with him to play tag or softball, he reluctantly joined the other kids; he hated trying to have fun when he didn’t feel like it. Frances had been a better soft ball player than he was; she made a hit almost every time she was up to bat—sometimes a homerun. Frances should be there. She should be playing instead of him.
When Edward awoke in the morning, he sometimes forgot that Frances had died; he would think she was still alive, and then he would remember and feel like not getting out of bed. At home everything seemed an unpleasant chore. The house was quiet, way too quiet. Edward’s mother was given to fits of crying, and his father seemed touchy, even ill tempered. In the evening Edward did his homework, because he didn’t want to cause difficulty, but he hated it, and his grades were not good. He hated everything. He just wanted Frances back.
Finally, it was the last day of school. Edward would receive his report card at his school in the morning and then attend a final assembly in the afternoon of all the Turner County elementary school students from both country and town schools. All country schools were closing; it would be the very last day—forever—not only of Edward’s country school, but all the country schools in South Dakota. Next year Edward would go to school in the nearby town of Viborg; he would ride a bus. Edward hated the thought of riding a bus every morning, but at least he wouldn’t be walking to school alone anymore. His parents said it was time for the change; there were advantages to attending town school; Edward would meet more kids his own age and have more opportunities. But his aunt said the best education in the world took place in one-room country schools.
One of the kids in Edward’s class complained she had to go to town school because of Frances. But his teacher said that wasn’t true; the schools were not closing because of Frances; it was because it was the way of the world. Edward believed his teacher. All the country schools in the whole state surely would not close just because of Frances.
²²²
Frances shouldn’t have tried to cross that creek; she should have taken the long way home, been more careful. But what did she know? She was just a kid; she was too brave. Before his sister drowned I didn’t know Edward, but on that last country school afternoon I sat across the aisle from him. I was one of the “town students” who sang in the Turner County School chorus that day. I remember Frances from track meets. She got a lot of ribbons—blue ones, red ones, never yellow ones for third place. Everyone now knew who Edward was; he was the brother who had been with Frances when she drowned; he was the only one who could have saved her.
We were more than a hundred kids sitting on the bleachers that day, singing in the final Turner County School chorus. Every once in a while I would take a look at Edward across the aisle. He was always staring straight ahead with no expression on his face.
At the end of the program, Miss Hemphill, the county school superintendent, a tiny, dark-haired woman, powerful as a freight train, came to the microphone. “This is the last time that all the Turner Country Schools will all be together,” she said, craning her neck upwards. She hesitated, her voice seemed to waver. “We will dedicate our final number to Frances Petersen. We will all sing ‘I walked today where Jesus walked.’ Please, rise.”
I glanced at Edward who looked straight ahead at the stage where Miss Hemphill, Mrs. Burns and the other teachers stood in a row between three flags—the United States, South Dakota, and another one I didn’t recognize.
A pianist played an introduction and we began to sing:
“I walked today where Jesus walked
In days of long ago...”
It seemed a strange song to sing. Jesus had walked on the other side of the world, never on the Petersen’s creek. I felt awfully sad, singing that song and when I looked up, I saw that I wasn’t the only one. Miss Hemphill, the principal, was crying! Miss Hemphill, who was in charge of everything in all the schools, was weeping! Whether she was weeping for Frances or because the country schools were closing, I didn’t know.
“I wept today where Jesus wept
In days of long ago...
I looked across the aisle at Edward and saw tears were now running down his cheeks. He made no effort to stop them, probably so he wouldn’t be noticed. His face had a hungry look and in spite of biting my lip, I started crying too. Frances was just a kid like the rest of us. Now things would never be the same, not for any of us.
²²²
Now, many years later, I too have known the hunger I first saw in Edward’s face that day when we sang—“I walked today where Jesus walked” in memory of Frances. It is the hunger for self-forgiveness, the pain of regret where there is no recompense, no going back to the way things could have been, no possibility of changes that could result in things turning out differently.
Without forgiveness life becomes entangled in a Gordian knot of regret and resentment; with forgiveness we learn to be merciful to ourselves as well as others. Frances is best remembered by enjoying life, being courageous, avoiding thin ice, and sometimes even turning back.