The Reincarnation of Clara. Kevin J Todeschi

and corn were his main crops, but Mabel insisted on a steady supply of tomatoes for canning, and no farm was complete without peach, cherry, apple and apricot trees. The oak tree he had planted after the house had been completed had grown a great deal in the last ten years—big enough to support a swing for the children, and Mabel had done her best to dress up the house with lace curtains, an annual flower box outside the kitchen window, and several Dorothy Parker rosebushes leading up to the front door.

      Out in the wheat field, Everett Stuart appeared a good ten years older than his mid-fifties—rugged and worn from his years in the sun. He walked behind the plow and enormous horse, listening to his father, Grandfather Stuart, who walked beside him. The elderly man smoked his ever-present pipe and spoke as the two followed behind the horse.

      “Son, I think you need to start thinking about Clara’s education. She’s got a lot of talent, that girl, and I’m certain Samaria City ain’t gonna have the resources that child needs. We got to figure out how to help her now so that things are set before she graduates.”

      Everett shook his head, the sweat dripping from his brow; “Dad, she’s only eleven. We don’t have to worry about it right now. Why aren’t you worried about Benjamin or Jason, or Christ, even Emily—Emily’s three years older than Clara!”

      “It ain’t the same, son,” the elder man spoke between draws on his pipe, “the boys will find their own way, and Emily is strong enough to do whatever she sets her mind on. It’s Clara we gotta be thinking about.”

      Everett shook his head again; “Dad, the truth is Clara has always been your favorite . . . always!” Everett turned to look his father in the eye. “Clara will do just fine. After she graduates, she’ll find herself a good husband and have her own family. You’ll see.”

      “It might turn out a little differently than you’re planning.” Grandfather Stuart stared out over the field and sighed.

      “What’s the hurry, anyway? We can talk about this a few years from now when Clara’s older.”

      “I ain’t gonna be around for that, son. I was just hoping to get things settled before I’m gone.”

      “Oh, Dad, you’ll be here.” Everett turned back to the plow and his mind returned to what he had been doing.

      Grandfather Stuart had no reply.

       SAMARIA CITY, IDAHO—KITCHEN, STUART FAMILY HOME, SAME DAY

      Eleven-year-old Clara stood in the kitchen, staring apprehensively at the enormous pile of dishes stacked on the counter next to the washtubs—one for washing and one for rinsing. Whether it was breakfast, noontime, or supper there always seemed to be far too many dishes involved.

      “I hate dishes,” Clara whispered to herself, but not loud enough for her mother to hear. Mabel Stuart stood at the counter next to the pantry and kneaded four equally-sized loaves of bread dough. Four-year-old Sara was playing with a rag doll on the floor next to Clara, using an upturned Quaker Oats box as a dollhouse. Clara looked down at her sister and smiled.

      “Sara, when I’m done with the dishes, you and me can go feed the ducks and then we’ll have a tea party . . . ”

      “Don’t forget you still need to weed the sweet potatoes today.” Mabel Stuart reminded her.

      Clara grimaced, “Yes’m, Mama.”

      “I want to feed a duck,” Sara smiled happily.

      “I promise, we’ll do it later.”

      “Not ‘til your chores are done.”

      “Yes’m, Mama.”

      The screen door slammed shut as fourteen-year-old Emily walked into the kitchen carrying an empty clothes basket. Seeing that her mother was focused on making bread, she scowled at her sister, Clara, and then stuck out her tongue.

      “Mama, I think Clara forgot about weedin’ the sweet potatoes,” she said ever-so-sweetly.

      “She knows, Emily, she knows . . . don’t forget, I’ve got some sewing on the machine for you, and you need to sweep out the bedrooms and beat the rugs today.”

      “Yes, Mama.”

      Emily turned to her sister and mouthed the words, “I hate you,” before leaving the room.

      “Mama, she’s doing it again,” Clara protested.

      “Emily Ann Stuart,” came the familiar refrain but it was too late, Emily was gone.

      Mabel expertly dropped each of the four kneaded loaves in a greased and floured pan. When she had eyed them all, making certain they were nearly identical in size she wiped her hands on her apron and covered the loaves with a moist dishtowel for the final rise. After looking at her youngest to make certain Sara was still preoccupied with the doll, she began to help Clara with the dishes.

      “Thank you, Mama.”

      Mabel smiled. “So how’s school, Clara?”

      Clara blushed, “Paul spoke to me . . . he asked if he could borrow a pencil.”

      The woman appeared concerned, “The Gabriel boy? I’ve told you, I don’t want you speaking to that boy, Clara.”

      “Oh, Mama!”

      “I don’t want you speaking to him. The family’s nothing but trouble.”

      “Mama, it was only a pencil.”

      “You heard me, Clara.”

      “Yes’m, Mama.”

      When the two were silent, Sara looked up from her place on the floor and reminded Clara:

      “I want to feed a duck.”

      “Pretty soon,” was all Clara managed to say.

      About three hours later the dishes had been put away and the sweet potatoes had undergone a cursory weeding—the whole process being done while Sara had played with a tiny shovel, repeatedly building a small pile of dirt and then moving it to another location about two feet away. Clara and Sara walked toward the duck enclosure; Clara held her sister’s tiny hand with one set of fingers and some stale bread that their mother had given them with the other.

      Grandfather Stuart stood under the oak tree smoking a pipe. Everett and his two sons—seventeen-year-old Benjamin and sixteen-year-old Jason were repairing some fencing on the far side of the horse pasture. Clara could hear the sound of Emily beating one of the house rugs beside the barn door but she refused to look in that direction. The two girls passed by the outhouse—with its shovel and its box of lime—on their way to the enclosure.

      “Do you have to go to the outhouse?”

      “No,” Sara said positively.

      “We could look at the Sears catalog,” Clara added, just to make sure.

      “No outhouse,” Sara said positively.

      “You just want to feed the ducks?”

      Sara nodded joyfully.

      They passed the chicken coop and ignored the chickens, which ignored them in return. As they approached the duck enclosure, surrounded on four sides and the roof with chicken wire, the ducks pressed their way to the front of the cage, knowing the presence of the girls meant bread.

      “See how happy they are to see you, Sara?”

      The four-year-old grinned.

      Clara broke off a tiny piece of bread and handed it to her sister. Sara grabbed the bread with her tiny fingers and put it up to the chicken wire, while duck beaks attempted to push through the wire. Sara giggled and dropped the bread through the tiny wire opening, where it was quickly gobbled up. She turned to Clara, who handed her another piece of bread. The process was