Free Davey's Daughter by Linda Byler Page A

limp with frequent washings.
    It was her eyes that concerned Sarah. They were veiled with a cloudiness, yes, but the inner light that everyone’s eyes contained simply was not there.
    Sarah hesitated to let the word enter her mind, but Lydia’s eyes looked dead, lifeless, as if the spirit in them had left.
    “Lydia.”
    “Yes?”
    She turned her head obediently, and Sarah shivered inwardly at the darkness — that was it — the darkness in her gray eyes.
    “What would you say if we painted your house?”
    “Oh, I guess that would be alright.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes.”
    “We’ll wait till the barn is finished. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a fresh, clean house?”
    “Yes.”
    Lydia was speaking in monosyllables, dully.
    “Lydia, are you alright?”
    Sarah leaned forward, put a hand on Lydia’s as a gesture of comfort, and was appalled when Lydia pulled her hand away from Sarah’s touch. Her lips drew back in a snarl, the darkness in her eyes became blacker, and she hissed, “Don’t touch me.”
    Sarah gasped and turned her head as tears sprang to her eyes.
    “I’m sorry.”
    Immediately Lydia rose to her feet and left the room.
    The remainder of the day was ruined for Sarah. She felt as if she had inadvertently overstepped a boundary, been too brash, too….she didn’t know what. She had only wanted to help.
    She assisted the other women by mashing the huge vats of potatoes. She poured water into endless Styrofoam cups and washed dishes, but her heart was no longer in the duty she had previously performed so cheerfully.
    Lydia moved among the clusters of people and did her tasks swiftly and efficiently, but alone.
    When Sarah noticed Omar watching his mother, she decided to speak to him. She moved to a position where he could easily see her motioning to him with a crook of her finger to come outside with her.
    “Omar, do you think your mother is alright?”
    Omar was frightened by Sarah’s question. She could tell by the swift movement of his head, the wide opening of his eyes — so much like his mother’s but with a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead above them.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “She just seems to be half aware of…of everything.”
    Omar said nothing. He just turned his head, his eyes searching the crowd, before speaking.
    “She’s strong. She’ll be okay. It’s not like she hasn’t weathered a lot more than this.”
    “Yes, of course. Your father’s illness. I realize that. As you say, she’ll be alright.”
    Priscilla came out of the house to stand beside Sarah, and Omar’s eyes brightened immediately, the gray dancing with flecks of blue.
    “Hey Priscilla.”
    “How’s it going, Omar?”
    “Alright, I guess. I just can’t keep up with everything. Or everybody. Sometimes I get the feeling this barn is taking on a life of its own, building itself.”
    He grinned, his wide mouth revealing his perfect teeth, his face alight with a new energy.
    “Oh, it’s wonderful, Omar!”
    Priscilla spoke eloquently, and he looked away from the undiluted eagerness in her eyes. Lowering his head, he kicked at an emerging tuft of grass, then looked up, revealing the veil that had moved across his own eyes, darkening them — just like his mother’s.
    “Yeah, well, we don’t deserve any of this.”
    The words were harsh and imbedded with irony, self-mockery.
    “Don’t say that, Omar.”
    “I know what I’m saying. We’re not worthy.”
    He turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, melting into it as if to find safety in the numbers. Sarah and Priscilla stood numbly, watching, keeping their thoughts to themselves.
    The long lines of men snaked toward the house. The men filled Styrofoam trays with the good, hot food that had been donated and cooked by people from many different denominations or no denomination at all. All kinds of human hearts had been touched by the need of a poor young widow, and her situation had served to remove any fences of superiority or