Waiting For Pippin
She made sure the maids come to her son's room regularly—to open the window, dust the furniture, change the sheets, and check the supply of fresh towels and soap near the washstand. Pippin never made any comment on his toiletries, but she knew what kind of soap he liked best, the white honey and oatmeal soap made with the lye from the ash of apple wood. She wanted him to see it, round, shiny and delicately fragrant, lying pristine and waiting on the porcelain dish, when he entered the room again. She wanted him to know that nothing had changed, not the soap, not her love. When Pippin returned, she wanted him to see that she had kept his room exactly as he left it—as though he had stayed there all the time, the way he remained in her heart.
When farmers' wives came to the door with a plump goose, or jars of honey, or a bucket of blueberries, a basket of mushrooms to sell, she listened to Cook haggling for the right price, closing her eyes and hugging herself. Sometimes she could hear his voice, Pippin's voice, eager and hungry as he peered at the offering. "Oh, stop squabbling, Cook dear! Four copper coins seems like a reasonable price for this. And I want that roasted, please, with a lot of butter, served with small potatoes, do we still have those nice walnuts from last fall? and wine sauce, please. Thank you so much, Mrs. Stones, for taking the trouble to deliver this lovely duck." She would smile at the memory, until she heard the inevitable question, more often than not surreptitiously uttered. "Any news of the young master then? Seems it's been a long time since he's gone into that queer forest over at Buckland. Do you think he's ever coming back?" And then her smile would turn to a cold mask of grief.
There were times when all she could hear was the lazy murmur of the fire and the softness of the last traces of summer wind outside, as soft as Pippin's voice, when he spoke to her last before leaving for Hobbiton. "It's going to be a long trip, Mamma." He was sitting—hugging his knees—on the rug in front of her chair. She was knitting a shawl for Vinca, but she had lost count and the heap of yarn lay on her lap as she gazed at her son, his young face looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. "But don't worry. Merry, Frodo and Fatty will be there, and Sam will come along to do for us." He took her hands, clasping them comfortingly in his. "I will be away long and I'll miss you and the girls dreadfully. But I will come home as soon as I am able." She remembered smiling and saying, "Of course you will, love. Don't be silly." And she remembered his smile and his scent of pipeweed and tea and apples when he rose to kiss her good night.
She would go to Pippin's room then and sat on his bed, gathering the bedclothes in her fists and pressing her face to the folds, searching for the smell of her baby boy in the maze of scents from the soap, the sun and the cedar chest where the bedsheets were kept. Sometimes the fear and anger made her weak and she trembled so violently it was a struggle to keep herself from collapsing onto the pillows and giving herself up to the horrors that crowded her waking thoughts and constant nightmares: her Pippin alone, afraid, cold and hungry and hurt. Her Pippin taken captive, tortured in ways she could not even imagine. Her Pippin needing her, calling for her.
When she visited the Halls on Esmeralda's birthday, she first looked at her husband's sister with wonder and envy. She watched Esmeralda laugh and wondered if she lost sleep worrying about Merry. She listened to Esmeralda singing and reproached herself for yielding to melancholy and longing. She was the Thain's wife, with as much responsibility as the Mistress of the Hall, there was no excuse for her to succumb to despondency when a lot of hobbits depended on the sound judgment of her husband, and of hers. Life in the Shire went on, heedless of hobbitlads disappearing into the Blue. How could she allow herself the luxury of mourning for her Pippin when she should be thinking of the many hobbits whose fortunes were entwined with that of the Thain's family? Perhaps she should take a leaf out of Esmeralda's book and cease to let Pippin occupy so much of her thought and time. Perhaps it was time for her to learn that life went on, that she would survive, even if Pippin were never to return. She would manage. After all, she still had Pearl, Pimsie and Vinca, while Esmeralda lost her only child.
She was surprised when Esmeralda asked her to come to the Master's private parlor. "This is for Pippin," said the Mistress, handing out a small package wrapped in soft cloth and green ribbons. Though her voice hovered bravely and ridiculously on the border of indifferent briskness, Esmie's eyes—gray-blue eyes, Merry's eyes—betrayed her. "Did the lad ever write?" Her flippancy seemed so at odds with the faint quiver of her fingers as she fastidiously smoothed the laces on her wrist.
She knew Esmie did not really wish to learn the truth; it was love, ever the cruel master that compelled hearts to cling to even the most fragile and flimsiest hope. She understood that Esmie knew there had been no letters from the lads, but she had to ask. They were mothers and that left them little choice.
She looked at Esmie and shook her head, saying, "No, no letter from him yet. But don't all lads do that? Tormenting their mothers by not sending news?"
They laughed together, but the sound was too shrill and brittle they stopped immediately, staring desperately at each other.
"I write to Pip everyday, though," she continued, her voice tight. "I've been writing since Yule. When he comes home, I'll lock the lad in his room until he finishes reading all of them." She paused and tried without success to smile "It helped, writing to him," she explained, perhaps unnecessarily.
"I stitch vines and flowers to Merry's shirts," revealed Esmeralda, her smile too cheerful it was almost frightening. "On his collars, on his cuffs, all along the button facings. I sewed new braces for him, a little wider than the ones he wears …" She could only watch as Esmeralda stopped, dropping her gaze to her lap where her fingers twitched and tugged at her lacy handkerchief.
She reached out and took Esmeralda's hand and pressed it softly. It took them sometime to compose themselves before Esmeralda could resume her role of lively and capable hostess, chatting gaily about her cherished rhubarb pie recipe while leading the Thain's wife out of the parlor. The Thain's wife had one last look at the room before she stepped out. A single package was left on the table where the gifts for close relatives were heaped. Somehow she knew who the package was for.
Paladin kept saying airily that he believed the lad was having a jolly time tramping in the wilderness with his cousins, although she could see the corners of his mouth tightening whenever their son's name came up in a conversation. When news came of the ruffians who took over the east and north farthings, she noticed the steely set of his face as he spoke to the hobbits gathered in the spacious dancing hall of the Smials. After guard duty was distributed, he retired to his own study. She found him there much later, after she woke up in the small hours of the night to find his half of the bed empty. He smiled when he saw her, and beckoned with a gesture of his hand for her to sit beside him on the sofa. He took her hand in his, clasping it to his chest as he sat back and breathed deeply. In his other hand he was holding and fingering a wooden eagle, a present from Pippin on the lad's last birthday. She took one look at it and lost the battle to keep her façade of calmness. He let go of her hand and pulled her closer, gently caressing her hair. Then his body, solid and strong and warm, shook as he sobbed. She looked up to see his normally calm face contorted in grief and pain, firelight dancing in the twin frayed bands of tears running down his cheeks. In his vulnerability she learned that she was not alone, and found her strength.
-fin-