“So’s speak!”
“Mattie! More chicken, please, ja?” It was Henry. He was manning the barbecue grill.
“Right away, Henry,” I said, gathering my skirts in my hands to run back inside. He was also sharpening a carving knife. Even though it was dusky, I saw it and wished I hadn’t. I knew it was only a silly superstition, but it made me nervous.
Before I could run back inside, Ada came up to me, grabbed my hand, and said, “Royal and Martha Miller just had a fight!”
I blinked at her. “Royal? That can’t be. He was just here. Did you see them fighting?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“My nosy brother Mike. He was pissing out back of the boathouse. They didn’t know he was there. He said he couldn’t see anything and couldn’t hear everything, but he did hear Martha tell Royal that it looked like his broken heart had healed up mighty quick.”
My own heart felt like lead. “He told me he was going to talk to Tom L’Esperance.”
“Tom L’Esperance? He’s not even here. I’m going to find Mike and see if he knows more. Maybe I can find Royal, too.”
“Ada, don’t . . . ,” I started to say. Then I heard my name shouted and felt arms around my waist. It was my littlest sister. “For heaven’s sake, Beth, what’s all round your mouth?”
“Strawberry pie, Matt! It’s so good!” And then she ran off, screeching and giggling with two other little girls. I was glad to see her recovered and lively again.
I saw somebody waving to me. It was Abby. She was standing with Minnie’s two younger sisters, each of whom had one of Minnie’s babies in her arms.
“Ask Mattie,” I heard her say as I joined them, “she’ll know.”
“Know what?” I asked, half distracted, looking around for Royal. And Martha.
“Know why Miss Wilcox suddenly disappeared,” Clara Simms said in hushed, dramatic tones. She was a girl who liked to stir the pot.
“She wanted to go to Paris,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about Miss Wilcox. I missed her too much.
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I heard. I heard she wrote dirty poems under another name and when the school trustees found out it was her writing them, they sent her packing.”
“She wrote beautiful poems, Clara,” I said, bristling. “Have you ever read one?”
“I wouldn’t. Not ever. My mother says her books aren’t decent. She says they’re dangerous.”
Miss Wilcox once said that books are dangerous things, too. Maybe in the right hands. A book could only be dangerous in Clara Simms’s hands if she hit someone over the head with it.
“Mattie, my chicken, ja?” Henry shouted.
“I’ll be back,” I said, running inside. I got the chicken and made another trip for corn and biscuits and bean salad—dodging table six on the front stairs as I did. He was pulling one of his tricks—bending over to brush some nonexistent dirt from his shoes. When a girl lifted her skirts, so as to not trip over them on the steps, he was perfectly positioned to ogle her ankles.
As soon as I’d made sure Henry had everything he needed, I rejoined Abby and the Simms girls. “Where’s Lou?” I asked them, looking around for her.
“You haven’t seen her yet?” Abby said.
“No, why?”
Abby pointed toward a large brown keg. There was a wiry boy with a bad haircut standing next to it, sneaking a glass of beer.
“What’s he got to do with Lou?” I said.
“Mattie, that is Lou.”
“Lord, Abby! What’s she done to her hair?”
“Cut it off. All of it. Keeps threatening to run away. I wish she would.”
I came up behind her. “What are you doing?” I hissed, snatching the glass away.
“Drinking beer.” She snatched it back, guzzled its contents in one go, then let out a burp so long and so loud it made her lips flap.
I grabbed her by the wrist. “Louisa Anne Gokey, I’m ashamed of you!”
“I don’t care.”
“Look at your hair! You’re half bald! What did Pa do when he saw you?”
“Nothing. He didn’t even notice. He never does. Let go, Matt, let go!” And then she yanked her skinny arm free and flew off, sparrowlike, to join the younger Loomis boys in some fresh mischief.
“What’s wrong with her? She got the mange?” It was Royal. He offered me a biscuit from his plate. I took it.
“She cut her hair. Again.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s angry.” So angry that she made me afraid. She was growing wild. Why didn’t Pa see that? Why didn’t he do something?
“She don’t like the color or something?”
“No, Royal, it’s nothing to do with the color,” I said impatiently. “It’s to do with losing our mother and then Lawton . . .” I saw that he was looking at his bean salad, not me, and gave up. “Where were you?” I asked.
“Getting something to eat. Talking to Tom.”
“Is he here?”
“Tom? He’s right over there,” he said, pointing to the porch. And he was. He was leaning against a column, having a parley with Charlie Eckler.
Ada must’ve been wrong, I thought. Her brother hadn’t seen the fight, after all; he’d only heard it. Maybe he’d made a mistake. Maybe Martha had fought with someone else, not Royal.
“Your pa oughtn’t to clear those northern acres of his,” Royal said, swallowing a bite of pie. “He told me he was thinking of it.”
“No? Why not?” I asked absently, still looking for Martha despite myself.
“I was up there berrying the other day. Where our land touches yours and the Hubbards’. He’s got good blueberry bushes up there. Should keep ’em. Camps want ’em for pies and pancakes and such.”
Minnie, who’d managed to sneak away from Jim, joined us. So did Ada and Fran. They started talking about who was here with whom, and Royal, uncomfortable around so much female chatter, went to talk to his brother.
“Oh, he’s so handsome, Mattie!” Ada sighed as soon as he was out of earshot. “How did you get him?”
Ada didn’t mean anything by the question, but hearing it made me uneasy nonetheless. I often wondered the same thing myself.
“She let him kiss her in a boat out on Big Moose Lake, that’s how,” Fran teased.
“How do you know? You certainly weren’t there,” I said.
Fran grinned. “Never make love in the country, Matt. ’Cuz the potatoes have eyes . . .”
“. . . and the corn has ears,” Ada finished, giggling.
“She’ll be Mattie Loomis before long,” Minnie said. “Did you set a date yet? I bet it’ll be before the new year. I bet you’re married before the hay’s in. I’m sure of it.”
“I wouldn’t be.”
I turned around, startled by the new voice. It was Martha Miller. She and Belinda Becker had joined our group. Belinda looked like she’d smelled something bad. Martha’s face was pale and pinched.
“I hope you have a dowry, Mattie Gokey. A good one,” Martha said.
“Unlike some around here, Mattie doesn’t need a dowry,” Minnie retorted.
“Not when she has such nice big bosoms,” Fran said, giggling.
I turned crimson and they all giggled. Even Belinda. Not Martha, though. She just looked at me with eyes that were hard and mean. I saw that they were puffy, too. She’d been crying.
“Royal’s the second-eldest,” she said. “Dan will get the bulk of the Loomis farm one day. But the Loomis land borders your father’s, doesn’t it, Mattie?”
“Martha, come on. Let’s go,” Belinda said.
Martha paid her no mind. “If Royal marries you, he might be able to get his father to give him a few acres, and your father, too. Maybe ten or fifteen altogether. Why, he might even get your father’s whole farm one day. After all, Lawton left and he’s not coming back, is he?”
“Martha!” Belinda chided, tugging on her arm. Martha shrugged her off.
“And then there’s Emmie Hubbard’s land,” she said. “Twelve acres. Nice the way it nestles in between the Loomises’ land and your father’s, isn’t it? Funny, too, how it just happens to be up for auction next month.”
“Oh, who cares, Martha? Whyn’t you go poison the punch or something?” Fran said.
My blood froze up inside me. “What are you saying, Martha?”
“Emmie doesn’t pay her taxes on time for four or five years running and nobody cares. Now, all of a sudden Arn’s auctioning her land. You don’t wonder about that?”
“Only because there’s an interested party,” I said, remembering Aunt Josie and Alma McIntyre steaming Emmie’s letter open. “Someone inquired. Someone from the city looking for cheap land.”
Martha smiled. “Oh, there’s an interested party all right, but he’s not from the city. He lives right in Eagle Bay and his name is Royal Loomis.”
Fran burst into laughter. “You sure are a horse’s ass, Martha. Royal doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“No, but his mother does. Iva’s been saving for two years. Skimming a quarter here, fifty cents there off the egg money or the butter money. She stitched up two quilts over the winter and sold them to Cohen’s. She took in sewing for the summer people, too. She’s the one who pushed Arn to slap a lien on Emmie. She wrote his boss down in Herkimer. Said it wasn’t fair that Emmie got to slide all the time when everyone else paid their taxes.”
“Why’d she do a thing like that?” Ada asked.
Martha shrugged. “She’s got her reasons. She’s also got herself a nice little bundle and she’s giving it to Royal so he can buy the Hubbard land and farm it. And like I said, a few acres as a wedding gift from your pa, Mattie, and Royal’s pa, too, would round it out nicely, wouldn’t it?”
I couldn’t answer her. The words stuck in my throat like burrs.
“Thought you were so smart, didn’t you, Mattie? You, with your head always shoved in a book. Royal says you know a lot of words, but you don’t even know how to please . . .”
“Martha, you say one more word and I’ll slap your mouth right off your face,” Fran said. “I swear to God I will.”
“Come on, Martha, let’s go. Dan’s waving for me,” Belinda said. She pulled on her friend’s arm again and they left.
“Don’t you mind her nonsense, Matt. She made it all up. She’s so jealous over Royal, she’s pissing vinegar,” Minnie said.
“Discourse!” It was Weaver. He’d come up behind me.
I looked at him, dazed. “Gossip,” I said dully. “Embroider. Fabricate. Tell lies. To others. Or yourself. Especially yourself.”
“What? That’s way off, Mattie. I’ll give you another shot. You miss it again, you’re dead as a—”
“Oh, go away, Weaver!” Minnie snapped. “This is girls only!”
“Jeez, Minnie, bite my head off, why don’t you?”
“Go on! Get lost!”
All the pride I had felt earlier, over Royal carrying the pies to me and people seeing him do it, vanished like a spooked doe. I felt sick. My friends could stick up for me and say all the nice things they wanted; it didn’t matter. All I could hear was Royal’s voice telling me, “Your pa oughtn’t to clear those northern acres of his . . . he’s got good blueberry bushes up there . . .” I felt such a fool for thinking that he might try to see past plain brown hair and plain brown eyes to what was inside of me. Or value what he saw.
“Come on, let’s get some dessert. Cook won’t know. Fireworks are going to start soon and I’m dying for a bite of that shortcake,” Ada said, trying to jolly me.
“I’m not very hungry—,” I began to say, but Minnie cut me off.
“Oh, Mattie, don’t fret so. You’ll have the last laugh when you’re married with ten children and your own house and farm and she’s still a sour old maid picking up the hymnbooks after her father’s service.”
I forced a smile.
“Hey, Matt, is Cook going to let you watch the fireworks?” It was Royal.
We all looked at him—myself, Minnie, Ada, and Fran. Not one of us said a word.
“Jim’ll wonder where on earth I’ve got to,” Minnie said, rushing off.
“Cook wants us, Ada. Come on,” Fran said, following her.
“Guess I must’ve stepped in manure,” Royal said, watching them all go.
I looked at the ground but didn’t see it. I saw something that had happened the day I’d rushed home to nurse my sick family. Something I’d forgotten about until now. I saw Tommy Hubbard. He was struggling with Baldwin. He was crying and hitting the calf. Someone had hit him, too. He had an ugly red welt under his eye. Royal hated Tommy. And Emmie. And all the Hubbards.
“Royal . . .”
“What?”
“Martha Miller just . . . she just told me some things.”
He snorted. “You believe what she says?”
I looked up at him. “Royal, are you the one fixing to buy Emmie Hubbard’s land?”
He looked away and spat and then he looked right back at me with his beautiful amber eyes. “Yes, Matt,” he said. “Yes, I am.”
ide • al
“Jeezum, Mattie, you’re in for it now!” Fran said. “Why’d you leave the broom out in the middle of the kitchen?”
“I didn’t! I swept the floor and put it away!” I was folding napkins in the dining room, readying the tables for tomorrow’s breakfast.
“Cook just tripped over it and dropped a whole pot of consommé. She said for you to get in there right away.”
“But I didn’t . . .”
“Go on, before she comes out here after you!”
Fran disappeared back into the kitchen. I just stood where I was, a lump growing in my throat, thinking how an earful from Cook would make a perfectly awful end to a perfectly awful day. Ideal was my word of the day. A standard of perfection, or something existing only in the imagination, was its meaning. The dictionary must have been playing a joke on me. There had been nothing perfect or excellent about this day. It was the fifth of July, my birthday. I’d turned seventeen and no one had remembered. Fran and Ada knew the date very well. So did Weaver. And not one of them had so much as mentioned it. I’d been blue about it all day. I’d been blue about other things, too. About the rotten things Martha Miller had said to me at the party the night before. And the fight I’d had with Royal. Right after I’d asked if he was the one buying Emmie’s land.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he’d said.
“Well, I do,” I said. “Why are you doing it? It’s not right.”
He took my arm and led me away from the tables and the people and the noisy brass band playing “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” We walked a little ways into the woods.
“Why do you want to buy Emmie’s land, Royal?” I said as soon as we were alone.
“Because it’s good land. It’ll make good growing land, good pasture, too.”
I said nothing for a minute, trying to work up my courage, then I asked him, “Is that the only reason?” I was afraid of the answer.
“No, Mattie, there’s another . . .”
I looked at the ground. Martha was right. It was Pa’s land Royal wanted, not me.
“. . . I want Emmie Hubbard gone.”
I saw Frank Loomis’s hairy behind in my mind’s eye and Emmie bent over the stove. “Royal, you . . . you know?”
“For god’s sake, Mattie. Everyone in the whole damn county knows.”
“I didn’t know.”
“That ain’t hardly a surprise. You’re too interested in what Blueberry Finn and Oliver Dickens and all the rest of them made-up people are doing to see what’s going on right around you.”
“That’s not true!”
He rolled his eyes.
“Royal, are you buying that land for us? To live on?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want it, Royal. How can we start a life there knowing we took it away from a widow and seven children? It’s all they’
ve got. If you buy it and kick the Hubbards off, where will they go?”
“To hell, I hope.”
“But Lucius . . .” I didn’t know how to say it, so I stopped. Then I started again, for it had to be said. “That baby . . . he’s your half brother, isn’t he?”
“None of Emmie’s brats is any kin to me.”
“He can’t help how he got here; he’s only a baby,” I said softly.
He looked at me like I was Judas himself. Then he said, “What if it was your pa, Mattie? Taking the first milk of the year over to Emmie’s when you and your sisters hadn’t yet tasted any? Lying to your ma, leaving her standing in the barn crying? You think you’d give a damn what happened to the Hubbards then?” His voice had turned husky. I saw that it cost him to say these things. “My ma. . . she can’t leave the house some days, she’s that ashamed. Them books of yours tell you how that feels? You keep reading, maybe you’ll find out.” And then he walked off and left me standing by myself.
I was upset the rest of the night. I didn’t even hear the fireworks going off, and when the party was over and everything cleaned up and it was finally time for bed, I couldn’t sleep. I’d stayed awake, turning it all over and over in my mind like a puzzle box, but I couldn’t find an answer to any of it. I didn’t want to see Emmie kicked off her land. She was a trial, but I liked her and I liked her kids. I loved Tommy. He was around so much he was almost like our brother. I felt for him and his family. We only had one parent, too. It could’ve been us in their shoes if Pa didn’t provide as well as he did. But I could also understand Royal’s feelings. If I were him and it were my father paying visits where he shouldn’t and my mother crying, I’d want Emmie gone, too.
The kitchen door banged open again, startling me. “For pete’s sake, Mattie, Cook wants you! Come on!” Fran ordered.
I put down the napkin I was holding. The lump in my throat got bigger. It was unfair that I was in trouble for something I hadn’t even done. And on my birthday, too. I opened the kitchen door expecting the rough edge of Cook’s tongue, and instead I got the shock of my life when twenty people yelled “Surprise!” at the top of their lungs.
Then there was singing and Cook emerged from the pantry bearing a white sheet cake with a candle stuck into it and HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATTIE written on it. I grinned ear to ear and thanked everyone and made a wish, and then there was ice cream and lemonade to go along with the cake, and a bouquet of wildflowers that the girls had picked.
A Gathering Light Page 24
