“Start pumping water now,” Cora said to Nettie Mae. Then she hurried toward the shed.
Under Cora’s direction, Clyde knotted one end of the rope around the handle of a pail, then carried the rope to the rooftop. Nettie Mae shuttled water from pump to ladder, dumping each bucketful into Clyde’s tin pail. The pail ascended slowly to the roof. Each time Clyde emptied his pail down the mouth of the chimney, a pillar of ash and steam erupted, darkening the sky—and every time, Nettie Mae feared for her son, terrified he would breathe in that devilish cloud and lose his senses, stumble and fall from the roof. She lost count of how many circuits she made between well pump and ladder, and of how many frantic prayers she muttered while the pump handle rose and fell, as fast as her aching arms could manage. By the time no more steam rose from the chimney, Nettie Mae was weak with exhaustion, and Clyde’s face and hands were blackened from his work. The sun rested low in the western sky; white moths had begun to gather above a patch of blooming phlox in the half-trampled yard.
“We’ve done all we can now,” Cora said, dabbing sweat from her brow with a corner of her apron. “You had better climb down, Clyde. Go slowly. You’re tired, and apt to put a hand or a foot wrong.”
When his feet were back on blessed, solid ground, Cora sent Clyde to the barn to fetch Beulah and the children. Nettie Mae leaned against the sod wall. She tipped her head back till it met the wall, too. Her body shook so forcefully from the long exertion she couldn’t trust herself to stand upright. The yard was empty save for the two of them—Cora and Nettie Mae.
The fear that had supported her, holding her upright and determined all those hours of desperate work, vanished in a blink. A dreadful trembling weakness flooded in. Nettie Mae covered her face with her hands, and felt the grime of frantic labor beneath her palms. You will not weep, she told herself sternly. Never would she forgive herself such a display—a show of weakness in front of Cora Bemis, the woman she was supposed to despise. There’s no sense in weeping, anyhow. The house is saved, or so we may now reasonably hope, and no one has been harmed. Pull yourself together; you aren’t some soft, city-bred pet.
“Are you well, Nettie Mae?”
Nettie Mae forced herself to stand upright. She did not quite meet Cora’s eye. “Quite well, thank you. Only . . . tired.”
Cora moved toward the steps. “I suppose I ought to begin cleaning up that salt. There’s no sense in lighting another fire until the chimney has been brushed clean—it would only catch alight again. But it’s late, and the children will be hungry. I suppose we can have bread with apple preserves and cold smoked lamb for supper. Then we can wash this soot away and go to bed. I’ll be grateful for sleep, after such a trial.”
Nettie Mae caught Cora by the arm before she even realized she had reached for the woman. Cora halted with one foot on the step, staring at Nettie Mae, astonished by the contact. Her face was so pale, she might have been frightened.
“We can’t sleep in this house,” Nettie Mae insisted. “Not tonight. Not for two nights at least.”
“Why ever not?”
“This isn’t the first chimney fire I’ve witnessed. Not in my own home, thank God—but all the same, I’ve seen this before. The danger is only halfway past now. If any embers have remained high up in the chimney, the heat may spread. The fire may rekindle and set the rafters alight on the second floor. The roof could blaze up before we know it—before we had a chance to escape.”
Warily, Cora looked up at the eaves. “Are you certain?”
“Quite certain. If you hadn’t your own house nearby, I would insist we all sleep in the barn until the danger had passed. As it is, let us move the children to your place. I will remain here, if you prefer—but the children must be kept out of harm’s way.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Cora said at once. “You will stay with us, too. You are welcome in my home, Nettie Mae. After all, it’s really the least I can do; you welcomed me and mine for six months.”
I never welcomed you. Guilt curdled Nettie Mae’s stomach. With good enough reason, perhaps—but still, I never welcomed you. And you bore my anger with a patience I didn’t deserve.
“Very well,” Nettie Mae said quietly. “We should gather up the things we’ll need. How many beds remain at your farm?”
“The boys’ bed, and Beulah’s. It’s a shame the hour is so late now, but tomorrow Beulah and I can take the bed from our room upstairs and carry it back to my house. The thaw is over, and the planting is done—here on your land, at least. It’s time we returned to our house, with thanks to you and Clyde for your generosity.”
Together, they trekked across the pasture to the Bemis farm, and even the children were laden with blankets, bags of warm clothing, and baskets filled with bread and jars of preserves. By the time they reached the little gray house, dusk had dropped its fine purple veil across the land. Cora assigned Clyde to the small room that had once belonged to the boys. Benjamin and Charles complained bitterly when their mother told them they would not be permitted to sleep on the floor near Clyde.
“He’s a grown man,” Cora said. “Let him have a little dignity.” She turned to Nettie Mae. “You must take Beulah’s old bed. I am sure it wants airing, after half a year, but we haven’t found the time. I hope you’ll forgive any unpleasant odors. I shall sleep on the sofa—Benjamin, take a cloth and clear away the cobwebs, will you?—and we will make a good, soft nest with all these blankets, here on the sitting-room floor for the children. Beulah, lay a fire in the hearth. No one has burned a stick in this house for six months, so we needn’t worry about this chimney catching alight. When you’ve started the fire, you can fill all of our ewers with water for washing up.”
When the beds were ready and the fire laid, driving back the chill of a spring night, Cora spooned sweet apple preserves over thick slices of bread and shared around the cold, meager supper. Clyde ate his portion quickly, then scrubbed the last of the soot from his face and lit his lantern.
“I’d like to stay near the sheep for a couple of hours,” he said. “The spring lambers are close to bearing now.”
Nettie Mae rested her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t stay out too late.”
She followed Clyde to the Bemises’ front porch, then stood wrapped in her shawl, holding tightly to her own body. Nettie Mae watched as her son disappeared into darkness—his fine, strong, confident form giving way to silhouette, the shadow made stark and unfamiliar by the lantern light surrounding him. He was as broad shouldered and tall as a man ought to be.
I’ve no child of my own any longer. I’ve a son—and one who has grown to manhood, thank God for that mercy. But no child left for me to hold.
Clyde’s light diminished as he crossed the pasture, an orb of ruddy glow bobbing and wavering in the darkness, growing smaller and more distant with each passing heartbeat. She tore her eyes away from her son and found the sod-brick house. Her home—hers alone now, with Substance gone, with Clyde walking off into manhood’s shadowed landscape. He would want a family of his own soon enough, and God alone could say where his future would take him then. But Nettie Mae’s house still stood. She could make out its high, stoic walls in the faint starlight. She watched the roofline for signs of fire, but no sparks arose; no plume of smoke obscured the stars. The night held itself calm and still.
She had been spared. God had delivered blow after blow, battering Nettie Mae’s spirit, testing her faith for years—all the long years of her life. But now, this once, the Lord had withheld His power. He had granted Nettie Mae mercy instead of pain.
A great surge of gratitude rose within, so sudden and strong she couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes. That thankful glow settled high in her chest, suffusing Nettie Mae with a comfortable sense of satisfaction. She heard Cora’s voice inside the house—speaking to the children, chiding them toward their beds—and the sound warmed Nettie Mae. A flush prickled her cheeks; her throat felt tight. For a moment, she thought it was the old feeling, the habitual rancor that had mar
ked her every moment in Cora’s presence. But no—this was a new sensation, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
The door opened with a shy, tentative sound, then closed just as softly. Nettie Mae didn’t look over her shoulder to learn who had joined her on the porch. There was no need; she already knew. Cora’s steps drew nearer, as near as the woman dared, then stopped some feet away.
Nettie Mae drew in a long breath and held it while she prayed—for what, she didn’t quite know. Patience? Atonement? Then she sighed, and with deliberate humility, turned to face Cora.
Cora’s eyes flicked away at once. She twisted her hands inside the pocket of her apron; Nettie Mae could see Cora’s fingers writhing through the blue-check fabric, agitated, a nest of snakes roused from hibernation. But Cora’s carefully lowered face bore no evidence of her turmoil. She hid, as always, behind a mask of cringing delicacy.
“You’re a far tougher soul than you make yourself out to be,” Nettie Mae said. “You oughtn’t to look so afraid. Timidity doesn’t suit you, after all.”
Cora looked up from the faded wood planking. She didn’t shift from foot to foot, as once had been her way. She met Nettie Mae’s eye with steady confidence. In the apron pocket, Cora’s hands unclenched, and her slender shoulders eased all their tension.
“How did you know what to do?” Nettie Mae asked. “About the fire, I mean.”
“Oh.” Cora gave a gentle laugh, as if sparing a house from burning were all in a day’s work. “I saw two or three such fires when I was a young woman in Saint Louis. I was just a girl, really. I must admit, I found myself surprised at how quickly the knowledge came back to me after so many years. But I remembered watching some neighbors contending with a chimney fire, one especially miserable winter. Firefighters came to the scene and instructed all the men in how to extinguish the flames. My grandfather helped. He thought it splendid, to work side by side with those strapping young firefighters. He chattered about it for days afterward, telling me everything he had learned. I never imagined I would ever use that knowledge myself, but thank God I learned enough to be of some use. Or, I ought rightfully to say, thank God my grandfather learned.” She gazed out over the dark fields, pulling her shawl close around her slender frame. “Grandfather died the following autumn. That winter was the last one I spent with him—our last Christmas together. By the time he died, I had already agreed to marry Ernest. Grandfather wasn’t pleased by my decision. We quarreled about it often. He had worked so hard to advance me, you see, to give me a better life. He wanted more for me than . . .”
Cora lifted a hand, gesturing at the sleeping prairie—its long black desolation, the unstirred void. By chance, she had reached just beyond the porch eaves. Thin starlight struck her palm, silver against pale skin. The delicate illumination only seemed to stress the emptiness of Cora’s hand. The nothingness she held.
Cora glanced at Nettie Mae again, shrugging one shoulder reflexively, a twitch of discomfort. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve no interest in hearing my talk.”
“It’s all right,” Nettie Mae said at once. “I don’t mind.” In fact, she found the woman’s voice melodious, comforting. All winter through, she had thought Cora weak and stupid, worthy only of ridicule and scorn. Yet who had kept her head, faced down the fire—and who had lost her wits to fear?
I never saw your true measure, Cora. Not until today. You are as strong and capable as I. Perhaps even stronger.
That strange flush of warmth returned to Nettie Mae. She wondered at it, pressing a hand to her stomach where it stirred. What was that odd sensation, so foreign and yet so sweet?
Sisterly. That was the word that came to Nettie Mae, whispered on a half-heard breath.
She stepped closer to Cora. One step, another, closer than she had ever come before. Her scalp tingled, and her cheeks burned as they had done before the fire in her hearth. What in the Lord’s name are you doing? Nettie Mae asked herself. But she could think of no answer.
Nettie Mae reached out and caught Cora by her shoulders. She pulled the woman roughly into her arms. Cora stiffened with surprise, but Nettie Mae pressed her all the more tightly against her bosom.
“Thank you.” Awkward, faltering words, stumbling down the length of her tongue. “Thank you, Cora. You saved my home. Or I think you’ve saved it; another day or two, and we’ll know for certain.”
Cora disentangled herself from Nettie Mae’s arms. Even in anemic starlight, Nettie Mae could see Cora’s flush of bewilderment.
“Why—I didn’t do a thing.”
“Don’t play at bashfulness.” Nettie Mae found it something of a relief to slip back into her accustomed, harsher ways. “It was I who did nothing. I hadn’t the first idea what to do, how to put out that fire so quickly. Nor would Clyde have known. Without you, I doubt my house would still be standing tonight. Everything I own would be a pile of ashes, but for you.”
Cora stared down at her hem. Her mouth opened as if she might speak. Then she closed it again. Those fine, slender hands—perfect, despite their months of hard work, their grace undiminished by chapping and callus alike—slipped once more into the apron pocket.
“It’s true,” Nettie Mae insisted. “You may be too humble to accept my praise, but I’m not so proud that I don’t know when praise is due. That is to say, I’m not so proud any longer. I was, once. I treated you dreadfully, Cora, and for far too long. My life has been—”
Nettie Mae’s voice broke. For a moment, she found she couldn’t speak. Words had left both her head and her heart, torn suddenly away and held beyond her desperate reach, beyond her strength to retrieve. She recalled with a shudder the times—more times than she could count—when Substance, at a loss for words to describe his lonesomeness and grief, had beaten her so badly that the breath had left her body. In those terrible moments when her ears rang with panic and she writhed on the ground, willing herself to inhale, nothing mattered but the next breath, not even the blows that continued to fall on her back, her legs, her half-covered face. The world seemed to close like a pen around her, like the tight chute into which Substance herded the cattle he would kill, one by one. All the world drawn in close, all the world throbbing in her chest, the airless void. That was how Nettie Mae felt in that moment, facing Cora directly as she had never done before, fighting against fear and shame for words that refused to come.
Patiently, Cora waited. The fists she had bunched within her pocket relaxed again; the apron went flat and smooth.
“My life has been hard,” Nettie Mae managed at last. “I’m a woman who has lost much—practically everything I’ve ever held dear. Losing Substance, too, made me . . . more bitter than I ought to have been.”
“No.” Cora reached out as if she might take Nettie Mae by the arm, might offer some comfort. Her hand fell back to her side. “No; you were no crosser than I expected, Nettie Mae, and a good deal more patient and forgiving than I had any right to expect. What I did to you—to Clyde—to everyone.” She faced the night once more, watching Clyde’s lantern as it drifted among the distant pens. At length, Cora said, “What I did was unforgivable. I have never forgiven myself, and I expect forgiveness from no one else—least of all you.”
“Perhaps what you did with Substance was wrong, but still I wouldn’t have felt so hard, I think, if I hadn’t already lost so much.” Nettie Mae paused and swallowed, attempting to ease the knot in her throat. It only grew larger. She couldn’t have said whether that stricture was born of sorrow or of the wild, sisterly affection that had flourished so suddenly in her heart. Of gratitude and gain. Tentatively, she said, “Clyde wasn’t my only child, you know. I had five babies, altogether. But only Clyde has lived so long.”
This time, Cora didn’t restrain herself. She clutched Nettie Mae just above the elbow, and again Nettie Mae was startled by the strength of her grip. “I never knew. Oh, Nettie Mae, how dreadful.”
Nettie Mae tossed her head, as if they were discussing something inconsequential—the price of cloth b
y the yard or when to cull the chickens. “It’s behind me now. All behind me.”
“No; it never can be. No mother could lose even one child and forget. To lose four . . .”
Cora released her hold on Nettie Mae’s arm, but she didn’t move away. The two women stood side by side now, close as they had never been in their months of mutual toil.
“Such losses are a wound not even time may heal,” Cora said softly, “though I will pray every night of my life that God will grant you relief.”
“Thank you. To be remembered in your prayers is a kindness I feel I don’t deserve.”
Cora clutched both of Nettie Mae’s hands. “It’s I who doesn’t deserve your kindness. Even rescuing your home isn’t enough to repay you for the winter, let alone to wash away the stain on my soul. What’s one home saved, when I’ve destroyed so much with my selfishness? God have mercy on me—I never meant to hurt you, nor Ernest, nor the children. I was lonely, that’s all. Lonely and craving conversation, hungry for the company of someone new. My life had grown so monotonous and small. I acted without thinking. But still, I make no excuse. I did what I did—I’ll never deny it—and now I shall pay the price in shame and regret all the days of my life.”
Nettie Mae could think of no reply. She squeezed Cora’s hands, and wasn’t certain whether she meant the small gesture as conciliation or comfort.
“You may stay under my roof as long as you wish.” Cora spoke quickly now, animated by some sudden burst of energy, as if she had come all at once to a decision long pondered. “Until you’re entirely sure your house is safe—longer, if you please. I intend to take the children up to Paintrock instead of Saint Louis. We’ll settle in town. I intend to leave as soon as the road is fit for a heavy wagon.”
The sweet unfolding in Nettie Mae’s chest withered. She could feel the petals dropping. “Paintrock? Why?”
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel Page 39
