by Lynn Austin
“I have a feeling that Mack’s passing will be the death of Lillie,” Cora said. “You know how much that boy meant to her. It might have been one bullet, but it will kill two people.”
Maggie looked away for a moment as if to control her grief. Emotion thickened her voice when she spoke again. “I was so sorry that I didn’t get down for his funeral. I heard it was lovely.” Then she regained control and changed the subject. “What books did you bring me today, Cora? And, Allie, you can go ahead and look through my collection if you want.” She must have seen me eyeing the shelves.
“Thanks. Maybe I will.” I stood and walked to the first bookshelf, tilting my head to read the spines.
“If you see one you like, you’re welcome to borrow it. How long will you be staying in Acorn?”
“I-I’m not sure.” It was the closest I could come to an honest answer. I quickly moved to the next bookshelf to escape Maggie’s scrutiny. When the water boiled, we sat and talked about our favorite novels and authors as we sipped our tea. I liked Maggie Coots a lot and hated to leave when Cora said it was time to go. But even though Maggie’s home had been gracious and cheerful, I still sensed the same aching sadness I’d felt in so many of the other places we’d stopped.
“Maggie seems different from the other people I’ve met,” I told Cora on the way home, hoping to get her talking.
“She’s a flatlander like you—no offense.”
“Why is she living here?”
“She came with a group of church folks from up north. Do-gooders. You know the type. But she fell for Hank Coots, a local boy, and they ended up getting married. He died in an accident at the mine. He and Mack were best friends—and now they’re both gone.”
“Her cabin was very pretty inside.”
“It’s the only one up in these hills that has a road leading up to it. It’s just a dirt road, but that’s how they were able to haul the stove and the glass windows and all them other things way up here. Folks say Maggie has money from her kin up north. Never seen any of her kin down here visiting, though.”
“I wonder why she stays here, now that she’s widowed?”
“She takes care of her mother-in-law, Opal Coots.”
“Why doesn’t she take her to a hospital back home for medical treatment?”
“Ain’t no cure for what Miss Opal’s got. Besides, Opal won’t go. Says she was born here, and she plans to die here and be buried with her kin. I give Maggie credit for not running off and leaving her.”
“Can you get to Maggie’s cabin by road, then? Instead of going up through the woods?”
“Sure. The road is just outside of town, a little ways past the coal company and the old mining town. But I always come this way. It’s prettier.”
By the time I reached home, I was certain I would never be able to sit down again. I unlaced my boots and dropped them by the kitchen door, never to be worn again. Lillie had a pot of something simmering on the stove, and I lifted the lid to take a peek. It looked like chicken stew. I hoped she had killed and plucked the ornery white chicken that pecked at my ankles every morning when I collected the eggs.
After I’d washed and changed out of my horse-scented clothes, I decided to catch up on some of the work piling up in the library. I pushed the desk chair aside, too sore to sit, and worked standing up. Lillie dozed in her usual chair in the non-fiction section. I let her sleep. The less we said to each other the better. I would be going home in a few more days, and I had no intention of getting mixed up in any more of her schemes. I glanced at the calendar on the desk and sighed, longing to cross off another day.
I was happily engrossed in my work when Lillie’s voice startled me. “Where’d you ride to today, honey?” There she stood, alongside my desk. She could move around as quietly as a cat, even with her cane.
“We went up to the Howard farm—I think that was their name. The whole family was out working in the field. Then we went to the schoolhouse.” I found myself smiling as I remembered being lauded as a heroine for bringing the new books.
“What about Maggie Coots? You stop and see her?”
“Yes, we stopped there, too. She asked about you, Lillie. She seemed very worried about you now that Mack is gone.” Lillie couldn’t have missed the bite in my tone, but she didn’t comment on it.
“Maggie say anything else? Maybe something that sounded funny to you?”
“What do you mean? . . . No, she was very nice. She even invited us to come inside for tea.”
“She ask you anything else about Mack?”
“She said she was sorry she missed his funeral.”
“It figures.”
“Why are you scowling like that, Miss Lillie? What figures?” Lillie didn’t reply, and I couldn’t help scowling at her in return. “I liked Maggie. We have the same taste in books. I wouldn’t mind visiting her again.”
Lillie laid her hand on my arm as if I was leaving this very minute to go visit her and she needed to stop me. “You be careful around Maggie Coots, honey.”
“Why?”
“That’s all I’m saying.” She gave my arm a squeeze and released it.
“Wait. You can’t give me a warning like that and not tell me why.”
“Sure I can. I just did.” Lillie hobbled off to the kitchen to check on her stew.
“I like Maggie!” I shouted after her. I would have stomped my foot if I thought it would do any good.
We ate supper at the kitchen table for the first time since Mack and I had eaten lunch there that first day. The fresh air and exercise must have given me a voracious appetite, because I gobbled down two bowls of Lillie’s stew. “It’s delicious,” I told her. “Which chicken was this? I hope it was that mean little white one who pecks me all the time.”
“We only eat chicken on special occasions, honey.”
I stopped eating, the spoon frozen halfway to my mouth. “Is this a special occasion?”
“Nope.”
“What am I eating, then?”
“Squirrel.”
I dropped the spoon into my bowl with a clatter. Squirrel? Those cute, furry little creatures with the bushy tails? I had eaten a squirrel? I clamped my hand over my mouth and pushed back my chair as I felt my gorge rise.
“Where you going, honey?”
I couldn’t reply. I was about to lose my supper but I didn’t want to be sick. I would only have to clean it up. I tried desperately to think of something else—anything else—to clear my mind. Lillie was pulling my leg, wasn’t she? How could a one-hundred-year-old woman kill and clean a squirrel? They were so small! She would have to be a very good shot. That thought was not a comforting one.
“I need some air,” I mumbled. I hurried through the back door and stood outside, gulping deep breaths of fresh spring air. I tried to take my mind off food, but I couldn’t help remembering Mack’s funeral luncheon and all those casseroles the women had made. What else had I unknowingly eaten that day?
I decided to walk down to the shed and feed Belle, then put her to bed for the night. Dusk had fallen. I would close up the chicken coop, too—and maybe I would count them just to be sure Lillie wasn’t teasing me.
My stomach had a chance to settle as I walked through the damp grass, listening to the water rushing past in the creek. Wonderland Creek. I heard a crow or maybe a blue jay scolding me in the tree above my head, and I looked up. It wasn’t a blue jay. It was a fluffy gray squirrel chattering angrily as it glared at me with beady, accusing eyes.
All day Saturday I worked in the library, carding the books that had accumulated from everyone’s routes and returning them to their proper shelves. I thought about the people I had met during the past two days, and I found myself choosing books in my mind that I thought each of them might like—even though I knew I would never ride up there to see any of them again.
Mack was on my mind, too. I had gotten used to seeing him sprawled on the mattress in the non-fiction section, and the room looked bare without him. Three days h
ad passed since I had dropped him off at the cabin in the middle of the night, and I knew he must be running low on food. Maybe I should walk up there and bring him some more—and remind him that he would have to make other plans after my uncle came to take me home this week.
My thoughts were a million miles away when I heard the front door open and close. I peeked into the hallway and saw Ike Arnett, the fiddle player, grinning at me. “Hey there, pretty lady. You open for business?”
I had no idea what the official library hours were. Our only walk-in patrons had been Mamaw and her grandsons. But I shrugged and said, “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“Can you recommend a good book to read?”
Was this another attempt to flirt with me? Ike Arnett did not seem like the type of man who read books. But then neither did most of the people on my route. Perhaps I was judging Ike unfairly.
“I’ll be happy to help you. What types of books do you enjoy?”
“I like the kind where you can learn things. Especially about nature or about America. Mack used to pick out books for me all the time.”
I led the way into the non-fiction area, hiding my surprise. “How about one of these?” I asked, pointing to a shelf of books on American history. He tipped his head, reading the titles.
“I already read this one . . . it was real good. And this one, too.” He pulled a third book from the shelf and flipped through it. “Maybe I’ll try this one . . . if you think I’d like it.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never read that book.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll take it anyway and if I don’t like it, I’ll bring it back.” He followed me to the desk like a puppy dog, and I helped him check out the book. When we were finished, he stood looking at me for a long moment. “There’s something else I been meaning to ask. I know you and Miss Lillie could probably use some help around here and . . . well . . . I’d be willing to go through Mack’s clothes and things for you. Take them off your hands. It must be hard for Miss Lillie to see reminders of him all over the place.”
“It’s very considerate of you to offer to help.” But of course Mack still needed his clothes. He wasn’t dead. “I-I’ll ask Miss Lillie about it.” I retreated to the foyer to avoid Ike’s gaze, aware that I’m a terrible liar. He followed close on my heels.
“I know it might seem cruel to ask about it just a few days after Mack’s funeral,” he said, “but there’s some folks around here who can really use some new jackets and things. I’ll make sure his clothes go to good homes.”
“That’s very kind of you, but it might be a bit too soon . . .” My voice trailed off as I recalled the plan I had tried to concoct with Gordon, asking mourners to donate their deceased relatives’ books as they planned their funerals. What had I been thinking? “I’ll talk to Lillie, but she might need a little more time to grieve.”
“No problem. And by the way, I know Miss Lillie has Alma and Cora and the Wireman sisters helping her—”
“The Wireman sisters?” It sounded like a singing quartet on the radio.
“Yeah, Faye and Marjorie. But if you ever need a man’s help, you just let me know, okay? I’ll come right over.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
I overslept on Sunday morning. In my exhaustion, I no longer noticed the rooster screeching at dawn. At home I used to awaken to the sound of tolling bells every Sunday, from my father’s church next door and from the other churches scattered throughout Blue Island. It hardly seemed like Sunday without bells. Sunlight poured into my room, and when I realized how late it must be, I leaped out of bed and quickly scrambled some eggs and leftover potatoes together, determined not to let Lillie cook for me anymore.
“Is there a church nearby that I could attend?” I asked when I brought her breakfast upstairs. “I feel like I should go. After all, I missed last week because of Mack getting shot and everything.”
Lillie gave me a sharp look. “Why’d you say it that way—you feel like you should go?”
“Well . . . it’s Sunday. That’s what we do back home. We go to church.”
“Why?”
Did she really not know the answer or was she being ornery? I had a feeling it was the latter, but I sat down in the chair beside her bed and explained it to her, just in case. “It says in the Bible that we should remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy. It’s one of the Ten Commandments. We’re supposed to take a day off from work and go to church on Sunday.”
“So that’s why you go? Because you’re supposed to?”
“Well, yes. Why else would people go?”
“To worship God.”
“Well, of course to worship God. That goes without saying.”
“No, it don’t. I think it should be said. Otherwise, if people go to church because that’s what they always do on Sunday, or because they think they’re supposed to go, then they’re going for the wrong reasons.”
Lillie was being contrary, and I didn’t want to argue with her. I stood up, ready to leave. “Is there a church here in Acorn or not? I didn’t see a steeple when I was out exploring the town, but maybe I missed it.”
“Acorn don’t have a church like the one you’re looking for,” Lillie said. I wasn’t surprised.
“Is there a church nearby that I could go to?”
“There’s one over in Pottstown with a pretty white steeple, and it even has colored windows, too.”
“How far away is Pottstown?”
“Well now, that depends on which horse you ride . . .” I looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience as Lillie continued. “It would take Belle a couple of hours to get you there—”
“I wasn’t planning on riding Belle. I thought I would walk.”
“Honey, if you’re gonna walk all the way to Pottstown, then you shoulda left yesterday.”
I didn’t know why, but I felt like crying. “How am I supposed to go to church around here?”
“You want a little white building with a steeple and wooden pews and all that?”
“Yes—a church! Where people worship God.” I nearly stomped my foot in frustration. I’d been tempted to stomp a lot lately—just like Belle.
“Don’t know why you need a steeple to worship God,” she mumbled as she ate a forkful of food.
“Because . . . that’s what churches look like back home. Listen, just forget it. I don’t need to go to church.”
“I thought you just told me you was supposed to go.”
“My father is a minister. I haven’t missed a church service in my entire life, until now.”
“You think God is keeping track in His big black book up there in heaven? He gonna mark you absent?” She grinned, and I knew she was mocking me. I went into my own room and closed the door.
I spent the day writing letters and reading the book Maggie Coots had let me borrow, but I had trouble concentrating on it. With luck, Uncle Cecil would arrive in two days and take me home. I pictured myself back in the parsonage, soaking in a steaming bathtub, devouring my mother’s chicken and dumplings, sleeping on clean sheets. I would wallow in luxury and never take electricity or indoor plumbing for granted again. I would talk on the telephone, listen to the radio, and best of all, read books!
Realistically, I knew my life of luxury would last only a day or two before my father would present me with one of his lists. He would insist that I find productive work to do or join him and my mother in their charity projects. I wanted to start another book drive, of course, and see about getting some used textbooks for Acorn’s school. But then what? The empty days that loomed ahead depressed me.
I also couldn’t help wondering what would happen here in Acorn after I was gone. Who would read the last few chapters of Treasure Island to Faye’s boys? How would Mack process and catalogue all the new books I was going to send him if he was living up in the cabin, playing dead? Did Faye and the other ladies know how to run a library? Lillie certainly couldn’t do it all alone. Maggie Coots would make a perfect librarian, but then
who would take care of Opal Coots all day? And why didn’t Lillie trust Maggie?
These problems were not mine to worry about, I told myself. Yet I couldn’t stop worrying about them.
That evening, Lillie offered to teach me how to make corn bread. “It’ll go real good with the pot of beans I got cooking,” she told me. “We’ll have us a real nice supper.” Lillie sat at the kitchen table coaching me as I mixed the cornmeal and flour and lard.
“What ingredients did you put in the beans?” I tried to ask nonchalantly. She couldn’t blame me for being suspicious after she’d fed me squirrel.
“You want the recipe?”
“Sure.”
“First you gotta boil the beans so they get nice and soft. Then I add onions, some home-canned tomatoes, and just a spoonful of sorghum. That’s my secret ingredient. Sorghum.”
“No meat?”
“A little chunk of salted meat for flavor, if you got it. Why you asking? You thinking of cooking up a batch for your folks when you get home?”
“Maybe . . .” I didn’t dare look at her, afraid she would see that I was fibbing.
“If you want, I can give you my recipe for squirrel stew, too.”
I could hear the laughter in her voice and felt my cheeks grow warm. “No, thank you. People back home don’t eat squirrel.”
“Honey, if people get hungry enough, they’ll eat anything.”
“Is this batter mixed enough?” I asked. I was desperate to change the subject. “Should I put it in the pan now? How hot does the oven need to be?”
“Hot enough to bake it,” she said, laughing at my embarrassment. “Yes, it’s ready, honey. Go on and put it in the oven.”
The oven door opened with a creak and I bent to shove the pan inside. A rush of hot air made my face even redder. Sometimes I hated being a fair-skinned blonde. People could read my distress like a thermometer as the color filled or drained from my cheeks. I closed the door again and sat down across the table from Lillie to wait for the bread to bake.
“You started to tell me the other day about Sam and your husband and your son. Did you ever find your family again?”
