Carry the World

by Susan Fanetti

  Henrietta had her thick, shaggy winter coat, and a winter-thick blanket under the saddle, and she was built for the weather, but she wasn’t much happier today.

  Tucked behind this natural screen, Ada pushed the hood back and slipped off the leather gloves. She dug into a pack for a treat for them both—a bit of biscuit with wild strawberry jam for her, and some dried apple bits for Hen.

  “Not much longer, Hen. Just Bull Holler. You get a stable for a bit, and I get a fire, and then we can ride on home. And at home, there’s a good brushing and a big blanket in your future.”

  Her girl snuffed in her palm for more apple. Ada gave her the last crumbles and shook out the cloth the apples had been wrapped in. “Okay. You ready?”

  Henrietta gave her a sidelong look and a snort. Ada laughed and kissed her nose.

  As always, the snow slowed Ada and Henrietta down. The holler was near full dark when they rode down its center, and they were both frozen to the bone. But Ada reined Henrietta in about a hundred feet from the house anyway. The horse stopped, and Ada rested her hands on the saddle fork and took in the sight before her.

  The windows glowed bright yellow, lighting up the world around the house enough that Ada could see the swirls of smoke from the big stone chimney and the little stovepipes. Wood smoke and roasting venison wafted through the smells of winter forest. Through those big, golden windows, she could see the Christmas tree they’d put up a few days before, with its bows of white ribbon and its garland of dried berries. She and the children had baked bread-dough ornaments, too.

  She’d thought it would be their first Christmas tree, until they’d reminded her their pa had helped them put one up the year before, and given them each a gift.

  Ada remembered that day in every detail, when she’d hectored him about not giving his children Christmas. Later, alone, she’d been astounded at and ashamed of herself, for meddling in affairs not her own. But she’d made an impression. She’d reached Jonah, brought him a little bit back to the world of the living.

  And now, here they were.

  It was a humble house, showing the hard wear of its long years, and they lived a humble life inside it. But it was full and warm and happy, and Ada had never felt more alive and full than now.

  She lifted the reins and squeezed her legs against her horse’s side. “Come on, Hen. Let’s go home.”

  The house was asleep for the night. Jonah and the children were nestled on the floor by the fire, arrayed around their simple Christmas tree like the best presents Ada could ever have dreamed of, and Momma was tucked in her bed, with her room’s little pot-bellied stove stoked for the night.

  Outside, the night was quiet and calm. The thick blanket of snow and the blade-sharp cold had muffled any kind of noise being made. A bright, waxing moon slanted down the center of the holler and bathed the white world in blue light.

  Ada sat at the table with an oil lamp for light and a mug of warm milk and a butter cookie for comfort. One of her scrapbooks had begun to wear past its use, and she was rewriting some of the recipes and stories that had become illegible for various reasons—spatters of food, dirty hands, water smears, or the paper wearing out at the stress points of her simple lace binding.

  A sudden wind went through the holler and rattled the windows in their frames. It died quickly out, but left behind the memory of her freezing ride that day. She shivered and snugged her thick woolen shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

  Whether the knock of the wind woke him or something else, Jonah sat up. He looked her way, and she smiled.

  “Ada,” he said, and she knew he wanted her to come to bed. So often, with only the two syllables of her name, her husband managed to convey whole needs, feelings, ideas.

  “Just a little longer,” she answered, keeping her voice low.

  She went back to her writing but heard him stir. The floor creaked and the shadows shifted as he came and stood behind her. When he bent low and wrapped his arms around her, she saw he had the bearskin around his shoulders.

  When he tucked his face against her neck, she couldn’t help but close her eyes and rest in his embrace.

  “Come to bed,” he murmured. His lips brushed her skin as he made the words.

  “I just want—”

  “Not to sleep. To bed. Upstairs.”

  There was no heat upstairs. They were saving her wages to buy stoves in the spring, when they were discounted.

  “It’s cold up there.” Getting dressed in the mornings and undressed at night was lately an exercise in speed.

  “I’ll make you warm. Promise.”

  They hadn’t been able to love each other like that for a few weeks, since the hard cold had set in. Sometimes, lying on the floor by the fire, they kissed and caressed each other until they were nearly mad with need, but with the children sleeping so near, they’d refrained.

  “Ada,” he murmured and said the world.

  She capped her pen and closed the scrapbook. Jonah took her hand and pulled her to her feet. Wrapping the bearskin, warm from his body, around her, he led her upstairs to their bed.

  The pillows and quilts were downstairs, and the mattress was chilly, but the bearskin was thick and heavy and warm. They lay under it, still dressed, and Jonah curled over her, easing the ends of her shawl to the sides. They hadn’t brought up the lamp, but the bright moonlight still lit the holler and streamed through the windows to light the space between them.

  She loved the way he looked at her. So full of love and delight. She saw in his eyes her own feelings for him.

  As Jonah ducked his head, nosing the edge of her nightdress from her shoulder, so he could taste her there, Ada closed her eyes and eased her hands down the sides of his body. He wore a union suit, as always, and it was buttoned, as always, to the two buttons closest to his throat. Wanting more than to lie beneath him and be adored, she squirmed and pushed until he laughed and rolled to his back.

  In the months of her marriage to Jonah, Ada had learned things about marital love she’d never known before. George had been a kind and compassionate lover, but he’d been a God-fearing man and, she now knew, a bit prim. He’d been nearly as innocent of some things as she had been.

  Jonah had no fear of God, and he felt shame only for those things he thought were shortcomings. In bed, he didn’t come up short. In any way. Once they’d been married, he’d shown her many ways to give and receive pleasure, and Ada had found some to be particularly powerful—and empowering.

  Such as this: putting him on his back and looming over him. He grinned as, under the cover of their bearskin, Ada opened the buttons of his underwear, all the way down. When the buttons were open, he shrugged his shoulders and arms free, and she helped him escape from the thing entirely. Then he lay there, bathed in blue moonlight, naked under her hands, her gaze.

  Such a handsome man he was. Such strength, such power. She brushed her hands over his shoulders, his arms, felt the rise of his biceps against her palms. Over his chest, his belly, his hips, his sides. Always, she paused at the scar the bullet had left behind. Always, she bent down and kissed it, letting her tongue feel the rough pattern of its healing.

  Always, he moaned at that touch and tangled his hands in her hair.

  She wrapped her hands around the part of him that was only hers, and on this night, she did something she’d wanted to for some weeks but hadn’t yet found the courage. She put her mouth to him and kissed his tip.

  Sometimes, he put his mouth on her. She’d never heard of such a thing before the first time he’d done it. But oh, how she liked it, and she wanted to give Jonah the same pleasure, if he wanted it.

  He took in a sharp breath, so noisy it was nearly a cry. “Ada,” he said when that breath was released.

  It seemed that he wanted it.

  She kissed him there again, and this time let her tongue out to taste him. His hips shook as she flicked her tongue over the silky-soft skin that topped the velvet rod that brought her so much bliss.

&nb
sp; “Ada!” he groaned, and his hands clenched at her shoulders.

  No longer interested in play, Ada did what she’d intended when she’d squirmed to turn him over. She straddled his hips, took hold of him, and mounted him.

  He liked it when she ‘rode’ him. Ada liked it as well. There was a heady power to being in control of this act. She set the pace, and the depth. He could only lie beneath her and feel what she did to him.

  Actually, there was more he could do. His hands roamed all over. They gripped and pulled and grasped and caressed, and sometimes he set his feet on the bed and joined in with her rhythm.

  “Ada!” he groaned as she rested on him and he filled her full. Oh, how she loved the feel of them joined together like this. She was so full and alive she quivered.

  He took hold of her nightdress. “Take it off, darlin’, take it off.”

  She wriggled free of her nightdress, trying not to dislodge the cozy bearskin from her shoulders. Jonah took hold of the fur and kept it in place. When she was naked, he tugged on the fur, encouraging her to lay her body on his. The feel of his chest, his warm skin, his firm muscles, his soft hair, turned her nipples to knots, and she moaned.

  Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  The way Jonah kissed—by now, they’d shared hundreds of kisses, but every time, whether it was an affectionate peck before she left for her day’s ride, or a ravishing possession like this one, his kisses took her breath. From the first one, which had surprised her, to this one, which devoured her, each and every kiss filled her full of his love and his need. His desire. His life.

  His love nourished her. And hers, him.

  “Stay close, darlin’,” he whispered when he pulled back for breath. “Stay here.”

  “Always,” she answered.

  He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close as he could. Enclosed in his perfect embrace, Ada began to move, and sought his kiss again.

  Santa didn’t come to Cable’s Holler. Jonah remained adamant that he wouldn’t lie to his children with that story, or make them promises he had no certainty he could deliver on. Ada regretted sharing Christmas stories with the children, but they seemed content to believe they lived too remotely for Santa to reach. Soon, they would be too old for Santa, anyway.

  But they had a wonderful Christmas nonetheless. In the afternoon, they’d have roast duck and mashed potatoes, fresh bread and pumpkin pie. But in the morning, there were presents.

  Jonah and Ada and her mother had each been working for months now on gifts for the children, and Ada had helped the children make gifts for their father and grandmother. They’d also made festive wrapping paper out of old newspapers she’d brought up from the library, and a box of crayons she’d bought at the dry goods store.

  On Christmas morning, the children, and the grownups, woke to a healthy scattering of presents under their little tree. Ada and her mother had knitted blankets and sweaters and socks for everyone. Ada had made a ragdoll for Bluebird, not unlike the smaller one she’d loved as a girl, and still kept safe in a drawer, but this one looked like Bluebird, with yellow yarn pigtails and bright blue button eyes, and a little striped flour-sack dress. Jonah had made Elijah a wooden train with rolling wheels, with an engine and a coal car, a box car, and a caboose. For Bluebird, he’d made a little copy of this house, with simple pieces of furniture for every room, and five little wooden people. Ada had helped that project by sewing tiny curtains for the windows, covers for the beds, and clothes for the people.

  She’d also bought books for everyone, according to their tastes—used, but in good condition. Everyone. Jonah included. He’d been learning to read for less than two months, but he was picking it up quickly. He was a very smart man and keen to learn. She’d bought him a collection of essays by Emerson—too advanced for him just yet, but not for long. And she thought Emerson would really speak to Jonah, once he could understand.

  They sat before the fire, with the mouthwatering aroma of fresh bread wafting around their noses and wads of Christmas paper drifting around their feet. The children’s cheeks were rosy with joy. Ada’s mother sat happily in her rocker, wrapped in a fluffy knitted shawl and wearing a big red paper rose in her white hair. Bluebird had learned to make paper flowers at Auntie Esther’s house and was festooning their world with them.

  Ada had been managing the gift-doling, and still had a little stack of wrapped gifts beside her after the others had opened theirs. While everyone else played with their toys or oohed over their soft sweater, Jonah watched her open her gifts. A pretty purple scarf from her mother. She’d hoped when she’d bought the yarn that it would end up as something for her—purple, especially this reddish shade, was her favorite color, even if it clashed with her hair. Bluebird had made her a bouquet of paper flowers. She thanked her mother and daughter sincerely, and welcomed Bluebird’s flying hug.

  Then she opened Elijah’s present. Something like a wooden tray, made of pine and sanded and buffed to satiny smoothness. A wood piece rose from the base at a slant. Ada studied it for a moment but couldn’t make sense of it.

  “Thank you, Elijah. It’s beautiful work. But what is it?”

  “A book rest! You can set your book on it so your hands don’t get tired when you’re readin’ in bed!”

  “He worked out the shape hisself,” Jonah said, pride ringing in his voice.

  “Oh, I’m so impressed. This is wonderful, Elijah! Thank you!”

  Her boy beamed like the sun.

  Her stack of packages was gone. She looked around at her happy family and met Jonah’s adoring eyes. “Well, I don’t know about anyone else, she said, “but this is the best Christmas I ever had!”

  “Wait!” Bluebird cried. “Did I miss it?” She stood by the tree and squinted around the room. “Pa! Where’s it at?”

  “I didn’t bring it yet.” He unfolded from the floor. “Elijah, come help me. Bluebird, make sure your ma don’t peek.”

  Bluebird ran over and jumped in Ada’s lap to cover her eyes. “No peekin’!”

  “Alright, alright, I’m no cheater. I won’t peek.”

  “Better not.”

  There was a bit of of a shuffle-scuffle and a couple of thumps, and then Jonah said, “Alright. Merry Christmas, darlin’.”

  Bluebird freed her and jumped from her lap.

  Sitting on the floor before Ada was a beautiful chest. It was pine, made of plain planks, but, like Elijah’s book rest, sanded and buffed until it shone like satin. Thick leather bands wrapped it, one at each end, with simple brass buckles for closures.

  Carved into the middle of the chest, centered on the top, were three letters in careful, even capitals: ALW.

  Ada Lee Walker.

  She slid from the chair to her knees and set her hands on the top of the chest. It was cool and smooth. The wood and leather were wonderfully fragrant.

  Tears welling, she looked up at Jonah, whose smile was soft and enigmatic. “You made this?”

  He nodded. “For your special things.”

  “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Not half as beautiful as you, and this life you give us all.” He crouched beside her. “Open it.”

  She unfastened the buckles and pushed the lid up. The scent of cedar rushed at her. He’d lined the chest so her things would stay safe.

  And on the bottom, in a simple pine frame, was a sampler, done in threads of red, purple, and white.

  JONAH & ADA

  WALKER

  September 3, 1937

  Beneath their names and the date of their wedding was a large red heart wrapped with a thick white bow. Beneath that, a verse from the Bible: Psalm 147, verse 3:

  He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.

  Ada took that treasure in her hands and lifted her stupefied gaze to her husband.

  There were tears lurking in his eyes, too. He grinned and brushed his hand over her hair. “I made the frame, but I didn’t take up stitchwork, don’t worry. Esther
helped me. I tol’ her what I wanted and asked if she’d make it. Offered to trade some work, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Did you pick the Bible verse?”

  He laughed. “Naw, Esther took that on herself. I like it, though.” His grin widened. “And I like I can read it.”

  Suddenly Ada couldn’t hold back her tears anymore.

  “Ma?” Bluebird said, worried. “You’re s’poseda like it!”

  “I do, sweetheart, I do! I love it! I love you all! These are happy tears!”

  “Ada Lee, show me,” her mother said. “Jonah tol’ me what he’s doin’, but I wanna see for myself.”

  Ada pushed her tears away and scooted on her knees to her mother. She set the sampler on her lap. It was framed but not under glass, so she lifted her mother’s hands and set her fingers on the cloth.

  “Oh, this is nice work. Colors?”

  “Red and purple and white. It says ‘Jonah & Ada Walker, September 3, 1937.’ There’s a beautiful red heart in the center—”

  “Yes, I feel it.”

  “It’s wrapped with a white bow. Beneath it, it says, ‘He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.’”

  Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Indeed he does. Well, this is beautiful, Ada Lee. Just beautiful.”

  Ada smiled over her shoulder at her husband. “Yes, it is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Bluebird, come here. Come help.”

  Ada stood in the middle of the patch and arched back, pressing on her hips to ease the cramp between them. She’d been tired and sore all day—the past few days, in fact. Each evening she’d come home from her ride and felt dizzy with exhaustion.

  Today, she was home, and there was too much to do to give in to weariness. They were using this good day, after real spring warmth had set in, to get things set up for the warm months and beyond. Jonah and Elijah had set out early that morning for Red Fern Holler, towing an empty wagon, in hopes that the pot-bellied stoves they’d ordered on discount from the Sears wish book might have arrived.