by Jan Watson
Lilly pulled a ribbon from her apron pocket and with a twist of her wrists pulled her hair away from her face and secured it with the ribbon. Her movements were practiced and graceful. Copper could see traces of the young woman she would grow to be. “I’m sorry I disobeyed. I’m sorry I was looking out the window when they put Adie in that box.”
Copper cupped Lilly’s chin and looked into her eyes. “And I am sorry I didn’t prepare you for what happened. You’re old enough to be included.”
“What I really want to know is why didn’t we keep the baby?”
“He wasn’t ours to keep. His father wanted him.”
“Was that old lady his granny? Will she take care of him?”
“The lady is Mr. Still’s mother. She helped with all of Adie’s other children. I don’t think you need to worry about little Lorne Lee.”
“Still?” Lilly twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I didn’t know that was Adie’s last name.”
“The Stills are neighbors, but they like to keep to themselves. You wouldn’t have met any of them.”
Lilly nestled into Copper. “Lorne Lee—that’s a different sort of name.”
Copper wrapped her arms around her daughter as tightly as she could.
Lilly pulled slightly away. “You’re squeezing my lights out.”
Copper squeezed her again. “Let’s go to the house. Manda’s sure to have breakfast ready.”
Lilly swung Copper’s hand as they walked across the yard. “So if we keep the cat and a kitten, does that mean we can’t have a dog?”
“We need to talk to your daddy about that. I’m not sure he wants a menagerie.”
“Menagerie? What’s that mean?”
“Look it up. That’s what the dictionary is for.”
Lilly skipped ahead. She looked like a little girl again. “I’ll wait until I get back from Lexington to talk to Daddy about getting a dog. He might forget if I ask him now.”
Copper sighed. She wished Lilly would forget about Lexington. As much as Copper hated to, she had made arrangements as Alice asked. Lilly would travel to the depot by coach with Kate and her mother. Mrs. Jasper would see Lilly on the train and talk to the porter, and Alice would meet her at the stop. What could go wrong?
Copper determined to see the trip through her daughter’s eyes. She didn’t want to spoil the adventure for Lilly.
15
Manda was headed to town in Miz Copper’s buggy with a load of cream and eggs and a bushel basket of new potatoes on the floorboard. She had dressed this morning in her second-best frock. If not for Miss Remy’s eagle eye, she would have worn her yellow dress—the one that matched her hair. But the last thing she wanted to do was raise suspicion.
The brown gingham was okay, she supposed, but it made her feel like the maid she was, whereas the yellow made her feel special. She had worn it Sunday last, first to church, then to the picnic. She flushed to think of the excitement of that day. Oh, she fairly loved a gathering. . . .
When church let out, there was dinner on the grounds. Makeshift sawhorse tables groaned under the weight of sugar-cured ham, chicken and dumplings, fried chicken, and all the trimmings. Women spread quilts under shade trees, where babies napped and old folks waited to be brought a plate. Men played horseshoes as children ran amok, calling, “Tag! You’re it!”
Manda’s Sunday school class naturally congregated at one end of the tables, shunning the spread blankets of family gatherings. They were all young and unattached, and there were no children for them to chase and no plates to fill except their own. There were seven of them, four girls and three guys. It was Fred Estep who suggested going to the spring, but Manda herself who egged them on. And surprise, surprise, it was Gurney Jasper who suggested hiking to the top of Devil’s Eyebrow with a stop at the spring on the way down.
Manda took a second look at Gurney. And for sure she knew he looked more than twice at her. At one point in the climb, as the girls squealed and giggled on the slippery slope, Gurney took Manda’s hand and helped her over a moss-slicked rock. The gesture made her feel special, and she gave Gurney’s hand an extra squeeze.
There was a hot zephyr across the ledge. It whipped the girls’ skirts and loosened hair from pins. They all laughed hysterically when Fred’s hat sailed out over the eyebrow and on to parts unknown. Manda could scarcely remember when she had had so much fun.
She and Gurney led the pack as they hiked toward the spring. Behind them the other girls sang teasingly: “‘Where, oh where, is sweet little Manda? Where, oh where, is sweet little Manda? Where, oh where, is sweet little Manda? Way down yonder in the pawpaw patch.’”
The guys joined in for the second verse. “‘Where, oh where, is charming Gurney? Where, oh where, is charming Gurney? Way down yonder in the pawpaw patch.’”
Gurney’s ears flamed at the second verse, but she noticed a smile on his face. And when he took her hand, she didn’t jerk away. Holding hands wasn’t anything serious, she didn’t think. Besides, she liked everybody taking notice of her. This finding true love stuff was sure confusing.
Manda hadn’t forgotten the middling man, however, and when they got to the spring, she examined the fallen log. There was nothing unusual there. While the others took turns drinking from the spring, she walked over to the ancient black walnut tree. The grass was not matted around its base. There was no trace of tobacco there. If not for the daisy-shaped button tacked with blue thread to the ribbon on her chemise she would have thought the other day was a dream. Just a dream and nothing more.
She stood for the longest time looking off across the meadow where wild violets and white field daisies swayed gently in a warm breeze. From somewhere a fiddle tune drifted her way. It played in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the dancing grasses and flowers. She imagined that she was part and parcel of that tune. Though she strained to hear more, the music faded away, light as dandelion fluff on the wind.
Gurney touched her shoulder. “Why are you over here all by your lonesome?”
“I’m watching the flowers,” she said. “Look how prettily they dance.”
“They don’t hold a candle to you.”
“We’re going,” Fred called out. “You two lovebirds can catch up.”
Manda looked at Gurney. He was a handsome man once you stopped to study his square-jawed, honest face. She felt a thrill of delight just like Rose Feathergay in the magazine story. Was this rush and tingle what falling in love felt like?
Gurney reached out. She closed her eyes and tilted her chin—waiting—nearly faint with anticipation.
Gurney touched her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair. “You’ve caught a twig,” he said, plucking it out.
The dreaded heat of a blush rose from her chest and blossomed across her cheeks. She felt naked as a jaybird standing there with her need displayed for him to see.
“Are you okay? You look a little peaked.”
She wanted to slap his face but couldn’t rightly figure why. “We’d better go. The others will wonder what we’re up to.”
“I’ll go first,” Gurney said when they reached the narrow, one-cow path. “Put your hand on my shoulder. I’ll keep you from falling.”
Another time she would have stomped around him and hurried away with no regard to his feelings. Instead, she let him guide her down the mountain.
His hair was cut short, neatly cupping the back of his head. Where his farmer’s tan met the collar of his shirt, a thin strip of pale flesh was revealed. The muscles in his shoulder were as solid as a ledge rock underneath her hand, but that little flash of white made him seem strangely vulnerable to her.
Her emotions swirled like tea leaves in a cup. There was something about Gurney that made her feel safe and protected. But what if she had misread the taking of her hand, the touch on her shoulder? The middling man made her feel desired, if overwhelmed and not a little frightened by his boldness. Shouldn’t she at least try to see the exciting music man again? What if he was her one
true love?
Manda had answered yes to her own question on Sunday, and now she was on her way to finding out the answer. If the music man was anywhere to be found, that is. Taking the cream to the Cream Station and the eggs to the grocery store gave her the perfect opportunity to look for him. Plus, she’d make some money. She and Miz Copper worked on the halves. That was only fair, since it was Manda who candled all the eggs and wiped the shells clean. She didn’t see the need to candle the eggs since she had gathered them herself and knew they were fresh, but Miz Copper was particular. And Miss Remy—good grief, that woman put a damper on everything.
Last evening whilst Manda was in the shed, preparing the eggs for market, here the old biddy came putting her two cents in.
“Ye missed a spot.” She held up an egg with the tiniest bit of downy fluff stuck to one side.
Manda took the egg, wiped it clean, and handed it back, admiring her own patience.
“This here’s a pullet egg,” Miss Remy croaked in her odd, rusty voice. “Do ye know the difference?”
“No, I can’t say I do.”
Remy sorted through several eggs. “See here? See the zigzag mark on the end of this hen fruit? That quirl means this here’s a rooster.” She held out one egg and then another. “This smooth one is a pullet. Most likely you’ll find a dozen pullets to every rooster.”
Like Manda cared. She shrugged.
Miss Remy took the hint, backing slowly out of the shed on her crutches.
Manda breathed a sigh of relief.
Miss Remy stopped. “Ye might need to know that iffen ye ever plan on raising chickens. Else you’ll have a yard full of roosters and no laying hens.”
As soon as Miss Remy was out of sight, Manda helped herself to a dozen eggs she left out of the count. Her conscience told her not to, but she ignored the still, small voice. What did it matter? There were plenty, and no one would ever know.
Manda thought of last night’s conversation as she headed to town. It struck her funny bone, and she laughed. She wouldn’t mind to be the lone pullet in a yard full of roosters right now. She could just see them strutting around in that frozen-toed rooster way, hoping she would notice their particular beauty, hoping she would pick one of them to set up housekeeping with. Well, with any luck, today would be the day she decided what rooster she wanted in her henhouse.
“Giddyup,” she called to Chessie, slapping the reins before she remembered the eggs and slowed the horse to a trot.
As luck would have it, the grocery store where she sold the potatoes and the eggs was on the alley beside the hotel. That was where she had spotted the music man the last time she was in town. The Cream Station was on the next street over. It would be easy enough to walk down the narrow passage with the cream. Although there were several folks sitting on the bent-willow benches that fronted the hotel, she was sure no one would think twice about her choice to do just that.
Manda placed the empty potato basket in the buggy and tested the lids of the tin cream cans, making sure the ride from home hadn’t loosened them. Then, leaving Chessie secured to the hitching post outside the grocery, she strode with purpose down the murky alleyway. Despite herself, her heart quickened as she approached the garbage bin where she had watched the exchange of moonshine.
She flinched and stepped back when a rat as big as a squirrel darted up the side of the large container. The vile thing teetered on the lip of the bin, its beady eyes seemingly trained on the buckets of cream. The rat’s whiskers twitched, and its clawed feet scrambled to keep from losing its perch.
Manda set the buckets down and picked up a rock. She flung it at the bin. The rock pinged off the side and landed in the dust at her feet. To her ears it sounded loud as gunshot. Nervously, she looked around, sure she would attract a crowd. But nothing stirred in the dark shadows—nothing except the rat, whose long, hairless tail disappeared over the side of the sour-smelling bin.
She picked up her tins and walked on, keeping her eyes focused on the light at the end of the alley. A movement there caught her eye. Someone waved a small brown flag. The flag shifted in and out of view like a taunt. Moving closer, she could see the flag was actually a small brown paper package.
Suddenly a man blocked her way. The middling man put his arms behind his back. “You looking for something?”
“I, um . . . I, uh . . . I found the button,” she stammered, making no sense to her own ears.
“Did you now? Well, fancy that.” He swayed gently on his feet just like the dancing daisies last Sunday. She could not look away. He was dressed in pressed dungarees and a stiff-collared boiled shirt. A black cravat was knotted at his throat. His boots were pointy-toed and polished. His dark jacket was like a suit coat, but he wore it open. He smelled faintly of alcohol and rich spices. “Whatcha got in the buckets?”
“Cream . . . I was headed to the Cream Station.”
His tongue darted out, and he licked his bottom lip. “Let me help you with that.” He smiled.
She stared.
“You stay right here,” he said as he relieved her of the buckets.
She did. Her feet were frozen to the spot. It didn’t take long for him to come back. As he rounded the corner of the building, he folded a paper bill and stuck it in his pocket. He placed a few coins in her palm. She didn’t even count, just dropped them into her linen sack.
He took her hand and with his thumb massaged the red print left by the handle of the cream bucket. “Hands like this ought not to be doing heavy lifting.”
He pulled her along by that same hand until they were halfway down the alley, just where the trash bin sat. The bin was not snug against the wall. He went in there first, leading her.
“I got a little something for you,” he said, taking a small package from his coat pocket and tucking it into her purse. “You ought to be careful where you leave things.”
“I will,” she said.
He caught her chin and tipped her head. His eyes were black and hot, like the last bit of coal smoldering in a fireplace. “Is there any other little thing I can do for you?”
Her blood had turned to water and her knees to jelly. She had not one smidgen of will left. What could she do but close her eyes and offer herself?
His kiss exploded in her brain and coursed through her veins like liquid fire. She felt the rough brick of the wall press against her back and was glad for it, else she would have surely fallen in a heap.
The very air surrounding her seemed thick with his presence. If she had a spoon, she could have tasted him. He put his hands on the small of her back and pulled her close. He kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her fluttering eyelids, and the soft triangle at the base of her neck where her pulse beat wildly. Then, quick as a vapor in the morning sun, he was gone, leaving her stunned and trembling.
She didn’t note the garbage bin nor the metallic skittering sound of the rat’s claws as it scavenged bits of rotting food. She didn’t see the gloomy shadowing of the alleyway nor fear she might be seen. She stood for several minutes settling herself. Now she knew—she knew what love felt like.
Coming out from behind the bin, she looked up and down the alley. It seemed like everything was off-kilter, like the world had tilted. But she had to go to the Cream Station and claim the tins. She couldn’t go home without them.
A woman came out from the back as Manda stepped into the store. She wiped her hands on a linen towel and took her place behind a waist-high counter.
“I’ve come for my tins,” Manda said.
“Two, right? I’ve got them washed for you.” The woman leaned her ample bosom on the counter. “Listen, miss, you don’t want to be messing with that—”
Manda cut her off. “My tins, please.”
The lady put two clean buckets and two clean lids on the counter. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
“I didn’t ask for nothing but my tins,” Manda said, seating the lids on the small buckets. She marched out the door. She could feel the woman’s eyes burning a hole i
n her back. “Old maid,” Manda muttered under her breath, “withering on the vine.”
Her anger fueled her as she took the long way down one street and back up the other where the buggy waited. No way was she walking down the alley so the busybody could run to a side window and watch her every move with her prying eyes.
This time the middling man was playing a mouth harp in front of the hotel. There were a few folks leaning against a banister, listening. As she passed, he made a long sound like that of a train whistle with his mouth against the harmonica.
Manda felt like he had just told the world she was special. She put the tins in the buggy beside the empty potato basket and unwrapped Chessie’s reins from the hitching post. As she watched him from the seat of the buggy, he slapped the harmonica against his leg and commenced to play “Fair and Tender Ladies.”
She guessed it was their song.
16
Sunday evenings were special in the Pelfrey household. Supper was whatever was left over from dinner. There were no chores other than what were absolutely necessary, like milking the cow and feeding the chickens. Manda wouldn’t be back until Monday morning, and Remy generally spent weekends in her own cabin.
Copper loved these times when it was just she and John with their children. In the winter they would pop corn and gather at the hearth. John would tell stories or she would read from Treasure Island or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or some such book, always ending with a Bible story. But in the summer, like tonight, they sat on the porch and enjoyed the dimming of the day.
Lilly was sitting on the top porch step in her long nightgown, brushing her hair with the silver-backed brush from the vanity set Alice had given her. She did a hundred strokes every night.
“What memory verse did your Sunday school teacher give you this week?” Copper said from her rocking chair.
Lilly huffed. “It’s from the First Epistle General of Peter, chapter 5, verse 9.”
“Don’t be smart-mouthed when you’re talking about the Bible, Lilly Gray,” Copper said, then softened. “Would you like me to read it to you before it gets too dark?”
