Finest Kind

by Lea Wait

  “You didn’t beat me,” said Tom belligerently. “No one beats me. You must have turned before the spruce shadow.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “This won’t be our last race,” said Tom, getting to his feet. “No Boston boy is going to beat me.” He turned and headed down the road toward home.

  Jake stood, still catching his breath. Clearly the race had been about more than who was fastest.

  10

  Father returned late Saturday afternoon carrying a large basket on each arm and a sack over his shoulder. His hands were blistered, his back was aching, and he was exhausted. But he’d brought wheat flour, a little beef and pork, two loaves of bread, and a dozen plums. Best of all, he’d brought four clucking chickens.

  “Our own eggs!” said Mother with relief.

  “Just watch out for this rooster.” Father grinned as he opened the second basket. “He’s a feisty one. Been trying to nip me through the basket all the way from town.” The three hens that had been in the first basket plumped their ruffled feathers and ran about the yard, glad to be freed. The rooster shook himself and surveyed his new realm.

  “What do we do with them?” Jake asked. He reached out to touch one of the hens, but she skittered toward the privy. “Won’t they run away if they’re not penned?”

  Mother chased one of the chickens from the doorway of the house.

  “I’m told they’ll stay close to where you leave food and water,” said Father. “They’ll eat grasses this time of year, but we’ll need to get them corn for winter.”

  “Some of last year’s cornstalks were left in the back of the garden,” Jake volunteered. “I’ve seen a few ears of corn there, but the kernels are very dry. I’ll pick them, in case the chickens don’t care.” How much did chickens eat? “Next year we’ll grow our own corn,” he added with confidence. If Tom Neal’s family could do it, so could they.

  Would they still be in this place in a year?

  “How was it, working in the mill?” Mother asked.

  “I managed,” Father said quietly. “Work days are twelve hours long, and sleeping in a room with ten men is not easy, especially when you’re used to better company.” He hugged Mother again and squeezed Jake’s shoulder. “I’m glad to be home.”

  “You were missed,” said Mother. “It looks as though you did without some soap and water when you were away.”

  Father laughed. “Working in a mill is not a way to keep clean. I bought soap in Wiscasset, and what I want even more than a soft bed is a scrubbing. At least here we can heat water and I can feel clean for a day.”

  While Mother heated water, Father showed her the heavy work clothes he’d bought. They already needed stitching as well as cleaning.

  “The apples in our orchard are still green and sour, Father. But there are two kinds of squash in the garden, and pumpkins and cabbages,” Jake reported.

  “I see you and your Mother covered the windows with curtains. But where did you put the rest of the furniture?” asked Father. “This room looks more spacious than when I left.”

  “I stored some of the furniture in the lean-to and some in the loft.”

  Father inspected Frankie’s corner, where Mother had arranged pallets on the floor and walls. The rest of the room served as kitchen, dining room, and living room.

  “Looks as though you’ve made a safe place for Frankie,” Father said approvingly, looking down at his youngest son.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do should someone stop to visit,” Mother admitted. “But the nights are already getting cooler, and Frankie has to be in the room with a fireplace.” She’d placed an elegant three-sectioned carved mahogany parlor screen so it partially blocked Frankie’s corner, but nothing could completely hide the wall of pallets.

  Father hugged Mother. “No one will be visiting us this far out in the country. Frankie’s space looks fine. You’ve both done well. I shouldn’t have worried. The house is beginning to seem like home.” He looked at the iron kettle hanging from the crane in the fireplace, and the pot on the grate heating water. “When I left I wasn’t sure you could make a fire, much less cook, in this place. I shouldn’t have worried.”

  Mother and Jake exchanged looks. They wouldn’t tell Father how long it had taken them to find and chop the wood, and then to get a fire started that burned well.

  Father slept in his own bed Saturday night, adding that he wasn’t sure he could ever drag himself out of it again. Mother slept on her pallet near Frankie.

  Sunday afternoon while Mother finished mending a seam on one of her husband’s shirts, Father and Jake sat on the doorstep in the sun. Father had to leave soon to get back to the boarding house before night.

  “How is your mother managing?” asked Father quietly. “Truly.”

  “She’s fine,” said Jake. There was nothing Father could do when he wasn’t there, and his worrying wouldn’t solve any problems. “She’s tired, as you are. And she’s scared someone will find out about Frankie.”

  “What do you need most?” asked Father. “What shall I bring next week, if I can.”

  “More flour for bread,” said Jake seriously. “Meat. Or fish. And oil for the lamp. Mother is afraid in the night, and leaves the lamp burning.”

  Father put his head down on his hands for a moment and then looked up at his son, who until now had never needed to think about flour or whale oil. “You must be my eyes while I’m gone, Jake. If your mother is struggling, then I need to know.”

  Jake nodded but said nothing. Of course Mother was struggling. They all were. Why hadn’t Father been able to find a job closer to home, so he could take responsibility for his family? They’d been in Maine less than a week and Jake felt as though they’d been there a year.

  That night Mother, Frankie, and Jake shared a supper of squash roasted in the fireplace. Jake’s mind was full of concerns. What would they eat this week? Where would he find more dry firewood for the winter? Would he ever find a friend in this place? When would he next see Tom—and what would happen when he did?

  “I’m going to explore,” he told Mother after he’d pumped some water and helped her heat it so she could wash Frankie and some of his clouts. Jake was restless, and he needed to think.

  He walked past the garden into what had once been a pasture and was now high with end-of-summer grasses. Birds were gathering to fly south, and orange and black butterflies were searching milkweed and the last flowers of the season. Jake stopped and listened.

  The field hummed with a quiet trill. Then the air filled with thousands of long-bodied blue and green dragonflies. The insects flew in straight lines, turning abruptly when they sensed anything near them.

  Jake walked into the field and lifted his arms. The dragonflies approached him, then turned at right angles and headed in other directions. They never touched him or each other.

  He’d never seen anything like this in Boston.

  As he stood, hypnotized by the sight, he saw a girl standing among the trees on the south side of the clearing.

  How long had she been there?

  Slowly he walked toward her. She was shorter than he was, but perhaps as old. Her dirty flour-smudged gray apron and bare feet blended with the shadowed trees. A long untidy brown braid fell across her shoulder. As Jake got closer, he saw two small children standing slightly in back of her, almost hidden by tall grasses, dying Queen Anne’s lace, and goldenrod.

  She gestured to them to follow her, and all three walked out into the field, as though to greet him. Holding out her arms to the dragonflies as Jake had done, she turned around in a slow dance. “Come and see them,” she called softly to the boy and girl. “The fairies have come to bless us before they disappear for the winter.”

  The little boy ran into the field, trying to touch the dragonflies, but they were faster than he was. The young girl just stood and watched, her fingers in her mouth and her large gray eyes wide open.

  “Who are you?” Jake asked the older girl.

 
“Nabby. These are Violet and Zeke.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Through the woods. I wanted to get some fresh air before night, and I can never leave without the children.”

  “You live near?”

  “In the house next to yours. I heard you and your ma came from Boston, and your pa is working over to the mill.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Nabby smiled and shrugged. “Everyone knows. Even when there are secrets, in Wiscasset everyone knows.”

  Jake looked at her. Could she know about Frankie? Did everyone know about Frankie?

  “Have you secrets you don’t want known?”

  “Most families do, I think,” said Jake.

  “Yes,” said Nabby. “Most do.”

  Nabby reached down to take Violet’s fingers out of her mouth. As she moved, the dragonflies surrounded her, shining like beams of blue and green light. They did look like fairies.

  “Zeke! Come back,” she called to the boy who was running in circles amidst the insects. “The fairies must be on their way, and so must we.” The boy ran over to her, smiling, despite his dirty feet and torn shirt.

  “They are truly fairies, ain’t they, Nabby?” he said, grinning.

  “More than any other beings I’ve seen,” she agreed. “Granny McPherson told me, and she knows the ways of creatures.”

  Zeke nodded seriously. “She does.”

  “Is Granny McPherson your grandmother?” Jake asked.

  “She’s a friend,” said Nabby. “We must get back now.” She turned, and took the children’s hands. “I’ve heard your name is Jake.”

  “Yes,” said Jake, wondering where she had heard so much. Perhaps from Tom? “Will I see you again?”

  “Our homes are not far from each other,” said Nabby.

  The three figures disappeared into the woods, leaving Jake in the meadow. He turned and looked. The dragonflies were gone. For a moment he thought he saw another figure in the woods. A man, standing in the shadows near where Nabby and the children had disappeared.

  He took a step toward the figure, but the man vanished into the pine woods.

  Jake shook his head. The darkness was gathering, and his eyes must have tricked him again. He was alone.

  11

  It was late the next week before Jake got back to the Neals’ farm. Their barnyard was quiet except for the clucking of chickens, a noise he was becoming accustomed to. Jake had run to the farm, and now he paused a moment to catch his breath. Not even the large dog was in sight. Maybe no one was home. Jake rapped on the kitchen door.

  Mrs. Neal answered almost immediately. “Jake! It’s good to see you again. How are you and your mother managing? I saw your father walking home Saturday and then going back to the mill Sunday.” She shooed Jake inside. “It must seem like a long time between his visits. I saw he was carrying two baskets and a sack.”

  Nabby had been right. There were no secrets in Wiscasset.

  “He brought us a rooster and three hens, for eggs,” said Jake.

  “And a good start that will be. More work for you but a blessing for your mother and her cooking,” Mrs. Neal said. “You’ll be enjoying that, too, I’ll wager.”

  “We have no eggs yet, but the chickens should be settling down soon.”

  “Chickens can be tricky about where they hide their eggs. Look behind loose boards or under your shed and beneath the leaves of large plants. Finding eggs will be easier in the winter, when the hens are in your chicken house.”

  Chicken house! One more thing to do. “Mother sends her regards, and her thanks for all the food. She’s not yet prepared to send anything in kind, but I came to see if I could help out, in return. Now that we’re more organized.”

  “There’s no work that needs helping with this moment, although I thank you for stopping. Mr. Neal is helping Owen Williams hay his field this afternoon. Tom took our dog, Chester, and went down to the Sheepscot to find oyster shells for the chickens.”

  “Oyster shells for chickens?” blurted Jake.

  “You’ll find they’re much better than mussel or clam shells,” said Mrs. Neal. “Crush them up and the chickens will eat them. Helps them digest their grains, and makes their eggshells harder.”

  Jake listened carefully, but oyster shells for chickens? He’d eaten oyster pies and oyster stew in restaurants in Boston. He’d even heard of crushing oyster shells to use them in plaster.

  In Boston he’d taken restaurants and vegetable markets and pocket change for granted. Here in Maine they took for granted that everyone knew how to care for chickens.

  “Why don’t you find Tom? You could gather shells for your own chickens.” Mrs. Neal handed Jake a canvas sack. “I’ll get you a knife, too. Perhaps you’ll also find enough live oysters for suppers at both our houses.”

  Mother would be pleased if he brought home oysters for dinner! “How do I get to the river?” Jake asked, wondering what he would use the knife for. Opening the oysters? He’d watch Tom.

  Mrs. Neal opened the door and pointed across the road. “See that stand of birches? Just to the left of the trees there’s a path. Follow it a quarter mile or so and you’ll come to the shore of the Sheepscot. Should be pretty close to low tide now, and that’s the best time to find oysters, live or dead. Tom’s there on the shore somewhere.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Jake.

  The odor of pine was strong on the narrow path, and mosses crunched under Jake’s feet. At first the woods seemed quiet, but then he began to hear birds everywhere. Crows and blue jays argued with each other loudly. Bright yellow goldfinches twittered and flew from branch to branch. Chickadees seemed to follow him as he walked. Sometimes a gray squirrel or a chipmunk ran ahead of him on the path, or a small red squirrel leaped from one branch to another far above his head.

  Beyond the woods was an open area that had once been lumbered, and then farmed. The path was harder to follow there, but Jake could see a trail where high wild grasses had been tramped down. The breezes smelled of salt water. He was getting closer to the Sheepscot River.

  Jagged pine trees shaped by winter winds grew on the land above the river. Their roots were anchored by piles of rocks. Some of the rocks had been uncovered by storm tides, and some thrown there by farmers clearing their land. The rocks now bordered the river at high tide and divided dry land from the sea grasses, seaweeds, and mudflats below.

  Even at low tide Boston Harbor was never exposed like this. The Sheepscot River was far away, across a sea of dark mud.

  Jake didn’t see any oysters. Did they live in the mud, as clams did? Or perhaps on the rocks or under the seaweed that kept the rocks damp even at low tide?

  Tom would know, although Jake would have to show his ignorance again if he asked Tom for help. He’d hoped to find Tom immediately, and then just copy what he was doing. But there was no one in sight.

  Jake left his sack and knife under the trees and climbed down to the high-tide mark. Maybe if he walked out onto the mud? He took off his boots, rolled up his trousers, and took a few steps across the slippery rockweed and kelp.

  The dark mud was squishy between his toes and had a dank, salty smell. One step, then another, and then his right foot completely disappeared into the mud. Before he could pull it out, his left foot sank too. When he pulled his right foot out, it left the mud with a slurpy sucking sound. He could feel small rocks and shells cutting the left foot that was still sinking.

  Jake tried to step back toward the sea grasses that bordered the mudflats, hoping to find a shallow spot, but as he yanked his left foot to loosen it, he teetered, lost his balance, and sat down in the mud. Hard. Then he heard loud barking and laughter.

  “Look at the city boy playing in our mudflats!”

  Another voice laughed louder. “Maybe he’s trying to swim!”

  “Maybe he thought the flats were frozen and he could skate on them!”

  “Or run!”

  “Trapped in Maine mud, Boston b
oy?”

  Jake tried to turn toward the voices. With every movement he sank farther into the black unforgiving mud.

  Tom Neal and a younger, heavier boy were standing on the rocks not far above him, grinning. Chester was wagging his tail wildly and barking loudly as he raced from one part of the rocky shore to another.

  “Hey, Jake!” Tom called. “This looks like my mother’s sack and knife on the rocks. You steal them from her?”

  “I didn’t steal anything! I’m looking for oysters. Your mother said you’d be here.” Jake tried to reply civilly, but every time he tried to push himself up, he sank deeper in the mud. His face turned red with embarrassment. Now Tom would have another story to tell about how Jake didn’t know Maine ways. There must be a way to get out of this mud! Jake struggled to stand, and sank farther. “I’m stuck!”

  The boys laughed again, louder this time. “Looking for oysters? Maybe in Boston they grow in the mud!”

  “I give up. I need help!”

  “Looks that way,” agreed Tom. “Wonder how deep the mud is? What do you think, Ed?”

  Jake sank a little lower with every word.

  “If we don’t help him, he might be gone forever,” said Ed with a grin. “I guess we should be Good Samaritans.”

  “Maybe Jake is reciting his Latin and doesn’t want to be disturbed by us ignorant country boys,” said Tom.

  Chester barked his agreement.

  “His ma is going to be really mad when she sees how dirty his clothes are,” Ed pointed out.

  “But he isn’t totally covered by mud yet,” said Tom. “Maybe we should wait until his shoulders and head are under too.”

  “PLEASE!” With every movement Jake made to get up, his arms and legs sank a bit farther. There was nothing to pull himself up with, or to balance on. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t sink totally under . . . but the thought of the tide coming in was scary. How deep was the mud? He needed to get out. Now.

  “Why should we help you?” Tom called.