by Lea Wait
While Jake began toting pails of cold water from the Holbrooks’ kitchen to the jail door, Mr. Holbrook let Margaret Flanders have a turn outside in the fenced areas, and while she was outside, Jake scrubbed her cell. When that cell was finished, Mr. Holbrook let Margaret back in and moved Thomas Wilson outside so Jake could clean his cell.
Scrubbing the stones on his knees, Jake realized how badly the cells stank of food, body wastes, sweat, and dirty bedding. He did his best, scouring the stones until his hands, already sore from oystering and chopping wood, were red and swollen and his knees ached.
After he’d finished the cells on the first floor, he scrubbed the hallway floors and the cells on the second floor. He emptied the wooden slop buckets into a larger bucket in the hall and, finally, when Mr. Holbrook unlocked the door, he emptied the larger bucket into the privy behind the outbuildings.
By the time he reached home, he smelled like the jail, and he’d earned every penny Holbrook paid him.
But he had enough to buy corn for setting traps. And Nabby had tied a white piece of muslin on the apple tree they’d agreed on. Tomorrow he’d find her and learn how to catch a squirrel or a rabbit.
21
Mother was tired when Jake returned home that evening. During the day she’d prepared the entire wagonload of apples he’d collected and strung the pieces on twelve long strings for drying. Jake hung the strings between beams in the loft before allowing himself to collapse into sleep. He wished the pieces of apple were bigger, so he could use the drying racks. Next year the racks would be good for squash or pumpkin or corn.
He’d only slept an hour or two when he woke to Frankie’s thrashing and moaning, and Mother’s soft singing. At first he lay there, allowing himself to be lulled by her voice. But then he knew he should see if he could help.
Quietly, so as not to startle Mother or Frankie, he climbed down the ladder from the loft. Mother was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. She’d added logs, for both heat and light, and the whale oil lamp was trimmed low on the table. Frankie, peaceful for the moment, was in her lap. Both she and Frankie were wrapped in the blue and red star-patterned quilt Mother had pieced several years before.
Mother looked up as she heard Jake. “I’m sorry we woke you. You had a long day.”
“So did you,” Jake answered. “Can I get you something? There’s some tea left from the last Father brought.” Granny McPherson might think tea an extravagance, but it was one of the few Mother indulged in now.
“Thank you, Jake. A cup of tea would taste very good.”
Jake filled the kettle with water from the basin he kept full to save Mother from having to go outside to the pump. After he’d hung the kettle on the crane, he got out Mother’s English china teapot with pink roses, and a matching cup and saucer that she had used when Mrs. Neal visited. Most days now they used pewter mugs. But tonight Jake wanted Mother to have her tea the way she always drank it in the past. They had given up so much. A cup of tea was a little thing that might comfort Mother.
“You strung close to two bushels of apples today, Mother.”
Mother raised one of her hands to show some small cuts. “I’ve never cut up so many apples. But at least I felt I was doing something to help us. I took some of the pieces and stewed them in a little water, and then mashed them, and Frankie ate some too.” She smiled at Jake. “We’re going to be very elegant this winter, dining on oysters and apples.”
“Tomorrow I’ll ask Mrs. Neal if she’ll sell me some corn to bait traps,” Jake said.
Jake was sure Mrs. Neal would help him, but he didn’t have the patience to deal with Tom. If he were lucky, Tom would be off somewhere tomorrow. He wished he could ask Mother’s advice about Tom, but she had enough to worry about.
“Mrs. Neal seemed very kind. But don’t encourage her to come and visit again. Tell her I’ll visit her soon.”
Jake looked at her, surprised, as he poured the hot water into Mother’s teapot to let it steep.
“You’ll have to watch Frankie for an hour or two on one of the days you don’t work at the jail. It will seem more normal if I visit Mrs. Neal the next time.”
Jake nodded. “You’re right. As soon as I get the traps set.”
Mother’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired.”
Jake knelt down next to her on the floor. “Your tea is ready, Mother. I’ll take Frankie.”
Mother nodded slowly. She unwrapped the quilt that covered them and handed Frankie to Jake, tucking the quilt around Frankie as she did so.
Frankie was lighter than most children of his age would be. Jake thought of Zeke and Violet. Frankie’s weight was in his head and shoulders and arms; his body was thin and lifeless below his waist. Jake adjusted the way he held Frankie so his brother’s head was higher.
Mother watched them for a moment, tears falling down her cheeks. Jake didn’t know if Mother’s tears were for her sons, or her husband, or herself.
“Drink your tea, Mother,” said Jake. And he started to rock Frankie as Mother had, singing to him quietly.
22
When the rooster crowed that morning, Jake wanted to hide his head under the quilts. Only Mother’s voice pulled him downstairs, calling him to share yesterday’s bread softened in eggs and cooked in the skillet. He emptied the chamber pots, washed his hands and face at the pump, and settled himself at the table. The sun was barely up, but his work was waiting.
He smiled at Frankie and reached over to touch his head. “Good morning, little brother,” he said.
Mother looked surprised but pleased, and spooned the egg and bread mixture onto their plates. Frankie opened his mouth for his share. For a moment he almost seemed to smile.
“Will you bring me more apples today?” said Mother. “If they’re not picked now, they’ll start falling and rotting on the ground. I’ll do more peeling and coring after I’ve finished the washing.”
“First I’ll bring you water to heat,” said Jake. Yesterday he’d brought water for Mrs. Holbrook to wash clouts; today that would be Mother’s chore. “Then I’ll bring you the apples. Just string those we can only use part of. This afternoon I’ll layer the good ones with grasses in a barrel in the cellar.”
“A good plan,” said Mother. “I’ll do what I can. I’m weary this morning.”
I am too, thought Jake, but tomorrow I have to go back to the jail. Today every moment had to count.
First he had to go to the Neals’ house for corn, and then find Nabby.
Mother read his mind. “Take a sack or two for the corn when you go to the Neals’,” she said. “And remember to tell Mrs. Neal I’ll stop by soon.”
It was near midmorning before the chickens were fed, the apples were in the house, and Jake was on his way to the Neals’ farm.
As he walked into their yard, Tom stepped out from behind a shed and stood directly in front of him.
“What’re you doing on my land?”
“I’ve come to buy some feed corn and cobs from your parents,” said Jake.
“I guess people in Boston eat the same food hogs and chickens do,” Tom sneered. “Every time I see you, you’re looking for food. I’m surprised you’re not as big as a barn by now.”
Jake moved to walk around him. “I just need to speak with your mother.”
“Mother’s in town,” said Tom. “Your protector isn’t here.”
“I can protect myself,” said Jake. “Will you sell me some corn, then? I brought a sack.”
“At least you didn’t expect Mother to give you one of our sacks this time,” said Tom. He moved closer to Jake. “How much money have you got?”
“How much is the corn?”
“That depends on how much money you have.”
Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out two coins. “Two cents.”
“Two cents! I thought boys who came from Boston and knew Latin were rich! Not so poor they buy feed corn so they can eat with the hogs!”
J
ake stood motionless, the coins held out toward Tom. “Will you sell me the corn or shall I find another farm that will take my money?” The only sign of his growing rage was the red color of his neck.
Tom lashed out and hit Jake’s hand. The coins flew into the air, rolling into high grass. “Money? I don’t see any money.”
Jake clenched his fist and smashed it into Tom’s nose.
He wasn’t sure who was more surprised. But before the blood started trickling down Tom’s face, Jake hit him again. Tom was bigger than he was, and the advantage of striking first would only last a moment.
Tom roared, and came at him, pushing him backward with both his arms until Jake’s foot hit a rock and he stumbled and fell, Tom on top of him. They rolled over, each hitting the other on the arms and in the stomach and back. Jake felt blood on his face. He didn’t know if it was his or Tom’s. Then, suddenly, Tom stood up, wiping the blood from his nose and leaving Jake on the ground.
“Find another place to buy corn, city boy,” said Tom. “Don’t come back here. You and your kind aren’t wanted in Wiscasset. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.” Tom stomped into his house.
Jake lay in the dirt for a minute or two, catching his breath. Then he got up, found his coins, put them in his pocket, and headed for Nabby’s house.
She’d know where else he could get corn. He rubbed Tom’s blood off his hand and cheek. He might be bruised, but at least he wasn’t bleeding.
As he walked toward Nabby’s home, Jake realized she’d never invited him there. Of course he had never invited her to visit his home either. The white cloth on the apple tree had meant they would meet, but they usually met in the evening, away from both of their houses.
He hoped she was to home. He had to see her.
But the yard surrounding her house was quiet. There was no sign of Nabby, or of Violet or Zeke. Perhaps they were inside. Jake hesitated before knocking. Nabby didn’t talk about her mother, and he suspected she wouldn’t welcome company.
He waited for a few minutes. Then he decided to stop by another time. Or wait for evening. Jake was about to leave when a short man walked around the side of the barn.
The man was perhaps thirty years old; his hair was sun-streaked, his skin rough, and his clothes worn and stained.
They looked at each other.
“I’m Jake Webber. A friend of Nabby’s. Is she here?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“With her pa to town. Violet and Zeke, too.”
Nabby hadn’t mentioned her father was coming home. In fact, Jake couldn’t remember her mentioning him at all. But Cousin Ben had said Mr. McCord was a mariner, so her pa’s ship must be back in port. “Who are you?”
“Simon. Nabby is my friend too. I’m watching things here for her.”
Simon. Jake remembered Nabby telling him about her friend Simon. He was older than Jake had imagined. What would he be watching if Violet and Zeke were with Nabby? “Will she be home soon?”
Simon shook his head. “Don’t know. She said to stay until she got home.”
“Will you tell her I stopped in?” asked Jake. “Tell her I need to see her.”
“I’ll remember. Jake. I’ll tell her.”
23
Nabby wasn’t at the oak tree that night. Her trip to town must have taken longer than she’d thought, or she was busy with her father.
The next few days went by quickly, but there were no white cloths on the apple tree. When Jake wasn’t at the jail, he chopped wood and helped Mother prepare apples and pumpkins for winter.
It was Saturday again before Jake knew it. He’d worked three days for Mr. Holbrook and was getting to know the jail’s routine. The work wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.
Mother made an apple pie in anticipation of Father’s arrival, and pinned her hair up in a style she’d worn for Boston parties. She fussed with pretty dried grasses she’d cut in the field behind the privy, and arranged them in a vase on the table.
“Jake, put on a clean shirt,” she said as he came in, carrying wood for the fireplace.
“I’ll just get it dirty again,” he said, looking down at his hands and the shirt he was wearing. They were smudged with dirt from the logs, and from the ashes he’d shoveled out of the fireplace earlier.
“Clean yourself up and put another shirt on. Show your father you’re glad he’s come home,” said Mother. “By now I’m sure he’s accepted your decision to work at the jail.”
Jake hoped so. He’d worked hard that week.
In a few minutes he was sitting with Mother at the table, waiting. She was holding Frankie across her lap, softly singing “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” A very long time before, she had sung that song to Jake, too.
“I’ll get us some fresh water,” Jake said. “Father’s always thirsty after his long walk.”
“Maybe he’ll have brought us some more tea,” Mother said. “Ours is almost gone.”
Jake hoped Father remembered to bring more dried beans. Mother had learned to soak them before baking them with a bit of salt pork, and they had become one of his favorite meals, especially when she added a bit of molasses. Or maybe Father would bring some cornmeal and Mother could make a pudding, or anadama bread.
“I’ll ask Mr. Holbrook where I can buy feed corn,” said Jake as they sat quietly. “I don’t want to bother Nabby right now.”
“Perhaps you could take her some apples on Monday,” said Mother. “You promised her some. It’s too bad you and Tom haven’t gotten along. But at least Nabby is a friend.”
Jake hadn’t been able to hide his bruises and the blood on his clothes after his fight with Tom, so Mother knew his relationship with Tom was not a cordial one.
“The apples are a good idea for Nabby,” Jake agreed.
The afternoon was quickly fading. Father had not come yet.
Finally Mother stood. “It’s time for supper and we’re hungry. We should eat the apple pie. We’ll save a piece for your father.”
Jake nodded. Where could Father be? He’d never been this late. “Maybe he was busy at the mill and couldn’t leave in time to get here before dark.”
“Maybe he’s been hurt at the mill,” said Mother.
“If he were injured, someone would have sent word.” Jake hoped that was true.
“He’s probably been delayed on the road and didn’t want to walk in the dark,” Mother said. “He’ll be here early tomorrow morning.”
24
Father still hadn’t arrived when Jake left Sunday morning to work at the jail.
Mother had slept badly, and her eyes were swollen.
“I wish you didn’t have to work Sundays,” Mother said as she sliced bread for Jake’s breakfast in the dim early-morning light.
“Only once every two weeks,” he reminded her. “The prisoners are there every day.”
“I know.” She gave him a hug before he left. “Take care of yourself.”
Jake nodded.
Neither of them mentioned Father.
Jake scrubbed and cleaned and emptied slop buckets, and took meals to the prisoners. Margaret Flanders had gone home, but two men had been brought in for drinking too much and breaking a window at Whittier’s Tavern Saturday night.
Mr. Holbrook let Jake go home in the mid-afternoon. “Everyone is quiet, and it’s Sunday. You’ll be able to spend at least some of the day with your family.” Jake ran home as fast as he could. Had Father come? Now was the time he usually left home to return to the mill. How was Mother? And Frankie? Often when Mother was upset, Frankie was upset too. Mother had been worried that morning. What if Father hadn’t come home?
Jake was out of breath when he reached home and threw open the door.
Mother and Frankie were alone.
“Did you hear anything? Did Father come?”
“He didn’t come,” Mother said, “but Cousin Ben did. Your Father has joined a lumbering crew that’s gone to the w
oods in western Maine.”
“Why? Why didn’t he tell us?”
“Father asked Cousin Ben to tell us. Cousin Ben said lumbering pays more than work at the mill. This time of year they’ll mark trees. After the snow falls, they’ll go back and cut them. Sledges can move the logs more easily on snow.”
“Why didn’t Father come to explain that himself?” And say good-bye, Jake thought. And see if we needed his help with anything at home.
“They needed another man to make up a crew leaving Friday, and he joined them. He didn’t have time to let us know.”
Jake sat down. His body felt heavy. “When will he be back?”
“Cousin Ben said sometimes crews stay in the woods for weeks.”
“Weeks!”
“He brought us your father’s earnings.” Mother pointed to some coins on the table.
“Did Father send us a note?”
“No,” said Mother. “But we know he’s all right. And remember? He did tell us he was going to volunteer for jobs with higher wages.”
“He didn’t tell us he might leave Wiscasset!” said Jake.
“No. He didn’t.” Mother’s words were calm, but her expression was not.
25
Wednesday night was cold and damp. Jake decided to bring one more armload of firewood into the house on the chance it rained by morning. Or snowed. The next day would be the first of November, and already the ground was hard with what Mr. Holbrook called “black frost,” because it killed any vegetables left in the garden.
The moon was low in the sky. Jake stood and listened for the saw-whet owl whose “too-too-too-too-too” song had often lulled him to sleep.
In the night’s silence he heard running feet on fallen leaves. He moved closer to the door of the house. Who could it be? Father? But Father wouldn’t run.
Then the steps stopped.
“Jake? Jake!” Nabby’s voice was low but insistent.
“Nabby—where are you? What are you doing here?”
She stepped out of the pine shadows into the moonlight. Her braid was partially undone, and had caught small twigs as she’d run. Her skirt had been torn by a thistle that was still stuck to it.
