Past Forward Volume 1

by Chautona Havig

  “Butchering chickens.”

  “What!”

  She laughed. “I know it’s early, but it was that or sew, and it’s not like I need the eggs anyway. I’ve got so many that I’ve resorted to storing them in sand in the cellar for winter.” As they talked, she pulled out the largest bath canner and filled it with water.

  “Can you do that?”

  She shrugged, forgetting Chad couldn’t see her. “Mother did a few times when we had too many chickens. Most of the eggs made it for several months. I followed her directions, so hopefully—”

  “How many chickens did you—do?”

  “Skinned fourteen. I’m going to pluck two more for roasting.”

  “How many will that leave you?”

  The question seemed odd—why should he care? “Eight. I have chicks arriving next week so I’ll butcher more around Christmas and have a new flock to work with.”

  “You’re a better woman than I am.”

  Rolling her eyes at the ridiculousness of such a statement, Willow quipped, “I’d hope so.”

  “Well, in the chicken department, you’re a better man than I am too.”

  She could swear she heard him shudder. “Not afraid of a little chicken, surely.”

  “No, just disgusted by their skin, their fat, their innards—”

  “Aww. I’ll remember not to ask you to grill one.”

  His siren blipped. “Caught a speeder. Gotta go.”

  Willow stared at the phone in her hand. “He thinks chickens are gross. How funny!” She peeked under the canner lid, but no bubbles even hinted at forming. There was probably still time to clean and wrap the birds.

  By the time the water boiled, Willow had the skinned poultry clean, wrapped, marked and in the freezer. This was the portion of butchering that she loved. There was nothing more satisfying than jars of canned food or packages of frozen wrapped meat ready for the coming months.

  She carried her pot to the butchering cart and sat it on a small table next to it. With a chair ready for the plucking, she pulled her gloves back on her hands and went to find the two final green-banded birds. This time, she grabbed one, wrung its neck, and set it outside the door before grabbing the next one. If she had both killed, she wouldn’t let herself dawdle over plucking. She shuddered at the thought but dragged herself out of the chicken yard.

  Outside the barn, she hosed both birds off and then took them inside for a dunking. The stench of the boiled bird and feathers nauseated her. She sat on a chair and pulled handfuls of feathers as quickly as her fingers could do it. With each fistful, Willow reminded herself how much she loved roasted, stuffed chicken and forced herself not to shudder. Plucking chickens—not her favorite.

  Once finished, she tramped across the meadow, through the trees, over the stream, and to the back corner of their property, shovel in a sling on her back and carrying a large pot of chicken parts. Shaking from cold, she dug a hole and buried heads, feet, skins, and other chicken waste. Mother insisted it be far enough away from home that the dogs couldn’t find it and dig it up. It took longer than usual, the rain making it difficult, but she returned to the house in time to milk Willie and feed the chickens.

  Once finished, she stepped into the house and shed her clothes on the back mat, racing upstairs for a hot shower. “Lord, thank you for indoor plumbing. I’ve never been more thankful for it than right now.”

  “Rain, rain. Go away. Come again another day…” Willow sang to herself the next morning as she hand stitched the bound edge of her skirt in place. At this rate, she’d be done mid-afternoon. The pile of scraps near her beckoned, tempting her. “Maybe there’s enough there for a child’s outfit. Surely, Mother kept some of the patterns she used for me,” she mused as she tied off the end of the thread and knotted a new length.

  Stitch by stitch she added pin-tucks, drawstring shirring, and other details designed to complete the overall look of the dress she’d planned. She’d wear it to church on Sunday if the roads weren’t too muddy. Again, she glanced at the scraps. Her mind whirled with possibilities, but she forced herself to finish her own dress first.

  Making a child’s dress is silly, she scolded herself. You don’t know a child who could wear—The twins. She could give the final product to that widow for her twins. Chad could give it to his cousin, and Luke could pass it on to the children.

  Excitement stirred her fingers. The bodice was completely finished as was the skirt. She’d be done in no time. Her fingers stirred the scrap pile once more. If she used the rest of the brown corduroy left from last winter’s flannel lined skirt…

  The moment she finished her dress, she hung it on the dressmaker’s dummy by the stairs and stood back, admiring it. Her glee lasted only a few seconds before she jogged upstairs for patterns and the corduroy she hoped would stretch her scraps far enough to make two jumpers. She found the fabric and retrieved a box of old patterns from the attic.

  The clock chimed three as she tried once more to lay out the pattern pieces in a way to eke out two dresses instead of one. Despite her best efforts, and more than a little fudging, there simply was not enough fabric—not for the style she had in mind. She stared at the pieces, rearranged them again, and then her mental vision took a new shape. She laid out the pieces in a different way and then lined up the leftovers on the rug beside it. Two yards.

  Her feet pounded up the stairs two at a time. Not until she reached the craft room did Willow realize she’d been skip-counting as she climbed. She pulled a bolt of unbleached muslin from the shelf and grabbed an old-fashioned wooden sewing box from beside the bookcase. She carried it to the kitchen and set it aside while she dug out the extra leaves for the table. After she cut two yards from the bolt, she laid it open, smoothing out the slight crease from the center. Oh, Mother. Thank you for always insisting that we wash and iron these things the moment they come in the door. I’d go crazy if I had to wait for it now.

  Willow’s gut wrenched. Don’t think about it now, she ordered herself. It won’t change anything, and you’ll just feel worse. Suck it up. Mother wouldn’t want you whining about missing her when she’s happy with Jesus. No matter how hard she scolded herself, regardless of what she tried to make herself believe, the truth and emptiness of her loss hovered near her heart, threatening to charge at the slightest provocation.

  Alas, creativity was a balm for her soul. Fully in her element, Willow spent the next hour drawing paisleys on the fabric with a pencil. She used a stencil—one her mother had cut years before—as a placement guide and to keep them uniform in size. Once scattered across the fabric, she drew details inside each one. Flowers and swirls filled the warped teardrop shapes until she stood back. Satisfied. Next came scrolls from another template, this one used for stenciling in their scrapbooks.

  Hours ticked past as she drew every detail she wanted on the fabric. The clock, and a few well-timed protests from Wilhelmina breaking through the steady drone of rain, told her it was time to milk and feed the animals. She raced through her chores, hardly stopping to scratch the pup’s ears before she burst into the kitchen and shed her coat, coveralls, and shoes.

  Her stomach rumbled. She stared at the fabric, her fingers itching to return to her project. As she hesitated, Willow suddenly realized that she was thirsty—no, more than thirsty—parched. She grabbed her glass and filled it with water, guzzling it in seconds. A second refill washed down just as quickly. By the time she took a drink of the third, dinner was forgotten.

  Red squirted into a small jar of white produced a pink much too clear to work. She added the tiniest drop of yellow. Better. Another drop of paint—black this time—gave the color the proper hue. Willow capped the jar and moved onto the next, mixing yellow and red and slowly adding blue until she was satisfied. Other colors followed—aqua, brighter pink, and a purple-brown for shadows.

  With careful strokes, she painted one section at a time. By the time she finished with each color, the first sections of fabric were dry enough for the n
ext. Willow lost herself in the creative process, forgetting everything but the project before her.

  Chad’s voice in the kitchen doorway startled her. “I just stopped to see if you’d drowned yet or not.”

  The paintbrush streaked across the paisley, ruining it. “Oh no!”

  He stepped forward to see what she was doing and groaned. “Oh man, I’m sorry.”

  “That’s ok; I’ll just cut around it.”

  That she painted fabric at all amused him but did not surprise him. However, her words did. “You’re going to cut this?”

  “Did you see the mess in the living room?”

  “Couldn’t hardly miss it. It’s an obstacle course in there.”

  Willow stood, washed out her brush in the sink, and led him to the sea of fabric and pattern pieces all over the floor. “I needed more fabric. I want to make two, and I can’t, so I designed some to go with this.”

  “Why not just buy more?”

  She gave him the look that he had come to recognize as studied patience. “Well, primarily because this is fun. But even if it wasn’t, I don’t know where Lee bought the fabric or how quickly it would get here.”

  “Lee gave you odd shaped pieces like that?”

  Laughing, Willow pointed to her dress still hanging on the dummy. “No, these are the scraps. She actually bought more than I needed.”

  “You made that?”

  The Finley women were talented. The fact that she’d made a dress didn’t surprise him at all. He was certain that the quality of anything Willow created would be excellent, but he hadn’t been prepared for the kind of details she’d put into the style of it. A lifetime of living with his sister had taught him enough to know she’d sacrifice almost any luxury to have a dress like it.

  “Chad, I make nearly everything I wear, or hadn’t we discussed that enough? I’m pretty sure you’ve asked about me saving my sewing time up for something or another,” she teased.

  “I—wow. I didn’t know you could make something like that. Cheri would go crazy for a dress like that.”

  Willow eyed him curiously before returning to the kitchen. She grabbed her brush, dipped it into a new jar of paint, and told Chad to make himself comfortable. “What are you doing here?”

  “Like I said, just making sure you didn’t float away.”

  After a swipe or two on the fabric, Willow stared at the jar of paint. “Can you get me the striped fabric in there please?”

  After comparing colors, she squirted a bit of pink into the brown and swirled the colors together. Chad watched, fascinated. Once she was satisfied, she mixed more paint until it was right again and resumed painting.

  “Can I make me a sandwich? I’m starved.”

  “Make me one too, will you?”

  He knew it. She hadn’t eaten—possibly since breakfast if that dress was any indication. He splashed through the puddles to the barn, the puppy yapping at his heels. “She given you a name yet, girl?”

  In the fridge, Chad found leftover ham and—was it rye bread? “Mmm. That looks good.” As he pulled a jar of homemade mayonnaise and a pot of mustard from the door, it occurred to him that in less than two months, seeing things like mayonnaise in a canning jar and mustard in a mini crock no longer surprised him. In fact, he rarely noticed anymore. Chad saw bean soup in a mason jar and grabbed it too. The rain seemed to ask for soup with sandwiches.

  Willow smiled up at him as he rushed in carrying a steaming pot of soup. He set it on the wood cook stove and dashed back out into the rain, returning minutes later with a cast iron skillet covered with a Dutch oven lid. “Man, I don’t know how those old southern houses managed to get food inside while it was still hot!”

  Willow’s head snapped up and she glanced around, listening. Ignoring Chad, she dashed into the pantry, raced through the living room closing windows, before dashing up the stairs three steps at a time. Chad listened and realized that the wind had just shifted. The rain now fell from the east leaving the south windows free of rain.

  “Why were all the living room ones open?”

  “The porch protects those so I kept them open. I love the cool air.”

  Chad handed her a bowl of soup and a sandwich on a plate. “Go sit down and eat, or I’m dumping this on your fabric.”

  “No you won’t.”

  He glared at her and took a step toward the fabric. “That’s what you think.”

  “By the time I got done with you, I’d have to call for that ambulance again,” she said calmly. Too calmly.

  A shiver tried to crawl down his spine, but Chad chased it away. “I’ll set it on your recliner thing.”

  “Chaise. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done with this paisley.”

  Just as he stepped into the dining room, Chad thought of something and turned, trying to catch her eye. “That’d be a good name for that poor dog of yours.”

  Willow stood. At the sight of her paintbrush, he tried to shuffle into the living room with as much nonchalance as he could muster. Between bites of food, he heard her rinsing the brush, moving something around, and the distinct clink of silverware on a dish. Willow joined him a minute later, carrying a small platter with two thin slices of birthday cake on it. Instinctively, Chad knew she’d pulled a piece out of the freezer for her own dessert and had simply cut it in half to share.

  “Thanks. I think I forgot dinner—I remember thinking about it and then nothing. Maybe lunch too.”

  “Maybe?” Chad questioned wryly.

  “I can’t imagine forgetting two meals, but I don’t remember lunch. Maybe I ate watermelon— no, that was still in the icebox.”

  “You have watermelon?”

  With a glance at his empty plate and bowl, Willow took them from him and retreated into the kitchen. Chad scooted to the edge of his chair and examined the maze of fabric, pins, and pattern pieces. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he remembered his Aunt Libby’s living room looking similar every summer.

  A plate of watermelon broke his line of vision. “Oh, thank you. Did you bring salt?”

  “Salt? On watermelon?” Willow stared at him.

  “So I like salt on my melon. Is that bad?”

  She retrieved the salt, curled up on the chaise with her dinner, and watched Chad, as he salted his melon. “So what do you think of my combination? Will it look alright?”

  “What are you making?”

  “I started to make a little girl’s jumper, but I didn’t know any little girls who would like it. Then I remembered those little girls at your uncle’s house, but you can’t give twins just one dress so…”

  “So you spent hours hand painting the perfect fabric in order to use up scraps for little girls you’ve seen once.”

  A cocked eyebrow was her only response.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  November 2, 1992-

  The alfalfa was a success. It took me a while, but I finally mastered the swing of the scythe. Willow raked the cut and dried hay into piles and wheeled each pile into the barn while I cut new sections. We make a fine team.

  I gave her a journal for her birthday and some colored pens. She has taken to copying quotes from books in it. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but at least she’s practicing proper grammar. More free education without actual instruction. It works.

  This is the first winter that I finally feel prepared for. We have the cow and chickens in the freezer, vegetables canned and frozen, and the cellar is stocked to overflowing. I hope I didn’t over-plant potatoes. We just eat so much more than I ever imagined. This life requires an obscene amount of food and calories. We work so hard. I think that’s good.

  We’re almost never sick. I can trace nearly every illness to visits to town. It is tempting to get a phone so we can have things delivered without that walk, but I suppose we have the equivalent of a bubble here. Those forays into germ-city are probably good.

  November 18, 1992-

  We were in town today. I should have remembered to see who won
the elections. I could have talked about it with Willow and explained the legislative process. Oh well, maybe when she’s ten. She’ll be old enough to stay home alone then.

  Alone. What is a good age for that? There is nothing stamped on a child that says, “Do not leave unattended until the age of ten.” Is eight too young? Should I be practicing now? Leave her for a while but take the binoculars and watch to see that she’s safe? If we had a phone, I could call when I got to town and keep tabs on her while I was gone.

  Ma Ingalls didn’t have that option and she managed. Then again, Laura had Mary and vice versa. I have to practice, though. There have been times that Mr. Burke needed me in Rockland, but I am not taking Willow there. Ever. I hope she never develops a desire to go.

  Desire. Will she desire this life I’ve created? I need to be prepared for a rejection of it. She’s likely to be just as fascinated by what I left as I was by what I sought. Will I continue alone when she is grown and gone?

  Will I go crazy watching a man come into her life? I try not to show my distaste of men in general. I make sure I speak well of my father and Winston Burke. I must not pass on this warped view of mine, but how can I stand to trust someone with her? She’s so sweet and endearing.

  I hear her outside. She’s playing with Bumpkin. She throws the stick down the driveway and hides. Bumpkin always finds her, of course. He’s a sweet dog, but I must remember not to get another short-legged howler. Basset hounds aren’t good for sleep or for guard dog duty. No matter how cute the puppy is, the answer is no.

  The hooking supplies arrived yesterday. We’ll start on rugs for the house soon. I think it’ll help keep our floors warmer and our rooms better insulated. I can hope anyway. I think Willow is old enough to be significantly helpful on this project as well. She knows when I’m making up things for her to do. Children aren’t stupid. Why do we always underestimate them?

  “I’m hooking a rug this winter too, Mother,” Willow whispered as she closed the journal. The rain slowed. It had battered the house from what seemed like every angle but now fell gently. Softly.