by Jan Watson
The door swung outward on its rusted hinges, creaking as loud as a gunshot in the stormy night.
“There’s stairs here,” Andy said. “Just a few.”
The air in the cellar under Mrs. Archesson’s house was so murky and thick that you could have cut it into ribbons with a pocketknife and so menacingly silent that Copper could feel the stillness like little pinpricks all over her body. Sweat trickled down her back, and her underarms itched something fierce. “It’s so dark,” she murmured. “How will we ever find the stairs?”
Andy fished in his back pocket. “Let me get a match. . . . There, that’s better.”
A flickering gleam from the lantern illuminated the crowded space. Gargantuan shadows danced on the damp rock walls.
“See, what’d I tell you?” He prodded an overturned baby carriage, and its wheel spun slowly, trailing long strands of cobwebs.
Copper sneezed loudly, biting her tongue in the process and tasting her own salty blood. She stifled another sneeze and scrubbed her nose with her shirtsleeve.
Andy led the way through the maze. “Bunch of junk,” he said under his breath. “There’s the stairwell. Best I remember, it opens into the kitchen.”
“How do you know all this?” Copper couldn’t resist asking as she followed him. Andy was full of surprises.
“I once stole in here on a dare from Todd Bowman. That Todd’s always doing something crazy. He dared me to see if Mrs. Archesson’s aunt was a witch like people says. But, nope, she’s just kinda scrunched up, like a dried-up apple. She can’t even hear no more. Ain’t that sad, Miz Corbett?”
Andy paused with his hand on the door latch. “Anyways, I was all over this here house. The bedrooms is upstairs. Betcha that’s where we’ll find Matilda.”
The kitchen door bumped open, and they crept in, Copper behind Andy, the lantern dark once again. She held on to Andy’s shoulder as he led her to the front of the dank, dark house . . . to the rickety stairway.
They paused for Andy to get his bearings. Copper strained to hear any hint that told her there was a baby in this decrepit house. But it seemed they were trapped in a dark void where nothing stirred, no light shone faintly from candle or lamp, and no one slumbered peacefully in the night. Fear snaked up her backbone and lodged in her brain. Something terrible lay waiting. The faint, almost hazy perfume of death assaulted her. Perhaps if there had been any sight or sound to distract, she would not have noticed, so vague was the scent that mingled with the other slightly fermented odor produced by an old house occupied by old people.
What had she led this young boy into? Steeling herself, she clutched Andy’s dry hand with her own clammy one. “Careful,” she cautioned, taking control. “Follow me.”
They mounted the steps and inched along the wall of a lengthy hallway, pausing before each door.
They had passed three such doorways when Copper motioned for Andy to enter with her. The stench was stronger here, strong enough to make her hold her breath. “Something’s very wrong. Light the lantern.”
That was not necessary, however, for before Andy found his pocket a dramatic bolt of lightning illuminated the many-windowed bedchamber in which they stood. The momentary, brilliant flash revealed a stiff body with mouth agape on the four-poster canopied bed square in the middle of the room.
Horrendous screams assaulted their ears. Panic struck as Copper and Andy fled in tandem to the open doorway. Stars exploded before Copper’s eyes when she struck her right hip on the doorjamb, while Andy, lantern clanging, ran full force into the other side. He was flung backward onto the floor of the very room they were so desperate to escape. Copper pulled him to his feet and clung to him tightly. With a ragged laugh, she caught her breath. The screams she heard had been theirs.
“Hand me a match,” she said, then with a trembling hand lit the wick. “Is this Aunt Annie?”
“Well,” Andy answered, his face as white as milk toast, his freckles as dark as raisins, “I reckon it was.”
“Are you all right, Andy?”
He swaggered toward the bed, his voice full of shaky bravado. “This don’t scare me none. I’ve seen dead people before, you know. I help at the undertaker’s sometimes.”
“There’s not much you haven’t done, is there?” Copper asked, wanting to reassure him, feeling guilty for his witnessing such a dreadful thing. She held the lantern high. “Oh my, look.”
What they saw was Mrs. Archesson’s aunt in a silk dressing gown, propped up by pillows and surrounded by empty tonic bottles.
Andy upended one bottle, and a clear drip of medicine wet the bedcover. “Well, I don’t expect she took baby Matilda. Let’s go poke around some more.”
Pulling the spread over Aunt Annie, making a lumpy ghost of the body, Copper answered, “We might as well, since we’re here. But if all our screaming didn’t bring Mrs. Archesson running, she must not be home.”
Slowly, slowly, they tread down the stairs, into the hall, and back toward the kitchen, careful to step in the little circles of light the lantern cast before them.
What now? Copper pondered. I’ve broken into a house I have no business to be in and frightened Andy half to death just to find a body we weren’t even looking for.
Suddenly a snoring bray filled the hall. Up it soared, groaning and bumping around them until with a halting hum it stopped, and the house was quiet once again.
Andy looked quizzically at Copper.
“Someone’s in there.” Copper pointed to a room directly off the hallway to their right.
“Sounds like Mrs. Archesson’s sleeping off her tonic,” Andy answered, tugging Copper’s arm. “Come on. Time’s a-wasting.”
They found Birdie slumped in an overstuffed chair in her sitting room. Stacks of old newspapers, books, clothing, and general trash impeded their progress.
“Careful with that lantern. We don’t want to start a fire,” Copper said. “What in the world?” She sank to her knees. “Oh no. Oh no. Lord, please, not this.” She moaned a prayer as she pulled the limp, blue form of a baby from the carpetbag at Birdie’s feet.
“Oh no, the little thing’s smothered,” Andy cried. “She couldn’t get no air in that old purse.”
What to do, what to do? The horror of the situation clanged about in Copper’s head. Surely it was not too late for Matilda. “Help me,” she prayed again, knowing God wouldn’t want her to accept this baby’s death. “Andy! Where could we get cold water?”
“Run her out back, Miz Corbett. The cistern’s out there by the cellar door.”
Dodging the piles of clutter, Copper held baby Matilda tightly in her arms and followed the trailing light as Andy ran for the kitchen door.
Once in the yard, he seized the handle of the cistern pump. Water trickled out in little spits, then began to flow. Copper held the baby under its stream, bathing her face and rubbing her chest until she heard a little gurgle, a thin gasp for air. Then the Matilda she remembered wailed away like the siren of the new fire engine they had heard at the parade just hours before.
“Oh, boy, we did it. We did it!” Andy whooped and hollered and pounded Copper on the back. Finally he settled down long enough to ask, “You ain’t gonna make me drag Mrs. Archesson out here and sober her up under that pump, are you?”
Copper knelt with the baby snuggled to her chest. Matilda had stopped crying and now nuzzled Copper’s neck. “We just need one more thing. If you’ll fetch a blanket or a dry rag to wrap Miss Matilda in, we’ll take her home. We’ll let the law deal with this house and its contents.”
Very early that morning, Copper, Simon, and Andy witnessed a sweet reunion when the police chief brought Matilda’s family to fetch her. The pudgy baby girl, no worse for her ordeal, gurgled and smiled as her brothers made funny noises and silly faces just for the pleasure of seeing her reaction.
Mr. Johnson clasped Copper’s hand in his own. “Mrs. Corbett, how can we ever repay you for saving our baby?” His face contorted, and he choked back a sob. “You wer
e so brave to go into that crazy woman’s house. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn’t found little Matilda when you did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” Copper replied, “but Andy is the one who deserves the plaudit. He remembered that Mrs. Archesson was acting strangely, and it was Andy who found the way to Matilda. Praise the Lord, and thank Andy that we made it in time.”
A small crowd had gathered on the porch, and people lined the street beyond. Everyone wanted to get a glimpse of the now-famous baby and her rescuers. Even the mayor was there, his walrus mustache bobbing as he laughed. He shook hands and generally worked the impromptu gathering. Election Day was just a few months away, and it seemed he never missed an opportunity to grab a vote.
Standing on the top porch step, the mayor held up his hand to silence the crowd. His rich voice boomed, “I hereby declare this Matilda Johnson Day. Seeing as how we missed the fireworks last night, I invite each and every one of you to the park this evening. We’ll have our celebration, and there’ll be watermelon for all! There will also be a special ceremony of commendation for this young fellow, Andrew Tolliver.”
Andy pulled on Copper’s sleeve and stretched up to whisper urgently in her ear, “What’s a commendation? I ain’t in trouble, am I?”
Copper whispered back, “No, Andy. It’s a reward, like getting a medal for being so brave.”
“Andrew—” the mayor motioned for Andy to come his way—“say something to the folks.”
Andy stepped up beside him. “Shucks, Mr. Mayor. I don’t need nothing for helping Miz Corbett here save baby Matilda.” He rubbed one toeless shoe against the heel of the other. “It’s the good Lord sent us to that old bat’s—sorry, Mrs. Archesson’s house, I reckon.”
The crowd broke out in applause as a gang of boys led by Andy’s friend Todd Bowman, his broken arm still plastered, hoisted Andy to their shoulders and paraded him down the sidewalk.
Finally the crowd faded away. The Johnson family gathered their children and, with one last hug for Copper and calls of “We’ll see you tonight” and “Thanks again,” were slowly driven away in the police chief’s carriage.
Copper leaned against Simon as she waved the buggy away. “I’m so glad you’re home. I thought you’d be gone all day.”
Catching her in a tight embrace, he rested his chin on the top of her head. “I could sleep standing up.” He stifled a yawn. “Let’s go in and catch a nap.”
The screen door squeaked open, and Searcy poked her head out. “You all come in now,” she said and frowned at Copper. “Ain’t enough you try to get yourself killed traipsing around all hours of the night, going places you got no business going; now you be trying to starve yourself.” The door swung wide on its hinges. “Come on in here and eat your biscuits and gravy.”
Copper’s stomach growled in appreciation when Searcy set her filled plate on the table. Bacon, fried eggs, sawmill gravy, hash browns, and a slice of ripe red tomato vied for the first bite. “What would we do without you, Searcy?”
With her hands planted firmly on her hips, Searcy surveyed the young couple, then walked to the stove and seized the handle of the coffeepot with a yellow pot holder. “Be pitiful thing to find out,” she muttered before she came back to the table. Fresh black coffee trickled into first Simon’s cup and then Copper’s. “Taking care of you two be Searcy’s pleasure. Now eat up.” Seemingly satisfied, Searcy headed out the door.
Lingering over the meal, Copper turned to Simon. “I forgot all about the train wreck. Was anyone hurt?”
“We were as fortunate as baby Matilda,” he replied, pausing between bites. “When Dr. Thornsberry and I got there, we found many passengers with cuts and bruises but thankfully no deaths. The conductor suffered a fractured leg. His was the most serious injury.”
“Seems the Lord blessed us all last night,” Copper said.
Simon looked at her over his coffee cup. “What am I to do with you? Seems I can’t trust you out of my sight.”
“Simon . . .”
He loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair. “I’m serious, sweetheart. You could have gotten yourself killed last night. I’ve a good mind to lock you in our cellar.”
“What would you have had me do?”
His eyes held the same blend of alarm and pride her father’s had shown the time Copper killed a wildcat outside the chicken coop. She’d clocked the marauding varmint dead as a doorknob with only a pebble fired from a slingshot, just like David slew Goliath.
“You should have sent Andy to the police station with your suspicions instead of going off by yourselves the way you did,” Simon fussed.
“I just had the strongest feeling I was barking up the right tree. You have to listen when God gives you insight. Besides, if we had waited for help, I think Matilda would have been dead when we found her.” Copper stood and scraped the remnants of their breakfast into the slop bucket Searcy kept for the hog. Through the window over the sink, she could see the housekeeper in the garden, gathering vegetables into her bunched-up apron, already preparing for the noon meal. “What’s going to happen to Birdie?”
“Birdie?”
“Mrs. Archesson, I mean. She’s such a flighty little thing that I nicknamed her Birdie.”
Simon laughed, holding out his mug for a refill. “That’s perfect. She does get her feathers ruffled quite easily. When the police chief intercepted me on my way home from Paris, I went to the Archesson house with him to sign commitment papers. The undertaker was there with the mortuary wagon to get Annie Archesson’s body, but Birdie took no notice.”
“Why did you have to sign papers? Didn’t they take her to jail?”
“She’s not a criminal, just a confused and sick woman. I commended her to the lunatic asylum. She’ll be safe there. They’ll protect her from herself.”
“But, Simon, she could have killed Matilda. She should be tarred and feathered.”
“Judge not lest ye be judged. You don’t know why she felt compelled to take the baby.”
His soft rebuke shamed her, but he hadn’t seen that precious little girl stuffed like so much garbage in a dirty old bag, her very breath stolen away, while drunk Birdie slept the night away. And of course, she’d never told him about Birdie nearly strangling her that day in his office. Still, her temper flared. Simon could suffer fools if he wanted, but she would not.
Anger cut her tiredness as slick as a hot knife through butter. Simon started for the stairs to rest a bit, but Copper decided to find Andy. “May I take him to the dry-goods store and select something appropriate for him to wear to the celebration tonight?” she asked.
“You may go if Reuben has time to take you. Just have your purchases added to my account.” He paused for a kiss before continuing his instructions. “And be careful. Andy doesn’t live in the best part of town.”
“Thank you, dearest,” she said, tying her bonnet under her chin and drawing on her gloves, her ill feelings all but forgotten.
“Indeed, Dr. Corbett was right as usual. This is not the best part of town,” Copper said to Reuben as she bounced on the buggy seat beside him. Reuben had brought the Sunday carriage around for their trip, but when he opened the door for her, Paw-paw jumped in instead, so she sat beside Reuben on the driver’s bench. You could see much better that way.
“Yes’m,” Reuben answered.
No matter how Copper tried she couldn’t get more than a word from the taciturn man. She guessed he wasn’t used to a woman who had as many opinions as she did.
Bump, bump, bump . . . They made their teeth-rattling way down a crooked alley lined on both sides with meager shotgun houses. The dwellings sat cheek by jowl as if leaning on each other for support. In the ditch that lined the road, stagnant brown water released a noxious odor.
The noise of children shrieking as they ran through a large mud puddle mingled with that of a red-faced housewife who loudly harangued someone as she leaned out a second-story window. “Just get out!” Copper heard he
r shout. “If you can’t bring any of your pay home to feed these brats, then what do I need you for?”
As they passed by, Copper could see a man dressed in an undershirt, idling on the porch, drinking from a long-necked brown bottle. He seemed unperturbed by the woman’s harsh words or by the dishpan of dirty water she flung from the window.
Copper swiveled around trying to take it all in. The dress she wore slicked across the leather seat. “Whoops!” she cried in alarm as she jammed her feet against the floorboards. Reuben put his hand out before she righted herself and sat back. “Sorry,” she said.
“Yes’m,” he answered, his eyes straight ahead.
Taking in every detail of the passing scene, she was appalled but not surprised. She had seen much poorer sights up the hollows of the mountains, but these seemed sadder somehow. Where she came from, no matter how bad off you might be, it was not so open for everyone to see. It didn’t seem so squalid to live in a shanty when there was space around you and the beautiful mountains to look at. But here the yards were so small you couldn’t tell your chickens from your neighbors’. And there were chickens of every sort pecking and scratching at the bare ground. She wished for a handful of cracked corn to fling at the pitiful things.
Nearly every door stood wide open. “Goodness gracious,” she remarked, “you could throw a cat through the front door, and it would sail clean through the house.” She caught herself gawking; she’d never seen so many people’s lives laid bare. “I suppose they leave the doors open to catch some air. I’ll bet the flies are thick, for I don’t see any screens.”
Amazingly, Reuben found his voice. “Probably so, but these folks be wearied by more than flies.”
Chagrined, Copper cast a sideways look and studied his face. She hoped she hadn’t offended him. Her mind flitted to her mountain home and how they would drag out the screens first thing every summer. Who could forget scrubbing those windows with vinegar water and polishing them with newsprint before propping them open with the fly screens? Mam always said it didn’t take wealth to be clean.
