Northern Light

by Jennifer Donnelly

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "For what?"

  "For shouting at you. I was selfish."

  She squeezed my hand and said, "You are many, many things, Mathilda Gokey, but selfish isn't one of them."

  We sat together in silence for a few minutes, Miss Wilcox smoking and holding my hand. I didn't ever want to leave this room. Or my teacher. But I knew the longer I stayed, the longer I kept her from packing. And come morning, she had to be gone.

  "I have to go," I finally said. "Weavers waiting for me outside. We have to be back by six or we're going to be in trouble."

  "Well, we can't have that, Mattie. You need your wages. Maybe you can visit me in Paris someday. Or maybe, if all goes well, I can come home sooner rather than later. And then we can have lunch on the Barnard campus."

  "I don't think so, Miss Wilcox," I said, my eyes on the floor.

  "But why not?"

  "I'm not going to Barnard. I'm staying here."

  "My god, Mattie, why?" she asked, releasing my hand.

  I couldn't answer her for a few seconds. "Royal Loomis asked me to marry him," I finally said. "And I told him yes."

  Miss Wilcox looked like someone had drained all the sap from her. "I see," she said. She was about to say more, but I cut her off.

  "Here's your five dollars back," I said, pulling the bill out of my skirt pocket. "Thank you, Miss Wilcox, it was very generous, but I won't be needing it."

  "No, Mattie, you keep that," she said. "Money can be tight when you're first married. You keep that for yourself. Use it for paper and pens."

  "Thank you," I said, knowing that was what she wanted me to say. Knowing, too, that it would likely be spent on seed corn or chickens, never on paper or pens.

  "You take care of yourself, Mattie," my teacher said, walking me to the door.

  "You, too, Miss Wilcox."

  She said good-bye to Weaver as I climbed into the trap. She gave him a hug and told him to study hard at Columbia. She told him she was going to spend some time in Paris and that he should come visit her there. I looked back as we drove off and saw her silhouetted in the doorway. She looked small to me. Small and fragile and defenseless. She had not looked that way when I'd arrived.

  "Giddyap!" I told Demon, snapping the reins. He broke into a trot.

  "You all right?" Weaver asked.

  "I'm fine," I said, driving down the middle of the street. Past the saloon. Past O'Hara's and Payne's stores, past the barber's and the post office and the school.

  As soon as I made it out of the village, I pulled up on the reins until Demon stopped, then leaned my head into my hands.

  "Aw, Matt," Weaver said, thumping my back. "She didn't die; you'll see her again."

  "She may as well have. I won't see her again. I know I won't."

  "You will so. She won't stay in France forever. She'll be back in New York one day."

  "But I won't be," I said quietly.

  "What?"

  I didn't want to tell him, but I had to. I'd kept it from him for weeks, but I couldn't keep it from him forever. "Weaver ... I'm not going. I'm not going to New York City," I said.

  "Not going? Why?"

  "Royal and I ... we're sparking. I'm going to ... he's ... I'm staying here. We're going to be married."

  "To Royal'. Royal Loomis?"

  "You know another Royal?"

  "Jeezum, Mattie! I don't believe this! I've seen him call for you, seen you out riding together, but I didn't think it was serious. Why don't you marry Demon? Or Barney? Or that big rock over there?"

  "Weaver, stop it."

  "But he's nowhere near good enough for you! Does he write? Can he write a story like you can? Does he read? Does he even know how?"

  I wouldn't answer.

  "You ever show him your composition book? He ever read your stories? Just tell me that. Just answer that one thing."

  I didn't answer. There wasn't much point. I couldn't explain to him that I wanted books and words, but I wanted someone to hold me, too, and to look at me the way Jim looked at Minnie after she'd given him a new son and daughter. Or that leaving my family—that breaking the promise I'd made to my mamma—would be like tearing my own heart out.

  Weaver railed on and on as we drove. I let him. There was nothing else I could do.

  If you harness two horses together and one is stronger, the weaker horse gets buffeted and bruised. That's what being friends with Weaver was like. A farmer can put an evener on his team's yoke to compensate for the weaker horse by shifting some of the load to the stronger one. But you can't put an evener on two people's hearts or their souls. I wished I could just up and go to New York City. I wished I was as strong as Weaver was. I wished I was as fearless.

  But I was not.

  con • fab • u • late

  "Ada! Weaver! Mattie! Frances! Get those pies outside! And that ice cream, too!" Cook bellowed from the doorway.

  "Yes, ma'am!" we hollered in unison.

  "And don't forget the lemonade!"

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  "And stop shouting! This is a resort, for pete's sake, not a lumber camp!"

  "Yes, ma'am!" we shouted, laughing as we clambered out of the kitchen, through the dining room, out the front door, across the porch, and down the steps to the Glenmore's front lawn.

  "Chat," Weaver said, passing me.

  "Converse," I shot back.

  It was the Fourth of July, the biggest night of the summer season, and no hotel on Big Moose Lake, or Fourth Lake, or any other lake in the whole state of New York threw a better party than the Glenmore. We had about a hundred of our own guests, plus some guests from the other hotels who'd rowed across the lake especially, plus just about every family from Big Moose Station, Eagle Bay, and Inlet, too. Anyone could come, and most did. The hotel charged a dollar for grown-ups and fifty cents for children, and people saved all year to bring their entire families. For your money you got to eat as much barbecued chicken and pork spareribs and corn on the cob and potato salad and three-bean salad and macaroni salad and biscuits and strawberry shortcake and pie and ice cream and beer and lemonade as you could hold. You got to listen to a brass band from Utica, and you could dance, too, if you wanted. You could walk in the woods or take a boat out. And when it got good and dark, around nine-thirty or so, you got to see real fireworks shot off from the dock.

  The hotel itself looked as pretty as a painting. Red, white, and blue bunting had been ruched all around the porch and the balconies. The red roses were in full bloom, and the blue hydrangeas, too. Every window was lit, even the dock was aglow with lanterns. Tables, made out of boards and sawhorses, covered with stars-and-stripes cloths, sagged under the weight of all the food and drink. All you could hear was laughter and music.

  The lawn itself was teeming. There were people everywhere. Scores of tourists in linen suits and fancy dresses, and local people in their faded and mended Sunday best. Even Hamlet was turned out for the occasion, with a red-white-and-blue ribbon tied around his neck. My pa was there. He stood talking with Frank Loomis and George Burnap and a few other men. He nodded when he saw me. Weavers mamma was talking to Alma Mclntyre. My aunt Josie was interrogating poor Arn Satterlee about Emmie Hubbard's land and who was after buying it. I did my best to avoid her. She had told the whole county how selfish and uncaring I was to have gone to the Glenmore. She was only mad because Pa wouldn't allow Abby to clean her house and she now had to pay a girl from the village to do it. Uncle Vernon was talking to the Reverend Miller and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Becker. Mrs. Loomis was filling her plate with macaroni salad. Emmie Hubbard, looking thin and anxious, was swatting her kids away from the pie table. She didn't have the money to bring them, but Mr. Sperry always let them in for free. No one was supposed to know, for Mr. Sperry didn't like people thinking he was soft. Mrs. Hill, Fran's mother, had taken Fran aside and was scolding her for something. Probably for sneaking off to the Waldheim after Ed Compeau. Fran was making her eyes all big and serious, trying to look
as innocent as the day.

  Weaver zoomed by again, an empty pitcher in each hand. "Discuss," he said.

  "Confer," I replied.

  Confabulate was my word of the day and Weaver and I were dueling with it. It means to chat or talk familiarly. I like it a lot because it is a word that winks at you. It has shades of the word fable in it, as if it wants you to know that that's what most conversation is—people telling each other tales.

  "Matt? Where should I put these? Mrs. Hennessey handed them to me on my way in."

  It was Royal. He had a pie in each hand. I was aware of people's eyes on us. It made me feel special and proud. I took them from him and placed them on the dessert table.

  "I'm going to talk to Tom L'Esperance," he said, squeezing my arm. "I'll see you later," and then he was gone.

  I passed Belinda Becker on my way back to the kitchen. She was wearing a very pretty dress of dotted swiss tied with a pale blue sash and was leaning on Dan Loomis's arm like she couldn't stand up without him. Martha Miller was with them. She stared at me long and hard with a face sour enough to shame a lemon.

  I saw Minnie and Jim. They were standing down by the lake. Minnie's face was turned up to her husband's. She still looked tired to me, but she was smiling. He was, too, and before they headed back up to the lawn, he bent his head to hers and kissed her. Right on the mouth. I knew it was sweet, what they had. Despite their troubles. And I hoped I would have something like it.

  "I thought you hated him," I said, as Minnie waved and ran up to me.

  "You'll understand when you're married," she said, kissing my cheek.

  "Smug little witch."

  "Who's smug? Why didn't you tell me about Royal Loomis? It's all anyone's talking about!"

  "I tried! You had a crying fit and passed out on me. I have lots to tell you, Min. So much—"

  "Minnie! What kind of pie do you want?"

  "Coming, Jim!" Minnie yelled. She kissed me again and ran to her husband.

  I watched her go, watched her fall in with the endless and needless fussing women make over unimportant things like pie and lemonade, and remembered with a twinge of jealousy how we had once belonged only to each other. Now she belonged to her children. And Jim. And their home, their life. Not me.

  I felt a thump on my head. Weaver trotted by with a tray in his hand. "Speak."

  "Talk," I said, swatting at him.

  "That's weak," he said.

  "So's speak?"

  "Mattie! More chicken, please, ja?" It was Henry. He was manning the barbecue grill.

  "Right away, Henry," I said, gathering my skirts in my hands to run back inside. He was also sharpening a carving knife. Even though it was dusky, I saw it and wished I hadn't. I knew it was only a silly superstition, but it made me nervous.

  Before I could run back inside, Ada came up to me, grabbed my hand, and said, "Royal and Martha Miller just had a fight!"

  I blinked at her. "Royal? That can't be. He was just here. Did you see them fighting?"

  "No."

  "Then how—"

  "My nosy brother Mike. He was pissing out back of the boathouse. They didn't know he was there. He said he couldn't see anything and couldn't hear everything, but he did hear Martha tell Royal that it looked like his broken heart had healed up mighty quick."

  My own heart felt like lead. "He told me he was going to talk to Tom L'Esperance."

  "Tom L'Esperance? He's nor even here. I'm going to find Mike and see if he knows more. Maybe I can find Royal, too."

  "Ada, don't...," I started to say. Then I heard my name shouted and felt arms around my waist. It was my littlest sister. "For heaven's sake, Beth, what's all round your mouth?"

  "Strawberry pie, Matt! It's so good!" And then she ran off, screeching and giggling with two other little girls. I was glad to see her recovered and lively again.

  I saw somebody waving to me. It was Abby. She was standing with Minnie's two younger sisters, each of whom had one of Minnie's babies in her arms.

  "Ask Mattie," I heard her say as I joined them, "she'll know."

  "Know what?" I asked, half distracted, looking around for Royal. And Martha.

  "Know why Miss Wilcox suddenly disappeared," Clara Simms said in hushed, dramatic tones. She was a girl who liked to stir the pot.

  "She wanted to go to Paris," I said. I didn't want to talk about Miss Wilcox. I missed her too much.

  Clara's eyes narrowed. "That's not what I heard. I heard she wrote dirty poems under another name and when the school trustees found out it was her writing them, they sent her packing."

  "She wrote beautiful poems, Clara," I said, bristling. "Have you ever read one?"

  "I wouldn't. Not ever. My mother says her books aren't decent. She says they're dangerous."

  Miss Wilcox once said that books are dangerous things, too. Maybe in the right hands. A book could only be dangerous in Clara Simms's hands if she hit someone over the head with it.

  "Mattie, my chicken, ja?" Henry shouted.

  "I'll be back," I said, running inside. I got the chicken and made another trip for corn and biscuits and bean salad—dodging table six on the front stairs as I did. He was pulling one of his tricks—bending over to brush some nonexistent dirt from his shoes. When a girl lifted her skirts, so as to not trip over them on the steps, he was perfectly positioned to ogle her ankles.

  As soon as I'd made sure Henry had everything he needed, I rejoined Abby and the Simms girls. "Where's Lou?" I asked them, looking around for her.

  "You haven't seen her yet?" Abby said.

  "No, why?"

  Abby pointed toward a large brown keg. There was a wiry boy with a bad haircut standing next to it, sneaking a glass of beer.

  "What's he got to do with Lou?" I said.

  "Mattie, that is Lou."

  "Lord, Abby! What's she done to her hair?"

  "Cut it off. All of it. Keeps threatening to run away. I wish she would."

  I came up behind her. "What are you doing?" I hissed, snatching the glass away.

  "Drinking beer." She snatched it back, guzzled its contents in one go, then let out a burp so long and so loud it made her lips flap.

  I grabbed her by the wrist. "Louisa Anne Gokey, I'm ashamed of you!"

  "I don't care."

  "Look at your hair! You're half bald! What did Pa do when he saw you?"

  "Nothing. He didn't even notice. He never does. Let go, Matt, let go!" And then she yanked her skinny arm free and flew off, sparrowlike, to join the younger Loomis boys in some fresh mischief.

  "What's wrong with her? She got the mange?" It was Royal. He offered me a biscuit from his plate. I took it.

  "She cut her hair. Again."

  "Why?"

  "Because she's angry." So angry that she made me afraid. She was growing wild. Why didn't Pa see that? Why didn't he do something?

  "She don't like the color or something?"

  "No, Royal, it's nothing to do with the color," I said impatiently. "It's to do with losing our mother and then Lawton..." I saw that he was looking at his bean salad, not me, and gave up. "Where were you?" I asked.

  "Getting something to eat. Talking to Tom."

  "Is he here?"

  "Tom? He's right over there," he said, pointing to the porch. And he was. He was leaning against a column, having a parley with Charlie Eckler.

  Ada must've been wrong, I thought. Her brother hadn't seen the fight, after all; he'd only heard it. Maybe he'd made a mistake. Maybe Martha had fought with someone else, not Royal.

  "Your pa oughtn't to clear those northern acres of his," Royal said, swallowing a bite of pie. "He told me he was thinking of it."

  "No? Why not?" I asked absently, still looking for Martha despite myself.

  "I was up there berrying the other day. Where our land touches yours and the Hubbards'. He's got good blueberry bushes up there. Should keep 'em. Camps want 'em for pies and pancakes and such."

  Minnie, who'd managed to sneak away from Jim, joined us. So di
d Ada and Fran. They started talking about who was here with whom, and Royal, uncomfortable around so much female chatter, went to talk to his brother.

  "Oh, he's so handsome, Mattie!"Ada sighed as soon as he was out of earshot. "How did you get him?"

  Ada didn't mean anything by the question, but hearing it made me uneasy nonetheless. I often wondered the same thing myself.

  "She let him kiss her in a boat out on Big Moose Lake, that's how," Fran teased.

  "How do you know? You certainly weren't there," I said.

  Fran grinned. "Never make love in the country, Matt. 'Cuz the potatoes have eyes..."

  "...and the corn has ears," Ada finished, giggling.

  "She'll be Mattie Loomis before long," Minnie said. "Did you set a date yet? I bet it'll be before the new year. I bet you're married before the hay's in. I'm sure of it."

  "I wouldn't be."

  I turned around, startled by the new voice. It was Martha Miller. She and Belinda Becker had joined our group. Belinda looked like she'd smelled something bad. Martha's face was pale and pinched.

  "I hope you have a dowry, Mattie Gokey. A good one," Martha said.

  "Unlike some around here, Mattie doesn't need a dowry," Minnie retorted.

  "Nor when she has such nice big bosoms," Fran said, giggling.

  I turned crimson and they all giggled. Even Belinda. Not Martha, though. She just looked at me with eyes that were hard and mean. I saw that they were puffy, too. She'd been crying.

  "Royal's the second-eldest," she said. "Dan will get the bulk of the Loomis farm one day. But the Loomis land borders your father's, doesn't it, Mattie?"

  "Martha, come on. Let's go," Belinda said.

  Martha paid her no mind. "If Royal marries you, he might be able to get his father to give him a few acres, and your father, too. Maybe ten or fifteen altogether. Why, he might even get your father's whole farm one day. After all, Lawton left and he's not coming back, is he?"

  "Martha!" Belinda chided, tugging on her arm. Martha shrugged her off.

  "And then there's Emmie Hubbard's land," she said. "Twelve acres. Nice the way it nestles in between the Loomises' land and your father's, isn't it? Funny, too, how it just happens to be up for auction next month."