by Nevada Barr
Gracie beamed. “Can I drive, Mr. Ebbitt?” She smiled coyly up at him.
“Come on.” He held his arm up and she ducked under it to stand between his knees. Sam eyed Sarah and her mother for a moment. “Mind your manners, Sarah, you’re gettin’ to be more’n a little girl. Don’t dally in late.” He called to the horses, and the wagon lurched forward.
Margaret Tolstonadge firmed her generous mouth into a tight circle. “That man!” she huffed as he rolled out of hearing. “Always bossing everybody.” Sarah was pulling at her fitted coat, plucking it away from her chest. “Stop your fussing,” Margaret said. “What’s the matter with you?”
“He makes me embarrassed,” Sarah mumbled.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She tugged Sarah’s jacket straight. “He’s paying you a compliment. Noticing that you’re becoming a young lady.”
“I don’t see why he goes and spoils Gracie the way he does. She’s such a priss already.”
“Little Miss Green-Eyes.” Mam smiled knowingly and Sarah sniffed. Margaret tucked her daughter’s fine hair back behind her ears. “Come on, let’s meet your new schoolteacher.”
Carrying the basket between them, they made their way carefully up the muddy path. At the door, Mrs. Tolstonadge took the basket and turned back the cover to give the contents a quick inventory. “Let’s knock,” she said and set the basket down to rap on the door.
“Mam, she’s thrown her bed out!” Sarah exclaimed, pointing at the mattress crumpled near the corner of the cabin. The door opened and Imogene loomed large on the top step, filling the doorway. Sarah snatched her hand behind her and stepped back involuntarily.
Mrs. Tolstonadge sucked in her breath.
“You are my first callers. Won’t you come in?” The schoolteacher stepped aside and gestured graciously.
Margaret recovered herself. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, I’m the one that’s come on you unannounced. I’m Mrs. Emmanuel Tolstonadge. Margaret.” She extended her plump hand. “And this is my oldest girl, Sarah Mary.” She nudged Sarah. “Hon?” Sarah broke off staring and curtsied, rocking the basket dangerously. “And you,” Mrs. Tolstonadge finished with an air of triumph, “are the new schoolmistress.”
Imogene ushered them in. “I’d offer you tea or coffee, but my things haven’t been brought from the station yet.”
“We can’t stay anyway,” Margaret assured her. “We just wanted to bring you a little welcome gift and see if you’d join us for church.”
“I’d like that. Excuse me a moment.” Imogene went into the bedroom and shook out her traveling cloak.
“Mam, she’s a giantess,” Sarah whispered.
“You hush.” Margaret looked around at the greasy walls and black ceiling. Leaning to her right, she peered into the kitchen. Imogene came back in a rumpled but presentable cloak, and Mam straightened up. “Miss Grelznik, this place is a mess. I’m ashamed of us. I’ll get some of the women and we’ll get it cleaned up for you. My sons will see to the repairs.” Mam looked past her into the bedroom at the bare cot. “Where on earth did you sleep?”
Imogene pointed to the floor.
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Tolstonadge clucked her tongue.
The church bells rang again. “We’re late! Sarah, get your coat.” She made a little dash at her daughter. “Oh. You have it on.” Mrs. Tolstonadge fluttered her hands over her ample bosom. “Emmanuel is always telling me what a fool I am. Sometimes I think he’s right.”
Without a veil of darkness, the town lost much of its charm. The buildings that lined the main street had a sorry air of neglect and poverty. There were no sidewalks and unfenced dirt ran down to the rut that served as a rain gutter. The yards were devoid of any growth but trees. Trees bordered the street, the forest creeping to the very edge of the town, and where there weren’t trees there were stumps. The generation before had fought back the forest and won. To the west of the town, behind the schoolhouse, a meadow swept up a long low hill to a crest of oaks, withered autumn leaves brown against the hard blue of the sky.
At the opposite end of the main street, as it turned south to the railroad station, stood the church, neatly painted, with a steeple bell. Two oversized wooden doors were set squarely in the front, with a high, rectangular window to either side.
The three women walked far to one side of the main street, where the morning traffic hadn’t churned up the mud. Sarah skipped lightly ahead. The sun turned the strands of hair that escaped her hood to silver and gold. Margaret trudged over the uneven ground with difficulty, puffing huge clouds of steam in her exertion. Imogene kept beside her, ready at her elbow to steady her. Margaret smiled up at her as they gained the church steps. “You’ll see—last night’s storm took a lot of the leaves but in summer when they come out the houses all but disappear. It’s a nice little town.”
The service had already begun. Mam took Sarah’s hand as they crept in and stood behind the last pew. The minister stopped the sermon to glare at them, and the congregation craned their necks around. Emmanuel Tolstonadge, a short spare man, with a head as round as an orange, sat with his son Walter on one side and the top of his youngest daughter’s head just visible over the back of the pew on the other. Sam Ebbitt sat stolidly at the end, facing front, Gracie close beside him. David was not with them. Emmanuel frowned at his wife and daughter, pressing his mouth together like a seamstress holding pins, and his face grew red—the flush creeping up from his collar until his bald head was beet-colored. Neither Sarah nor Margaret would meet his eye. Imogene stepped out in front of them and walked up the aisle. She smiled at the minister, inclining her head slightly in apology, and nodded a greeting to Joseph Cogswell. Sarah fell in behind her and, like a duckling carried safely in the wake of its mother, glided into the pew beside her. Mam scooted in next to Sarah, still avoiding her husband’s gaze.
A pale, thick woman seated next to Joseph Cogswell sniffed audibly, and a pretty girl with a full figure and the apple cheeks of a child waved at Sarah. Sarah waved back and mouthed, “Hello, Karen,” soundlessly.
Three hours later the congregation broke for lunch. People spilled out, easing their cramped legs and backs, the children making it as far as the wide double doors before dropping their Sunday manners to run shouting into the open. The patches of mud drew the children like bees to pots of honey. Women unpacked baskets of food, and people stood around the tailgates of the wagons, eating and talking.
After lunch, people gathered around the Tolstonadge wagon to meet Imogene. Mr. Cogswell welcomed her again and Karen curtsied, dropping her skirts into the mire. Judith Cogswell stood stonily until her husband nudged her elbow, then she took a deep breath through her nose and acknowledged the introduction.
“Don’t you mind Judith,” Mam said as Mrs. Cogswell left several paces in front of her husband. “She doesn’t have much use for her own sex.”
“What are you two gossiping about?” Sam asked as he joined them. “Mrs. Beard and Mrs. Thomas have got some cocoa in the church kitchen to warm folks before afternoon service.” He pulled out a turnip watch. “Better go now.”
Mam introduced him to Imogene and he looked at her without apparent interest as he pocketed his watch. “Hope you can handle the bigger boys. I don’t mind telling you I was against hiring a female. Still am. Some of those farmboys are just plain mean.”
Imogene extended her hand but he didn’t take it, so she tucked it back under her cloak. “I am bigger than most of your bigger boys, Mr. Ebbitt.”
Mrs. Tolstonadge laid her hand on his sleeve. “Sam, where’s David?”
“Seems he hasn’t time for church.”
“Did he and Emmanuel quarrel after we left? He tells you.”
“David’s no concern of mine, Margaret. I got shet of him seven years ago. I said he was trouble then and I say it now. I’ll get nothing but a thick finger for stirring. Leave me out.”
“Please, Sam, did they fight?” Margaret was whispering.
“They did.”
A fat woman with unkempt hair and dirty nails called to them from the side door of the church. “Last call for hot cocoa!” The woman bustled herself out of sight and was replaced by a younger, thinner, dirtier version of herself.
“How do, Mrs. Tolstonadge,” the girl said pleasantly.
“Hello, Valerie. This is your new teacher. Miss Grelznik, Valerie Thomas—her Ma’s the midwife.” Valerie exposed a smile marred with rotten front teeth, and bobbed, clutching at her skirt. “Tell your Ma there’s two more for cocoa,” Mam finished.
Imogene looked askance at the smeary mug Mrs. Thomas offered her, and watched the woman poke a grimy, black-nailed finger into the pot to test the temperature. The church bells were ringing them to afternoon service, and Imogene discreetly set her cup aside.
The faithful were lit home from the seven-hour service by a bright half moon. Silver-edged clouds scudded overhead, blown by a wind that never reached the ground. Sarah held her cloak tight over her chest, and Gracie crowded against her for warmth in the back of the open wagon. Beside her, Lizabeth slept on Mam’s lap. She was no longer a baby and her legs sprawled long and cumbersome over her mother’s knees.
Sam pulled the carryall to a stop in front of the house and Sarah jumped to the ground running for the porch. “Sarah!” Her father’s voice stopped her. “Thank Sam for the ride.” He winked at his wife. “You’d best start teaching this girl manners if she’s to get herself a husband.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ebbitt,” Sarah said, and escaped indoors.
Walter was already in the small storage room off the porch, which he shared with David, the fruit their mother put up, and Emmanuel’s good saddle. The saddle stand was empty. As he was lighting a stubby candle-end, Sarah pushed by him and perched at the foot of David’s bunk. Walter set the candle on an overturned barrel. The ceiling was so low he had to stoop, and he was half a head shorter than his brother. “Your precious Davie ain’t here,” he said, and pulled his shirt off. “Pa’s going to whup him good for missing church.” Sarah snuggled down on David’s cot, piling the quilt over her feet. “Sare, I want to get undressed, will you quit? Go wait in your own room.” Sarah let her tongue stick out a quarter of an inch between her lips.
“Go on, or I’ll tell Pa.” She got up reluctantly and went to the door. Walter turned his back on her.
With a bend and a puff, she blew out his candle and ran.
Both Gracie and Lizbeth were sleeping. Mam had blown out the lamp. Sarah undressed in the dark, leaving her clothes in a heap on the floor. Moonlight shone through the window, projecting a black cross in a square of silver where the mullions threw their shadow on the floor. Sarah sat down on the bench under the window. Shivering in her thin cotton shift, she pressed her thighs together and held her arms close over her chest. Looking past the corner of the cowshed and out over the untilled land, she watched the edge of the woods and the knife-sharp shadow of the creek gully. Nothing moved. She sighed, an airy, sad sound. It was echoed from the bed as one of the little girls stirred in her sleep. Sarah left the window for the warmth of the bed shared by the three girls. She crawled in and jerked the covers sharply, winning a corner from Gracie.
Sarah was fast asleep when David finally came home. The moon had set, and he fumbled with the door latch in the dark, cursing under his breath. When it opened, he stumbled against the top step and fell to his knees on the porch floor.
“Where have you been?” Emmanuel, ghostlike in a long pale nightdress, stood in the kitchen door. David grabbed the jamb and hauled himself to his feet. His eyes were half closed. He rubbed them with the heel of his hand before he looked at his father again.
“It’s near three in the morning; I asked you where you been?”
David swayed. “What’s it to you? You’ve never given a damn.”
Emmanuel sucked in his breath. His eyes widened slightly and his lips twitched. “You stink of spirits. On the Sabbath. You’re drunk!”
“I’m drunk. If I wasn’t drunk, I never’d’ve come home. Home!” He laughed and gestured wildly at the porch, the house, the barnyard. “A pigsty. We live in a pigsty. Mam working, no better’n an Irish nigger, and me dying in that goddamn mine.”
Emmanuel backhanded him hard across the mouth. A thin black line of blood trickled from David’s lip; he wiped his mouth and stared at the blood on his fingertips. Suddenly he let out a yell and, grabbing his father by his nightshirt, slammed him against the wall. David shoved his face at his father’s until his beard brushed the older man’s chin. David was breathing hard, his eyes opaque. Pinned against the wall like an insect, Emmanuel stared back, shaken and scared.
The curtain that separated the master bedroom from the rest of the house was drawn aside. “Davie? Davie, are you all right?” From where Mam stood, across the width of the kitchen, only her son was visible through the doorway—a dim profile on the dark porch.
David turned his face away from his father’s. Margaret hovered anxiously in the bedroom doorway, the curtain crushed in one hand, the other clutching a grayish robe around her throat. “I’m all right, Mam, go back to bed.” His voice was hoarse and thick with drink.
“You get some sleep now. It’s awful late.” She paused a moment more, then dropped the curtain.
“I will, Ma.” David lowered his father gently to the floor and, turning, ran from the house. Emmanuel caught the door before it slammed behind him.
“You’re dead!” he screamed after the running figure of his son. “Dead, and I’ll see you buried in this house!” His voice shook, and his hand trembled so violently that the screen rattled in the door.
“Emmanuel, what’s wrong?” Shrill with worry, Mam started through the kitchen. The two older girls peeked from behind their bedroom door.
“Go to bed, Margaret!”
“Manny?” Mam’s voice quavered.
“Now!” He was scarcely in control of himself, and Margaret retreated behind the curtain. Dark-faced and speechless, he pointed a rigid finger at his daughters. They closed the door quickly and raced back to the bed, diving under the blankets and pulling them over their heads. They could hear their father crashing around the kitchen for a while and then the house was still. Sarah lay sleepless, listening to the deep, even breathing of her sisters.
Near dawn there was a scratching at the window, the sound Sarah had been waiting for. She slipped quietly out of bed and padded across the cold planks. David scratched again. She unhooked the latch and pushed the window open. It was hinged at the top and opened out like a trapdoor; two small chains tethered it to the sill to keep it from opening more than eight or ten inches. “You okay, Davie?” Sarah whispered. His face, drawn and bloodless, showed wan in the night and he smelled of vomit.
“I’m okay, Sare. Been getting rid of some bad drink is all.” He reached up behind the glass and took hold of her hand. “Sare, I got to go. You understand that?”
She started to cry.
“Don’t, please. Oh Jesus.” He squeezed her hand. “Sare, listen to me. I can’t be too long; it’s pretty near daylight.” She sucked in her upper lip, biting it, and fought down her tears. “That’s girl.” David smiled at her through the glass. “Can you get me something to eat?” She nodded and tiptoed out of the room. She was back in seconds.
“Pa’s asleep on the kitchen table.” She thrust her hands out through the window and clung to her brother’s arm. “Please don’t go, David. Mam’ll talk to him. Please say you won’t go!” Tears coursed down her cheeks and she held on to him with all her strength.
David gently pried her fingers loose and patted her. “I got to, Sare. You tell Mam good-bye for me. And the little girls when they wake up.” Sarah clutched at him, trying to catch his clothes and his hands, her forearms scraping splinters from the windowsill. David caught her wrists and held them still. “Good-bye. You’ll see me again, Sarah. I promise. I promise.”
Her hands clawed at the empty air; tears blinded her. Desperately she scrubbed her eyes on her sleeve and press
ed her face to the glass.
David loped across the barnyard and disappeared into the inky shadow of the cowshed. A moment later he reappeared, leading his father’s prize stallion. When he was out of earshot, he pulled himself into the saddle, waved once, and cantered out of sight into the trees.
Sarah crept back to the bed. Lizbeth pushed close to her. “I’m cold, Sare.” Sarah put her arm around the little girl, tucking the covers snug.
“Me too, Lizbeth.”
5
THOUGH THE TREE BRANCHES WERE BARE IN NOVEMBER, THE FOREST floor was still fired with color. The dirt wagon track between the Tolstonadge place and Sam Ebbitt’s farm was bordered closely with trees and occasionally a field hacked out of the forest and put to the plow. The narrow track dipped and turned around outcroppings of rock and stands of trees that had proven too formidable for pick and ax. The road was littered with bright scraps of autumn; leaves, bitten red and gold, picked up the sunlight until each leaf seemed to glow of itself.
Sarah held her hands out from her sides as she walked, watching their shadows flicker over the ground. Gracie, skipping beside her, scuffed her feet through the fallen leaves.
“You’re going to wear your shoes out before they’re too little,” Sarah said mildly. The air smelled of winter; she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and tied it. She laughed, spinning herself forward in great leaps. “Look, Gracie, I’m a gypsy dancer!” Gracie tied her shawl at her thick middle, following her sister’s lead. They twirled until they couldn’t stand up, then threw themselves onto the bank by the roadside.
“I wish there was more Saturdays. I hate school,” Gracie said.
“You do not.”
“I do so. You’re the only one doesn’t. You like it ’cause Miss Grelznik is all the time letting you draw your pictures.”
“Only if I finish my work early. You could draw too, if you’d stop messing and finish.”
