Bittersweet

by Nevada Barr

  “I don’t mess.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes.

  “You got a crush on the teacher,” Grace said spitefully.

  “I do not.”

  “Do so. I see you sneaking looks at her when you’re supposed to be at your lesson. I’ve seen you sneaking peeks at her in church. That’s a sin. You got a crush,” Gracie chanted.

  “You don’t know what’s what, maybe I’m making her likeness,” Sarah retorted. “Ever think of that, Miss Smartypants?”

  “Let me see it.”

  Sarah scrambled to her feet. “Leave it go, Gracie. It’s getting late. You’re stuck up with leaves. Come on, I’ll dust you.”

  “Show me or I’ll tell Mam you’re making pictures in church. It’s a sin.”

  Sarah grabbed her sister’s pigtail. “I’ll tell Mr. Ebbitt you like to look at his belly when he laughs.”

  “Sare! You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Quits?”

  “Badger face,” Gracie muttered. “Quits.”

  “You ready to go?” Sarah pulled her to her feet and picked the leaves out of her hair.

  “I don’t mess.”

  “Okay.” Sarah tugged a brown plait.

  The road widened out, and a split-rail fence replaced the trees to the north. Beyond the fence lay a field, harvested and plowed under, looking rich with its jeweling of colored leaves. They climbed over the rails and struck out across the plowed ground toward the Ebbitt house and barn, a quarter-mile distant.

  Gracie stumbled and caught her sister’s skirt to steady herself. “Mr. Ebbitt don’t like us walking through the field,” she said peevishly as the clods broke under her small boots, turning her ankles and tripping her. “Mr. Ebbitt says we’re to go around on the road like people, ’stead of traipsing through the field like rabbits.”

  Sarah raised her skirts a little and picked her way daintily over the uneven ground. “Road’s the long way ’round, Gracie.”

  Gracie gave her sister a baleful stare.

  Beyond the barn, Sam, his shirtsleeves rolled down and his collar buttoned to his throat, stood with his back to them. Lifting his powerful arms over his head, he squeezed the wooden legs of a post-hole digger together before plunging it into the ground.

  “Hey, Mr. Ebbitt,” Gracie called. She waved as he put his beard over his shoulder to see who was hailing him.

  “Afternoon, Gracie, Sarah.” He set the post-hole digger against the rails and mopped the sweat from his eyes with a grayish handkerchief. “How’s your ma and pa?”

  “They’re fine, Mr. Ebbitt; we come to ask you to dinner before the hayride, is all.” Sarah chewed on her underlip. She stopped when she realized he was noticing.

  “Sarah,” Gracie piped, “Mam said I could ask, and now you went and did it!”

  “You ask me too, punkin, and I’ll come sure. How’s that?” Sam leaned down, putting his hands on his knees; his torso was big for a short man.

  “Come on, Gracie, we’d better be getting back.” Sarah squinted at the sun. “It must be after two.”

  “Whyn’t we ride back with Mr. Ebbitt?” Gracie jumped onto the fence and sat on the top rail with her feet curled behind the lower one to steady herself.

  “We ain’t been asked. Besides, we’d best be helping Mam with dinner.” Sarah took her sister’s hand and tugged, but the little girl clung like a monkey.

  Sam pulled his watch out of his pocket and flipped it over in his palm. “It’s near three. You may as well stay put and I’ll run you home when I go over. No sense walking all that way.” Sarah started to protest, but Sam had turned back to his work. “I’ll square it with your ma.” Gracie shot Sarah a triumphant glance before bestowing all of her attention on Sam Ebbitt.

  Sarah leaned against the fence, her face tilted back to catch the sun. The regular chuff-chunk of the post-hole digger biting into the earth was hypnotic and the day was still and dreamy. Sam worked on, lifting and plunging mechanically, a pile of dark earth growing beside the neat round hole. Gracie chattered, sometimes eliciting a grunt in return, but not seeming to mind when she didn’t.

  Bored, Sarah walked along the fenceline back toward the farm buildings. The doors of the barn stood open and a block of sun fell on the mountain of chopped hay stored against the winter. On the back wall, up under the rafters, were row on row of mud-and-straw bubbles the size of a man’s two fists. The swallows had deserted them for the south but, protected from the rain, the nests stayed on. Sarah threw her arms back and, chin high, ran through the wide doors to fling herself into the hay.

  There was a clanking as a length of chain was let out and Sam’s dog careened around the corner of the house, teeth bared, growling. Sarah sat up abruptly and started to scratch her way up onto the piled hay. The chain ran out when the dog was still twenty yards from the barn, and jerked him off his feet. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands, and watched the yellow-eyed dog strain against his collar.

  “Meow. Meeeow.” She cupped her hands over her mouth to make the sound carry. The dog went into a frenzy of barking, hurling himself against his collar until the tendons in his neck stood out against his hide and his eyes bulged. Laughing, Sarah crawled farther up into the hay.

  A rope hung from the center beam, a half-dozen mud nests having been destroyed to make room for its thick coils. Taking hold of the rope, she yanked on it. It held, and lifting her feet from the haystack, she clamped it tight between her legs and shinnied up. She reached the beam and grasped it with both hands, but still moved against the rope as though she were climbing, enjoying the warm, tingling sensation between her thighs.

  “Sar-ee.” The high voice ricocheted through the rafters. Sarah looked over her shoulder so abruptly that she nearly lost her grip on the beam, her face burning with embarrassment. Gracie stood in the retreating square of sunshine on the barn floor, peering up into the gloom, her little round fists planted importantly where her hips would one day be. “What’re you doing up there?”

  “How long have you been here, you little sneak?” Sarah snapped. She slid down the rope so fast that she burned her hands. “Why don’t you just go away and leave me be? You’re always creeping around.”

  “Am not!”

  Sam stepped into the light beside the small defiant figure of sister Grace. “Here now. What’s the row about?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Ebbitt.” Sarah blew gently on her hands.

  “Sarah was climbing the rope and messing with the swallows’ nests.” Gracie pointed an accusing finger at the broken teeth of mud.

  Sam turned his eyes on Sarah. “Don’t you be climbing that anymore. You could fall and hurt yourself. Come on down off of there. Wagon’s hitched, it’s time we were going.” Sarah slid off the haystack and shook out her skirts. Sam eyed her ankles. “That dress’s a mite shorter than’s proper. How old’re you, Sarah Mary?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Shorter than’s proper. Get your mam to let it out.”

  Sarah looked at the ground, crouching a bit to make the skirt reach the top of her boots. “Hem’s down,” she murmured.

  “Speak up now. I can’t hear you.”

  “Hem is down!” she burst out.

  Sam nodded slowly and worked his jaws. “Well,” he said finally, “day’s not getting any longer.” He led the way to the wagon.

  It was huge, with a bed seventeen feet long and hemmed in on three sides with one-by-twelve-inch planks; a team of six draft horses stood stolidly in the traces. Each year Sam donated it for the hayride. He had pitched a great mound of loose hay into the shallow box, piling it higher than the driver’s seat. Wisps poked out between the planks and scattered over a heavy fur lap robe that took up half the seat. Gracie pulled herself onto the wagon and settled in the remaining space.

  “Punkin, why don’t you ride back there in the hay and let your sister ride up front with me?” Sam climbed up beside her and unwound the reins from the post, stringing the leads deftly through his thick fingers.

 
“I want to ride with you,” Gracie pleaded. “Why can’t Sare ride in the hay? She’s all over straw already.”

  “Sarah’s older’n you, that’s why,” Sam said. Gracie threw herself sullenly into the hay inches behind the wagon seat. “Don’t lay there right on top of us, move on back and let us talk a bit.” He jerked his thumb toward the far end of the wagon bed. Grace moved back another eighteen inches.

  Sam handed the older girl up. Uncomfortable with the attention, Sarah sat hunched against the robe on the far side of the seat. He shook the reins and the wagon lumbered away from the farm, back down the track toward the Tolstonadges’ and the town.

  The sun was partway down the western sky, burning the edges of Sam’s beard and throwing long shadows over the road. November’s fragile warmth had gone and the smell of frost was in the air. “You can bundle that old robe around you if you’re feeling cold,” Sam said. “That’s what it’s there for.” Sarah pulled the fur over her shoulders. “You been running off and on that farm of mine since before you can remember, ain’t that right?” He waited for an answer.

  “That’s right, Mr. Ebbitt.” She peeked warily at him from the corner of her eye.

  He nodded shortly, satisfied. “You like that farm?” He waited for a reply.

  “Sure, Mr. Ebbitt,” she said at last, and hid deeper in the stiff robe. There was a flouncing in the straw behind them.

  “I’m cold, too,” came an interfering little voice. “A body might happen to think maybe other people get cold, too.” Sarah looked back; Gracie glowered out from a mound of straw she’d heaped over herself, her pudgy face pursed and indignant.

  “Come up here with me,” Sarah said too quickly. “I’ll make room in the robe.” Gracie scrambled over the seatback and snuggled under her older sister’s arm, pointedly ignoring Mr. Ebbitt.

  Sam spat over the side of the wagon and turned his attention to the road.

  The table was set and dinner was hot and good-smelling on the stove when Sam’s haywagon rolled into the yard. Sarah and Grace raced for the house. The stove chuckled in the kitchen, flames flickering behind the door of the trash burner. They crowded close, holding their hands out.

  “Careful. It’s awful hot. I’ve had it going all day.” Mam caught up a dishcloth, deftly wrapped it around her hand with a flick of her wrist, and opened the iron door of the warming shelf. There were plates of fresh doughnuts, brown and brushed with butter. She hooked two, one on each of two fingers, and held them out to her daughters. “The rest are for the doings, so eat ’em up quick before your pa and Sam see them.”

  “They’ll smell ’em, Ma,” Sarah said with her mouth full. “The house smells like Christmas.”

  “But they daren’t ask.” Mam winked. “Show there was something they didn’t already know.” The porch door banged and the girls shoved the doughnuts into their mouths. Keeping their backs turned, they munched surreptitiously.

  It was still light out when they finished supper. Sarah scraped her chair back, poised on its edge for flight. “Can I be excused, Mam? There’s enough light so I can finish with Myrtle.”

  “Are you making still another picture of that poor old cow?” Mam patted her arm. “Well go ahead, but don’t be forever about it. I won’t be having the dishes left till morning.”

  “That was a fine meal, Margaret.” Sam nodded a benediction in her direction. “Emmanuel, I need to have a word with you; let’s walk off some of that stew.”

  Mam snorted. “You two can talk here, nobody’d pay you any mind.” As they left the house, Margaret harrumphed to herself.

  Out in the cowshed, Sarah sat on the three-legged milking stool, her head bent over a scrap of paper. Holding her braids out of the way with one hand, she sketched with the tip of a burned stick. “Just a minute more, Myrtle, then you can move.” Myrtle lowed softly, her jaw grinding. Sarah nudged the door open for light. The first star of evening was caught in the crack of daylight, burning close and clear in the autumn air.

  Boots sounded and there was a thump as someone leaned against the shed. Sarah held her breath and listened. Sam Ebbitt began to speak and she bent to her task again.

  “I’ll come right to it, Emmanuel. Didn’t want to say anything in front of the missus, this being your affair.” Sarah’s ears pricked up. “Mrs. Beard give this to me when she saw me heading out of town yesterday,” Sam went on. “Said she didn’t see as how it had come to her, being’s it was for Margaret, but as I was coming this way anyhow, could I leave it by. Your boy, David, did my seed orders and I know his writing. I figured you best see it first.”

  “Burn it.” Emmanuel’s voice was hard and clipped. Sarah started to her feet. The drawing slipped from her lap and she slammed it into her knees. “Shh,” she hushed herself. Her father’s footfalls grew faint. She tiptoed to the door, putting her eye to the crack. Sam faced the evening star. Shoving his blunt thumb under the flap of the letter, he tore it open. Holding the pages to the last light, he read them, then took a tin of matches from his shirt pocket. Sarah ran from the shed. She stopped abruptly when Sam looked up.

  “You know I can’t show it to you. You heard your pa.” Sarah said nothing. Sam took a match and struck it against the sole of his boot. The breeze had died with the sun, and the flame burned steadily. He looked past the match at Sarah, her eyes pleading, catching the reflected fire, her lips parted. She scarcely seemed to breathe. Sam lit the corner of the paper and she cried out as though he had put the match to her skin. “Your brother’s okay,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you that.” The paper flamed and he dropped it to the ground. Sarah took his rough hand between hers, pressing it to her cheek.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ebbitt.”

  Sam looked at the small pale head bent over his fingers. He raised his free hand toward her hair; it faltered and froze midway. “Now, now,” he said gruffly, “quit your crying, it’s time we were going.”

  Sarah smiled up at him and squeezed his hand before releasing it.

  The hay was alive with young people when the wagon pulled away from the church. A harvest moon, full and fertile, hung on the horizon. Frost covered the ground with translucent silver, and the sound of the horses’ shod hooves striking the frozen earth echoed through the babble and laughter. Sarah and Karen were snuggled down in the straw near the rear of the wagon bed. Sarah waved to Mrs. Beard and Mam Tolstonadge. The women called their farewells from the steps of the church. Behind them, the windows were ablaze with light, and strains of accordion music sounded, muted, from within. “You girls stay warm,” Mam hollered. Sarah waved again.

  Karen didn’t. “Your ma thinks we’re babies.”

  At the end of the main street, where the road started down toward the railroad tracks, Sam turned the wagon into a wide, treelined lane. A shadow slipped from behind one of the last buildings and vaulted over the side of the slow-moving vehicle. A girl squealed and her young man laughed. “You come and go like the devil himself, Earl,” the boy said. Karen’s head popped up at the sound of Earl’s name, and Sarah’s mouth went tight with annoyance.

  “Hello, Mr. Sneaky B.” The girl had recovered from her start. Earl made a place for himself in the hay and the two boys fell into conversation. Earl struck a match, the flare shadowing his lean, handsome face. Karen rustled in the straw.

  “Let’s pay him no mind,” Sarah whispered. “He’s just showing off.”

  “I don’t care a fig for Earl Beard,” Karen said in a voice meant to carry. It caught Earl’s attention.

  “Now look what you’ve gone and done,” Sarah hissed. “He’s coming over.”

  “We’ll just pretend he ain’t here.” Karen threw a pert glance over her shoulder and turned her back resolutely on the approaching figure. Earl sat down, leaning back against the planks.

  “Fine evening, Miss Cogswell.”

  “Lot you know.” Karen wriggled in the hay, a plump shoulder and rump pushed up.

  Sarah settled back into the straw, staring
resignedly out over the tailgate. The moon climbed until it was no bigger than a thumbnail, and the stars shone brighter. The wagon had grown quiet as the horses plodded their steady way, circumnavigating the town. Sarah leaned back into the corner, watching the stars flow through the dark skeletons of trees overhead, Karen and Earl a single lump of shadow several feet away. Karen sucked in her breath sharply, making a tiny sound in her throat, and Sarah looked over at them. Karen’s cloak had fallen back, and the bodice of her dress was unbuttoned. Earl worked his hand under her clothes, his fingers closing over her breast. Sarah jerked involuntarily, her elbow striking the wood. Earl looked up and saw her staring.

  “Well, Little Miss Hot Eyes,” he said softly, “why don’t you run along and play?”

  Karen grabbed her shirtsleeve. “Don’t you tell,” she hissed.

  “You oughtn’t to do what you don’t want told,” Sarah said, and levered herself up until she was sitting on the top plank. She swung her legs over and jumped to the ground. Her knees buckled and she fell, she had been sitting still too long. Scrambling to her feet, she ran alongside the wagon.

  “Mr. Ebbitt? Can I ride up here with you?”

  Sam looked startled, then pleased. “I’ve been wanting some company,” he said, then reined in and extended an arm to her.

  “Here, put this over you. Nights are getting cold.” Sarah pulled the proffered robe over her lap, moving closer so she wouldn’t pull it off his knees. Her skirts brushed over his boot tops, and his beard bristled into a fan as he smiled.

  6

  SATURDAY NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, THE STREET OUTSIDE THE schoolhouse was alive with people. To celebrate the season and the new windows the town had provided for the school, Imogene had held a spelling bee and potluck. The whole town had turned out, even those without school-aged children. Mrs. Tolstonadge and several of the women had stayed to clean up, by way of thanks, they said, insisting that Imogene go home.

  Men seeing to teams and wagons, and women holding toddlers and skirts up out of the snow, made their way down the street. People shouted “Merry Christmas!” and held lanterns high, lighting neighbors and townsfolk into wagons and over icy spots.