The Revenant

by Sonia Gensler

  “By then they won’t be wee kitties anymore!” Freddy’s lower lip trembled.

  “I expect Mama Cat will have more babies in the future.”

  Strangely enough, the boys weren’t so loathsome when they were quiet. Toys and games brought out their savagery—I’d seen plenty of evidence for that—but these tiny kittens prompted tenderness. Freddy and Hal might turn out human, after all, even with Toomey as their father.

  When I heard growls erupting from their bellies, I knew it was nearing time for the midday meal. So I helped them down the ladder, and together we made our way back to the house.

  Toomey stood by the side door. His face broke into a grin when the boys ran toward him, and he listened patiently as they chattered in unison about holding the kittens. After he’d shooed them in the house, he turned to me.

  “Thanks for that. They’ve been talking about those creatures for days.”

  I shrugged.

  His expression sobered. “Willie, you really should put things right with your mother. None of us can be happy until the two of you are civil again.”

  A strange and unwelcome longing tugged at my heart, but I hardened myself against it. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” I said.

  His eyes were sad as he watched me turn away toward the orchard.

  Everyone left me alone after that. The boys did not ask to see the kittens again. Mother avoided my gaze, and Toomey made no further attempts to coax me toward reconciliation. As long as I did my morning and evening chores, no one complained when I avoided the house for hours on end.

  Problem was, that left me plenty of time to think—and remember.

  When I was very little, we had farmhands for the heavy work. Mother worked in the house—cooking, cleaning, and sewing—and I fancied myself her helper. She watched patiently as I coated myself with flour in the kitchen or accidentally trampled the laundry while helping fold it. She even asked Papa to make me a small broom so I could work with her when she swept. And she’d taken ever so much time to teach me my first simple stitches.

  Not that she always had me working. When she hung out the laundry, I danced and collected dandelions. When I bruised a knee with too much rough play, she would sing the pain away. At night, she read fairy tales to me by candlelight. On Sundays after church, she and Papa would take turns leading the fat pony as I rode around the paddock.

  When had things changed, and why? All I knew was that Papa began to spend less time overseeing the farm, preferring instead to keep to his study. The fat pony was sold, much to my dismay. The hired help came less often, until the day they stopped coming at all. Weeds began to grow in the garden and the animals sickened and sometimes died.

  When Mama took over the farm chores, I was left to play in Papa’s study. That room, hazy with sweet-smelling pipe smoke, became a refuge from Mama’s wan face and scolding words. I whiled away the hours paging through books or listening to Papa recount his former triumphs on the stage. While the rest of the house collected dust and cobwebs, the study grew ever more enchanting, for it was a place to indulge in fancies without fear of reproach.

  As I lay in the hayloft, looking back at those times with the inner eye of experience, a troubling thought struck me. When I was eleven years old, Papa and I became a team. Our sport? How best to evade Mother and all the duties she seemed determined to thrust upon us. We wanted nothing to do with someone who was forever tired and sour in disposition.

  How could she let us be so selfish?

  That night as I dried the dishes, I smothered my pride and spoke to Mother.

  “Why didn’t you tell Papa you needed help?”

  She flinched at the sound of my voice. “What did you say?”

  “Back when you worked all the time with the animals and in the garden. Why didn’t you make Papa help you?”

  “I couldn’t make your father do anything,” she said, still staring at the pan she washed. “I did ask him. I begged, in fact. And he promised again and again to help.” She lifted the pan to scrub at the crevices.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “Sometimes he would put the bottle aside and work for a day or two. But he never could stick with it. There was always an excuse, for he was forever in the middle of some grand project. Before long, he’d be drunk again with his friends.”

  “Maybe he could only stand your critical gaze for so long,” I said.

  She grimaced, handing me the pan to dry. “Willie, I know you think I’m punishing you for your father’s failings, but I’m not.”

  “I only wanted to finish school! It certainly seemed like a punishment when you told me I’d have to come home.”

  “It was supposed to be a temporary change. I fully intended for you to finish your schooling.” She forcefully splashed the last pan into the water. “I never expected you to do something so foolish as run away.”

  “I took good care of myself, Mother. And I made sure to send money to make up for the lost labor. Why couldn’t you just let me go? Why did you have to send Toomey to bring me home?”

  Finally, she turned to look at me. “I wanted you home because I missed you and feared you might come to harm. And as it turns out, I was right to worry! We nearly lost you to that river. You think you can take care of yourself, but you are too much like your father in doing so—lying, cutting corners, hurting others.”

  I winced.

  “Your father spoiled you rotten, Willemina,” she continued. “It’s time you learned about honest work and sticking to it even when the going gets tough.”

  I chewed my lip for a minute, stewing over this. “Will I ever be able to go back to school?”

  She sighed and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “We’ll see. I know you have savings, but you’ll need to set aside more if you’re to pay tuition. Perhaps not this fall, but next.”

  “More than a year? That’s an eternity! I’ll be an old woman by then.”

  “In a year you might begin to learn patience.”

  Chapter 30

  THE DAYS DRAGGED ON, clumping into weeks and then months. I heard nothing from the seminary. Nothing from Eli. The hours were filled with planting and weeding, spring cleaning and diaper changing. Beasts needed feeding, watering, and milking. Fences required mending and berries were ripe for picking. Three times a day dishes piled up in the sink for me to wash. At night, I rubbed cream into hands turned rough and callused. In the morning, I stared in the mirror at a face browned from too much sun. My body grew strong and lean, but I feared my mind was turning to mush.

  For all my torments at the seminary, I missed my time in the classroom. It seemed ages since I’d discussed a work of literature, or even read a book. I was simply too tired at night to peer at the pages by candlelight. I could barely make it through supper without wishing to put my head down on the table to sleep.

  There was no improving the situation through playacting. One did not “perform” the roles of farmhand and household drudge. One simply worked all day and dropped wearily into bed each night. Sundays offered a bit of variety, with church in the morning and quiet sewing in the afternoon, but overall I couldn’t escape the feeling that life had become something to endure rather than enjoy.

  One day, when the afternoon heat became too intense for outdoor work, Mother asked me to stay inside with the boys. I pouted childishly; it would have been much more pleasant to sit in the breezy loft of the barn. But when she brought a package wrapped in brown paper to the parlor and asked me to take a seat on the lumpy horsehair sofa, I felt a prickle of curiosity. She directed Freddy and Hal to sit quietly on either side of me. The boys’ eyes were huge as she placed the heavy package in my lap.

  “Gabriel found this in town,” Mother said softly. “He thought it might be good for the twins.”

  The boys leaned in, their shoulders pressing against my arms as I untied the string and pulled the paper open. Inside was a wood board covered in the letters of the alphabet. For a moment my heart froze. Had that fool Too
mey purchased a talking board for his own children? But, no, it was a spelling board, crafted with slots through which one could move letter blocks around to form words. The board was painted a cheerful yellow and embellished with fanciful designs. The letter blocks were round and bright red. Freddy reached out to touch one of the blocks, then hesitated. He looked up at Mother, who smiled.

  “It’s all right, Freddy,” she said. “The blocks are meant to be touched.” Her gaze turned to me. “They need to spend more time learning their letters. Gabriel thought this very clever for even the roughest of boys—the letters move along the grooves without coming out, so they won’t lose them.”

  The twins were mesmerized, crowding closer so they could fiddle with the block letters. Freddy moved them one by one toward Hal, who chose his favorites and moved them into the inner groove. Together they pushed an assortment of letters into the center.

  “A-R-B-M-D-S,” spelled Hal, pointing to each letter as he said it. Then he looked up at me. “What does that spell?”

  “That’s not actually a word,” I said with a laugh. “Why don’t we begin with your names? Hal, what letter does your name start with?”

  And so Mother left us to it. I’d thought the boys terribly ignorant, and before that day would have doubted they could sit still for more than a minute without a kitten in their arms, but the spelling board enchanted them. They were so excited to get their hands on the letters they practically climbed into my lap, and to my surprise this did not annoy me. When they clung to my arms, smelling of grass and sunshine, I felt a pleasant pang in my heart. They were so trusting, even after I’d been nasty to them. And their laughter bubbled so freely, as though deep reserves of joy surged within them, refusing to be contained.

  A shadow in the doorway caught my attention. I looked up to find Toomey leaning against the doorframe with Christabel in his arms. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His eyes shifted from the boys to me, and the smile faded. He stepped back as though to retreat, but for some reason—I suppose the boys’ cheerfulness infected me that day—I smiled and waved him in.

  Freddy looked up and wriggled like a puppy. “Papa! Look what we got!”

  “We’re learnin’ our words,” said Hal, sitting up straight and manly.

  I glanced back at Toomey, then pulled the boys close. “Show your papa how you spell your names,” I whispered.

  Practically before I could finish the sentence, they had leapt off the sofa, each clutching the spelling board with one hand and crying for Toomey to sit down with them. I stood and took Christabel from his arms, nuzzling her plump cheeks until she giggled. Smiling sheepishly, Toomey settled his bulk into the old wingback chair, moaning in mock torment as the twins climbed into his lap. Each tugged on the spelling board as they argued over which name they would spell first.

  “You two settle down.” Toomey growled the words like a bear, making the boys giggle.

  I stood awkwardly for a moment. I could have taken Christabel from the room, claiming we both needed fresh air. But when I watched the boys cuddle up to their father, concentrating on the board in an obvious effort to impress him, I had no desire to walk away.

  So I took a seat and settled my baby sister on my knee. She gurgled happily.

  Though he did not raise his head, Toomey’s smile broadened.

  • • •

  And thus I became a teacher again. Though it was nothing like the seminary, teaching the boys to read proved challenging enough. With the use of the spelling board and an old slate of mine, I taught them new words every day. Before long, they were able to sound out short sentences on the slate. At that point, it seemed time for them to learn how to write as well as recognize the letters of the alphabet.

  We continued our lessons each afternoon. When the boys were especially attentive during the week, I was allowed to hitch the old horse to the wagon and drive them into town on Saturdays to buy sweets at the general store.

  On a Saturday in late July, we made such a trip after a week of good progress in printing the alphabet. I stood to the side as the boys inspected all the candies and made their selections, then herded them out and toward the post office to pick up any mail. Occasionally, there was a seed catalog held for Toomey or a letter from my mother’s cousin in Ohio. I never took anything thrilling away from the post office, but it was nice to walk in and be treated like a grown lady.

  That day, however, the clerk handed over a packet addressed to me. The postmark, clearly stamped, was from Tahlequah, and I knew the address to be written in Miss Crenshaw’s hand. My pulse quickened as I mentally weighed the thick packet. Shaking it did nothing to tell me what might be inside.

  I was distracted for the rest of the day, ignoring the boys and holding the reins slack in my hand as the old horse made its own way home. As soon as we were back in the house, I climbed the stairs to my room and slipped the packet under my pillow. I would wait until bedtime to read it, for I didn’t want anyone looking over my shoulder.

  During supper, Mother narrowed her eyes at the unfinished food on my plate. “Are you taking ill, Willie?”

  “Just a little tired,” I said, though my brain was quite lively with wondering. “I think I’ll turn in after the dishes are done.”

  When finally alone, I set the kerosene lamp on the floor and sat down with the packet. After studying it for a moment, I sliced the edge with a knife and dumped out the contents. Dozens of folded pieces of paper spilled onto the braided rug. I pushed them aside and reached for the unfolded sheet covered in Miss Crenshaw’s crabbed writing. My hand shook as I read.

  Dear Miss Hammond,

  I hope this letter finds you in good health.

  The new term commences in two weeks, and thus I write during this brief lull before the girls begin arriving and the school reverts to pandemonium.

  I know we did not part well, but I think of you often. How could I not, when the girls asked after you almost daily? I must confess that I have withheld the truth from them. I’ve told the students that your family suffered a tragedy and you were required to return home at once. Fannie Bell knows the truth, and I did explain to Miss Adair, for she was very concerned for you, but they both have agreed not to divulge your secret to the rest of the students and faculty.

  No doubt you think I’m perpetuating your deceit in order to preserve the reputation of the school. That indeed is a large part of it. But I also felt moved to protect you because of what you accomplished at the seminary. Yes, you struggled with discipline and only finished your marking under duress, but you also managed to convey your passion for literature to the students. And you guided them in putting on the best spring play we’ve ever seen at the seminary—I still hear about it from the girls’ families, and even from people in town. You left a deep and positive impression on the students, as you will see when you read the notes I have enclosed.

  As much as it would please the girls, I could never invite you back to teach at the seminary. In all conscience, I could not even provide a reference for you to teach at another school. But, Miss Hammond, I will provide one if you decide to return to school to obtain a teaching certificate. I strongly urge that you consider this. With the proper training and, shall we say, “seasoning,” you could make a very fine teacher indeed.

  Sincerely,

  Harriet Crenshaw

  I sat back and took a deep breath, eyes burning with tears. I’d known I would never see the seminary again. There could be no going back after all my deceits. I knew that. Still, it hurt to read it confirmed in Miss Crenshaw’s own hand. No matter what kind things she wrote, no matter how she offered to help, the fact remained that she’d never have me back. I laughed even as my heart ached. How I’d resented that place at times! How strange to long for it now.

  The younger students wrote breezy missives that spoke some on how they missed me, but mostly of what they remembered best about our class. Of the senior notes, Lucy’s was the longest, dealing almost entirely with her horror at what the do
ctor had done to Ella and Cale. Alice wrote to thank me for pushing her to perform as Rosalind despite her panic. Lelia wrote briefly and very politely about how strange it was to have Miss Taylor teach both English and domestic science for the remainder of the term. Lelia never was a very sentimental girl.

  All the seniors but Fannie wrote to me. I didn’t resent her for this. She knew what she’d done and had already apologized in her own way. Her deceits and manipulations were no worse than my own, and I’d never apologized to her.

  Olivia’s letter was short, but ended on a reassuring note: I am certain you had reasons for your deception, and my only regret is that I won’t have you near me in the new term. Whatever lies you told, you were a good friend.

  I’d not had someone tell me I was a good friend since … before I went to the Athenaeum. And though Olivia was kind and friendly to everyone, I did believe she cared especially for me. I’d shared more of my private self with her than anyone else, and we’d endured much together. I certainly wouldn’t have survived at the seminary for so long without her.

  It seemed unlikely I’d ever see her again, but I smiled at the thought of one day encountering her at a séance table. God only knew how I might find her; nevertheless, I could see it very plainly. Her face would be veiled and mysterious, but I would know her voice and the touch of her hand. I would trust the words that came from her mouth, because Olivia’s heart held no deceit.

  I knew then what to write in my letter to her. I would share these very thoughts, finally expressing what I loved about her—not dwelling on what I hated about my own life.

  There would be no word from Eli—I knew that too—but I still searched among the notes for a passing mention of him. Apparently, he had not asked about the mysterious “Miss Hammond,” and Miss Crenshaw had not deemed it prudent to explain to him. Had he been hurt that I left without saying a word? Had he made himself forget me?