by Sally Cabot
Benjamin came into the room. He was dressed as neatly as ever, hair combed, face shaved, looking as if nothing whatever had gone awry, until she looked into the twin graves of his eyes. He fixed his eyes on the bolster behind her head, lifted a finger—a single finger—and laid it on her arm.
“Are you feeling better, my dear?”
Deborah stared at him. How could she feel better?
“Let me bring William in to see you. He cries for his mother so.”
“No.”
That brought Benjamin’s gaze on to hers, but now it was Deborah who was forced to turn away. She closed her eyes. She could not see William. She could not look at him knowing she should never again look at the other. Some words played in her head like a ghostly echo from another world: devil child and angel child. A terrible fear swept over Deborah. Could she have said those words out loud? Was that what she’d done? Was that why her husband couldn’t bear to look at her now? She opened her eyes.
Benjamin said, “Perhaps I’d best get another girl in to help us till you’re better.”
Better. Again that alien word. “Min,” she said, but her tongue felt lazy in her mouth and it came out more like Muh. She tried again. “Min. We’ve got Min.”
“Yes, but Min needs to take care of you just now.” Deborah looked to the corner of the room where Min sat in her chair, appearing intent on the stocking she was working. Deborah must admit it was a comfort to have her there. Benjamin would come and go but Min would stay, and whenever Deborah woke tied up in those confused rainbow bands, Min would come to her bed and soothe her with her anodyne and the words that Deborah had used so often to try to coax Franky to health: “Sleep now, dear.”
Deborah slept.
19
ANNE OPENED THE STREET door and discovered two choices: the print shop on the left or the stairs straight ahead; she took the stairs with the kind of courage that only a greater fear could provide. She paused at the hallway at the top before knocking, thinking how best to declare herself, but discovered that pausing was sapping her courage; she stopped thinking and rapped on the door. A middle-aged servant with chapped, reddened face and hands answered Anne’s knock and this told Anne nearly all she needed to know of the rightness of her decision to come. If the servant was at the door, who was guarding William? She said, “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Franklin.”
The words had seemed enough to Anne, but she soon saw that the chapped face required more. “Tell him ’tis Anne from the—” She considered. Penny Pot? No. “Upholstery shop.”
The servant stepped back and closed the door on Anne. Were all visitors treated thus? Anne doubted it. What in her appearance or manner had made this servant treat her so? Anne had worried the question a short time only when Franklin appeared and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. Anne noticed that he’d lost his usual color and looked heavier, weighed down. The thought had occurred to Anne that she might have to simply storm her way past him, but now she saw the foolishness of the plan. Franklin, no matter how devastated by grief, would remain strong.
And yet, he could smile. “’Tis lovely to see you, my dear,” he said, “but I’m afraid here is not the place and now is not the time.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne said. “I’m sorry about your boy. I’m half able to imagine what it must be for yourself and for your poor wife, but only half. You see, my boy—”
“I shall see that my wife gets your kind message, but just now she’s not taking any calls. In fact, she’s taken to her bed. But I do thank you for stopping by.” Franklin turned to the door.
“I don’t come to see your wife, sir; only the cloud of your grief could allow you to think I do. I come to see William.”
Anne had seldom seen anyone take Franklin by utter surprise, but she believed she’d done so now. “William!”
“You can’t be surprised. Under the conditions described to me, I must see how he fares.”
“There are no conditions here that affect William in any way. I assure you, William is fine. William is in good hands. You may trust to me for that.”
“May I? When I hear he’s called devil and attacked?”
Franklin’s color deepened. “You’ve been misinformed.”
“Then you can have no objection to my seeing him. If you do object, I’ll fear the worst kind of treatment of him. I’ll fear the worst of your wife. Perhaps I’ll talk of my fears of your wife. Perhaps I’ll talk of you.”
Franklin blinked.
“Make what excuse you like—say I came with a message from your upholsterer.”
“My wife’s in bed, as I told you. She’s only just settled. I’ll not have her disturbed.”
“All the better then; you need make no excuse at all. Let me see my boy.”
Franklin’s eyes bore into Anne as if he would willingly turn her to dust there on the landing, but the longer Franklin blocked her way the more solid she felt, the more sure. She’d find her way past this man somehow, and if she saw any signs of physical attack against her child, she’d carry him out of that house if she had to strike her own blows.
Perhaps Anne’s determination showed. Franklin said, “William’s working at his books. I’ll bring you to him and you may greet him, but if you attempt to say anything to him beyond that single greeting, I shall drag you bodily from this house and deposit you in the gutter. Is that clear?”
Anne’s heart had begun to pound so hard she could barely get the word out around it. “Yes,” she said.
HE SAT AT THE kitchen table, bent over a book that appeared to be way too thick for a child of six; his brow was puckered and his small jaw clenched. When Anne and Franklin entered he looked up and his brow smoothed, his eyes opening wide with curiosity. Anne hadn’t glimpsed him in many months and found herself struck motionless by the sight of him sitting there with his book, so grown, so at home. There wasn’t a visible mark on him; in fact, he was dressed in a spotless linen shirt and finely made blue breeches, his lovely, corn-silk hair gleaming and combed, and he was so obviously happy to see his father, it made Anne feel every sharp edge of her intrusion.
Franklin said, “Here is a young lady come to meet you, William. Say how do you do.”
William said, “How do you do.”
Anne stepped up to the table with the excuse of looking more closely at the book, but she saw nothing of it. She looked down at William’s fine hair and fought with all her will to keep her hand away. She said, “You appear to be a serious student, William. You’ve quite a large book there.”
William made no answer, which no child in his proper senses would do, but he did look up at Anne with even greater curiosity. Did he know her? she wondered. Could he possibly remember the shape of her face or the dark of her hair or perhaps her voice or her smell?
Anne said, “In truth, William, I met you once before when you were an infant, but you wouldn’t remember that, would you?”
Franklin said behind her, “Very well, we mustn’t keep you any longer. William, you may say good-bye now.”
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but Anne took up the space. “Oh, I might stay a minute longer. I wonder, William, if you could be so kind as to take my wrap?” She slid her shawl off her shoulders and watched keenly as William rose with all the easy spring of a healthy boy of six and took the wrap from her, laying it over the chair next to him with care. Anne stepped closer and took a better look at the book. “Why surely you’re too young to read this!”
William drew himself up on his knees and pointed with a lovely, slender finger at a picture of a crescent moon, then drew the finger under the two lines of text beside it. “‘The moon gives light at time of night.’”
Anne clapped her hands. “Oh, my!” She slipped into the chair next to him. “But look here at all these numbers! Surely you don’t know your numbers!”
“One-two-three-four-five-six!” William looked up at her again, beaming.
“And what a clever child you are! Now here, what do we have on thi
s page? Oh no, I go too far. This is some sort of mathematics; this can’t be for a boy your age.”
“One less six is five!” William shouted, and Anne clapped her hands again.
“A little backward, son,” Franklin said, but she could hear his pride despite the circumstances, despite the error.
“William answers right,” Anne said. “He only reads it a little wrong. But you’ll know it next time, won’t you?”
“Six less one!”
Anne started to laugh, but a woman’s voice, raw and slow, cut over her.
“Is this her, then?”
Anne whirled around. Franklin whirled around. Deborah Franklin stood in the doorway gripping the door frame, looking puffy, smudged, as if someone had drawn her and then tried to rub her out. Franklin was, for once, speechless.
Deborah Franklin went on. “Is this the girl you’ve hired to take care of William?”
“No,” Franklin said. “No.”
Deborah Franklin looked at Anne again, but her eyes, still crusted from either sleep or crying, seemed unable to focus. “Who is she, then?”
Anne opened her mouth, but she was cut over again, this time by Franklin. “Well, yes, my dear, she’s come to inquire about the position, but we have several others to see yet. ’Tis early on.” Franklin turned to Anne. “Indeed, miss, we’ve already taken too much of your time. We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve talked to all the girls. Another few days only, I’m sure.”
Anne made to rise, but Deborah Franklin had pushed past her husband and staggered toward Anne, staring closely at her face, so closely it forced Anne to sit back down. Deborah Franklin pointed at Anne’s temple. “Is that a pockmark? Have you had the disease?”
“Just taken, by inoculation.” Anne pushed up her sleeve and displayed the additional pocks on her arm.
Deborah straightened, grabbed hold of the opposite chair. “What’s your name? You look familiar to me.”
“Anne.” Anne dropped her eyes to William’s flaxen head. She pushed back her own dark hair. She said, “Perhaps what is familiar in me, madam, is that I too have lost a son.”
No one in the room spoke or moved until William shoved his primer nearer to Anne and laid his perfect little hand on the page, pointing to a picture of a sun. “‘When rain is done, out comes the sun.’”
Anne patted his hand, as soft and smooth as a petal. William beamed, showing a mouth full of tiny, pearly first teeth. Deborah swayed; Franklin leaped up and put an arm around her waist, with the other taking her hand. “Come, my dear, best you lie down.”
Deborah pulled her hand free of her husband’s, gripped harder at the chair. “What care have you taken of children?” she asked Anne.
“You needn’t worry yourself about any of that,” Franklin said. “I shall speak with the other girls soon and we’ll find just the one for William.”
“I’ve cared for a number of younger brothers and sisters,” Anne said. “And of course my boy, till he was taken from me.”
Deborah Franklin’s eyes swam on and off of Anne’s but never left her face. “Of what did he die?”
Anne dared a glance at Franklin. “Smallpox. Same as yours.”
“And who might speak for you?”
The corder. The shipwright. The shipmaster. Your husband.
“I last worked for Mr. Solomon Grissom,” Anne said.
“Grissom!” Deborah Franklin turned in her slow daze to her husband. “There you are; you need only get the endorsement of your friend Grissom. She’s had the smallpox, she knows the curse I live under. Why talk to any others? I like this one.” She swayed again. Franklin gripped her again.
He said, “Come, ’tis time for your bed and your dose.” He called, “Min!”
Min came as if she’d been just the other side of the door. Franklin handed off his wife and Min led her out of the room.
“Ask how soon she might start!” Deborah called behind her as the door closed.
Franklin said, “William, ’tis enough study for today. Why don’t you go find your pennywhistle, there’s a good boy.”
William slid from the chair and scurried off. As soon as he was out of sight, Franklin sank into the chair at the end of the table, dropped his face into his hands, and rubbed at his temples as if attempting to rub out the great headache that must certainly have lodged there.
Anne said, “I might start now.”
Franklin’s face rose up out of his hands. “Are you out of your senses?”
“Why not?”
Franklin stared at her.
“She doesn’t know; she can never guess, with me so dark and him so fair. Besides, she’s been told my boy is dead. Like hers. She thinks me like her. She thinks I can help her.” Anne leaned forward and touched Franklin’s hand to bring his eyes back up from where they’d fallen. She said, “I can help her. I can take care of William. I can keep quiet.” She paused. “Or not.” So short a threat. So long a one.
Franklin gazed blankly at the hand she’d touched; he lifted his eyes and fixed them on Anne with a new expression in them. She’d already identified a number of the old Franklin faces since she’d arrived: the forced calm and false courtesy at the door, the escaping exasperation at the table, the alarm tempered with patience at Deborah’s entrance, and always pushing at the edges of each of them the thick gray quicksand of worry and grief. What was this new look, then? The quicksand was still hard at work, but a twist at the corner of the mouth had given the face a bitter, ironic cast, and in the eyes she could almost believe—no, she couldn’t believe—or could she—that she saw a hint of the old, ever-speculating Franklin there.
SOLOMON GRISSOM SAT AT the kitchen table with his long legs splayed beneath, hands and eyes on a mug that he’d drained soon after Anne arrived but refused her attempt to refill. Anne had stood at the foot of the table and spewed as many words as she owned into the silence, but now the silence had not only drained her words, it had drained her nerve; she pulled out the chair and sat down. Solomon Grissom looked up, those not-green-not-brown eyes as indifferent as they were when she first came; Anne was surprised by how greatly that single look from him could unsettle her. She began to explain. Again.
“’Twas never my plan. I knew only that I needed to see the boy. To make sure he was unharmed; nothing you could have told me would have soothed my mind. I needed to see him with my own eyes. But then I saw him—and such a boy! So handsome and strong and delicate all at once! And such begging in those eyes, begging me to look at him, to admire him. No doubt he’s been much ignored since his brother died. So I looked at him and admired and saw . . . oh, I saw everything there was in him, that secretive, unsure thing in him, but also the open and loving part of him; I thought how easily such a boy could be crushed, how an angry blow or an extra scold could crumple him.”
She stopped. Grissom said nothing. She leaned forward, touched his hand. “Solomon. I couldn’t leave him.”
But she could leave Solomon Grissom. And why should she not? She was nothing but Benjamin Franklin’s favor. Grissom had taken her into the shop because of what he owed Franklin; Anne had given what she’d given because she’d owed Grissom. The tally was even—no less no more. Grissom had begun to think himself entitled to far too much of her; it was time she moved on.
20
THEY WEREN’T THE FIRST words William Franklin ever heard—after all, he was five or six when they were said—but they were the ones that stuck first, shrieked at him out of his mother’s splotched face, her extended arms rigid and twitching, nothing about them hinting at the comfort he’d found there in the past. His father was in the room, but he was a changed father, the smile wrung out of him and his eyes not once cast on William; besides, even if William had liked the idea of seeking comfort in this strange father’s arms, it was too late—he’d already filled them with William’s mother and carried her out of the room.
William didn’t understand. He couldn’t think why the words had been flung at him, or why his mother looked s
o, or his father, or why his mother had been carried from the room, but he knew it had something to do with his younger brother, Franky. Franky was dead. William hadn’t entirely understood the word dead either, not even when Min had taken him by the hand and led him into the room where the gray, spotted thing lay on the bed. William could tell the thing wasn’t his brother anymore, but he couldn’t tell just why, nor could he say that he liked him any better for it. Franky had always been a small, bright light in the house that William could never outshine no matter how he tried; “Franky did it” only seemed to get a sharp word from his mother and that sad look from his father that William hated more than he hated Franky. That was the other thing William couldn’t understand—he hated Franky, and yet the night Franky died William cried and cried and begged God to make his brother not dead. It did no good, of course—the next morning William crept into the room where Franky lay and found him still dead—but here was the oddest thing of all: The dead Franky was still the brightest thing in the house.
It had been clear from the first. William could not have been much above two when the infant appeared as if by magic—red, noisy, smelly. William’s father bent down to where William was playing with his cups and showed him this unpleasant object as if it were one of the stableman’s new kittens, or the baby pig that had shown up all of a sudden in the alley, or even a sugar paper his mother sometimes gave him to suck.
“Your brother has arrived at last,” his father said, which William took to mean that his brother would eventually leave, like everyone else did who “arrived” at their house. That this thing was never to leave was the first shock. That William wasn’t allowed to kick the cradle to silence the wailing blob was the second. His foot had only just set the rockers flying when his mother’s hand came flying even faster and laid him out flat on his back.
