A Part of the Sky

by Robert Newton Peck

  “Black plague.”

  Chapter

  12

  “Whoa.”

  Mr. Sebring Hillman, who lived just uproad from us, contained his team long enough for me to step on a wheel spoke and then to sit beside him on the wagon bench.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hillman. I sure could use a ride home. I’m beholding.”

  With an easy looping snap of his reins, Mr. Hillman moved the team forward.

  “What are you doing in town, Brother Peck?”

  I smiled. “Working. Took me a job at the feedstore, helping out Mr. Ferguson.”

  “A decent man.”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “How are you folks doing?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t guess any worse’n anybody else. You know, because of there’s not much rain.”

  Mr. Hillman looked at the sky. “No chance today.”

  We jawed about weather and crops, and that Ben Tanner was healing. Mr. Hillman’s wife, Astrid May, had taken a pie to the Tanners after the trouble with General Robert E. Lee.

  When Mr. Hillman pulled his team to halt at our place, I was fixing to jump down.

  “Hold it, Robert. Stay on. Because yesterday I found a tool in my barn that I’d borrowed from Haven. I want to return it. Would you bring it home?”

  “Sure.”

  At the Hillman place, Mrs. Hillman heard the team and wagon, come out the house with a dish towel over her shoulder, and waved. I waved back.

  Dismounting the long wagon, Mr. Hillman led the way to an open toolshed. Inside, I admired the sturdy frame of a half-built and well-grained table.

  Mr. Hillman nodded at it. “Like your pa, I make our furniture. Every stick.”

  “It looks good. What kind of wood?”

  “Cherry. Ought to look nice when it’s finished and polished like an apple. Astrid May always wanted a cherry table. Sold the last one I put together. A city fellow come along and told me that Shaker-made was top grade. Offered me a price. So I took it glad.”

  “Sister Hillman will be happy with this one.”

  “Hope so. She’s a fine woman. A good wife.” He looked at me strange. “You fixing to marry soon?”

  “No, I’ll be coming up fourteen this coming winter. I’m too young to think on such.”

  “Well, I was not sixteen when I wed mine. Both of us young. Growing up has a way of making a man do, instead of consider.”

  “How come you asked me if I was fixing to get married?”

  Before answering, Sebring Hillman rubbed his hand along the raw table wood. It was yellow with dust. “Because,” he said, “I was down by the crick a few weeks back, fishing. I seen you kissing the Tate girl.”

  “Oh. Well, we don’t talk at all about anything too serious. Not about a wedding or like that.”

  Mr. Hillman nodded. “Come along with me, Robert.”

  “Where to?”

  “Inside my barn. Something in there you ought to study.”

  We went inside.

  Standing very still, Mr. Hillman looked up, then pointed at one of the barn’s thick crossbeams. “Oak,” he said, “and solid as Sunday.” Lowering his arm, he kept staring up at the beam, shaking his head.

  “What is it, Mr. Hillman? What’s wrong?”

  “Happened years ago. Her name was Letty. Miss Letty Phelps. She was related to Haven. As you know, when my woman took sick, she hired out to us. Lived here. But Letty was too pretty to pass by. I took to her. And got her in trouble, you know in a family way. In pod.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “She bore a baby girl. My daughter. Then ashamed of it all, Letty drown the child. Done it just outside in my horse trough. After that, she tied a rope to that beam, right there above us, and hanged herself.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hillman. And I remember that rainy night in the churchyard, and the baby’s coffin you brung home, to here.”

  “It hurt to own up. Yet the shame of not admitting my sin hurt worse. Took me a while. Too long. But I did make my claim, to you and to Haven that night, and to the Lord.”

  Mr. Hillman walked back and forth, three or four times, shaking his head as if trying to shake an illness.

  “Years back, my doing with Letty Phelps began near the crick, under those pretty white birches where you and your sweetheart were. The same spot.” He looked square at me. “Forgive me, Robert, for saying this to you. I have no son. You don’t have a father. No more will I say than this. To love is a blessing. But to trouble a young girl is a curse.”

  For a time, I stood in the barn with our big neighbor, looking up at his sober face. He had nothing further to say about Letty. When I followed him back to the toolshed, Mr. Hillman handed me a mattock.

  “Here’s the pickaxe I borrowed from Haven.” He paused. “My excuse for luring you here to point out a beam. Forgive me. I’m either a good neighbor or a busybody, and I’ll let you decide.”

  Before I left, the Hillmans gave me one more thing to bring home, this one a gift. It was a twenty-pound catfish. I steamed it outdoors and we ate it for supper. Not much got left for Miss Sarah, but enough. The hot white catfish meat was a real treat and offered second helpings all around.

  Aunt Carrie went to bed early.

  My mother and I stayed up. We sat together in the kitchen, and I told her all that Mr. Hillman had told me, things she already knowed. I figured that Mama might want to talk about Letty Phelps and her sorrow, but I was quite wrong. Instead, my mother told me things I didn’t know, or never suspected.

  It was about my sisters.

  “They all married young,” Mama said. “So very young. Fourteen or fifteen, no older than that. All four before they’d turned sixteen.”

  “Why did they?”

  Mama looked at me. “For their babies. To give their little ones a family name other than Peck.”

  “You mean … it was Mr. Hillman?”

  Mama shook her head. “No, Robert, it certain was not Sebring Hillman. But your sisters were pretty. As fair as Becky Tate. And in trouble.”

  “Are you worried that Becky and I …”

  “No. But both of you are yearning young. She’s a lovely lass, your Becky Lee, hair blacker than a raven’s wing, and eyes that dance with the Devil.”

  “She’s a nice girl.”

  “So were your sisters. All nice. Clean and respectful. I guess what I’m trying to say is this. Since your father left us, you’ve growed up so quick, and so sudden. Up until Pinky died, you were only a boy. Lately, you seem so much taller and stronger. Close to becoming a man.” With her elbows on the kitchen table, my mother rested her chin in both hands and stared at me.

  “Mama, I’m tired. Today I got told too much to contain. More’n I can carry.” I touched her face. “But I’m also old enough to think, to reason, and do right. Trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “Good.”

  I clinked my nickel and both quarters, my day’s pay, in the teapot and replaced its little lid. It seemed so empty. Perhaps the pot only longed once again to hold tea. Yet there wasn’t a leaf of it in our pantry.

  Mama kissed me and then tiptoed quietly up the creaking stairway to her bed.

  I stayed up, walked outside, and studied a creamy three-quarter moon. After all I had heard today, the moon prompted me to a promise, to swear a secret oath.

  “Never will I trouble a girl.”

  Chapter

  13

  It was September.

  There wasn’t a second cut of hay. And very little of our field corn could I cut or try to sell for silage. The ears were few and stunted, yet I collected every one to shuck for our chickens.

  During warm weather, our hens roamed free, surviving by pecking at every bug and beetle. Winter was another story. The snow and cold demanded that our chickens would stay cooped. Corn had to be provided. An animal, even a hen, burns more fuel in winter. So do people. This meant that our teapot money drained away to vacant.

  Mama and Carrie canned every vegetab
le that I could dig up from our little backyard garden. Not much to can. In better years, my mother and aunt would spend weeks by the stove, paring, slicing, and processing all their jars on our Acme American stove.

  One time, sweaty with boiling beets, Mama said to her sister, “There be only two seasons in Vermont. Winter and canning.” Mama had a wit.

  At least I kept my job at Ferguson’s Feed & Seed. During my noon hour, on the first day of September, I made a trip to the Town Clerk’s office. A lady was there. The only person.

  “How do,” I said, taking off my hat. “My name is Robert Peck. Me and my family, we’re uphillers. Is this where people pay taxes?”

  “You’re here for that purpose?”

  “Yes’m.” I swallowed. “No, because I don’t have the thirty-five dollars. Not a penny of it. My father died, and …”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Peck.”

  She searched through her records, then stopped. “Haven Peck?”

  “No, I’m his son. He’s dead. Please, tell me what happens if I can’t pay.”

  “Then your property is placed in jeopardy. Perhaps you ought to consult a lawyer. My brother-in-law happens to be …”

  “Excuse me. I want to be polite, but we don’t have a lot to spend, on anything.”

  “Are you employed?”

  I nodded. “Yes, a regular job at the feedstore, right here in Learning. If you doubt it, you can ask Mr. Porter Ferguson.”

  “How old are you, young man?”

  “Thirteen. Does that make a difference?”

  “Not usual. I was just curious. You’ll have to register for school in two days. And attend. You won’t be working any longer. By the way, what was your stipend at the feedstore?”

  “My what?”

  “Pay. What do you earn?”

  I smiled at her. “Well, I started there at fifty cents a day, but because I come early and stayed late, Mr. Ferguson upped my wage to seventy-five cents.”

  “Six days a week for Mr. Ferguson?”

  “Yup. I mean yes’m.”

  “Do you own your farm outright, or is there some sort of a lien or mortgage on it?”

  “It’s mortgaged. But we’ve been paying it off pretty steady. Only four years to go and it’s all ours. Free and clear.”

  The lady made a note on our paper.

  “Your property will not be free and clear if you haven’t settled your annual tax. How do you propose to raise thirty-five dollars? Or do you expect to become a burden to the township?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “By statute, there is a fiduciary obligation on indebted real property. Legally, no continuant can be considered in our jurisdiction without further proof of viable assets. An attorney, for a reasonable fee, can explain all this to you and then represent you in court, at which time you can opt for a judicial review.”

  My knees started to wobble. Inside my brain, all she’d said was starting to mill around, and I didn’t savvy a word. “We want to pay our taxes. But can’t right now. By next growing season, in a year, I’ll be able to settle whatever we owe.”

  The woman smirked. “If I had a dime for every deadbeat that gives me that story, I’d be rolling rich.”

  “Thank you,” I told her, even though she hadn’t given me much of a cheering.

  When I returned to the feedstore, Mr. Ferguson was messing through a pile of papers. He sat with his ledger book before him.

  “Few of the people who trade here are paying me any cash. What they owe’s on the cuff.” Mr. Ferguson shook his head. “And my cuff isn’t big enough.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferguson. It would be nifty if you’d prosper. You’re a honest merchant.”

  “Rob,” he said, looking up at me over his half-moon glasses, “I can’t afford to keep you on. You’re a worker. But we’re all into tough times. If business takes a healthier turn, I’ll hire you again.”

  I felt stunned.

  “Then I’m all through here?”

  “Yup. I’m sorry. Hope you know it.” He pointed at a ten-pound burlap sack. “So we’ll part as friends, there’s a bag of cracked corn. Take it. Before spring, your chickens might get hungry.”

  Thanking him, I left uproad for home.

  When I reported to Mama and Aunt Carrie about my double dose of bad news, they both told me not to fret about it, because school was starting up again.

  Mr. Ferguson’s cracked corn never made it to our hen coop. Out of necessity, I fed it into our hand grinder, turning it into meal. Mama baked bread with it. Then apologized for its taste. This was corn not intended for people. But we had to live.

  Just on a slim hunch, I went to visit our easterly neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Long. Her name used to be Mrs. Bascom, a widow, but she married Ira Long, her hired man.

  They had both become close friends.

  “Any chance that you people might be needing an extra hand on your place? If so, I’ll work hard and cheap.”

  Their faces told me the answer before they did. “No chance at all, Robert,” said Mrs. Long. “I don’t have to tell you that money’s pretty scarce right now.”

  Ira said, “Maybe you hadn’t heard. But the paper mill in town is only running two days a week. Not enough orders to meet a payroll.”

  I clenched my teeth, took a breath, and made them a second offer. “You won’t have to pay me,” I said. “Not in cash. Because I’m willing to work for food.” I looked at both of them. “Please, just for something to eat. If you kill a hog, I’ll help, if you give us the hoof meat.”

  Mrs. Long and her husband looked at each other, then back at me. “I believe,” she said, “we might take you on, Rob.”

  Ira nodded. “At least at day’s end,” he said, “you’ll be able to tote home a few goodies. It’s a deal.”

  He shook my hand.

  “However,” Mrs. Long said, with a smile on her pleasant face, “we can’t allow you to skip school. It wouldn’t be right, would it, Ira?”

  “No indeed. Our bargain is for Saturday only.”

  “All right,” I said. “Even if it goes against the Shaker faith, I’ll work Sunday, too, if need. Or during the week. If you can light a lantern in the barn, I can tackle night work. Any dirty job you don’t aim to do, I’ll handle.”

  Ira smiled too. “You know,” he said, “before today, I don’t guess I ever realized that manhood comes in a pint size.”

  Mrs. Long said, “Robert, I took a pair of pies out of the oven about half an hour ago. Would you please do me a favor?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Wait right there.”

  She left for the kitchen. In a breath or two, she returned, carrying an entire pie. And for me, a glass of milk.

  The fresh smell told me what pie it was.

  “Blueberry,” I said.

  “You got a nose,” Ira said and pretended to punch my shoulder. “You ought to been born a coonhound.”

  I laughed. So did the Longs. It felt good. Strange, but I hadn’t been laughing much of late, and it was a righteous joy to turn it loose. It was as though I had a mouthful of wrens that wanted to fly free.

  “Your mother’s a good cook, Rob,” said Mrs. Long. “So I’d value your family’s opinion of my pie. Because I might enter it at the county fair next week.”

  Mrs. Long, on a second trip, brought three plates, a knife, and three forks. She cut the pie into six, and we ate a half of it, three generous slabs. I sure didn’t need much urging to attack my share. If my appreciating was the favor Mrs. Long wanted, I was certain willing to grant it.

  Ira and I held our forks like people do at home. Knuckles up. But his pretty woman held her fork a odd way. Knuckles down. There was no understanding female folk.

  We finished our pie. I wondered if my mouth had turned as blue as Ira’s.

  He asked, “Rob, did you hear about the boy in Learning who ate a entire blueberry pie, all six pieces?”

  “No,” I said, “what happened to him?”


  “Well, he went to a dog show, yawned, and took third prize.”

  We all hooted at that, even though I’d heard it from both Papa and Ben Tanner. But old jokes are as good as old friends. However, inside me, I was feeling guilty that I had eaten blueberry pie while my mother and aunt had none.

  “Dear, dear,” said Mrs. Long, “that other pie is only going to spoil rotten, and I’ll have to throw it out.”

  “The hogs’ll eat it,” Ira said.

  “Or,” said his wife, “I might bury it out in the garden. You know, to help fertilize my petunias.”

  The two of them were winking at each other, and I was a bit slow to catch on. Yet it was a merry moment when Mrs. Long made me carry the other pie (a whole one) back to our place.

  That evening, Mama and Aunt Carrie and I took quick care of half of it. We saved half of the blueberry pie for breakfast.

  Not a crumb was wasted. Nary a speck.

  We pecked pie like sparrows.

  Chapter

  14

  School started.

  We enrolled in the ninth grade, which meant that I’d grunted myself as far as high school. Yet I was proud of it.

  Becky Lee Tate was there, talking to the popular town kids. Some girls were hugging each other. When she spotted me, however, she come to me, smiling, and hurrying my heart.

  Becky touched my hand.

  “All those others,” she said, “are talking about the pleasures they had this summer. And their vacation trips. I realize how you spent your summertime. Worrying, in dirt and sweat and dung. None of them will know how you worked. But I do.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re different than so many of your friends. That’s why I like you so much.”

  Becky almost whispered. “You do?”

  I nodded. “A whole bunch.”

  That’s when she did it. Arms around my neck, Becky Lee gave me a quick squeeze. Close as courting.

  As she returned to chatter with a group of her girlfriends in the hall, one of the girls said something that I happened to overhear. “Becky, how could you smooch him? He always smells of cow.”