Like a psychic, Rusty showed up just as the mosquitoes started pecking at my face. He wore a modern yellow rain poncho and a pair of Sperry boat shoes.
“What happened?” he asked as the camera closed in on my face.
“I’m learning how to tap dance. What does it look like?”
Without bothering to help, he followed me as I stood up and carried what was left in the bucket to the springhouse. Wet and shivering, and probably resembling the dead girl in The Ring, I poured the milk into two crocks and shut the door behind me.
In front of the cabin, Dad was already sitting on the wagon with the reins in his hands. Rusty climbed onto the seat beside him. In the back sat Rebecca Lynn. She had grabbed the quilt from our bed and held it over her head like a tent. I crawled under the quilt and huddled next to my sister, holding onto the basket that held the strawberry pie.
“You’re all muddy,” she said, scrunching up her nose.
“Yeah? Well, you smell like chicken poop.”
Clyde, our mentally challenged rooster, decided to give us a wakeup call just as we headed onto the road. Good timing, Cuckoo Bird. We had only traveled a few yards when another wagon pulled by a stocky brown mule came up behind us. A man with mahogany skin, wearing a wide leather hat and a black coat, sat on the buckboard, handling the mule. Next to the man sat Carl with his camera on his shoulder.
Behind the first wagon came another, only this one wasn’t really a wagon at all but an open two-seater buggy, a small canopy suspended over the travelers’ heads and held up by a pole at each of the four corners.
Within seconds both wagons passed us. The black man tipped his hat as they went by, and Dad did the same. Carl panned our wagon, and Rusty panned the other two. As the second cart passed, I caught Prudence in the back seat, a thick blanket draped across her lap, a lacy shawl across her shoulders. A canopy protected her head, but she still used a parasol. On her right sat a little boy. In the front seat, a man—Mr. Miller, I assumed—held the reins that controlled a large work horse, and next to him, another young boy. Prudence waved excitedly as she rode past, like we were in a holiday parade. From under the quilt I gave a small wave back, and then the wagons were gone.
The wooden church doors screamed in pain as we pulled them open. The minister on the platform stopped speaking, and the room became a silent cave. A few camera people, including Carl, were scattered throughout the room, panning our pathetic expressions as we entered, as well as the dozen or so faces of men, women, and children as they twisted their bodies around to get a good look. The women and their daughters looked identical in high collars and sheer bonnets, shawls covering shoulders, hair in perfectly round pin cushions on the sides of their heads. Some held onto pretty fans. All wore pretty gloves. The men and boys held their dress hats and wore black coats with dark pants and clean white shirts with collars.
Not only did we look filthy compared to these other families, my dad’s musky scent entered the room along with us. I silently prayed that his overwhelming stench was reason enough to kick us out of church and Sweet Sugar Gap.
The minister held up his arms like a television evangelist and smiled. “Welcome,” he said, his voice echoing through the narrow church.
We chose a spot in the very back. Dad took off his hat and raked his fingers through his oily hair. In the corners of the high ceiling, two more cameras hung like one-eyed spiders.
For nearly an hour, the minister droned on about neighborly love, quoting something from John or Luke or one of those guys. We grabbed a hymnal and followed along as best we could, singing one song and then another. Off to the right, an organ played. When it was time to sit back down, I noticed the person playing the organ was Wendell Murphy. He was dressed in a black suit with a white stiff-collared shirt, a thin black bowtie at his throat. His thick hair was clean and combed and neatly parted at the side. Even his sideburns looked less bushy. He played the organ well, even if the music was like something you’d hear at a funeral.
Toward the end of the sermon, a man from the front row stood up and passed a velvet-lined basket up and down the rows. The entire room was silent except for the organ music and the plink-plink-plink as coins dropped into the basket. When it came back to us Dad dropped in one small coin.
The sun suddenly shone through one of the stained glass windows and fell upon the pulpit. The minister beamed and spread his arms even wider. “It looks as though God would like us to have a sunny picnic.”
Everyone nodded and smiled as we rose for the final song.
Behind the church, long wooden tables lined up end to end, with benches on both sides. Camera people moved about, and little kids ran around like free-range chickens. Some of the ladies went to their wagons for their covered dishes. I headed to ours while Rebecca Lynn took off with the Duffy twins and Dad shook hands with the minister.
“Brooke Decker!” came a girl’s voice from behind me.
Prudence floated toward me in her green satin dress, face flushed with humidity, Sunday buns perfectly symmetrical under a sheer bonnet, and gloved hands holding a sheet cake the size of a doormat. “What happened to you?” she asked, gaping at my inside-out apron barely covering my stained dress.
“Had a rough morning.”
“You must come up to my house. I have some old dresses you may have. And do not thank me. It is more blessed to give than to receive. What did you bring for the picnic?”
“Strawberry pie,” I told her as we approached the wagon. I reached in and grabbed the box, then lifted the lid for her to see. One of the cameras zoomed in on the pie.
“Oh, how quaint,” Prudence said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one quite so small.”
As we walked back to the picnic area we sidestepped a wide mud puddle, and if the camera hadn’t been hovering, she would have “accidentally” stumbled into it.
The rain clouds had drifted away; the sun was shining brightly now, and steam rose up from the grass. In the Miller’s buggy, the black man still sat high up on the buckboard. He tipped his hat and smiled as we walked by. I smiled back. Prudence ignored him.
“Isn’t he coming to the picnic?” I asked.
“A slave invited to a picnic! Oh, Brooke Decker. Your sense of humor will undoubtedly help me get through the tedious summer.”
I grabbed her by the arm and put my mouth to her ear, not caring if the microphone picked up my voice. “You shouldn’t be rude to someone for ratings.”
She didn’t respond as she marched a few feet ahead of me to the table. Each place was set with a tin plate, silverware, and a cloth napkin. Platters with towels on top covered the center. If a meal this great was going to happen every Sunday, maybe church wouldn’t be so bad after all.
After placing our desserts next to the other dishes, Prudence dragged me to where the children were playing. She introduced me to her twelve-year-old brother, Herbert, and her ten-year-old brother, Elijah. I met Wendell’s little brothers, Willie, seven, Welford, eight, and Washington, ten, who all had the same thick brown hair and green eyes. I said hello to the twins we’d met at the bakery, Beth and Tina. Mrs. Wrightman, the woman who owned the bakery, had a six-year-old daughter named Belle, and Doctor Hensel’s son, Peter, was fourteen. Including Prudence, Wendell, and my sister and me, the kids made up a baker’s dozen.
I scanned the crowd but didn’t see Wendell. Not that I needed to see him, but with only one boy and one girl my age, and the summer months looming ahead like an endless gray sky, I couldn’t be too picky.
As if she’d read my thoughts, Prudence said, “Have you met Wendell Murphy?”
I nodded.
“His family runs the mercantile,” she said.
“I know. I was there.”
“Isn’t their wish book wonderful? I’ve ordered a brand new tea set. I shall invite you for a tea party when it arrives.”
I was more of a Beartown Java Cappuccino girl, or a red Solo cup lover, depending on the situation, and Prudence was as annoying dog poop on my
shoe, but if it meant getting out of a few chores, I would learn to sip tea.
“Brooke,” Prudence said, touching my arm like a grandmother, “it’s not in my nature to be rude, or to gossip. But I feel I have to say this to you. As your new friend.” I waited as she licked her lips in preparation for whatever nonsense she had to say. “It’s just that, well, I’m not one to judge, lest ye be judged, but you look like a…fancy girl.”
“Fancy?”
“Only fancy girls do not wear their corsets in public.” Before I had a chance to tell her to mind her own beeswax, she put her face close to mine. “What is that on your lashes?”
“Midnight Blue Extra Thick.”
Prudence held that blank stare. I waited for her to crack up, to say, “OMG, girlfriend, can you believe, like, we’re totally on this lame reality show? You are, like, so smart to bend the rules. And screw that stupid tea party. Murphy & Sons sells papers and corncob pipes, and I know a couple of local Indians…”
But she didn’t crack up. She didn’t even crack a smile. She was as smooth as a piece of ice as she placed a gloved hand against her chest. She glanced at the camera, ever so slightly. “Really, Brooke, you need to wear your corset or boys won’t respect you.” She took the silky blue shawl from her shoulders and placed it around my own, tying it into a large knot in the front. “Wear this. Perhaps no one will notice.”
A door in the back of the church opened and slammed shut again. Wendell came down the back steps and stopped to talk to some of the men.
“There’s Wendell,” Prudence said, patting her bonnet and fluffing up her dress. “Hi, Wendell!” she called waving.
Wendell walked over to us. “Afternoon, Prudence.” He stared at my clothes. “Afternoon, Brooke. You fall off the wagon?”
“Oh, no, I—”
“I’m going to give her one of my old dresses,” Prudence told Wendell. “Isn’t that right, Brooke?”
I shrugged.
Wendell said, “That’s nice of you, Prudence.” The church bell clanged. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m hungry.”
We followed him to the table. After Reverend Clark gave the blessing, platters of mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn, rice, beets, carrots, and gravies were spooned onto plates in fair portions, as were the meats and breads. Lukewarm sweet tea was poured into glasses. The table grew silent as everyone ate. Soon, platters were passed around again. There was enough food to eat not only two helpings, but three, which I happily did.
Next, apple and strawberry pies, and white frosted cakes were cut into wide slices. By the time dessert was over, nearly every platter was empty.
After the meal, the afternoon sun high in the sky, the children took to running around again, hiding behind trees, somersaulting down the rain-soaked hill. At the table, Prudence and I helped the women clean up while the men sat around and sipped tea or smoked their pipes. Wendell sat with the men, and for the first time I caught the hint of honey blond in his hair. As I leaned over to clear his plate, he smiled up at me, and I smiled back. From the other end of the table, Prudence watched us. I lowered my eyes and grabbed the dishes and carried them to a large barrel by the creek, then helped wash and dry.
“What do we do now?” I asked Prudence when the clean up was finished. I was stuffed to the gills, and as good as the food was, I couldn’t imagine a once-a-week smorgasbord was the only fun I’d have out here.
“Come with me,” Prudence said.
Together we walked behind the church and made our way up the rest of the grassy hill. I heard grunting as Rusty tried to keep up with us, his face the color of a tomato, like the word “treadmill” wasn’t in his personal dictionary. It was a five-minute hike, and the hill was muddy and a little slippery from that morning’s rain, but my dress was already soiled, so a little more dirt wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
We reached the top. On the other side sat a valley between a pair of rolling hills, and smack in the middle lay a broad river. Trees and rocks lined the river, and from the top of the hill, I could see white caps on the water.
“I could sit up here all day,” Prudence said.
We stood together as a warm wind rose up from the river and ruffled the hems of our dresses.
“Prudence,” I said, wanting to get the conversation started before Rusty’s camera appeared. “Do you worry you might not last out here for four months?”
“No. This is my home now.”
“But it’s not your home. Not really.”
“Yes, Brooke, it is. And I plan to keep it that way.” She touched my arm like we were lifelong besties. “Oh, look down there. A deer by that tree. Isn’t he sweet…?”
The more she spoke in that sugary sweet voice, the more I wanted to smack her bonnet off her head. But Rusty now stood with us, his camera panning the valley as Prudence went on about how perfectly wonderful nature is.
She eventually stopped jabbering, and I glanced toward the townspeople behind us down in the picnic area, Wendell somewhere among them. It was hard to tell one male from another with all the men wearing the same clothes. I turned back to the river where the deer was soon joined by a half dozen friends. They stood nibbling wild berries and flower buds. Standing on the hilltop with a full belly, the sun warming my face, and that beautiful river below wasn’t half bad, I had to admit.
And, I decided, Wendell Murphy wasn’t half bad either.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For nearly a week, after Clyde screamed bloody murder, and even on the mornings when he was too stupid to wake us up, I got dressed, started the coffee, and tended to Gretchen and Willow. Rebecca Lynn went to the coop to feed the chickens and collect eggs, then feed Bambi, who seemed to be getting fatter and muddier by the minute in her pen behind the barn. We cooked three meals in the fireplace, churned butter, made cheese, dragged in firewood, washed yucky rags, and poured lye into the outhouse toilet. We even made a broom. Rebecca Lynn found a slightly curved tree branch, and together we collected straw. It took a few hours, and by the time we were done, our homemade broom belonged in a magical game of Quidditch. It left long scratches in the floorboards, but at least some of the dirt came up.
Aside from the daily chores, and aside from having a camera or two in our faces all day, life was pretty uneventful for a girl in the 1860s.
But when our clothes began to look like they’d been pulled from an alley dumpster, and stank just as badly, I decided it was time to add a little spice to my routine. Yes, the “Holy Day of Dirty Skivvies,” otherwise known as “Wash Day,” had finally arrived.
Dad’s pants and socks were so smelly I had to hold my nose while I dunked them into the bucket of boiling water with a pair of long wooden tongs. And my sister’s and my own clothes weren’t much better. But we used the soap flakes instead of that awful lye soap, so our fingers wouldn’t disintegrate. While our outer clothes soaked in the bucket out back, Dad chopped wood in his long underwear with the top half pulled down around his waist, and my sister and I did our chores in our underpinnings. I took a wet soapy rag and washed our moldy leather boots. Since our socks were also soaking, we stayed barefoot, which was awesome. Even dodging horse and cow paddies was better than wearing those itchy socks and pinchy shoes.
Rebecca Lynn and I strung a line across the kitchen since the humidity was high and nothing would dry outside. Our clothes smelled like a fireplace, but they dried in less than a day.
Dad walked through his garden for hours at a time, watering the seeds with bucket after bucket like he was sure chunks of gold were going to sprout up. On the other side of the barn where the sun hit all day, he planted sunflower seeds. He also started a trash-burning pile at the back corner of the property. But most of the day, he chopped wood on the side of the house.
“Part of the evaluation will be stockpiling our wood,” he reminded me. “A few cords a week should do it.”
“How much is a cord?”
“Enough to fill two wagons.”
The first time Dad sw
ung the ax into the air, he looked like a blindfolded two-year-old trying to hit a piñata. But by the time a week was out, his arms were tan, and the three-foot-high log pile stretched halfway across the side of the cabin. Which was good, since we went through firewood like nobody’s business, and it wasn’t even winter. It seemed like every time he got the pile to grow higher than his hip, we girls would steal logs for cooking.
By the time the sun started to set each day, we were all too tired to play with our deck of cards which sat in the unopened box on the mantel. With all the blisters from sweeping and churning, I could barely move my fingers, let alone dip a pen into an ink well. The only letter I managed to write was to Libby. I kept it brief:
“This place sucks. Wish you were here to make it less sucky. Love, Brooke.”
Two days before our next ride into town, I treated myself to a spa. I did my afternoon chores faster than usual, then snuck away while Rusty hung out with Dad in the field and Rebecca Lynn played with Bambi and Sully. I made my way down the path to the stream with a large, clean piece of linen in my hands. If I was going to see Wendell again, I needed to get rid of this awful stink. Not that he was my only motivation for hygiene awareness, but it didn’t hurt to have an additional reason to scrub the nooks and crannies.
After brushing my teeth, and candle-waxing a doubled piece of thread from the sewing box to use as floss, I stood in the creek rinsing, cringing at the site of my hairy legs. My armpits weren’t any better. In fact, they were worse than my legs, because along with the stubble, I had no antiperspirant, and little red sweat bumps made my underarms itch. Naked and shivering, I held the tiny mirror in my hands. My reflection had recently begun sporting a uni-brow, like an actress in an Italian prison movie. Blackheads decided my nose was the perfect place to breed, and freckles that Sunforgettable SPF 30 used to keep away were now scattered all over my cheeks like someone had blown cinnamon into my face.
Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town Page 12
