Upside Down in a Laura Ingalls Town

by Leslie Tall Manning

  Josiah finished with the crumpets, took a step back, and stood motionless again.

  “He’s mostly an idiot,” Prudence said, sighing. “But he does pour tea well enough.”

  She took tiny bites of her so-called crumpet and sipped her tea. As I imitated her, I had to keep reminding myself that all the people in Sweet Sugar Gap, except for me, of course, wanted to be here. Josiah didn’t have to do this. He could have said no. Just like Nanny could have said no.

  “So, tell me, Brooke,” Prudence said. “How do you like living in Sweet Sugar Gap? Don’t you just love the smell of grass and fresh flowers?”

  All I could think about was the smell of chicken poop and my own sweat.

  “I don’t have much time to enjoy anything.” I gave her the rundown of my life in the backcountry, leaving out the colorful adjectives. “What kinds of chores do you have?”

  “I haven’t any chores. That’s what slaves are for.”

  I should have been worried about Josiah, but he was a grownup, able to make his own choices, and besides, I couldn’t stop thinking about me. I worked from sunup until sundown. My clothes were no fancier than Nanny’s, not including this pink hand-me-down from Prudence. I had to suffer through baths in a freezing cold stream, my hairy legs belonged to an ape, and I had to share a bedroom with my dad and little sister. I had no privacy, my hands were cracked, and my lower back throbbed. I was no different than a cotton picker, really.

  A huge ball of woe-is-me welled up inside me, and I forgot for a moment about Rusty and his camera. “It’s totally not fair.”

  “Excuse me?” Prudence asked.

  “You get to live up here and I have to live down in that shack.”

  “Are you blaming me for your misfortune?”

  “No. It’s just not fair, that’s all. And the Murphys with their store. Hardly an even playing field.”

  She ignored my whining. “Oh, don’t you love their store? I want just about everything in their wish book.”

  “The only thing I want is their guitar.”

  “That’s a boy’s instrument. You should play the piano, like I do.”

  I laughed. “We wouldn’t have anywhere to put a piano, except maybe in our fireplace as kindling. It doesn’t matter anyway. The guitar is too expensive. Wendell said it’s nearly five dollars.” My stomach did a surprising flip-flop at the mention of his name.

  “Five dollars is hardly anything these days,” Prudence said. “Of course, with war so close…well, if it ends slavery, that will be the end of our orchard, our lifestyle, everything.”

  I didn’t want to play along with this talk of war and an orchard she’d probably never seen up close. I didn’t want to sit here with Missy Prissy, listening to her jibber jabber about stuff that wasn’t real, like I was back in a boring history class. Actually, I’d rather have been in a history class.

  “I miss New Bern,” I said, the pangs taking hold. “We’re only here because my dad thinks this venture will make me—our family—stronger. But we didn’t need to come all the way out here. Back in New Bern, I had friends, and fun stuff to do. Why did you all come out here, anyway?”

  “My father felt we’d be safe out here in the backcountry.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “The war.”

  I drank the last of my tea and put the cup on its matching dish. “You’re doing a really good job, Prudence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I was supposed to be careful, especially with that camera just about jabbing me in the ear. But Prudence sitting there all smug in her perfect world…well, without knowing it, she was pushing me.

  “Treating Nanny and Josiah that way,” I said. “Acting like this world is normal.”

  “For the next four months, this is my normal world,” she said without blinking. Her frozen green eyes made me nervous. “Josiah,” she said, never looking at him. “More tea.”

  Josiah bent over the table like an old willow tree, poured fresh tea into our dainty china cups, and I spent the next hour listening to Prudence talk about a war that no longer existed, and slaves that in reality had been freed a hundred and fifty years before, and I almost wished I’d stayed back at the cabin sweeping out the fireplace or washing outhouse rags instead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. We girls did our morning chores as quickly as possible as Dad readied the horse for town. I grabbed a handful of rose petals and rubbed them against my cheeks. I did the same for Rebecca Lynn. Soon, our wagon made its way up and over the hills until the final descent into town. I stood up as soon as we’d parked in front of Murphy & Sons and jumped down the second Dad hitched Willow to the post. Carl had stayed up at the Millers’ place, and Rusty lagged behind with my sister as I straightened out my bonnet in the doorway. Casually, I strolled into the store, my basket swinging next to me.

  Wendell stood behind a counter, helping a man with his purchase. When he saw me, he smiled.

  I smiled back and pretended like I was interested in the items under the glass.

  Dad said, “Fifty-cent limit.”

  I started to protest but he headed across the room to speak with Mr. Murphy. Rebecca Lynn rooted through the toy soldier barrel. As I grabbed a handful of candy sticks and placed them in my basket, I tried hard not to stare at Wendell, whose apron was freshly washed and pressed, and his chin shaven clean.

  I didn’t want him to think I was in his store to gawk, so as Rusty moved around the room like a bored ghost, I moseyed over to the pipe stove by the front door and picked up a newspaper from the stack: Harper’s Weekly. The date at the top was a few weeks ago—in reality it was a few weeks plus one-hundred-fifty some-odd years ago. I sat on a rocker, placed my basket on the floor, and scanned the front page. A grainy photo of a fat bald man stared out. Some military guy named Butler. A few pages in, my eyes fell across a sketch of a young man in a uniform, a tall hat on his head like he was in a school marching band. The soldier had been killed in Baltimore, the first victim of the Civil War. As I scanned the article, I felt someone looking over my shoulder.

  “Luther Ladd,” Wendell said. “He was our age.”

  I folded up the paper. “How much is it?”

  “Six cents.”

  Newspapers weren’t my thing, but at least it was something to read. I stood up and placed the paper in my basket. My eyes traveled up to the guitar, still sitting high on the shelf.

  Wendell said, “You got a letter.”

  I nearly had a stroke as I waited for him to get it. I glanced up at the cameras staring down from the corners of the room, feeling like a rat being observed by scientists. And I guess I was like a rat, running aimlessly through some weird maze, hoping for a paltry piece of cheese at the end.

  When Wendell returned, I stared at the envelope like it had traveled through a worm hole from the future. On the outside of the envelope, Libby had drawn a smiley face with his tongue sticking out and wild hair on his head.

  We paid for our purchases. As Dad and Rebecca Lynn and Rusty headed out of the store, I said goodbye to Wendell before climbing into the wagon.

  Rebecca Lynn said, “Can’t we buy another pie?”

  “Sorry,” Dad said.

  “What about the church picnic?” she whined.

  “Y’all could make your own pie,” Wendell called from the doorway.

  “Sounds like a great idea,” Dad said.

  As we backed up the wagon, I could see Wendell standing there, grinning. It wasn’t a sneer. It was a genuine grin like he’d just handed me a bouquet of roses, and it made my stomach turn inside out. But, bouquet or not, thanks to Wendell Murphy, I would now be adding pie-making to a daily list that never seemed to quit growing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  On the ride back from town, I tore open the letter from Libby:

  Brookie-Wookie! OMG, you will not believe how boring this place is without you. My dad said not to ask him for one dime until fall, so I got this t
otally dorko job at the bowling alley, which sucks because my tan is already fading. If you only knew how disgusting it is to touch shoes that a million people wore. Shoot me, please! I wish you were here working with me. We could hide some of the bowling pins. Or put Vaseline in the bowling ball holes. Hahaha.

  Anyhow, that’s it from the trenches. My hand is tired from writing this with a pen instead of texting, otherwise I’d write more. I miss you and hope you are living large in 1861.

  Have you met any cute cowboys or Indians?

  Love, Libby.

  I folded the letter back into the envelope. Libby was sad she was losing her tan? Grossed out by other peoples’ shoes? Dealing with the angst of a tired hand? I had a hard time feeling sorry. Seriously.

  When we got back to the cabin, a jar was sitting beside the front door. A tiny note attached said “SHAMPU” in crooked letters. While Dad inspected the garden—hundreds of tiny green sprouts had started poking their heads through the soil—I brought the jar into the house.

  “What is it?” Rebecca Lynn asked.

  I placed the jar on the table and twisted off the lid. The smell of lemons rose into the air. “Shampoo.” I held out the paste for her to smell. “From Nanny.”

  “It smells good.”

  I held it out for Rusty who took a whiff and smiled. Then I put the lid back on and gathered up the largest of the flour sack towels, my small mirror, my old-lady soap, and my new hair product. I grabbed the old-fashioned razor from my dad’s toiletries box and wrapped it up in a towel. Someone had to put that thing to good use, and Dad, who was beginning to resemble Early Man, obviously wasn’t interested.

  “I want to take a bath, too,” Rebecca Lynn said, pulling off her bonnet.

  Engrossed in my own appearance, I hadn’t noticed until that moment how dirty my little sister was. Her body was covered in red clay and dust. Little specks of white things were sitting in her greasy hair, and her nails were lined with black. Her nose had been running earlier that day, and tiny streaks of clean went from her nose to her top lip.

  “Grab a towel, Half-pint,” I told her, referring to the nickname Charles Ingalls had given his daughter.

  On our way to the creek, with Sully at our heels, we stopped at the field.

  “We’re going to take a bath in the stream,” I informed Dad, who smiled before turning his eyes back to his plants. Then I told Rusty, “Dude, you can’t follow us. Don’t be a Steven Stalker.”

  We left Rusty behind with Dad, and Rebecca Lynn and Sully and I continued on our way, the chickens squawking in their coop as we headed toward the path.

  At the stream, Sully lapped at the clean water before lying down on the bank. His eyes moved between the two of us as we readied for our baths. I unboxed the straight razor and placed the toiletries in a row on a log. My sister and I took off our shoes and socks. I pulled off my dress. I undid my corset and waited in my slip as Rebecca Lynn undressed. I showed her how to hang her clothes on a nearby tree branch so they wouldn’t get any dirtier. Having to wash all of our clothes and sheets and linens once a week was bad enough; I didn’t need an extra day of that lovely chore.

  She stepped into the middle of the creek. I filled the bucket. “Get ready, little naked bean sprout, this is going to freeze your bazookas off.” She yelped and giggled at the same time as I dumped crystal clear water over her head. She folded her arms across her chest and shivered.

  With each vertical streak of black that made its way to Rebecca Lynn’s buttocks, I felt guiltier. I remembered back to when she was two and I was eight. Mom had asked me to stay with her in the bathtub for a few minutes while she folded laundry. I took off my clothes and got into the tub. I loved the smell of my little sister back then, so sweet, like talcum powder and fresh air. We played with the magnetic plastic letters, sticking them against the side of the tub. Then I farted and made her laugh. Mom trusted me with her life back then.

  Rebecca Lynn said now, “Daddy needs a bath more than us.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  I took the old lady soap and rubbed it against the rag. I scrubbed my sister from her shoulders all the way down to her ankles.

  “Do your front,” I said, handing her the rag. “Don’t forget your face and ears.”

  When she was done, I scooped a chunk of shampoo out of the jar. I wanted to make it last, but her hair was so dirty. The shampoo didn’t lather much, so I rubbed it deep into her scalp. “Cover your eyes.” I poured water over her head and squeezed out her hair.

  “I want to take a real bath,” she said through blue lips and chattering teeth.

  “I know, right?”

  When she was clean, I tossed her a towel which she wrapped around her head. She splashed around in the water as I took off my slip. My sister would see me naked for the first time since we were little. For some reason, none of that privacy stuff seemed to matter out here in the woods. If anything, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be standing naked in the middle of a creek on a hot summer day. It felt so liberating to bathe, even though the water was cold. Black and red dirt washed from my skin into the stream and away over the rocks.

  “I see tadpoles,” Rebecca Lynn said.

  “Cool,” I told her.

  “Do you think there are fish?”

  “Maybe. If there are, we’ll go fishing.”

  I heard her say quietly, “Just like Laura Ingalls,” and I smiled.

  The sun told me it was about five o’clock. Dad was hanging out with his garden sprouts, and a blackberry pie, which I’d baked in the Dutch oven, thank you very much, was cooling under a piece of cheesecloth in the kitchen. The warm air brushed over my shoulders as I stood in the creek, taking in the smell of leaves and soil. This wasn’t so bad, really, once everything fell into place. I hadn’t thought of NCIS or my iPod in a week. I didn’t crave McDonald’s, or Pepsi, or beer.

  And, of course, there was Wendell.

  Prudence had a crush on him, but that didn’t bother me. This was reality television. Maybe it would turn out to be more like The Bachelor than I had suspected, with two girls liking the same guy. Just like it, only without the hot tub. Wendell’s face hovered in front of me while I washed my hair, the smell of lemons cascading over my cheekbones. I admitted to myself that if it weren’t for him, I’d probably give up on bathing altogether.

  I finished rinsing my hair and soaped up my rag. I scrubbed my body, feeling brand new as dirt from my arms and stomach slowly washed away. Like a baptism. I thought of Mom and how proud she’d be if she saw me now, watching over my sister, enjoying nature.

  The rustle of moving branches caught my attention. I looked up. On the other side of the stream, a baby deer pulled leaves from a bush. Within seconds, three more deer stood next to the first. They glanced up and went back to eating. Even Sully knew better than to disturb them, as he stayed put on the bank.

  “Brooke…” Rebecca Lynn said.

  “I know,” I whispered. “Aren’t they beautiful? Probably the only thing that’s cool about this place.”

  “Brooke!”

  “Shut it. You’ll scare them away.”

  I peered down at my legs which were now clean, but hairier than a monkey’s. This was going to be my favorite part of the bath. The coups de grace, as my mom used to say whenever she put a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of a warm chocolate brownie. I reached for the razor, but it wasn’t on the log where I’d put it. I looked on the bank under the towel, then in the stream. I squatted down, swishing my hands among the underwater rocks to find it. My fingers were nearly frozen and my teeth were chattering like mad. If I didn’t shave soon, my hands would be too stiff to hold the handle.

  “Brookie…” Rebecca Lynn said like a whining broken record.

  “What?” I asked, raising my voice. “What do you want?” The deer scattered and bounded off into the trees. “Now see what you did? Damn it, Rebecca Lynn.”

  I shook my head and continued to feel around in the stream for the
razor, determined more than ever to make my legs silky again. My fingers hit against something sharp, but it was only a twig.

  Then everything happened so fast.

  Sully jumped into the water and I stood up. He started barking at Rebecca Lynn. Even though my sister had put on her slip, she was still standing in the middle of the stream in her bare feet, the towel around her shoulders. One of her arms was sticking straight out. Her face was ashen, and she was staring down at something in the water. She shook her head like she’d just seen a monster. The first thing that came into my mind was leeches, and then, even more frightening, water snakes.

  “What is it?” I asked, my heart coming up in my throat.

  I stepped closer, trying not to slip on moss-covered rocks. As I moved toward her, I followed her gaze downward. There was no monster, and there was no leech stuck to her foot. Blood was pouring from a thin line in her calf.

  She stared at me, her brown eyes wide, her mouth in a big open circle, like she was surprised to see me.

  I spotted the open razor, the bone handle in her fist.

  “It was an accident!” Rebecca Lynn suddenly shouted. “I didn’t mean to!”

  She screamed then, a blood-curdling scream you only hear in horror films. Sully circled her as he barked. I slipped as I reached out for her and fell on my knees in the creek. I stood up again, my body numb to the cold. I grabbed the razor from her hand and threw it onto the bank.

  “What did you do? What did you do…?”

  I grabbed her towel, and as fast as I could, wiped away the blood. I’d never seen a slice so straight and deep. It started on the outside of her right knee, and worked its way six inches down the side of her calf. I wiped and wiped, but each time I did, the blood gushed faster.

  Remembering what I had learned from Lifeguard First Aid at camp, I grabbed my apron and tied it tightly around her thigh, just above the knee, as I elbowed the crazed dog out of my way.

  “I’m bleeding!” Rebecca Lynn screamed.

  “I know! Stop screaming!”