Wildwood Creek

by Wingate, Lisa

  “I’m well aware of that, Maggie May,” I snap before reining myself in.

  Maggie’s wispy smile falls.

  I swallow my temper and touch her shoulder. Her bottom lip quivers. We’re always striking and defending without meaning to, Maggie May and I. It is so difficult, this life of only the two of us, I at once her mother and her sister, and so many strange and bitter memories between us. Not the least of which, her throwing her small body over mine and begging our captors to beat me no further. Such was the love of Maggie’s Comanche mother for her, as to give Maggie what she asked in the moment. My young sister may well have saved my life that day, but I wasn’t grateful for it. I screamed at her to let me be, so wretched was I as to wish for my own death.

  All of it rushes through me now, when I look into her eyes. There’s not another human soul connected to me as my sister. I pray I haven’t chosen badly for the both of us by comin’ to Wildwood.

  “Mr. Delevan has just shown me our new room,” I say, as much for the benefit of Mr. Hardwick as for Maggie. “Go and see. We’ve a lovely home of our own now, nicely made. A place for ourselves. When the books are unpacked, we’ll go to the Forsythes and fetch our things. We’ll sleep in our new beds tonight.”

  The news cheers her, but it does not change the mood of Mr. Hardwick.

  He scoops up his hat, which has fallen to the floor beside the crate, leaving his thick hair to tumble unkempt around his shoulders. In one quick, impatient movement, he resets the hat on his head, and he’s moving to the door. “I’ll leave you to your unpacking, and your trip back up the hill to fetch whatever you might’ve left there.”

  I feel his words digging in sharp, making evident that the clothes on my back are not my own. I’ve allowed myself to be little more than a puppet, or worse. Mr. Hardwick is a puppet to no man, I suspect. But a man can make his choices, while a woman has none. She must eat, and she must feed those who cannot feed themselves.

  “But I thought you were stayin’ to help us,” Maggie protests before I can stop her.

  “I reckon it’s better if I leave it be,” he answers, then disappears through the door without a backward glance.

  Maggie and I go on with the unpacking of the books, and I make certain to wait long enough that the tea time will be finished, Mrs. Delevan having retired to her private rooms, before I go up the hill. In the kitchen house, Old Asmae has my clothing awaiting me when I arrive there. She helps me into my things, then takes the soiled shoes without a word and tosses them into the kitchen stove for burning.

  “She ain’t gone miss dem, but she don’ like no muddy shoe. Be da devil to pay.” She favors me with a long, slow look after smoothin’ my skirt over petticoats that’re little more than rags. But they’re all I have. Her old eyes are cloudy ’round the edges, yellow and worn, and she cocks her face to see me through the centers. “You know what you doin’ here, Miss Bonnie? You know what gone on ’round dis place?”

  Her gaze puts a shiver in me somewhere deep. “No, Asmae. I do not.”

  She shifts upright, cocking an ear to the door, to the sound of Mr. Delevan’s voice somewhere about the house. Not meaning to, I grab onto her apron, afraid of something without knowing just what it might be.

  My bodice is only half buttoned, and my feet are yet bare. I realize I’m looking ’round like a kitten when the dog comes home, searching for a corner to hide myself. I recall our conversation behind the schoolroom, his closeness to me. I don’t want to be found here at his home, particularly in this condition. Asmae hesitates, then swings open the back door between two large stoves that cast off an unwanted heat, lit in anticipation of supper for the big house.

  Her dark, gnarled hands shove my shoes and stockin’s at me, almost rough. She takes her eyes from mine. “Go on dis way, chile. Be a path through the wood and ’long the crick. Be on, befo’ the dark settle in down the holler and the wolf, he come scratch ’round. Get restless this time a’ the evenin’.” She clutches up my shoulders, turns me to the door so quick I’m stumblin’. The only thing holding me is herself. For an old woman, she is a strong one. “Hurry ’long. Git gone. Set a bolt tonight. Keep he-wolf ou’side the do’. He gone prowl in dis full moon. Off now, befo’ you make trouble somebody else got to pay fo’.”

  I am out the door then, and she’s closing the latch behind me, pulling up the string. In the house, Mr. Delevan raises his voice and something crashes down. I don’t wait to see what it is—the back path Asmae has told me of now seems a wise choice. I cradle my shoes in one fist, scoop my skirt higher than’s proper, and dash over the grass, barefoot like a woodsprite. It would be a freedom-feeling if not for the fear of being seen. I pray no one might peer out the back of the house. I’ve not an inkling of what excuse I’d give for such a display.

  I’ve almost made the trees when a glimpse toward the side porch shows Aunt Peasie there in her rocking chair with her ever-present needlework.

  Please, Lord of heaven, make me invisible to her, I pray, but she’s looking my way, and I know she must see me. She doesn’t call out, and I pretend I’ve not noticed her. I bless the saints, every one, as I make the woods and run past the outhouse shed where the slop pots are piled for washing. I don’t stop until the brush has me well hid, and even then I’m afraid to pause for my shoes. If I’m found here, using the path the slave women use, what would I say about it? I cannot tell them Asmae has sent me this way. She’d be the one to suffer for it. Mrs. Delevan is loath to anythin’ that is improper. A grown woman dashing through the wood half fastened, and without her shoes and stockin’s is anything but. I’ve no means of explainin’ why I would leave this way, rather than by the front path.

  The trail travels downhill to the stream bed and then alongside it. And with the town out of sight, even though the shadows now fall in the hollows, I feel safer. There’s no one gathering water just now. Not a soul. But it is the time of day for watering horses and milk stock before being home for supper. Any of my students could come here, doing their daily chores.

  And just as I’m thinking it, I hear a rustle in the leaves and ahead, a man leads his saddle horse down to water. Too late I see him there, and too late I realize it is Mr. Hardwick. He spies me before I can disappear into the brush. His regard travels over me, from the skirt still clutched above my knees, to shoes and stockin’s in my hand, to the buttons loose at my bodice. I can imagine what he must think. I’ve learned long ago there’s no dissuading people from believing the worst if they’re bent to it, so I don’t trouble to try. I only run past him and keep on until I’ve reached the schoolhouse. I let myself in the back door and throw the bolt behind me. It’s only then, as I’m gatherin’ myself together, that I realize I’ve lost a stockin’ on the way.

  I decide I’ll go after it in the morn’, and since it’s the only pair of stockin’s I have to my name, I wrap my foot in a rag before I put on my shoes and fix my appearance. I find Maggie May, and we walk to the Forsythe home to collect our things. We take a last meal at their table, and Mrs. Forsythe sends us away with a basket of goods to get us by, though she makes it clear that it’s only something she’s done because she must.

  Leaving her house, I carry the starts of Seven Sisters roses in my hands and feel I’m finally breathin’ for the first time in weeks. Even the queerness of the afternoon leaves me when we return to the school and settle our things and plant the roses. We enjoy the new books for a bit before the Reverend Brahn comes in. His round cheeks are flushed, his eyes red, and he staggers as he closes the door behind himself. It’s clear enough that he’s had a nip or two again.

  Why, I wonder, would a man of God feel the need to keep himself in such a state? So many here could benefit from his leading, if he were in any shape to give it. Instead, he preaches nonsense on Sundays and few attend. I’ve heard that the faithful meet for secret worship in the wood, so as to maintain their faith without risk of insulting Mr. Delevan. The Irish gather in one place and the Germans in another. Maggie and I, of cou
rse, are forced to sit through the reverend’s drunken rants on Sabbath days.

  Tonight he staggers off to his room, and we retire with the books and finish settling in. Soon enough the Reverend Brahn’s snores can be heard through the wall, and we laugh together.

  “It’s as if I’m bedded down in a cave with an old mother bear,” Maggie remarks, her blue eyes sparklin’ as I sit on the edge of her bed and pull the quilts to her chin. The blankets smell of clean water and lye and lavender oil to keep the vermin away. The kitchen women have laundered them fresh for us, I suspect.

  “An old he-bear. Gone into winter sleep in the summertime,” I tease, and we chuckle again. Before long, she’s driftin’ off with her book still in her hands.

  She’s just begun breathin’ deep and long when a knocking comes at the back door. I think that, perhaps, one of the Forsythe daughters has come by with something we’ve left behind. I’ve no notion of what it might be. We have little between us.

  When I open the door, it is Mr. Delevan standing on the other side. He seems out for a stroll, his silk vest unbuttoned and his white shirt no longer fastened high at the collar. I turn my eyes away and pretend I haven’t noticed it.

  “We’ve settled in quite nicely,” I say, my nerves on edge. What is his purpose here? “And Maggie May has quickly gone off to sleep, enjoying her new home, I think.” I give a small nod in her direction, and he moves closer a step, across the threshold now. I hold my ground and grip the door, so as not to make any invitation. Surely he won’t be asking for any, with Maggie asleep there, and the Reverend Brahn, drunk though he may be, just on the far side of the wall.

  Mr. Delevan holds an object up between us, compelling me to look his way again. “You’ve left something behind on the path to the river, I believe.” His eyes fasten to mine, and I see it’s my stockin’ he’s holding. I try not to imagine where he might’ve found it, and I refrain from asking. I take it and fight a shudder when his fingers touch mine. His hands are so cold.

  “Thank you for returning it,” I say. “I only missed it just a bit ago. I cannot guess how it must have come to be in that place. Perhaps one of the dogs snapped it up and carried it off.” The town is filled with wandering dogs. They hunt after the rats and rabbits and watch for predators after dark, or for Comanche or Tonkawa who might be sneaking about.

  “Come out and see the night sky, Bonnie Rose,” he says, and it doesn’t feel as if he’s askin’.

  “I couldn’t, sir.” I’m flounderin’ now, like a sunfish flipped on shore, not knowing which way is to safety. “Such a thing would never seem proper. I must set a fine example for my students. And Maggie May is asleep, just there. In a new place tonight. She’ll be frightened if she wakes alone.”

  His tongue glides along the tip of his teeth. It is not his custom to be told no. He’s decidin’ what should be done about it. He likely thinks those to be foolish words, coming from a woman soiled as myself. Doubtless, he feels I should be expectin’ this, and he’s been patient enough.

  He casts an eye toward Maggie, lyin’ abed in her night shift, the quilt thrown partway off already. In the candlelight, her skin is milky and smooth as a babe’s.

  A shudder travels over me. What is he thinkin’ of?

  Somewhere in the wood, a panther screams, the sound like a woman crying out. I gasp without meaning to, shrinkin’ back at the noise. It’s all I can do not to close the door with him still in it.

  I think of Old Asmae’s words. Set a bolt tonight. Keep he-wolf ou’side the do’. He gone prowl in dis full moon. Off now, befo’ you make trouble somebody else got to pay fo’.

  “I’ll run the creature through and hang the skin to dry before morning, not to worry.” Mr. Delevan studies the night now, hungry-eyed in a way that drops slivers of ice inside me. “I have no patience with things that trouble me.”

  He turns and descends the porch without another word. I watch him stroll down the path to the spring creek, disappearing in the direction of Red Leaf Hollow. When he’s gone away, I close and bolt the door, then blow out the lamp and slip into bed with my clothing still on my body. This room hasn’t the feel of home tonight.

  In the morning, as I read over the lessons, a knocking at the door surprises me. It’s barely a sound, and at first I think I’m imagining it. Who would call so early the sun has scarce graced the sky?

  I open the latch, and it’s Essie Jane on the other side. She’s pressed close to the wall, not wanting to be seen here. “Asmae send me out after the hens dat’s got out from the coop dis mo’nin’. Gone be trouble, dey fin’ me here.” Her eyes dart round into the mist that clings low along the bluff. “Gots to be sho’ you and Miss Maggie is well.”

  “Certainly,” I say, but the mist creeps up the porch and over her feet, and a chill winds along my legs. I think of Mr. Delevan, standing here last evenin’. Is this why she’s come? “Well enough. Maggie’s abed yet. Why has Asmae sent you to ask after us?”

  She shakes her head. “Asmae gone skin me too, I be foun’ here. She say, ‘You leave they bid’ness to theyselves. Massah catch you, he cut you up good.’ But, Miss Bonnie, you gots to know it.”

  Her gaze lifts and for a wink, I’m seeing her slide off the ferry raft into the water. That’s the sort of fear in her now. “What is it, Essie Jane?” The words come as little more than a breath.

  “They done fin’ a body dis mo’nin, float down river,” she whispers. “Girl from Red Leaf Holla throw herself off’n a bluff. She been Massah Delevan fav’rit, befo’ you come. People sayin’ she gone ’cause you be makin’ it happen.”

  Chapter 16

  ALLIE KIRKLAND

  JUNE, PRESENT DAY

  I wish I could have your spot. Being on the cast would be the ultimate dream,” confided Stacy, my replacement in Tova’s department, resting her chin wistfully on her hand as we sat at the computer in a production trailer.

  For twelve days now I’d been working mornings up the hill, training Stacy for Tova, then spending the rest of the day down the hill in what had lovingly become known as Pioneer Boot Camp. So far, the training in livestock care, meal preparation, wood chopping, and nineteenth-century personal hygiene and etiquette were grueling. The more I learned about the daily life of the real Bonnie Rose, the more I admired her—and the more I realized that, physical resemblance aside, I was thoroughly unqualified to become her.

  “I wish you could too.” I’d just sneaked a hot shower in one of the crew trailers, and it was amazing how much one little convenience could spoil you all over again. In my tiny apartment behind the school, washing up involved lugging water from the springhouse by the creek and using a washbasin in my dressing area—a small corner of my room that was hidden behind a hanging quilt.

  Stacy frowned sideways at me. “I take it you’re not excited about this afternoon, then?”

  “I think it’ll be neat to see the whole village in period clothing for the first time. But let’s face it—that stuff is an endurance test. Twelve pounds of hot, sticky garments do not go on the body without a fight.” When I finished with Stacy this morning, she would help me into my Bonnie Rose clothes so that I could attend afternoon safety classes. The historical specialists wanted to make sure we knew how to avoid catching ourselves on fire, tangling our skirts in wagon spokes, and stepping in front of moving horses while wearing bonnets. Women died that way, it turned out. The gruesome details of yesterday’s lecture had made a believer out of me.

  “I’d go listen in, if I could. I’ve got a minor in history, but some of this stuff you never even think about.” Stacy looked longingly toward the window again. “The everyday things the trainers know fascinate me.”

  “They are pretty impressive.” Our historical life specialists were a skilled combination of nursemaid and drill sergeant. They were friendly and patient despite stupidity, whining, and occasional lack of pioneer spirit. “They haven’t committed mayhem on Wren Godley yet, which, I have to say, is pretty amazing.”

  “Oh
hhh, that kid.” Stacy rolled her eyes. “I cannot imagine why they cast her. There had to be some other little redheaded girl they could’ve gotten. One that doesn’t come with a momzilla attached. Every time I pass by that woman, she gives me some list of gripes and wants me to pass them on up the ladder. What does she think I am, nuts? I’ve already got Tova breathing down my neck all day.”

  Poor Stacy. Tova had made her cry at least two dozen times in a dozen days. I could’ve told her the Blake Fulton scrap-of-paper story, but even that probably wouldn’t compare to the dangers of being an intermediary between a maniac stage mom and Tova. “Listen, I’d avoid being the messenger for Wren’s mom or anyone else on the cast, if I could. Just a word of advice.”

  Wren, as Bonnie Rose’s little sister, was my (less than delightful, I might add) part-time roommate when she wasn’t up in crew camp, lounging in a trailer with her mother. Of all the kids I’d spent time with in the schoolhouse this week, while learning to conduct classes 1861-style, Wren was by far the most difficult. In addition to arguing with everything the trainers told her, she liked to rub in the fact that she and her mother had been given a fairly nice trailer in the crew camp, since her mother was not part of the cast. When it was time for Wren to leave the village for the day, she’d invariably smile, scrunch her pert, freckled nose at me, swipe the back of her hand across her little forehead, and say, “I hate cooking on a fire. Don’t you? I can’t wait to go put my shorts on and sit in front of the air conditioner in my trailer. I think I’ll have a Dr. Pepper and some Bluebell ice cream when I get there. Doesn’t that sound good?”

  At that point, I’d resist the urge to stick out my tongue, because teachers aren’t supposed to do that. Especially not teachers in 1861, when propriety mattered above all else. Nineteenth-century womanhood came wrapped in layers upon layers of rules.