by Lisa Fowler
The triplets each give a last teary look as they tumble from the car.
“Chestnut?” Hazel questions, her cheeks flushed and a strange sort of puzzled look on her face. “Do we have to?”
I nod and flash her a fake smile. I’d like to offer up some comforting words but know that if I speak, angry words, hurtful words might come pouring out of my mouth. And hurtful words are not the words I want the triplets to remember from their big sister—especially if it’s the last time we’ll be together.
“But, when will we see you again?” Mac asks, his hands trembling by his side.
I give Filbert a look and he nods and swipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist. He drapes his arm around Mac and they slowly turn to go.
They inch the walkway together, like three children on their way to face the gallows.
The lady and man, arm in arm on the porch, come down the walkway to greet the triplets. They hug them and smile like they was all long-lost friends.
Norville Bryson, looking toward the walkway, grunts. He gives a short look to me in the back seat, then turns and stares straight ahead.
I may never see them again, but I don’t cry. Reckon a body would have to feel something in order to be able to cry. Right now all I feel is … numb.
32
NO ONE TO GREET ME
Anita Silverstone gets back into the car and sighs, like she’s relieved she done her job.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asks, leaning over the front seat, looking square at me.
Oh, she’s proud of what she done—that’s easy to see. Maybe taking three young’uns away from their big sister isn’t so bad to her, and maybe knowing she’s splitting up a family forever might not be so awful to her way of thinking, but the way I see it, it’s worse than taking a licking any day of the week.
Reckon it’s a good thing poor Mama isn’t here to see what’s happening to her babies. Her heart would break into so many pieces there’s nothing yet been invented that could put it all back together again.
My heart’s breaking too, in smeared shades of pencil lead, burnt wood, and storm clouds, running like salty tears on a bumpy, scratched-up canvas.
Anita Silverstone turns and faces the front of the car, and it’s just as well. I’ve got nothing to say to a woman that’s got no more regard for family than to split up young’uns like she done.
We ride for a while, and at first I try to remember every turn in every bend of the road, so’s I can get back to the triplets if I need to. But after a while we take so many twists and turns, past so many lowlying buildings and hills with barns and hills without barns, I couldn’t find my way back if I wanted to.
Norville Bryson pulls the car up to a house smaller than the one for the triplets. With its smoky gray outside walls and black shutters that could stand to have another coat of paint slathered on them, it suits my mood to a tee.
There are no rockers on the porch and no flower baskets hanging low. The grass is ankle high to a giraffe and the yard looks like it’s not been took care of in more weeks than I can count.
No one’s here to greet me. No one smiling and waving. No one’s on the walk, to go with me inside. All I see is one lone pumpkin-orange cat with a long striped tail, curled up in front of the door.
I stay sitting in the car until Anita Silverstone opens my door. “Ready?” she asks, smiling a silly-looking smile like she’s expecting me to jump out, kiss her hand, and thank her for taking away my family and making it so’s we’ll never again be together.
I shoot her one last look before getting out of the car.
I want to tell her I think she’s sly, and dirty, and can’t be trusted. I want to tell her I hate her for coming to our camp with that Norville Bryson lawman and snatching us away from everything we’ve known. I want to scream that I think she’s going to the devil for taking us away from Mister Abraham, and from Old Stump, and from the wagon—our home. But I can’t.
I can’t because I know she’s not the reason for all this. Norville Bryson the lawman’s not either. It’s not Daddy, or Abraham, or Sheriff Nix, or even the store owner back in Beaumont.
It’s me.
It’s all on account of me.
I’m the reason my family’s destroyed, and I deserve every bad thing that comes to me.
“You’re really going to like it here,” Anita Silverstone says. “The lady’s elderly, but she’s kind, and she’s looking forward to having a youngster in the house again.”
“Did you tell her I’m not staying?” I say, clutching my metal box in one hand, and my change of clothes in the other.
“She knows.”
I walk to the porch beside Anita Silverstone. The orange cat yawns and stretches without moving a lick as Anita Silverstone knocks on the wooden screen door.
For the longest time, I don’t hear anything.
She knocks again.
After a while, there’s the shuffling of feet along the floor.
“Coming!” a voice hollers from inside.
When the lady gets to the door, I can’t believe my eyes.
33
BUT … THIS AIN’T HOME
The lady on the other side of the door is more than old. She’s ancient.
From the looks of her she must be nigh on a hundred with hair the color of goat’s milk and eyes like the sky—covered with splotchy gray clouds. She’s stooped and bent at the waist and her hands are knobby and twisted. In one hand she’s toting a long walking stick, with the other, she grips to the doorframe.
She starts to push open the screen door, then holds it until Anita Silverstone catches it and pulls it open the rest of the way.
“Chestnut, this is Mrs. Wallace. Mrs. Wallace, this is Chestnut Hill.”
I stretch my hand toward her and she places hers in mine. It’s gnarled and veiny, and her grip is all but absent, but I curl my fingers around it and give a gentle shake, up and down.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Thank you for letting me stay awhile with you.”
“Well now,” Mrs. Wallace says, smiling sweetly and glancing at Anita Silverstone, “we’re going to get on just fine.”
She looks me up and down, smiling again when she looks into my eyes. Her voice is weak and shakes like fresh jelly when she talks; her words are deliberate and slow.
“You’ll have the entire upstairs to yourself,” she says. “I’ve long since given up climbing stairs. Go on up and just make yourself at home. Arrange things how you’d like.”
I look at Anita Silverstone.
She nods and winks.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do my best not to cause you any hardship,” I say, taking the stairs two by two, hoping to reach the bedroom before she changes her mind. At the top of the stairs I peek over the railing and listen, to see if they’ll talk about me now that I’m gone.
“What a delightful young lady,” says Mrs. Wallace. “And such manners!” She takes Anita Silverstone by the arm. “Now don’t you worry about a thing; we’ll be fine. You can check on us any time you like, but I really don’t think it will be necessary.”
“Thank you, Myrtle,” says Anita Silverstone, closing the door behind her.
The upstairs is a spacious loft with a large window at one end draped heavy with white-laced, billowy curtains, pulled to one side. There’s a bed large enough for sleeping the triplets and me against the wall, draped with the prettiest blue and white quilt I ever did see. There’s a large chest against one wall with room enough inside for hanging dresses, and a lamp with dangling beads hanging from its edges on top of a small square table by the bed.
I pull down the covers and press my nose into the sheets, breathing in deep. Aah! Sunshine and fresh air, reminding me of wash day back home, with clean clothes slapping the summer breeze, Mama shooing away the crows, and the babies playing in the sunshine under the clothesline.
“Feel free to light the kerosene lamp if you want, dear,” Mrs. Wallace yells from downstairs. “
When you’ve settled in, come on down and we’ll have a bite to eat.”
Running to the top of the stairs I holler back, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be right down.”
This room is the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on and practically perfect for a girl my age—or a girl of any age really. What a nice change to be in a home that don’t move, with walls and a ceiling and real stairs that don’t wiggle when you climb them. It almost makes me feel as happy inside as Christmas morning back home. But … this ain’t home …
I think back to the wagon where our four cots line the walls and the only light is from the barred windows on the sides. Most of the time there’s mud covering the floor from the boys’ shoes, and it’s hard to keep from tripping over marbles and jacks and coloring books strewn from end to end.
In my head I believe I could stay here forever, but in my heart, I know it’s not for long.
I run down the stairs, careful not to step on the pumpkin-colored cat with the long striped tail that’s stretched across the length of the bottom step. It stands, slowly stretches, and then rubs against my legs, like it’s trying its best to rub away every bit of its fur.
Mrs. Wallace appears in the doorway and smiles.
“Oh, my dear, I do hope you like cats,” she says. “Lollipop surely seems to like you, doesn’t she?”
“Yes’m,” I say, “I like cats just fine, even though I’ve never been close enough to pet one before.”
“You’ve never stroked a cat?”
“No, ma’am. Back home we mostly had dogs, but they wasn’t for stroking, they was for hunting and protecting the house from coyotes and the likes.”
“Well, come on into the kitchen now and we’ll talk. I want to know all about your home.”
Mrs. Wallace tugs the light blue shawl draping her shoulders tighter around her neck. She shuffles toward the kitchen and I walk close behind, taking in everything I see. From the outside, no way anyone would dream what a fine house this is. It’s so clean and smells so fresh, and the afternoon sun lends a warm, friendly glow to its middle.
If I believe Daddy’s story, this must be what Mama’s been wanting—one of these fresh-smelling houses with quilts on the bed and a cat in the parlor. Now I understand that what Mama wanted was springtime in April, but all Daddy could give her was the ice of December.
“What are these?”
Mrs. Wallace chuckles. “Those are doilies, dear. They’re placed on the chair arms and backs for the purpose of absorbing body oils that might damage the furniture. My things are old, but I do my best to keep them clean.”
She stops, turns, and looks up into my eyes.
“Don’t you be afraid of soiling things though. I want you to feel comfortable and at home as much as you can under the circumstances.”
Her words are reassuring but they set my mind to racing. What does she know about my circumstances? What did Anita Silverstone tell her?
“Come. Sit. Let’s eat, my dear.”
The kitchen is small but cozy, and smells of fresh baked bread. The table’s set fancy enough for a queen, with plates of blue and white. She calls them her “Blue Willows.”
When she’s not looking I run my fingers along their edges. Humph. No cracks or chips.
She serves sandwiches of pimento cheese, beside a steaming hot bowl of tomato soup. And there’s potato chips too, that still have the crunch. She’s poured tall glasses of orange juice—fresh too many days ago to count—that now tastes of a tang. I don’t say anything about it though. No need to hurt her feelings, especially when I can see how hard she’s trying to make things right.
We sit for a while and eat, but we don’t talk. New to each other like we are, I reckon neither of us can think of anything to say, but the silence is comfortable and friendly.
“I hope you will be comfortable here, dear, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you need. It sounds as though you’ve been through quite an ordeal. I’m sorry for that,” she says after a bit.
I wait for her to say more, but she don’t and now I know that Anita Silverstone must have spilled the beans. I take a bite of sandwich and wash it down with a spoonful of soup.
“My daddy didn’t do what they say.”
She don’t look up from spooning her soup. She don’t say a word.
“My mama will be here soon, and we’re going to be a family again.”
I glance at her, expecting a raise of her eyebrows or even just a questioning look, but it don’t come. And still, she doesn’t say a word. I’m not sure if she don’t hear me or if she’s just not quite in the mood to speak—after all, I’ve not been around old folk much, at least not for long at a time.
“Do you know I have two brothers and a sister?” I speak louder this time, so’s there’s no doubt she can hear me.
“Oh yes, dear,” she says. “I know all about you.” She raises her eyebrows and smiles.
I knew it! Anita Silverstone can’t be trusted. Blabbermouth.
No more words are said between us at that meal, but it’s all right with me. Lends more time for eating, and eat I do. Lickety-split. I’d lick my bowl if I could, but it wouldn’t be proper. No use Mrs. Wallace thinking me a backwoods bumpkin this soon after I’ve come. No, sir. Anyway, if I was to lick my bowl it would only be when she turned her head and wasn’t looking. After all she moves so slow …
“Thank you for the food,” I say, carrying my plate and bowl to the sink.
“You’re welcome, dear. Just leave them there and I’ll wash them later. You go on up and rest now. It will be getting dark soon.” When I reach the stairs I hear her say, “That attic gets a bit warm in the evenings. Feel free to throw back the quilt and open a window if you need. Oh, and if you’d like, I’ll put the kettle on and get some water to boiling for you to have a nice bath in the washtub out on the side porch.”
Running the stairs two at a time I holler, “Thank you, ma’am,” loud enough so’s I’m sure she can hear.
Lollipop’s curled on the bed, with pillows to her back. I fall onto the bed beside her and stare up at the ceiling. This would be a fine adventure for a girl like me, and a fine room for a girl to grow up in—if that girl didn’t have so much on her mind that is. And just like that my mind’s back on my daddy.
Here I am, lying on a soft, fresh-smelling bed with warm food in my belly and a fluffy autumn cat curled up and snoring next to me. Daddy don’t have none of that. He’s in a cold, wet jail cell, with nothing to eat but a slice of bread and a glass of water to drink. And it was me that put him there. Suddenly, the warm soup and sandwich don’t sit so well in the bottom of my belly, and I have to swallow to keep it down.
I think about Abraham, and how he keeps saying Daddy is a good man; that Daddy gives away his money to orphans and widow women and how it takes a mighty big man to give to others when he could keep the money himself and get rich if he’d want.
I turn and face the wall, knowing I have the power to change it. But, if I do, it’ll be me in that jail cell with only bread and water. There won’t be none of these fine things anymore, and I won’t ever see the light of day again.
Oh, how I wish Sheriff Nix would find my mama. She’d know just what to do.
I reckon it’s then I fall asleep, Daddy’s plight—and mine—weighing heavy on my mind and heart.
34
NOTHING SO TERRIBLE AS A CONSCIENCE
Sunshine announces itself the next day through the large window behind my head, and for just a second my troubles are far removed from my mind.
While I snuggle under the covers, Lollipop purrs and nuzzles me like a horse begging for a sugar cube. It puts me in the mind of Old Stump and, just that quick, my troubles return. Mama says troubles are only as far away as a memory, and Mama sure was right.
I wonder how Abraham’s getting on.
Feeling under my pillow for my metal box, I open it and stare at the money inside—the money that caused all this trouble. It glares at me, lifeless and cold, like a gigantic boulder on
the side of a creek bank. I slam the box and quick as I can, shove it back under the pillow.
I breathe in deep, smelling smells I’ve not smelled in forever. Bacon! Not since Kentucky have I smelled bacon!
I jump from the bed and pull up the covers, smoothing the quilt as best I can. I press down my pillow hair and run the stairs to greet Mrs. Wallace.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she says. She’s already sitting at the table, sipping on coffee and juice.
The table’s set with the same blue and white plates and glasses of juice as yesterday. I sip the juice. It has the same tang. ’Bout chokes me to death, but I do my best not to let on.
They’s biscuits stacked like the Tower of Babel on a plate in the middle of the table with strawberry jelly, apple butter, and another plate plumb full of long strips of crispy bacon.
I look around the kitchen and then around the corner into the other room.
“Anything wrong, dear?”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” I say. “I’m just looking for the others.”
“What others?” she asks, sipping her coffee and nibbling on a biscuit.
“The others that are coming to eat with us.”
Mrs. Wallace laughs. “No one else is coming, dear.”
“Then, who’s all this food for?” I ask, shaking my head and rubbing my eyes.
“Why, you and me of course!” Mrs. Wallace says smiling, her eyes so kind and gentle I barely notice the clouds that cover the blue.
“Wow! I’ve never seen this much food for just two people in all my life. You mean I can have two biscuits if I want, and jelly, and apple butter, too?” My smile stretches my face.
“Two, three, however many you want, dear, and all the bacon you’d like, too. You eat until you’re filled to the brim and can’t take in another bite. Then, we’ll have lunch!” Mrs. Wallace claps, leans back in her chair, and laughs.
Her laugh is consoling, and for just a few seconds I forget why I’m here. What I been wanting for the last two years is all I can eat of something. Anything. Now that I got it, it’s almost more than I can take in. My belly’s stretching just thinking about it being full.
But all at once, a terrible sinking feeling overtakes me.
