She rubbed her dry, burning eyes. The one emotion that cut through her agony was intense desperation. I have to stop this.
When Mrs. Abbott returned, the two walked off the porch and into the yard where children dressed in short calico shirts rolled coconuts back and forth. The Seminole men stopped working and stood erect, balancing large colorful turbans shaped like grindstones atop their heads. They offered a nod or wave, as did two young women, one carrying a baby on her back in a cradleboard. Belle quickly looked away from the baby and noticed an elderly Seminole woman sitting in the shade of a live oak. The tree’s bark and her skin bore similar patterns, weathered furrows, deepened and darkened with age. Her gray hair was swept up into a topknot and bangs fringed her forehead.
“Let’s speak with her,” Belle suggested, gesturing toward the woman.
They walked over and sat down on the ground next to her. The three women smiled at each other.
“Istonko,” Mrs. Abbott said.
The old woman returned the hello with a nod.
Belle held up the clothespin doll and offered it. The woman took the doll, inspected it, then smiled, her cheeks forming two craggy mounds. Belle pointed at the doll and then at the woman, hoping she understood it was a gift.
Mrs. Abbott began the exchange without using words. She touched Belle’s shoulder and then made a sweeping arc over her stomach to mimic a pregnant belly.
The woman looked at Belle and made the same motion.
Belle played along with the unfolding story. She pointed at her stomach and frowned. She pushed her hands away from her body in an attempt to indicate she didn’t want a baby.
Mrs. Abbott leafed through the small notebook and found the Seminole word for husband. She shook her head no while she said, “Acahay.”
The woman nodded slowly.
Mrs. Abbott searched for the word medicine. “Hilliswaw.”
Pretending to draw with her left hand, the woman said, “Swat-tchah-kah.”
Belle pulled a pencil out of her pocket and handed it to the woman, who gestured toward the notebook. Mrs. Abbott handed it over.
Her gnarled hand moved the pencil lead across a blank sheet of paper. She drew a rough sketch of a stem with long, narrow leaves. Tapping the drawing with the pencil point, she said, “Eto micco.”
Belle didn’t recognize the plant and looked at Mrs. Abbott.
“Hold on,” she said. Her husband had alphabetized the words in the book, so she flipped to the Es. She scrolled down the page with her finger.
“Eto micco,” Mrs. Abbott announced. “There it is.”
“What does it mean?” Belle said, trying again to identify the penciled plant.
“Red bay.”
“Red bay,” Belle repeated.
The old woman cupped her knobby hands and mimicked taking a drink. “As-si.”
More leafing through the notebook. “Tea,” Mrs. Abbott said.
Belle looked at the woman and made the same drinking motion with her hands. She made it three times and then flipped her palms upright and shrugged her shoulders, as if confused.
The woman repeated the motion four times.
Belle nodded. Mrs. Abbott added a simple yes. “Enca.”
“But do you think she means four times each day?” Belle asked.
Mrs. Abbott located the words for one and day and made the four sipping motions. “Ham-kin neth-lah?”
The woman nodded.
Belle reached out her hand to the Indian, who took it with a light squeeze. When their hands fell apart, Belle was pleased to see that the woman kept hold of the little doll.
Mrs. Abbott and Belle got up and walked to where she’d left her trike.
“Thank you, Mrs. Abbott. The girl departs from Baker’s soon. I’ll let her know privately about what we’ve learned.”
Mrs. Abbott placed her hand on Belle’s shoulder. “We have to help each other, right? Please let me know if you need anything else.”
Belle didn’t meet her eyes, unsure if Mrs. Abbott suspected the remedy was for her. But the thought left her mind immediately. She focused instead on her next step: taking a life to salvage her own.
Chapter 24
You could call it borrowing, but Belle knew she had stolen a little something from Abigail. Alone in Baker’s kitchen, she’d taken at least ten dried bay leaves from a tin canister on the counter. She shoved them into her dress pocket and left.
“Please work,” she’d whispered on the way out the door.
Now, several leaves were steeping in hot water inside something she really did borrow—an old teakettle she’d found in a kitchen cupboard. For several days now, she’d drunk tea in the morning and evening, trying desperately to lose the beginnings of the baby inside her. But so far, the only change she noted was a fuller bladder. Maybe the bay leaves weren’t the red bay variety. Perhaps the Seminole squaw misunderstood. Belle could barely hide her panic, chatting with boarders and working away while managing the fact that her brain was now a spongy cesspool, soaking up every dark thought that spilled forth.
Life isn’t simple, Mr. Wood. Watch me slit my wrists with your tarpon scale. Or, Does Belle’s son look like the Carson boy, or is just me? Tsk-tsk.
The waiting and wondering was excruciating, and she was burning through What ifs like so much kerosene. Sometimes she just stared at herself in the mirror. What if the baby already has feet? What if Julius knows in hell that you’re pregnant? She’d bear down, as if she could push something out of her. Once again, Julius had twisted one of life’s most intimate experiences into a traumatic mess. She loved children and wondered over the years if her life would ever include them. Now, because of him, she was doing everything in her power to cut short a pregnancy.
“. . . and, as you know, we’re inviting delegates from more than sixty clubs across the country.”
Belle was trying to keep her mind off the miscarriage by listening to Kate on the box. She was also making a to-do list for the Edison gardens. The plants were tucked into their beds, but they would require weeding and care based on the whims of the weather.
“Oh, I’m just so excited to attend the convention, Mrs. Langley—”
“Please, Kate . . . again, call me Caroline.”
“Yes. My apologies—Caroline. It’s just that I listen to you speak, and I’ve read about why you founded Aggregate. And now we’re talking in person!”
“Well, I wanted to call to congratulate you on winning our contest. Your motto best captures my vision for the coming national club. After this convention, I hope that the local clubs will become better organized and recruit more women . . . from all walks of life. That’s why your entry won.”
Squealing. “I must tell you, I was at work, thinking about the contest, and it hit me! There I was, surrounded by women who look and sound nothing alike. American farm girls working alongside immigrants from Germany, Ireland, and England . . . all battling our way through the long day. The minute I thought of the phrase, I wrote it down on my pay envelope: ‘Unity in Diversity.’ It just rings so true, doesn’t it? We women need to stick together, to lift each other up.” A loud sigh. “Oh, Caroline, I must be wearing you out with my jabber.”
A chuckle. “Not at all, Kate. As you know, I’ve been at this for twenty years. It’s encouraging to hear such enthusiasm from a young member. Frankly, our movement needs new energy. I’m getting tired.”
Belle looked over at the box. Caroline was tired. She was tired, too. Stretched out on the bed, lying on her stomach, she let her head drop down to the blanket. When—if ever—would her life allow for a long stretch of happiness? How weary she was of despair. She’d lived with it as a child, and now, just as she was coming into her own as a woman, here it was again. Belle pounded the bed with her palms. A romance with Boone had been unearthing itself like a spring crocus, and despair, in a dead man’s boots
, had stomped the promise of new love back underground.
She deeply missed Boone. Only when she saw him head toward town or across the street for some sort of digging project would she walk next door to work on the gardens. For his sake, she had to squelch their budding attraction. She was damaged goods—doubly now—and Boone deserved better. He was a good man worthy of a woman who required no repair, of a love that needn’t look over its shoulder for the next hardship.
Belle closed her eyes. She pictured his blue eyes and remembered how it felt, his nose brushing across her neck one night by the river. He’d whispered, “You smell like lavender.” His lips then explored her shoulder. “You taste like the bees made you.” Every thought of him lay gently on her burdened heart. Damn you, despair.
“. . . forward to it, too. Seek me out at the next meeting so we can say hello in person.”
“Oh, I would love that! Thank you, Caroline. Can you tell me what topic we’ll be discussing? I mean, if that’s not against the rules . . . to tell me before the agenda goes out.”
“No, not at all. I’ll be leading a discussion on how women are portrayed in art as well as shedding light on some of our most prolific female artists in the city. And I’ll share a little surprise with you, Kate, that won’t be printed in the agenda. Our club will be sponsoring a scholarship for a promising art student of our choosing.”
“How exciting! Caroline, I want you to know how much I enjoy being involved with Aggregate. Your efforts have brought so much hope to young women like me.”
“Well, thank you, Kate. I do find myself wondering what sort of things you hope and long for . . .”
Belle was, too. “Yes, tell us, Kate,” she said. Maybe Kate’s hopes and dreams would have a chance.
“Well . . . um . . . I like to write. I don’t have much time to, but I scribble poems and essays in a notebook. I find that writing is freeing. My mind can wander wherever it desires, which is rarely allowed. All day long a bell tells me when to start work, when to eat, when to go home. Clang, clang, clang. So, I suppose I hope for more time and freedom to express myself. That’s why the club means so much to me. I’m surrounded by women who dare to long for more. We want to share our voices, support ourselves and each other, and contribute to society beyond just maintaining a home.”
Belle mumbled into the bedcover. “Good for you.” She envied Kate. Her work sounded suffocating, but her spirit was clearly strong and free. She sat up slowly and reached over to the bedside table for the teacup—her chance at freedom.
“Your words are very meaningful to me, Kate. And I understand your attraction to writing. I also was interested as a young girl. I edited my school newspaper and a publication for my brother’s church. I worked hard to create a career as a writer. As you may know, I wrote a regular women’s column and now I edit a magazine.”
“And you didn’t stop working after marrying and having children,” Kate added. “You make us young women realize it’s possible.”
“Even more so for you, Kate, as society continues to progress.”
Belle left the bed and walked to the window for a glimpse of open space. The cottage seemed smaller. Perhaps she was just bloated with tea. She swept the curtain to the side and looked out.
“Oh no.” Her heart sank.
In the Edisons’ yard, Paulette was talking to Boone. The sun was angled perfectly to make her red hair appear a seductive, crackling fire. Her pink dress was fluttering in the breeze. Boone was standing across from the glowing, beckoning Paulette. They were visiting and smiling.
“Don’t. Do. This.” Her words toppled onto each other like felled trees.
Stop it! She squinted through the windowpane. What did he just say to make her laugh?
Weak, Belle dropped to her knees and gripped the windowsill. Of course they were together! She’d pushed Boone away, and now Paulette was charming him. Beautiful, smart Paulette. She knew a decent, handsome man when she saw one.
“Please no.” She hated how Boone was gazing into Paulette’s green eyes. She’d probably already sung to him with her velvet voice aboard the Judith. For certain he was attracted to her womanly hips and ample breasts, round and nestled together like agonizingly perfect cantaloupes.
Belle slapped the sill when she saw Paulette reach over in her graceful way and touch Boone’s muscular shoulder. She wanted to bang on the window so hard that the two would stop falling in love. She might just break the glass and cut out this damned baby from her stomach. Overwhelmed, she laid down on the floor, below the open window, a prisoner in her polluted world. Be quiet! She wanted the box to shut down, the chatty women to shut up. In fact, she wished everyone everywhere would just stop talking.
•••
Abigail walked toward the shed. She needed extra clothespins for a busy laundry day. As she passed by the cottage, she heard several female voices coming from inside. None sounded like Belle or any of her boarders. She turned and walked toward the cottage window that faced the river. Did Belle have guests? Who were they? She listened for a moment.
“. . . introduce you at the convention, Kate. That’s part of winning the contest.”
“Well, my goodness! What an honor. I’ll be the proudest gal in New York City that day!”
Abigail listened for another minute. Why wasn’t Belle talking? She didn’t want to intrude but was curious. Slowly, she approached the window, pushed aside the curtain, and looked in. The room was empty, filled only with the sound of women chatting. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the dresser.
“Huh . . .” She gasped. Could it be? She stuck her head a bit farther into the window and stared.
Yes! There it was, looking nearly the same as she’d last seen it, except now it was churning! Belle must have found her contraption in the shed closet.
But, how in the world did she bring it to life?
Chapter 25
Several days later, a steady morning rain showed no sign of surrender, quenching thirsty gardens and all that drank from the sky. In the predawn darkness, Belle was flat on her back in sandy sludge, defying all the raindrops that were seemingly on a downward mission to blind her. Between forced blinks she stared upward.
Has it happened? Is it over yet?
She lay still, recovering from the gnawing pain of uterine contractions. Two hours ago her body had begun working through a miscarriage, wrenching her insides. When the cramps began, she’d stretched out on the cottage floor, unsure of what would happen next but hoping the pressure on her back and pelvis would end quickly. The air in the cottage seemed to grow thick, laboring her breath. When her head began to spin, Belle assumed she was going to die right along with the baby. She’d stumbled out into the rain, just as she had many years ago to escape Julius. As the sun rose, concealed by gray clouds, she’d collapsed behind a clump of wax myrtles several feet from the riverbank. The soft, wet ground was a relief from the hardwood floor.
Please get out of me.
The sand was cold and the rain was, too. Surely by now, there would be proof. Gingerly, she eased herself up to a sitting position. When she gathered up her sopped dress and looked down, the mess indicated she had miscarried.
“Thank God,” she said, and sunk back down onto the soaked ground. Julius was fully gone, no trace of him. The realization overwhelmed her, but no tears came. Instead, Belle began to moan, her throat and chest vibrating, somehow soothing her. She closed her eyes and listened as immense relief moaned its way out of her body.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Belle recognized the voice and became silent. She could hear his nearby footsteps splashing in puddled water. And then he was next to her.
“My God, Belle,” Boone said, kneeling down. “Are you all right? What’s happened to you?”
She stared up at him but said nothing.
“Belle,” Boone said quietly, as he took her hand. “Are you injured?
” He lightly brushed back wet hair that was stuck to her cheek.
She closed her eyes, humiliated. Once again, one of her nasty little secrets had brought them together. In a weak voice, she said, “It’s best you just stop helping me.”
“No,” Boone said. He gently drove his hands underneath her body and stood up with her in his arms. She offered no resistance, too weak to do anything but let him take care of her. “Should we go to Abigail?”
“Please no,” she said. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
Boone nodded. “Decker’s already in town, and Abigail’s probably busy fixing breakfast.”
As Boone began walking, Belle quietly moaned.
•••
In the cottage, Belle undressed and put on a nightgown as Boone faced the wall. She got into bed and placed a towel underneath her. When she told him he could turn around, Boone shut the windows and barred the door. Once he’d removed his wet shirt and dried himself off, he sat down next to her on a stool.
“Belle, please tell me what happened,” he said softly.
“If I tell you, you’ll just try to help me. I don’t want your help, Boone. I want you to stay away from me.”
“But I don’t understand,” Boone said. “What have I done? You’ve been avoiding me, and now this.”
She looked away from him. “Nothing. You’ve done nothing.”
He dropped his head and sighed. “Look, the truth is, I have done something, Belle. Something very, very bad.”
Belle turned back to him. She slowly pulled a hand out from under the covers and placed it on his knee.
“I haven’t been fully honest with you. Let me tell you everything . . . and then maybe you’ll tell me what happened this morning.” He drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “So, I told you I killed a man when I lived in Kissimmee.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “It was my brother, Daniel.”
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