by Jan Watson
She was glad she’d met with John last night. He would help her find a place to hide out when she needed it. One thing was sure and it grew surer as each day passed: Copper Brown was not going to boarding school. She was not leaving Troublesome Creek.
A hint of fall tinted the air the next day when Copper went out to milk. She was sure she could smell burning leaves, though they were just beginning to turn, and the early morning air had a crispness about it, but that wouldn’t last much past sunup. It was so quiet she could hear the creek burbling down its bed, and the mountains that surrounded their cabin stood like noble sentries, guarding her day. Oh, she loved this place.
Her favorite Scripture played like a familiar melody in her mind: “Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer.” She couldn’t wait to get up there where the morning’s hush would surround her with peace so palpable you could wear it like a shawl.
She found her cow at the stable door waiting for breakfast. “Come on, Molly.” She pestered the fat cow, holding her feed bucket just out of reach, making the lazy animal enter the stall before she got a bite. “That’s a good girl. Have some.”
Molly licked the corners of the grain box with her big rough tongue, enjoying every morsel of her breakfast, then nibbled at the hay sticking out of the manger before leaning her head against it and falling asleep. The cow snored like a man. There was something hypnotic about the pull and swish of milking: the same movements over and over ’til all four teats were stripped, Molly’s udder was empty, and the bucket was full.
Copper patted the cow’s round, fawn-colored side. She remembered the malicious Beulah who would wait until the milking was nearly done, then shift her weight and stick one manure-clotted foot right in the bucket or swing her tail hate-fully, catching Copper upside her face. She’d take Molly over Beulah anytime, especially today, when she was in a hurry to finish her morning chores. She had to act as if she wasn’t, though, as if it were any other Tuesday.
She carried her full bucket to the springhouse. Daddy’s daddy had built it out of thick blocks of limestone over a spring that bubbled up icy cold from the ground; it was always cool. There were square openings in the stone floor through which you could lower the milk or whatever else needed to be kept cold into the water below.
She poured the milk through a strainer into another bucket, tapped the lid on, hung the bucket on a rope, then gently lowered it into the water. They always had fresh milk, plenty of butter and cheese, and every third day, Mam gave the milk to whoever came to the door for it. Aggravated as she was with Mam, Copper had to admit that she was awfully good to people. She kept a little purse tucked away in the chiffonier and every so often, when Brother Isaac—who had taken over the pulpit when his father, Nathan, died not long after he had returned from Lexington with this teaching certificate—told her of a need, she’d take it out and press bills into his hand. Her only request was that he not tell where the money came from. Sometimes Copper wondered what Mam’s life had been like before she came to live with them. Daddy told her a little bit, but Mam didn’t want to talk about it.
Copper liked the springhouse and usually lingered there looking through the holes to spy frogs or turtles. But she hurried now, scouring the milk bucket and the strainer, anxious to be off.
She carried a crock of fresh cream to the house, where Mam was ironing, then sat at the table and ate her breakfast. The heavy sadiron hissed when Mam took it from the stove and pressed it across the damp starched fabric of Daddy’s Sunday shirt.
“I never found that jar of jam,” Mam fussed as if the missing fruit were a personal affront. “And it was the final jar of blackberry from last year too.” She sprinkled water from her hand across the yoke of the shirt.
“That’s okay, Mam. This marmalade’s fine with me. I like how we wait ’til the first snowfall before we open the summer’s canning. Seems that makes it all the sweeter.”
“I should be finished with the whites by noon.” Mam finished the shirt, then folded a sheet in quarters and smoothed it across the ironing board. “Then you can get to the rest of the ironing. I’ll save the pillowcases for you.”
“Thanks.” Copper loved to do the pillowcases. They were so easy, and she liked the embroidered edges. “I’ll be really careful not to scorch them today.”
“Everyone has to learn. I burned my share of linens,” Mam admitted.
Copper nearly choked on her biscuit. Mam burned linens? Copper was sure that never happened but once.
“I was married to your father before I ever hefted an iron. At home we had a woman who came in and did the wash.” Mam’s voice was wistful.
She was making Copper feel guilty, being so nice. Copper could almost forget that Mam was plotting to send her to boarding school. Almost.
After breakfast, Copper sneaked off to meet with John Pelfrey, but Paw-paw wouldn’t stay behind. “All right, but you’ll have to keep my secret. No telling the barn cats!”
Paw-paw snuffled at her hand, then trotted to keep up. He was Copper’s pet—a gift for her fourth birthday. Eleven years later, his muzzle was gray, and one leg didn’t bend anymore. Daddy said he had rheumatism and let him sleep in the house by the fireplace on cold nights.
John was waiting for her at the edge of the cow pasture. “I was thinking we’d look there.” He pointed up the mountain. “Yonder, past the graveyard. I remember some caves from once when I was fox hunting.”
“How did you get away today?”
“I just laid down my shovel and walked off. Ain’t like nobody watches me work, Pest.”
“You’re so lucky to be a boy.” Copper kicked the dirt, frowning. “Every move I make is minded.”
They climbed steadily—she trying to match his long stride, he pausing occasionally to let her catch up.
“Have you been here ’fore today?” he asked, stopping at the entrance to the cemetery.
“Only when Granny Pelfrey died. I was maybe five. Why do you think our folks are all buried in the same place?”
“Probably because we’re close as kin. You want to go in?” He tore a length of Virginia creeper vine from the iron gate and forced it open.
“I don’t think so,” Copper replied but took his hand as he led the way inside the graveyard. “It’s creepy in here, John.”
“Nah, it ain’t. There’s nobody in here that’s not family. Mind the poison ivy.” He gestured to a thicket not six inches from her foot. “Hold your skirts up. The poison will climb right up you.”
“Look, here’s Granny Pelfrey’s grave. Do you remember her?”
“’Course I do. Don’t you recollect she lived with us ’til she died?”
“She used to take me up the mountain to look for herbs and mushrooms.” Copper brushed some twigs from the grave. “I still remember lots of things Granny taught me. She knew how to fix about anything that ails a body.”
John looked at her, his green eyes, as always, honest and direct. “You make me think of her sometimes, the way you’re so strong-minded. Granny was like that.”
“Why do people get buried up the mountain, all catty-wampus?” Copper asked. “Why not down where it’s flatter and easier to get to?”
“Closer to heaven, I reckon. Our kinfolk were all highlanders. If they’d wanted to lay flat, we’d be living in Kansas. Watch yourself there. . . .” John reached around her as she leaned against the monument marked Pelfrey and flung a yard-long blacksnake clean over the fence.
She shivered. “I hate it when they sneak up on a body like that.”
“I think it’s tuther way round, Pest. We snuck up on him.”
“See why I don’t like graveyards?” She wrinkled her nose. “Let’s go. . . . What’s this, then? Julie Brown?” She knelt. “That’s my mother’s name.”
“Sure, ’cause that’s your mother’s grave. I used to come up here with my ma to visit her.”
“Why has no one told me about her? Everything’s such a secret. What do you
know, John?”
“No more’n you, really . . . just that Ma loved her.”
“Look.” Wilted daisies hung over the small stone marker. “Where do you reckon those came from?”
“Somebody’s visited, seems like. This grave’s cleaner than the rest, and it looks like somebody with long legs has been stepping over the fence there.” He shaded his eyes and looked at the sun. “Come on—it’s getting toward noon. We ain’t got much time.”
“Paw-paw,” she called. “Come!”
The old black hound tore out of the brush like a pup, the far-flung snake hanging from his mouth.
“Leave it,” she commanded, pointing.
He whined but dropped his prize and followed her in his lopsided, three-legged gait, his crippled leg stuck out like a stick.
Three-quarters of a mile later, John figured they’d best head back down mountain. “It’s farther than I recollected, Pest. We’ll be found out if you don’t get back soon. How about tomorrow?”
“Can’t—we’re canning tomatoes. Maybe Thursday?”
“Okay by me. Let’s meet at the cemetery. That’ll save time.”
“Don’t let it slip to anyone that we were up here. Nobody must know what I’m planning. If Mam finds out she’ll put stamps on my head and mail me to Philadelphia.”
John chuckled. “You come up with the strangest ideas.”
“I’m serious,” she replied. “We must be careful.”
By the time Copper returned to the house, most of the ironing was finished and put away. She sighed in relief. Nobody seemed to have missed her. She heated up the iron and did the work clothes, saving the pillowcases last for pure pleasure. There were five, one for each pillow, starched slick and stiff as the ironing board. When they were first put on the pillows, your head would slide right off onto the feather bed and you’d wake with a crick in your neck. You had to pound them a little to break them in.
She carried the finished stack to the press and placed them beside the sheets Mam had done. They had to be in a certain order so the embroidery of the cases matched the embroidery of the sheets. That way when they pulled them out Monday morning to make up the beds, the job would go faster. One washday, she remembered, she didn’t get out of bed fast enough so Mam rolled her right out onto the floor when she pulled her sheet off the bed. It didn’t take but once for Mam to teach you a lesson.
Supper was already cooked that night when Daddy came in from the fields. A plate of sliced tomatoes sat beside a platter of fried chicken, and a skillet of corn bread, cut in pie-shaped wedges, cooled on a teaberry plate. Mam was just dishing up the shelly beans. Copper poured cold buttermilk into a pretty glass for him.
“Where’s my Mason jar?” Daddy asked.
“I don’t know,” Mam replied. “I couldn’t find it.”
“Well, fiddlesticks. I can’t drink out of this frill.”
“Will,” Mam cautioned, as four little ears perked up, “please. Where did you leave it?”
“Let’s see . . . hmm . . . by the rocker on the porch. I had a cool drink of springwater before bed last night.”
“I don’t see how I could have missed it,” Mam said. “Willy, go look.”
“Fiddle—,” Willy started to say before Daddy reached across the table and thumped him on the top of the head with the middle knuckle of his right hand.
“I’ll fetch it,” Daniel called over his shoulder as he scooted off his chair and slammed out the screen door, leaving Mam to shake her head at Daddy.
“But I was supposed to,” Willy whined.
“It ain’t no place out here,” Daniel called through the door.
Mam sighed. “Oh, Daniel, your language.”
“Sorry, Mam. I forgot. It’s not no place out here.”
Mam sank into her chair, a look of resignation on her face, as Daniel took his place at the table, giggling behind his hand when Willy slurped a long drink of milk, then belched.
“Let’s say grace,” Daddy said, restoring order as they clasped hands. “Lord, thank You for our food. May it nourish our bodies, the temple of our souls, and thank You for laughter and belches and boys.”
Thursday morning found Copper and Paw-paw waiting for John Pelfrey at the cemetery gate. She had rushed poor Molly through the milking with a promise of extra feed and hurried away before Mam could find her another task. Her willow basket hung on her arm.
“Hey,” John called. “You ready? I hope you got something to eat in that tote.”
“I brought some leftover potatoes and some corn bread. Are you hungry now?” She eyed his uncombed hair. “Your head looks like a just-mowed field. Stand still.” She stretched on tiptoe to smooth his hair. She trailed her fingers down his cheek. “What’s this?” she teased. “You’re growing whiskers.”
“That’s what men do, Pest.” John squared his shoulders as she watched his eyes take her in. “Looks like I ain’t the only one changing.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “I don’t want us to change. I like things as they are.”
“Some changes are good,” he replied, looking at her with eyes as green as her own.
“Not if they get me sent away, John. Growing up’s going to get me sent to boarding school.”
“Not if I can help it.” He took her basket. “Let’s go find that cave. You could hide up there for days and no one would ever find you.”
The cave they sought was one of many connected by tunnels that twisted like a rabbit’s warren back into the mountain. Set way back under a rocky cliff, the mouth of the caves was shadowed by an outcropping of dark gray shale like the unbroken brow of a brooding face.
“It’s just as I remembered,” John said. “This entrance leads to a room that has a little tunnel off to the side, just big enough to squeeze through. Kind of reminds me of the igloos in your mam’s geography book, ’cause once you get through that, you come into a round space with a hole that lets in light. I could never figure where the light comes from, seeing as how this whole place is inside the mountain.”
“I want to see, John. Let’s go.”
“Let me light this.” He pulled a small tin box from his overall pocket and extracted a sulfur match, then swiped it against a rock. He stuck it to a pine torch he found inside the cave. It flared quickly before settling to a steady flame. “I can’t remember exactly where the little tunnel is. Hold this.” Thrusting the torch into her hands, he dropped to the ground and crawled around the perimeter of the cave. “Here it is, but it’s smaller than I remembered. I used to crawl through easy. Now I think we’ll have to stretch out and wiggle through.” Sitting back on his heels, he pointed at her dress. “You’ll tear your skirts on the rough walls, Pest. You should have worn britches.”
“Mam won’t let me anymore. I have to wear all this.” Copper kicked out her skirts. “But, wait . . . here, take this torch. I’ll just—” She dropped her skirt and stood in the damp cave in her shirtwaist, petticoat, and long drawers. “There. Now I’m ready.”
John looked at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses, then blurted, “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.” He started out.
“Well, wait, John. I can’t see to put my skirt back on without the light. Why didn’t you say you wanted to eat before we came in? Hold up!” Feet tangling in her skirt, she nearly tripped in her haste to follow him.
He had the basket open and was drinking buttermilk from the jar when she came out of the cave, fussing with the buttons at her waist.
“John Pelfrey, that was just rude! What’s wrong with you, anyway? I could have broken my neck in there in the dark.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll bring some pants for you next time. You can’t be dropping your clothes just anywhere, Copper.”
“You’re just like Mam.” She sighed. “I don’t understand why you’ve all changed so much. Didn’t we used to go swimming in our underwear? Didn’t Aunt Emilee bathe us in the same tub when we were babies? Whatever is the matter with you?”
&nbs
p; “I said I was sorry,” he said shortly. “Let it be. Do you want some of this corn bread?”
“Just don’t boss me around,” she answered, breaking off a piece of the bread. “I get enough of that at home. Here, Paw-paw, good boy. Are you a hungry dog?”
She turned her head and fed the dog a chunk of bread. Angry tears slid down her cheeks, and she wiped them on her sleeve.
“Ah, don’t be doing that, Pest. I didn’t aim to hurt your feelings.” John patted her back awkwardly.
She shrugged him off. “My feelings are fine! I’m mad is all. If I’m so much trouble, I’ll borrow Daddy’s slingshot and come by myself next time.”
“No! Promise me you won’t do that!” John took her shoulders and made her face him. “It can be dangerous up here. Wampus cats and bears use caves for their lairs. You never know what you might find tucked back in here.”
“Can we come back tomorrow? Can you bring me some overalls?”
“Me and Henry Thomas are hired out to old man Smithers to grub sassafras roots tomorrow. It’ll be a while ’fore I can get back up here.” He picked up a chip of wood and threw it hard. “He’s paying me twenty-five cents a day, so I want to find a lot of roots.” He fixed a firm gaze on Copper. “Promise you’ll not come back alone.”
“All right, bossy, I promise,” she demurred, her hand behind her back, fingers crossed in a broken vow.
“I mean it.” He grabbed her hand and untwisted her fingers.
“Ow!” she yelped and shook her hand. “You’re mean, John Pelfrey.”
“Here, you’re not hurt.” He took her hand in his and stroked her fingers, then surprised her by bending his head and kissing her palm. “There. All better?”
“You do that just like Aunt Emilee,” she said, oblivious to the turmoil on his face. “Well, let’s not waste our picnic. You sit there—” she pointed to a big flat rock—“and I’ll serve your dinner. Isn’t this nice? It feels so peaceful.”
