Carry Me Home

by Dorothy Adamek

  He let Molly take his hand and squeezed into the small room. The ache in his chest pressed him from within, while the overcrowded room closed in from every side.

  “And what am I looking at?” He peered at the box. He was in no mood to be drawn into their fun.

  “Christmas.” Molly beamed.

  “In there? All of Christmas?” He knew he should smile, but he didn’t have the heart for it.

  “And look at Finella.” Molly pointed with two hands.

  Did he have to?

  “She’s wearing a hello.”

  Finella grinned at him, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes either. “A halo, actually.” She lifted it from her head and long ribbons of gold and silver pulled at her hair.

  He couldn’t help himself. “Travel with your own halo?” He leaned back against the doorframe.

  She wrapped it in a piece of tissue paper and laid it back in her box of fancies.

  “I wore this when I was Molly’s age for a Christmas pageant at church. It’s all I have left of my angel costume. My mother made it before she…”

  She slapped the lid on the box and looked up at him.

  “Molly and I shall be adding some of these trinkets to the house over the next few weeks. Christmas preparations.” She held his eye with a pained look. “If you agree.”

  Christmas. Aunt Sarah. She didn’t need to tell him anymore. He filled in the gaps. Her ticket away out of here.

  He shrugged, but it did nothing for his sinking heart. “If it makes Molly happy.”

  “Really?” She sounded surprised. “You won’t mind if we decorate the house?”

  “Do what you have to.”

  “Even if we use fancy things?”

  He knew she tried to draw him from wherever she thought he might be. Truth be told he had no idea where he was. Only that it was no place he enjoyed.

  He yanked the blanket off the bed. “I don’t care, Finella. Hang every last one of your fancies off the shingles.”

  He walked past Molly who scowled at him and probably past a deeper frown on Finella’s face, but he wouldn’t turn to look. It was enough to know he’d hurt them both. The best thing they could do was get used to it.

  *

  The barn offered no peace. Or light. He dumped all his pelts into the blanket and dragged the bundle outside, behind the barn. Facing west, he crouched and spread out his skins.

  He was right. No matter how you lined them up, the pelts only made a lap blanket at best. He sat with his back against the barn and threaded a new length of cotton onto his needle.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find you hiding back here?” Finella turned the corner, steaming mug in hand.

  “Who said I was hiding?”

  She sat down and her skirt brushed his leg. “Oh, you’re not hiding from us today? My mistake. I thought you might like a cup of tea.”

  He let the point of the needle touch his thumb.

  “Where’s Molly?” He took the tea.

  “Washing angels.”

  “She’s got a tub on the table and she’s washing a Christmas apron, embroidered by my mother. We only ever used it once a year. Molly’s quite taken by it. She couldn’t wait for washday to freshen it up.” Her lips formed a baby smile. She baited him for something, but he wasn’t sure what.

  She ran her fingers through the nearest pelt, a light brown piece. “So soft.”

  A slim thread of silver from her Christmas decorations still caught in her hair. Yesterday he would have pulled it out. Maybe brushed her cheek as he did it. Today he chose to look away.

  “You’d better get back. Molly’s probably run out of water and on her way to the well for more.”

  Finella rested her shoulders against the barn wall. “I tied her to the chair.”

  A splash of hot tea burned his chin. He spluttered and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You did what?”

  Her smile widened. “I tied her up.”

  He stared at her. “How?”

  “You should know. You’re the one who showed me.” She threw the brown pellet back in the pile. “I tied the rope around her waist and the chair. I explained how it’s good for her posture to sit up straight while she scrubs. You should come in and see her. She’s so proud of her washing she hardly knows the rope’s there.”

  He tried another sip. “I thought you were against that.”

  “I was. But, I’ve discovered Molly doesn’t care about the rope if she’s doing something she enjoys.” Her face clouded over. “And I guess, you forced me to consider it.”

  “I did.” He repeated her. “I did force.”

  The orange sun shot through the scrub right into her face and she closed her eyes.

  “Shadrach, we’ve hardly talked since last night. I can’t pin you down long enough to say I’m sorry.”

  When he didn’t answer she peeked at him through one eye. One beautiful golden-brown eye. How had he not seen those honey flecks before?

  “You’re sorry? What for? I lost the eggs.”

  “Were you walking alone?” she demanded, both eyes on him now. “Perhaps if you were, then it would be all your fault. But you weren’t. We were there together.” Her words settled on him with a tenderness he couldn’t afford.

  “Look, I should have gone back for that crate the minute I set you down. It was my responsibility and I’ll have to wear it. You don’t need to worry. These things happen.” He put the mug down and reached for his needle.

  She beat him to it and snatched it away. “Then why are you still vexed?”

  “I’m not vexed at you.” He held out his hand. “Now, give me my thread.”

  “I think you are.”

  He rubbed the back of his shoulder. His muscles ached, he was sure his tongue was burnt from the tea, and a weariness pinched a nerve so far into his soul, he hardly knew where that was.

  “I’m not angry at you. I don’t blame you for the eggs. Now give me the thread.”

  She wound the cotton around her finger. “Then who are you angry at, and could you please fix it? Because we have other things to talk about, you and I. And I don’t like it that we’re not.”

  Blood colored her skin where she wound the cotton. It matched the red in her cheeks and a sick feeling filled him. He’d kissed her. And she’d returned the kiss. And he’d rewarded her with raw silence.

  “I’m angry at myself. And tomorrow when I take that little crate from the first day’s egging to the village, everyone else will be there to watch me sell the smallest amount I’ve ever handed over to the Melbourne traders.”

  She lifted her head and waited.

  “But I’ll get over all that. It’s…” Did he want to uncover this nest of maggots he wrestled? How could he tell her? He blew out a trapped breath and let some of his fury take sail. “I’m furious at myself for the way I almost smashed that crate.” He rolled his fingers into fists. “If you hadn’t been there to take it off me, I surely would have.”

  “If I’d not been there, there wouldn’t have been occasion to walk the beach with a heavy crate of eggs.”

  He looked away. She didn’t understand. But she’d asked and he’d be heartless to let her think it was her fault.

  “If it didn’t happen at the beach, it would have happened somewhere else. I didn’t react how I should have. I’m ashamed you saw it, but the sooner I get a proper grip on it the better. You did me a favor.”

  “What favor? What are you talking about?” She let the thread unravel against her palm.

  He took it from her. He would rather sew his mouth shut than say it. He hardly knew how to explain it to himself.

  “You helped me see something. About myself.” Still warm from Finella’s hand, he twisted the thread into a knot. “I’m just like my father. And he was a monster.”

  The sick feeling he’d kept down all day threatened to boil over. But he swallowed and looked beyond the tea tree scrub. A flame of sunset dragged the blue out of the sky.

  “You’re
no such thing.” Soft words hung between them like down. But he refused their cover.

  He wouldn’t look at her, either. Whatever face she had for this was one he didn’t want to see. He turned his back on her to sort the pelts.

  A hard thump pushed against his shoulder.

  “Did you hear me?” She poked again.

  He picked two pieces and pressed them fur side together. “I heard you.”

  “Good.” She stood. “Then you can hear this too.” Her words came out clipped. “You are not your father. If you had been, I would’ve left months ago. With Molly in tow, whether you liked it or not.”

  Months ago, he’d been a different man. But he loved her now, and would fight himself to protect her.

  Copper and sparks shot from the flyaway wisps of her hair. She turned to go and in the same step turned back.

  “I saved my kisses for a fine man, Shadrach Jones. You best be sure of that. And I won’t have you turn me into a liar.”

  December 1

  Aunt Sarah believes her ship will arrive in the New Year. For weeks I’ve watched the horizon and wondered how many miles she’s already put behind her.

  But her journey here is only the beginning. After that, there’s much to be seen. Most of it I dread.

  But I’m at a greater loss to know what will fix the drift between Shadrach and me. And that is not something I wish to explain to Aunt Sarah. Shadrach hints at Molly’s future. He skirts around the subject with veiled reference to her and me. Molly and I. But he’s not in the picture he alludes to. And I do not know how to convince him we all belong together. That he is his own man, and not a replica of his father.

  I always thought if I could alter the course of time I would have begged God to put that wretched thief on another road, far from my parents on that day he killed my mother.

  But now, I find myself pondering the morning I begged to go to Shadrach’s egging, and how he gave in to me, despite his doubts. How tangled he’s become since, in his own misery. And how I wish I could change that.

  I have nestled in a groove not of my making, and find my heart turned to it. If only he still felt the same.

  *

  Shadrach wiped his hands on his shirt. Long streaks of chalky clay striped not only his torso, but his trousers as well and mud clods clung to his boots.

  He pushed his barrow over slimy wood planks to the other end of the clay pit, where a wide parcel of his land now held close to one hundred bricks.

  Imagine Finella having to wade through this mud.

  Good weather meant his bricks would dry well and early summer filled his chest with a shaft of hope he’d not felt in days. All he had to do was ignore the rain clouds in the distance.

  If he could make another few hundred bricks to sell in the village, he would make up for the lost egg income. People paid good money for bricks on the island. If word got around he had some at a fair price, he was sure they’d sell faster than Christmas geese at Spencer’s butchery.

  And he needed the sale. Not for the seed he planned for next year’s crops. Nor for the timber he wanted to order for a large farmhouse on the hill. Every last penny would go toward his sister’s future. And if Finella wanted her, he’d give her over. And all the money he could earn in the meantime for her support.

  The barrow squished into the ground. He rubbed his hands together and mud flakes crumbled like confetti onto his shoes. Yes, Finella wouldn’t set foot in this quagmire if he begged her. And those days were gone as sure as his egg money.

  *

  “I think we should have pie for Christmas.”

  “Pie?” Finella tapped her pencil on Aunt Sarah’s recipes, spread all over Shadrach’s beaten tabletop. Most of her Christmas favorites needed an oven. A pie might not be as easy to deliver as damper. “And what pie would you like, Molly dear?”

  “Jam?”

  Finella drew the girl’s shoulders into a tight embrace. She wouldn’t let tears smudge her view. All scrubbed and clean, with a fresh apron on, it didn’t take much for Molly to pull on Finella’s heartstrings. The young girl pressed against her with the warm crush of a sleepy toddler.

  Finella dragged her thoughts back to the Christmas menu. A meal to make a dear one happy, and take away the sting of loss. She unbuttoned her sleeve cuffs and peered through the window at the movement outside. Shadrach pounded his feet in the yard.

  Transfixed by the churning of her heart, she stood still while his blue eyes stared back at her from the other side of the clear glass. For blue was the only color she saw, other than his head to foot covering of mud.

  “Open the door,” he called, and she swung it open. “I know, I know. You’ll skin me, if I come closer.” He raised his palms in defeat but Finella heard the teasing in his voice. She leaned against the doorjamb.

  “Why are you here, then?”

  “Just wondering if a man could ask for an outdoor lunch today. It’ll save me from getting out of these.” He slapped at his dirty trousers.

  Finella made room at the door where Molly joined her. “Looks to me like you found Jimmy Callahan and his mudslinging gang.”

  He smiled, and the white of his teeth shone out from his dirty face. She hadn’t seen that smile for days and it couldn’t have smacked against her any harder than if Molly had elbowed her in the ribs.

  “No. Just me, out there.” He rubbed at a spot on his cheek. “I need to get a few things from the barn, but if I could trouble you for my meal now, I’d be happy to take it with me.”

  Finella nodded and he hurried for the path up the hill.

  “Brother needs a bath.” Molly watched him go.

  “And food.” Finella couldn’t tell what made him happy after so many miserable days, but she didn’t stop to wonder. He was smiling and that was something.

  “Why don’t we pack Shadrach’s lunch and eat ours with him, too? Here,” she spread a cloth on the table. “Wrap the last of the damper.” She grabbed a coarse towel from where it hung by the fire. “And some apples and I’ll take our bean stew off the fire and carry it myself. Can you manage?”

  Molly nodded, already selecting the apples she fancied best.

  “And some forks too.” Finella reminded. Whatever drew Shadrach’s smile was worth seeing for herself. Even if he hadn’t invited her along.

  31

  “Brick making?” Finella stood on the slope and looked past his last chicory field. “Since when?”

  He hurried on, careful not to nudge her with his dirty sleeve. “Since last year, when I thought I’d dig a second well for my crops and found clay instead.”

  He hoped she followed. His stomach rumbled and he wanted to get back to work while the day hung with sunshine. “Always meant to turn it into bricks one day. When I had the time.” Or needed the money.

  He put the stewpot down under a blue gum. “This spot’s shady enough. Finella?”

  She wasn’t watching. Her eyes remained fixed on the stack of bricks drying in the midday heat. “And you’re going to sell them all?”

  “Already good as sold. Every one of them. Spencer put me onto a fellow who wants to build a kiln for his chicory crop.”

  He untied the knot in Molly’s bundle. “Might build a kiln for myself, too. If this clay pit is kind enough to supply it.”

  Finella spread a blanket and settled on the ground with Molly. She dished up the stew and Shadrach’s mouth popped in anticipation. He blessed the food quickly and devoured it a little less so.

  “We have apples, too.” Molly handed him a red one. “I polished it.”

  He wrapped her hand with his and squeezed.

  “And I trust you to look after it for me.” He wiped his mouth. “I’m going to make another row and then I’ll come looking for that apple.” He winked at her. With a full belly and a pit full of bricks, it came easier, somehow. Until he remembered why he needed the extra money.

  “Thanks for the picnic, Finella.” He stood. “Stay and enjoy the day if there’s nothing pressing back at
the house.” He slapped his hat back on his head, “I’m gonna make bricks.”

  *

  Finella sliced an apple and held a piece to Molly on the tip of her knife. Aunt Sarah would have a royal conniption to see her offer food like a barbarian.

  Surely you could have used a plate, Finella dear. You’ve turned into a savage already. She could hear her now. Finding fault with the table setting, the crude utensils, Molly’s manners. In another month they would hear it all for themselves.

  She leaned against the blue gum, and somehow, it mattered less and less. Molly munched on her fruit and Finella joined her, and together they watched Shadrach lug another barrow of clay.

  A long sweat stain lined the back of his shirt, and the mud from this morning, lighter and dustier than when he’d eaten with them, now hid behind a layer of wet clods. He wiped his palms on his trousers before grabbing the barrow handles, and tipped the lot into a large mound.

  He squatted to dust a wooden trough with sand. Finella craned her neck to see more. He dusted his hands the same way, and formed a warp of clay into a brick shape before pressing it into the wooden mold. With an implement she didn’t recognize, he scraped the excess, tapped the side with a small hammer and pulled the whole mold up, leaving one more brick in step with the others.

  Again and again, he worked with a rhythm until another ten or so bricks appeared.

  Finella picked up her knife. “Molly, let’s take Shad his apple and see what he’s up to.”

  “But we’ll get dirty. We hate mud, remember?”

  “We’re not going to make bricks, dear. Only look at them. We’ll watch from the grass, near the edge.”

  By the time they reached the small clay pit, Shadrach leaned against his shovel.

  “Come to help?”

  “I thought you might like your apple.” Finella offered a quarter on the tip of her knife.

  Molly squatted along the edge of the grass and pressed her fingertip in the top of a freshly made brick.

  “They’ll take about a week to dry.” Shadrach reached for the apple and took a bite. “If the sun stays out long enough.”

  “How many bricks do you have?” Finella tried to count them.