“Mrs. Bullock doesn’t like me,” she says.
“She doesn’t like me, either,” I reply.
Nealie laughed at that and agreed to bring her sewing for an afternoon—yesterday, it was. We had the house to ourselves because Mother Bullock went to help Aunt Darnell pack, as she is going to Quincy for the winter to live with her son. Annie and Joybell were at the shack, where they expect to stay for the winter. Lucky added a fireplace there, so it’s back to cooking in this house for me. But I don’t mind much, because Annie taught me what to do with an open hearth.
Nealie and I spent as nice a day as I ever had here, and she altered the bonnet with the red, white, and blue streamers I bought when Charlie joined up. Now it doesn’t look so much like a flag tied to my head. I wish I had not wasted the money on it, since we need it. But you can’t cry over spent money, or cut fabric, for that matter. Nealie gave me a yard of yellow material that she had bought and then decided she didn’t like. Lizzie, crops were poor for all of us, factory cloth is twenty-five cents the yard, and I cannot think why a woman would buy fabric she wouldn’t use. So I asked Nealie how was it she could afford such extravagance. She seems to have money when the rest of us do not.
“Oh,” she replies vaguely, “Father sends me money.”
“Your father, the horse trader? Does he also send horses to your husband? He rides a fine horse. So does Mr. Samuel Smead.”
“Oh, yes.” She changed the subject, asking if she could borrow a piece of chalk to mark her quilt, and we said no more about her family.
Mother Bullock had not come back when Nealie left. I walked her to the road and waved her off, then stood a few moments until she was out of sight. The weather has a chill in it, and we will have frost soon, but the fresh air felt good. It stung my cheeks.
As I turned to go back to the house, I spied Mr. Samuel Smead hiding in the trees. The light was poor there, the trees only black shapes, and he rode a dark horse, so it took a moment for me to make him out. By then, there was no time to flee before he was upon me. So I acted as if nothing had ever passed between us, and says, “You are late, and you have missed Nealie.”
“That so?”
“If you hurry, you can catch up with her.”
He neither replied nor left.
“I best get to supper,” I says, turning to go, but for some reason, I could not take a step. That reason was Mr. Smead’s horse, which had pinned me to the fence.
“Miss Alice, upon consideration, I believe I made improper advances to you. I have come to beg your pardon.” He dismounted, removed his hat (which had a chicken feather dyed blue attached to it), and made a foolish bow. His coat fell open, showing a red blouse. “If you don’t forgive me, I’ll have to kill myself.” He clutched his chest. “Make up your mind. My physical manhood is weakening.”
I had to laugh at that, and I says, “That will never do. I propose a truce.”
I was about to say that part of the truce was for him to keep away, but before I could, he says, “Well put. Now we’ll seal the bargain.” He reached into his pocket, then held out his hand, the fingers wrapped around something. When I made no move to accept, he says, “You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t take it.”
I did not want to but was afraid of being rude. Besides, I was curious. So I held out my hand, palm up, thinking he had a walnut or a piece of hard candy. Instead, he dropped a ring into it, a child’s ring with a red stone.
“You got the tiniest little fingers I ever saw. Put it on. It was my mother’s. Frank and I have different mothers. Frank’s never seen it, Nealie, either, for she’d have asked for it.”
I held out the ring to him. “I won’t accept. It wouldn’t be proper.”
He shook his head.
“I insist.”
“I’ll wager your fingers are too big.”
That was an insult, for you know how vain I am about my small hands. To show him, I put the ring on my little finger, and it fit perfect. “Still, I can’t keep it.”
“Sure you can. The stone’s glass. It’s not worth a quarter-dollar.”
“Take it,” I says, removing the ring and holding it out. But instead, he jumped on his horse and says, “You are such a pretty girl. I’d like to kiss you again.” Instead, he galloped off. Well, I guess I’ll just have to keep the ring—for now anyway.
But I do not intend to keep Mr. Samuel Smead, although I am not so much afraid of him anymore. In fact, I think he is more ruffle than shirt and will cause little harm.
The snow began last night. I knew it would come, and I was glad, for you know how I love the clean white of a storm. I saw the sky build with heavy clouds, shining with an eerie light, and felt the mist around me. When I woke up and looked out, the whitest, fluffiest flakes were floating past our window. We have only one window, so I had to get out of bed and go into the big room to look out, and I went to milking with good cheer. It was so cold, it made my fingers sing to milk the cow. When I was done, I ran all the way down to the creek, which was cold and white, and I twirled around and around, making the snow swirl about me, holding up my face to catch the moisture. The snow was so thick, I could not see far, but I was not afraid. Don’t you think dying in a snowstorm, with the white covering you like a blanket, would be the nicest way to go? When I returned, Mother Bullock was worried, not knowing what had kept me. But I was in such good spirits that she gave the bark that passes for her laugh and said she was glad the snow pleased someone. Tonight, I made fudge and popcorn for supper. The snow has stopped, and the sky shines in the starlight. If Charlie was here, he would pluck a star for me.
As I was taking off my dress just now, I found Mr. Smead’s little ring in my pocket, which I had forgot about. I am provoked with myself for accepting the favor.
Hoping you are well and enjoying the snow, too, I remain
Alice
November 2, 1863
Dear Lizzie,
I shall not write much to you at this time. The war has always seemed to be a dreamy thing to me. It’s a little like reading one of Mrs. Stowe’s books, where you get caught up in a grand story that is happening to someone else. There are times when the war comes close, like when I listened to the contraband or saw Sartis Rhodes without his hand. But lately, the war has become more real from Charlie’s letters. He used to tell funny stories, but now he writes about the mud and the smells and the maggoty bodies of dead men. He said after one battle, there were so many wounded men, it looked like the field was crawling. The war came home to me today in a small way. When I tell you, you will think me silly and selfish, and I am both, but we are affected more by the little things that happen to us than the big things that happen to others.
I had mixed up a pound cake, with a pound of eggs, a pound of butter, and a pound of sugar, and put it in to bake, then went out for chores and forgot it. When I came back, the cake was burnt, so I threw it in the pig trough and began another.
“The thing of it is, I have had to do the work again and can’t go to quilting, so I am paid back for my carelessness,” I tell Mother Bullock, thinking I would scold myself before she had the chance.
“You threw it out?” she asks, as if I’d fed the pigs ten-dollar gold pieces.
“It was only a cake.”
Mother Bullock sat down at the table and pointed to a chair, so I seated myself. “There will come a time when thinking of that burnt cake will make your mouth water. Have you ever been hungry?”
“Of course.”
“Not hungry like when you miss supper. I mean starved, when your stomach knots up and your insides is so empty, you’d boil your shoes for soup.”
“Have you?” I was petulant from the lecture.
Mother Bullock nodded. “The winter we moved here. Jo was little. Charlie wasn’t borned yet, but there was another, a girl that hadn’t been weaned. I gave my portion to Jo, not thinking about the other one. My milk dried up, and I guess she must have starved.” Mother Bullock stopped and looked at her hands. She migh
t have been crying. I’d never seen her cry. Charlie told me he hadn’t, either.
“Those days are come again,” she says softly. “You ever eat a rat?”
My stomach boiled up.
“If you had, you’d find burnt cake mighty tasty.” When I did not reply, she adds, “I think you know from Charlie’s letters, he is not fed right, either.” Why, Lizzie, I had never even thought about that!
But now, I have thought a good deal about this conversation and decided Mother Bullock was right to say I act like a child. I am foolish and wasteful, and I resolve to improve. As punishment, when supper was over, instead of quilting, I took out my Bible and read the first chapter of Genesis. I will read one chapter each night until I am finished with the Bible—or until Charlie comes home, whichever is first. You can believe me when I tell you I have redoubled my prayers for this war to end.
Your contrite sister,
Alice Bullock
November 21, 1863
Dear Lizzie,
There is evil about. Last week, two of our pigs were found dead in the pen, and we do not know the cause. Lucky thought raiders had come through, but Mother Bullock said raiders would steal the pigs or slaughter them. These looked to have died of natural cause. That wasn’t all. The dog is gone. And two days ago, when I went out for the morning milking, the barn door was open wide and one of our team gone. Annie found him near her place, his leg broke, so Mother Bullock dispatched him with the shotgun. It will go hard on us next spring with just one horse. We will have to borrow another, and not many are willing to lend their animals these days, even to a family of women whose husband and son has gone a-soldiering.
I took the blame for the horse, saying I had been in a hurry the night before and must have left the horse stall open, then not latched the barn door secure. Mother Bullock was green mad, and she gave me a tongue-lashing such as you never heard. I took it meekly (which will surprise you, because you know better than anyone that meekness is not my nature). But what will surprise you even more is that I took it even though it was not my fault. After the stropping Papa gave me that time, I never left a stall door unlatched again, and I checked the barn door because we had had hard wind the night before. Somebody was in that barn, but since I could not prove it, I said nothing, as Mother Bullock would only worry—or perhaps not believe me at all. As you know, I can lie good when I want to, so she never doubted I was the culprit. I’m not so sure about Annie. She jerked up her head when I took the fault on myself, but she did not speak. She is sharp as cheese, and not much gets past her. I have been thinking on this so much that my head hurts. Lucky would not turn on us, because our misfortune is his, as well. And Annie would not do us harm. Neighbors might steal, but what is the reason to murder animals? Now here is what I wonder: Has someone followed Annie from Kentucky? Does she know who did this and is afraid to tell us? I would like to ask Charlie’s advice, but he has his own troubles, and what’s the good of burdening him with worry over something he can’t help? He thinks the hired man that ran off last spring is still with us, and me and Mother Bullock have agreed not to disabuse him of the idea.
We have had a letter from Charlie saying they were in a good battle near Little Rock and Harve was shot in the leg. Charlie asked us to tell Jennie Kate, since he did not know when Harve would write. Harve is fine now. The ball went clean through the flesh and out again, and the wound had already begun to heal. Me and Mother Bullock called on Jennie Kate and told her as gentle as we could about Harve, but she carried on something terrible. She said the end was at hand for both of them, and their little girl would be an orphan, and who would take care of her? Why, we would, Mother Bullock told her. So I have added Jennie Kate to my prayers, asking the Lord to spare her.
Not so long afterward, Jennie Kate sent for us to come quick, and I feared the Lord had forsaken her—and me, too—for I was sure she was about to leave this life. But when we arrived, Jennie Kate was feeling finely, sitting in a chair, wrapped in quilts, a letter on the table beside her.
“Praise the Lord, I have heard from Harve!” she says before we even took off our shawls.
“You called us here for that?” I asks. The road was blockaded by storm, and me and Mother Bullock had walked all the way to town in heavy snow. The cold had been so bad that Mother Bullock, who knits everywhere, even when riding in a buggy, had not been able to knit on a sock as we went along. Mother Bullock shushed me, although I could tell she was vexed.
“I thought you would be pleased he is recovered,” Jennie Kate says. Jennie Kate pouted a minute, then adds, “My child won’t be an orphan yet. It is the answer to my prayers.”
The thought brightened me, and I says, “Then it is answer to my prayers, too, Jennie Kate. That’s right good news indeed.” Mother Bullock gave me a quick look but said nothing.
“Is Harve healed?” Mother Bullock asks.
“Good as new, he says. But that ain’t why I asked you to come. He says Charlie was a hero, that he would have perished without Charlie had come to his aid. Since likely Charlie is too modest to tell you hisself, I thought you would appreciate being called. I would have sent the letter to you, but it is too precious to me to let it out of my sight.” She fingered a little bottle beside her and says, “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea if you fixed it, Alice.”
I would not have if I had known what a bother it would be. The cookstove was cold, and when I went for kindling, there was none, so I had to chop wood in the snow. I suppose I was lucky I didn’t have to saw down a tree. It took nearly thirty minutes before the tea was ready. The leaves were poor quality, and Jennie Kate ordered me to use just a single spoonful in the pot. I heaped the spoon with the leaves, but still, the tea was thin.
When it was done, Mother Bullock had read the letter twice over. I would have liked to read it for myself, but Jennie Kate had taken it back and held it against her bosom, a resting place that was safe from my fingers. So she told me the story, as proud as if Charlie had been her husband.
“In the battle, Harve and Charlie were side by side, just like they always was as boys. Remember, Mrs. Bullock? We always were together, Charlie, Harve, and me. Why, you must have wondered many a time which one I would choose.”
“I can see it was a mystery,” I says.
Jennie Kate frowned, then unscrewed the little bottle and poured a few drops into her tea. I believe she takes laudanum. She has always been sickly, I am told, and has not recovered from childbirth. She sipped and says, “The tea’s strong. Did you do like I said and use just one spoonful?”
I crossed my heart. “Sugar would make it taste better. I couldn’t find it.”
“I can’t spare it.”
“Let Alice read the letter,” Mother Bullock says.
“There are personal things. I’ll just tell her. The Rebs rushed the Wolverines, screeching that awful Rebel yell the way they do. Harve fired and was reloading when he was struck by a ball. ‘I am shot,’ he called to Charlie, then turned, to find a dead man next to him. He thought at first it was Charlie, but another Wolverine had pushed between them, and if he hadn’t, Charlie would have been dispatched, and wouldn’t that have been bad news for me?”
“Me, too,” I says.
“At that minute, the Rebs pushed through the line, and Harve knew it was the end for him. One Reb aimed a pistol at his head, but before he could shoot, he got an awful look on his face and fell over dead, half his head shot off.” Jennie Kate finished off her tea and held out the cup to me for more. “It was Charlie done it. He saw Harve lying there and saved his life. Then, even though Rebs was all over and Harve told him to get out of there before he got hurt, Charlie pulled Harve up on his good leg and half-carried him off the field. My Charlie’s a hero, all right.”
“Your Charlie?”
“Our Charlie,” says Mother Bullock.
“Our Charlie”—Jennie Kate nodded at Mother Bullock—“saved the day for the Wolverines. The man carrying the colors was shot dead, and the troops was ha
ving the devil’s own time of it. But Charlie picked up that flag and called out, ‘Boys, let’s do it. On, Wolverines!’ and they carried the day. I believe I made that flag.”
“I believe I made that flag.”
“Well, it wasn’t so much of a battle. I wrote Harve already and said it was his duty to come home, whether the army lets him or not. I can’t stand being alone no more.”
We stayed awhile longer, since the baby woke and fussed, and we washed her a little and changed her linen and took her to Jennie Kate to feed. I was lucky she didn’t ask me to wash the baby’s napkins, I suppose. When at last we were away, I asked Mother Bullock if Harve wrote it down like that in the letter. “Some,” she says. “Jennie Kate prattles. You musn’t let it bother you. She had her heart set on Charlie.” We walked along without talking for sometime, then Mother Bullock says, “I don’t expect the wife Charlie’s got him now would ask him to desert his post.” Backhanded as the compliment was, it was still the nicest thing Mother Bullock has ever said to me.
That night, Mother Bullock offered to read the Bible chapter aloud, freeing me for sewing. I was never so glad to hear the Bible in my life. I have now passed the story of Lot’s wife, who was turned into a pillar of salt. She was lucky it happened in Genesis and she did not have to endure the rest of the Old Testament. I am thinking of reading two chapters each day to get this Bible reading done with, but it would be just my luck that the war would end before I finished, so I would have doubled up for nothing.
It is good news that James has tempered his drinking. Your way of rewarding him is as clever a thing as I ever heard, but, Lizzie, your back is not good, and I fear you will injure it. You must be limber as a circus acrobat. I would like to try it with Charlie when he returns, but he will wonder where I got the notion and conclude I was stepping whilst he was away. I hope he has not stepped. You hear terrible things about temptations for soldiers.
Alice's Tulips: A Novel Page 9
