“I’ll do it. I got my heavy shoes on. You go to fixing supper.” Mother Bullock agreed, which surprised me, because she is not one to shirk. But she brought a lantern so’s I could look for more snakes. I never disenjoyed a thing so much in my life as cleaning up that cellar. Every minute, I knew a snake would come off a dark corner of a shelf and fall down my back.
The whole time, I cursed whoever had done the thing. Me and Mother Bullock talked about it all night, wondering who could have so much evilness in him. We concluded it was bushwhackers, although we didn’t understand the reason of spoiling things instead of stealing them. Of course, I am all but certain of who did it, for Mr. Frank Smead had vowed I would get my due. But I could say nothing, for a prickling about the head is no proof. Since Nealie was at quilting, her husband knew me and Mother Bullock would be away from Bramble Farm.
That business in the root cellar was just the start of it. This morning, we discovered Lucky has lit out. Now I know many believe that the Negroes are shiftless. But I think Lucky was frightened away by the very person who was in our cellar. Whether Mr. Frank Smead threatened Lucky or Lucky feared he was in danger for knowing Mr. Smead was responsible, I do not know. Mother Bullock was very angry with Lucky, saying he had neither honor nor gratitude, which surprised me, because she has ever taken the colored man’s side. When I said he had deserted us because he was frightened, she says, “That’s not reason enough to run off. We was frightened, too, but we didn’t turn tail. Who’s to do the plowing and planting?”
“We’ve got Annie. The three of us will manage,” I says. I wished I could have told her Billy would come, but Papa was much put out at my request and said I had married Charlie without his blessing and now should not turn to him for help. So I will not ask for Silas or Judah, either.
Mother Bullock did not reply at first, just wrung her hands in her apron, standing in the doorway, looking out over the farm. “I wonder,” she says at last. “I wonder if we will manage. Charlie has to have a farm to come home to.”
“Why would he not?” I asks, but she only sighed and did not answer.
I have got behind in my Bible and had promised Mother Bullock I would make up for the lapse in reading when you were here. But Scripture never calms me like quilting, so I went to stitching instead. The Drunkard’s Path is laid off and put in the frame, and so I began the quilting of it. For marking, I used the flower template you brought and very kindly left behind for me.
Mother Bullock picked up the Bible and read some aloud, then laid it down. After she watched me stitch for a time, she says, “It would be nice to leave something pretty behind for folks to remember me by. I don’t suppose anybody will recollect the number of eggs I candled or the times I swept the floor. Nobody remembers what gets used up, and I’ll be forgot when I’m used up, too. Quilting’s the only woman’s work that lasts.”
I told her to get out scraps and I would help her make her own quilt, but she shook her head. “I don’t have it in my fingers like you do. Charlie will have to remember me as best he can.”
I reached over and patted her old hand. “We’ve been badly used this week, both of us. Tomorrow, we’ll walk down to the meadow and look at the wildflowers, which are just showing theirselves. There’s nobody that can’t be cheered by them. Someday I’ll get you tulip bulbs and plant them by the house—yellow ones. Yellow is for joy and gladness and friendship. A yellow tulip is like sunshine.” I chattered away like that to keep Mother Bullock from gloomy talk, and after a time, she got up without a word and went to her bed.
We have not heard from Charlie since you were here, when he mentioned they were going on the march. It is hard for him to get stamps. We send them to him in each letter, but he has others to write, as he carries on a correspondence with Aunt Darnell and the McCauleys at Fort Madison, and so the stamps disappear. I have not heard from you, either, and am worried things are not going finely. Now, dear, write to me at once and let me know that all is well. If James doesn’t behave, then you can come back to Bramble Farm for good.
From your affectionate sister,
Alice Bullock
April 20, 1864
Dear Lizzie,
What a clever idea to throw a rag ball. I bet you were the hit of the season, and I predict many more rag balls to follow. I had thought such an event was like a quilting, for women only, who worked at tearing rags and braiding them into rugs. But men can tear and braid, too, and how smart of you to have a competition between the sexes. If I had enough rags, I’d throw such a party myself, because, as you saw, our floors are bare. Last winter, I tore the rags we had into strips, but they made only half a dozen balls, and they sit in a basket now. This year, we wear our rags.
We had a brief letter from Charlie, not even a page. He is much agitated on account of—Jennie Kate Stout! Can you bear it? She wrote Charlie, asking him to get Harve to go on home. Charlie wouldn’t do it; he says he has told Harve to stand it like a man. But Charlie wants me to explain to Jennie Kate there are only two ways Harve can come back to Slatyfork just now—get hurt and come home a cripple or take a French furlough and get sent to the jail. Either way wouldn’t do her any good. Then I am to tell her there is a third way, the honorable way, and that is to win the war, which he and Harve are trying mightily hard to do. “Harve enlisted like he married, for better or for worse, and he has got the worst of both,” Charlie writes. Charlie is proud me and Mother Bullock do not make such demands of him, although he writes we have it easier than Jennie Kate. Well, we don’t, because both Lucky and the hired man are gone, but we have not told Charlie, for where’s the good in that? He can’t do anything about it but worry.
I did call on Jennie Kate—by myself, since Mother Bullock would not take the time to go to town. When I told her Harve must not desert, for things would go bad for him if he was caught, she replied that I did not understand. “You’ve got old Mrs. Bullock and the Secesh girl to wait on you, while I must do for myself,” she says. That is not true, of course. Nobody waits on me, and Jennie Kate has a cousin and a hired girl to do her work. What’s more, she lives in a fine house in town and does not have the work of a farm. She is lazy and slack-tongued and a whiner, although she truly is sickly, the result of some problem when Piecake was born, I think. But there is no use to cause trouble, so I changed the conversation.
“The baby prospers,” I says.
“She has a tooth most through and keeps me up at night. I am poorer than ever I was.”
“You must take care of yourself.”
“And how do I do that, with no husband to care for me?”
“I don’t have one, either. Not one of the Soldiers Relief quilters has a husband at home.”
“You don’t understand.” She pointed to a velvet pillow at her back for me to plump.
“What is there to understand?” I asks, hitting the pillow so hard, it surprised us both.
“I am not made for hard work. Harve didn’t intend it.”
“And Charlie intended it for me?”
“Fix me my tea, Alice.”
I did as told, rather than give her cause to fault me for ill temper. But to calm myself, I split half a dozen logs and carried them to her wood box. Then I took the tea to her, but was she grateful? She had fallen asleep in her chair and snapped at me for waking her.
“I’m off,” I says, having already drunk a cup of her stale tea, which I had made extra strong. We cannot afford tea at home and must make do with coffee, and thin coffee at that.
“No, there’s something I want to say,” she says, leaning forward to let me adjust the pillows behind her. “You know I picked Harve over Charlie.”
She waited for me to agree, but I would not do it for anything, because I knew no such thing. The truth is that Charlie came to Fort Madison to get away from her and told me he’d be a bachelor for life rather than join in matrimony with Jennie Kate. “Is that what you wanted to say?” I asks.
“If something happens to me and if Harve don’t com
e home, I want for Charlie to have the baby.”
“Charlie?” I gasp.
“I want him to have something to remember me by.”
“You could make him a quilt,” I reply.
Jennie Kate drew herself up and says, “He’s to have my baby. That is my wish.”
“But what if Charlie doesn’t come home, either?”
Jennie Kate slumped back into the chair and thought that over. “I guess you can have her. Promise me you’ll take her.”
“Jennie Kate, you can’t give away your baby. You’ve got family that ought to have her.”
“I want you should promise.” Jennie Kate stuck out her lower
“Oh, I suppose,” I says. “But nothing’s going to happen to you. You’d be fine if you would get out of that chair and do.”
Jennie Kate glared at me and says, “You are jealous of me. You’re an outsider, and nobody wanted you here. I’ve attempted to be nice, but I get no thanks from you for trying to turn Mrs. Bullock’s heart to your favor. She doesn’t like you, you know—not then, not now. None of us likes you. You’re foolish, and you put on airs, you and your sister. And everyone knows about you and Mr. Smead. I wrote Harve to tell Charlie about it so’s he won’t be shamed by it when he comes home.” She took a breath before continuing; then her eyes lit on the spice cake that Mother Bullock had made for her. “You can’t cook decent, either. I wouldn’t feed that cake to chickens.”
I was almost dizzy with anger, but I would not stoop to reply to her lies, for that would give credence to them. Instead, I stood and took up the cake. “I can only wonder what kind of mother you are that you would give away your baby to such a vile creature as myself.”
On the way home, I threw the cake into the woods and told Mother Bullock that Jennie Kate had sent her thanks.
From your much-abused sister,
Alice Bullock
6
Kitty Corner
Depending on date and location, the same quilt pattern may have a dozen names or more. Irish Puzzle is known as Old Maid’s Ramble, Rambling Road, Storm at Sea, Flying Dutchman, and Weather Vane. Bear’s Paw is also Duck’s Foot in the Mud, Hand of Friendship, Quaker Handshake, and Goose Tracks. As it crossed state borders, Maryland Beauty, with only a slight variation in design, became Kansas Troubles; a design called Georgetown in the East was known as Oklahoma Star in the Southwest. A superstitious quilter, who refused to let her husband sleep under a Wandering Foot for fear he would run off, felt safe when she renamed her quilt Turkey Tracks. Kitty Corner is Puss in the Corner as well as Tic-Tac-Toe.
May 7, 1864
Esteemed Sister,
Did you look at the postmark and wonder who could be sending you a letter from Hannibal, Missouri? It’s me, Alice! I’ve come here with Mrs. Kittie, and it is a fine adventure. Mrs. Kittie had a sudden need to go to Hannibal and did not feel safe making the journey alone, so she invited me along. At first, I says, “No,” of course, for we have much work to do on the farm and only three women to do it. But then Mrs. Kittie said, “Did I mention I would pay fifty dollars for a companion?” So me and Mother Bullock decided I should go, for that is more money than we are likely to see for the rest of the year. Fifty dollars beats it all hollow!
As we were leaving Slatyfork, Lizzie, I collected your letter at the post office and read it on the stage, and will now respond. I am sorry James is compelled to work as a laborer, but I agree that common work is better than no work. Mama and Papa would not think so, and I advise you in your next letter to them to overlook the mention of what he does. I believe sharing a house with another family to be much the better course than living in a boardinghouse. Why, you would have someone to help with the cleaning and the laundry and the cooking, just like a sister. And the girls will have a live-in playmate.
Now I shall commence to tell you of our trip. It is capital! We left Slatyfork on the stage. Mrs. Kittie is so large, she had to be pushed into the coach, and once inside, she took up an entire seat. I slid into a corner across from her, making myself as small as possible to allow room for others, but even so, two men had to ride atop, and they were not gentlemen about it. One asked loudly if Mrs. Kittie had purchased three tickets for herself, as she took up enough space for that number. She has the jolly disposition of fat people, so instead of being wounded by the remark, she laughed until tears rolled down her huge cheeks, which are like mounds of risen bread dough. And during the trip, she entertained our companions with funny stories, mostly about the untimely demise of her sundry husbands.
We reached Keokuk in good time and were fortunate to book passage to Hannibal on the Queen Sabra, as good a steamboat as ever churned the waters of the Mississippi, although she was not so grand as before the war, because she had been taken over by the army for a time. I never rode first-class before, and it was a peach. The salon was as big as the Customs House at Galena and fitted out with walnut chairs and a piano. And on the deck were rocking chairs. The gentlemen, many of them high-ranking officers, drank whiskey toddies, but me and Mrs. Kittie ordered Catawba wine. I have never drunk it in the afternoon, but Mrs. Kittie said we needed it on the water so our stomachs wouldn’t rust. I thought that a first-rate explanation.
When we disembarked at Hannibal, Mrs. Kittie found a drayman to take her trunk and my valise to the Planters Hotel. She sailed into the place like a steamboat herself, and people bowed, bobbing up and down like buoys in a Mississippi storm. The owner himself greeted us and gave us the best suite of rooms in the house—a common sitting room with two bedrooms opening off it. Mrs. Kittie is well known in these parts. One of her husbands—the first, I think, but I get them mixed up—was a turpentine dealer here and very wealthy. In fact, I believe Mrs. Kittie to be very wealthy herself, although she does not live like a rich woman in Slatyfork, for fear of attracting fortune hunters, she says. She even has a boarder, but that is because she is partial to male company, and it seems a better bargain for him to pay her rent than for her to pay him for companionship. When I asked why she stayed in Slatyfork when she might live anywhere she chose, she replied she was a simple person who did not care for show. Now, Lizzie, I ask you, why else would a woman wear red shoes with red-and-white-striped stockings?
Mrs. Kittie had not confided in me beforehand the reason for her visit, but after we were settled in our rooms, she announced she would visit her banker—by herself. Fine with me, for I had not been out of her sight since we left Slatyfork, and she can be tiresome. She suggested that I rest, but I would not, and immediately she was gone, I took myself out to see the sights. Hannibal is a good place for a rich woman and not so bad for a poor one. The town is not so grand as Galena, but a respectable place and growing fast. There are many tidy houses near the Mississippi and some very fine ones going up higher on the hill. The commercial establishments are closer to the river, and while there are not so many of them as at Galena, there are a dozen times more than at Slatyfork. I purchased Wistars Balsam of Wild Cherry for Mother Bullock at Dr. Grant’s Drugstore. Since it also stocks glass, books, and writing supplies, I bought a bottle of ink, for I am tired of our Bramble Farm ink, which Mother Bullock makes from sumac, pokeberries, and vinegar. I walked by Gents & Ladies Shoes, and also the millinery and dressmaker shops, then curbed my temptation to enter the watch store. Likewise, I was much too vain to stop at the place advertising “Daguerreotypes, $1.25, and Excellent Portraits Painted,” for I don’t want anyone to see what I look like after near two years on Bramble Farm. But I could not pass by the variety store without examining the fabric, and bought myself a length. I strolled along the landing, past the old men lounging and spitting tobacco, to watch the boats on the rolling water. I have missed the great river since I left Fort Madison. Then I walked up the hill to a little park to escape the heat and see the carpenters work on one of the mansions that are going up here. It is of red brick and has a gable in the center, very fashionable. Oh, and here is something funny I saw: a spotted iron dog, big as a fox and so real, I alm
ost pet it. I should like to have an iron cow that would not kick when I got to milk it—but then, the milk from such an animal might taste of rust.
I returned from my rounds, to find Mrs. Kittie asleep in her room. As my feet were tired, I sat in a chair in our sitting room, propped my feet on the windowsill, and went to piecing. I could see the traffic on the river as I sewed, and Lizzie, for a moment I pretended to be home in Fort Madison, stitching away in our little attic room with its view of the Mississippi. All that was missing was you—and I could hardly pretend that the grunts and sighs coming from the next room were yours. When Mrs. Kittie rolled out of bed and found me stitching, she says, “Well, Sis, I see I can take a girl from the country to the city, but she takes the country with her.”
I did not see that quilting made me a jake, and I replied starchly, “Madam, I purchased these fabrics on my walk just now.” I held up a yard of Prussian blue-and-brown chintz that I had bought for thirty-one cents the yard, which purchase did not seem excessive when I have fifty dollars due me. The fabric with its flowers and trailing vines was so tempting that I had cut a dozen little shapes from it.
“You did, did you? Then I guess you have put me in my place. To make up for it, I shall take you to tea at the smartest place on the river. Now, help me with my corset.”
Oh course, I could not be out of sorts with her, for she is such a good, generous soul. Besides, I nearly laughed aloud as I stretched and pulled and pushed to get the corset strings tight, stuffing Mrs. Kittie inside, as if I was forcing a quart of mashed potatoes into a pint jar.
When that challenge was successfully met, we went to Mrs. Kittie’s favorite tea shop, but as we entered, I spied a Confederate flag behind the pyramids of sweets on glass stands. (There is much Confederate sympathy here.) Oh, Lizzie, they were such tempting treats—marzipan, chocolate buns, iced cakes, lemon and strawberry tarts. But I stood firm and would not go inside because of the Secesh display. “I am the wife of a Yank,” I declare archly.
Alice's Tulips: A Novel Page 12
