A flare of righteous anger sparked in my chest, fanning the flame of curiosity. “Heliotropes? Why does that matter?”
“In the language of flowers, giving someone heliotropes means ‘faithful ’til the end,’” Della said.
My mother told me once, when I was very small, that every different flower held its own unique meaning. She always loved when Papa gave her a bouquet of purple crocus, because crocuses stood for cheerfulness. He’d bring them home when she was feeling low, which seemed to happen often. I remembered hoping that when their baby was born she would feel happier. It never occurred to me that neither she nor the infant would survive, and Lilah and I would be left motherless, with a father whose mind began sinking to deep, dark places.
Della’s somber tone drew me back to an equally bleak story of loss. “Mary leaving that ring proves she didn’t go off to meet her love. She buried that dream, right there with their little girl,” Della said. She pointed to the distant spire of a country church. “The baby’s grave is in the cemetery, behind the church. Mary doesn’t even have a marker. They never found her body and Reverend Mayhew refused to hold a service for her. He was that ashamed of her.”
I stared out toward the unseen graveyard, thinking of the iron cross we’d used to mark Mother’s grave. When I returned home, I’d visit and lay fresh flowers on her final resting place. Hyacinths, for sorrow.
My somber mood turned to disbelief when Abel spoke up. “Whoever the fellow was that left Mary, he deserved a solid thrashing.” Della and Katherine nodded along, completely suckered by Abel’s blatant hypocrisy. This was the pot calling the kettle black if I’d ever seen it.
Before anyone could speak, a group of boys approached, calling to Jasper and Abel. “We’re getting up a baseball game, Wheeler versus Argenta,” said a stocky, wide-shouldered boy.
His companion pointed to me, Della, and Katherine. “Girls too, we need everyone to have enough. We’ve got gloves for everybody,” he said, holding up a stack of weathered leather mitts. “Unless you’re left-handed.”
The gloom of Mary Mayhew’s story fell away. Jasper leapt to his feet immediately, cracking his knuckles. “You’re out, southpaw,” he said to Abel, who shrugged, looking distracted. “Come on, ladies,” he said, tugging his sister along. Della stood, too. “How about it, Verity? Do you play?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.” I’d seen baseball played by ragtag kids in the alleys around our apartments, and sometimes older boys at the orphanage organized a game in the courtyard, but I’d never had the inclination to join.
“Y’all come watch when we get going,” Jasper said. “I’ll be pitching for Wheeler. Nobody can hit my knuckleball.” The two boys agreed and slapped him on the back.
“Sorry to leave you,” Della said as she and Katherine turned to go. “Argenta beat us last year, so we’ve got to redeem ourselves.”
I called a halfhearted “good luck” after them, already shifting to look at Abel. He sat propped against the trunk of a hickory, one knee bent. “That was an upsetting story, wasn’t it?” I said. Not the most tactful opening, but I’d never been known for subtlety.
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
“Everything might’ve been all right if she hadn’t been forced to go it alone,” I went on. “Think of how things could’ve gone if the baby’s father had stood with her. It seems to me his leaving is what pushed Mary to the brink.” A drop of venom slipped into my words. “He’s to blame, in my opinion. Do you agree?”
Abel’s dark blue eyes locked on mine, and I saw him register my hostility. The wheels turned, and I fancied I could see Abel calculating just how much I knew. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Verity?” he said at last, voice tight.
“I overheard your conversation with Big Tom. About the girl and … and the baby on the way.” Abel’s face went frozen-lake still. “I know it’s not really my place to bring it up,” I said, gaining confidence from the justice of my cause.
“Agreed,” he gritted out.
“But I don’t understand why you won’t marry her. It’s awfully selfish of you, if you’ll pardon my bluntness. She shouldn’t have to face this alone, just like Mary shouldn’t have. That’s all.”
Abel’s brows lifted in surprise. I expected the hot, shamefaced anger of someone called out on their misdeeds. Instead, a smile stirred one corner of his lips.
I scowled. “That’s hardly the appropriate reaction, Mr. Atchley.”
“Even sitting on the ground, I see you’re still on your high horse.” His short laugh was edged with ire. “First of all, she’s only fifteen. And despite her current situation, I’m not sure she’s ready to be married.”
My jaw clenched. How dare he be so blasé?
He ran a hand through his wheat-colored hair. “To be such a know-it-all, you’ve missed one pretty crucial fact.”
“And that is…?” I asked, wondering what toothless excuse he could give for his behavior.
There was a glint in his eyes that turned their blue to ice. “I’m not the father of Clara’s baby.” He climbed to his feet, brushing bits of grass and leaves from his trousers. “She’s not my lady friend. She’s my little sister.”
Understanding hit like a thunderclap. Abel’s anger, and his hard remarks about marriage, weren’t because he intended to shirk his duty. They were directed at the man who’d left his sister high and dry.
Nothing renders a girl speechless quite like realizing she’s made a meddling ass of herself.
I swallowed hard, unsure of where to begin. “I’m sorry for Clara—that is to say, I’m sorry she’s in this—um—difficult predicament.” My face blazed, but I stumbled on. “I hope she’s all right.” Even in my embarrassment, the seriousness of the girl’s plight struck me like a blow to the gut.
As if we were back in the dance, Abel gave an impeccable bow. “Very kind of you.” His gaze was back to its summery blue, but there was a hint of pique beneath. I couldn’t blame him. I’d assumed the worst of him and been spectacularly wrong. “And now,” he said, looking across the field to where the baseball game was in progress, “it looks like Wheeler could use a pinch hitter.”
He glanced down at the half-empty bottle of cola in my hand and downed the last of his own. Tucking the empty bottle into his back pocket, he remarked, “You might want to finish that. I’ve heard it goes well with humble pie.”
9
I wandered the fairgrounds alone for a long, long while. Pigs would fly before I ventured over to the baseball game. At last I decided to make my way back toward where the canning contest had been held and look for Hettie. The small-animal exhibition tent stood in my path, so I ducked under the sides and into its dusty, warm confines. Rows and rows of wire cages greeted me. Milling lines of patrons shuffled by, stopping to admire the sleek rabbits and glossy-feathered chickens. Indignant honking came from a cluster of geese who seemed to object to the judge prodding them around a show ring. Lifting my hem out of the dirt, I mumbled “excuse me”s and “beg your pardon”s. The tent was a muddle of sounds and smells and moving bodies. It was, in my current state of shamefaced confusion, all a bit much.
I was almost through the tent when I heard Lilah’s voice over the crowd. “Look at this one, Miss Maeve.” Stopping on a dime, I backtracked to spy my little sister, hand-in-hand with the beautiful teacher. Lilah’s hair was plaited in an intricate braid that hung down her back like shining copper. She wore a lacy dress the color of new spring leaves, and somehow her wide white collar was still pristine. Beside her, Miss Maeve bent to admire a woolly-headed lamb. The little creature lifted its rounded nose and Lilah scratched behind its ears.
They made such a lovely picture. The fair-haired woman and the lamb, the happy girl enjoying her first trip to the fair. Jealousy spiked through my chest, followed by bitter guilt.
I should want to see Lilah this happy. It scratched at my mind, like a fingernail at a wound, this new and troubling worry that perhaps I was selfish for wantin
g to take my sister back to New York.
I slipped away, unwilling to face the possibility that I might suddenly be an unneeded visitor in my sister’s new life.
After a few minutes of uneasy wandering, I spied Big Tom’s wide frame parting the crowd. “I’ve been hunting for you,” he said as he drew near. It was only then that I noticed Abel trailing in his wake. Big Tom hooked his thumbs in the straps of his overalls. “Me and Hettie are about to head back to the farm. You ride on ahead with Abel. There’s a job waiting for y’all at the barn.”
Meek as a kitten, I nodded and followed Abel out of the tent. He didn’t slow his pace, so I sped to match his long strides until we were side by side. I couldn’t help sneaking glances at his profile, trying to gauge just how angry he was with me.
“The mama cow isn’t doing too well,” he said, his tone neutral. We cut across the midway back toward where Merlin stood tied to a tree. “Big Tom thinks pneumonia. We’ll have to feed the calf on a bottle until she gets better.” He swung up onto the horse, settling behind the saddle instead of in it, extending a hand down to me. “Come on. We better get moving.”
I felt my face heat as I realized precisely how snug our riding arrangement would be. Abel noted my unease with a smirk. “Despite what you may think of me, I won’t try anything untoward,” he said. “But I can’t promise the same for Merlin.”
The horse, as if he were in on Abel’s game, turned his long face toward me and nuzzled my sleeve. I shoved a foot into the stirrup, grasping Abel’s forearm. His muscles tightened and, quick as a blink, I was perched on Merlin’s broad back. I shifted so both my legs were on one side with my skirts spread over the horse’s flank.
Abel’s breath on my neck was warm and unexpected. I should start my apology now, but with him so close, it was hard to think properly. He nudged the horse into motion, and we set out for the farm.
We arrived as the sun dipped below the horizon. I fetched a bucket of water and Abel mixed it with powdered milk. “I should probably change,” he said. “Hettie’s not fond of trying to scrub calf slobber from my church clothes.” He shot up the rickety ladder to the loft, leaving me alone with the calf.
I peered over the waist-high gate into the stall. “He’s acting like that scene at the fair never happened,” I said to the little bull, who looked at me with solemn black eyes. He sneezed softly, flapping overlarge ears, then licked his left nostril.
I glanced up to the square hole cut in the ceiling. Lantern light flickered down from Abel’s loft into the gloom of the barn’s lower level. I had to get this over with.
“Can I come up?” I called.
“Yep,” Abel said. “I’m always at home to the company of pretty young women.” He paused. “Or so I’m told.”
Pretty? I swallowed hard, banged my forehead softly on a ladder rung, then skittered up.
Abel’s bedroom, such as it was, turned out to be an open, hay-strewn space. A pallet of quilts and a feather pillow on a pile of straw substituted for a bed. There was no washstand or dresser, and his meager wardrobe hung from nails scattered randomly along the walls. A two-foot-tall tree stump served as a makeshift nightstand, with the lantern atop it beaming light into my eyes.
When my vision adjusted, my attention landed on the far wall, where the comfortable dishevelment stopped. A solid, neatly constructed bookcase stood against the rough-hewn plank wall. It held a surprising number of books, all neatly aligned, their spines straight as soldiers. On top of the bookcase, in a wooden frame, was Abel’s diploma from the one-room schoolhouse.
From across the loft, Abel paused midway through lacing his work boots. I stood in awkward silence. Abel rose, gesturing grandly. “Miss Pruitt, welcome to my den of iniquity.”
The laugh that bubbled up took me by complete surprise. His answering grin was enough to loosen my tongue. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions and sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong.” The dam broken, my words poured out as I crossed the loft. “Papa used to say when I get to Heaven, God will be relieved because He’ll finally have someone else to run the world.” I sucked in a deep breath and held it, waiting for his reply. A mourning dove cooed in the rafters overhead.
“It was big of you to apologize.” He looked at me, running a hand through his tousled hair. “And I accept. You thought you were looking out for someone who needed it. I can appreciate that.”
I exhaled in a rush. Suddenly, with my apology done, standing this close to him in this private space became overwhelmingly personal. I needed something bland to say, and fast. “You have a lot of books,” I blurted.
“Much like friends, you can’t have too many. I’d be happy to loan a few out. All you need to do is sign an oath in blood swearing they’ll return unharmed.”
“I prefer nonfiction.” I pointed to the collected poems of E. A. Robinson. “And while I’m making black confessions, I’ve never been too interested in poetry.”
Abel pressed a broad hand to his heart. His fingers were lightly sprinkled in freckles, barely noticeable in the lantern light. “Some truths are better left unsaid, Miss Verity.”
I smiled. “I might be too outspoken at times.”
“I’m not so sure about that. I think it’s nice to meet a girl who calls it how she sees it.”
A high-pitched bawl from the lower floor vibrated through the air. “Sounds like our little fellow is getting impatient.” I shoved the lace-trimmed sleeves of my white dress above my elbows. “Shall we get started?”
Abel eyed me, then reached for a cotton shirt hanging on a nearby nail. “You can wear this over what you’ve got on,” he said.
I slid my arms into the sleeves, rolling them up several inches until my hands reappeared. Abel nodded his approval, then swept deftly down the ladder. I grabbed the lantern and followed.
When I joined him on the packed-dirt floor, the calf was wobbling to his feet, still bawling indignantly. I pressed my palm against the wide, flat space between his eyes, and he leaned into my hand like a puppy wanting to play.
“Since he’s warmed up to you, I think you should do the honors.” Abel handed me the bottle.
I bent low, holding it in the calf’s direction. He gave the rubber nipple a skeptical sniff, and turned his head. I tried again with the same results. “I know he’s hungry. Why won’t he eat?” I demanded. “He reminds me of Lilah. She never knows what’s good for her either.”
“Lilah is your little sister?” Abel asked, coming to sit on a saddle rack near me. I nodded, rolling the smooth glass between my palms.
“Yes.” A memory forced its way forward: A knock on the door of our shabby apartment. Lilah, looking up from a book with a worried frown as I greeted the tidy-looking social worker. “Your father has been taken to the asylum,” the woman had said in a voice bland as porridge, launching into a dispassionate summary of how Papa had been apprehended while brandishing a knife on a crowded street, shouting and flailing at attackers no one could see. “I’m here to escort you both to the Children’s Benevolence Society Home,” the woman had said. “Everything will be all right now.”
Part of me was surprised we’d managed to avoid being taken into state custody for so long. But Papa’s decline had been gradual, the spells of delusion coming in fits and starts. He’d even managed to hold on to his medical practice, though it was greatly diminished, until around three years ago. Since then, the dark days far outweighed the rational ones. Rumors reached me, casting his delusional public ramblings as the actions of a man too deep in his drink. Some whispered behind gloved hands that Dr. Pruitt had taken too freely of the Bayer pharmaceutical company’s latest medicine, heroin. That wasn’t the case, but no one could credit that such a brilliant mind had disintegrated all on its own with no outside interference.
“Lilah’s all I have left,” I said, forcing my mind back to the present. Abel likely took my words to mean she was my only living relative. At times, with the father I’d known when I was a little girl long gone, I almost felt t
hat it was true. “I never dreamed we would be taken to different homes.”
“That doesn’t seem right to me, splitting up family,” Abel said.
The calf’s curiosity and hunger had started to win out over his fear of the unknown. He started toward me, skinny tail flicking from side to side. “I agree. But no one asked my opinion.” I poked the bottle toward the calf again, but he once more turned up his velvety pink nose.
“There’s a trick to it, you know,” Abel said.
“You didn’t bother telling me before I started?”
“You would’ve insisted on trying it your way first anyhow.” He reached out with the toe of his heavy work boot and playfully tapped the end of my shoe. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he challenged.
“Just show me this magical secret,” I huffed, trying to hide a smile.
“You’ve got to straddle him. Get his neck between your knees and hold him still.”
The calf butted my knee with his head. “If you’re trying to make me look foolish, you’ll regret it, Abel Atchley.” I captured the creature’s neck between my knees. The little beast struggled, flinging my skirts about. A flush stole over my cheeks. “Turn your head, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re awfully concerned with propriety for a girl who showed up in my bedroom not five minutes ago,” Abel said.
The calf bucked, nearly toppling me over. “Quit smirking and come help me!”
Abel came over, took the bottle from my hand, and unceremoniously shoved it in the calf’s mouth. There was a garbled noise, followed by a gurgling. “Did you drown him?” I asked.
Eventide Page 7
