by Penn Gates
On this Sunday in April, the sky is as blue as the walls of her favorite Greek restaurant back in Cleveland. Puffy white clouds form themselves into the shapes of elephants and angels, then drift apart. And all the while, kites flutter across the face of the clouds like laundry escaped from the wash line.
During the last of the winter weather, cabin fever was epidemic. No board game was ever completed, no picture colored, without accusations of cheating or arguments over crayons. Then Cash showed the kids his design for an aerodynamically perfect kite. The number of arguments remained high, but they became passionate debates over which materials to use, how long a kite tail should be, and whether girls could fly kites as well as boys. Today the builders are doing test flights to settle many of their disagreements in a more scientific manner.
Nix frowns as she spots an aerial dog fight. Always aggressive, Michael maneuvers his kite toward George's and attempts to use the pointy top to poke a hole in the lightweight tissue George opted to use. Michael's macho behavior makes Nix feel vaguely guilty. Maybe it always was a natural part of his personality, but would it have been held in check by the Mennonite belief in non-violence if she hadn't come along and encouraged him?
Nix turns her attention to the Shirk girls, who never cause problems and always make her feel better. Nix laughs out loud as prim and proper Margaret stomps her bare foot in a puddle and splashes Freddie Krueger. Should Freddie even be out there, Nix wonders, then decides if Margaret thinks it's OK, she's not going to worry. Mary and Elizabeth look like they stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting, braids flying and pinafores flecked with mud, as they run across the newly turned earth.
The kite testing ground is the first field that was plowed this spring. Cash had spent every waking minute of the winter tuning up Gramps' old tractor or sharpening plow blades, checking every piece of farm equipment down to the smallest nut and bolt. Nix has to admit the guy is a hard worker. Now, watching him as he crouches behind Martin and tugs the kite string to demonstrate how to change its direction, she sees a kid having as much fun as the rest of them.
Cash glances in her direction and notices her watching. Nix has a feeling that her scrutiny has ruined his enjoyment of the moment. I made such a big deal about being stuck with all these kids, she thinks, that he feels uncomfortable acting his age because I'll think he's a burden, too. As if. Along with George, Margaret, and Michael, he's become indispensable.
Nix is not the only one who's chosen to stay mud free. Near her, Brittany lounges in a pose straight out of a teen fashion magazine. She pretends a languid boredom at the childish kite flying, but her features sharpen with interest when Cash is nearby. The girl is seventeen, by Mennonite standards a young woman, but she seems to be driven by impulse, with almost no self control and an infantile need to be the center of attention. She acts as if she's doing prison time for some crime she didn't commit, and talks endlessly of her life as it used to be. Nix has been concerned for some time with her talent for pitting one person against another. There's no room for someone who won't carry their own weight, but Nix is at a loss. She can't just shove Brittany out the door and tell her to get lost. As much as she'd like to.
Just beyond Brittany, Jason completes a last set of pushups before he takes off running and disappears around the bend in the drive. He does his assigned chores without complaining, but otherwise his attitude stinks. He doesn't make the slightest attempt to fit in, and his pride in his own ignorance is monumental. He knows better than to use the N-word or call someone a fag, but because the media never told him it was wrong to make fun of Mennonites, the Shirk boys are fair game.
Nix idly wonders if Jason will keep on going once he reaches the road. She encourages all the kids to stay close to the farmhouse unless they're with others. Nix knows everyone but Cash thinks she's paranoid, and there's nothing concrete she can cite for her insistence on vigilance. They haven't seen or heard another soul, except for Mr. Forrest. And that's the problem. There must be others out there, and if they're staying hidden it can only mean they're up to no good.
Emma is the first to tire. Running in the mud takes a lot of stamina. She steps into the grass and clumsily attempts to wipe her feet clean, as if the lawn were a hemp door mat.
Nix rises and calls to the girl. “Hey Emma, come here!" Nix leads her to the water pump by the back porch and says, “Stand with your feet under the spigot.”
Emma squeals. “The water is freezing!”
Nix laughs. “The good news is, it will still be that cold in summer. It comes from an artesian spring." She points. “See that little block building over there? That's the spring house. They used to put things like milk and butter in there to keep when it was hot.”
On impulse, Nix grabs a threadbare towel hanging on the porch rail and throws it to Emma. “Get your shoes on and come for a walk with me—unless you're too tired.”
The girl looks suddenly petrified, and Nix feels a twinge of guilt. When she'd scared the shit out of the suburban brats, she hadn't known that one of them is just a timid kid who always tries to follow the rules.
Emma nods her head now, like a little bird, and follows Nix obediently. They make their way along the edge of the east pond, where the cattle are watered, and down into the orchard. The stiff breeze tosses the flowering branches of the apple trees and petals fall like snow.
Emma forgets her shyness for a moment and spins around and around, laughing in delight.
“You seem to like it here,” Nix says casually.
The girl stops catching petals and looks at Nix. “I do. I really do." She sounds surprised at the realization. “It's so quiet. The air doesn’t hum like it does in the city." She colors. “That sounds silly, doesn't it?”
“Not at all. I know just what you mean. All the cars, all the machinery, there's a kind of low level vibration that never stops.”
“It felt like my molecules were getting shaken up all the time,” Emma says. “Can sound really attack you?”
Nix wonders how two sisters can be so different. At least on the surface, Emma has apparently adapted effortlessly to a life that's sliding a little more each day into the nineteenth century, while Brittany continues to rail against her fate.
“Maybe that's what Brittany misses,” Nix says casually, sitting down and resting her back against one of the trees. “Maybe it feels good to some people.”
Emma sinks gracefully to the ground in front of Nix and regards her with sad eyes. It occurs to Nix that the girl might have thought she was at last being noticed.
“Hey, kiddo,” Nix says hastily, “You're a real asset around here. You're not only a big help, but your positive attitude keeps everyone's spirits up.”
“Everyone but Brittany,” Emma says. “She figured out a long time ago that complaining gets you attention.”
Nix picks up a blade of grass and holds it between her two thumbs. She'd never mastered the ability to produce the loud reedy sound the boys used to signal each other while playing Indians in the woods. Which had infuriated her. She'd prided herself on doing anything they could - and then some.
Nix tosses the blade of grass away. “Frankly, your sister is driving me nuts—and most of the others resent the hell out of her because she won't do her part." She smiles at Emma. “You have the same parents, were raised in the same house—how can you two be such polar opposites?”
“For openers, we're only half sisters,” Emma says, her hands folded primly in her lap. “Mom had Brit when she was seventeen, but she lived with her parents while she finished school. When Mom got married, Brit was three." Emma looks earnestly at Nix. “She'd always lived in a house full of grownups who gave her lots of attention—then suddenly they were gone and Mom was busy with her new husband. And then I came along.”
Emma pushes up the sleeve of her sweater and points to a scar just below her elbow. “She used to be really mean to me, but when we got older she just started ignoring me.”
“Huh. And yet the night you guys show
ed up, she wouldn't leave your side when I searched you.”
“Maybe she felt like she'd lost everything else, and I’m all she has left.”
“Wow, that's bleak,” Nix says slowly. “How about you? You must feel the same way.”
“Not really. I never felt like I had a sister—just a tormentor.”
The girl sits quietly, waiting to see if there are more questions, and Nix realizes how much she appreciates people who are not threatened by the absence of words.
Nix finally breaks the silence. “In my experience, people keep on doing what they've always done unless something stops them. Brittany will do whatever it takes to make herself the center of attention and blame others because her life isn't what she wants it to be.”
“Maybe,” Emma says slowly. “But doesn't her attitude hurt her more than anyone else?”
“That's where you're wrong,” Nix answers. “I bet she created a lot of tension in your family trying to make everyone feel guilty about how they treated poor Brittany. I see her trying the same thing here.”
“I guess that's true,” Emma responds, but she doesn’t look convinced.
“If someone here doesn't carry their weight, it means someone else has to do more. But humans can only work so hard for so long, and then something else remains undone. It can cause a chain reaction.”
Nix stands and dusts off her hands. “You really pitch in, Emma, and I appreciate all your hard work.”
“Uh, Nix,” Emma stutters, “Do you think I could talk to you about something else before you leave?”
Try to solve one problem, and another pops up, Nix thinks. Why didn't I just keep my mouth shut? But she keeps her voice pleasant as she says, “Sure. What's on your mind?”
“Well, I know keeping the farm going is the main goal and all, but I've noticed—well, did you know that Martin can't read?”
“What?”
“I know he's pretty young,” Emma says defensively, “But he can't even read the words in picture books for preschoolers. And the other kids—they aren't learning their basic arithmetic or cursive writing." She looks pale, as if she's shocked at her own boldness. “I think there are some things worth preserving—I mean, now more than ever." She stands there breathing hard.
“I, for one, don't want civilization to die out in one generation,” Nix says. “So tell me your idea for solving the problem.”
Emma blushes. “I did some tutoring as part of an outreach program for kids at risk. I really enjoyed it. Made me want to be a teacher. I still do.”
“I'm for it,” Nix says. “All they do is play games at night, anyway. Why not some classes?”
She motions for Emma to walk with her. “It would probably be smart to include George in this before doing anything. I don't know what he could find fault with here, but sometimes he just—”
Emma nods her head and smiles. “Yeah, he does.”
“Next time I go into Hamlin, come along,” Nix says. “You can pick out some books at the library—no late fees any more. That's a plus, anyway.”
Nix takes a few more steps, then stops. “Your glasses,” she says. “Didn't they used to be broken?”
“They were,” Emma says, “But Cash fixed them.”
Nix examines the glasses more closely. “I can't even tell they were repaired,” she says. “I guess that boy really can fix anything.”
◆◆◆
Mennonites don't work on the Sabbath, beyond tending their animals. The day is set aside for worship of the Lord and socializing with friends and family. At first, when George insisted that everyone at the farm follow that rule, Nix fought him, but she'd relented when she'd seen how eager the suburban brats were to have some time to call their own.
After dinner, which on Sunday is mid-day, Nix escapes to the attic while the younger boys head outside for a game of catch and Elizabeth plays with a rag doll Margaret sewed for her. She doesn't want to know where the older kids are or what they're doing, as long as it's nowhere near her. Peace and quiet is a precious commodity these days.
On the night she'd added her grandfather's date of death to the family Bible, she'd been forced into an awareness that all the other faded names on brittle paper had also been real flesh and blood people, their lives filled with both pain and joy. They'd witnessed events that were now in history books. And suddenly she'd wanted to know more about them.
Digging around in the attic for useful items, she'd soon realized that the castoffs of the St Clair clan were links to the names in the Bible. Since Christmas day, she's spent Sunday afternoons searching for answers. Employing the same technique used at crime scenes to look for evidence, she’s divided the cavernous space into grids, methodically sifting through each section and taking an inventory of every object she finds, with notes on its potential usefulness. At the same time, she opens drawers, looks under table tops, and pays special attention to the pockets of old clothes.
Last Sunday, just as she'd been losing the light, she'd discovered a wooden chest pushed well back into the rafters. She'd pulled out a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon, a baptismal certificate, and what looked like a land grant. Nix sat back on her heels and enjoyed the brief aha! moment before closing the lid regretfully. As much as she'd wanted to drag the chest downstairs to her room and examine the contents, she'd known that realistically she would find no spare time to do so until next Sunday. And she'd felt—very briefly—a flicker of gratitude toward George, whose insistence on observing the sabbath had made the discovery possible.
Now she pulls out the papers, one by one, and stacks them on an old table. At the very bottom, she discovers a leather bound diary, and she knows she's about to meet an ancestor, up close and personal. She props her back against an oak washstand and opens the book.
The flyleaf is inscribed with the name Sarah Rebecca St Clair, and below it the year, 1859. On September third, Sarah made her first entry in her neat handwriting. She began by explaining that the fine volume in which she wrote had been a birthday gift from her husband, Douglas St Clair. She vowed to faithfully chronicle the events of her daily life.
Every day thereafter, Sarah began her entry by describing the weather and what she would prepare for dinner that evening. Sadly, there was little for her to record beyond the repetitive drudgery that was nineteenth century house work. Once a week, the family attended church in Hamlin, and Sarah furtively noted how other women trimmed their bonnets while the minister droned on and on. After services she was sometimes able to steal a few moments to catch up on events at neighboring farms.
Nix can't help herself. She speed reads through the days, one exactly like another, until Sarah began recording how many bushels of potatoes were taken down to the root cellar, along with squashes, onions, and carrots. A hog was butchered, hams and sausages smoked. The corn and wheat harvest exceeded expectations. Six cords of wood are stacked and drying.
A few months ago, none of this would have held the slightest interest for Nix, but now she takes feverish notes. If they could do all this with horse drawn plows and saws and axes, we should be able to top their output by quite a bit, she thinks. She returns to the diary.
In April of 1860, Sarah noted that she'd received a letter from Massachusetts. Aunt Rebecca Proctor, her mother's eldest sister, and the last of her line in New England, announced her intention to visit Ohio. Generations of Proctor women had contributed to an encyclopedic knowledge of wild herbs and medicinal plants, and Rebecca wished to present her niece with the Proctor legacy in the form of a handwritten book.
The summer of Aunt Rebecca's visit was mild and dry. The two women were able to roam the woods and meadows of the St Clair homestead quite comfortably. Sarah learned firsthand how to identify a plant from its scent alone. She was instructed in the art of making potions and tinctures. Sarah St Clair wrote that it was the best summer of her life.
Aunt Rebecca died peacefully in a rocking chair on the porch as she watched the sun rise on the day of the autumn equinox. They buried
her in the St Clair cemetery, off in a corner far from the other graves. Perhaps it was because she was a Proctor, not a real St Clair at all. Or maybe Douglas was a bit afraid of her. Old ladies who dabbled in potions were still regarded with suspicion. Aunt Rebecca had been born a little less than one hundred years after the last witch had been hung in New England—and the ‘witches’ hung during that awful time had included an ancestor, one John Proctor.
As fascinating as it is to be related to a witch, real or imaginary, the importance of the story is that somewhere a book of herbal medicine lies hidden, and Nix is determined to find it. In a world of uncertainty, it isn't likely that she'll get her hands on medical supplies easily. With Margaret's basic knowledge of tending the sick and her skills in the recipe department, she's a natural. If she isn't able to make sense of the instructions in that old book, who will? She's the closest thing to an expert available.
Nix thinks it through a while longer, and realizes that with Margaret studying herbal medicine and looking for ingredients, there will need to be some change up in the kitchen. Mary knows more about cooking at thirteen than Nix does after a lifetime of avoiding all possibility of learning. Only one thing more needed—someone to do the unskilled labor of peeling and chopping and stirring. And most of all, cleaning up. Nix grins. Who more perfect for the task than the suburban princess who sees herself as Cinderella? The whole thing seems so right, somehow, and Nix acts on the impulse. Why wait until the book itself is found? Brittany can begin her apprenticeship tomorrow morning.