by Rae Craig
Mom and Dad followed her back up, still discussing the plan to drive her to Theo’s if it rained. She got into bed, pulling up the quilt against the coolness coming in the open window. Her parents sat on her bed to either side.
Dad said. “When the drum skin is partly dry, you’ll want to cut off the excess with a sharp utility knife. It won’t cut with an even edge when it’s wet and may rip if it’s all the way dry.”
Mom looked around Harriet’s room, admiring her bookshelf arrangements. She stiffened suddenly and sighed. “Oh, Harriet.” Mom began to silently weep, tears rolling down her hollow cheeks.
Dad followed Mom’s steady gaze to the five-year-old birthday portrait of their twins. Dad swallowed hard, his chin bobbing with the effort.
He tucked his chin down. “I remember those boxing gloves. Grandma Jameson sent them for your fifth birthdays. She said you needed to learn that your brother could fight back and Clarence needed to learn that it was okay to stand up for himself.”
Harriet remembered the gloves, but not the reason for getting them. They had enjoyed make-believe fighting, prancing around each other while laughing and shouting.
Mom walked to the photo, picked it up and stared into the faces of her children. She lifted her head to gaze at Harriet, her eyes glistening. “Oh, Harriet.” She came over and kissed her daughter on the forehead. “I am proud to be your mother.”
Dad followed Mom out of the room, pausing to turn out the overhead light. “Good night, Harriet.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rose Garden
At breakfast Dad talked about his cousin moving into Grandma and Grandpa Jameson’s empty house down by New River Road. Then she’d set up her medical practice in Dr. Don’s old shophouse office. It turned out this Menja Donnellson had already moved in and Mom and Dad had not told Harriet. Why couldn’t they have moved into Grandma and Grandpa’s Jameson’s house themselves? Harriet loved everything about it, especially the sway-backed screen porch where she and Clarence had slept on warm summer nights. Now, not only did this Doctor Menja person have the house, but her disabled son, Tomas, would live there too and Harriet would have to be nice to him. What could a person in a wheelchair possibly do in a place like Shi-octon? No special ramps, no special schools, no disabled friends to mix with. Harriet and her friends would have to include him and that would mess up everything.
Dad told her. “We’re meeting Menja at Debski’s for supper tomorrow night.”
“I’ll stay here and eat a sandwich.”
Mom rested calm eyes on her daughter. “Family is important.”
Harriet threw up her hands and escaped to check her drum, letting the door slam behind her.
Pressing a sharp blade into the drum skin, she hoped it would cut without ripping if she was very careful. The color had lightened along the edges overnight, so it must have dried a bit. She sliced into the leather below the zig-zagged nails, puncturing the surface with the point and drawing the blade through the spongy hide. The skin wanted to bunch up and a rip appeared in the part she would eventually throw away. She would have to wait till it was drier.
Impatience made her reach for the crosspieces, but Dad said the skin must be dry before fitting them into the back. Would the drum’s tone be what she hoped for: deeper and richer than either May or Theo’s?
She rubbed a second coat of oil into the beater, using the warmth of her hand to penetrate the wood. Now the beater exactly matched the picture in her mind. She ignored how the healed cut on her palm glistened with oil.
After working on her geometry and physics through the morning, Harriet walked to Mom’s workshop. Matta’s truck was parked next to the lumber pickup doors, where Dana was helping Herm load his order while Ella organized hardware on the passenger seat.
She called to Harriet. “When can we start the Rose garden?”
Harriet saw the excitement in her face. “How about after I move Mom’s chairs?” She turned to include Dana.
They arranged to meet in an hour.
Harriet wheeled her garden cart through the quiet village and arrived first. She was sawing through a sapling next to the flat stone when Dana and Ella arrived with tools and a larger cart. It had sides, but no back or front.
She nodded. “Doesn’t stuff slide out?”
“The sides hold in the small tree trunks and they can stick out the front and back.”
They sawed the trees as close to the ground as possible, so they wouldn’t leave stumps. When enough overgrowth was cleared to allow their carts into the garden, they attacked the brush around the flat stone. Soon it was in the open, but still covered with dirt and leaves.
Harriet and Ella followed Dana across the road.
They got buckets from the shed, filling them from the outdoor faucet. Dana poured water on the middle of the stone, scrubbing with his hands and rinsing again. Ella worked on the end closest to the folly and Harriet on the end furthest away. Rose crystals flashed when sun hit the wet stone, but Harriet found an area that would not come clean. She scrubbed until an eight inch circular depression appeared and that’s when she got excited.
“I think there’s a hole.”
They joined forces pouring water and scooping out mud with their fingernails. The hole went right through the stone, perfectly round except for three notches on the inner and outer edges. They sat back on their heels, considering.
Grandma rode up on her bike and found them in that position, staring down at what they had uncovered. Out of her front basket came molasses cookies and apple slices with nut butter for dipping. She lifted jars full of lemonade out of her rear basket.
“You three look hungry.” They stood and she spread an oilcloth on the stone. “Since you’ve got this stone nice and clean, let’s use it for a table.”
Harriet drank her lemonade, tipping the jar up for the last drop. “Grandma, we found a hole.” They pulled back the cloth.
Ella said. “Aunt Helen, what’s it for?”
Grandma explained. “When I was just a year or two older than you, this garden was still beautiful, if maybe a little messy. No one took care of it after Great Grandma Rose passed to memory, but I don’t remember anything special about this hole.” She ran her fingers around the edge. “It feels like it was made on purpose, maybe something was put in it for decoration.” She packed up. “I’ve heard you’re learning to play instruments. Come to the shophouse tonight after supper. We’ll have a concert.”
Dana said. “Glad to come. I’ve only had one lesson.”
Ella added. “My new psaltery won’t be done until the glue dries and I sand it and put oil on it, so I’ll bring the one Bryn lent me.”
Harriet walked to the Grandma’s after supper carrying Grandpa Hoier’s drum. Dana reached the shophouse at the same time as Harriet.
Ella spoke to them from the gate. “Prepare yourself.” She watched Harriet expectantly.
Grandma appeared at the door, calm and smiling. “Come in and join us.”
Who was us? Three people already sat in the room as Dana and Ella founds seats. Harriet chose to stand near the door. “Let’s introduce ourselves.” Grandma motioned to Harriet, as if she expected her to say something.
Harriet barked. “Harriet Jameson. I take my lessons from May Giffin.” They did not need to know about Theo’s lessons.
Ella grinned and raised her psaltery. “I’m Ella Matta. My new psaltery isn’t dry, but Bryn lent me one of hers.”
Dana unfolded from sitting to standing and nodded to Grandma. “I’m Dana Rethic. My Dad runs the sawmill.” He pointed to the recorder on the chair behind him. “I borrowed this from Mel Clark.” He grinned and spread his hands out in mock apology. “I’ve only had one lesson.”
Grandma smiled at a muscular boy with buzzed hair. “Jordy Ontow lives on the farm next to the cemetery.”
Jordy grinned. “We make maple syrup and drill wells, but what I really like is taking machines apart and putting them back together.” He gestured with his reco
rder toward Dana, shrugging his shoulders. “One lesson for me too!”
Grandma continued, “Stevie Gribes,” She nodded toward the tight lipped girl Harriet had met twice before. “lives right down the street. Her mother is our potter.”
Stevie leaned forward, glaring at the others. “My mother made me come. This is crap.” Satisfied, she sat back.
Without reacting to Stevie’s statement, Grandma introduced a tall, long limbed girl who had scooted back into the corner. “Fread Tuttle lives on the farm just past the cheese factory.”
Fread avoided eye contact, her wavery smile aimed at her lap.
Ella jumped in. “Fread, you have a new treehouse along your driveway.”
Fread looked at Ella’s knees, not her face. “I used left over wood from the little-one’s new barn.” Harriet had to lean forward to hear her gruff whisper.
Stevie glared at Fread and interrupted. “I saw you getting nails from the Everything. You’d do a better job of it if you fixed that old bike. Can’t your dad do that?”
Fread’s smile fell. Harriet glanced at Grandma, who followed their conversations with intense interest, like she was watching a science experiment.
Dana said. “Jordy, did you have a good syrup season?”
“We sure did. Of course, I didn’t get to see the ice-breakup this year, because that night was my turn to stir the pans and it’s awful boring work.” He grinned at the memory, not at all irritated. “The syrup sure tastes good though.”
Harriet turned to Grandma. “Aren’t we here to play for you?”
“Certainly.” Grandma looked around the room. “Has anyone finished their instrument?”
Fread’s hand raised an inch off her lap.
“Would you show us?”
The drum was similar to Harriet’s, but made with fine grained wood and the beater was amazing. Harriet tried to make sense of the spirals carved between the egg-shaped ends, loosing herself in the beautiful maze-like pattern.
Ella reached over to touch the beater. “This is lovely.”
Grandma said. “Did you use your mother’s old tools? The design reminds me of the walking stick she carved for Clarence the year she passed to memory.”
Fread barely nodded her head and that was as much answer as they were going to get.
Harriet flinched at the name Clarence. After hearing Mom shout, “For our son, Clarence” at the May Day bonfire, people knew that he had died and would expect some reaction from her at every mention of his name.
That worry was tangled up with a new annoyance. Harriet’s beater wouldn’t be special compared to Fread’s fancy one. No one would admire hers after seeing Fread’s.
Grandma said. “Your teachers gave you a short melody to practice. It’s the focusing music and it’s used to concentrate your thinking. We’ll play it now.”
No one made a move to start.
Grandma picked up a drum Harriet hadn’t noticed and beat a solid rhythm with slow and quick parts and a surprising syncopated twist in the middle. They joined in: drums beating the rhythm, recorders pouring out a melody that climbed up to the twist then flowed back down and psaltery bows gliding over their strings with a wide-open tune that danced over the top.
The music repeated and repeated, each time beauty increasing. The conscious part of playing faded away, replaced with actually becoming the music. Waves of music included them in their dance and Harriet floated within music she could see and touch. Ahead of her, something waited, something larger than herself. Thrilling but also frightening. Was she ready? The music carried her right to it. Right to it!
She stopped beating. She would not go where she did not want to go.
Silence. A shadow of being part of something larger than themselves. Then they were individuals again.
Jordy said. “Wow. That sure did focus my thinking.”
Stevie exploded up out of her seat. “No one can make me do that again!” She shoved the psaltery at Grandma and stomped back to her seat.
Without acknowledging Stevie, Grandma said. “I can tell you’ve been practicing. Let’s meet here next week. It’ll be more fun than practicing by yourself and we can learn a dance tune to play at HomeComing.”
Over milk and brownies around the kitchen table Harriet was confused. She hadn’t practiced and she could tell the others hadn’t either, so how could they play so well? It was probably best not to think about it.
Stevie said. “Harriet, I heard your dad tell my mom that the first project in his group will be maps.”
“How do you know that?” Harriet knew he wouldn’t tell Stevie, after all, he hadn’t told her.
Stevie smirked and stuck out her chin. “He came to our house yesterday to show Mom some ugly old pots. I happened to be cleaning the inside of the big kiln, so I accidentally heard them. They didn’t see me, though.”
Dana interrupted. “That’s a noisy job; I’m surprised you could hear them and I’m surprised they didn’t hear you.”
“Well, I was taking a break.”
“Inside the dark, smelly kiln?”
“I like it in there.” Stevie stared at Dana until he dropped the subject, but he wore a knowing smile.
Fread had said nothing since they’d played their instruments, but now mumbled into her milk. “I like maps.”
Ella said. “So do I! I hope that’s what we’re doing.” She set her empty glass in the sink and helped gather the dirty dishes.
From the front porch, they watched Fread ride away, but after a few feet she had to stop and fix her fender so it wouldn’t rub the tire. Stevie was right, that bike needed repair, or maybe just replacing.
Stevie, watching from the gate, turned in disgust. “Fread should stay on their farm where people like that belong.”
Instead of leaving as they hoped she would, Stevie stomped back up the front walk to glare down at Harriet where she sat on the steps between her friends.
The scowling girl drew herself up and spewed out these words. “You’re only a half-person and no one thinks you should be allowed to live in Shi-octon.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’ll contaminate everyone in the valley, so you need to be kicked out.” Stevie waited for Harriet’s reaction with joyful anticipation.
Before Harriet could rage right back, a memory pushed into her head. She was practicing polite behavior with Clarence and had asked. “But how can I be polite to mean people when I just want to punch them?”
He explained. “If you’re mean right back to them, they’ve won because they’ve made you mad and they’ll keep doing it even if you do punch them, but if you’re polite it’ll make them angry because they can’t control you. Which do you want?”
Harriet took a breath. “Your psaltery is pretty and you played it well. I hope you come back next week to learn the dance tune we’ll play at HomeComing. Do you think we’ll play from up on the bandstand?” She gazed up at Stevie, her friends sliding closer to her, each resting a hand on one of her shoulders.
Stevie leaned closer and attacked again. “You’ll contaminate your pitiful friends and everyone else and that’s why you couldn’t live here when your unnatural twin brother was alive. Your family is only allowed here now because you killed him.” Stevie’s cocky smirk showed she knew that would do the trick.
“You!” Harriet sprang up with fists raised, but her friends pulled her back and that gave her a moment to calm herself. From behind, a cool hand settled onto her almost exploding head and she knew Grandma stood behind her.
Harriet swallowed a mouthful of spit. “See you next week, Stevie. Don’t forget to bring your pretty psaltery.”
“Uh!” Stevie swung away in disgust, slamming the gate behind her. They watched until she had stomped out of sight.
The reassuring hand on Harriet’s head lifted away and she swung around. “Thanks, Grandma---”
But no one was behind her and the shophouse door was closed. Harriet asked. “Wasn’t Grandma here?”
Dana and Ella shook th
eir heads and wondered why Harriet thought she had been, but only she knew the comfort of that cool hand. “Oh, I guess I imagined it.”
Dana stood up and smiled. “You’ve done it now, Harriet. She’ll keep coming back so she can play with us at HomeComing.”
They laughed, Harriet forcing herself to act normal until her friends left. But as she stumbled home, her hands started shaking, her legs wobbled and her vision got dark around the edges. She staggered into their garage and collapsed onto her knees.
Crumbling forward with her head resting on her thighs she rocked forward, backward, forward, backward. It became a rhythm, like a cadence for her mind.
Whose cool hand had rested on her head? Like the hand she had held in the grotto, it had made her feel whole. Harriet reached up and hugged her shoulders where her friends had given her strength. Water leaked from her eyes, not like she was crying, but in gratitude.
On the floor between her knees, an ant drank from one of her tears.
Chapter Eighteen
Debski’s
Framed by Harriet’s feet, Shi-octon Valley spread out below as she lay on the boulder catching her breath.
This morning Dad had announced. “Don’t forget we’re meeting Menja at Debski’s for supper.”
“But I’ve got barding today and then we’re working at the Rose garden.”
Mom said. “You can meet us at Debski’s after that.”
“Okay, but I’ll be gone all day.” She stomped out the front door.
With frustration rolling inside her, she biked to the Rose garden, but realized the saws were in Dana’s shed and she couldn’t go over there and act nice and friendly right now. Spinning around and pedaling toward the outlet tunnel, she didn’t even think about staying out of sight as she crossed the commons, but the channel doors were locked. Who did that?