“Bertie, Bertie, come on, Bertie,” I sang, my voice breaking. “Please, Bertie . . .” He stopped, looked at me, then took off again. Beth had named them Albert Edward and Alexandra for the king and queen of England after seeing a picture of them in Harper’s Magazine. Noisy, boisterous Beth, whose voice was only a whimper now. Whose small, busy hands had fluttered like doves against me as I’d washed her. Tears filled my eyes. I quickly wiped them away.
When I wanted to coax one of the cows, I would pick a fat handful of grass and wave it before her, but the twins weren’t eating grass yet. Pa was still feeding them milk mixed with linseed and oatmeal. I suddenly knew what to do. I ran into the milk house, grabbed the metal pails that Pa mixed their feed in, and clattered them together. Bertie pricked his ears. He trotted toward me. Allie followed and I was able to lead them to the pasture.
They bawled when they realized I didn’t really have any food for them. They were bound to be hungry. God only knew the last time they’d been fed. Or would be fed. If garget had set into the cows’ udders, their milk would be streaked with pus and blood. Where would I get fresh milk for the calves? How would I treat the infection? I didn’t know how to doctor a cow; only Pa did.
One thing at a time, Mattie, one thing at a time, I told myself, fighting down the panic frothing up inside me.
I ran back into the kitchen. The kettle was boiling furiously. I grabbed a handful of yarrow from the tin where Mamma kept it, put it in a teapot, and poured hot water over it. The tea would be ready when the color came out of the petals. Mamma had learned about yarrow from Mrs. Traversy, an Abenaki woman, when she’d had child-bed fever after Beth was born and Mrs. Traversy cured her. She stayed with us while Mamma got her strength back, and told us many things about doctoring. I wished to God I’d listened.
When the tea was dark, I put the pot, several cups, and a jug of cold water on a tray. Just get it down them, I told myself, walking up the stairs. Then they’d sleep and I could see to feeding the pigs and chickens and starting a fire under the wash kettle and finding out from Royal and Mr. Denio how bad the cows were. Having a plan gave me some confidence.
Every scrap of it disappeared, however, as soon as I got upstairs. Pa was shivering so hard, his bed rattled. Cords stood out in his neck, and he was babbling worse than before about killing someone. It was the fever. It was roasting him alive.
I put the tray down on his dresser and poured a cup of tea. “Pa?” I whispered, touching his cheek. “Pa, you need to drink this.” He didn’t hear me, didn’t even know I was there. “Pa?” I said, louder now. “Pa!”
He opened his eyes. His hands shot up at me; his fingers closed on my blouse. I screamed as he jerked me to him. I felt hot tea burn my legs, heard the cup smash on the floor.
“Robertson, you bastard!” he yelled. “Qu’est-ce que tu dis? That I’m no good? You tell her this? You son of a bitch . . . Écoute-moi, vieux, écoute-moi . . .”
I shook free of him, stumbled to the dresser, and poured another cup of tea. “You drink this, Pa!” I shouted at him. “Right now! You stop your nonsense and drink this tea!”
He blinked at me, his eyes suddenly mild. “Where’s Lawton, Mattie?” he asked me. “Is he back yet? I hear the cows . . .”
“He’s back, Pa. He’s . . . he’s in the barn, milking,” I lied.
“That’s good. I’m glad he’s back,” he said. And then I saw that tears were rolling down his cheeks, and I was terrified. My father never cried. “He ran away, Mattie. Ran away because I killed her.”
“Hush, Pa, don’t talk so. You didn’t kill anyone.” He was only babbling, but the more he talked, the more upset he became. I was afraid he’d get wild again.
“I didn’t kill her, Mattie,” he said, his voice rising. “I didn’t!”
I thought it best to humor him. “Of course you didn’t, Pa. No one says you did.”
“Lawton does. Said it was my fault. That I killed her with hard work. Said I should have moved us all to Inlet and worked in the sawmill. Said I killed your mother and I wasn’t going to kill him.” And then his face crumpled and he sobbed like a child. “I didn’t kill her; I loved her . . .”
I had to steady myself against the dresser. I felt like someone had taken my legs out from under me. That’s why they’d fought, I thought. That’s why Pa had swung the peavey at Lawton and why Lawton had run away. That’s why Pa never smiled anymore. Why he was so angry. Why he looked at us but never saw us. Oh, Lawton, I thought, some things should never, ever be said. Words are just words, Royal would say. But words are more powerful than anything.
“Lawton didn’t mean it, Pa. The cancer killed Mamma, not you.”
He nodded, but his eyes were elsewhere and I knew he believed my brother’s words, not mine. He was exhausted from his agitation, though, and I took advantage of it to make him swallow some tea. As I lifted his head, I felt that his skin was blazing. I undressed him, laying the dresser scarf over all the things I wasn’t supposed to see. I bathed him with cold water, holding the cloth to his wrists and the insides of his elbows and behind his knees to cool the blood.
I had never seen my pa naked. We were not allowed in the kitchen when he bathed. The skin on his chest was soft and lightly furred with black hair. There were scars on his back, from his shoulders to his waist—thick, livid welts from his stepfather’s belt buckle. I pressed my hand to his ribs and felt his heart fluttering. There were scars there, too. I knew it now, even though I couldn’t see them. He shivered terribly as I sponged him, and he clenched his teeth, but he didn’t try to throttle me. That was something. When I was done, I pulled the bedding back over him, piled two quilts on top, and made him drink another cup of hot tea. I didn’t know much about fevers, but I knew he needed to sweat. Sweating would bring the sickness out of him.
“I’ll miss you, Mattie,” he suddenly said.
“I’m only going across the hall, Pa,” I told him.
He shook his head. “Cow goes with a bull. Cow don’t go with a sheep. Don’t go with a goat. Goats don’t read, Mattie, they don’t read books . . .”
He was talking gibberish again. “Hush now, Pa,” I told him. “Try to sleep.”
When he had closed his eyes, I picked up the tea tray to take it in to my sisters. I put what Lawton had said out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about it. I had gotten to be so good at not thinking about things.
Then I went in our bedroom and saw that Lou had sicked up the water I’d given her and that Abby was out of bed and lurching about trying to clean Beth, who’d messed herself again. It was my fault. I’d given them too much water.
“Mattie! Matt, where are you?” a voice called from downstairs.
“Up here!”
Feet pounded up the stairs and then Royal was in the doorway. He winced at the smell.
“What is it?” I asked, coming out into the hallway.
“One of the cows is real bad. The one with the star on her head—”
“That’s Daisy. It’s not a star; it’s a flower,” I said stupidly.
“She’s suffering, Matt. Real bad. John wants . . . he wants to know where your pa keeps his gun.”
“No, Mattie, no! Don’t let him!” Lou yelled from her bed.
I shook my head.
He took me by the shoulders. “Matt, she’s bad off . . . it ain’t kind.”
“In the shed. Above the door.”
He went back downstairs, and I thought of Daisy’s large, dark eyes and her whiskered, mumbly lips. And how she never kicked when I milked her but always let me rest my cheek against her soft belly. I thought of poor Baldwin. And of the bull, fierce and black, up in the Loomises’ meadow. And how he frightened Daisy and Baldwin, but they still bashed through the fence every chance they got, just to be near him.
I heard the crack of a rifle, heard Lou shout my name, then curse. I heard the chamber pot go over in my father’s room, heard him tell someone named Armand to shoot the damn bear already.
Then I h
eard the sound of choked, quiet tears, as I sat down on the top step and wept.
fu • ga • cious
“You still taking the cod-liver oil I left at your place?” Mrs. Loomis asked me. She was sitting on her front porch, shelling peas into a blue enameled basin. I was sitting across from her, on an old wicker settee. Royal was next to me, his legs stretched out in front of him.
“Yes, ma’am,” I lied. I was pouring it down the sink, a little bit every day. I’d rather have the grippe, well and truly, than swallow any more cod-liver oil. Mrs. Loomis had dosed me good. She’d come to our house a week ago, as soon as Royal had gotten home and told her how it was with us. She’d brought all sorts of things with her—blackberry root and barley water to bind loose bowels. Onion syrup, whiskey, and gingerroot to bring a fever down. Lard mixed with camphor and turpentine for a rattling chest. She said it was one of the worst cases of grippe she’d ever seen. She doctored us and cooked for us and pulled us all through it. Weaver’s mamma helped her. I don’t know what we would have done without them. Pa had the remains of a cough and Beth was still too weak to get out of bed, but they were out of danger.
“Still feeding Beth plenty of ginger tea?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s a lot better. My pa said to tell you he’s much obliged. And that he’ll be over to pay a call in a day or two.”
“I don’t want his thanks, Mattie. Seeing a neighbor through is thanks enough for me. And besides, it ain’t all my doing, anyway. Weaver’s mamma did as much as I did.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She told me what happened to Weaver, by the way. It’s a terrible thing. Heard Jim Higby put those men in the county jail. Guess it’s right what they say about the squeaky wheel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ll be getting back to the Glenmore soon, I expect?”
“Pa’s taking me tomorrow morning. That’s why I brought your basket and jars. I wanted to make sure you got them back before I left.”
She raised her head, fixing me with her faded blue eyes. “You learning a lot up there? Cooking and ironing and such?” she asked.
“A bit.”
“That’s good. Eileen Hennessey makes a nice piecrust. A good Baltimore cake, too. She’s a methody cook, as I recall. Writes everything down. You should see if she’ll give you some of her recipes.” She straightened her back. I heard it crack. “Well, I reckon that’s that,” she said, picking up her basin. “Royal, take the pods out to the pigs before you come in.”
“Yup.”
The screen door slammed and we were alone.
“You’re going back up tomorrow?” he asked me.
“Yes. First thing.”
“You got a day off anytime soon?”
“I don’t think so. Don’t dare ask for one. Not after being home for a whole week.”
“Huh.”
There was a minute or two of silence. I stared at Mrs. Loomis’s peony bushes. Some of the flowers were already losing their petals. I hadn’t the time or the inclination to look up a word while my family was so sick, and even if I’d had, I’d left my dictionary up at the Glenmore. Fugacious was one of the last words I’d found, though. It means falling or fading early, fleeting. The dying peonies reminded me of it.
“Well, here then,” Royal suddenly said.
He held out a small square of tissue paper. It was folded over several times. There was something inside of it. I opened it and saw a dull gold ring. It was set with three stones—a chipped opal flanked by two tiny garnets. It must’ve been pretty once.
I looked at him. “Royal, do you . . . do you love me?” I asked.
“Aw, Matt. I bought you a ring, didn’t I?”
I looked at the ring again and thought how we’d lost two cows and would’ve lost more if it hadn’t been for Royal. The surviving animals had been very sick. They’d only just started to give good milk again. Royal had fed them and cared for them for a whole week. He’d looked after the calves, too. He’d driven three of his father’s milkers over to keep them from starving. They’d latched right on, every one except for Baldwin. He wouldn’t take milk from the Loomises’ cows, only from a pail. And he wouldn’t pick his head up. He no longer frisked with the other calves, he just stood by himself in the pasture, day after day. As soon as she was able, Lou went into the pasture after him. She offered him little lumps of maple sugar, but he wouldn’t take them. She scratched behind his ears and rubbed his neck, but he pulled away. She wasn’t what he wanted; he wanted Daisy. But he couldn’t have Daisy, so he finally took what was offered.
Like we all do.
“I’ve got ten dollars of my own saved up, Mattie. And my ma, she’s got some put aside, too. She’ll help us. And you’ll have some savings, too, won’t you, by the end of the summer? It’ll be enough to make a start, all of it together.”
I stared at the ring hard.
“Will you, Mattie?”
I slipped the ring on my finger. It fit.
“I will, Royal,” I said. “You’d best come home with me now so we can tell my pa.”
South Otselic
July 2, ’06
Monday Night
My Dear Chester:
I hope you will excuse me if I don’t follow the lines for I am half lying down. Have worked awfully hard today . . . This morning I helped mamma with the washing and then helped with the dinner. This p. m. I have been after strawberries. It was fun, only I got so awfully tired. The fields here are red with berries. Tonight mamma is canning them and making bread and cookies. We have had berries nearly every day since I came. Mamma says I am getting to be a splendid cook. What do you think of that? I got supper alone tonight and had potato dice and French toast and a whole lot of good things . . .
I stop reading Grace’s letter and stare off into the darkness. I miss my own mamma so much right now that it hurts. She used to can strawberries, too, and she made the most delicious pink strawberry cake. It was as sweet as her kiss on my cheek. Sometimes she would pick a basketful of berries in the afternoon and set them, sun-warmed and fragrant, on the kitchen table, along with a dish of fresh cream and one of maple sugar. We would dip them first into the cream, then in the sugar, then bite into them greedily. Somehow, they always tasted of more than themselves. They tasted like my pa whistling as he came in from the fields at night, or like a new calf getting to its feet for the first time, or like Lawton telling us ghost stories around the fire. I think that what they tasted of was happiness.
Once, Mamma made this treat just for me and her. It was after I’d started my monthlies. She’d sat me down at the kitchen table and covered my hand with her own, and told me that I was a grown woman now, not a girl anymore, and that a woman’s virtue was the greatest treasure she possessed and that I must never, ever give mine to any man but the one I married.
“Do you understand me, Mattie?” she’d said.
I thought I did, but I wasn’t sure. I knew what virtue means—goodness, purity, and excellence—because it had once been my word of the day. But I didn’t think men wanted to get ahold of those things because Fran told me all they want to get ahold of is your bosoms.
“Where is it, my virtue?” I finally asked her.
“Up under your skirts,” she said, coloring a bit.
I colored, too, for I knew what she meant then. Sort of. At least, I knew where a cow’s virtue was, and a chicken’s, too, and what they were for.
Then I asked, “How do you know if a man loves you, Mamma?”
“You just do.”
“How did you know? Did Pa say ‘I love you’ and give you a nice card or something and then you knew?”
Mamma laughed. “Does that sound like your pa?”
“Then how did you know, Mamma?”
“I just did.”
“How will I know?”
“You just will.”
“But how, Mamma, how?”
She never answered me. She just shook her head and said, “Oh, Mattie, you ask too man
y questions!”
Grace must have loved Chester very much to give him her virtue before they were married. I can see why she would have. He was very handsome. He had dark hair and full lips and the kind of slow, easy smile that makes your stomach flutter. He dressed nicely and walked with a sauntering, almost lazy, gait, hands in his pockets. I try to remember what his eyes looked like, but I can’t. He never looked me full in the face.
I wonder how Grace convinced herself that Chester loved her. And if she kept pretending it right to the end. Men rarely come right out and tell you. Minnie says you have to look for signs from them. Do they wash before they come to call on you? Do they let you climb up in the buckboard yourself, or get out to help you? Do they buy you sweets without your hinting for them?
Royal washes. And he puts on a clean shirt, too. And if he says he will call for me at seven o’clock, he is there at seven o’clock. He does other things, too. I lie back against my pillow and spend a long time silently repeating them to myself, over and over and over again like a litany, but it’s no use. Mamma said I would know. And I do. I guess I have all along.
“Poor, sad, stupid Grace,” I whisper to the darkness. “Poor, sad, stupid Matt.”
thren • o • dy
“Mattie, you get the package that came for you?” Mrs. Morrison asked me. She was standing behind the front desk, sorting through the mail. It was three o’clock. Dinner was over and the dining room was closed until supper, which began at six. We were never idle, though, and I was just on my way upstairs to restock the second-floor linen closet with a pile of freshly ironed sheets.
“No, ma’am. What package?”
“A package from the teacher. She left it about an hour ago. I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you. I had Ada bring it upstairs.”
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