I said, Clyde won’t expire from the fever, but things are looking bad for your farm, Substance. Nettie Mae can’t handle all the work on her own, and Clyde hasn’t regained his strength. Who can say whether he’ll be fit by winter? I’m powerful worried for both of them. I guess you must be worried, too.
Substance seemed to rise then, surging up above the earth, as if he remembered—for one fleeting heartbeat—what it felt like to be a man, to move your limbs in powerful concert, to stride out in dominion. Then the fist of his grave closed around him. He fell back, seething, hating me for my living flesh, for the freedom and the power I held—to do and act and be.
You can’t help them, I said. You can’t be of any aid, dead as you are. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the way it is.
Go away, girl, if you can’t bring me anything more than words. News of my family’s suffering. Premonition of their deaths. Worthless, powerless words.
I said, That’s why I’ve come to see you today. I don’t look like much, I know, but I’m strong and hardy, I swear it. I can do the work Nettie Mae and Clyde can’t do. But Nettie Mae won’t tolerate me, since you took up with my ma.
Don’t remind me of that wanton whore, Substance said. That temptress you call a mother. She has no more worth than the dire news you bring.
She’s the niece of the president, I sauced back, so I guess she’s a damn sight better than you are.
After that, Substance didn’t try to insult me or my ma again. But he was still there above his grave, knit together, listening.
I said, Nettie Mae is an awful stubborn woman. I guess you know better than anyone how to make her yield. I wish you’d tell me how it’s to be done. How can I make her come to her senses? How can I prove to her she’s got no choice but to work with me, even if she hates me and wishes me dead in my grave?
Something dark and cold moved through me then, a ripple of black humor. I realized it was Substance’s laughter. I pulled the shawl tighter around my body, but it couldn’t protect me from the answer Substance gave. I felt it—the flush of triumph rising to my face, and something blunt and solid inside, like a wall rising without a mason. My hands made fists of their own accord. The fists knew how to swing.
A stubborn woman, Substance agreed. And cold. Cold, and heartless since the children died. There was only ever one way to make my wife see sense. One way to bend her to my will. Force is all she understands. Give her no choice, and she will do as you say.
I left him then without saying good-bye, for I didn’t like the way his power felt inside my spirit. I feared I wasn’t strong enough to resist that intoxication, the rush of brute force, and I knew it would ruin me forever if I once gave in.
Yet I could also see that Substance was right—or at least, he wasn’t altogether wrong. If I hoped to bring Nettie Mae to her senses, I must bend her to my will. I mustn’t allow her to choose, for wounded as she was, and frightened by her own pain, she would retreat into isolation, like any injured creature.
I was not Substance Webber. I had neither size nor strength to force my will. I was obliged to work by subtler means—tugging Nettie Mae and my ma in the proper direction with a feather’s touch, with a cryptic hand, disguising the warp and weft of my design.
And if a tug wouldn’t suffice, then I was prepared to shove.
NETTIE MAE
The warp and weft of life had come loose in Nettie Mae’s hands. The weave of the farm was unraveling. The sheep still moaned in their pen; Clyde hadn’t found the time to turn them loose to pasture. He and Nettie Mae had awakened that morning to the two bay fillies loose in the pasture, and only a heel of old bread in the pantry to break their fast. Clyde had caught the fillies and set to work straight away, mending the corral fence, while Nettie Mae mixed the dough she ought to have prepared the day before. When had time grown such rapid and vigorous wings? The day already felt as if it were slipping away, and she knew she had little hope of catching it.
Nettie Mae craned her neck while she kneaded the dough, straining to keep one eye on her son. She could see him through the warped glass of the kitchen window, there at the far corner of the horses’ pen, crouched over the boards. Even at a distance, and distorted as he was by the glass, she could read the tension in his body, a certain stiffness in the neck and shoulders. Clyde was strained, bent almost double by the weight of work unfinished and by the weakness that still plagued him, the remnant tremor of his illness.
I ought to have let the sheep out myself, Nettie Mae thought. But she had already begun working the dough by the time she realized Clyde had slipped behind on his chores. I oughtn’t to have been so careless, either. A mother should notice these things. A mother should keep better watch over her son.
Some new sound caught at Nettie Mae, pulling her briefly from the hopeless reverie. The sheep were still murmuring, but softly now, without their indignant note of demand. She heard the quick, lively tattoo of their hooves, and then heard it dissipate. The animals were running from the fold, Nettie Mae realized with dull shock. The sheep were headed toward their pasture. Had Clyde finished mending the fence already? Surely not. Even if he had, he couldn’t cross the pasture as quickly as that. Not unless he’d sprouted wings and flown.
Nettie Mae scraped as much dough as she could from her fingers and crossed to the kitchen window. She rolled her wrists as she went, wincing at the stiffness and pain. Kneading was such tedious work, and of late, it seemed the drudgery of every mundane task had settled deep into her bones. She stared out across the yard. The pane of glass was bubbled and warped, so the world beyond bent and distorted around the window’s flaws. Even so, Nettie Mae could make out the flock receding, plunging eager and pale into the sage, the regrowth of autumn grass. And there, swinging the sheepfold gate closed with an unhurried air, she saw the Bemis woman’s daughter. Nettie Mae could discern little of the girl; through the imperfect window, she was nothing more than a blur of subdued color against the monotonous red brown of hard-packed earth. But there was no mistaking those lazy movements, the slow, stupid way she drifted from the fold toward the two-story sod-brick house.
Nettie Mae spun away from the window and dunked her sticky hands in the dishpan, scrubbing frantically to remove the dough. The water was bitterly cold, and did nothing to soothe the ache in her wrists. She dried herself on a bit of linen towel, then ran her hands down her apron, smoothing away its wrinkles and dusting off the flour. Why did she care all at once what the Bemis girl might think of her? Unease prickled along the back of Nettie Mae’s neck, creeping up her scalp. She looked weak and tired, overwrought, and she knew it. She didn’t like that the strange girl child should see her this way, pale and strained from weeks of struggle, stiff with lingering fear.
Don’t be stupid, Nettie Mae told herself bluntly. Send the girl away. It’s nothing to you what she sees, and nothing what she thinks of you. Assuming that half wit thinks anything at all.
Nettie Mae turned back to the kneading board and the waiting dough. She wouldn’t open the door when the Bemis girl knocked. Let that chit waste away on the kitchen steps, for all she cared. What went on in this house, in this family, was of no concern to that useless wisp of a neighbor child.
The girl did not knock. Nettie Mae heard the door squeal open behind her and then the unmistakable tread of hard-heeled boots stepping over the threshold.
She whirled, cheeks burning with indignation, and fixed a glower to her face. The girl lingered in the open door, one careless hand lighting on the iron handle, limp as a half-dead bird.
“What are you doing in my home?”
The Bemis girl blinked slowly, then offered a laggard’s smile.
“Get out,” Nettie Mae said. “Don’t you know it’s wrong to enter someone’s house without knocking? But I suppose your mother never taught you as much. She seems unable to understand what boundaries are, or where they lie.”
The girl smiled again, wider this time, as if Nettie Mae had told an amusing story. She advanced in
to the kitchen.
“I said get out. You can’t come in. You aren’t welcome in this home.”
“I’ve come to help you, Mrs. Webber, for Clyde’s sake.”
“I don’t need your help. Now clear out. I’ve work to do; I can’t spare any time for your foolishness.”
“I let the sheep out of the fold,” the girl said, as if offering something of great value. “I’ll bring them in again before sunset, too. May I come in?”
Nettie Mae folded her arms, but the gesture felt defensive, as if she were shielding the soft parts of her soul from the girl’s heavy-lidded eyes. “It seems to me you’re already in. What use is there in asking permission now?”
The girl moved again, one slow step and then another, delving deeper into Nettie Mae’s realm. No, Nettie Mae wanted to tell her. Turn back. Leave my house at once; you don’t belong here. But the girl’s very presence—the eerie calm of her demeanor, the inexorable rhythm of her stride—drove Nettie Mae back against the table as if in dread.
The girl came to stand beside Nettie Mae. She looked down at the kneading board, the bread half-finished upon it. She surveyed the unswept hearth, the fire dying down to useless embers, the empty kettle hanging from its hook. Then she turned on her heel, facing about. The motion was so sudden, Nettie Mae scarcely choked back a cry of alarm.
“I can do plenty here,” she said. “I’ll get supper going now, so it’s ready by midday. You won’t need to fret, and neither will Clyde. You can finish the bread.” The pale stare slipped down to Nettie Mae’s hands, still tucked protectively around her body. “No; you’re aching from the work, aren’t you? I’ll finish kneading. You go and fetch some liniment for your wrists.”
“I’m not aching. What do you know? Who are you, anyhow? Only a stupid girl of twelve years.”
“Thirteen years,” she said with a little laugh, as if Nettie Mae were foolish for not discerning her age on sight.
“Don’t knead it too much, or you’ll overwork the dough.”
With a surge of some nauseating emotion, half wonder, half caution, Nettie Mae asked herself, When did I become resigned to this dirt-stained hussy standing beneath my roof, and taking over my kitchen as if she has a right? But she went to the pantry for her bottle of liniment, and she sighed with relief when she rubbed it into her aching wrists.
“Clyde looks fit and fine,” the girl called from the kitchen. “Though I noticed your fire is about to go cold and the kettle is empty. Clyde needs a good strong broth if he’s to regain all his strength. You look as if you could use some broth, too, Mrs. Webber, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I need nothing. Now get away from that dough and let me finish. I won’t have you ruining my bread with your careless ways.”
“You oughtn’t to work the dough now, or it will taste like liniment. Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Webber? You look as peaky as they come. Take a rest. I’ll finish up here.”
Nettie Mae surprised herself by sinking at once into a chair while the girl went on kneading. Her back fairly sang a chorus of praises at the relief, but a voice chided inside her head. When did you agree to take this half wit’s advice? This spawn of sin, this future harlot? Her hands rested in her lap, and Nettie Mae examined them. They were clasped together, knuckles white with strain, bones hard and sharp beneath her skin, the clenched claws of some terrified bird. Lord have mercy—when did I begin to look so old? If she had remained as youthful and fair as Cora, surely Substance never would have strayed.
Light pressure on her arm, just above the elbow. She started and looked up from her lap. The Bemis girl had stepped silently to her side, to lay one hand upon Nettie Mae. Her immediate instinct was to flinch, recoil from that strange creature’s touch. But the girl smiled easily, and Nettie Mae exhaled—a long, unsteady sigh. Relief came as a sensation of warmth, rising from the soles of her feet up her aching legs and settling in her middle. The sensation was so unfamiliar she wanted to flinch back from it, too, even as she reveled in the comfort.
Then a chill fell over her, eclipsing all relief. What had the Bemis girl done to her? She had quieted Nettie Mae’s mind with a touch. Nettie Mae had always assumed the girl was simpleminded. What else could explain her lack of haste and her slow-blinking, fearless eyes? Now she wondered if something sinister lurked behind the girl’s uncanny demeanor. She leaned back, removing herself from the girl’s reach.
The girl shrugged and turned away, as if she hadn’t noticed Nettie Mae’s obvious repulsion. Perhaps she truly hadn’t noticed. That child seemed to see only what she wanted to see.
“Bread’s good and ready now. I’ll cover it and let it prove. Let me fix you something to eat.”
The girl ducked into the pantry, as confident as if this were her mother’s home. She reappeared carrying a tin plate laden with the last two pieces of bread from the old loaf. Plenty of good pale butter was smeared over each slice. She had trimmed the hardened skin from the last small chunk of cheese—the cheese Nettie Mae didn’t like to eat—and had cut up an apple, too. Evidently, the girl could move quickly and see to her tasks when she chose.
“Just you tuck in, now.” She laid the plate before Nettie Mae. “It’ll bring back your strength. You and Clyde both need some good broth to pep you up again, but I’ll need to build the fire and scrub out the kettle. I’ll see to everything, Mrs. Webber; don’t you fret.”
Nettie Mae watched as the girl piled tinder and sticks of firewood in the hearth. Within moments, new fire blossomed from the coals. The girl fed it carefully, and when she was satisfied with its strength, she lifted the kettle from its hook and poured its dregs into the tin pail beside the door.
“I’ll go and throw this lot to your shoats later,” she said cheerfully. Then she disappeared outside.
Nettie Mae looked down at the plate. Her stomach ached suddenly, cramping from a hunger so powerful it almost made her feel ill. But she hardly dared touch the food the Bemis girl had prepared. Nettie Mae was half-convinced the girl had performed some strange enchantment on her with a touch. What foul transformations might she effect with food? There were stories, Nettie Mae recalled—tales her mother had whispered when Nettie Mae had been but a small girl. Tales from the old country, from Wales, the far-off land her mother’s mother had called home. The legends came crowding back into her mind, though she hadn’t thought of her mother’s stories since she had grown up and married. She recalled every detail now with vivid clarity, with stark and brutal force. Ethereal, shining, long-haired women who lived in the forest and drew unwary travelers into traps—circles of mushrooms or stones. If you ate the food the shining ones gave you, you couldn’t step out of their circles again till a hundred years had passed, or three hundred.
Foolish, Nettie Mae scolded herself. Stories for children, and nothing a Christian ought to fear.
She picked up a slice of bread and bit into it, chewing with deliberate care. Her mouth watered at once and her stomach growled; it was all she could do not to tear into the bread with both hands and gulp it down in a few ravenous bites.
The girl returned to the kitchen. That easy smile hadn’t left her face. She had pumped fresh water into the stew kettle, and it now swung heavily at her side, while in the other arm she cradled two onions and a few small turnips. She had helped herself to Nettie Mae’s root cellar, it seemed.
“I found a good smoked mutton bone in that box in the pantry.” The onions and turnips thumped onto the table. The girl hauled the kettle to the fire and replaced it on its iron hook. “I suppose it’s all right if I use the mutton for broth, ain’t it?”
Nettie Mae only stared at the child as she worked.
She seemed to take the silence for assent. Moments later, the smoked mutton joint fell into the kettle, and the girl busied herself with knife and roots. The sharpness of cut onions filled the room, pricking Nettie Mae’s eyes.
“Won’t take more than an hour to get a good simmer going,” the girl said, dropping handfuls of onion and turnip in
the pot. “A shame you didn’t have any carrots in the cellar, though. We’ve got some still at our place. I can run over and fetch them, if you like.”
Nettie Mae still held her tongue, but by now the simple needs of her body, neglected through days of frantic toil, had taken hold. She picked up the second slice of bread and ate steadily. The force of her hunger receded a little.
“You ought to have something bracing to drink,” the girl said. “It’ll help you recover. Have you got any fruit wine or liquor?”
Nettie Mae found her words at last. “No,” she said firmly. “I have never thought it proper to keep strong drinks in my house. I suppose it’s a matter of course under your roof.”
The girl grinned, though she was stirring the kettle and didn’t look up from her task. “I wouldn’t say it’s a matter of course, Mrs. Webber, but my ma has always kept a bottle or two of wine about the place for warming and perking up. It comes in handy now and again.”
“I’m sure it does,” Nettie Mae said dryly.
The girl lifted the ladle from her broth and eyed its contents critically. “I don’t think that lone joint of mutton will do after all. You and Clyde both need a more fortifying broth if you’re to perk up properly. It’s my fault, I guess, for using too much water. We’ve got to have a chicken, to make the stew good and rich. Shall I kill one of your chickens or one of mine?”
“I’ve got too many roosters anyhow,” Nettie Mae said. “They’ve been fighting, and I’ve meant to kill a few and smoke their meat or salt it, but I haven’t had the time lately to do the job properly. With Clyde so often occupied at your farm,” she added, with pointed force. “You may go out and kill one of my roosters. Any except for the redheaded one with black wings. He’s a useful bird; I won’t lose him to the stew kettle.”
Nettie Mae continued eating as the girl left the house again. She finished the last slice of bread, and then, before she realized what she was doing, picked up the cheese and bit into it. At once, Nettie Mae froze. The tang of it sat brightly upon her tongue, savory and intoxicating. That damnable cheese had been made by the Bemis woman. It might as well be ashes, then, for all Nettie Mae cared. Scowling over her carelessness, furious that the Bemis woman had gotten the better of her again—albeit in a small and insignificant way—Nettie Mae finished the cheese with the grim concentration of a soldier forcing himself toward the battlefield.
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel Page 15