Sweetwater Run

by Jan Watson

  Remy’s bad luck was Darcy’s good fortune. Because Remy was always on hand to sit with her grandmother, Darcy could get to town on occasion and Remy came every Sunday morning so Darcy could go to church service. Remy went to service on Sunday nights. It worked out perfectly. Why, if it hadn’t been for Remy, Darcy might never have met Henry.

  Darcy stopped in her tracks. Of course, why hadn’t she thought of this before? She tapped Remy’s shoulder. “Might I have a word with you before we go in?”

  “Suit yourself,” Remy said, leaning back against the raised porch floor and resting her crutch by the step rocks.

  Darcy dived right in. “What if I was to go away for a short time—you know like when I go to the city to visit with Mrs. Upchurch and her friends. Could you come and stay with Mammaw for a spell? I know she usually goes to stay with Dance when I’m gone that far, but . . .”

  “What does Fairy Mae want to do?” Remy asked. “I wouldn’t want to go against her wishes.”

  Now it was Darcy who stared at the ground. “I was thinking something might come up all of a sudden. Like so quick I wouldn’t have time to make other arrangements,” Darcy stammered. “I would need your word you would take care of Mammaw until I got back or until Ace could come and carry her to his house.”

  Remy studied her. Her odd, pink-rimmed eyes never blinked. Darcy felt sneaky as a sheep-killing dog. “I don’t aim to stir your pot.”

  “Believe me, Remy. I’d tell you if I could.”

  Remy stuck her crutch under her arm and deftly climbed the steps before she paused. “I’d never forsake Fairy Mae. All ye need do is send for me.”

  Darcy was almost giddy with relief as she reached around Remy to hold the screen door for her. Seemed her prayers had been answered. Henry was going to be surprised the next time he proposed.

  Remy mumbled something peculiar as she ducked under Darcy’s outstretched arm. “The devil is in his broth a-brewing,” Darcy thought she heard.

  How fey. Whatever did Remy mean by that?

  Cara was disappointed to see that the children, except for Jay and baby Pauline, were off somewhere with their father. At least Dance was in a fair mood—or seemed to be. It was often hard to tell at first glance. It was a warmish day with only a smattering of gray clouds that didn’t amount to much. Still, she’d have to hurry to get the wash on the line in time for it to dry.

  But Dance had already started the fire under the wash pot. A line of infant gowns, bibs, and diapers flapped in the breeze. Pauline napped atop a pile of laundry, and Jay dug fishing worms at the edge of the garden.

  “Whee, that’s a good one,” he’d yell every so often before he tucked it in an old tin can.

  “I had fresh fish for dinner yesterday,” Cara said before she thought.

  “Been fishing, have you?” Dance asked. “I don’t know when’s the last time I had time to fish.” She kept one fist knotted at the small of her back as she stirred the laundry with a long wooden paddle.

  “No, I didn’t catch them. Someone brought them by. I should have thought to save you some.”

  “That boy yonder will catch a mess. He’s a natural with a pole and a wiggle tail.”

  “Want me to take over the stirring?” Cara asked.

  “I wouldn’t mind. My back’s a-killing me.” Dance fished a pile of linen from the bubbling water and dropped it into the rinse tub. “You stir and I’ll wring.”

  Cara eased the baby from one pile of laundry to another, sorted out the children’s clothes, and added them to the wash water. “Do you think it needs more soap?”

  “Be spare,” Dance remarked. “I didn’t get as much made as I should have last fall.”

  “You make the best soft soap, Dance. What do you do different?”

  “I copy Mammaw. She only ever used rainwater and only pure lard, no refuse grease.”

  Cara scrubbed the knees of a small pair of pants up and down the washboard. “Looks like Wilton was trying to wear these out.”

  “They were already thin when he got them. One of Ace’s lady friends thought she needed to give my young’uns her kids’ castoffs.”

  “Lady friends?” Cara nearly choked. “I can’t picture Ace being that way.”

  “I don’t reckon I’m worried none. It’s just the church women are always feeling sorry for poor old Ace.” Dance wrung a piece of clothing, then gave it a quick shake. “I call them his lady friends when I want to rile him some.”

  “You know, Ace is plumb crazy about you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dance replied, stooping to pick up the full laundry basket. “I know that for a fact.”

  “So how about you?” Cara dared to ask. “Are you still crazy about Ace?”

  “Well, Cara—” Dance sashayed toward the clothesline—“why do ye think I’ve got five kids?”

  Cara laughed and stirred, laughed and stirred. It did her good to get a little fun out of Dance Shelton. She noticed a nearly full box of starch sitting on a ledge rock, which served as a fine shelf, along with a box of bluing. The beef liver Ace bought in town must have done her good.

  “Ma! Ma!” Jay shouted. “Can I go drown these worms?”

  “I’m standing right here. You don’t need to holler,” Dance said as she worked. “All my kids think I’m deaf.”

  Jay came closer, his pole on his shoulder, his tin can full of dirt and worms.

  Cara ruffled his hair. “Be careful of that lid. You don’t want to cut yourself.”

  Jay stuck out one dirty paw, showing off a long red scratch. “I did already.”

  Cara took the tin. She moved the jagged top back and forth several times until it snapped off in her fingers. Obediently, Jay washed up while she poured soapy water dipped from the washtub over his hands. “Here’s a riddle for you, Jaybird: Way down in the deep, a fish struggled to keep. Coughed up on the shore, he couldn’t stand it no more. Who is it?”

  Jay giggled. “Oh, that’s too easy. It’s Jonah, ain’t it? I learned all about him in Sunday school.”

  “You’re getting too smart for me.”

  Jay glanced at his mother, who was back at the clothesline. “Reckon you’ll hide me a penny?”

  “Reckon I will.”

  “Ma! Ma! Can I go now?”

  “Yes, go on.” Dance waved dismissively as she pegged clothes. “Don’t be falling in. I ain’t washing no more clothes today.”

  Cara stood and watched the boy skip off in the direction of the creek. The pole bounced on his shoulder. He whistled a nameless tune. An old, sad yearning came over her. If she had managed to carry her first pregnancy to term, she might be teaching her own son to fish.

  Pauline wiggled and gurgled in the laundry at Cara’s feet. She scooped the baby up and nuzzled her neck. “Roly-poly Pauline,” she sang as she swung the baby high. “Who’s the prettiest baby on Sweetwater? Who’s the sweetest baby on the creek?”

  Settling Pauline in the crook of her arm, she joined Dance at the line. “If you don’t have the prettiest young’uns, Dance.”

  “Pretty hungry,” Dance said, eyeing Pauline, who was chewing on one fist. “If you’ll finish hanging these clothes, I’ll go feed this one.”

  There was only one load of darks left, and Cara made short work of that. Scrubbed, stirred, rinsed, wrung, hung, and done. She saved a pair of Jay’s britches for last and pegged them waist side up with a penny in one pocket. Hands on hips, she looked at the wash. Sunlight sparkled off the whites so brightly she had to turn her eyes away. Was there anything more satisfying than a sunny day with no threat of rain and fresh-washed clothes on the line?

  She walked between the two lines just to enjoy the cool dampness and the clean scent given off from clothes drying in the sun. Some folks laced their soap with oil of sassafras or oil of caraway, but Cara much preferred the honest bouquet of lye.

  Before she married and left home, Cara had spent many a pleasant hour making hard soap with her mother. Mama would save grease drippings all winter. Then come spring,
they’d start the process by boiling the grease in water until it was nice and white: the whiter the grease, the finer the soap. This was a dangerous process; Cara had a nasty burn mark on her right arm to prove it.

  When the clean grease was accumulated, she’d help Mama with the measuring and the dissolving of lye and rosin in water. Once this was done, they would ever so carefully add the grease and borax to the pot one small piece at a time. This they would boil for about two hours, stirring all the time until the grease was taken up. As soon as the mixture became soapy, Cara or Mama would add a tumbler of salt dissolved in warm water and continue cooking for half an hour or so. When the soap was just right, they poured it into a tub that had been soaked in cold water. The fun part was cutting the cold soap into bars, which they stored under one or another’s bed, usually Cara’s and her younger sisters’, because that was coolest and driest place in the house. Maybe that was why she still favored the scent of lye over most any perfume. The smell reminded her of home.

  By the time Cara was finished daydreaming of making soap with her mother, she had cleaned the porch floor and the outhouse to boot. Dance sat under a twisted apple tree with the baby, watching Cara work.

  Finished with the scrubbing, Cara poured two cups of coffee and joined her under the branches laden with tiny green pieces of fruit. “You’re going to have a bumper crop of apples this fall.”

  Dance’s mouth worked back and forth like she had something to say.

  Cara stayed quiet, wondering what it was. Pauline was lying on her belly across Dance’s outstretched legs. A fat and sassy bumblebee worried over the few apple blossoms that had not turned brown. Cara sipped her coffee.

  “Cara,” Dance said, “I don’t know why you are so good to me. It ain’t like I ever do anything for you.”

  Cara wished she dared to reach across the wide divide Dance used to set herself apart and just hug Dance Shelton close, sister to sister. “I reckon you don’t know how much it means to me to come here to your lively house. Sometimes I get so lonely-hearted I don’t think I can take one more minute in my quiet place, much less one more day.”

  Dance set her cup aside and reached up the cuff of her sleeve. “I wouldn’t tell nary a soul this but you . . .” With her pointer finger wrapped in the handkerchief, Dance dabbed the inner corner of one eye.

  Cara didn’t breathe; she was so afraid she’d break the spell Dance seemed to be under.

  Dance took a long, shuddering sigh. “You know I love these young’uns—all of them—and most days I care for Ace. But sometimes I get a longing to flee out the door and run right over a cliff.”

  Cara couldn’t think of one comforting thing to answer back. “Is there any little thing I can do for you?”

  “You’re already my washerwoman,” Dance replied with a shrug. “Reckon them whites are dry?”

  Cara started to rise, thankful for something to do.

  But Dance’s fingers gripped her arm and held her in place. “You stay,” she said, handing the baby over. “I ain’t used to sitting this long.”

  CHAPTER 19

  DARCY WAS RIGHT PLEASED with herself. Her new pink blouse would be finished as soon as she set in the sleeves, and she’d only cut it out the day before. The ruffled collar was so pretty. Maybe she should try the bodice on.

  The ruffles pinched under her chin, making her neck disappear. “Look at this, Mammaw,” she said, turning from the mirror. “Does it look as bad as I think it does?”

  “Kindly puts me in mind of a chipmunk,” Mammaw replied from her rolling chair. “Makes your cheeks look nice and full.”

  With a sigh, Darcy began to rip out the top ruffle. It was one setback after another. She’d aimed to go by Cara’s today and see if she had finished some more handles. An order for half a dozen feathered fans had come in yesterday’s post. Evidently they had become ladies’ necessities in Lexington. Darcy popped a stitch and worried. Would she have time to finish her outfit before Henry came again?

  Once she had one offending ruffle off, she slipped into the blouse again. “Much better, don’t you think?”

  Mammaw cocked her head to one side, then the other. “You’re pretty as a speckled pup in a red wagon. Now, why did you say you’re sewing this?”

  Darcy gathered her courage. It was time to tell her grandmother the full story. Turning back to the looking glass, she watched herself begin to speak. It was easier than watching her grandmother’s face. “I know it’s not right, but I’ve been hiding something from you.”

  Mammaw made a funny snorting sound.

  “Just listen. Please.” Darcy peered closely at her reflected image. One bust dart seemed a hair lower than the other, so she adjusted the blouse before she plunged ahead. “I’m in love with Henry Thomas, and we aim to wed.”

  There, she’d said it. She held her breath and waited for her grandmother’s reply. The silence made her nervous. “We’ll probably go away for a short time, Henry and me,” she chattered on, unable to turn around and face the music. “He ain’t of a mind to tarry. That’s why I’m working so hard on this outfit. I don’t want to be wed in an ordinary dress.”

  Slipping out of the half-finished blouse, Darcy fitted it on the dress form that sat beside the mirror. “I don’t want you to worry none. Remy has promised to care for you while I’m away—or if that don’t suit, I’m sure Ace will come and take you to his house.” She felt desperate as a fish floundering on a line. Why didn’t Mammaw say something? “And Cara—you know Cara will help out. Gracious, Mammaw, say something. It ain’t like I’m leaving you for good, just a few days—a week at the most. Then you’ll have me and Henry both.”

  An uneasy aura, like seeing buzzards circling in the distance, stopped Darcy’s chatter. Slowly she turned around. Mammaw was slumped in the chair. Her face was like wax. Her good hand was fisted and drawn up under her chin.

  “Help us, Lord,” Darcy moaned an all-inclusive prayer as she dropped to her knees in front of the invalid chair. “Mammaw! Mammaw!” She stroked Mammaw’s cheek. Was she drawing air? Was she dead?

  Darcy ran to her room and fetched her tortoiseshell hand mirror, a gift from Miz Copper. Back in front of the invalid’s chair, she held it under her grandmother’s nose. “Please, Mammaw, don’t die on me.”

  Darcy’s hand trembled so violently she nearly dropped the mirror, but there was the sign she hoped for—Mammaw’s breath visible on the surface.

  She sat back on her heels and, careful as careful could be, laid the mirror aside. The mantel clock ticked loud as buckshot. The air grew dense and still. For a moment she thought she’d killed her grandmother. Laying her head on Mammaw’s knee, she sobbed and sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Behind her the screen door squeaked. “What’s happened here?” Remy asked. “What’s wrong with Fairy Mae?”

  Darcy stood on wobbling legs and mopped up streaming tears with the hem of her apron. “I don’t know. I was telling her about going away—just trying to prepare her, you know, so it wouldn’t come as a shock.” She tripped over words so heavy with guilt she might need a wheelbarrow to carry them.

  Remy dropped her crutch and shook Mammaw’s shoulder. “Fairy Mae, you wake up.”

  Darcy watched hopefully as Mammaw’s good hand relaxed and fell limply to her lap. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled the sweetest smile.

  “Mammaw,” Darcy cried as more tears spilled down her cheeks, “you like to have scared me to death.”

  “Reckon she needs some honey?” Remy asked. “I used to give Hezzy honey whenever she had spells.”

  “She seems back to herself,” Darcy replied. “You’re all right now, ain’t you, Mammaw?” she yelled.

  “I expect she can still hear. Ain’t no need to deafen her.”

  Darcy’s short laugh was shaky with relief. “You’re right, Remy. I don’t know what I’m hollering about. I’ll make us all some tea and put extra honey in Mammaw’s.”

  Remy patted Fairy Mae’s hand. “You�
�re going to be fine as frog’s hair now. We’ll have some tea; then we’ll get you down for a nap. Does that sound good?”

  Mammaw didn’t speak, but she nodded. The childlike smile still lit up her face.

  At the stove, Darcy spooned leaves into a tea ball and hung it over the edge of a porcelain teapot. It struck her that as many times as Remy had visited this house, this was only the second time they had taken tea together. Of course most times she was leaving when Remy came. And Remy wasn’t exactly easy to get to know.

  Mammaw looked like a baby bird, stretching her mouth in a big O each time Remy lifted a spoon of tea from the cup.

  Darcy took the opportunity to freshen Mammaw’s bed. She pulled clean linens from a cupboard and tucked one sheet tightly over the mattress. Then she folded the top sheet to the bottom of the bed and slid the pillows into crisply ironed cases. As she plumped the feather pillows, she wondered if Mammaw realized how hard Darcy worked to provide such nice things for her. If it wasn’t for her sewing, no telling what would happen to both of them. Since Mammaw was a widow and Darcy wasn’t married, they’d be at the mercy of her brother Dimmert or Dance’s husband, Ace.

  At least they had relatives who would be glad to help if needed. Some women were not so lucky. When she lived with Miz Copper, they used to see the old widow Case being hauled back and forth over the road to one son’s house or another. Her journey was as regular as the change of seasons. Story was Mrs. Case had four sons, which meant four daughters-in-law, none of whom were particularly fond of their husband’s ancient mother. There she’d be, eighty-seven years old, sitting in a straight-backed chair in the bed of a hay wagon, clutching a tattered carpetbag in her lap. Darcy used to wonder what she kept in that bag.

  Once Mammaw’s bed was ready, Darcy wheeled her in for her afternoon rest. Mammaw seemed glad to be in bed. Her eyes closed as soon as her head hit the pillow. Darcy said a quick prayer of thankfulness before she joined Remy at the kitchen table.