We Hope for Better Things

by Erin Bartels

  “Your brother makes it sound very dull. They’re turning into hayseeds out there. But I guess his mother was from kind of a hick town.”

  “Mom, that’s not nice.” Nora had only met her father’s first wife once, but she’d seemed kind. More so than her own mother was at times. “Leigh’s not a hick.”

  “According to your father, that was one of the reasons their marriage failed. She couldn’t stand the city.”

  “I guess that was a good thing for you.”

  “I guess it was a good thing for you too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been born.” Mallory winced as she said the last word.

  “It’s okay,” Nora said, even though it wasn’t.

  “You know, you never can tell with things like this. Sometimes they can turn out to be blessings in disguise.” At Nora’s frown, Mallory continued. “I’m sure you know it would have been hard to have a mulatto child. To go out in public with him and for people to know that you had . . . well . . . It would have been hard on the child too, to never know what he was or where he belonged.”

  Nora’s fork clattered onto her plate. She stood up from the table and threw the plate into the sink, where it shattered. She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Mallory stunned at the table. Moments later, she reappeared with her mother’s suitcase, which she placed by the older woman’s feet.

  Back in her room, she heard a car start up outside. Then the motor died away. And Nora vowed never to let her mother through her door again.

  thirty-six

  Lapeer County, May 1866

  Mary bit down on her tongue for a count of ten. If she kept this up during the entirety of her mother-in-law’s visit, she would have nothing left with which to speak.

  “You mean to say the attic is full of them?” Catherine Balsam said with a note of horror in her voice as she gazed up at the ceiling in Mary’s bedroom. “Like a colony of bats?”

  Mary tasted the metallic tang of blood. “Why don’t we get George and Jonathan now and go downstairs?”

  “Where did this atrocious bed come from? What happened to the bedstead I gave you?”

  “It’s in another room right now.”

  “You don’t have them sleeping on my bed, do you?”

  “I have them sleeping on my bed, yes.”

  “But why would you replace that beautiful bed with this?” Catherine gestured at the bed in the same way she might have indicated to her maid that the dog had vomited on a carpet.

  “This was a gift from a friend.”

  “A friend? What kind of a friend would inflict this on another person?”

  Inside her apron pockets, Mary’s hands balled into fists. “Let’s go get the boys, Mother.”

  She walked out, leaving Catherine to follow. For all her discourtesy, Catherine Balsam doted on her grandsons, and Mary hoped they might keep her too busy for further commentary. At least the woman served as an adequate distraction from the uncomfortable pall that had settled over her household since Nathaniel’s return. No words had been spoken about the letter that may or may not have reached Nathaniel on the front, nor about Nathaniel’s alleged visit to a prostitute. But the weight of things left unsaid had squeezed out the joy that had characterized Mary’s home during the war. The recent addition of Nathaniel’s mother certainly did nothing to replace it.

  That afternoon, Mary and Catherine planned to take the boys for a walk in the apple orchard Nathaniel had begun planting. Mary settled her mother-in-law in the back of the wagon with George and Jonathan and jumped up to the driver’s seat.

  “You’re taking one of the only jobs they’re fit to do, Mary.”

  Mary silently flicked the reins. If she kept the horses at a slow walk, the excursion would likely take until dinnertime.

  Among the apple tree saplings, Catherine sat on a blanket with baby Jonathan and watched George collect petals from the ground while Mary flagged down Nathaniel.

  “I don’t think the hands should eat with us tonight—or any night until your mother is on the train back to Detroit.”

  Nathaniel looked grave. “I know. She is hardly tolerable.”

  “I don’t understand how you could possibly be her son.”

  “She means well,” he said weakly. “She has always been for emancipation. She just believes Negroes are fundamentally different than those of Western European stock, that the freed slaves should be sent to Africa. She can’t envision a future America of two races.”

  “That couldn’t be more obvious. I think we’d do well to keep the table white while she’s here.”

  “I disagree,” he said. “It’s my house, after all.”

  His house? It had been her house longer than it had been his.

  “Perhaps we could help change her mind,” he continued.

  “When has your mother ever changed her mind?”

  He offered her a rueful shrug.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can take it,” Mary said as she watched Catherine pull a fistful of petals from Little George’s mouth.

  “You’re fine, Mary. Now I must get back to work if we’re to get this row planted and staked before dinner.” He kissed her forehead and walked away, leaving her to deal with the domestic issues he saw as her sphere and therefore her problem.

  And it was a problem. As Lincoln’s armies had marched north following the end of the war, thousands of freed slaves, now jobless and homeless, followed along with hopes for a future in a part of the reunited country where the cotton could not grow. Some of those sore-footed men and women had accompanied Nathaniel when he came home in July of 1865. There were now so many people living at the farmhouse that they had to eat in two shifts to use the dining room.

  That fine evening, the men set up sawhorses and boards in the backyard. As the sun faded to its soft evening hue, the men brought every chair they could find from the house and carried out stacks of dishes. The women piled the table high with spring potatoes, greens, asparagus, peas, pickled eggs, and various cuts from the pig that had been roasted, including some with which Mary and Nathaniel were not familiar, but which the Southern transplants in their midst relished. The children tumbled around in the yard, occasionally snatching a bite off their mothers’ plates. Little George and Simon snuck up behind people, poked at their sides, and laughed hysterically.

  The large company of people that surrounded Mary almost made up for her mother-in-law. And it almost made up for the cold, businesslike manner in which Nathaniel had treated her since he discovered a strange bedstead in his bedchamber and learned it had been made for his wife by another man.

  “Wasn’t it enough that you named our son George? Must I sleep in a bed that man made?”

  “We cannot refuse such a lavish gift and hope to retain his friendship or his services,” Mary had argued. Whether Nathaniel believed her pragmatic reasoning or saw past it to her lovesick heart, Mary could not say. Either way, George remained, Nathaniel managed to sleep in the new bed, and Mary found her pleasure in raising Little George and Jonathan.

  On most days, Mary would sit back and take in a scene such as the one before her in the yard with a deep sense of pride and gratitude. But on this evening, she kept her eyes and ears fastened upon Catherine in order to intercept the woman’s rancor.

  When Catherine complained about the breeze sending her napkin flying, Mary retrieved it for her and tucked it under her plate. When she fretted about the children running wild, Mary reminded her that they had been cooped up all winter and needed to stretch their legs. When she would not take a bowl of buttered peas from Loretta’s hand, Mary took it and sent an apologetic look Loretta’s way. When she nearly swooned at the sight of a dish of pig intestines, Mary wished she would just faint so they could take her back into the house and leave her there.

  “When is she leaving?” she asked Nathaniel in bed that night.

  “Just two more days, Mary. I’m sure you can manage that.”

  The next morning Mary prayed for forbearance and tried to put on a cheer
ful demeanor that might counteract her mother-in-law’s dour one. By afternoon, she was sitting on the parlor rug with Little George and congratulating herself on her near-perfect performance. Angelica sat nearby, her nose in a book.

  Catherine alternately brooded and cooed at little Jonathan until, without preamble, she said, “You ought to send these people on their way and hire some white workers, Mary. Even Irishmen would be more suitable.”

  Mary looked to Angelica, waiting for something shocking to burst from her mouth. But the girl kept her eyes on the page in front of her. Martha seemed to have finally gotten through to her headstrong daughter the value of holding one’s tongue. But Mary, who had been holding hers all morning, felt she needed to speak at last.

  “Mother, we quite like them here. They are our friends, and you don’t send your friends away.”

  “Indeed, I understand that some are quite friendly.” Catherine gave her a pointed look.

  “Angelica,” Mary said, “would you mind helping your mother in the kitchen?”

  Angelica marked her place in her book and walked out of the room without a word.

  Mary turned to Catherine. “Mother, you obviously have something on your mind, so I wish you’d just say it straight-out.”

  “Mary, you must know to whom I am referring.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Is there a problem?”

  “The only problem I see is that you seem to be overly familiar with that man George.”

  Mary’s face grew hot. She felt not only Catherine’s eyes upon her but Little George’s and even baby Jonathan’s. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You needn’t pretend to be surprised. Anyone could see you are flirting with him. It’s positively vulgar.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must object to this incomprehensible accusation. I don’t think I’ve said more than three words to George since you arrived.”

  “You’re not saying it with your words but with your eyes. And your”—she shivered a little—“body.”

  Mary dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “For Nathaniel’s sake, I will not say what I want to say to you at this moment, but I will say this: Were it not for George, I very much doubt I would be here taking this abuse from you at all. I am sure that he saved my life when I lost my baby, and he most certainly saved this farm from ruin when your son went gallivanting off to war, leaving his pregnant wife utterly alone. So any looks you thought you saw exchanged between me and George were only those indicating the deepest possible respect and appreciation. As for your lewd comment about my person, I cannot account for it. It is most surely in your mind, which I’ll allow may be failing at your age.”

  Little George giggled.

  “Well,” Catherine said, “I have never heard a less convincing speech in my life. I may be getting on in years, but I know a come-hither look when I see one. And I know that your manner of dress is too provocative for a mother of two. It borders on heathenish.”

  Mary forgot to whisper. “Provocative? In what possible way can this be considered provocative? Could a man be attracted to my chin? My little finger?”

  “Look lower, my dear. What have you on your feet?”

  “My feet?”

  “It’s positively scandalous.”

  “But nearly everyone at that table was barefooted after a hard day of work.”

  “I might expect that from the Negroes. I’m sure they are not used to shoes. But I do not expect such a state of undress from the woman my son married.”

  “I’ll wear shoes or not wear them whenever I please.” Mary realized she was shaking a finger at her mother-in-law. In Catherine’s arms, baby Jonathan began to screw up his forehead, a sure precursor to a wail. Mary fisted her hands and pasted a pleasant expression on her face.

  Catherine leaned in close and pointed at Little George. “Any woman who would name her firstborn son after a hired man in her household rather than her own husband, who was at war at the time and might very well have never come back alive, is saying something.”

  Mary had no response. As ghastly a person as she believed her mother-in-law to be, she knew that at that moment the woman was right. At Mary’s silence, Catherine sat back with a superior air and turned her attention to baby Jonathan.

  Mary got to her feet and walked outside for some fresh air. She leaned upon the water pump and tried to calm her frantic heartbeat. Who in the house might have overheard that conversation? If she were so transparent that her mother-in-law could read the situation in the space of two days, could everyone see it?

  Just then, several men emerged from the barn carrying long wooden ladders, saws, and boards toward the house. Grateful for the distraction, Mary met them halfway.

  “What are you doing with all of this?”

  “Mr. Balsam gonna put a window in the attic,” Sam said.

  “No, we gonna do it,” Gordon said. “Mr. Balsam just give us the okay and got us the glass.”

  Glass? After putting in the orchard? How much had that cost? They were doing well, but with so many hands to pay and mouths to feed, they could not afford extravagant purchases. Still, the workers did need a window up there or they’d all be cooked alive in the summer.

  “I don’t remember any deliveries.”

  “Mr. Balsam bring it with him when he come home from the war,” Sam said. “They’s picture windows.”

  What was a picture window?

  “Where is Mr. Balsam?”

  “Down in the barn.”

  She hurried down the slope and collided with Nathaniel as he was coming through the barn door. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you in such a hurry? Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she said, catching her breath. “I was just curious about this window. The glass. Can we afford it?”

  “It was free. A photographer gave it to me. Mr. Adams. He was following our regiment during the last years of the war and taking portraits of the men to send home to their families. In fact, he took the likeness I sent to you. He fell ill very near the end and asked me to take charge of his equipment should he perish, which he did soon thereafter, poor fellow. So I inherited his entire wagon of equipment. Most I couldn’t make heads or tails of. When I was in Washington, I sold it to another photographer, who was happy to have it at a good price. But he didn’t want all of the glass negatives Adams had kept. Didn’t know who any of them were. Since many were men from my regiment, I thought I should keep them, though I didn’t know quite what to do with them. It was George who suggested we use them for the window. I thought it was a very good idea. The men will be able to gaze into the faces of those who fought for the Union and their freedom. It will let in some light and some fresh air.”

  “How fascinating,” Mary said, her trouble with Catherine fading away. “May I see them?”

  “They’re over there.” He pointed to three wooden crates sitting by the door.

  Mary lifted a rectangle of glass from a straw-lined box. She held it to the sunlight coming through the door, and there appeared a young man wearing his Union uniform with pride. Because the image was a negative, his face and hands were black, his hair and mustache white.

  “Did you know him?”

  “That’s Charles Sparks. Died at Petersburg.”

  She leaned the glass against the outside of the box and took up another. “And him?”

  “Mitchell. Dysentery.”

  She picked up another. “And him?”

  Nathaniel thought a moment. “McGibbins. Wilderness. Shot in the leg and died from the gangrene.”

  “Surely they did not all perish?”

  “I haven’t looked through them all, but I’m sure there are a few yet living. I imagine my likeness is somewhere in one of those boxes.”

  “Please don’t use that one in the window. I’d prefer to keep it tucked away somewhere safe.”

  Nathaniel gave her a rare smile and seemed to regard her with a more generous measure of respect than he had of late. Mary was startled t
o find herself craving his favor. If he had received the letter meant for George, didn’t it speak volumes that he hadn’t confronted her about it? That he cared enough for her to keep her from shame and embarrassment? Wasn’t that noble? Surely she could fall in love with him again if she tried.

  “You don’t think it’s disrespectful, do you?” she said. “To use these as windowpanes?”

  “I did think about that. But I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be worse to keep them hidden away in a trunk where no one would see them, no one would remember them.”

  She nodded. “I suppose.” She replaced the glass in the box and got to her feet. “You are a good man, Nathaniel.”

  He smiled and grasped her hand. “And you are a good woman, Mary.”

  But Mary knew in her heart that it was not true.

  thirty-seven

  Lapeer County, December

  I woke sometime before dawn feeling as though I had fallen. The last echoes of some unnamed disaster rang in my ears. The cat was gone before I could even open my eyes, but he’d left some claw marks on my chest to remember him by. A solitary orange ember glowed in the fireplace, and the room was cold as the grave. I hurried down the front staircase in the dark to Nora’s room and opened the door just as she was opening it, nearly knocking her over.

  “Oh! I’m sorry! I thought I heard a crash.”

  “So did I.”

  “You’re okay though?”

  “Yes, except for the heart attack you just gave me.”

  “I’m so sorry. What was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Give me your flashlight and I’ll check.”

  Nora passed it to me with a shaking hand.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  I crept around the parlor and the dining room and the kitchen, shining my light across every surface. I looked upstairs, in the attic, in the basement. Nothing was out of order.

  “I don’t know,” I said to her as I handed her the flashlight. “It must have been outside. Maybe a transformer blew or something.”

  I built up her fire again to warm the room. With nothing left to do and with the adrenaline rush wearing off, I fed my own fire and crawled back into bed. Matthew remained in hiding.