by A. LaFaye
Keep Her Well
“Lyza.” A warm hand on my knee shocked me into jumping out of the chair. Uncle Fenton stumbled against the wall. I bolted for the back door.
He chased after me, yelling, “Wait! Wait! I won’t hurt your pater.”
Reaching the flagpole, I yanked down the blue flag, hoping Pater would recognize its absence as a warning. “You’ll just lock him away like some criminal!”
“No.” Uncle Fenton put his hands over mine. “I sent those farm folks away this morning.”
“You did?”
“Lyza.” He turned me to face him, but the snapping of the flag caught my attention.
Hoisting the blue flag again, I let Pater know I was fine and in a way wished him good morning. Staring off to the island, I saw his mirror flash an answer—one quick flash, two slow flashes, one long flash—I. Love. You.
“I love you too, Pater.”
Uncle Fenton squinted. “Did he just signal you?”
“Why’d you help Pater?”
“Truth on the Bible, I helped your mater. Kept a promise really. She told me to protect Evan if anything happened to her.”
“But you didn’t say anything when your mother wanted a funeral?”
“Sometimes the best allies are those who hide themselves until they’re needed. If my family knew what I was up to, they’d be in the thick of it, trying to stop me. Marl and Garrett went out to the island yesterday.” He nodded toward the island. “But Evan kept clear of them. Have you seen him? Is he well?”
“A little scared, but good.” I searched his face, surprised to see real concern pulling at the corners of his mouth, tightening his eyes.
“Good.” He smiled, then said, “What about you? You look like a sailor who’s been through a gale.”
Dropping to the stoop, I said, “I haven’t had time to rest my mind.”
Rubbing my shoulder, he said, “It’s all too much for a girl young as yourself.” He blinked into the salty sea air. “And this sickness takes people so fast, a person doesn’t have the time to mourn one before it sends another soul to the Good Lord.”
“Has someone else died?” The idea of it had me swaying, hollowed out and light. Lord, please don’t take anyone else from me.
Fenton steadied me with hands on my elbows. “Oh child, take no more upon yourself. You have enough now. Why, your mater feared this like a priest fears the coming of the devil.”
Mater. The P fellow I had to find. That thought dashed all others to pieces.
Racing back into the house, I felt a frantic need for some word from Mater, some advice about what I should do next. I found the flower box on the floor by the chair where it had fallen, lid off, the contents strewn across the floorboards. Searching, I pulled out a leather passbook. Pocketing it, I found a thimble, Mater’s spelling bee medal from grammar school, a locket of my baby hair, a folded-up letter. Peeking, I saw it had been written by Pater. No message from Mater. Searching on all fours, I found dust, a dropped bit of toast, a penny. Then, under the edge of a tablecloth, I found a handmade notebook that fit snug in my hand.
“What is it?” Fenton asked, standing over me.
Sitting, I crossed my legs, then opened it, the spine snapping a little as I did. In letters as tiny as if they’d been written in the eyelashes of a baby kitten, Mater spoke to me.
Lyza, Little Lyza, whose eyes are as strong as her heart. Keep this book close, for I am not. To keep your pater safe you need only do three things. Love him. Respect him. And contact Carlton Penwarren. He has all we need to protect your pater.
“Who’s Carlton Penwarren?”
Uncle Fenton stood tall, his eyelids fluttering in thought. “Penwarren? Penwarren?” His face broadened into a smile. “Oh, he’s a fellow your mater went to school with. Became a lawyer. Our mother wanted them to be married.”
Carlton? Carlie! Mater’s study partner was Carlie. “Where is he now?”
“Rocksport.” As Uncle Fenton spoke, Granger rubbed around his legs, a sign I could trust.
“He can help.” How I didn’t know, but Mater knew best.
“Oh?”
“I need to speak to him.”
“I’ll take you into town.” Uncle Fenton turned to go, but then stopped and faced me again. “But you need to change your clothes and freshen up a bit, Lyza. You look storm worn.”
“All right.”
As I dressed, my fingers itched to be holding that book, reading what Mater wrote, hearing her voice speaking in my head, feeling her close to me. I hurried to push those thoughts out of my mind. Pater needed my help.
Uncle Fenton had hitched his horse to his buggy while I was getting ready. We jostled into town at a canter’s pace. I was half out of the buggy before we came to a stop at the town square. Running for the general store, I prayed Mr. Gunderson would give me a call on credit.
The folks in the shop stared at me like my skin carried the fever that took my mater. They slinked closer to the walls. One woman covered her mouth with her handkerchief.
I went straight to the phone counter. “Can you give me a call on credit?” I asked the youngest Gunderson son, Gabe.
“Is it a grief call? Father is giving each family one grief call.”
“Grief call?”
“A call to bring someone to the funeral.”
“No, I need to call a lawyer downstate.”
“Oh.” Gabe frowned in confusion. “Then I’ll have to ask.”
He started around the counter to go find his father, but Mr. Gunderson shouted from the front of the store. “Let her make any call she wants! She has credit on their account. Mayra saw to that.”
As Gabe rang through to the operator in Rocksport, I found myself wondering if Mater had been warned this might happen. Had the fever haunted her like one of Pater’s spirits?
“What’s the lawyer’s name?” Gabe asked, his ear to the phone.
“Penwarren.” As the operator searched for his number, I went to the front of the store and found Mr. Gunderson counting stock. “Mr. Gunderson?”
He turned, his shoulders slumped, saying, “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Lyza. But this damn sickness has no respect for virtue.”
“Mr. Gunderson, what did you mean when you said my mater saw to it?”
“Oh.” A faint smile swept over his lips. “Any time Mayra had a spare nickel, she’d put it on account, build it up for the leaner times.”
“Ah,” I sighed.
He gave a nod, then said, “Don’t let worry carry you away, Lyza.” He leaned over the counter to whisper. “Your mother never took to the company of fools. That’s why she married your father and stayed clear of her in-laws.”
The shock of his words filled me with a sudden jolt of happiness. I smiled. “Thanks.”
He straightened up and said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I mean it, Lyza Layton, you did a fine job on that sign of mine. Fine job.” He winked.
And I blushed, heading to the back of the store feeling strangely grounded.
“They can’t find a Penwarren.” Gabe shrugged.
“Come again?” No Penwarren. That couldn’t be possible. I turned to Uncle Fenton, who was looking over the tools. “Are you sure it’s Rocksport?”
“That’s what Mayra said.”
“Are you sure?” I asked Gabe. He asked the operator, then nodded.
“Thank you.” I spun around, feeling ground up and small. Uncle Fenton put his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll find him, Lyza. We will.”
“Lyza,” Gabe’s brother Adam saw me as he came in from the storeroom. We’d been in the same grade when I attended school. Adam, Jake, and I used to go for boat races on Kelso Creek on Saturdays years ago. “I’m so sorry. You’ve been through so much. First . . .”
Uncle Fenton stepped up to the counter, saying, “That’s good of you, Adam. Real good. I’ll pass your condolences on to Evan as well.”
“Okay.” Adam nodded as he carried a box to a waiting customer.
I followed Uncle Fenton out to the boardwalk, dazed and angry. What now?
No Penwarren. He would have understood. Not only because he knew Mater, but he knew loss too. First his parents, then his brother trapped in an endless sleep. I wouldn’t lose Pater too. I couldn’t.
Wait, Carlie’s brother! He’d been in a hospital near where Mater went to college. If he was alive, he might still be there. The nurses and doctors, they’d know where to find their patient’s brother. That’s it. I’d go find the brother. He’d lead me to his brother Carlton.
“Uncle Fenton, would you watch over Pater? Be sure he’s safe?”
“I would, but where will you be?”
“Portland. I know where to find Penwarren’s brother. And where he is, Penwarren is likely to be.”
Fenton smiled. “You are Mayra’s girl, through and through. Smarter than two men put together.”
Mater had been smart enough to leave us money at the store and a message to find Penwarren. I was merely chasing along behind her, trying to catch up.
“But are you sure you can find your way in a place like Portland? Shouldn’t you have someone with you?”
Jake. If I left without him he’d skin me alive, but I didn’t have time to track him down and convince his mother to let him go with me. As for Uncle Fenton, it didn’t take much to convince him. “Who would I take? You’re the only one who can protect Pater if I’m not here. And who else would even want me to track down Penwarren?”
“Like I said, a real thinker you are, Lyza.” He patted my shoulder, then pulled out his wallet. “Well, if you’re going and I can see you are, then you’ll need train fare, there and back. And money for meals.”
“Thank you,” I kissed him on the cheek, realizing just how much I had to thank Uncle Fenton for—believing in me, protecting Pater, giving me a job. The list could go out to sea, cross the ocean, and come back.
“Aye. Well, consider it an advance on your salary.”
Tucking the money into my pocket, I turned to make my way to the station. Fenton said, “What about a change of clothes?”
“There’s no time. It’s almost noon.” I pointed to the clock over the post office. The train ran south only at midday and came north at dawn. I needed to run to the station and pray I could catch it.
“Fare thee well, Lyza!” shouted Uncle Fenton.
Even in my race to catch the train, a memory caught up to me. I could see Mater sitting at the table, me on the side with my back facing the hallway—a situation we found ourselves in often. Mater rolled out piecrust on our flour-coated breadboard. “Fare thee well,” she said, poking the crust as she spoke. “That’s more than ‘See you later,’ you know. It means, ‘I hope you fare well in whatever path you take.’ Means so much more than just ‘See you again soon.’ Much like good-bye itself. What happened to ‘God be with you?’ Why can’t that be something we say to each other? Instead of tired, empty old ‘farewell,’ I’d like to know that my host hopes I fare well and that God will be with me. Not just a silly old good-bye, go away, get lost.”
She’d laughed. I’d laughed. Placing the crust over the sliced peaches, she cut away the extra, then we each took a penny and pressed it down to seal the edges until our pennies met. We fought pennies, flicking them against each other, trying to dislodge them, raising them higher and higher until we fought eye to eye. Then Mater pressed hers into my cheek and it stuck there. I stuck mine to her cheek and we laughed and laughed. God, how I miss her. Keep her well, I prayed. Keep her well. And help me find Carlton Penwarren.
I nearly tripped getting onto the platform when I reached the station out of breath. “Round trip to Portland,” I sputtered into the ticket window.
And just like that I grabbed the ticket and jumped onto the train as the whistle blew and the conductor shouted, “Train leaving the station!”
No time to think. Or worry after Pater, or wonder just what I could do in the bustle and buzz of a huge city. And what would Jake think of me heading off to Portland without him? The whole of it had me gripping the stair rail for dear life as the train pulled out.
Portland
Shaking with the worry of it all, I stepped onto the platform between two train cars. And, as if he’d stepped out of the car in front, Jake appeared, smiling so wide his lips nearly touched his ears. “You didn’t think you could go to Portland without me, did you?”
“Jake!” I lunged to hug him, but he sidestepped me, leaving me to stumble and grab the rail to steady myself.
“Hugging is not manly.” He scowled at me.
Oh, bother. Where did he get such mixed-up ideas? Better yet: “Where did you get the money for a ticket to Portland?”
He sighed, then kicked the door. Looking down, he said, “I took a locket from my mother. But I couldn’t sell it like I’d planned.”
“Good.”
“But I saw you jump on this train.” He pointed toward the stairs behind me. “So I thought I’d do some jumping of my own!” He pointed behind himself.
“Jake!” Not sure which made me feel worse—that he’d stolen his mother’s locket and sneaked onto the train and might get caught, or those dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. Had me thinking back to what Uncle Fenton had said under the flag. “And this sickness takes people so fast, a person doesn’t have the time to mourn one before it sends another soul to the Good Lord.”
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked Jake, hoping he wouldn’t lie to me.
“All right? I’m riding high! I’m going to Portland!”
You’d have thought someone lit a lantern inside that boy—he practically glowed with the joy of it.
But then, through the glass in the door, I saw the conductor trudging down the aisle, punching tickets. I turned to tell Jake he better hide, but he’d already left. That boy. If I didn’t keep him on the straight and narrow he’d end up in a Portland prison.
I took my seat. The conductor punched my ticket. And I set to fretting about Pater out on the island with no one but Uncle Fenton to watch over him. He’d be wild angry at me for leaving after my trip to see Granny Layton, but I had to go. I had to find Penwarren and see to it that Pater would be safe.
The worry of it had me short of breath and closing my eyes to calm myself. And just like that, I slipped away.
I rocked in the gray boat, rowing into a dead calm sea, but this time I tacked southward, heading down shore, cello music drifting to me from back home. I turned to see the faint glow of Mater’s lantern in the distance. I’ll find him.
That promise left me feeling weak and strong all at the same time. The strength was rowing me forward, moving me toward Portland. But the strain of the last few days had left me thin and tired, wishing Jake would come out of hiding and sit with me. Tell me one of his silly stories of the fisherman who bought this or that charm for good luck and summoned a silkie or a talking fish, some wild tale that could take my mind off all of this.
But no silly story could cut through the dark truth. So I sat in my seat, trying to will myself into thoughts of nothing by praying for Pater’s safety, for Mater’s soul. For a way to find Carlton Penwarren.
I turned to the seat across the aisle and a woman stared back at me, a soft smile on her lips, an old-fashioned ribboned hat on her head. “It’ll be all right, dear.”
And how did she know? I hadn’t said a word to her. To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed her when I sat down. And a woman in so many layers of wool seemed hard to miss. Last time I saw such a fancy dress was in Granny Bradley’s wedding photo.
“It always is, dear.”
“Pardon?”
“With the Good
Lord watching over you, everything turns out in the end. Not the way we planned. But then again, He’s a far better planner than we could ever hope to be.”
She spoke as old fashioned as she dressed, but I nodded to be polite and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s an honor.” She turned to face the window. I’m not sure if she spoke to me or to herself, but I heard her say, “The least I can do on such a long journey.”
Long indeed. As we rattled through the deep woods, then on to the coast, I drifted in and out of sleep, the buffeting of the railcar putting me in mind of the jostling of waves against the side of a boat, an old gray boat—I rowed and rowed, the shoreline nothing but shadowy shapes of darkness as I headed south once again.
We didn’t reach Portland until near to eight o’clock. I woke up feeling as if I’d been packed in a crate and shipped. I’d been pushing myself so hard for so long, my body had gone stiff and weak. The old-fashioned woman across the aisle was gone. She probably got off at one of the stations along the way.
I could have kissed the planks of the Portland station when I got off, it felt so steady and secure to finally be on solid ground. That is until I came to my senses and felt the push and shove of everyone passing me, saw the swirl and flow of all those people—the button-flap shoes, polished walking sticks, and Gibson-girl poufs in hair and skirts. Seemed like a Sears and Roebuck catalog had come to life and started to parade around. I never felt so backcountry in all my days. In my wool dress and stockings—without so much as a ribbon for my hair—I’m lucky they didn’t sweep me off the platform like an unwanted tick.
Well, I got swept off anyway. Jake flew out of nowhere and whooshed me straight down those steps and right onto the sidewalk out front—an honest to goodness concrete sidewalk, and street lamps glowing not with lanterns, but honest to golly electricity! Jake and I stood under one and spun around like a couple of moths.
“A-ma-zing! Zing! Zing!” Jake punched the air, then spun around. A trolley car rumbled by. “Ding! Ding! Ding!” he shouted with the bell as it signaled crossing an intersection filled with more cars than wagons!