“Now, you say you don’t recall a thing about yourself or anything before Catrina found you, not even how you came to be in our field, is that so?”
Stonefield’s eyes always find mine. Even when he answers, he says it to me, not Henry. “‘Memory, warder of the brain, shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason a limbic only.’”
I laugh, and Papa smiles at the book-words, but Henry frowns and keeps going. “Well, it seems a person would remember something. I don’t understand how a whole life could be washed away like it never even happened.”
“Henry.” Effie moves her drumstick to the side of her plate with her fork. “It’s a real condition caused by trauma to the brain, called amnesia. Stonefield’s extreme fever is probably to blame. It’s possible that soon his memory will return to him.”
I spoon a heap of Effie’s creamed potatoes onto Stonefield’s plate. “Well, what matters is he’s here. Maybe it’s not so bad to have the past emptied out of a person’s head—it might make more room for the here and now.” I wish I could empty my past from my head. If I could forget what I did to Mother, then maybe all my darkness would spill out and leave my mind clean and free like Stonefield’s.
Henry sounds annoyed. “I’m just surprised he isn’t more upset about it.”
Stonefield looks up and says in his low voice, “‘What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief.’”
Henry looks like he just sucked a lemon.
But Papa’s face turns thoughtful and a little sad. He nods and says, “Mr. William Shakespeare told the gospel truth when he wrote that, but it’s not always easy. Memory makes it hard.”
I can tell he’s thinking of Mother, and it causes something sharp to rise in my throat, so that my eyes water when I try to swallow. Papa pats Stonefield’s shoulder. “If your past was full of grief, then losing your memory could be a blessing, son.” Papa never pats Henry on the shoulder like that. Henry’s turning so hot at hearing Papa call a stranger son, I swear I can almost see steam coming out his ears and nose.
He stiffens up and sets his jaw all tight, but Stonefield just smiles at Papa and reaches for another fried frog leg. Effie wrinkles her nose as he takes a big bite.
“Catrina.” Stonefield’s voice is quiet. “This is the most delicious thing I ever tasted.” He grins and adds, “Well, at least it’s the most delicious thing I remember tasting.”
Papa’s face lights up and he laughs. It’s been so long since I’ve heard him laugh that my heart swells and I think it might burst. Stonefield makes everything brighter than it’s been for ages.
Except Henry’s not laughing with us. He’s glaring at Stonefield, his body rigid but shaking a little. He turns to Effie, like he’s looking for a steady place to find his bearings. Effie’s hand moves toward Henry’s on the table like she’s going to touch him, but she flattens her palm next to her plate and clears her throat. She turns to Stonefield instead. “It appears you’re familiar with the works of Shakespeare. That’s extremely rare in these parts. My father has collected a nice library over the years and offers his books to anyone in Roubidoux, but I’m afraid only Mr. Dickinson has ever taken him up on the offer.”
Papa nods at Effie. “Cat sometimes reads the books your father gives me, but Henry never seems to find the time.”
Henry winces.
“It is strange that Shakespeare’s words survived Stonefield’s memory loss,” Effie says when she sees how Papa’s gentle words hurt Henry, moving the conversation away from him. “Perhaps he is a student of literature, or a tutor.”
Henry sniffs. “Or a traveling stage actor.” He talks about Stonefield as if he isn’t even here. “From down south, near Mexico, I expect.”
Effie tries to make her voice soft and pleasant. “It may be true that he is far from home. Perhaps Mexico or the Indian Territories. It’s impossible to know at this point.”
But Effie’s words only give fuel to my brother’s fire. “You know, down in Alabama, there’s talk of building a whole insane asylum just for Indians. I read about it last week. Seems Indians can’t figure out how to be civilized like normal folks and the effort of it makes them go crazy.”
His rudeness turns my skin hot.
“Now, son—” Father starts.
“Henry—” Effie’s eyes plead with him to stop.
Lord. I drop my frog leg on my plate. “Not everything is a story out of one of your newspapers!” My voice is so loud, it makes Effie jump. If Mother were here, she’d never let Henry treat a guest this way. And he’s the one who’s always saying that I’m not being proper!
Effie, who never fidgets, looks as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. She clears her throat. “I’ve heard St. Louis is quite a diverse city—people from all over the world live there, yet it’s only a couple days’ journey from Roubidoux. It’s possible that Stonefield’s from there.”
“Who knows where he’s from or who he is,” Henry mutters.
Stonefield acts like he doesn’t hear him. He takes another bite.
I know who you are, I say to him in my mind.
His voice is as close as my own thoughts. I’m Stonefield. He reaches his hand across the table and touches the tips of my fingers.
Henry leaps to his feet, knocking over his chair, making me jump. “How dare you take liberties with my sister!” He looks like he’s going to grab Stonefield right out of his seat, but he stops when Effie rises and comes to my side.
She slides my hand away from Stonefield’s and holds it. I know she can tell that I want to touch him as much as she wants to touch Henry and I brace myself for the sermon she’ll give us, but instead, she squeezes my hand real gentle and says, “Henry, I’m sure Stonefield didn’t mean any harm. Catrina did save his life. A person would surely have warm feelings after such an experience and want to express their appreciation.” She turns to Papa. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Dickinson?”
Papa blinks, flustered. He’s not used to having to make decisions. Mother was always the one to say what’s what. “Well.” He scratches his head. “I suppose if I’d been whisked away from the edge of death … Yes, I’m sure I’d want to kiss the hand that did the whisking.”
Henry’s face is red, but he sets his chair upright and turns back around slowly, nodding his head toward Effie. “I beg your pardon, Effie. I shouldn’t have raised my voice.” He sits back down and puts his napkin in his lap. “Maybe a better way for Stonefield to show his appreciation would be to put his hand to some work.”
“Yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Effie says. “But not yet. He really should be in bed.” As she returns to her seat she says, “Stonefield, your body seems to be recovering quickly, but you need more time to mend, don’t you agree?”
Stonefield doesn’t answer—he’s turning her words over in his head in a quiet way.
But I can tell his silence makes Henry want to hit the table with his fist. I say, “I don’t know, Effie, he looks as healthy as you and he looks thousands stronger than Henry.”
Henry glares at me.
“Well.” Effie speaks up to keep me and Henry from fighting. “It’s best if he rests longer to give his body a chance to heal itself completely.” She raises her chin, proud-like, to show me she knows what she’s talking about.
I decide not to argue with her, because if Stonefield doesn’t have to be out working on the farm, it means he can be with me.
Papa takes the last frog leg off the platter. “Well, I’m sure Stonefield will be in perfect health before too long. His help will be the most useful at harvest, anyhow—it’s going to be a big one, what with all this rain, eh, Henry?”
Henry’s face brightens, and for the first time tonight, he smiles at Papa. The thought of a good harvest cools him off a bit. He nods at Papa. “Biggest one in years, I’d say.”
Effie’s voice is animated. “That reminds me—you know my father’s been talking about having a church built in Roubidoux before harvest—part of his dream to mak
e the Roubidoux area into a bona fide township, now that he’s retired from missionary work? Well, it looks as if his dream will come true after all. His friend Reverend Preston, a traveling preacher, has agreed to help us build it and a small parsonage. He arrives tomorrow, and the building should be done by the end of September. And he’s staying on as minister when it’s finished. A real church!”
Papa leans forward. His eyes light up. “Will there be hymn shouting? I always thought it’d be nice to hear a big group of people singing out the same song at the same time, loud enough so God can hear it through the rafters.”
“Yes! Father says Reverend Preston knows lots of hymns—he has a whole book of them. He even writes his own when he gets the inspiration.”
Henry sits up straighter in his chair. “A church.” He nods. “That’s exactly what we need to start transforming Roubidoux into a real town, Effie.”
She leans toward him. “It’s a shame we’ve been without one for so long. And the building could be used as a school during the week, if we can convince enough people that we need one and get them to spare their children from their chores for just a few hours a day.” She turns to me. “Don’t you think having a real church with a real preacher is exciting, Catrina?”
The thought of sitting still, all cooped up with a load of people, and having to listen to somebody shout about God for hours doesn’t suit me, but I like the spark in Effie’s eyes, so I smile back at her. “Maybe you could be the schoolteacher, Effie.”
She turns quiet and stares at the table.
Oh Hell. Folks wouldn’t want her to be the one teaching their children. Sometimes I forget. Effie says that’s because I’m self-centered and don’t pay attention to what’s happening around me, but I say it’s because I’m just good at minding my own business and maybe she should try it. But I’m not stupid. Most people think Effie’s papa’s wrong for marrying a black woman in the Congo and for bringing his black babies back to America to live with him as daughters. Effie and her sister are the only black people that folks in Roubidoux have ever seen, but everybody knows that a person with dark skin isn’t supposed to teach things to people with pale skin, even if she is the smartest person in Roubidoux. I bet God doesn’t agree with that, because if He did, Effie would never have crossed Him by teaching me to read.
She sits up straight, her head held high. “Teaching is important, but it’s not my particular vocation. Perhaps Reverend Preston could be persuaded to teach as well as preach.” She smiles. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Henry’s been hanging on her words, and when she pushes her plate away with the frog leg untouched, he puts his knife and fork down. “It’s getting late. I better take Effie home,” he says, standing. “We don’t want Mr. Lenox to worry.”
I haven’t even had a chance to play the fiddle for her or serve the shoofly pie, but she must have forgotten because she stands up from the table, too. “Yes, thank you, Henry. And thank you, Mr. Dickinson, for having me. And, Catrina, thank you for supper. It was … interesting.”
Papa rises from his chair as Henry offers Effie his arm and leads her to the door like he’s courting her. I raise my eyebrows at Stonefield and he raises his at me. I want to laugh, but I swallow it and cough instead.
“Good night,” Effie says. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning right after breakfast to visit and see how Stonefield’s doing.” What she really means is she’ll come by tomorrow to make sure I’m behaving proper with Stonefield and to keep me away from him.
Lord, let her try.
As if Henry can read my thoughts, he turns to me and says, “Now, Cat, remember that Father’s to be chaperone while I’m out, and you’re not to run off.” He nods at Papa before he turns to take Effie’s arm.
Oh Lord.
After they leave and supper’s cleared, I go to the mantel and take down my fiddle. Tonight I feel like music is just what we need. Mother’s father, Grandpa Wells, gave me the fiddle when he was still alive. He taught me his songs back when I was little. But I don’t like to play for the spring and harvest dances where people come to show off like peacocks. I like to play for people who let the music dig under their skin and cut into their soul. The sharp achy notes pull up the weeds growing inside and shake off the dirt to make room for new things. Tonight I want to feel the music shake me again.
As soon as I start playing “The Cuckoo,” I can tell Stonefield’s just like me. The music takes hold of him right off. His eyes slide shut and his body rocks from the good kind of pain. I swear I can hear his heart beating the same as mine. I feel so happy now, I switch to “Little Liza Jane,” and Stonefield taps his heel and slaps his thigh to the rhythm. He looks at me like he wants to swing me around the room. I wish I could play the fiddle and dance with him at the same time.
Next is “Black River.” Near the end, Papa puts his pipe down and opens his desk drawer. I hold my breath as he feels for the secret catch way in the back. When it releases, he opens the hidden compartment and pulls out his harmonica, which he stuffed in there after my mother died. He hasn’t played it since. The surprise of seeing it in his hands makes my bow stop with a screech.
He blows the dust out of the harmonica with a loud burst of notes. “Play a lively one, Cat.”
Stonefield grins. “High diddle diddle, the Cat played the fiddle.”
Seeing both of them smiling at me that way flips my heart inside out so all the happiness in there shows. I laugh as I call the next tune. “‘Devil’s Dream’!” Henry hates it because of the name, but it’s one of my favorites. As soon as I start playing, and Papa’s harmonica joins in, the leaping music takes hold of my feet and I can’t keep still. I spin and twirl around the room as I play the fiddle, imagining I’m blazing circles in the floorboards like the circles Stonefield made in the cane.
Stonefield’s face blurs past me as I turn around and around the room. Then he’s out of his chair and behind me, his hands on my waist, his feet following mine as I play, and we dance. I’ve never seen partners dance a jig this way before, but Lordy, I like it. His hands are hot coals resting right above my hips, making my insides start to boil. When he laughs in my ear, it sounds low and deep, like Roubidoux Spring bubbling up from under the ground, and it makes me want to jump right in.
Papa’s face is red and sweaty. He’s huffing away on the harmonica so fast I’m afraid he’ll lose his breath. Almost as soon as I think it, it happens. Papa starts to cough, clutching his left shoulder like he’s in pain. The harmonica slips from his hand and clanks onto the floorboards. I toss the fiddle into a chair and run to his side at the same time Stonefield reaches him. Good thing, too, because Papa stumbles backward and we have to catch him.
“Papa!”
We pull him onto the cot in the study. The stiffness in his arms relaxes a little and he stops coughing.
“I’m all right, Cat.” He pats my hand and nods at Stonefield as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m just getting too old for this.”
My heart’s racing. I squeeze his hand hard. “Please don’t play anymore, then, Papa. I like to hear it, but it’s not worth the risk of making you ill.”
“Oh, I’m all right.” He pats my hand again, firmer this time. “What’s the use of living if a man can’t enjoy himself every once and again?” He runs his big hand over my hair like he used to when I was little and Henry and I would sit by the fire while Mother spun yarn and Papa spun tales about selkies, giants, and fairies.
His smile reassures me and slowly makes my heartbeat go back to normal. By the time I help him to his bed and blow out his candle, Henry’s already come home, earlier than I expected. He’s usually in a good mood after visiting with Effie and her family because he loves to hear Mr. Lenox tell about his days as a missionary and how he wants to help make a civilized town out of Roubidoux, but tonight Henry comes storming into the house like a thundercloud and flings his coat into the corner.
“What happened?” I ask.
“It’s nothing.”
There’s nothing that makes me madder than nothing. “It’s something,” I say. “Damn it, Henry, what the Hell is it?”
“Stop talking like a man, Cat. Where’s Father? You know you can’t be with him without a chaperone.” He jerks his head toward Stonefield.
“Papa wasn’t feeling well—”
Henry scowls at us and takes large strides to the kitchen.
“Was Mr. Lenox mad we kept Effie so late?” I ask.
“No!” Henry’s voice is full of heat. “And I don’t want to hear about Effie,” he yells, flinging open the cellar door and stomping down the steps. When he comes back up, he’s got the last jug of ale we brewed at harvest hooked on his finger. Henry hardly ever drinks. “What are you gaping at?” He glares at Stonefield. “Have you finally run out of other people’s words and can’t come up with any of your own?”
Stonefield’s expression doesn’t change. He stares cold at Henry for a moment, then turns without a sound, walks into the study, and shuts the door.
“You go to your room, too, Cat.” Henry’s face darkens. “Or I’ll throw your little stone back out into the field where you found it.” He carries the jug to his room and slams the door.
7
In the morning, after breakfast, Effie doesn’t come. She always does what she says she’ll do, so something’s wrong. Henry knows what it is, but he won’t talk to me. He just lies in his room like an old dog and only stumbles out of bed to fetch water or to use the outhouse. If he was the old Henry, I’d go in and make him tell me, and he would. I’d make him talk till all the poison seeped out of him and I could make him grin again. Then he’d toss my hair, which meant the same thing as a hug. But none of that will happen now.
I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep well. I woke with an empty feeling in my belly that I tried filling with biscuits and gravy, but nothing takes it away. A crow caws outside. The sound sends a shiver down my back. I wish Stonefield and Papa would get up. When I checked on Papa earlier, he was sleeping easy, so I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I keep imagining Effie wagging her finger, saying, Let them rest so they can mend.
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