The Lost Mother

by Mary McGarry Morris

  “I just bought it!”

  “I know you did.” He stared down at him.

  “Can I have one that’s not rusted?”

  “You just bought the last one.”

  “What about that one?” He pointed to the jackknife gleaming in the window.

  “That’s display. It ain’t for sale.” He peered over smudged, rimless glasses. “So when’s your mother coming back?”

  “Pretty soon.” As Thomas stared back a smile worked at the little man’s mouth. His mother used to do Whitby’s books every few months. In fact he’d been with her when he’d first seen the jackknife. She was always different when they came in here. It used to bother him the way she’d act like somebody else, something she wasn’t, not his mother but businesslike, as if there were important things for her to do here so he and Margaret had better sit quietly and wait for her to be done.

  “Hear she’s a mill hand now,” Whitby said.

  Stung by his own ignorance, Thomas closed the blades. He laid the jackknife on the counter. “This ain’t no good. I want my ten cents back, please.”

  Whitby smiled. “I don’t take nothing back that’s damaged.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “It’s still a good knife.” He smiled again. “And it’s better than nothing, now ain’t it?”

  “Nothing’s better than nothing.” He had no idea what he meant, but felt strong saying it.

  Whitby seemed confused. And mad. “Go on. Take your knife and get the hell outta here.”

  “It’s not mine,” Thomas said, leaving the jackknife on the scratched glass countertop. Whitby’s eyes followed him to the door. “This one is!” he declared, snatching the jackknife from its silver display case in the window.

  “Put that back, you!” Whitby yelled, but Thomas slammed the door and ran up the street. As soon as he got outside of town he picked up a stick from the road. He whittled as he walked. He wasn’t very good. He couldn’t make the hook-nosed, witchy faces his father used to do, sometimes with wavy lines of hair even. The best he could do after a couple miles was a sharpened tip. He snapped the spear in two, a dagger now, slipping it into his waistband. At the bottom of the gully lay a pile of broken branches, probably from the crew clearing for the electric poles. He skidded down the steep side and found a choice stick, just dry and thick enough, when a car passed above him. A big gold star glittered on the door. The sheriff. He scrambled on all fours up the gravelly rise back onto the road. Last week the bank in Atkinson had been robbed. Old Bibeau said all the crook got was a bag of promissory notes. Maybe they got yours, Gladys said to his father. Old Bibeau laughed. Farley’s got it now, he crowed.

  Or maybe gypsies had been spotted. Margaret! Thomas dropped the branch and ran. Suddenly every terror that could befall such a stupid little girl as his sister reared into mind. For a penny candy she’d climb right in beside them and be gone forever. People were always saying what a beautiful child she was, with her mother’s delicate face. But then, she had her father’s stubborn ways so maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d know better. No, she’d probably do what he’d just done with the jackknife, grab the candy and run. But what if she had gotten tired of being alone all afternoon and decided to go out in the boat with her kitten? The only time they’d taken the kitten out it had walked along the rim of the boat. He could just see it falling in and Margaret trying to rescue it from the bottomless water. One winter when his father was a boy, a wagon, horse, and driver broke through the ice never to be found again. Not a bone, thread, or sliver of wood was ever dredged up. She was always leaning over the side. She could dog-paddle some, but what if the boat tipped when she was trying to get the kitten back in and it fell over, right on top of her, trapping her in a watery casket. “Stupid girl,” he muttered, running as fast as his cramp-toed shoes would allow, because she’d never think to swim out from under it. No, she’d be banging her head into the dark seat, bobbing up and down while she sobbed and screamed his name, over and over again, so scared and panicky he was sure he could hear her. Thomas! Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!

  Coming in the opposite direction was the sheriff’s faded green car. It stopped dead in his path. The sheriff jumped out. “You Thomas Talcott?”

  “Yessir!” He nodded and panted, needing to tell about Margaret.

  “Get in the car.” So the sheriff already knew. Talk was useless. Speed was everything. He ran around to open the front door. “Backseat!” the sheriff barked. When he was in the sheriff locked the back door, then climbed behind the wheel. He started the powerful engine with a key attached to a rabbit’s foot. Good luck. Especially to have the sheriff find him.

  “No! You’re going the wrong way,” Thomas shouted as the car rumbled up the dusty road.

  “Oh yeah?” The sheriff glanced back. He seemed amused. “Which way’s the right way?” He kept on driving.

  “Back there! Out to Black Pond. My sister, she’s eight, and I gotta go help her, she’s—”

  “You got a Palomino, two-blade, nickel-plated jackknife on you, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Give it here then.” The sheriff’s wide hand went back over the seat.

  “It’s new. I just got it.”

  The big fingers wiggled.

  Hesitantly, Thomas held it up and the sheriff snatched it away. “T. C. Whitby’s? You took it from the window, right?”

  “Yes, sir. But it’s mine. I paid for it. I did,” he averred in a weakening voice.

  “That’s not what I heared. I heared you grabbed it and took off running, that’s what T. C. Whitby says. And I don’t think a busy man like T. C.’s got any reason or time to make up a story like that.”

  “Well he did. I paid him. Ten cents. Did he tell you that?”

  “That’s not what I heared.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You Henry’s boy? Talcott, the slaughterman?”

  “Yessir. But my sister’s alone. I’m afraid of her going out in the boat all by herself. She’s—”

  “Well, we’ll get to the bottom of it.” He glanced back. “One way t’other.”

  The sheriff didn’t understand about Margaret. Thomas stared down at his stained brown pants, the torn knees and frayed cuffs. Even if he had stolen the knife his father wouldn’t be as mad at him as he was going to be for leaving Margaret and her damn kitten alone all this time. And if anything happened to her … Oh God, he closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought. What would he do? His poor little sister …

  “I know your Aunt Lena. Yep, she’s a friend of my sister. Your mother’s Irene, right?”

  Thomas opened his eyes.

  “I heared she’s gone, right? Someplace down t’ Massachusetts. Got herself a job or something there, right? Some friend of hers got it for her. A real good job. Least that’s what Lena says. Well, here we go, son.” He parked in front of the jail.

  T. C. Whitby’d be by soon as the store closed. Bad enough he’d been stolen from, he wasn’t about to shut down and lose even more because of the thieving Talcott boy. Thomas perched on the narrow bench by the front window, big as life for every passerby to see.

  “Not surprised a bit,” a deputy muttered to the sheriff when he came in carrying supper in a tin pail. “Them Talcotts always been a rugged bunch.”

  “Henry’s okay,” the sheriff said. “Long as he ain’t mad about something.”

  “Which is just about all the time lately,” the deputy snorted.

  Paper crinkled. Thomas smelled beef gravy. His empty stomach growled. Hours ago breakfast had been a shared biscuit and the blueberries he and Margaret had picked, covered with some cream his father had brought when he got home late last night and left in the ice chest for them to find as a surprise after he’d left early this morning.

  “Can you blame him?”

  “I never woulda thought it. Not of Irene Jalley.”

  “Lena for sure. But Irene, Jesus, no.”

  “Takes all kinds.” The words, thick glo
bules with the deputy’s chewing.

  The front door opened. T. C. Whitby appeared in rolled-up shirtsleeves and shiny black tie. He smiled triumphantly at the boy. Even though they started off hearing the boy out, the sheriff and deputy were soon kowtowing to the man. If Whitby got his knife back that would be the end of it. Thomas could go home.

  “Sounds fair to me.” The sheriff handed Whitby the two-blade Palomino.

  “Fair’s fair, so here’s the one you bought.” Whitby held out the rusted jackknife.

  “No, sir.” Thomas wouldn’t take it. If fair was really fair he should have been able to buy the jackknife in the window.

  “Don’t be foolish now,” the sheriff warned.

  Once again, Thomas explained that that one was rusted.

  The sheriff pulled out the blades. “He’s right,” he told Whitby.

  “That’s why it’s only ten cents,” Whitby said. “Now that one,” he said pointing, “that one’s twenty, being in such pristine condition.”

  The sheriff glanced at the deputy and Thomas felt better. Whitby was a crook and they both knew it. He hadn’t broken the law, but Whitby had, trying to pass off the inferior jackknife on him just because he was a kid. The sheriff said if Thomas wanted the jackknife from the window he’d have to pay a dime more. That wasn’t fair, Thomas objected. The deputy eyed his cooling dinner. Rapping his knuckles on the desktop, the sheriff told the boy to make up his mind. This was taking up way too much of everyone’s time. Thomas said he wanted his dime back.

  “No sirree!” Whitby squealed. “Not for all this trouble, you’re not going scot-free plus being paid besides.”

  “Give the boy his dime. That seems fair. Don’t you think?” the sheriff added, and though Thomas couldn’t have put it into words then, he understood later, years later, that he had been not just disappointed by the tremor in the sheriff’s voice, but ashamed.

  “For what? Reward for his brazen thievery? No, sheriff, I’m keeping this dime.” Whitby flipped it into the air, then caught it. “That way he’ll think twice before stealing from me or anyone else again. The wages of sin,” he said, slipping it into his pocket.

  “I suppose,” the sheriff considered with a look meant to be both appeasing and stern, “it’s kinda like a fine then, you could say, son, a lesson learned. I guess that’s fair enough.” He patted Thomas’s shoulder, but the boy would have no part of it.

  “Then he better give me the rusted one then!” he cried, with more indignation and anger than he had ever felt for anyone. “Or else he’s just stealing from me then, that’s what he’s doing, and you damn well know it too, don’t you, sheriff?”

  “Now you just watch your mouth!” The deputy shoved him down onto the bench, so hard his head banged back against the wall. For a moment it felt as if he were struggling to wake from a pressing sleep.

  “Mother takes off, that’s what happens,” Whitby was saying.

  Tears came. No way to stop them. Closed his eyes. Held his breath, but they burned down his cheeks with the awful girl-gasping sob that shuddered through him. His mother was gone, his house. His father passed through the days like a dead man. All he had was Margaret and she was probably gone too. And here he sat bawling in their shadows because his whole life had changed and he couldn’t do a thing to make it better. He didn’t want the stupid jackknife or the dime even. Just for life to be fair, that’s all he wanted.

  “Give him something. That there, the rusted one,” the sheriff said. “Here.” The sheriff put the lesser jackknife into his hand. “Now go on. Go on home.” He steered him through the doorway.

  Thomas wanted to run. His heart and brain raced so much he was short of breath, but he made his feet walk down the street, slowly.

  “And you better tell your father what you did, because if you don’t, I will!” the sheriff shouted after him.

  At that very moment, a few miles away, Mrs. Farley had just parked her car at the wooded edge of Bibeau’s property. She slipped off her driving scarf, patted any mussed waves into place, then slid the wrapped plate of warm cookies from the backseat and followed the old logging trail toward the pond, whistling softly to warn off animals and snakes. This mission required a great deal of courage, for Mrs. Farley was not a born country girl. Her free hand waved in front of her face. Even the bugs scared her. Especially mosquitoes. After all the rain they buzzed in bloodthirsty clouds. Her heel teetered on the bumpy path, but she caught herself in time. Two bites rose on her arm, one swelled on her cheek. Had she known it was this far in she would have worn more sensible shoes. Imagine, she thought, with the sagging black tent in sight now, children having to live like that. Fred said he’d done all that he could under the circumstances: she could ask anyone, and they’d all tell her the same thing. Henry Talcott was a stubborn man. After Fred took over Talcott’s note, he’d sent word through the bank that he’d be glad to have Talcott stay on as a tenant. But he’d chosen pride over his family. And now look … “Hello? Hello? Hello there!” she called, then paused, certain she’d heard something. A child’s voice. Crying! “It’s just me! Mrs. Farley … Margaret?” She rushed toward the tent.

  When Thomas finally got back, Margaret and the kitten were gone. Shouting to her he ran to the pond, relieved to find the boat docked, the rope knotted exactly as he had left it. Maybe she’d gone into the woods to see if the blackberries they’d found yesterday were ripe yet. The blackberry thicket was at least a mile off. He hollered her name as he went. The sun sagged low in the streaked sky. His stomach twisted with hunger. It was surely past supper-time. Maybe six-thirty by now, seven, he couldn’t be sure. “Margaret! Margaret!” The warm thicket hummed with bees, most of the berries hard, still white and green, and there was no sign of her.

  He had to find her before dark. Before his father came home. He ran back, not even bothering to stay on the trail. This time he saw the note in the fold of canvas flap.

  Dear Thomas and Mr. Talcott,

  I brought some fresh baked cookies by and found Margaret alone and covered with bee stings. I have taken her to Dr. Creel’s. I will bring her to my house after.

  Sincerely,

  Your neighbor

  Mrs. Fred Farley

  It was almost dark by the time Thomas arrived at the Farleys’. Mrs. Farley stood just inside the door, whispering how Margaret had fallen asleep on the way home from the doctor’s. Her arms and legs were stung the worst. She’d gone out with the kitten and had stepped into a yellow jackets’ nest. Dr. Creel had tweezered out the stingers, then made a baking-soda paste to bring down the swelling. But it hadn’t done much for the pain. Every now and again she cried out in her sleep.

  She’d be all right; Margaret was a brave girl, Thomas said, which was a lie. What she was was a very good actress, though he knew better than say this to Mrs. Farley, who was obviously in the thrall of his sister’s drama. He said he’d better take her home now. She asked if his father was there yet. No, but he would be any minute, Thomas said. Well, he’d see her note then and know to come here, she said. She invited him into the kitchen, where Jesse-boy sat on a blanket-covered chair, thin legs stretched out on a leather hassock, nibbling cookies from his lap tray while he listened to the radio. She asked Thomas if he’d had supper. He lied and said yes. She gave him a plate of cookies and a glass of cold creamy milk at the table, then skittered happily, eagerly, nervously up and down the stairs to check on Margaret—poor little thing’s sound asleep, she’d whisper, bustling back into the kitchen. With more than a few sentences Jesse-boy’s breathing grew labored, so Thomas found himself doing most of the talking, not because he had anything to say, and not even to fill the strange silence, but because, just as his father’s did, Jesse-boy’s wheezing scared him, made him panicky in that same way. As long as he kept talking, Jesse-boy wouldn’t have to.

  Jesse-boy was four years older but they had been in school together years back, before Jesse-boy left to be taught at home. Thomas was recalling his way through the grades. Jesse
-boy’s eyes gleamed with the comeuppance stories. Thomas tried to think of every bad thing that had ever happened to a bully. A few he even made up. This one though was true. It was about Billy Humboldt’s terrible accident, falling on his head from his father’s tractor. He’d never been right since. But then his fits got so bad last year they had to send him to some place up in Burlington. “Like a crazy house almost—”

  “Shh!” Mrs. Farley said, and Thomas realized that Jesse-boy had fallen asleep. She hurried off again, then tiptoed into the room with Mr. Farley, who slipped his arms under his son’s limp body and carried him up to bed.

  At ten-thirty when Thomas’s father still hadn’t come, Mrs. Farley made up the daybed for Thomas. He said he wasn’t tired. She insisted he at least rest on it. At three in the morning he was awakened by Margaret screaming. Bolting upstairs, he followed her cries to the bedroom, where Mrs. Farley had already arrived. Margaret’s cheeks hung in jowly sacs past her chin. Her eyes were swollen to slits. Helpless, he watched Mrs. Farley dab on another coating of the white paste that cracked the minute it dried.

  “There, there now,” she whispered, holding his sister’s puffy hand while she moaned.

  She looked like a monster. Like one of the sideshow freaks at the fair. Mrs. Farley kept assuring Margaret that she was going to be all right. Her tongue was so swelled up she could barely speak. When she grunted like that, she sounded like Billy Humboldt. What if she ended up like him? In some crazy-person place? It could happen. Anything could, he was beginning to find out.

  At four thirty he sat up on the daybed. His father’s rackety old truck had just pulled up to the house. Henry left the motor on and ran onto the porch. His truck had broken down in Montpelier and he’d been most of the night trying to get it fixed and going again. No matter how Mrs. Farley went on about Margaret’s dangerous condition, he insisted on taking his children home. Shushing him all the way, Mrs. Farley led him upstairs to look in on the poor little thing. Thomas watched from the doorway. His father bent down and whispered in Margaret’s ear. Then, just as Mr. Farley had done earlier to his son, his father lifted her from the bed. She screamed with pain. Easing her back down, he said she could stay if she wanted. Did she want to? he asked through her sobbing. She said yes, Mrs. Farley reported, gently touching the baking-soda poultice to the little girl’s neck.