Still House Pond

by Jan Watson

  “I’ve never had pork cake,” Copper said. “What’s in it?”

  Ruby wrapped a dishrag around the handle of a coffeepot and poured coffee into waiting mugs. “The main ingredient is a goodly slab of fat salt pork, about a pound. Now you got to chop it real fine and soak it in strong, boiling hot coffee before you add your soda, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg . . . What am I forgetting, Emerald? They’s something else.”

  “The raisins, Mommy. You forgot to say raisins.”

  “Oh, my aching back,” Ruby said. “My head won’t hold on to nothing anymore. It’s like a sieve.” She offered Copper a cream pitcher. “Four cups of stoned raisins or currants. Then you got to dredge the fruit in a little flour, you understand. Dredge them or they’ll settle to the bottom.”

  Copper sipped her cream- and sugar-laced drink. She hadn’t liked coffee until she started delivering babies at all hours of the night. Now she appreciated the jolt of energy a cup gave her.

  Ruby bustled about, refilling the cups, hustling to the pantry for more sugar, skimming thick yellow cream from a jug of milk.

  Maybe Emerald looked like a younger version of her mother, but their temperaments did not seem to match. She didn’t lift a finger to help her mother.

  “I feel a draft,” Emerald said.

  Ruby darted out of the room and came back with a knit shawl, which she draped around her daughter’s shoulders. “Here,” she said, pulling up a low stool, “rest your feet.” Back at the stove, Ruby removed the cake from the oven, set the pan on a shelf, and lifted the coffeepot.

  Copper laid her hand across her cup. “Thank you, but no more for me.”

  “Would you druther have tea? Or I could fetch a bucket of fresh water. Why don’t I do that?” Ruby took a granite bucket from the top of the food safe. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’m sorry to put your mother to so much trouble,” Copper said.

  “Oh, she don’t mind. Mommy’s bound and determined this baby’s going to draw air,” Emerald said, patting her belly. “Between her and my husband, they won’t let me do a thing. I don’t know if that’s good or not. I ain’t sure what the right thing to do is.”

  “Maybe I can help,” Copper said, “if you want me to.”

  Tears spurted from Emerald’s lustrous green eyes. It was easy to see where she’d gotten her name. “I’d surely appreciate it. I don’t know if I can stand to go through another disappointment. I just about lost my mind after burying the third one.”

  Copper murmured understanding.

  Emerald looked up shyly from downcast eyes. Her eyelashes were thick and long. “Sometimes I think it would be better if we put all that to rest. But you know how it is—I don’t want to lose my man, either.”

  Copper understood. It was a point of contention in many a marriage. “Tell me about your other confinements and about your labors.”

  Through tears Emerald shared her history. She was twenty-one and had delivered three stillborn babes in three years. With Copper’s prodding, she was able to relay some specifics: the babies, two girls and a boy, were all full-term with good weights, and there were no outward signs of disease or disability. The only unusual aspect of her deliveries was that her babies were in such a hurry to be born that their feet came first.

  Ah, Copper thought, footling breech. That explains it. “Did you have an attendant?”

  “With the last one I did,” Emerald said.

  “Did she try to turn the baby in the womb? make it come out headfirst?”

  “I was too busy to rightly take notice.”

  “Have you figured your due date?” Copper asked.

  “Would you mind to get the calendar?” Emerald pointed to the wall by the door, where a calendar hung from a nail. “I’ve kept track of my monthlies there.”

  Copper fetched it.

  Emerald turned the pages back. “Looks like I was last ill on January 10.”

  “So if we count back three months from January 10 . . .” Copper took a small notebook and a pencil from her doctor’s kit and made a notation. “We get October 10. Add seven days and looks like your date of confinement is October 17. What a nice month to have a baby.”

  Ruby hustled into the house with a full bucket of water and set it on the table. “Whew,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of one hand, “I’m out of breath. The least thing wears me out anymore.”

  Emerald started to rise, but her mother laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Mommy, I wish you’d let me help.”

  “You’ll have plenty to do once you get me a grandbaby.” From behind her daughter’s chair, Ruby kneaded Emerald’s shoulders. “You ain’t losing this one if I have any say in the matter.”

  Emerald reached up and clasped her mother’s hands. The simple displays of affection between mother and daughter nearly brought Copper to tears.

  Ruby poured goblets of cold water and sliced the still-warm cake. A sudden breeze blew the scent of rain in through the open kitchen door. “Oh, my aching back. I’d best get the laundry off the line.”

  “Poor Mommy,” Emerald said as she and Copper watched Ruby scurry outside, the woven laundry basket against her hip. “I don’t know how she keeps a-going like she does.”

  Copper tasted the cake. It was not to her liking. “It might be best if I put you on my list of rounds. What do you think?”

  “Oh, would you? Everybody says you’re the best.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Copper replied, mashing a bit of cake with her fork. “Would you be willing to stay at my house when your time draws near?”

  “I’ll do anything. You can hang me upside down by my toes if need be,” Emerald said, her eyes sparkling. “You give me hope.”

  Copper waited until the light rain dissipated before she started home. She used the time to explain to both women what she thought might have been the cause of Emerald’s losses. Emerald seemed relieved, as if just knowing what happened lessened her fear. Copper also left a simple laxative for Emerald comprised of senna, cream of tartar, sulfur, and ginger for easing her piles and to keep her from straining, possibly bringing on an early labor.

  Ruby protested when Copper said Emerald should return to light housekeeping, but Copper prevailed. It was a rare illness that justified inactivity. “Just don’t do any chores that require you to reach overhead, like hanging clothes on the line,” she told Emerald. “You don’t want to cause the cord to wrap around the baby’s neck.”

  Copper was at ease as she rode Chessie home. She had delivered breech babies before and was confident she could help Emerald. Chessie didn’t even pause when they came to the pool of standing water. Copper figured the mare was anxious to get home, where she would get an extra rasher of sweet timothy hay. She reined in Chessie only once when an unfamiliar dog waddled across their path. It looked like she’d be dropping a litter soon. Copper wondered who she belonged to.

  Copper unfolded her handkerchief and let the piece of pork cake she had secreted there fall to the ground. The dog scarfed it up and wagged her tail for more.

  Copper pointed back up the trail. “There’s a whole cake back there. You’re welcome to it.”

  The dog cocked her head as if trying to understand. Something in the animal’s manner reminded Copper of her old hound Paw-paw. My, she missed that dog. Maybe they should think of getting the children a pet. Lilly had waged a campaign to get one for months. She’d talk to John about it.

  The beagle followed Chessie for a short time, then trotted away in response to a sudden piercing whistle.

  Good, Copper thought. The dog wasn’t lost and following her home. She wouldn’t mind the children having one pet, but they didn’t need a brood of pups.

  9

  Saturday! Finally! Manda never thought the day would come. She’d suffered Monday: wash day; Tuesday: ironing; Wednesday: cleaning—including the kitchen and sickroom windows—ugh; Thursday: mending; Friday: baking light bread, pies, and a cake. And now it was glorious Saturday.
It was her free day, and she was on her way to town with Dimmert. In her pocket was a scrap of dress material, and she was set on finding the right buttons to match it at Coomb’s Dry Goods.

  Wednesday’s post had brought a letter addressed just to her from Darcy, who lived in Eddyville, Kentucky. She couldn’t remember ever getting a piece of mail addressed singly to her. It made her feel special. The letter was wonderful enough, but the little bit of material enfolded in its pages made it even better. Darcy would make a dress for her after Manda mailed back a pattern and buttons. Manda was delighted.

  Of all the Whitt sisters, and there were many, Darcy was the one who had made it, as far as Manda was concerned. Darcy was a dressmaker and owned her own shop. She had a house at the edge of town—a solid brick house with flower boxes at the windows. She had two full-time employees at the dress shop and a woman who came to her home to care for her little son, clean her house, and cook her supper. Manda could not imagine the freedom of such a life: no scrubbing floors on hands and knees, no endless tending of stoves, no hauling buckets of water, no coddling other women’s children.

  “Sure was good you hearing from Darcy,” Dimmert said, flicking the horse’s reins and startling her out of her reverie.

  “Yes,” Manda said. “I brought the letter with me. Do you want me to read it aloud?”

  “Maybe just the high points,” Dimmert said.

  Manda took the missive from her linen poke and slid it from the envelope. Since Dimmert couldn’t read, she was happy to share it with him.

  “The first part talks about the baby, how he is walking well now and has most all his teeth. Then she says the shop is doing good; ‘business is booming’ is exactly how she puts it.”

  “Booming,” Dimmert said. “That does sound good.”

  “She bought a new living room suite. It’s overstuffed.” Manda looked at Dimmert. “What do you think that means—overstuffed?”

  “Sounds like me after one of Cara’s Sunday dinners. I reckon it means it hurts to sit on it.”

  Manda shared a laugh with her brother. “Can’t you just see a big old sofa popping its buttons all over the room?”

  Dimmert whooped. “You’re going to make me drive off the road, Sis.”

  A load of wagon wheels shifted in the bed of the wagon, clicking and clacking when the wagon hit a hole in the road.

  “You’re supposed to go around the chunk holes.”

  “Your fault,” he said, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “You got me laughing so hard I can’t see to drive.”

  “Want me to take the reins?” she said hopefully.

  “Nah. How would that look? My sister driving this load of wheels into town? Why, folks would think you made them instead of me.”

  “So? What if they did?”

  “Don’t get too full of yourself. We don’t want you being overstuffed.”

  That set them to laughing again.

  They were nearly to town before Dimmert sobered and asked, “Does Darcy say anything about her husband?”

  Manda slid page one behind page two. She ran her finger down the filmy onionskin stationery. “It’s right near the end.” She hated to put words to the nightmare that attached itself to Darcy’s dream like a tick on a dog. “Darcy writes that Henry is doing as best he can. He has lost weight. The prison food does not agree with him. And he has blisters on top of blisters from swinging a sledgehammer day after day.”

  “Are we supposed to feel sorrow for him?” Dimmert asked. “He has got to make restitution one way or another for what he done. Breaking big rocks into little rocks is a start.”

  Manda folded the fancy paper and stuck it back in the envelope. “Darcy isn’t fishing for sympathy. She says, ‘Don’t say anything about my Henry unless someone asks.’ You asked, Dimm.”

  “Well, Darcy is family, and I do feel pity for her and her baby. But as for her husband—nary a whit.”

  Manda put the letter away and leaned back against the wagon seat. It was warm from the sun. “I didn’t live here when the accident happened. So all I know is what I’ve gathered from listening to others. Ace and Dance don’t talk about it.”

  “Accident is putting it kindly. I guess that’s how Darcy chooses to see it; otherwise she couldn’t live with herself.”

  A buggy driven much too fast overtook them and whizzed by on the right side. Manda dodged a rock that was churned up by the buggy’s wheels. It hit the seat and bounced back to the road.

  Dimmert threw out his arm as if he could protect her in hindsight. “You okay?”

  Manda shivered. That’s just how quick your life could take a turn for the worse. “So what do you think happened that day at the sweetwater run? I’ve never heard you talk about it.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t judge Darcy’s husband. I wasn’t there when it happened either,” Dimm said in his slow and thoughtful way. “But I don’t think Henry Thomas cleaving Ace Shelton’s head with a tomahawk was ary fluke of nature.”

  “Having an opinion is not the same as judging someone, is it?”

  “That’s one for the preacher to answer,” Dimmert said.

  Manda turned on the bench until she could see her brother. “I’d really like to know what you think.”

  Dimmert’s face turned pensive. “I had a little dealing with the lawyer Henry Thomas when I had my brush with the law. I think Henry was hatching his plans even then. He was lusting for Whitt land, and he aimed to get it any way he could.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Dimm pulled over to the side of the road. Laying the reins across his knee, he counted off his fingers as he talked. “Number one: get me sent to prison. Like he did by not taking proper care of my case, so’s he could trick Cara out of my land. Number two: marry Darcy Mae and steal her inheritance from our dying mammaw. Number three: slip up to the sweetwater run like a sheep-killing dog and accidentally bash Dance’s husband’s head in. Dance would be no match for a slick Willie like Henry. He’d’ve got her acreage by hook or by crook once Ace was out of the picture.” He whisked his hands together with a loud slap. “Wham, bam—line up the lambs.”

  Startled by the loud noise, Manda jumped. “Don’t seem like the land handed down by our ancestors is valuable enough to drive a man to all that evil.”

  Dimmert gave her a long, studying look. “There ain’t nothing but the land.” From where they sat, they could stare off into the distance at layer upon layer of fog-shrouded mountains. “God ain’t making any more of this as far as I know.” He flicked the reins and they were on the road again. “Where you heading to this morning?”

  “Drop me off at the dry goods store. I’m looking at patterns and also picking up some items from Cara’s list.”

  “Done,” Dimmert said, pulling in front of Coomb’s store. “You want to walk down to the livery stable after your shopping? I hope to sell all these wheels by morning’s end.”

  Manda hopped down from the wagon. “Sounds good.”

  “Leave your parcels here and we’ll pick them up on the way back,” Dimm said as he drove off, leaving Manda to her pleasure.

  Mr. Coomb was out front polishing the store’s plate-glass window. Coomb’s Dry Goods and Apothecary was etched across the glass in flowing black script. Underneath in small print was If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.

  “Morning,” Manda said as she crossed behind him.

  Mr. Coomb laid his cloth aside and hurried to the door, which he opened with a flourish. “Good morning, Miss Whitt. Beautiful day.”

  “That it is,” Manda murmured and stepped inside. She loved the feeling of plenty emanating from the store shelves and cases. Slowly she wandered up and down the aisles, stopping now and then to finger a bolt of cloth or to drool over a display of confections behind the glassed-in candy case. She could picture Darcy doing this daily. What must it be like to have such freedom? Dimmert’s feelings aside, Manda would trade every mountain on Troublesome Creek to live in a proper city. She was sure she wo
uld never tire of shopping.

  “Could I help you find something?” a store clerk asked.

  “Oh,” Manda said with a sigh, “I’m just taking it all in.”

  “We got some new patterns from New York City just this week,” the salesclerk said, steering Manda toward the notions display and a rack of patterns. “These are up-to-the-minute,” she said discreetly as if she were telling Manda a secret meant for her ears alone. “I hear a modified bustle is the latest necessity.”

  Like Manda didn’t know all about braided wire bustles and Empire corsets and Hygeia bust forms. She probably studied more fashion magazines in one month’s time than this clerk had ever seen. Manda took Cara’s mundane list from her pocket and handed it to the clerk. “Could you get these things for me? I’ll be picking out buttons for a new frock.”

  Frock—that sounded like something Rose Feathergay would wear.

  “Certainly,” the young woman said, pulling out a long drawer containing cards of snaps and buttons and fabric frogs. “Let me know if I can assist.”

  Manda was glad when the saleswoman bustled away leaving her to enjoy the sudden wealth at her fingertips: pearl buttons and jet buttons and nickel-size blue buttons shaped like daisies among dozens of other fasteners. Manda took two cards of buttons from the drawer and held them up to the light. The pearl buttons were pretty and the least expensive, but the daisies . . . oh my. Ten cents for a card of eight—that was much more than she had expected to pay, but she simply had to have them.

  A wire rack of Standard Designer patterns squeaked when she turned it. She really should have picked the pattern before selecting the buttons. Now she would have to find a dress to fit the notions instead of the other way round.

  She selected one envelope from the dozens of offerings. The pattern was of a ladies’ blouse waist over a five-gored bell skirt. The blouse was closed with hooks and eyes but needed six buttons for embellishment. Perfect. The pattern cost twenty cents and was cut in eight sizes from thirty-two to forty inches bust measure. According to the instructions on the back of the envelope, Darcy would need four and three-eighths yards of material for a dress Manda’s size. Darcy had not said how much dress goods she had, but Manda supposed it would not be a problem.