Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

  She carried the vase of flowers to the entrance hall and set it on the table where Searcy kept the mail, which was delivered twice a day. Simon liked to check the post as soon as he came in the house. She reached over the table to straighten the painting that hung there—a pastoral of sheep grazing beside a quiescent, meandering stream.

  An anxiety unusual to Copper settled around her heart; she didn’t know what to do with the feeling. It was obvious her sister-in-law wasn’t pleased with her; nor was Mrs. Inglebrook, and she wasn’t so sure about Simon. Yes, he loved her, but was that enough? And did she really love him?

  “You’ve made your bed,” Mam would say, and truly she had. But her bed was a peacock’s nest and she a small brown wren unable to find a perch.

  The painting drew her in. “‘He leadeth me beside the still waters,’” she murmured. “‘He restoreth my soul. . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me. . . .’” Copper knelt there in the entrance hall with bowed head over folded hands. “Please, Lord,” she prayed aloud, “help me find the still water. Help me find my place in this house, and help my husband love the woman I am, not the one he wants me to be.”

  Simon Corbett was bone weary. He’d never made it home for supper last night but instead had shared some kind of meat-and-potato stew rustled up by Avery Morton while they waited for Avery’s wife to deliver her first baby. A long and tedious process. They’d sent for Simon much too early. Mrs. Morton was screaming before she’d dilated even three centimeters, and Avery kept going outside to throw up.

  Finally home, Simon kept the lavatory door open so he could observe his wife, still abed. If he stood to one side of the mirror, he could see her while he lathered his face. He liked to watch her wake . . . that sleepy smile, that tangle of red hair.

  He could smell coffee brewing and bacon frying. He was ravenous. “Laura Grace?” He sat on the bed beside her and smoothed the hair away from her face, pleased that she’d left it loose as he had requested. If she would only turn to him, only need him, but she swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and headed for the bathroom.

  “Was the baby born, Simon?” she called over her shoulder. “Is it all right?”

  “Hale and hearty. An eight-pound boy. I left him screeching like an out-of-tune fiddle. Takes after his mother.”

  “Are you going to sleep awhile?”

  “I’m too hungry for sleep,” he replied.

  “Smells like Searcy’s got breakfast ready,” she said as he watched her bundle up her hair. “Go ahead without me. I’ll be there directly.”

  Simon was standing by the hallway door with a cup of coffee when Laura Grace made it down for breakfast. She looked so pretty and fresh in a lavender day dress with a starched white collar, her hair pulled up with a plain white ribbon. Dropping her shoes beside her chair, she swung her feet, clad in clay-colored hose, back and forth.

  “Laura Grace, I need to talk to you.”

  She tucked into the stack of pancakes Searcy flipped onto her plate, then glanced up. “What is it, Simon?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s about shoes, dearest. Alice stopped by the office last afternoon. She said she and Mrs. Inglebrook visited with you in the garden yesterday.”

  “Yes, they did.” He watched as she poured more maple syrup on her pancakes. “I was sowing flower seed by the trellis, but it wasn’t much of a visit.” She licked her fork and looked at him. “What does that have to do with shoes? I wasn’t planting shoes.”

  Simon leaned against the doorframe and ran a finger under his collar. Suddenly it seemed very tight. After taking a sip of coffee, he continued. “It was your lack of shoes that upset Alice, sweetheart. She was concerned about what Mrs. Inglebrook would think. You simply can’t be going about the city in bare feet.”

  “I was not going about the city! I was in the yard you said was mine. What’s the point of being in the garden if you can’t feel the dirt between your toes?” Her eyes flashed. Two bright spots of color bloomed on her cheeks as she pushed back from the table and shot straight up, overturning her chair in the process. “Oh, that sister of yours makes me so mad!” She fairly spat her words across the table. “Miss Alice Upright! If you put that pious old biddy in a stewpot, she wouldn’t make a broth.”

  He looked at the floor. His shoes could stand a polishing. “There’s no need to call Alice names, Laura Grace.” He modulated his voice to a proper calm-the-patient tone. “She has your best interest at heart.”

  Out of the blue, something sailed past Simon. Amazingly one high-topped shoe struck the wall beside his ear and thumped to the floor. A whish of air caused him to duck just in time to miss its mate. Hot coffee spilled on his shirtfront and dripped off the end of his new silk tie.

  Her hands on her hips, she faced him. “My name is not Laura Grace! It’s Copper! Just plain Copper!”

  “Shush,” he cautioned, one finger to his lips. “The neighbors.”

  Laura Grace answered by reaching under her dress, jerking off her stockings, and flinging them in his face. “I’m barefoot; do you hear?” She stamped both feet on the tile floor. “Barefoot, and I’m never wearing shoes again!” The screen door slammed once behind her before she turned and slammed it full force again.

  Stunned, Simon watched as his wife climbed the backyard fence and tore off across the pasture. He stood rubbing his right ear; one of her stockings trailed from his cup, dripping coffee down his leg. Searcy handed him a clean towel, and he blotted the stains the best he could. He unknotted his tie, loosened his collar, then removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Shoulders slumping, he righted Laura Grace’s chair and sat down. “Searcy,” he said, the little boy he used to be turning to her for comfort, “what am I to do?”

  Searcy stood at the sink running cold water over the charcoal gray tie he had handed her. “You be asking Searcy’s opinion, she ’spec she be good enough to give it.”

  “I am, Searcy. Please, I am.”

  “That girl child be missing her mama and her folks,” Searcy said without stopping her work. “She feel lost, and she don’t know why she here, ’cept for you, and that ain’t hardly working out.”

  “I know.” He hung his head. “I don’t know how to make her happy.”

  “She gots to be needed, sunshine.” Searcy called him the baby name he hadn’t heard for years. “Miz Corbett gots to have something to do. She ain’t a decoration. She ain’t just a play pretty.”

  Standing, Simon embraced her bony shoulders. Memories came back to him of boyhood, when he’d run to the kitchen and throw his arms around Searcy whenever he needed a hug, before it became improper.

  “Thank you.” He rolled up his sleeves. “I’m going to find my wife.”

  Copper sat on a jutting rock looking down on Willow Springs. The pasture ended in a steep hill crested by a ridge with a precipitous drop to the creek below and gave the illusion of mountains if you didn’t look to the flat field behind. A plethora of weeping willows, their spindly branches drooping, shaded the ridge and, she supposed, gave the creek its name. Simon had told her it was fed by many underground springs. The dark pool below her swinging legs looked cold and deep.

  She drew up her legs and rested her head on her knees. Her new lavender dress, one she and Mam had labored over, was dirty where she’d dragged it along the ground, and it had torn loose at the waist—popped some stitches during her tantrum most likely. Her ribbon was long gone, and her hair fell in her face as she sobbed.

  What am I to do? I’m seventeen years old, and my life is ruined. Why did I come here? Why?

  Her mind drifted back to the past January—that cold, wretched month—to Simon’s pleading and Mam’s prodding. She’d had her own plans, firm plans, to farm the home place by herself once Mam hauled Daddy and the boys off to Philadelphia. Copper knew Daddy was supposed to have consumption, but she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t be all right once the summer sun burned the damp coal dust out of his lungs. But Mam had t
o have her way, had to take him off to be doctored, had to live where she wanted to live instead of taking him to Texas as Simon had recommended. Mam had never liked the mountains, never gotten over being a schoolteacher, never gotten over being born a flatlander.

  But Copper had loved her mountain home—loved it more than she loved Simon, truth be told. If Mam and Simon had left her alone, let her take her time instead of rushing her into a marriage her heart told her she wasn’t ready for, she’d still be there and she’d be content.

  Copper pushed her tousled hair out of her face and tried to tuck it behind her ears. She’d let Simon sway her with his pretty words and his hard kisses, and now here she was, sitting on a rock in a torn dress, way too far from home. No help for it—she’d put the bridle on herself. Standing, she fished the little creek rock from her pocket and put it to her nose. But the scent of the mountains was gone; it was of no comfort. Holding out her hand, she opened her fingers and let the rock drop to the quiet water below.

  Startled, she felt Simon’s arms circling her from behind.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Why did you bring me here?” She twisted out of his embrace. “You should have married some society girl. I can’t be what you want.”

  “I want you.”

  “No, you don’t!” she snapped. “You want someone who’s just like everyone else. Someone to show off, someone to make your sister happy.”

  He turned her to face him. “You ask why I brought you here; perhaps the better question is, why did you come?”

  “Because . . . because I . . . because you and Mam . . . Simon, I don’t rightly know anymore.”

  “Do you love me?”

  She collapsed against his chest, wailing, “I don’t know. I don’t know what love’s supposed to feel like.”

  “Here, sit with me.” He eased her down, then put his arm around her shaking shoulders. “Love feels like the morning sun or a cold drink of water on a hot day. It feels like Mrs. Morton looked this morning when I put her baby boy in her arms.”

  Copper leaned back into the comfort of his strong arms and choked out, “I’m not a very good wife.”

  “It’s just because everything is so new, so different. You’ll grow to love me.”

  “That doesn’t sound right.” She’d cried so hard that now she hiccuped. “You deserve better.”

  “Honey, I’ll take whatever I can get.” He rubbed her cheek with his thumb. “No matter what, I’ll never let you go. You could come to work with me in the office. Would that make you feel better?”

  “Really, Simon?” she said, pulling away and looking into his eyes. “You mean it?”

  “Of course I do. I should have thought of it sooner. What do you think? I could really use your help.”

  “I’d like that, but you’d have to teach me what to do.”

  Simon pulled her close again. “Now that could be fun. I might have to keep you after school some days.”

  “All right, but I’m not standing in the corner.” She fanned herself with her hand. “Whew, I’m as hot as a lizard in July on this rock, and I’m real tired of crying.”

  Standing, Simon took her hand and led her down the rocky bank to the secluded pool below. “We’re going swimming.” He shucked off his trousers and his coffee-stained shirt and stood on the bank in his long underdrawers.

  She didn’t protest when he swooped her up, just shivered in the cold water.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff.

  Copper put her arms around his neck and lifted her face for his kiss. Giving in to strong feelings she’d tried to keep at bay, she kissed him back, finally aware that he was her husband and she loved him.

  Afterward, they let the water take them. Holding hands, they floated upon the surface of their marriage bed, their sacred place, and pledged their vows again just as they had done days before in the little church in the valley of the mountains.

  Simon led Copper from the water and covered her with his shirt. Somehow, they’d let her shift and pantalets float downstream. Snapping his suspenders over his shoulders, he held her close. “Are you okay?” he whispered tenderly.

  “I feel a little woozy. I need to rest a minute.”

  “Stay here, just rest, and I’ll go fetch some clean clothes.”

  Copper slept after he left, stretched out in the shade of a tree, her ruined dress rolled up like a pillow under her head, until the cawing of a raucous blue jay woke her with a start. In the leafy world above, a pair of robins fussed about their nest, afraid for their babies, afraid of the murderous jay. Sitting up, Copper tossed a small stone at the marauder. All the birds, except the fledglings, burst from the tree, the robins chirping alarm, the jay screaming in protest. She stretched out again. Soon the mother bird was back, a fat fishing worm in her beak. Little heads with wide-open mouths popped up and down in the nest. Father robin landed on a branch above his family, keeping guard.

  She pondered what had just happened, her time in the water with Simon. This is what the Scripture means when it says to leave father and mother and become as one. I am one with my husband. This is what Mam was trying to tell me with all her talk about cleaving and obeying. Mam always did use three words when one would do.

  She was just starting to get up when she heard a horse approach. Simon dismounted and entered her leafy little world with an overflowing basket. First he spread a quilt on the grassy creek bank. Then he helped her dress in clean, dry clothes before they enjoyed the picnic Searcy had prepared. They fed each other bites of cheese, cucumber spears dipped in salt, hard-boiled eggs, and crusty bread slathered with butter, then washed it all down with cold sweet tea.

  After their repast, Simon leaned back on his elbows and watched her eat a piece of spice cake.

  “Don’t you want a bite of this?” she asked.

  “No, I’m watching my dessert eat dessert.” He smiled a slow, lazy smile at her.

  “I must look a mess . . . my hair . . .”

  “Here—I brought a brush, and I found your ribbon in the pasture.” He sat behind her, his knees making a resting place for her arms, and took his sweet time brushing her wild, thick tresses. When he finished, he tangled his hands in her hair, tipped her head back, and kissed her upside down.

  “Copper?” His need a whisper in her ear, then his lips upon her own. “I love you.”

  She turned in his arms and kissed him back. “Let’s rest awhile. I want to think on things.”

  Simon slept with his head in her lap, his legs crossed at the ankles. She stroked his high, clear forehead, traced his rather prominent nose, leaned down to place a little kiss on his lower lip. She knew this man. He had brought her into the inner sanctum of marriage, that mysterious union of God’s design. She was now privy to the rights and passages of a married woman. A sense of completeness filled her like a gentle mist.

  She fell in love with Simon then, as a wife loves her husband, as a part of herself, with loyalty and a tender passion. His needs would be her needs, his ways hers. Her love would underlay his every endeavor. Because she loved him, he would need no other. Copper lowered herself to his side and slept with him there, married in spirit and in flesh as it was meant to be.

  It seemed to Copper as if a wagonload of broken bodies had been dumped on Simon’s waiting room benches. It was her task to sort out who needed what, who needed him first, and who was there mostly because they were lonely and wanted an audience. The bleeding and the gasping were the easiest to decide, the whining and the nagging the hardest. It was nearing noon, and she’d marked off almost every name on the registry. There were only a few patients left.

  A tiny, sharp-boned woman flitted about the waiting room like a homeless sparrow, her nostrils flaring. A striking red hat, sporting peacock feathers, dried hydrangeas, and enough cherries to make a pie, trembled on her head while a grimy, paisley-patterned carpetbag hung nearly to the floor from the crook of her arm. “Mrs. Archess
on,” she’d trilled when Copper asked her name and “female trouble” when she’d asked her complaint.

  “Would you like a seat?” Copper pointed to a space between two overly nourished ladies, hoping their girth would anchor the annoying bird woman.

  “No time to sit. No time to sit.” Mrs. Archesson twisted her thin hands into knots. “Doctor always sees me first. Always sees me first.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait,” Copper said politely. “These people were here before you.”

  One of the rotund ladies snorted a laugh, which set her three chins to jiggling over her ample chest. Copper saw her poke her companion in the ribs. Evidently they’d seen this show before.

  “Can’t wait. Can’t wait,” the woman chirped. “I’ll come undone!”

  Copper pictured Mrs. Archesson flying about the room like a punctured balloon, leaving feathers everywhere as she deflated.

  The exam door opened and Simon leaned out. He motioned for Mrs. Archesson to enter as portly Johnny Underwood, a teller at Benton’s bank, squeezed his considerable girth through the doorway while gingerly protecting his sore right foot.

  “Mrs. Corbett,” Simon said, his hand on Mrs. Archesson’s shoulder, “prescription number ten for Mr. Underwood and some powdered charcoal, please.”

  “Certainly, Dr. Corbett.” She matched his clipped, professional tone. “Mr. Underwood, please follow me.”

  The small room Simon used as his apothecary barely left space for Copper to turn around once her patient joined her there. “Let’s see . . . hum . . . why, number ten is dried garlic and powdered onion. Does that help your foot very much, Mr. Underwood?” She held her breath as he opened his mouth to answer.

  “It’s calmed the gout down right smart, but it doesn’t seem to help these chalkstones on my fingers. Doc said he’d do some reading and see if he could come up with a remedy for them. That’s why I switched to him from Dr. Thornsberry. Doc T.’s good, but he never wants to try anything new.” Mr. Underwood held a folded handkerchief over his mouth as he talked; still the apothecary reeked.