by Sara Donati
“You know, the—climax.”
“Ah,” Daniel said, one eyebrow riding up his brow. “Go on.”
“Well, it’s like sledding. You work your way up the hill dragging the sled. All you can think about is getting to the top so you can let go and feel the wind rushing over you on the way down. Sometimes you don’t get to the top and you go slipping back down and you have to start all over again.”
Daniel laughed. “Go on.”
“You know the way your stomach drops when the sled tips over the top and starts down? That clenching excitement? That’s what it’s like. It takes your breath away and your whole body curls into itself to hold on to that feeling. And the longer the climb to the top, the greater the excitement. When you finally get to the bottom, you’re covered with sweat no matter how cold it is, and you’re breathless.”
“Sledding,” Daniel said.
She rubbed her face against him. “Isn’t it like that for you?”
“No,” Daniel said. “I can say with complete certainty that there’s nothing even remotely snowy about it for me.”
“Too bad,” said Martha.
“Too bad?” Daniel let out something that could only be called a giggle. “There’s nothing bad about it at all.”
“I mean, I wish I could understand what it feels like, for you.”
Daniel shifted her so they were lying face-to-face. “I’m right fond of sledding,” he said. “And I’ll chase you up that hill any time the mood strikes you. On the way down maybe I can tell you what it’s like for me. Your heart just picked up a beat, Mrs. Bonner. You like talking about this?”
“Um,” Martha said, a flush crawling up her breast. “I think what I like best is when you talk, and I listen.”
When Callie thought back on her school days in Elizabeth Bonner’s classroom, the lessons that came to mind first, the ones she took most to heart, had to do with logic. Or, as Miss Elizabeth had called it, rational thinking.
Many times over the last years she had felt herself on the verge of despair and even desperation, and in every case she was able to talk herself into a better frame of mind. Hard work was no guarantee of success; she understood that, because she had lived it. On the other hand, hard work was all anyone needed for a good night’s sleep. She herself always fell to sleep straight away and she slept deeply. She woke at five every morning without a clock and without fail, and by six she was hard at work. Even in the deep of winter when blizzards held her captive she was busy. There were tools to repair or sharpen; the hearth must be fed, and if she did not cook, she could not eat. She made clothes for herself and Levi both; she traded her own cider for Molly Nobel’s raw wool, which she spun into yarn, which she knitted into socks and mittens; she made soap and dipped candles. Once a year she bought a pig from one of the farmers and helped with the butchering in order to bring the price down, after which came salting or smoking.
It had never occurred to her to complain, because there was nobody to complain to. She did what must be done to get from day to day. Once in a while she met friends at the Red Dog and played cards and listened to stories or told her own. She had spent some nice evenings with Daniel Bonner and Ethan and a few others, but it all seemed a very long time ago.
Those days of constant work were over, at least for the moment. Now she had the Thicke sisters, who did everything. She never had to think about putting food on the table or hauling wood for the hearth; her clothes were always clean and neatly pressed, and she had never replaced her knitting needles and sewing basket after the flood. There was no need to spin or knit or weave, as Ethan went to Johnstown every few weeks and could buy fine cloth by the ell without hesitating over the cost.
So it was that Callie spent most of her time in the orchard or the garden Levi had dug for her near the foundation of the old house.
Somewhere in the course of all these changes, she had lost the knack of falling asleep. On the other side of the room Ethan was having no such troubles. In the less-than-dark she could see the rise and fall of his chest.
If she waked him he would not complain. He would want to know what was bothering her and wait until she was ready to talk about it. And maybe she did need to think harder about what she had set in motion.
In the dark she made herself whisper the words to herself.
I am selling the orchard. Tomorrow the orchard will no longer belong to me. It will be safe from Jemima.
It will never belong to Nicholas.
Her maybe half brother, who was asleep in the next room.
When Lorena had finished her story and answered every question, she and Levi had gone in one direction and Elizabeth and Nathaniel in another, leaving Ethan and Callie sitting in the parlor. It was easy to sit quietly with Ethan; it was one of the things she appreciated most about him.
When the clock struck eight he said, “Nicholas will be home soon.”
She hadn’t realized it was so late. Any moment Nicholas would come in full of stories and in need of a bath before he could be sent off to bed. A boy so full of life that his very presence had roused her from some kind of waking dream; there was no way to resist him.
Ethan said, “Does it matter?”
He knew where her mind was, and she couldn’t pretend he didn’t. Ethan was going to put it into words, and she was almost glad.
“Would you send him away if you knew for sure he wasn’t your blood?”
“That’s the kind of thing Jemima would do.” Her voice was hoarse and she forced herself to swallow. “I couldn’t do that to him.” She met Ethan’s eye. “He’d be better off with us. Can you see us doing that? Raising him?”
“Right now that’s the only thing I can see,” Ethan said. “No matter who he was born to, he feels like ours, now.”
She wanted to tell Ethan that she admired him for his open mind and heart, that she would always be thankful to him, that she loved him, but her throat was tight with tears.
It was then that Nicholas came dashing in, chasing all the quiet out of the house. After that there had been heating the water for his bath, and warming soup, and laying out clothes for the next day.
Now, full awake, she wondered what Nicholas would say if he knew she was about to sell the orchard. Most likely it wouldn’t mean anything to him, as long as he was still welcome there. He might miss the idea of the new house, but Callie thought he wouldn’t worry about it for long. It didn’t seem to be in his nature to covet. But then, she reminded herself, he had never done without, as he would have done if he had grown up with Jemima in Paradise. As she and Martha had done.
Once Martha came to mind Callie admitted to herself that sleep was out of reach. As quietly as she could manage, she got out of bed and dressed in the dark.
The night air was cool and warm all at once, with a breeze that touched her face and combed through her loosened hair with gentle fingers. She had forgot to cover her head, and how odd it felt to be so open to the world.
It was, strictly speaking, not terribly sensible to be on the mountain in the middle of the night without any weapon at all. It wasn’t until she had reached the old schoolhouse that Callie really became aware of where she was, and how foolish she was being. She had no weapons beyond a quick mind and quicker feet, but nobody could outrun a puma or a charging boar. She picked up her skirts and ran, and by the time the path came out of the woods into the strawberry fields her breathing was hoarse and the taste of salt and metal was strong in her mouth and throat.
It took a few minutes for her heartbeat to return to normal, and in that time Callie took stock of Daniel’s place. Of Martha’s place. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark so that she could make out the lines of walls and roof. Since the last time she had come this way the house had expanded on two sides, like a tree putting out new branches. Ethan had told her about all this, but it was still a surprise to see how different things were. Once there had been a small house here such as any bachelor might build for himself, and now there was a homestead. The place where
Martha and Daniel would raise children and grow old.
She sat on the porch for a few moments and considered turning back and going straight home. Tomorrow was soon enough to tell Martha about Nicholas and Lorena’s story and to tell Martha another truth: She had been right to doubt. Martha knew her mother best, in the end. Callie felt the vaguest flicker of anger, but it was a poor thing with nothing to feed on. None of this was Martha’s fault.
Just then the dog began to bark. She could hear him scratching at the door, eager to get out here and chase off whatever creature was trespassing. When he paused she heard voices that drifted from the window that looked out toward the valley.
“Probably a fox sniffing around. I’ll go and settle him down.” And: “Don’t even think about getting out of that bed.”
Before things could get any worse, Callie knocked at the door, two hard raps that could not be mistaken. The barking racheted up a notch, and Martha’s face appeared at the window, craned around to see who was on the porch.
“Callie! What’s wrong?”
Behind the door Daniel spoke a sharp word and the dog fell silent.
“Are you hurt?”
Under the long cascade of her hair the skin of her shoulder and throat and face shone, as smooth as cream.
Callie cleared her throat. “Nothing wrong with me. Except there’s things you need to know about, and I won’t get any sleep until I tell you.”
Daniel stood in the open door. His smile was easy, as if it were nothing unusual to be disturbed in the middle of the night. As if she were family, and belonged here.
He said, “You had best come in, Callie. We’ll put water on for tea.”
Daniel lit the lamp and then announced his intention to go back to bed so they could talk, but not before he asked Callie if there was anything he could do.
“I just need to talk to Martha for a little while.”
If he was curious, he kept it to himself. Callie was thankful to him for that, because she needed a moment to gather her thoughts while Martha moved around the room.
Then she came to sit beside Callie and held out a teacup. The lamp cast a soft light over the table, touched the pale hair on her forearm, and sparked the deeper colors of her hair. She wore a night rail of light cotton that moved against the curve of hip and shoulder and breast as she turned to pick up the milk pitcher and then the sugar.
She smelled of the warm bed and of Daniel, smells that were unfamiliar to Callie but ones she recognized all the same as belonging to the marriage bed. Where Martha had been with Daniel, where Martha spent every night with Daniel. It took all Callie’s concentration to ban those images from her mind.
“Callie,” Martha said. “You are covered with blackfly bites.”
She touched her face. “I didn’t even notice.”
“I’ll get you some lotion.” Martha started to get up but Callie stopped her by taking her wrist.
“Not yet,” she said. “Let me tell you what I came to say first.”
Martha’s steady gaze held hers for three heartbeats, and then she nodded.
When Callie had finished relating Lorena’s story, Martha folded her arms tight against herself and then leaned forward to rest her brow on the table.
After a moment she felt Callie’s hand on her shoulder, her touch as light as silk.
She said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the Bleeding Heart. I don’t know what I was afraid of.”
Martha raised her head. “My mother,” she said. “And clearly with good reason. But Callie, there’s no need to apologize to me. She’s my mother, and it should fall to me to set things right. If I only knew how to do that.”
“We’ve done that. It’s safe now, from her.”
“No,” Martha said, almost too sharply. “I don’t want you to sell the orchard. She can’t take that away from you again; it’s not right. How did she find out about the Bleeding Heart?”
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “But I intend to find out.”
“Wait. What if Daniel bought the orchard?”
Callie said, “It’s right that Levi should have it. I know you won’t understand, but I want him to have it. He’s lost more than any of us.”
Martha studied Callie’s face for a long moment. She saw weariness and resignation and something of relief, and anger, held tight in a closed fist.
“There’s more,” she said. “I can see it, Callie. How can I help you if I don’t know what you’re up against?”
Callie turned her face toward the window. The sky was lightening, the world moving toward dawn.
“All right,” she said finally. “But don’t interrupt me or I’ll lose my nerve. It’s about Harper.”
“Harper? The boy who drowned?”
Callie drew in a sharp breath and nodded. “Right after Jemima went off and left Nicholas behind, Harper started hanging around the orchard, asking questions. Lots of questions about the trees and the harvest and pressing. How much money could a person make if crops were good and the jack was strong? What was the best apple we grew? Did we have to take our jack out to the cities to sell it, or did people come in to buy, and a dozen more.
“It made me more and more nervous, so I finally asked him right out, why was he so interested in apples? Was there something he was supposed to find out for the Fochts? He closed up tight as a drum and swore up and down it was all his own idea, Mr. Focht had no interest in farms or orchards and especially not in apples. The more excuses he made, the clearer it was to me that something was wrong.
“So I went to talk to Levi. I told him the whole story, and that turned out to be a mistake.”
“Callie—”
“Don’t interrupt me. Levi gets real quiet when he’s mad, you probably remember that. And he never said a word to me when I told him about Harper’s questions. He just nodded and walked away. The next day Hannah and Birdie came across Harper’s body.”
She dropped her head. Martha was still clasping one of her hands, and Callie pulled it free, gently.
Martha’s thoughts began to spin; she imagined a trial, and reminded herself there were no witnesses to whatever had happened on the lake. As far as anyone knew Harper had fallen and hit his head on rocks or a submerged tree trunk, just as everyone had come to the conclusion that Cookie Fiddler’s death was an unfortunate accident and nothing more.
Except Levi and his brother Ezekiel. They had always believed Jemima had had something to do with their mother’s death, and they had been right.
Martha said, “I don’t think you should tell anyone else about Harper.”
Callie’s shoulders folded forward and began to tremble. The first tears dropped on the table, and then Callie let herself be drawn up against Martha.
She wept as Martha had not seen her weep since her mother’s burial. It hurt her to think what Callie had been enduring, the secrets sitting like rocks in her belly. Levi was the person she had worked with every day of her life, someone she trusted, someone who looked out for her when no one else had taken the time. Even now, well married and secure, she could not bear the idea of losing him.
A healthy, friendly boy of seventeen years was dead because he had shown an interest in the orchard and a particular apple.
“It is possible,” she said aloud. “It is very possible he did just slip and fall, and that no one had anything to do with his death.”
It was as if Callie didn’t even hear her, and the reason for that was clear: She was sure in her heart that Levi was responsible.
Very gently she said, “I’ve been thinking this through now for a while. You saw the carriage and horses and servants she brought with her. The house Lorena described, the one in Boston, all of that indicates that she has had quite a lot of money at her disposal. If all goes well with the orchard a good amount of money will come in, but not until you’ve got enough bearing trees, and Jemima has never been patient.”
“Unless none of it is true,” Callie said dully. “Unless she was playact
ing and has no place to go but here, and no money to support herself. Then she’d want whatever she could get her hands on.”
That idea stuck immediately, like a hooked burr that would draw blood.
“Yes,” Martha said softly. “I suppose that is a possibility.”
Callie was still weeping silently, her tears striking the table. Martha put an arm around her shoulders and Callie began to sob in earnest. Out of fear for Levi and herself, out of anger. Martha took it all in, like a beating she had earned and must accept without complaint, as she must admit to herself that Jemima was her mother, and her burden.
When the worst had passed and it seemed that Callie’s breathing came in great shudders, she spoke very softly. Martha said, “There’s something you should know too. It might be a help to you, it’s about Billy Kirby.”
Callie’s eyes were still swimming with tears. “Your uncle.”
“Yes. You remember the stories about Billy, how he beat my father, and the other things he did.” She swallowed. “Do you remember how he died?”
“Not exactly,” Callie said. “Was it something about a hunting accident, on Hidden Wolf?”
Martha said, “That’s the story that most people tell, but the truth is, Nathaniel killed him. This was after Billy almost got Hannah killed. Nathaniel tracked Billy onto Hidden Wolf and ran him down. He could have taken Billy to Johnstown to be tried, but he—he didn’t. He killed him. He killed him because he knew that sooner or later Billy Kirby would kill Liam or one of Nathaniel’s own.”
Certain parts of the story Daniel had told Martha remembered word for word. The law has got no teeth when it comes to a man like that, who might go off like a powder keg at any minute. It occurred to her now in a sudden flash of understanding that Daniel had been talking not just about Billy Kirby, but about Jemima.
To Callie she said, “The reason I know this is that Nathaniel told Daniel about it, and Daniel told me. He thought I should know, that it might change my mind about marrying into the family.”
“But it didn’t.”
Martha was close to tears herself, and it took a moment to make her voice work. “Who am I to judge? My mother let your mother walk into a blizzard to her death. My father blackbirded for years. It was because of him that Selah Voyager died. It doesn’t matter that he repented and tried to make restitution, because her little boy still grew up without his ma. Billy Kirby would have gone on hurting people. How could I hold anything against Nathaniel Bonner? No more could I judge Levi, if he is responsible.”