The Eulogist

by Ms. Terry Gamble

  Erasmus pulled down his hat, and the boy imitated him—two mushrooms slinking up the road, followed by the dog.

  “You look like you’re hiding from the Devil,” I said, hurrying to keep up. “Goodness, but all this refinement is a sight for sore eyes, and me with no one to call on.”

  Erasmus glanced from beneath his brim to see if I was joking, and I was, but only a little, for the past two months had wearied my bones and caused my hands to roughen. There was a time when Erasmus would have joined me in the jest; now he was sober and serious, on the lookout for potential enemies.

  “Willy-boy,” said Erasmus, “you go back to the carriage and give the mule some water. I’m going to sit outside while your aunt is in the store.” William scampered off while I pushed into the shop that was filled with dry goods and provisions.

  Linens! And such fine ones, too, made of cotton so smooth it promised a good night’s sleep. There were pillows for sale, though I doubted our carriage could handle much more than the dog and the three of us given the quantity of flour, fabric, and salt we needed, not to mention a few twists of chocolate.

  “I understand you have tea?” I asked the proprietress, a chubby but severe-looking woman whose clothing, while simple, was pressed.

  “Homesteading, are you?” she said, eyeing my rumpled blouse. “In which here parts?”

  I was about to say “just downriver,” but since Erasmus was clear in his desire to remain elusive, I replied, “Just outside of Sardinia.”

  “Sardinia? We have friends in Sardinia. A pastor. Tell me, what church are you attending?”

  “We are new arrivals,” I said, quickly adding, “from Cincinnati. We are Presbyterians.”

  “Well then, you shall want to know Reverend Grayson. He is a fine Presbyterian minister. He is”—she paused and looked meaningfully into my eyes—“a respecter of freedom.”

  “As all Presbyterians should be.”

  “I don’t suppose . . .”

  I waited for her question.

  “You’ll be wanting extra beans?”

  * * *

  I found Erasmus on the walkway slouching against a horse post.

  “That was an odd conversation.”

  “So you met Mrs. Beasley?” he said. “And what did you make of her?”

  “Should I have an opinion? She sold me beans and flour. We did not strike a friendship.”

  “And yet if you had?”

  “This town runs in riddles. It should be renamed ‘Riddle-y.’”

  “Trust no one,” said Erasmus, scanning for his son.

  * * *

  It took weeks, but the garden revived so that we had spinach to go with our trout and a soft-boiled egg from the chicken along with a big chunk of bread and butter churned from the cow’s milk. Once again, I had donned Erasmus’s clothes in order to unshackle my limbs that I might prepare the plot, plant the seeds, shore up the fencing, hammer the shingles, sweep out the barn, preserve the berries, bake, salt, and cure.

  With the longer days, William and I had time to read, and even into the lighting of candles we discussed the portrayal of the Shawnee by Robert Montgomery Bird, and whether Mr. Fenimore Cooper was better able to draw a portrait of the Indian. William allowed as how he wished he were an Indian, and Erasmus said, A fine little scalper you would’ve made, and all of us laughed at the character of Sam Weller in Mr. Dickens’s Pickwick Papers.

  So, too, we talked about religion, and whether God had preordained the course of our lives, and if there was a God at all. I confessed to my doubts, but Erasmus insisted that everywhere we looked, we could find examples of God’s grace, the redemption of sins, of mercy on our souls, whereupon William added that God must love squirrels and crows very much, for there was abundance of each in the forest.

  It was not yet a month after the solstice, the light still long on the day. It hadn’t taken me long to notice the strengthening of my arms, and though I should have thought myself above this tough and menial work, it made me feel powerful. Free.

  Soon the bats came out, dodging and darting, winging along the water’s edge where the insects were thick. Mercifully, we had our own beds now thanks to several trips to Ripley, each odder than the last, Mrs. Beasley being markedly less friendly on subsequent visits to her store.

  How goes it in Sardinia? she had asked, and crisply, too, so that I knew she had inquired and heard of no family named Givens in that town.

  I was not entirely candid, Mrs. Beasley. I am not proud of our circumstances and did not want you to think unkindly of us for living so meanly down the river.

  Many scrape by their first few years here, she went on, betraying little sympathy. Then, offhandedly: Tell me, how long since you left Ireland?

  Is my accent still so noticeable? I said, feeling vexed. You must think I’m recently off the boat.

  Are you not?

  I realized she assumed I was Catholic, and almost laughed, for it seemed ridiculous to have been mistaken thusly, and yet how common to mistake others as being something they are not.

  Twenty years. If you can believe it.

  You don’t say? And have you a husband?

  Alas, he’s passed. I live now with my brother Erasmus and his son, William.

  The name “Erasmus” seemed to square the corners on our situation, emboldening Mrs. Beasley to sniff. I know that boy William. He needs less supervision than the father.

  Now I sat with Erasmus and William as the first stars appeared. It was an inky night enlivened by cicadas and hoot owls as we readied ourselves for bed. There had been little time for study that day, so the boy and I read by the light of a lantern. We made our way through a passage of Hawthorne, each of us yawning yet wanting to persevere. The prose was stark and real, an elixir to a boy who had been raised on the Bible.

  “’Tis bedtime,” I said finally. “Your father is already snoring.”

  Half an hour later, we had joined him, but the night was not to last, for our sleep was suspended by the barking of dogs. They were distant at first, just enough to rustle me from a dream.

  “What is it?” I hissed.

  “Shhh,” said Erasmus. “Listen.”

  Soon, our old hound was joining in. The barking grew louder until I could make out the shouts of men. Erasmus got up, put on his pants, touched a finger to his lips. “Stay in bed. I am going to check on the cow. If you wake before sunrise, and I’m still not back, light the lamp.”

  I pulled my covers up. The boy hadn’t stirred. It took me an hour to go back to sleep.

  * * *

  It was still dark when I woke again, though I could sense the dawn. Not wanting to wake the boy, I slid from my bed, pulled my shawl about me, grappled for the lamp. I struck a match and lit the room. It was then I realized that not only Erasmus but the boy, too, was missing.

  “Willy?” I said, for he might have stepped out to relieve himself. “Willy?” I said more loudly.

  I pulled on trousers and boots and went to the door. After a spring that had nearly drowned us, it had been a dry summer, and the river was low. It was quiet now. No more barking. I made my way to the barn, pulled open the door, held up the lamp, and was face-to-face with the cow and the goat, both of which looked at me expectantly.

  “Erasmus?” I said.

  Nothing.

  I started to the shore to check the boat. It was rare that Erasmus might be summoned for a midnight ferry, but not unheard of. That he might have so stealthily vanished was not surprising, for stealth was his currency.

  Then I heard a crash and wheeled around. “Who goes there?” I said, buttressing the lamp lest it expire. A form stood in the doorway of the unfinished chapel. Raising myself to my full height, I started to say again, “Who—” but was interrupted by the voice of my nephew saying, “Aunt Olivia! Come quickly!”

  My hair tumbling about my shoulders, I hurried toward the open door. Inside, where the cross should have been, was Erasmus, lit by a candle and hunched over a form.

  �
��Sister! Come!” said Erasmus with a tone more typical of James. “I fear she’s broken her leg.”

  “She?” I held up the lantern to see of what “she” he was speaking of and was shocked to see a young black woman dressed in an enormous amount of soggy clothing, her leg akimbo, blood on her cheeks and bodice.

  “Sweet Jesus!” I said.

  I knelt down to examine the girl, those years of training with Silas holding at bay the floodgate of questions. Her shin was bruised and her ankle above her boot top swelled lividly.

  “Willy,” I said, “fetch some clean rags and water.”

  The girl’s eyes were lowered, but I knew she was taking me in as if to see if I was worthier of trust than this white man who had tried to touch her naked leg.

  “May I take off your shoe?” I said, holding my hands up so she could see they were empty. Her hair was full of brambles. “I am Olivia Givens,” said I, choosing my maiden name in lieu of Orpheus. “What’s your name?”

  She said nothing, but her fingers clutched her skirt—one of four she was wearing—scrunching it up as if kneading bread, revealing ankle, shin, and knee. There were no visible breaks in the skin. I reached for her boot. It was damp and mud-caked. I felt her watching me as I unlaced it, though she scarcely could have run had I proved threatening. Her flesh quivered as I held her calf, examining her shin and her kneecap.

  “There?” I said. “There?”

  Each time, she shook her head.

  I went back to her foot, started with the toes. “There?” I moved up to her ankle, rotated it. She screamed.

  “Ah,” I said. “There.”

  Remembering what Silas had taught me, I probed, following the line of sinew, palpating the swollen tissue. Gradually but firmly, I pushed against her foot. She flinched, but did not cry out again. “It’s not broken,” I said. “But it’s badly sprained.”

  Erasmus leaned in, his hair falling forward, his blue eyes studying her dark ones. He rose and walked to the door. Turning, he added, “We will keep her for one day, Livvie. She must be ready to move on by sunset.”

  I asked no questions. That he had connections, I already knew. The way he slunk around Ripley, his secretiveness, his banter with those he ferried, his caginess about Handsome. My suspicion was that he was abetting; even more so, that he was sometimes paid.

  After he left, I turned to the girl. “Your foot is going to turn black-and-blue, but I’ll wrap it tight, and you’ll be fine to ride. Would you like to take off your petticoats and skirts?”

  Indeed, she was as layered as sodden cabbage in every conceivable garment that she—or more likely, her mistress—owned.

  She mumbled something.

  “Excuse me?” For the world, it sounded as though she’d said Tilly. The name was common enough.

  “My name is Nelly,” she said, and this time clear as day, and of course she was nothing like Tilly, this girl with her chocolate skin and wildish hair. I noticed her ear was clipped.

  The boy returned, setting down the supplies and studying Nelly with concern.

  “How in the world did you get across that river?” I asked as I bandaged her foot, trying not to look at the nails that were yellowed and curled like old cloves of garlic. She smelled as if she had soiled her underwear.

  “Almost didn’t. I cain’t swim,” she said. “I was up to my knees when the man come in the boat with that boy.”

  “That man is my brother.”

  “Don’t look like you.”

  I tied up the end of the bandage, waiting for her to say how handsome my brother was in contrast to my homely self, but she did not. When the sun came up, I would cook up some balm of Gilead to ease the swelling and the pain.

  “There, now,” I said, smoothing the petticoats and hems. “Perhaps you’d like to go to the privy?”

  She heaved herself up and leaned on me, both of us lurching across the floor. She said, “That ol’ nigger said there’d be a pinch in the river. Little good a pinch does when that river is over your head.”

  I eased her down on a bench so that she might arrange herself. She started to strip. A layer of burgundy silk followed by gingham followed by calico, then crispy tulle. When she was down to her chemise, I made out the angry crisscrosses traversing her spine. She raised her chin. “I broke my back for my missus and give her two of my chilluns besides. That nigger said someone would be waitin’ longsides the banks, but when I gots through the canebrake, there’s nobody. That man don’ know nothin’.” She sighed with indignation. “’Sides, they dogs woulda got me sooner ’n I could learn how to swim.”

  “Dogs, snakes, slavers. Whatever possessed you?” I said. It was insanity, the likelihood of success being minuscule, the fact of our endangerment for helping her setting my nerves on edge. “And where did you come from?”

  I could see her struggling with the truth. Nothing was straightforward in this world where steamboat flaunted current and voices carried from either shore. A bird picking berries on one bank could fly to the other side, drop its load, and seed a new crop like the wild juniper of the South rooting itself in the North. But this girl was forbidden stock, grafted or otherwise.

  “I woulda drowned if it weren’t for this boy,” she said, jerking her head at William, who was braced against the doorjamb keeping a nervous watch. “This boy’s eye is keen.”

  Stripped down to her bloomers, she was slighter than I’d thought. I supposed she’d come from one of the big farms in Augusta since that was the closest Kentucky town. Patrollers swarmed like ants, so she must have been a wily thing. I well remembered my own success at blending in to the point of invisibility years earlier when I had helped Silas in the morgue. Women become men; black becomes white. There is an art to disappearing.

  “Where is he going to take me? Your brother?”

  In truth, I did not know. Ever since Erasmus had taken Handsome to the Gist settlement, patrollers were regularly rousting out the settlers, asking them for papers.

  The door opened and in came my brother, still holding the lamp. When he saw how scantily dressed young Nelly was, he turned away. “They are looking for her,” said Erasmus, his back to us. “If the dogs pick up the scent, they will know she’s been here. There isn’t much time, Livvie. As soon as morning comes, you’ve got to go to Ripley. Willy will take you. You will buy stocks and provisions.” He handed a piece of paper to Willy. “Give this note to Mrs. Beasley.”

  “And what will you do with the girl, Erasmus? She can barely walk.”

  “She can sit in a boat, can’t she?”

  “They’ll surely spot her.”

  “Not if she’s wearing Willy-boy’s clothes and powdered up white. No one will look twice. No one will think it strange. Just a boy and his father, rowing the river as usual.”

  * * *

  William tied up the horse and unhitched the carriage, parking it in a vacant yard. Ripley, as ever, was bustling—the tolling clang of the ironworks, the hissing of boat stacks letting off steam. Tacked to the walls of Mrs. Beasley’s dry-goods store were reward notices for runaway slaves, but none of the descriptions matched Nelly, who had run off only the day before. I had no doubt there were eyes on the town, even on me as I untied my bonnet and pushed through the door.

  Mrs. Beasley was used to me now and begrudged me an ounce of courtesy since I seemed to have no shortage of money. The boy stood by the door with his hands in his pockets. I fingered the fabrics and imagined a new skirt, but our list was for items such as flour and a box of jars to lay up jams.

  “You are looking passably well, Miss Givens, in spite of your circumstances,” said Mrs. Beasley with a trace of disappointment.

  I had returned to my maiden name since Tilly’s trial, knowing that Silas would forgive me. Orpheus was too fraught a name in these parts, and it was easier to avoid explanation.

  I thanked her for the compliment and thrust out the list. At the last two items, she raised her eyebrow.

  “And what makes you think we have suc
h face powder? And hair?” The tone in which she said this made it clear she had deduced I was a woman of loose morals. Who else would use cosmetics (although I well knew that many in Hatsepha’s circle were doing exactly that to whiten their skin beyond the bounds of nature)?

  “Surely I can acquire these in Maysville if need be,” I said, throwing down the gauntlet. “But I am disinclined to travel, and Ripley is that much closer.” And then, as if suddenly remembering, I fumbled in my reticule and extracted Erasmus’s letter. “Oh, and this.”

  No raised eyebrow, just a piercing stare, first at the letter, then at me. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said.

  I shrugged. “It does seem quite inscrutable.” Indeed, the content of the note sounded nothing like Erasmus.

  I am in possession of a fine volume of Irrepressible Conflict bound in black and wonder if you will trade for it.

  I knew that Erasmus had no such book, but before I could press the issue, Mrs. Beasley reached below the counter and set out what looked like a brooch along with a small silk bag. “You’ll be needing these,” she said. “And Mrs. Orpheus”—I jumped at her use of my married name—“tell that brother of yours we want no repeat of the last time.” She nodded at William who was peering through the window. “Perhaps the young man can hoist up this sack of flour.”

  As William drove me home in the carriage, I examined my two packages. The brooch, when opened, contained a tiny white wafer. When I ran my finger across it, I picked up a ghostly trail of powder. To go with this was a bag of curls, not unlike the crown on William’s head and no doubt lopped off some unfortunate corpse. We jostled along. Beyond the thick border of woods and hills lay fields of farmland, sparsely populated, the corn now high as my elbows.

  By the time we arrived back at Enduring Hope, it was late in the day. Erasmus, chopping wood, barely looked up, but as soon as William unhitched the horse, he set down his ax.

  “Well?”

  “Mrs. Beasley seems to think I’m a prostitute.”

  Erasmus laughed a bit too hard.

  “And Nelly?” I said. “Can she walk with that ankle?”