Evie inhaled the annual smells of the fair, the hot corn oil and the tang of cider steaming. Inside her an unfamiliar hunger bubbled into being. She had been eating only to silence her stomach, while the flavors of things on her tongue were no good, like paper wrappings of food chewing down to hard pulp. Now she found herself eating bread and butter and crunching fried chicken, as if she’d spent the summer fighting a cold and just found she could taste again.
“You’ve brought an appetite with you,” Rose observed.
“I guess I have.”
“Good.”
A group of small children went by, some of them slurping on candied apples while those without watched enviously. One of them pointed at Rose, and right away the whispers shuffled out of them, a sound like rubbing palms trying to start a fire. Obligingly Rose raised her arm very slowly and pointed her finger, out toward each of them in turn, as if planting a curse inside their chests. They squealed and scattered.
“Why do you do that?” Evie asked her. “Why do you play along?”
Rose smiled. “They’re only children. They want to think they’ve had a brush with danger, but they know they haven’t, not really. They know it better than their parents.”
She wiped her fingers, greasy from the chicken pieces, vigorously on a cloth napkin.
“I never set out to be the town witch, you know. It never crossed my mind. The things that seem so bizarre to other people were always natural to me.”
She studied the sheen on her hands for a moment, then wiped them some more, then looked up at Evie. “I’m sorry if it was hard for you when you were growing up.”
Evie shrugged. “I never cared,” she said.
Rose sighed. “Then you are a lot like me.”
Evie watched the children lining up for their potato-sack race, laughing as they struggled to pull the sacks up around themselves. Her own son was missing, but somehow the line of children still looked full.
* * *
* * *
Christina emerged from the quilt show and stood for a minute, letting her eyes adjust to the light. Her mother’s quilt displayed well, and they hoped it would be pinned with a ribbon. She took in the fair, the long tables of harvest, the little children toddling away from picnics under the trees.
There was Cora coming down one aisle, unaware of her best friend watching. A little girl inside Christina’s heart wanted to rush over, push her friend down in the dirt, pull at her hair, and rip off her fancy lace collar. She knew that Cora had told Jackson who liked him; it couldn’t have been anyone else. She listened to the man in the dunk tank calling insults to passersby, trying to get them to buy a chance at sinking him. She wished she could trade places with him and yell out at Cora, crazy things like how ugly and dirty she was. And then she thought Cora had probably been trying to help, the way she always did, and Cora seemed sad, touching things here and there on the tables; Cora looked lost.
Christina began to move closer when she saw Jackson come up behind her friend, and Cora turn to him, and the two of them talking hot words no one else could hear. Jackson leaned into Cora the way he had for raspberries, and Christina closed her eyes. When she opened them, Rolf was sauntering toward her from the hitching post, and she let him come closer and closer until he was blocking the rest of the fair from her view.
“I thought I could buy you a lemonade,” he said.
She let him take her elbow and lead her away. They wandered between the stalls, and Rolf bought a candy apple, despite her insistence she didn’t want it.
“How could anybody say no to a candy apple?” he asked.
Christina had to admit it was pretty, as red and shining as a Christmas-tree kugel. She held it awkwardly, trying to pinch only the end of the stick so her hand wouldn’t melt the candy.
As they walked away from the crowd and into the short grass, she took a lick from time to time, so as not to hurt Rolf’s feelings.
The constant popping of the shooting competition made conversation difficult, but Rolf was determined.
“Seems like Jackson might be sweet on your friend,” he began.
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“And does she like him?”
Christina twirled the apple. She could feel her cheeks warming to match it. “I’m not sure. But I don’t think so.”
“And what about you? Do you still like him?”
Christina didn’t answer. It didn’t matter what she felt about Jackson. But if she said no, it would be a lie.
“I don’t want to be a bother to you,” Rolf said. “So maybe I should just say my piece and be done with it.”
She looked up at him.
“I know I might not be your first choice. But I think I could make you happy. We have a good farm, and it will pass to me when my father grows old. I have plans for the place, and I know how to put money aside. I would always take care of you. There’d be plenty of everything for you to cook with, and we could build our own house. We could even order one of those new Modern Homes from the Sears catalog. You can buy ribbons and lace for all your dresses and things—”
“I make my own lace,” she told him.
“Oh. Well, that’s even better.” He smiled at her.
Christina looked into the mirrored red surface of the apple like it might be a gazing ball. She was searching for pictures of the life she might have with Rolf, how she might sew matching curtains for all the new windows, and bake the week’s bread and pies on Monday mornings, and wait for him on fine days with her mending out on the porch. Their children might have his freckles.
“Anyhow,” he went on, touching her silence, “I thought maybe we could spend more time together and get to know each other. I wanted to tell you . . . I know I’m not popular like Jackson, or handsome . . . but I do believe I could love you better than he could.” He looked sideways at her.
“Maybe you could come around tomorrow, after supper,” she said. “If you like.”
Rolf took her hand. He looked down. “You’re really not going to eat that, are you?”
She noticed he took longer than necessary to work the apple out of her grasp. She still avoided looking directly at him while they walked on. Instead she listened, to the crackling sound of the glassy apple breaking as he bit into it.
* * *
* * *
Jackson spotted Cora idling at a long table, looking down at the knitted shawls, sweaters, and baby blankets for sale. She walked along, fingering the soft, bumpy wool. She picked up a pink blanket dotted with white intarsia sheep. They waggled across its expanse when she shook it out.
“This is so sweet for a little girl,” she said, half to herself.
He sidled over. “Hello, darling.”
Cora edged away from him. “I’m not your darling.”
“I just want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”
She moved swiftly down the aisle, turning the corner at the end of the table. Jackson was faster, and he took hold of her arm.
“Please let me go.”
“I just want to say one thing.” He lowered his voice. “Look, I know that wasn’t right. I know it, see? And I’m sorry about it. That’s all I wanted to say. I’m not some kind of . . . I didn’t mean for it to be like that.”
Cora yanked her arm uselessly. “But it was like that. And I don’t want to talk. Now, let go of me.”
“Not till I’ve finished. You know we both agreed. You said yes. I just—”
Cora was looking down at the lumps of wool, trying to hide the tear wending its bright way down her cheek. “You wouldn’t let me change my mind.”
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I? I don’t know how to make you understand. . . . Once we got to that point and it was happening, I had to go through with it. I had to.”
“I don’t care,” she
said. He let go of her arm, and she rubbed it as if he’d hurt her. “Can’t you please just leave me alone now?”
“You don’t need to be like that.”
She walked away from him, and he followed her.
“You can’t just go around hating me. That’s not fair.”
She didn’t answer. A dense crowd of people was moving past, and she couldn’t break through. Instead she was forced back against him.
“Going to look for your dream peddler, then?” he sneered. “Does he have a booth set up around here somewhere? Next to the fortune-teller and the tent of curiosities?”
“Why would you dislike him?” she challenged.
“I just think he’s a misfit, is all. Something’s not right about him. You know little Ali McBryde? Can’t be more than eight, right? Well, what would he be doing leading that boy down the street by the hand one day, no one else in sight? I don’t think anyone else saw them, but I did, and I tell you it made me feel strange.”
“I’m sure Ali was just buying a dream.”
“Sure, maybe. But I don’t know where he could have found the money. And even if he did, it don’t seem fair, taking advantage of a little fellow like that. Something’s not right with it.”
“Well, it’s not taking advantage if he gets the dream he asked for. And I saw Ali earlier, stuffing himself with a doughnut, and he looked right as rain to me.”
“Sure. Sure he is, for now. But I wonder.” He scanned the crowds, hands in his pockets. “You know, Ali’s only a bit younger than Ben Dawson was when he disappeared. And wasn’t that odd? Robert Owens just happening to come into town at the very same time?”
“Ben Dawson was drowned in the bay!” She wiped at her eyes, furious with herself for crying.
“It seems that way. But if a stranger did come into town and somehow got hold of a boy . . . well, cracking the ice on the bay and dropping him in would be a perfect way to make sure no one would ever know what happened. Bet he’d have thought the body would never be found.”
They were walking by the fresh-made doughnut stand, where short braids of dough puffed in a kettle of melted lard over a fire. As Cora watched, the half-fried crullers began to twist, turning up golden backs. The smell of them went down into her belly and wallowed there, flipping over and over, and the heat of the day and the fire flushed into her and swayed her.
“Jackson Banks, that’s a horrible thing to say. And it’s just not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. Look at him there. Just look.”
He gestured over her shoulder, and she turned to see the dream peddler amusing a group of little ones by pulling pennies from behind their ears. He held the coins up shining, and they all hopped back, whooping and clapping each time. Cora began to lean. It felt like the heat was pulling at her, tugging her away from the side of the table, when she knew she was too dizzy now to let go.
“I don’t mean to shock you, now, Cora.” Jackson’s voice came low and prowling over her shoulder. “But there are some people in the world who are very different from us when it comes to these things. People who . . . aren’t right.” His lips were so close to her neck now she could feel his breath trying to nuzzle in under her hair. “Haven’t you been wondering why he doesn’t like you? How he can keep refusing you all this time?”
Cora felt the voice trying to find its way down over the front of her chest. No, it was crawling now inside her, following the coil of heat and finding the doughnut oil puddled deep in her stomach. Her faint pulled her forward into the ground, as the last thing she saw was the passing of an old, dirty copper from Robert’s big hand into a small outstretched palm.
“Cora!”
Jackson picked her up out of the dirt and began to stagger with her toward the threadbare edges of the crowd. Seeing them approach, Robert stood and hurried toward them, arms extended as if he would help Jackson carry her.
“Stay away from her!” Jackson cried out, and people nearby turned to look as Robert backed away with his hands held open, beseeching the air. “Just stay away!”
He carried her from the fairgrounds and into the grass to lay her down. From her picnic spot, Evie saw what was happening, and she jumped up and ran. Ran to where she heard the gunshots of the demonstrators cracking the sealed heat open, searching for her father.
* * *
* * *
Sam Whiting held the salts under Cora’s nose, and she opened her eyes to him.
“There,” he said, laying his big hand across her forehead. It was damp with sweat but clammy and cool. “You’ve fainted—from the heat, I expect. Why don’t we see if we can sit you up now. That’s it. Have you had much to eat today?”
He motioned to Evie, who was standing by with a cup of lemonade. She gave it to him, and he held it up to Cora’s mouth, as if he didn’t trust her to hold it.
“I just felt so sick all of a sudden,” she said after she drank. “I got spots in my eyes, and then they all crawled in together and I was gone.” She hung her head, looking as if she might start crying again.
“It’s all right, little one, we’ll just sit here until you’ve had your drink and are feeling better. The sugar will perk you up. Take as much as you can.”
She shook her head slightly. Her hand went down to her abdomen, and Evie watched it settle there.
“I feel . . . I don’t feel well. I’m not sure I can drink any more just now.” She doubled over herself, and only the corners of her mouth wincing were visible.
“I need to go home, Dr. Whiting. Can you take me home? Something is . . . wrong with me.”
“Let me get your parents. They’ll want to take you.”
She gripped his wrist with a strength he could not have imagined waiting latent in such a narrow arm.
“Please take me. I don’t want to wait for them.” She stared into his eyes. “I need your help.”
He considered her and then turned to Rose. “Will you be all right if I take her in the motorcar? It’ll be fastest and easier on her.”
Rose waved her hand at them. “Of course. I’ll go home with George and Evie. You can get me there.”
He nodded and turned back to his patient, Rose forgotten. “Can you get up and walk, if you lean on me a little?”
“I think so.”
He helped her up, and she held to him while they made their way back through the fair and out to the road. Evie watched Cora’s back, under her father’s arm, until she could find it no more through the shivering turmoil of the crowd. As Cora walked away, she left a staggered trail of blood drops in the dust, but they were scuffed and rubbed out by the fairgoers’ footprints crisscrossing over the ground.
* * *
* * *
Rose and Evie had put together a light supper of stewed tomatoes and sandwiches made with the unfinished meats from the picnic. They sat with George at the table and waited for Sam to return. The days had begun to shorten again, as if they spent themselves faster now in making the Indian-summer heat. The falling light caught all the glass things on the table in its net, like flickers of fish, and held them still. Every window and door was open to lure in the breeze. It teased them from the distant treetops, and all evening they waited, but it never came down to them.
Sam walked in, hung his hat, and set his bag by the door.
“Ah, supper,” he said. “I’m famished.”
He went to wash up at the kitchen sink and leaned back to see his family through the dining-room doorway while he rubbed his hands together.
“Never had my chance to eat at the fair,” he told them, “so the rest of those sandwiches are mine.”
Evie tried to smile, but George and Rose did not bother.
“How is Cora?” Rose asked him once she had passed him the food and filled his glass with iced tea from the pitcher.
“She’ll be all right, in time. But I’ve had
to tell her parents she had a miscarriage.”
Evie and Rose carefully copied George’s surprise.
“My God,” said George. He was the only one who spoke as they all sat there, allowing the news to settle.
“That’s terrible,” said Evie slowly. “Tom and Mary must be so upset.”
“As you would imagine,” he said. “But of course the problem has fixed itself, so to speak, just as they were being made aware of it. They all—Cora included, I think—understand that this is for the best.” He speared a bite of tomato and chewed it thoughtfully. “She’s been given a rare second chance. No one has to know, and her parents are angry, but I think they’re very grateful that at least Cora can still be happy and have a good life. When she gets over the shock, she will see that.”
Evie caught herself thinking they shouldn’t be having this conversation in front of Ben, then remembered he wasn’t there.
“Did she . . . say anything to you about who the father was?”
Sam washed down his food with a swig of tea, a habit that still made Rose wince.
“No,” he said curtly. “She refused to tell me, but when I left, she was alone with her mother. I think Mary will be able to get it out of her.”
“I hope so,” said George. “Whoever it is needs to know what he’s done, to take responsibility.”
“Agreed,” said Sam. “And his family needs to know, so they can decide what should be done with him.”
“I’d make him see sense. Give him the hide of his life.”
“Well, no one is going to go hiding anyone. I promised them secrecy, and they will have it, from all of us. Maybe in time Cora will be willing to speak up. But right now I think all she wants is to put it behind her.”
“Poor Cora,” said Rose. “What a burden for her to bear.”
“Well, poor Cora will recover physically just fine. And she should not have been engaging in such behavior. She has disgraced herself.”
“That might be so,” said Rose. “But she is a young girl. And young girls sometimes don’t know things.”
The Dream Peddler Page 26