Unbroken

by Jessie Haas

  But when her tears began to drip and hiss on the stove top, it made me laugh. Then I couldn’t help crying. We hugged each other, and that was still so strange it brought us around quickly. We spooned down warm cornstarch pudding and drank tea and waited for the doctor.

  He came late in the afternoon, looking exhausted and in a hurry, sat down at the kitchen table, and handed me a folded piece of paper. “I’ll leave you two to talk,” Althea Brand said, slipping out the door.

  I read.

  Dear Harriet,

  Of course you will have a home with us for as

  long as you need one.

  We will be down to the funeral. Please have your

  things ready as we must get back to milk.

  I am very sorry.

  Sincerely,

  Sarah Hall

  Dr. Vesper was looking skeptically at the cup of black tea Althea Brand had left him. Without raising his eyes, he asked, “What kind of letter did she send you, Harry?”

  I gave it to him. He glanced over it, and his eyebrows jumped. “Well,” he said, “guess that’s all right then.”

  What in the letter had surprised him? What had Aunt Sarah said when he gave her the news? I didn’t dare ask. I couldn’t afford to hear anything that might make me hate her.

  Instead I said, “I have to ask you some things.”

  At that moment he noticed my gloved hands. I looked down at them. The ointment had soaked through in dark, greasy patches.

  He doesn’t tell me everything, I thought, and folded my hands in my lap.

  “What do you want to know, Harry?”

  “Will you tell me what happened?”

  He looked down again at his tea. “The horse bolted, and the buggy smashed, and … Sam came down from the mill and shot the mare. She had a broken leg.”

  “Mother said—she told me she’d made a mistake.”

  “I believe she did. It was John Gale in the car, big farmer from upriver. He said she tried to keep the mare on the road instead of turning off. He was coming down that hill standing on all three pedals, and he said to me, ‘I could see her get her dander up, and she took hold of those reins,’ and of course the jeestly thing backfired. If she’d just turned off … there was an open gate right there, she could have.…” His voice had been deepening, and now it squeezed off.

  “He left his gloves,” I said.

  “John Gale? He’s a good man, Harry. You’ll see him tomorrow, I expect.” He paused and cleared his throat. “The reverend been next or nigh you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He will be.” Dr. Vesper took a wincing sip of tea. “Be civil, Harry.”

  My heart swelled, and my eyes prickled. It was so moving to be understood. I had to wait a moment before I could ask, “What did you mean, that you’re named in her will?”

  “I’m your mother’s executor, and I’m partway your guardian. I’ll be looking out for you.”

  “But—” My heart beat harder, but I made myself ask. “But I can’t stay with you?”

  He hesitated, glancing at me under his heavy brows. My stomach sank. Careful, I thought. Careful. Don’t ask too much.

  “You could for all of me, Harry,” he said, “and the Old Lady agrees.” The Old Lady was Mrs. Vesper. “But you do have family, and … there’s lots of reasons to go to them. Your mother thought so. That’s what she wrote in her will, and it’s what she asked me to do on—yesterday.”

  “Oh. Then … what are the debts? Who do we owe money to? You can tell me,” I said as he seemed to retreat. “I’m not a baby.”

  “That’s right, Harry. I’ll give you that.” He thought a moment. “I don’t know the money amounts, but I believe it’s the store in Barrett you owe, mostly, that and the Academy. And I should think the sale of the house would cover that. You’ll come out free and clear and with a little bit left over.”

  “And when you sell the house—”

  Dr. Vesper raised his head and looked straight across the table at me. “Yes?”

  “What can I keep?”

  He didn’t answer right away. I could hear the hush. Did he think I was heartless, asking about things the day after my mother’s death? Was I heartless?

  “Harry,” he said at last, “you’ve been thinking. What do you want to keep?”

  “The sewing machine,” I said. “The colt.”

  His eyes widened. He sat staring at me for a moment, and then he started to smile, sadly and wearily, but with a true sparkle in his eye. “Poor Sarah!” he said. “At most she’ll expect you to bring a couple of carpetbags. I can’t wait to see her face when you turn up with a big old sewing machine and an unbroken colt!”

  Althea came back, and Reverend Astley arrived. How was I expecting to get my effects up to Sarah’s farm, and did I really want the colt? And a sewing machine? A dress for the funeral, the time for the funeral, when the coffin was arriving, and how I would get down to Barrett. “And really, child, what are you going to do with that animal?”

  The voices went on. My throat hurt, and my head ached. I felt as if I were thinning out somehow, getting ready to disappear.

  Suddenly Dr. Vesper snapped his fingers. “Hey! John Gale was asking was there anything he could do for you. He’ll bring your things up to Sarah’s, and the colt, too, I should think.”

  That seemed to settle things. Soon the two men went away, and Althea and I were left alone. I was so tired I could hardly see her; she was just a blur across the kitchen table.

  “We’ll have some more tea,” she said to me, “and then we’d better start packing.”

  four

  “Walter Gibson, 1873–1899. Ellen Gibson, 1877–”

  Their names on the headstone steadied me. I stared at them, straining my eyes wide. I was alone now. Completely alone. She didn’t come last night. Time was passing and carrying me away from her.

  Many people had come to the graveside service. I couldn’t look at them. Reverend Astley’s words came through from time to time, though I tried not to listen.

  “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …”

  I didn’t want to cry. She was all right. She’d come back once to tell me. But though I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, tears poured down my face. I had to strain my muscles tight to keep from sobbing aloud.

  Someone nudged my arm. A handkerchief was offered. I wiped my face and blew my nose. An aura of lye soap clung to the handkerchief, which belonged to Aunt Sarah. I held it to my nose, sniffing, and the sharp scent revived me.

  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies …”

  I looked at the people now; it seemed to dry my eyes.

  Aunt Sarah, beside me, was as solid as a sofa set upright, covered in straining black broadcloth. Her face was just as I remembered, heavy jawed, with big, rather staring eyes. She looked sober, but not tearful.

  “Surely goodness and mercy …”

  Next to her Uncle Clayton seemed small and loose in his clothes. Aunt Sarah had been born fourteen years before my father. Clayton was old enough to be my grandfather.

  “… house of the Lord forever.”

  Across from me Dr. Vesper stared into the grave with tears running down his face. I looked quickly at Mrs. Vesper—the Old Lady—who had one arm linked through his and her face hidden in a handkerchief. Althea Brand looked grim, and the four ladies behind her looked grimmer: the four ladies of West Barrett, who had come down the hill together, courtesy of a rented wagon from the sawmill.

  Some of the millmen were there, too. I saw Frank Watts, who had taken Mother walking a few times, and Earl Cooney, who once got drunk and serenaded my window in error. There were quite a few of Mother’s customers, wearing dresses she had made. Miss Spencer hadn’t come. She’d be in class now, teaching Latin. But Luke was there. Shaken with crying, she stood very close to her mother. While I watched, Mrs. Mitchell put an arm around her. I looked away.

  Now here was a man I didn’t know, clean shaven,
squeezing his hatbrim in his hands and looking soberly at the ground. That would be John Gale, who had driven the Model T. And next to him—

  My stomach jumped. Did I know this man? I seemed to remember him—he seemed to look exactly like himself—but who was he? He was thin and bent, and he must have had stomach trouble because he kept one arm pressed across his front—

  No, he didn’t have an arm, not a whole arm. His sleeve was pinned up, and what I’d thought was his forearm was just a large crease in his coat. He had a thin white beard, stained yellow around the mouth, and pale eyes that didn’t stay fixed like everyone else’s. Instead he looked around the cemetery, with a pleased expression that made me look, too, at the green grass and flowering mock orange and spiraea. There was nothing unseemly in his attitude. When he glanced at the coffin, he seemed almost grateful, as if for an invitation to some pleasant occasion.

  It is pleasant, I thought. The sky was blue, the sun warm, and it warmed the grass until it gave off its green smell. I hadn’t been able to forgive that this morning.

  But Mother was all right. I remembered now how she’d reached her hand down from the buggy with a reassuring smile, while Belle stamped and snorted.

  This day was always going to come. She had a bad heart, and she knew she wouldn’t live to see me grown—and she was all right. The man with the stained beard seemed to know that. The free way he held up his head and glanced around at the day, and respectfully at the coffin, told me that. Who was he? In spite of his thin, rusty, impoverished look, he was the most interesting person there.

  Unexpectedly it was over. I’d missed the words I dreaded most: the earth, ashes, dust. People were coming toward me now. I held myself straight and clenched my fingers around Aunt Sarah’s wet handkerchief.

  First to approach was John Gale. He was pale, his skin furrowed like snow that’s been rained on. His sad eyes met mine directly as he took my hand between his two warm ones.

  “Miss Gibson? I’m as sorry as I can be,” he said.

  I couldn’t answer. All I could do was nod.

  “The doctor says I’m to transport your things—”

  Aunt Sarah stirred. “That won’t be necessary. Her uncle and I will bring her things up with us in the buggy.”

  John Gale gave my hand a strong squeeze and released it, turning to face Aunt Sarah. “Ma’am, I’m John Gale, and I caused the accident that took her mother’s life. I’d like to help.”

  Aunt Sarah seemed to swell on a long, indrawn breath. Two spots of color burned on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “I thank you,” she said firmly, “but no help is needed.”

  John Gale pressed his lips together and glanced at me. He seemed full of courage still but unsure what to say next.

  I couldn’t help him. On her other side Uncle Clayton seemed to shrivel inside his clothes, and I wanted to shrivel, too. How could Dr. Vesper have let me keep the colt and the sewing machine? Didn’t he know that was too much?

  I looked for him but felt him first, a big, warm hand on my shoulder. “Hello, Sarah,” he said. Then the other hand was on my other shoulder, and he was like a wall at my back. “You’ll have a more comfortable ride up—has John been telling you? He’ll bring Harry’s things.”

  Aunt Sarah’s whole face was red now, and her eyes were as hard as marbles. She looked from one man to another, and I was glad to be short and beneath her gaze. “I just don’t see the need,” she said.

  “Well now, Sarah, Harry’s bringing her whole inheritance with her.” His hands gave me a squeeze, so small it must have been invisible. “It don’t amount to much, but it’s what she’s got: three big carpetbags, as I understand, and a Singer sewing machine, and a two-year-old colt.”

  Aunt Sarah’s chin worked visibly, and her eyes fixed on mine. I felt my knees start to weaken. I straightened them and hoped they would lock.

  “Blame me if you like, Sarah,” Dr. Vesper said, and her eyes lifted swiftly. She did like. “But Harry’s made some good choices. Good Morgan that’ll get her somewhere someday, good sewing machine that her mother made a living with—”

  Aunt Sarah sniffed. The sniff was directed at Mother, and I wanted to strike, right in the middle of the broadcloth waist. But Dr. Vesper’s hands were heavy on my shoulders, and from Aunt Sarah’s shadow Uncle Clayton said timidly, “Put the hoss in the pasture with the rest of the stock. No trouble, really.”

  Aunt Sarah looked down at me. I stared back at her, my cheeks and eyes burning. Her face changed in some way that I didn’t understand. She turned to John Gale.

  “Mr. Gale, it appears your help will be most welcome. You may follow us up to West Barrett.”

  She turned to go. I was expected to follow, but I couldn’t move. I was shaking all over, ready to fall.

  “Andrew!” I was hugged deep into a lilac-scented bosom. The Old Lady. “You can’t allow this!”

  “It’s what Ellen wanted. They owe it to her to try, Sarah and Harry both.”

  “It’s too much!” Mrs. Vesper said, wrapping her arms tighter around me and dropping tears onto my head.

  I cried, too—shook all over with it, helpless. Oh, Mother. Did I really? Did I owe it to her to live with this horrible woman who despised us both?

  Aunt Sarah would be climbing into the buggy. She’d be watching me with her marble blue eyes.

  I drew back from Mrs. Vesper and used the lye-scented handkerchief. Dimly I heard her say, “No, Andy, I won’t hush! Harriet, you’ve got a home with us if you need one. You remember that!”

  Then Dr. Vesper drew my arm through his and led me toward the buggy. The four ladies of West Barrett were clustered at the wheel. Luke stood almost in our path. To my swimming eyes she appeared to waver like a reflection on the water. “Harry?”

  No more hugs. Please. No more crying.

  She hung back for a moment. Then she darted forward and gripped my hand hard. She was sobbing, but she managed to ask, “Will you come back to school?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She squeezed my hand again. Then she was gone, and Dr. Vesper was helping me up into the buggy, where I squashed in beside Aunt Sarah.

  Uncle Clayton turned the white horse, and it jogged heavily up the street. Aunt Sarah was a hot bulk beside me. On the other side the strut of the buggy top dug into my shoulder. The breeze dried my face. I closed my eyes.

  I could tell when we reached the edge of town by the roughness of the road, the shade, the tilt backward as the horse began to climb. Every day I’d made this ride, beside Mother, behind Belle.…

  I kept my eyes closed as long as I could, wanting not to see the place where the grass was crushed beside the road from Belle’s body being dragged away, the fragment of buggy hood that no one had picked up.

  But my eyes opened too early. I turned to look at the people beside me. Aunt Sarah gazed straight ahead, lips pressed tightly together. Uncle Clayton just drove, looking around him curiously. I saw by his face when we passed the spot. His head turned until his eyes met mine. He jumped and looked straight ahead again. “Clayton is harmless,” Mother always said. I closed my eyes again and listened for the sound of John Gale’s team and wagon behind us.

  When I walked into the house, my footsteps sounded hollow. The house was not much emptier—three carpet-bags beside the door, the sewing machine folded down into its table—but it sounded empty.

  I was alone for the moment. Outside Aunt Sarah directed John Gale and Uncle Clayton, horses tramped, and wagon wheels rumbled. Inside, it was still. Already it felt like someone else’s house.

  I climbed the stairs. On the bare mattress lay my calico work dress. A rectangle of sunlight reached along the floor. After a moment’s hesitation I crossed to the skyscraper window. At sight of the long drop my stomach seemed to fall through my body. I braced my hand on the window frame. My fingers throbbed inside my black gloves.

  Would I ever again be high enough to look down on a swallow’s back?

  The willows shifted above the bright wat
er. The little river made its rushing sound, the saw sang, and right in front of my nose a mosquito climbed through one of the holes in the screen.

  “Come on in,” I whispered.

  “Harriet?” Aunt Sarah called from the bottom of the stairs. “Harriet, where are you?”

  I will hate my name, I thought. She’ll make me hate my own name.

  I went to the stairs and looked down to meet her eyes. Instantly I felt myself stiffen, the way a dog stiffens and bristles at a strange dog’s challenge. “I’ll be right down.”

  Aunt Sarah’s form seemed to broaden and fill the stairwell. Her eyes took on a glassy hardness. Without a word she turned away.

  I sat on the bare bed, shaking. I don’t fight. Though Lucretia and I call ourselves Luke and Harry, though we ride horses and climb trees, we aren’t rough girls. I like people who like me, and before this I paid no attention to anyone who didn’t.

  But already I had made Aunt Sarah angry.

  “Well, she started it,” I whispered to the still room. “She started it.”

  I changed my dress. When I came downstairs, the carpetbags were no longer beside the door. John Gale and Uncle Clayton were carrying out the sewing machine, and Aunt Sarah stood in the kitchen, looking around and tapping her foot.

  I looked where she was looking, at the tomato seedlings in the window, the pots and pans on their hooks, the teapot and the cups. Last night, packing, Althea and I had not known what I could take. If we removed anything but Mother’s and my personal things, was it stealing from the creditors? And how much room would Aunt Sarah have? Would she be offended if I brought too much?

  Now she seemed to blame me for leaving too much behind.

  There was a knock at the door. Althea Brand stood just outside. She had ridden up behind us in John Gale’s wagon, and she looked dusty and small.

  “Come in,” I said as she hesitated in the doorway.

  “I just wanted to tell you good-bye, Harriet, and—”

  “I want to give you a present,” I said, interrupting. It had just come to me how good she’d been. She didn’t have to take care of me. She wasn’t even a relative. But she was Mother’s friend, and she’d done what a friend should, just out of love.