Speak Through the Wind

by Allison Pittman

  It wasn’t until Clara planted both of her massive black hands on the table—rattling the plate on impact—and threatened to throw the whole mess out with the wash water if she didn’t eat, that Kassandra picked up her fork, dug around in the orange, warm mass and brought a heaping fork full just to her lips where she tested it, then opened her mouth wide to its sweet, buttery flavor.

  Clara was still holding her imposing pose across the table, and when Kassandra took the first bite both faces exploded in great, satisfied smiles.

  “That’s a good girl,” Clara said. “You eat up now whiles I go upstairs and put some clean linens on your bed.”

  Your bed.

  The words brought an even bigger smile to Kassandra’s face as she attacked the rest of the sweet potato. She was safe for at least one more night.

  No sooner was Clara’s heavy step clomping above her than a voice boomed from the front of the house, “Clara! Clara! I’m starved!”

  The door separating the parlor from the kitchen swung open and, for the first time, Kassandra got a good look at the man who had saved her. Remembering the feel of being swept up in his arms, carried to his carriage, carried up his stairs, she imagined arms the width of tree trunks suspended from shoulders at least six feet off the ground. And while his height did not disappoint (he fairly towered in the doorway, leaving a scant six inches between it and the top of his head), the arm that held the door open was long and thin, completely encased in the long black sleeves of his coat. And at its tip was a hand that seemed ghostly white against the brown wood of the door. Her eyes traveled up, up a thin torso and a skinny white neck that looked a little like those of the unfortunate fowls that often hung in Mr. Maroni’s window on Tuesday afternoons.

  But it was his face that held her gaze. Framed on either side by dark blond hair that fell clear to his chin, it was perfectly oval, perfectly smooth and beautiful. His eyes were warm and brown, his nose thin, his lips parted in a surprised smile to reveal a slight gap between his two front teeth.

  “What is this delightful creature God has left me in my kitchen?” he said, letting one impossibly long leg bring him, in a single stride, from the doorway to the table. “What have I done to deserve such a present?”

  reakfast was always a great feat of precision and timing. Reverend Joseph liked his eggs boiled for exactly four minutes, so Kassandra kept a close eye on the timer, ready to retrieve them with the long-handled slotted spoon just as the last grain of sand dropped. In the meantime, one drizzle of molasses was stirred into the porridge, tea was steeped to the color of dark oak, and bread was sliced in order to be popped into the oven and toasted the minute Clara gave the alarm that the reverend was on his way down.

  Kassandra had begun helping with the breakfast preparation as soon as she was tall enough to cook without needing to stand on the kitchen stool. She took over completely after the morning Clara responded to Reverend Joseph’s complaint about his scrambled eggs by dumping the whole lot on his head.

  This morning, the table was set and the bread toasting when the kitchen door swung open and Reverend Joseph stood on the threshold. “Good morning!” he said after planting a fatherly kiss on top of Kassandra’s head.

  “Good morning, Reverend Joseph,” Kassandra replied, all traces of her native German tongue nearly erased, save for a slight, harsh tick on the consonants.

  The egg cooled in its cup, and she ladled the porridge into the bowl at Reverend Joseph’s place. Turning back to the stove, she used her apron to guard against the heat as she popped open the oven door just long enough to jab inside with the long toast fork to retrieve four slices of bread. Two for Reverend Joseph, two for herself. Then she settled in the seat opposite him and folded her hands for the morning blessing.

  “Our Father in heaven,” Reverend Joseph began in a somber voice devoid of the lightness and humor it so often held, “thank You for granting us another day to live in Your creation. Guide our steps and guard our lives as we try to live this day as a testament to Your love and power and grace.”

  There was a tiny pause, just long enough for Kassandra to know his prayer was over, and it was her turn. “And Father,” she prayed, “again I thank You for the blessings and the family You have given me here. And for the love of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed Reverend Joseph.

  Over the past seven years, Kassandra and Reverend Joseph had perfected their breakfast routine, and now they ate in companionable silence, listening to Clara’s heavy footsteps overhead as she moved about the rooms making up the beds. Kassandra, as always, had been careful to spread up her own covers, taking special pride and care in keeping her room tidy. But no matter how much attention she paid to detail, Clara always came in behind her and found one crease to straighten or one speck of dust to wipe clean.

  Reverend Joseph tapped his spoon around the circumference of the egg. “Tell me, Kassandra, do you have your piece memorized for your recitation today?”

  “Of course,” Kassandra replied, taking a tiny nibble off the corner of her toast.

  “Look at you. You even eat like a little sparrow”

  Kassandra smiled. Reverend Joseph always called her his little Sparrow. He said she looked like a baby bird that first afternoon—her head bald, her eyes swollen, her skin a mass of tiny bumps in the after-bath chill.

  “I am not much like a sparrow anymore,” Kassandra said. “More like a goose. I’m taller than any other girl my age.”

  “Now, now—”

  “And I am ugly.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I have a face like a horse. Everybody says so.”

  “The most important thing,” Reverend Joseph said, dipping his spoon into his egg, “is the beauty that is inside of you. The love of Christ in your heart. Now, let me hear your recitation.”

  Kassandra brought a napkin up to brush the toast crumbs from the corners of her mouth and stood behind her chair, clasping her hands primly in front of her just as Miss Bradstreet, her teacher, taught her. She cleared her throat, cleared her mind, focused her gaze on the shelf just above Reverend Joseph’s head, and began.

  “At Christ’s right hand the sheep do stand,

  His holy martyrs, who

  For His dear name suffering shame,

  calamity and woe,

  Like champions stood, and with their blood

  their testimony sealed;

  Whose innocence without offense,

  to Christ their Judge appealed.”

  She moved seamlessly through the next five stanzas about those who remained true to Christ despite their afflictions, those who suffered great sacrifice for Him; those who grew in His grace. When she came to the lines—

  “And them among an infant throng

  of babes, for whom Christ died;

  Whom for His own, by ways unknown

  to men, He sanctified.”

  —she unclasped her hands and turned them into a tiny cradle, swaying it with the rhythm of the words, returning them to their proper recitation gesture for the final lines.

  “O glorious sight! Behold how bright

  dust heaps are made to shine,

  Conformed so to their Lord unto, whose glory is divine.”

  “Them’s sure some fancy words comin’ out of that mouth,” Clara said, having come into the room in that silent way she was capable of when she wanted. “But this child needs to use her mouth to finish her breakfast so’s I can get to cleanin’ up this kitchen.”

  “Yes, Clara.” Kassandra took another bite of her toast, chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed before speaking again. “Sarah James gets to do the verses about the pits and sufferings of hell, but I think my part is much nicer, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Reverend Joseph, blowing on a spoonful of porridge to cool it.

  “Besides, she does not understand what most of the words mean. She pretends to be smart because her father is rich, but she is really quite stupid, and—”

 
“Now you watch yourself,” Clara said. “It weren’t so long ago that you wouldn’a known any part of them verses yourself. Don’t be thinkin’ that because you got some knowledge in yo’ head and some ribbons in yo’ hair that you’re any better than anybody else.”

  Kassandra wanted to explain that she could never be better than Sarah James, who was dainty and pretty and had not only ribbons but silk ribbons in her hair, but she knew that any such remark would be taken as ingratitude, so she chose instead to pick up her spoon and heap a generous portion of blackberry preserves on the remainder of her toast.

  “Your recitation was perfect,” Reverend Joseph said, sending a pointed and protective glare toward Clara, who turned to busy herself at the sink. “But you shouldn’t be so critical of young Sarah. Perhaps you and she can practice together, and you can help her understand the poems meaning.”

  “She does not ever talk to me,” Kassandra said, dropping a glop of preserves on her chin.

  Reverend Joseph smiled and reached across the table to wipe it off with his own napkin. “You should try. Who knows? Perhaps you will be a great teacher someday.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Why not? You are quick and intelligent and thoughtful. Look how much you have learned in just these few short years.”

  He rose from the table and left to his study to work on his sermon for the upcoming Sunday When he was gone, Clara walked over to the table and stood there until Kassandra looked up at her.

  “Reverend’s right,” Clara said. “You are smart. Know what you need to know to fit in. To survive.”

  Kassandra squirmed under her gaze.

  “But, child, don’t you forget where you come from. What you was. And whatsoever the Lord giveth, He can taketh away. And don’t think He won’t slap down the prideful and send them back to the mud He pulled them out of.”

  The last crust of toast seemed lodged in the back of Kassandra’s throat, and she reached for Reverend Joseph’s own teacup to wash it down. But Clara snatched the cup off the table before Kassandra could take hold of it, saying, “No time for tea this mornin’, girl. You got a poem to say.”

  lthough he was a humble man and true servant of God, Reverend Joseph Hartmann was not a man of modest means. His parents owned several textile mills in his native town of Heidelberg, Germany, which they sold in order to bring a massive amount of cash to invest upon their emigration to America. Joseph was just fifteen years old at the time, already torn between following in his father’s industrial footsteps and his own desire to enter the ministry. His mother died of fever during the voyage, and his father had only enough time to build this home in the fashionable district of New York’s Centre Street before following his wife after succumbing to a bad piece of fish. The bright spot in young Joseph’s view was that the family fortune was largely intact. He took from it only what he needed to finance an education at a modest New York seminary. Within five years, at the young age of twenty-six, he secured a position as minister at the Tenth Street Methodist Church—the place of worship for some of New York’s most affluent Methodists—and as a spokesman for quiet reform.

  On Tuesday afternoons, the New York City Abolition Society gathered in Reverend Joseph’s parlor to bemoan the tragic injustices of the South and to compose tracts to be distributed to all merchants who participated in trade with known slaveholders. On Wednesdays, several members of Reverend Joseph’s church came to his home to have a somber evening of prayer and petition for the needs of his congregation. Every third Thursday, the table in the formal dining room was covered with ledgers and lists of the month’s charitable donations, and the elders of the church gathered to discuss their dispensation. And on Fridays, Reverend Joseph sat placidly in his parlor, reading his Bible or some evangelical text, while acquaintances outside his congregation paid social calls.

  The Friday morning visitors usually consisted of middle-aged mothers and their marriageable daughters. They arrived sheathed in propriety, managing to carry on conversations bemoaning the plight of the poor without dropping a single crumb of fruitcake, all the while scanning the elegance of the furnishings with wistful, hungry eyes. The mothers hung on every one of Reverend Joseph’s words, tilting their heads and eyeing him as if looking through a scope. The daughters kept their eyes downcast, as if entranced by the pattern in the fabric of their skirts.

  When Kassandra was still a very little girl, her head still sporting tufts of soft, sandy blondness, the women would fawn over her, admiring her large gray eyes and applauding her ability to carry their emptied cups on a tray twice the width of her small frame.

  “You’ve not found a home for this one?” they asked in sweet soprano voices.

  “No,” Reverend Joseph would reply “Families want American children. Her English is not yet strong enough.”

  As years went by, Kassandra’s status grew from being a foundling to an adorable little girl, and the mothers would comment on their own daughters’ love for children, to which Reverend Joseph would smile and offer them an opportunity to volunteer in the schools and orphanages supported by his church.

  “Now really, reverend,” the aggressive matrons would coo, “don’t you ever intend to marry?” To which Reverend Joseph would smile and reply that he hadn’t yet met the woman who would be content to give away as much money as he did.

  Kassandra’s very presence in the house became, after a time, a sore spot in the eyes of Reverend Joseph’s ministerial and social circles. More than once as Kassandra passed through the rooms, she heard the mutterings and chastisements of his colleagues and invited guests.

  “You simply cannot just keep her, reverend. Not without a mother in the house.”

  “She is becoming a young woman. It simply isn’t proper.”

  “People are beginning to talk.”

  But Reverend Joseph dismissed their criticisms and suspicions with a sweep of his hand, saying, “God brought her to me for a reason. I cannot simply turn her out.”

  Each time Kassandra heard Reverend Joseph defend his right to keep her, she bowed her head and gave a prayer of thanks to God. But still, she was careful to be as inconspicuous as possible, especially when the Friday morning visits of the matrons and their daughters came with ugly glares and suspicious mumblings whenever Reverend Joseph left the parlor. It was at those times that Kassandra would lift her modest eyes and smile with a ferocity that defended his generosity, her virtue and, most of all, their territory.

  The spring that Kassandra turned fifteen, she was summoned away from a particularly stifling Friday morning social call by an insistent pounding on the back kitchen door.

  “Clara?” Reverend Joseph called to the house at large, before Kassandra could remind him that Clara was out paying a call on a sick neighbor. When he began to rise from his chair to answer the pounding, Kassandra, loath to be left alone with Mrs. Weathersby and her dull daughter Dianne, leapt from her chair, insisting that the three continue their conversation about the propriety of reading from the Song of Solomon from the pulpit.

  The knocking intensified as Kassandra tore through the parlor and the dining room, and by the time she was crossing the kitchen she could hear muted profanities coming through the door.

  “I’m coming! I’m coming!” she muttered not quite under her breath. When she reached the door, she yanked it open with all the force of her frustration.

  His fist was stilled in midair, ready to administer another blow, his face barely discernable under the cap pulled low on his brow.

  “Not a very patient one, are you?” Kassandra asked, opening the door just wide enough to poke her head out.

  “Not when it’s nearly five minutes I’m out here, frappin’ until my hand’s nearly thick with blood.” He shouldered the door open and pushed past her. Once inside the kitchen he turned to face her and asked, “Where are you wantin’ this?” referring to the canvas-wrapped bundle he had slung over his shoulder.

  “I am not sure,” Kassandra said. Clara was me
ticulous in her power over deliveries—a duty she had never sought to share.

  “Well, until ya are, I’m leavin’ it right here.” He dropped the bundle on the middle of the kitchen table, causing the crockery vase of freshly cut flowers to jump nearly an inch off the surface. “It’s a heavy son.”

  The young man took his cap off, revealing a mass of tight red curls. He turned to Kassandra, who was still standing in the open doorway, and fixed her with a bright smile that made her feel as if a tiny bird had been let loose somewhere behind her rib cage.

  “You know, miss, you might want to shut that door before you bring in too much of a chill into this nice, warm kitchen.”

  “Of course.” Kassandra felt a slight sense of uneasiness when the door clicked behind her, not knowing if it was such a good idea to be trapped alone in this room with this boy. As a matter of precaution—and to keep standing despite the very real threat of her legs buckling beneath her—Kassandra kept her hand clasped on the doorknob, and her eyes fixed on the mysterious bundle on the table.

  “It’s a lamb,” he said with a demonstrative gesture. “My guess is the reverend ordered it for his Easter dinner.”

  “Of course,” Kassandra said again, mentally kicking herself for her lack of originality

  They stared at each other for a minute. At least she was sure he was staring at her—her face was burning so—but she kept her own gaze in constant motion around the familiar room.

  “Of course …” he said, his voice tinged with the amusement of echoing her words, “you could just leave it out here on the table. But I suspect it might start gettin’ a little green after a bit. Would you be wantin’ me to take it to someplace a bit cooler? Like maybe a cellar?”

  “Of course!” Kassandra said yet again, thrilled to have a plan at last. “I mean, yes, the cellar. Right this way.”

  She let go her grip on the kitchen doorknob and walked, head down, into the pantry just off the kitchen. She heard him behind her, grunting as he shouldered the weight of the lamb once again.