Northern Light

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Then I went in our bedroom and saw that Lou had sicked up the water I'd given her and that Abby was out of bed and lurching about trying to clean Beth, who'd messed herself again. It was my fault. I'd given them too much water.

  "Mattie! Matt, where are you?" a voice called from downstairs.

  "Up here!"

  Feet pounded up the stairs and then Royal was in the doorway. He winced at the smell.

  "What is it?" I asked, coming out into the hallway.

  "One of the cows is real bad. The one with the star on her head—"

  "That's Daisy. It's not a star; it's a flower," I said stupidly.

  "She's suffering, Matt. Real bad. John wants ... he wants to know where your pa keeps his gun."

  "No, Mattie, no! Don't let him!" Lou yelled from her bed.

  I shook my head.

  He took me by the shoulders. "Mart, she's bad off ... it ain't kind."

  "In the shed. Above the door."

  He went back downstairs, and I thought of Daisy's large, dark eyes and her whiskered, mumbly lips. And how she never kicked when I milked her but always let me rest my cheek against her soft belly. I thought of poor Baldwin. And of the bull, fierce and black, up in the Loomises' meadow. And how he frightened Daisy and Baldwin, but they still bashed through the fence every chance they got, just to be near him.

  I heard the crack of a rifle, heard Lou shout my name, then curse. I heard the chamber pot go over in my father's room, heard him tell someone named Armand to shoot the damn bear already.

  Then I heard the sound of choked, quiet tears, as I sat down on the top step and wept.

  fu • ga • cious

  "You still taking the cod-liver oil I left at your place?" Mrs. Loomis asked me. She was sitting on her front porch, shelling peas into a blue enameled basin. I was sitting across from her, on an old wicker settee. Royal was next to me, his legs stretched out in front of him.

  "Yes, ma'am," I lied. I was pouring it down the sink, a little bit every day. I'd rather have the grippe, well and truly, than swallow any more cod-liver oil. Mrs. Loomis had dosed me good. She'd come to our house a week ago, as soon as Royal had gotten home and told her how it was with us. She'd brought all sorts of things with her—blackberry root and barley water to bind loose bowels. Onion syrup, whiskey, and gingerroot to bring a fever down. Lard mixed with camphor and turpentine for a rattling chest. She said it was one of the worst cases of grippe she'd ever seen. She doctored us and cooked for us and pulled us all through it. Weaver's mamma helped her. I don't know what we would have done without them. Pa had the remains of a cough and Beth was still too weak to get out of bed, but they were out of danger.

  "Still feeding Beth plenty of ginger tea?"

  "Yes, ma'am. She's a lot better. My pa said to tell you he's much obliged. And that he'll be over to pay a call in a day or two."

  "I don't want his thanks, Mattie. Seeing a neighbor through is thanks enough for me. And besides, it ain't all my doing, anyway. Weaver's mamma did as much as I did."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "She told me what happened to Weaver, by the way. It's a terrible thing. Heard Jim Higby put those men in the county jail. Guess it's right what they say about the squeaky wheel."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You'll be getting back to the Glenmore soon, I expect?"

  "Pa's taking me tomorrow morning. That's why I brought your basket and jars. I wanted to make sure you got them back before I left."

  She raised her head, fixing me with her faded blue eyes. "You learning a lot up there? Cooking and ironing and such?" she asked.

  "A bit."

  "That's good. Eileen Hennessey makes a nice piecrust. A good Baltimore cake, too. She's a methody cook, as I recall. Writes everything down. You should see if she'll give you some of her recipes." She straightened her back. I heard it crack. "Well, I reckon that's that," she said, picking up her basin. "Royal, take the pods out to the pigs before you come in."

  "Yup."

  The screen door slammed and we were alone.

  "You're going back up tomorrow?" he asked me.

  "Yes. First thing."

  "You got a day off anytime soon?"

  "I don't think so. Don't dare ask for one. Not after being home for a whole week."

  "Huh."

  There was a minute or two of silence. I stared at Mrs. Loomis's peony bushes. Some of the flowers were already losing their petals. I hadn't the time or the inclination to look up a word while my family was so sick, and even if I'd had, I'd left my dictionary up at the Glenmore. Fugacious was one of the last words I'd found, though. It means falling or fading early, fleeting. The dying peonies reminded me of it.

  "Well, here then," Royal suddenly said.

  He held out a small square of tissue paper. It was folded over several times. There was something inside of it. I opened it and saw a dull gold ring. It was set with three stones—a chipped opal flanked by two tiny garnets. It must've been pretty once.

  I looked at him. "Royal, do you ... do you love me?" I asked.

  "Aw, Matt. I bought you a ring, didn't I?"

  I looked at the ring again and thought how we'd lost two cows and would've lost more if it hadn't been for Royal. The surviving animals had been very sick. They'd only just started to give good milk again. Royal had fed them and cared for them for a whole week. He'd looked after the calves, too. He'd driven three of his father's milkers over to keep them from starving. They'd latched right on, every one except for Baldwin. He wouldn't take milk from the Loomises' cows, only from a pail. And he wouldn't pick his head up. He no longer frisked with the other calves, he just stood by himself in the pasture, day after day. As soon as she was able, Lou went into the pasture after him. She offered him little lumps of maple sugar, but he wouldn't take them. She scratched behind his ears and rubbed his neck, but he pulled She wasn't what he wanted; he wanted Daisy. But he couldn't have Daisy, so he finally took what was offered.

  Like we all do.

  "I've got ten dollars of my own saved up, Mattie. And my ma, she's got some put aside, too. She'll help us. And you'll have some savings, too, won't you, by the end of the summer? It'll be enough to make a start, all of it together."

  I stared at the ring hard.

  "Will you, Mattie?"

  I slipped the ring on my finger. It fit.

  "I will, Royal," I said. "You'd best come home with me now so we can tell my pa."

  South Otselic

  July 2, 06

  Monday Night

  My Dear Chester:

  I hope you will excuse me if I don't follow the lines for I am half lying down. Have worked awfully hard today ... This morning I helped mamma with the washing and then helped with the dinner. This p.m. I have been after strawberries. It was fun, only I got so awfully tired. The fields here are red with berries. Tonight mamma is canning them and making bread and cookies. We have had berries nearly every day since I came. Mamma says I am getting to be a splendid cook. What do you think of that? I got supper alone tonight and had potato dice and French toast and a whole lot of good things...

  I stop reading Graces letter and stare off into the darkness. I miss my own mamma so much right now that it hurts. She used to can strawberries, too, and she made the most delicious pink strawberry cake. It was as sweet as her kiss on my cheek. Sometimes she would pick a basketful of berries in the afternoon and set them, sun-warmed and fragrant, on the kitchen table, along with a dish of fresh cream and one of maple sugar. We would dip them first into the cream, then in the sugar, then bite into them greedily. Somehow, they always tasted of more than themselves. They tasted like my pa whistling as he came in from the fields at night, or like a new calf getting to its feet for the first time, or like Lawton telling us ghost stories around the fire. I think that what they tasted of was happiness.

  Once, Mamma made this treat just for me and her. It was after I'd started my monthlies. She'd sat me down at the kitchen table and covered my hand with her own, and told me that I was a grow
n woman now, not a girl anymore, and that a woman's virtue was the greatest treasure she possessed and that I must never, ever give mine to any man but the one I married.

  "Do you understand me, Mattie?" she'd said.

  I thought I did, but I wasn't sure. I knew what virtue means—goodness, purity, and excellence—because it had once been my word of the day. But I didn't think men wanted to get ahold of those things because Fran told me all they want to get ahold of is your bosoms.

  "Where is it, my virtue?" I finally asked her.

  "Up under your skirts," she said, coloring a bit.

  I colored, too, for I knew what she meant then. Sort of. At least, I knew where a cow's virtue was, and a chicken's, too, and what they were for.

  Then I asked, "How do you know if a man loves you, Mamma?"

  "You just do."

  "How did you know? Did Pa say 'I love you and give you a nice card or something and then you knew?" Mamma laughed. "Does that sound like your pa?"

  "Then how did you know, Mamma?"

  "I just did."

  "How will I know?"

  "You just will."

  "But how, Mamma, how?"

  She never answered me. She just shook her head and said, "Oh, Mattie, you ask too many questions!"

  Grace must have loved Chester very much to give him her virtue before they were married. I can see why she would have. He was very handsome. He had dark hair and full lips and the kind of slow, easy smile that makes your stomach flutter. He dressed nicely and walked with a sauntering, almost lazy, gait, hands in his pockets. I try to remember what his eyes looked like, but I can't. He never looked me full in the face.

  I wonder how Grace convinced herself that Chester loved her. And if she kept pretending it right to the end. Men rarely come right out and tell you. Minnie says you have to look for signs from them. Do they wash before they come to call on you? Do they let you climb up in the buckboard yourself, or get out to help you? Do they buy you sweets without your hinting for them?

  Royal washes. And he puts on a clean shirt, too. And if he says he will call for me at seven o'clock, he is there at seven o'clock. He does other things, too. I lie back against my pillow and spend a long time silently repeating them to myself, over and over and over again like a litany, but it's no use. Mamma said I would know. And I do. I guess I have all along.

  "Poor, sad, stupid Grace," I whisper to the darkness. "Poor, sad, stupid Matt."

  thren • o • dy

  "Mattie, you get the package that came for you?" Mrs. Morrison asked me. She was standing behind the front desk, sorting through the mail. It was three o'clock. Dinner was over and the dining room was closed until supper, which began at six. We were never idle, though, and I was just on my way upstairs to restock the second-floor linen closet with a pile of freshly ironed sheets.

  "No, ma'am. What package?"

  "A package from the teacher. She left it about an hour ago. I looked for you, but I couldn't find you. I had Ada bring it upstairs."

  I thanked her and ran to the attic as fast as I could, dumping off the sheets on my way. I was powerfully curious. No one had ever sent me a package before. When I got upstairs, I saw that it was a heavy parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. There was an envelope tucked under the twine, too; it was Glenmore stationery. I opened the package first, eager to see what was inside of it. There were three books: Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser; The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair; and Threnody, a volume of poetry by Emily Baxter. Miss Wilcox had written another book even though her husband told her not to! I was so excited, I hugged the little volume to me. I didn't know the meaning of threnody, so I pulled my dictionary out from under my bed and looked it up. It was defined as a song of lamentation, a funeral dirge. I smiled at that, pleased to know that I was not the only one in these parts given to things morbid and dispiriting. Next I opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet of paper inside, and caught my breath as a five-dollar bill fluttered out. I picked it up. There was a letter, too.

  Dear Mattie,

  I thought you might like these books. (Do take care to hide the Dreiser.) I hope, particularly, that you enjoy the volume of poetry, as I wish to leave you something by which to remember me. I am departing Eagle Bay tomorrow. I won't be teaching next year. I had hoped to tell you this in person, but Mrs. Morrison was unable to locate you. I am including Annabelle's, my sister's, address in this note. I've told her all about you and she's very eager to have you as a boarder. The enclosed will help get you to her house...

  There was more, but I didn't read it. "You can't go!" I said aloud. "You can't!" I ran out of the room and was downstairs in the kitchen in no time flat. Weaver was sitting at the table, eating ice cream. The trappers' handiwork was still visible on his face. His eye hadn't healed completely and his mouth was still tender. Cook and Mr. Sperry had the top of the stove off and were frowning down into it.

  "Can I please take the trap, Mr. Sperry?" I asked, panting. "I've got to go to Inlet. I've got to."

  "Have you lost your mind? Supper's only a few hours away. And besides, you can't handle Demon by yourself," Cook said.

  "I'll be back in time, I swear it," I said. "And I can manage Demon. I know I can. Please, ma'am..."

  "No. And that's the end of it," Cook said.

  "I'll walk, then."

  "You'll do no such thing."

  "Mattie, what's this about?" Mr. Sperry asked.

  "It's a friend of mine. She's ... she's in trouble and I've got to go to her."

  "You can't go alone. Mrs. Hennessey's right, Demon's a handful. I'd take you if I could, but I've got to get this stove working before supper."

  "But I've got to," I sobbed. "I've got to."

  Mr. Sperry, Cook, and Weaver all looked at me. The other girls are always crying for some reason or another—homesickness, moods, a spat—but I have never cried here. Not once.

  Weaver put his spoon down. "I'll go with her," he said.

  Mr. Sperry looked from me to Weaver and back again. He shook his head. "Go on, then. But be back here ready to serve supper by six sharp. Or else."

  I hitched up Demon, Mr. Sperry's own horse, and drove hell-for-leather all the way down Big Moose Road to the highway and on into Inlet. I told Weaver about the package on the way and who Miss Wilcox really was.

  When we arrived at Dr. Foster's camp, Weaver took the reins and told me to go in. "I'll wait outside," he said. "I can't stand a lot of female drama."

  I knew that was just his way of giving me time alone with Miss Wilcox, and I appreciated it. I ran up the back steps, past the boxes and crates piled up on the porch, and banged on the door.

  "Mattie, is that you?" Miss Wilcox said, opening the door. "How did you get here?"

  "Miss Wilcox, why are you leaving? Please, please don't go!" I said.

  "Oh, Mattie!" she said, hugging me. "Come in. Come in and sit down."

  She led me into the library. I sat down next to her on the settee and looked around. The books were gone. Every last one of them. The desk was bare. The fine paper, pens, and pencils were all packed away.

  I heard a match flare, smelled the sulfur. Miss Wilcox was smoking. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked me.

  "Why are you leaving, Miss Wilcox?" I asked, fighting back my tears. "You can't go. You're all I have."

  I heard her bracelets tinkle, felt her hand on my arm. "Oh, Mattie, that's not true. You have your family and Weaver and all your other friends."

  "They aren't what you are!" I shouted angrily. "All these weeks, Miss Wilcox, when I tried to get the money to go to Barnard from my aunt Josie and my uncle Fifty, and you came to speak to Pa and he said no, just knowing you were here in this room reading your books and writing your poems made me feel good and brave. Why are you leaving? Why?"

  "My husband made good on his threat. He's furious about the new book. He's cut off my funds. And he's made sure I can't earn my own living. At least not here. He's written the school trustees and told them who I am. I've
had to step down."

  "But you're a good teacher! The best one we ever had!"

  "Unfortunately, Mattie, the trustees don't agree with you. They say I am a pernicious influence on young minds."

  "But they wanted to keep you on. They wrote you a letter in May. You told me they did."

  "They wanted Emily Wilcox, not Emily Baxter."

  "Can't you stay, anyway? You could give readings at the Glenmore. They have literary evenings. Or you could—"

  "My husband is on his way, Mattie. My sister wired that he's a day away at most. If I'm still here when he arrives, the next stop for me is a doctor's office. And then a sanatorium and so many drugs pushed down my throat, I won't be able to remember my own name, much less write."

  "He can't do that."

  "He can. He's a powerful man with powerful friends."

  "Where will you go?" I asked, afraid for her.

  She sat back against the settee and blew out a long plume of smoke. "My grandmother left me a little bit of money. It's in a trust and my husband can't touch it. It's not much, but it's something. Plus I have my car and a few pieces of jewelry. I'm going to hock them and go to Paris. I won't miss the jewelry so much, but I'll sure miss that car." She took another drag on her cigarette, then stubbed it out in a plate on the table.

  "I'm driving it back to the city tomorrow. I'll go as far as McKeever on the main road and then take the Moose River Road to Port Leyden. I can take back roads from there to Rome, then head straight for New York. I don't want to risk running into Teddy The car's big enough to hold my clothes and a few boxes of books. That's all I need for now. I'm having the rest of my things sent to my sister's. I'm going to hide out at her house while I sell the car. And once I'm in France, I'm going to do my best to get a divorce. Teddy's dead set against it, but I'm hoping I can make him so angry that he'll change his mind. A few more volumes of poetry should do the trick." Miss Wilcox smiled as she said that, but I saw the cigarette tremble between her fingers.