'Letitia?'
His sister raised her freckled face, her strong chin jutting upward. His eyes darted to the distant house in which he had been born. A lazy wisp of smoke trailed skyward from the crooked chimney. All around him, crickets chirped noisily from the depths of the grass, and a steady trill came from some clumps of bushes. A frog croaked. 'I can't bear it here any longer, Letitia!' he blurted in a rush.
Letitia frowned as he spoke. Ever since he had started school, his language had changed, and she had trouble following what he said. Gone forever were the 'ain'ts,' 'cain'ts,' 'jests,' and 'fers' that had always inhabited his vocabulary.
'An' what's wrong with this place?' she asked indignantly.
His eyes glowed with the intensity of smoldering embers. 'There's a whole world out there, Letitia!' he cried, no longer trying to contain his excitement. 'It's so big and sprawling and beautiful! Did you know there are such things as snow-covered mountains that belch smoke and fire?'
'Oooooh!' she squealed, clapping a hand over her mouth. Her eyes looked like horror-stricken saucers. 'Lawdy, but I wouldn't wanna see that. It would scare me to death!' Then she lowered her hand and smiled.
' 'Course, you're jest tryin' to pull my leg.'
'No,' he said quietly, 'it's true.'
'How'd you know?' she accused. She leaned forward. 'You been there?'
'In a way.' He looked defiant.
'When?'
'I . . . I read about it.'
'Oh.'
The way she said it took the wind out of his sails. He cursed himself for revealing his innermost secrets to her. She couldn't read, couldn't possibly begin to imagine the power and magic of words. And therefore she couldn't begin to believe what was written in books.
He had been a fool to confide in her.
She looked at him sharply. 'You ain't thinkin' of leavin' here and runnin' after some squirrely fairy-tale mountains, are you?'
He bit down on his lip and nodded. Then he clutched her hands so tightly that she let out a squeal of pain. 'I've got to get away,' he said, 'but you've got to promise me you won't tell Ma and Pa.'
'It's the rev'end.' She tossed her flaxen head. 'He's been puttin' funny ideas in yer head. Yep, funny ideas. 'Fore long, people here'll say you're funny too, if you don't keep things like that to yourself.'
He shook his head. 'No, it's not the reverend. It's the books. They talk to me, Letitia! Really, they do!'
She looked at him as if he were crazy.
'When you're reading,' he said patiently, 'it's just like there's a storyteller right beside you, telling you all about the marvels he's seen.'
Letitia looked unconvinced. 'Where you wanna go?' she asked with incisive practicality.
He shrugged and rocked frontward and backward on the balls and heels of his bare feet. He looked down and studied his toes thoughtfully. 'I don't really know,' he said reflectively. 'Everywhere, I guess.' He raised his head and squinted in the sun. 'I think I'd just like to travel for a while. See everything I can.'
'Don't that take a lotta money?'
He nodded. 'But I'm not going to leave just yet.'
She frowned. 'How's come?'
'Oh, I still got a lot to learn,' he said vaguely, avoiding her eyes by looking out across the fields.
What he couldn't tell her was that he was at odds with himself. On the one hand, he yearned to take off immediately, walk to St. Louis or anywhere else—the direction itself didn't matter, only that he begin his journey. On the other hand, the reverend and Miz Arabella's beautiful niece, Miz Phoebe, had just come from Natchez to stay with the Flattses. Her parents had both been killed in a horse-drawn-buggy crash, and the Flattses had taken her in. Phoebe Flatts was sixteen, two years older than he, and she mesmerized him. Her face was as cool and white as porcelain, her long white-blond hair gleamed like satin, and her eyes were dark and liquid. Whenever she passed by him, she would lower those eyes and smile demurely with her tiny heart-shaped lips, and his pulse would race and a blush would rise up from his neck. He'd never known that a woman could have that kind of effect on him, and now that she'd come into his orbit—however peripherally—he couldn't bear to tear himself away from her. Not even for his travels.
But what he had found even more disturbing was that he had difficulty putting his feelings for Miz Phoebe into words or even thought—nothing he could think or say could ever do her justice. Finally, in desperation, he had gone to the Widow McCain and borrowed a slim volume of verse again. The first time through, he'd been unimpressed, but now he understood why poetry existed—to describe the indescribable. And from that moment on, each time he thought of Miz Phoebe, one of Shakespeare's sonnets sprang to his mind:
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Those words, and those alone, he thought, did Miz Phoebe Flatts justice.
Now, as he stood with Letitia on the bank of the creek, a romantic vision flashed in front of Zaccheus' eyes. Up until now Miz Phoebe had been a dreamlike apparition that had filled him with yearning. He knew how he felt toward her, and how to put it into words. But he suddenly realized that that was not enough.
He would marry her.
3
He swung his legs out of his bunk; the wooden planks on the floor creaked and groaned under his weight. He shivered from the cold air that blasted in through the leaks in the calking. It was still hours before dawn.
He reached behind him and rubbed the small of his back with his fingertips. His muscles were stiff and knotted from sleeping in a half-curled position. The slats of his bunk, which was hammered in a kind of framework against the east wall of the cabin, were already too short to accommodate his body full-length.
He stopped moving about and listened carefully. From behind the curtain that divided the cabin in half, Nathaniel's snores and Sue Ellen's even breathing continued without interruption.
He nodded to himself, tiptoeing cautiously around the dark cabin with the familiarity that comes from living in the same place for many years. He knew each loose floorboard, the location of each piece of hand- hewn furniture. And he knew only too well how sounds travel. Last night, after they'd all eaten and gone to bed, his father and mother had made love. Their grunts and groans, and the creaks of their iron bed, had been barely muffled by the wall of curtain.
Not that Zaccheus was mystified by the noises. Raised on a farm, he had learned about copulation at an early age. It was just that recently he had become aware of needs of his own; therefore, there was something perverse to him about the proximity of the act, especially since it was his mother and father.
By touch and feel, he gathered up his clothes, pulled them on quickly, slipped into his worn boots, and laced them high. He reached for the loaf of bread Sue Ellen kept on a shelf above the stove and tore off a large hunk. He chewed the tasty, floury crust on his way outside, moving carefully across the loose floorboards lest they creak too loudly and awaken someone.
When he closed the door of the cabin quietly behind him, he took several long, deep lungfuls of fresh air. He glanced around. The purple night was velvety, highlighted by pale white moonlight on the endless fields.
At the well, he drew a bucket of water, dipped the tin ladle into it, and drank thirstily. The water was cold and delicious.
He splashed the rest of the bucket's contents on his face. It had an instant wakening effect.
From the lean-to at the side of the cabin he took out the gardening tools. Then, whistling softly to himself, he set out in the pale moonlight to work on Sue Ellen's vegetable garden. Mondays through Saturdays were spent out in the fields; Sunday mornings were reserved for toiling in the kitchen garden, repairing tools, and doing the wash; Sunday afternoons offered the family their much-deserved, bone-weary rest. Today was Sunday.
He swung his hoe swiftly into the moist ground, throwing clum
ps of earth up all around him. He was driven by a superhuman purpose and energy. He had to get the garden hoed and raked by nine o'clock. That way, he would have enough time to wash up, get dressed, and head to town for the eleven-o'clock church service at the Muddy Lake Methodist Church.
He had never set foot in a church before, even though Reverend Flatts and his wife had tried their best to persuade him. But today . . . yes, today he would go! Not because he was filled with religious fervor, but because Miz Phoebe would be there.
The gardening chores took longer than he'd planned, and he finished half an hour later than expected. His body glistened with sweat. He had long since taken off his jacket and shirt. His back, chest, and face were burned red, and his wiry muscles stood out clearly.
He picked up his shirt and jacket where he'd left them, tucked them in his belt, gathered up the tools, and hurried back to the cabin.
Sue Ellen was crossing the yard, a basket of laundry wedged between her hips and her hand. She paused and watched her son curiously as he cleaned the tools. She had never seen him work so feverishly before. Only after he finished and had put them away did she speak. 'You was up early, son.'
He turned to face her. 'I know, Ma. I wanted to finish off so I could go into town.'
'Inta town? You're in town most ever' day. Why you goin' today too?' She followed him to the well and watched as he drew a bucket of water and reached for the bar of lye soap.
'I'm going to church,' he announced quietly.
'Church! Since when's a Howe set foot in a church?' Zaccheus heard Nathaniel sneer.
He spun around. He hadn't heard his father approach. 'Morning, Pa. I got up early so I could get the gardening finished before I left.''
Nathaniel squinted closely at him. 'First it's school, now it's church. Where you gonna go next?'
'Going to church won't do me no harm,' Zaccheus said softly.
'Since when did you git religion?'
'It isn't because of religion,' Zaccheus said defiantly. His blue eyes were challenging.
'What, then?'
Sue Ellen's eyes were wise and knowing. She reached out and touched her husband gently on the arm. 'Leave 'im be, Nathaniel,' she said quietly.
Nathaniel shrugged and spat into the weeds.
Sue Ellen nodded to Zaccheus. 'I'll git you a clean shirt out.'
Zaccheus hurried and washed.
The service was half over by the time he got to the church. The double doors were open, and the 'sounds of a hymn spilled out into the quiet, dusty street:
Onward, Christian soldiers,
marching as to war.
With the cross of Jesus
going on before. . . .
He hesitated and glanced up at the white clapboard building. It was little more than a small rectangular house with a porch facing the street and a small steeple housing a bell. Yet, despite its Spartan simplicity, it seemed somehow imposing.
And intimidating.
Suddenly he felt unsure of himself. He had never been in a church, let alone one in which a service was taking place. Maybe he was making a fool of himself. Maybe his motive for coming was so transparent that everyone would know the reason. Maybe . . .
He swallowed nervously and turned away. Then he stopped and chastised himself. What a fool you are. Why would anyone think you came to church just to see someone you lust after? He glanced over at the Flattses' house, right next door.
Hadn't Reverend Flatts and Miz Arabella constantly invited him to attend services?
He frowned to himself. Yes, they had. Then, before he could change his mind, he summoned up all his courage, turned to face the church again, and willed himself to climb the wooden steps to the porch.
He tightened his lips and looked past the open doors, into the sanctuary. It was dim, and speckled with a kaleidoscope of colors from the single stained-glass window above the altar. The congregation was standing, hymnbooks in hand, their voices raised in chorus. From the balcony just inside came the deep, majestic chords of the organ. That would be Mrs. Flatts, he thought.
Zaccheus removed his hat and took a deep breath. Then he slipped quietly inside. He stayed at the back. He knew he didn't belong; yet for some strange reason, he couldn't leave. He felt compelled to stay and accomplish what he had set out to do.
When the hymn ended and everyone sat down again, he remained standing, hat in hand. Trying his best to look unobtrusive, he stepped sideways into a corner so he wouldn't be silhouetted against the brightness of the open doors. But when Reverend Flatts stepped up into the pulpit and surveyed his congregation kindly, he noticed Zaccheus and held out his plump red hands in greeting and smiled. With his fingertips he motioned for the young man to step forward. 'We have a visitor today,' the reverend announced in a friendly voice. 'Welcome, Zaccheus Howe. Come forward, into a pew.'
Heads turned. Zaccheus saw people eyeing him curiously, but without malice.
Self-consciously he slipped into the back pew. A dour-faced woman smiled tightly and moved over to make room for him. Smiling his thanks, he sat down and craned his neck, trying to catch sight of Phoebe, but in front of him was a sea of bare heads and dark bonnets. And all the bonnets looked distressingly alike from behind.
Reverend Flatts launched into a long sermon about honoring thy father and thy mother. Zaccheus squirmed in his seat. He was bored and impatient—bored by the interminable slowness of the service, and impatient to catch sight of Miz Phoebe.
Finally the sermon was over and everyone rose to his feet again. Zaccheus followed suit. The woman beside him pointed down at her hymnbook, the organ started up again, and everyone began to sing:
On a hill far away
stood an old rugged cross,
an emblem of suffering and shame . . .
He stood on tiptoe and craned his neck restlessly. When the hymn ended, the organ music changed to a quicker-paced, higher-pitched spiritual march. He instantly sensed that the service was over.
People began to step out from the pews and shuffle toward the doors. Zaccheus made room for the woman to squeeze past him, but he remained in his pew, waiting for Miz Phoebe to come past. Suddenly he was afraid that he might already have missed her, or that perhaps she hadn't come to church, that she could have taken ill, or be off visiting someone . . .
No, there she was, standing in the front pew, her body in profile, the hymnbook clasped in front of her. His heart surged. She was waiting patiently for the people in the back to file out.
The moment she walked past, she glanced sideways at him, and her heart-shaped lips parted, showing tiny, even white teeth. Then she flushed and lowered her dark, liquid eyes.
Zaccheus' breath caught in his throat. Phoebe was so stunning that even the severity of her black bonnet could not detract from her beauty. Strange, how he'd never really noticed the little things about her—her delicate tininess, for one, and the narrowness of her minuscule, cinched hourglass waist, for another.
He slipped into step behind her, breathing appreciatively. She smelled faintly of violets.
Outside the church everyone milled about, greeting Reverend Flatts and socializing with one another. Zaccheus was dying to stay, but he felt a gulf between himself and these people. They had their denomination in common. They knew each other. They had better clothes than he.
Oh, but how he wished he could wait around just to be near his beloved Phoebe a little longer, but he felt too out-of-place.
He slipped away quietly, but for the next several weeks he regularly attended church services. A few weeks later he was invited to share Sunday afternoon lunch with the Flattses. Soon it became a standing invitation.
Attending services had paid off. Sundays with the Flattses became a weekly tradition.
Zaccheus was Arabella Flatts's pride and joy, sure proof that her teaching was paying off handsomely. No matter his social station, Zaccheus did far better than the brightest wealthier students because he applied himself so diligently. And Reverend Flatts liked him becau
se he was hardworking and attended church services regularly, something none of the Howes had ever done.
The Sundays Zaccheus spent at the church services and at the Flattses' afterwards fled by all too quickly. They were the only times he could be near his precious Phoebe. He suffered the interminably long sermons gladly, and no longer sat in the back pew. Reverend Flatts had invited him to sit in the front row beside his niece.
Each Sunday, Zaccheus' pulse raced as he sneaked little sideways glances at her. He never heard the sermons, only Phoebe's crystal-clear voice as she sang the hymns. His greatest excitement was when she shared her hymnbook with him, so that he could hold one side of the heavy book while she held the other, their fingers occasionally brushing against each other as they turned the pages. When that happened, he felt a crackling rush of electricity surge through him.
He was greatly disappointed when Reverend Flatts gave him a hymnbook as a gift, and he could no longer share Phoebe's.
4
Arabella Flatts pressed her fingers down on the organ keys and let the last rich chord of the hymn linger forcefully. Then she lifted her hands, twisted soundlessly sideways on the bench, and gazed down from the church balcony. Her sharp topaz eyes surveyed the sea of heads.
Suddenly she frowned.
She could see Phoebe in the front row, sitting up straight beside Zaccheus, her bonneted head tilted back. As Arabella watched, Zaccheus slowly turned his head sideways. Not all the way, and probably nobody noticed it since he had to look sideways and up to face the pulpit. But from the organ balcony Arabella could see that he wasn't facing up. He was studying Phoebe.
Arabella looked thoughtful, her concentration momentarily broken.
So that's it, she thought. He's in love with her. That's why he's coming to church. She frowned to herself. Does that make it an ulterior motive? Or . . . could the Lord be moving in one of his mysterious ways? Was that why He had seen fit to visit tragedy upon Phoebe's parents? So that Phoebe would come here and gain another member for the congregation?
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