“Wait.”
Clara tiptoed into the foyer. Papa’s greatcoat wasn’t on the rack. It was probably with him in his bedchamber since he had come in so drunk. She whispered for Billy and Euphora to wait again and then climbed the stairs as quietly as she could to Papa’s door. Billy called her name in a loud whisper to get her back, but she ignored him. Grasping Papa’s doorknob, she turned it as carefully as she could. The click was gentle, what she had hoped for. When she entered the room, she stood still a moment, while her eyes adapted to the dark, and listened for his sleep. His snoring was loud and the smell of whiskey thick, even with his window open.
He wouldn’t wake up with that much whiskey in him, not until noon. Sometimes his coat was on a hook by the door. Sometimes, on a bad night, it was in a heap on the floor with his other clothing, but it wasn’t in either place. It was one of those nights when he passed out with everything on him.
Imagining noisy pebbles beneath her feet, she took each step as slowly and tenderly as if she were a huntress wolf about to pounce. When she stood by Papa at the bed, she studied the muddle of his coat and looked for the bulge of a pocket where his new leather gloves might be. It was on the other side of him. She crept around the foot of the bed, gently slid her fingers into the tip of the coat pocket and began to inch the gloves out. It was the least Papa could do for his only son—give him a pair of dang gloves to travel with. Papa snorted. She jerked her hand back, leaving the gloves half out. She waited. After a short moment, his whiskey-soaked snoring resumed. She snatched the gloves, darted for the door, then slowed down again as she settled the latch back into place. He was still snoring evenly.
When she got downstairs, the front door was open a crack. Billy and Euphora were waiting on the front porch and Euphora was crying into Billy’s shoulder. When Clara handed Billy the gloves, her eyes welled up. Her heart had that same ripping sensation she’d felt when Mamma died and again when Izzie left for Rochester.
Billy sneered at the gloves. Clara thought he was going to refuse them, but then he chuckled and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. “I’m going to the depot for the early train. The tracks should be clear. It hasn’t snowed for a few days.” He looked out at the street, disentangled himself from Euphora, and carefully slung his sack over his shoulder. His eyes pinched and he grunted a little as the sack landed against his back.
“Billy, don’t leave right now,” Clara said. “Stay a few weeks and let Mrs. Purcell heal you. Then go when you are stronger.”
He looked her straight and deep in the eye. “I have to go now, Clara. You know I do.”
She bit the inside of her mouth and glanced across the old crusty snow, away from him. She knew he was right.
In silence, the three of them looked out at the lavender sky for a moment. The soles of Clara’s bare feet stung with cold.
“Will you write us?” Clara wrapped her shawl tight around herself.
“Not until I’m far away.” He turned his shoulder toward her. “Here. Reach in my pocket.” She stuck her hand in and found his red bandana. “That’s yours to remember me, that day by the brook when we talked.”
As she clutched the small piece of him, her tears began to flow. He kissed Euphora’s forehead, then hers, then stepped mindfully down the icy stairs and along the front path. Embracing Euphora, Clara found her little sister trembling. When Billy reached the street, he waved. There wasn’t enough light to see his face from that distance, but Clara knew he wasn’t smiling. She and Euphora waved back, then held onto each other and watched him until he was out of sight.
“Let’s make a fire.” Feet still stinging, Clara led Euphora inside.
She settled her weeping sister into Mrs. Purcell’s wing back chair by the fireplace in the parlor and wound a small lap blanket around her feet. Then Clara piled up the thin slivers of wood, the ones Billy had kept neatly in the brass bucket by the fireplace under the coals. She struck a match and held it to the smallest kindling until it lit. Exhausted, Clara lay on her side on the rug by the fire. She thought about what Billy had said, that he had to get far enough away from Papa that Papa couldn’t find him, that he didn’t even want to write until he was so far away that Papa wouldn’t come after him. He was right. And she realized then that it was true for her, too, if she had to run away. Running to Izzie wasn’t good enough, wasn’t far enough. If you were going to run from Papa, you had better go where he couldn’t find you and drag you back.
“Will he ever come back?” Still weeping, Euphora was slumped in the chair.
“No. He’ll never come back. Someday when we’re older, we’ll see him again, though.”
She sat up, took off her shawl and wrapped it around her chilled feet. When her time came, she wouldn’t go to Izzie because Papa would just hop a train or canal boat and yank her right back the same day. If she were going to run like Billy, she’d have to hide like a slave on the Underground Railroad.
About an hour later, when Mrs. Purcell came downstairs, Clara and Euphora, still in their chemises, were huddled side by side in front of the fire.
Clara looked up at Mrs. Purcell. “Billy’s run off. He’s gone.”
Mrs. Purcell’s lip curled up in a snarl. “You don’t think he’ll come back after a while?”
She and Euphora shook their heads.
Mrs. Purcell stood motionless in her brown-and-black plaid checker dress a moment, then went and slumped down into her wing back chair. Then they all three fell numb and quiet for a while.
“I should have done more.” Mrs. Purcell looked back and forth from the fire to the daguerreotype of her husband Richard on the side table, and kept repeating herself. “I should have done more. I should have done more.”
“You can’t stop anything Papa does,” Clara said.
Mrs. Purcell rose up. “My Richard always said ‘better late than never’. You girls must remember that. Better late than never.” She turned and, walking toward the kitchen, she had an air about her like she was leading a troop of soldiers.
<><><>
AFTER CLARA AND EUPHORA GOT DRESSED, and Mary and Jane Carter came down to breakfast, Clara told the old sisters about Billy. As she spoke, even adding the part about getting the gloves off of Papa while he slept, Clara noticed a lot of glances passing between Mrs. Purcell and the Carter sisters, as if they knew it was going to happen all along.
Over their breakfast of eggs and grits, they all discussed whether there was any way to get Billy to come back, but finally Mrs. Purcell said it might be for the best and the Carters both nodded. Without Billy, the dining table would be like this from now on, thought Clara, just her and Euphora and the three silver-haired ladies. Papa wasn’t going to ever stay in for a meal again with these three old women evil-eyeing him. Clara sighed. That was all right. Maybe Papa would disappear for good, go searching for Billy and never come back. Or maybe Papa’d run away on his own. He had before. Then she’d be free to work for Mrs. Beattie and get another job as well, and Euphora could keep working for Mrs. Purcell and they’d stay there with the ladies.
It wouldn’t be that way, though. Papa was hell-bent on moving them out of Mrs. Purcell’s. He’d been talking about the little cabin up the canal a ways. That’s what he was set on all right, taking her and Euphora away from the old ladies.
She reached into her dress pocket for Billy’s red bandana and laid it out on his empty chair next to her. She spread it out, smoothing over the wrinkles.
“I think it would be best if we were all together when we tell your father that Billy is gone. He’ll be agitated.” Mrs. Purcell looked at Clara, then Euphora.
The Carter sisters bobbed in agreement. “We’ll stay in until he rises. Emma, you should tell him. He gets so riled when things go wrong,” Mary Carter said.
Mrs. Purcell wiped her mouth with her napkin, then set both hands firmly on the table. “Yes, I’ll tell him. You young girls don’t have to do that.”
<><><>
CLARA DIDN’T WANT TO LEAVE EUPHORA
that morning to go to work at Mrs. Beattie’s, but Mrs. Purcell told her she would take care of Papa if he woke up before supper. The morning at the milliner’s crept slower than a heavy wagon going up a steep hill. While she took inventory of fabrics for Mrs. Beattie, Clara thought frightful things. Maybe Papa would run after Billy but take Euphora with him and then she’d never see any of them again. Maybe Papa would wallop Euphora with a pot when he heard the news or maybe he’d belt Mrs. Purcell on the chin. The noon bell up at the Presbyterian Church finally rang. Clara ran the whole way home.
As she entered the front door, she smelled onions and butter cooking, then sprinted to the kitchen. Euphora and Mrs. Purcell had three bowls set out on the worktable and were standing by the iron kettle.
“Is there coffee?”
Clara jumped. Papa was right behind her. Hair tousled, shirt and trousers rumpled, he shuffled over to the coffee pot sitting by the sink.
“It’s cold by now. We can make more.” Euphora flashed a scared, big blue-eyed look at Mrs. Purcell.
Papa shuffled to the cupboard, took a cup and poured himself some cold coffee. As he swigged it, he turned his back to everyone, and gazed out at the back garden. Then he started for the dining room door. When he passed Clara, with his red shot eyes and whiskey-stinking skin, she held her breath.
Suddenly Mrs. Purcell blurted out, “Billy’s run away. He left this morning.”
Papa stopped but didn’t turn around. “When did he go?”
“Early,” Mrs. Purcell said.
He took a slow sip of coffee, then looked up at the ceiling. That was tarnal strange. Why wasn’t he throwing the cup across the room? Why wasn’t he yelling? Clara felt a prickle at the back of her neck.
He took a second sip of coffee, then crooked himself around and looked straight at Clara. “He’s got to get back here. He’s got to help the family. He can’t go runnin’ off. Where’d he go?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Clara’s throat tightened around her words.
Blinking and squinting, Papa looked up at the ceiling again. The Carter sisters, who must have heard the hubbub, appeared in the kitchen doorway. Everyone had their eyes on Papa waiting for him to explode. The longer it was that he didn’t explode, the more petrified Clara was. Mrs. Purcell had an arm around Euphora a good distance away, but Clara was right there near him.
He stepped close to her. “Because he tells you things. Did he go to your sister’s?”
“No, he said he was going to Kansas Territory, to find John Brown’s men, like he always said.” Clara felt Euphora staring at her.
“John Brown’s executed.”
“Billy said his men were still fighting for freedom. He said he was going to fight with them.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me about that would you? Because I can take a train right up to Isabelle in Rochester and haul him home by the collar.”
“Kansas.”
“Kansas,” Euphora repeated.
He glanced around at everyone. “What’re you all looking at? Damned females.”
Striding to the back door, coffee cup in hand, he thrust the door open and staggered outside onto the crusted snow. Clara closed the door and they all scuttled to the window to watch him. In the middle of the frozen garden, he swiveled around every which way, maybe trying to decide where to go, but then he stayed put, his shoulders hunching over. His cup dropped from his hands, spilling coffee onto his shoes and turning the snow brown in a small circle. Then his shoulders began to heave and shake. Everyone, Euphora, Mrs. Purcell, the Carter sisters, all stood huddled together with Clara staring out at Papa, stooped and shuddering.
“I didn’t know he’d be sad.” Euphora looked up at Clara. “I thought he hated Billy.”
“I don’t think he hated him, dear.” Mrs. Purcell pushed back a few wandering strands of Euphora’s red hair. “Your father has been twisted into something mean by the liquor, but it’s not hate.”
After some time, Papa stood up straight and calm. He looked up toward the sky and stayed like that for a long time. Finally, his gaze still fixed upward, he sank to his knees in the coffee drenched snow. Was he talking to Mamma? To God? Clara felt a piece of her heart bend toward him like a divining rod toward water, but she didn’t run out to him. She took Euphora’s hand. When he finished talking to the sky, he got up, took off his spectacles, wiped them with a handkerchief, put them back on and walked away—no coat, no hat, no scarf—around the side of the house where they couldn’t see him anymore.
Never come back, Clara thought. Go search for Billy but never find him and never come back.
<><><>
BUT HE DID COME BACK. The very next night he sauntered into the Blue Room just as Clara and Euphora were going to sleep, and sat down on Billy’s bed by candlelight. Her heart sinking to the bottom of a gully just at the sight of him, Clara listened to him describe all the taverns, homes, alleys, depots, and factories where he had searched for Billy. He asked everyone he could find where Billy might be.
“Kansas maybe. Kansas I’ll bet. That’s what everyone said,” Papa told her and Euphora. “I ain’t goin’ that far right now. It’s too dang cold, too much snow and ice. Nearly got frostbite without my gloves. You seen my gloves?”
Clara shook her head and was relieved that Euphora shook hers too.
“I’m goin’ up to Isabelle’s first minute this cold streak lets up. There’s a good chance he’s there. I’ll haul him back, but I ain’t goin’ ta freeze myself to death over his no good antics. He ain’t worth that. But I’m goin’ right soon and if you two write each other any secret letters, you tell your twin brother that there’s no hidin’ from me.” Papa stared into the candle a moment. “And tell him all will be forgiven if he comes back.”
Thirty-Two
FOR THE NEXT SIXTEEN DAYS after Billy ran off, Papa kept Clara to her regular schedule with Sam Weston and got her with John Reilly whenever Reilly wanted. On the seventeenth night, Clara pushed aside the table and chairs and rolled up the rug in the Spirit Room. Kneeling down, she wedged a knife into the crack between the floorboards and wrenched up the loose board. She heaved it over, sending it clattering. Reaching underneath the floor, she found her firemen bandbox, then took three dollar coins from her dress pocket, two from John Reilly and one from Sam and placed them inside beneath the colorful ribbon remnants.
John Reilly had come back after she’d made her demands that first afternoon. Reilly had come six times total and added to her secret savings. Clara lifted the ribbons out of the box and spilled her money jingling onto the floor. Twelve dollars from Reilly and eight from Sam. Twenty. She hadn’t spent a red cent of it. Papa had promised her half of Reilly’s five dollar fee for each visit, but he hadn’t given it to her yet. He said he had some catching up to do on expenses, but in a week or so he’d make good on his promise. He wouldn’t do it, though. Maybe he’d give her some of it, but never all of it.
She felt a chill and glanced at the fireplace and clock. Seven. She’d better get the fire going now so the room would be warm when Sam arrived at eight. How much money would she need to run away? Fifty, a hundred? Maybe she could find Billy. After scooping up the gold coins and dropping them back into the box, she took each ribbon one by one and rolled them into coils. Then she set them color by color—pinks, blues, reds—in layers on top of the money. She placed the lid on the box and ran her fingertips over the troop of firemen and their wagon.
She remembered the struggling firemen and other townspeople back in Homer when Papa’s gristmill had burned to the ground. As the flames reached toward the sky, he and his partners had celebrated by getting drunk and hooting at the inferno. When Clara asked Mamma why he was happy that his business had burned down, all Mamma said was “insurance,” then walked away. Later that night, the Homer sheriff came looking for Papa and then it was only a few weeks before Papa disappeared and found his way to Geneva.
Seventeen days since Billy had run off. How far could he be by now? Seventeen days o
f the sickest heartache she’d ever known. She felt like her arm was cut off and she didn’t know where it was. If she did run like him, where would she go? Could she find him and live with him? She couldn’t leave Euphora behind. She’d have to take her. That meant more money to be saved. She hid the box away in the floor again and replaced the floorboard.
Suddenly, a pounding noise rammed at the door.
“Oh.” Heart slamming, she covered her mouth.
“Clara, it’s Mrs. Purcell. May I come in?”
Jo-fire. She took a deep breath. It was just a knock. Just Mrs. Purcell. She glanced around. Lawks. The rug. The furniture.
“Just a minute.” Clara unrolled and spread the rug quickly, then opened the door. “I was cleaning.” As proof, she held out her hands, grimy with floor dirt.
Bundled up in her cape, gloves and scarf, Mrs. Purcell was alone. She rarely went out at night in the cold unless a friend or neighbor came along. She lifted a plate covered with a white cloth towards Clara. “I brought you some supper. You’re missing too many of your evening meals. Am I interrupting your preparations? I know you have a spirit circle on Fridays.”
The Spirit Room Page 33