by Van Reid
It seemed like a very long time when she thought back on it, but it was only a moment. Fale said he had some salve in the kitchen. Olin retrieved his hand and put it to his mouth, insisting that it was nothing, and Dee very naturally went out with him after he said his good-byes to the older folk.
“I forgot to tell Dee about Mr. Siegfried’s letter,” said the old woman. “It’s the strangest thing! What are you up to?”
It was pretty obvious what Fale was up to as he stood at the window with the curtain pulled aside an inch or two, but for an answer he only let out a low sound, like a chuckle.
“Well, what are they up to?” asked Mother Pilican. Mr. Porch had come halfway down the stairs and was peering at her through the banister.
Dee didn’t say she was going further than the fence, and Olin didn’t ask her; he simply helped her across, lifting her down once she was seated on the upper rail. He led Hank while they sauntered up the hill, feet kicking ever so slightly so that the toes of their boots (or buttoned shoes, in the case of Dee) made brief appearances above the grass with every step.
At the top of the hill, Olin said he was thinking of buying a boat. “I’d like to see those islands again,” he said, pointing back over the Pilican home and the field beyond to the Eastern River.
“Would you invite me this time?” asked Dee.
“I guess I know better now,” he said.
Hank seemed restless till Dee stroked his muzzle.
Without thinking, Olin put his hand to his mouth again. “So, what do you do, up there in Portland?” he asked.
“What do I do?”
“That fellow the other night seemed to recognize you.”
Oh, thought Dee. “Oh,” she said after a moment.
“Who’s Mrs. Roberto?” he asked. “There was quite a lot of talk through the crowd, but I couldn’t catch the most of it.”
Dee laughed lightly. “Well, if you must know.”
Olin shrugged, and by his expression offered to go on to other things.
“I didn’t want to tell my mother and Uncle Fale that I’ve been up in a balloon,” she said.
“Then you are this ... Mrs. Roberto.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Olin frowned. Hank tugged at his reins till he had leash enough to pull at some grass. “Now I do must know,” said Olin.
“A friend of mine in Portland first brought me to see her. This was two or three years ago. Three years, it will be, this summer. Jeannie said I had to come and see the woman perform her parachute drop, but mostly because we were, she insisted, absolute twins. We might be sisters, really, but she is a few years older than myself, if I do say so, and standing side by side it isn’t so difficult to tell us apart. Her hair is much darker than mine.”
Olin’s expression was only a little less doubtful.
Dee beamed. “Mrs. Roberto is an ascensionist. A hot-air balloon is tethered out to, oh, a thousand feet, I’m sure, and she jumps from it with a parachute. It’s magnificent, really!”
“I’d like to see it.”
“When she came down that day, Jeannie hurried up to get us side by side—with me protesting all the way, of course. Mrs. Roberto was very gracious and quite taken by our resemblance, it seems, for she invited me to ride in her balloon. I happily, if a little fearfully, accepted.” Dee looked rhapsodic as she recalled the experience. “I was frightened, at first, but once I grew used to the sensation I thought I knew how an eagle felt. You have not seen the Earth till you have seen it look so small and tidy from such a height.” Dee was leaning against Hank now, hugging her own shoulders as she grew lost with the memory. “I almost envy her.” Then she laughed. “But I could never make that jump, I assure you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Olin. Just the thought made him dizzy. He pulled a stem of grass from the ground and chewed the sweet end of it.
“I suppose I could tell Mom, but it’s been a bit of my secret.”
“I’m sorry to pry it from you,” said Olin sincerely.
“No, no,” she replied. “It’s good to share it with someone. You’d like Mrs. Roberto.”
“If she looks like you,” he agreed.
Dee reached out and touched his sleeve. “No,” she said. “There is something else about her that quite ... takes people. I’ve seen her a few times since, but that was the only time I was ever in a balloon. It was difficult to know how to thank her, but she is a great reader and I gave her a set of Mom’s books.” Dee thought for a moment and said, “I’ll have to send her the latest now. I sort of hope Mom uses her own name on this one.”
“Her last book?” said Olin.
“Yes” said Dee. “Her fifth or sixth last book.”
“I hope she has a dozen more.”
They looked out toward Iceboro and the black ruins where the icehouse had stood only four days ago. Mounds of ice still stood amongst the wreckage.
“It was something, though,” she said. “That fellow thinking I was Mrs. Roberto. I told the gentleman with the glasses that I was Dee Pilican, but I didn’t press it very much. It was a little fun thinking of those fellows thinking I was her. You’re not very disappointed, are you, that I’m not?”
“No, I’m not disappointed.”
“I’m not going to Portland this summer,” Dee said suddenly.
“No?” Olin looked like a man who doesn’t quite trust to good luck.
She shook her head. “Now that you know my deep, dark secret, and what I do in the big town, I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”
Hank lifted his head and tugged at the reins. Slowly they walked toward the river, or Olin’s farm, or perhaps the farm across the way.
“I should have asked sooner,” said Olin Bell.
63. Deep and Philosophic
“I’m going over to the Smithy’s and say good morning to Mr. Poulter,” said Sundry to Mister Walton and Mr. Fern. The train had just pulled into Bowdoinham Station and they had a few minutes to board.
“Oh?” said Mr. Fern. He hardly remembered that the two men had met
“Be sure to give him my best,” said Mister Walton.
Sundry greeted people on the sidewalk and exchanged pleasantries with two idlers outside Jonas Fink’s General Store and Post Office. He and Mister Walton had grown famous for gladdening the Ferns’ pig, and there were still a lot of questions in the air. “You should write about it for Country Gentleman,” said one of these fellows.
“Do you think?” said Sundry as he strode past.
“I’d read it.”
“Mister Walton is the real genius.”
“I know,” stated this potential subscriber. “He raised a lot of them.”
Sundry smiled, cocked his head, and continued on his way. He heard an insistent clang from the blacksmith’s shop and felt the heat of the forge when he reached the open doors. Johnny was in his leather apron, his face and forearms dark with soot and exertion. He frowned at a smoldering piece of iron, which he held before him with a pair of tongs.
“I think you must have about a week,” said Sundry.
Johnny was not a man to be startled. He finished his inspection of the hot iron, then looked over his shoulder. “A week?”
“I can’t imagine it will be much longer before some fellow rides up and asks her to marry him.”
“Madeline?” Johnny looked dumbfounded, then horrified.
“All I needed was a steep slope and a fast horse and I might have asked her myself.”
“Madeline,” said Johnny. Sundry’s heart went out to the man. “Who do you think it will be?” asked the blacksmith thoughtfully. “Did she tell you?”
“Not in so many words, but I got the distinct impression there’s some fellow she is awfully fond of.”
“Oh,” said Johnny. He looked ail in of a sudden.
“I’d think you’d want to find out who it is,” said Sundry.
“I don’t think I want to know,” said Johnny, his head hanging.
“No,” said Sun
dry with a curt nod, “I think you do.”
Johnny’s expression altered as he tried to make something of this last statement. Sundry was walking back to the station.
“You really think so?” Johnny called after him.
“I really do,” said Sundry. He took a few steps backward so that he could see Johnny while he spoke to him. “She has a beautiful singing voice.”
“I know,” said Johnny in a near whisper.
“Good luck!” said Sundry. The all aboard was being called when he reached the platform. Sundry and Mister Walton shook hands with Mr. Fern, exchanging assurances that they would see one another again. Mr. Fern thanked them for rescuing Hercules, and they thanked him for his family’s splendid hospitality.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Moss?” asked Mr. Fern when a troubled look passed over Sundry’s face.
“No,” said Sundry. “It’s just I forgot that Madeline asked me to give her best to Mr. Poulter if I saw him.”
“Oh?” said Mr. Fern, puzzled. It seemed little enough to worry about.
“Good-bye, Mr. Fern,” said Sundry.
The farmer stood at the platform and waved them from the station.
Once aboard the train, Mister Walton looked pleased to be heading home. Sundry would not hear of going to Norridgewock. “Any more adventures and Miss McCannon won’t trust us to go for the mail,” said Sundry, but Mister Walton knew that concern for him was behind the thought and he was touched. In the end, Mister Walton had not protested too much. The rhythm of the rails was like a balm to him this day, just as long as it was the sound of going home.
Sundry was quiet for the first few miles. He watched the passing landscape with an expression of deep thought. Finally, just before Topsham Station, he said to Mister Walton, “Did you ever raise a lot of pigs?”
Mister Walton laughed. “No, I never did.”
Sundry nodded. Mister Walton was cheerful, but his usual rosy glow hadn’t completely returned. “I didn’t think,” said Sundry.
“We’ll probably never know how I became such an expert on the subject. I did like Hercules very much, however.”
“He’s a good pig,” said Sundry.
Johnny Poulter left his work to stand out in front of the smithy, kicking dirt with the toe of his boot. His chest felt heavy, and every breath was hard to come by. The two idlers in front of Fink’s store watched him. Johnny appeared to be studying something at his feet. A farmer driving by glanced down at the ground before the young man, as if the blacksmith were Archimedes scratching geometry in the dust. Johnny looked up when someone hailed him. He hailed back and went inside.
A few minutes later he came out again and paced the yard. The two idlers watched him. Looking up at the sound of another carriage coming down from the train station, Johnny saw Mr. Fern pull up before the store. The sight of anyone or anything associated with Madeline made his heart jump, and he raised a hand and called out a greeting to the farmer.
“Good morning, Johnny,” said Mr. Fern. He had a list on a piece of paper and he studied this before mounting the steps. Shopping for staples was a long process in those days—part negotiation, part social event. A person considered carefully what he needed and how much he needed it. Mr. Fern was still reading his wife’s list when he climbed the porch steps. He was almost inside the store when he stopped and called back to Johnny, “Madeline sends her best, by the way.”
“She does?” said Johnny. From the look on his face, Mr. Fern might have told him that Hercules had taken wing.
Mr. Fern paused a little longer at the threshold. “Yes,” he said absently, “that’s what Mr. Moss tells me.” He waved with continued absence of mind and disappeared inside.
Johnny went back to the smithy but came out again almost immediately. He walked a single wide circle in the yard, then called to one of the idlers in front of the store. “Jimmy,” he said, “come watch the forge for me.” Jimmy nodded lazily and shuffled over with his fellow idler in tow. “Bank up the fire, will you?” said Johnny. “And close it down. I’ll buy you a sarsaparilla when I get back.”
“Where you going, Johnny?” asked Jimmy.
“I have an errand to run,” said the blacksmith. He threw off his leather apron, then washed his head and neck in the trough outside the smithy. He put on a shirt that was hanging on the door. Johnny went around back and called his horse in from the meadow, and in a few minutes he was riding north on the River Road.
The day was bright, almost unreal in its beauty. The horse was pleased to be out and moving at a good clip. Johnny hardly steered the animal and wasn’t aware of how fast they were riding till he passed the farmer that had passed him some minutes before. When he came over the hill above Fern Farm, the first thing to greet his eye was the great white pig in the yard. Hercules grunted sociably as he met the young man at the edge of the drive.
“Hey, fellow,” said Johnny. He hopped down and tossed the horse’s reins over the fence. Then he leaned down to thump Hercules on the side. The pig talked some more, sounding affable. The backdoor opened and Johnny looked up to see Madeline on the stoop.
“Good morning, Johnny,” she said.
“Good morning, Madeline.”
“I saw you through the kitchen window.” Madeline leaned out of the doorway and looked around the yard. The last time Johnny had come by, he had brought Mister Walton and Sundry Moss.
“I saw your father in town,” he said.
“Oh?” She wondered what this might have to do with his unexpected visit. “He took Mister Walton and Mr. Moss in to meet the train.”
Johnny nodded. They looked at one another a while longer and then he said, “Would you like to go for a walk?”
“Yes,” she said, though she did not stir from the stoop. One of the little boys poked his head out past his sister and she scolded him back inside. There was a short colloquy between the young woman and someone in the kitchen—Mrs. Fern, Johnny thought—and Madeline came down the steps closing the door behind her.
They walked in the direction of the back fields without discussion. Hercules grunted his good wishes, but, understanding certain principles regarding company and crowds, he lagged behind and finally sprawled his great white bulk in the shade of a chestnut at the back of the house. The ducks saw him lay down and came by to socialize.
There are dances that mimic, however knowingly, the duel movements of young people at court—the hands clasped behind, the feet kicking ever so slightly so that the toe of the boot (or the kitchen slipper, in the case of Madeline Fern) makes a brief appearance above the grass with every step. The courtship cotillion is not straight but circuitous and wandering, like a country road. It follows, for a while, the path of least resistance, then suddenly makes a decisive climb to some small eminence, only to return to seemingly aimless wandering. It accommodates both silence and soft conversation. It comes as naturally to the children of toil as it does to the heirs of leisure, and no debutante or junior partner, having attended the finest schools, could walk this dance with more grace, and requisite terror, than this farmer’s daughter and this young blacksmith.
Even their hands moved in interesting ways. Madeline had slowly realized that she was not as carefully tended as she might want to be. She had been cleaning house all morning and should have pulled her hair back or worn a kerchief. Her dress, she thought, was a little rumpled. Her hands performed involuntary jerks as she touched her hair at several principal points, and she gave a short, hopefully unseen, tug at the waist of her blouse.
Johnny only saw that she was every bit as beautiful as he had ever thought her to be, and perhaps a little more besides. He felt uncomfortably hot, and he hooked a finger in his collar, took off his hat, and shrugged largely in his shirt. He put his hat back on, and rubbed at the side of his face to ascertain if he had shaved this morning.
From the kitchen window, Mrs. Fern watched them disappear over the next rise. She held a dish towel in her hands as if it were something cherished and full of memor
ies. Her smile was wistful. She blinked several times before returning to work.
Madeline and Johnny went over the knoll and reached the fence along the eastern perimeter of the farmyard. “The blackflies haven’t been so bad this spring,” said Johnny. To anyone born and raised in Maine, this is an issue of spring and one of first importance.
“It’s been dry,” said Madeline, which was both an agreement with and a theory as to why the previous statement might be true. They may have said and heard these things (or that the blackflies had been quite bad and that it had been wet) several thousand times in their lives. They did not have to think to say these things. They could say them, and several things more, without thinking.
“Even that rain the other day didn’t stay long,” said Johnny.
“I hope the summer isn’t dry,” said Madeline. She looked at him anxiously from the corner of her eye.
He understood that she was watching him and looked straight ahead. He almost stumbled against the root of an old elm that had snuck beneath the fence. They came to a small knoll, where the larger acres of Fern Farm could be seen. There was another hill, not far away, and a stream alongside it—only visible, from where they stood, as a dark crease in the land. The wind was shifting. A bird sang in a grove of birch below the hill. The sun was shining. Clouds of fleece glowed in a blue sky. Johnny could not have wanted a better venue for his purpose.
They looked out over the quiet land. A hawk, over toward the Kennebec, skimmed the horizon. The breeze tugged at Madeline’s auburn hair. Johnny took off his hat and tapped it at the side of his leg.
“We heard a fox last night,” said Madeline, her heart racing.
“I am quite fond of you, Madeline!” said Johnny.
“Oh,” she said. She was still looking out over her father’s acres.
Johnny hardly dared look at her. “Well ... I am,” he said.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.
“Please, don’t be,” she replied.
“No?”