by L. E. Waters
“I don’t think so. The first I saw you was when you swam.” She bends away to get a full look at me. “You don’t look like you could swim six miles.”
“Thank you for the compliment.” She laughs and I pretend to be hurt. “Truth is, I was scared to death of swimming when I was younger but have overcome it.”
“I never saw anyone so natural. You were like a white fish against the current.”
“I was a very red fish after it was all over.”
I never grow tired of making her laugh—a light giggle, more song than laughter.
“Maybe in church?” Her hair with its coppery shine, her eyes and imperfect smile all feel like home to me. “Where I saw you before?”
She simply shakes her head, possibly wondering herself where we might have crossed paths.
The sun quickly disappears as fast as it warms. We both look up to a darkness looming our way. I say, “Rain for sure.”
A wind picks up and blows the hair back from our eyes.
“No, a storm!” She says this not with fear but excitement. She hurries to put on her stockings and shoes and finishes before I’m done putting on mine. The rain starts in thick, cold drops and Elmira takes off for the shelter of the bridge. I only catch glimpses of her through squinted eyes—the rain comes down faster and slanted. Once I’m under the bridge, I look up in horror to see Elmira back up in the bridge supports, smiling into the storm.
“Come down from there immediately!” I pull on the wet hem of her dress. “Hasn’t anyone taught you about lightning and metals?” Just then a flash illuminates even under the bridge and the crack of thunder makes me leap up to her. I pry her grip from the ladder, wrap an arm around her thin waist, and she comes down, with a grunt, on top of me.
“Are you all right?” I try to sit her up, but she breaks out in giggles. Her hair has fallen out of her neat braid and her dress and petticoats are soiled with a mixture of rain and bridge grime.
“My hero.” She laughs, shaking pebbles from out of her palm. Thunder continues to rumble nearby.
“It’s probably not a good idea to stay under here with the storm so close.” I can smell her—not gardenias, but her. A much sweeter and thicker scent. Maybe I do want to stay under the bridge. Another thunderclap cracks nearer, and her light hand pulls me out into the downpour.
Even with the threat of death, it feels good holding her hand, wet but warm, in my grasp. The musty smell of humidity in the air fills my lungs and makes me feel alive. I decide where we are headed, halfway there. I almost slip on the painted slats under the gazebo in the park across from the river, but Elmira catches my hand and holds me.
Out of breath, she says, “People will see us here.”
I spread my arms out around us. “Everyone’s run for cover. We’re safe until the rain stops.”
The rain drips down her bangs following the contours of her sloped nose and down to her full bottom lip. Our clothes are drenched but hers outline her form like a second skin. We look at each other’s condition and laugh.
“I wish I had my pencil now. What a lovely sketch this would be.”
She throws her head back in a graceful arch. “You’ll just have to write a poem about it instead.”
The rain fades to a drizzle, and some townsfolk creep out of their shelters. No amount of wishing can make the rain return to its vigor.
“I better head home now, before any neighbors spy me.”
“What will your mother say when she sees you in this condition?”
“I go out with my brothers in the storms all the time. She is always furious, but it’s nothing unusual.” She steps out of the gazebo as part of me pulls away with her.
“When can I see you again?”
She spins around playfully. “Shouldn’t you ask if you can see me again?”
I get on my wet knees and beg dramatically, “My dearest Annabel, storm charmer and loveliest girl, damp or dry, will you please visit with me again?”
She curtsies, her damp dress sticking and pulling noisily out from her legs. “You may. Next Sunday, in the tobacco barn behind my house—the Royster plantation. No one will be there on a Sunday.”
I have barely any time to answer her smile. She runs off in the direction of the hills. This week is going to go so slowly.
Chapter 10
With the encouragement of Elmira’s reaction, Henry’s support, and Jane’s echoing praises, I wait until all the boys leave the classroom, gripping the sharp edges of my journal beneath the desk. My teacher glances up, surprised to see me there. He asks, “What do you need, Edgar?”
I spring up from the desk and force myself to carry the journal to him. He takes it slowly and needs no prompting to open the mysterious book. He glances through some of my shorter poems but stays for some time on the page with Tamerlane written in large letters. I watch him and his reactions, analyzing the grunts and slight sighs as a negative reception. As soon as he closes the book I reach out to tuck it away and flee the place, but he holds it tight, both our hands fasten there.
“You show great promise with these poems, Edgar. I know you are an exceptional reader and excel in languages, but I had no idea you were capable of such poesy.”
My hand slowly releases its hold.
“I implore you to give some serious thought to publishing this epic poem. It is not so expensive, and I have a contact and friend in the publishing business, if you should aspire to it.”
My mouth hangs open in happy shock.
“That is, of course, if your father will assist you with the endeavor.”
He tucks the journal under my wing with a hearty pat and I run the whole way home. I sit on the chair outside Mr. Allan’s office, practicing how I should request his help. If the teacher believes in me, surely he will understand.
The disruption of his heavy boots shake all confidence and planning from me. He gives me a stern glance as he rounds the corner to his office.
“Whit is the problem, Edgar?” Yet the question is asked as if he doesn’t want an answer.
All words leave me. “I…I…the teacher—”
“Out with it boy. A’m verry busy.”
I hand him the journal, hoping he will have the same reaction as my teacher. He looks at the book as if I dropped a rotting carcass on his desk.
“Whit’s this?”
“My journal.”
“For school?” He still only stares at it. “Did ye do poorly on an assignment?”
He always jumps to the conclusion I’ve failed in some way.
“It’s not for school. It’s my poetry journal.”
The corner of his lip lifts up with his nose at the mention of poetry.
“Why are ye bothering me with it, if it’s not for school?”
Part of me retreats from the room. “My teacher thinks I should publish—”
His steel eyes flash, and a heckling laugh spurts out of his normally pursed lips. “Which teacher is filling yer head with these delusions? Tell me at once and A’ll put an end to this nonsense.”
Panic skips my heart.
His laughter halts and he stares up. “His name.”
I mumble it at first but then divulge it with hesitation.
His face sets in stone. “Now take this…journal, and pit the peter on all these…flowery words. It’s time ye learned a real trade.”
The tears inside me, gladly, do not come out.
“Ye can’t feed a family with words! It’s perspiration, hard work, and a strong back that pits food on the table. Ye’re not going to be getting my handouts forever. It’s time for ye to come out from under Fanny’s petticoats and pit on some trousers.”
He stares down at the knickerbockers I’m wearing.
He simply grunts at the book on his desk. He won’t even touch the journal to hand it back. I pick it up and hold the dead weight out from me as Mr. Allan mutters, “Poetry,” followed by a brute snicker.
The next day I have the unfortunate chore of delivering my teacher a
letter from Mr. Allan. After which reading, he never asks to read my journal again. I write to the only person who will understand me: Henry. Fanny would worry and tell me to stop troubling Mr. Allan. We’ve been writing letters back and forth since he left and even though he is miles away, I have him in my corner. He writes me back with drawings of the scene between Mr. Allan and me with added wishful curses from me and exaggerated verrys from Mr. Allan. Though, the most important lines are written at the bottom:
The man probably can’t even read. Keep writing your poetry, and take joy imagining shoving his big nose in your first published book someday.
So, I have Henry, and I still have Sunday to be excited for. Oh, thank heavens for Elmira. Saturday night is drawn and painful. I leave early Sunday morning wandering around the different roads asking passersby if they know how to get to the Royster plantation. The cloudless sky holds little threat of rain—a great disappointment. Her house is grand and the tobacco fields and outbuildings are numerous. Most of the slaves keep to their light Sunday chores and the white folk are inside after their religious purge. I spy the large tobacco barn on the far left of the property, and I cling to the edge of the field to avoid detection. I slip into the partially closed barn door and the cool, leftover tobacco scent fills my lungs. I greatly prefer gardenia.
The barn is empty since tobacco season is only just beginning. Tobacco won’t be dried for months. Dried and curled up leaves litter the floor, forgotten from last season’s harvest. I sit against the thick beam in the center of the expansive space and watch out through the gaps left in the walls for ventilation and drying. Waiting in a barn for someone seems familiar to me even though I’d never stepped foot in ours. I see her dart by in chopped-up vision through the boards. She sticks her face through the crack in the door, and the smile that spread across her face upon seeing me reaches my core. The joy one can bring to another simply with their existence.
I tell her about my teacher’s suggestion, and my stomach jumps at the proud look she gives, which falls away as soon as I sum up Mr. Allan’s reaction. I keep out his bullying comments and his disdain for me, but simply state he feels I should pursue other more useful endeavors. I think I catch a knowing glance, and I switch the subject to keep her from seeing through the mask I wear.
“I must ask you how old you are, and I hope for my sake you are near my age.”
“I am fifteen and one month.” She straightens up a bit.
Just then, a shuffling draws us to the crack in the door where Elmira’s oldest brother peers through, his droopy fish-face studying us. Elmira grabs at the ground for pebbles and throws it as he darts from the door.
“You better not snitch, or I’ll tell Ma about who really stole the fruitcake!” She yells out through the slats.
“Do you think he’ll tell?”
She shakes her head. “Ma’s favorite girl got the beating of her life for it.” She sits on the edge of some farm equipment. I lie down on the dusty floor. It’s dizzying the way the rafters crisscross and the light shows through in lines.
“This is a nice spot.”
She comes down and lies beside me. I hide my smile. “We come here in the spring to play since it’s always empty and far from Ma’s watch.” She pulls the ribbon from her hair and loops the satin into two connected circles.
“That’s an infinity sign.”
“What’s an infinity sign?” She looks up to the rafters.
“What you just made with your ribbon. Comes from the Latin word infinitas, meaning ‘unboundedness.’ That symbol represents the concept.”
“I had no idea I was even making a symbol.” She breaks the two loops and sets to twirling the ribbon around her index finger.
I wonder if I can try to kiss her now, but once the idea is conceived, awkwardness thickens the air and a lump rises in my throat. The twirling slows and she checks over at me. I have to think of something innocent, fast.
“Do you know that all of my classmates can punch me as hard as they can in my chest?”
She looks half-amused.
“It’s true. You can try.”
I jump up, square my shoulders, and tense my muscles. She gets up slower and with a sly smile, balls up one fist, and gets into a stance she seems all too familiar with. She lets her fist fly, and it makes quite an impression below my left rib. I try to keep my composure and hold a flattened smile as long as can while I regain my breath.
She shakes her fist. “You are strong. I’ve learned to throw a punch with three brothers.”
I pretend to not be phased, even though she throws a punch better than most of the boys. “All muscle.” I pick up her hand. “Feel.”
She giggles at first, but then I get to see the green shine of her eyes so closely, seeing the flicks of gold that radiate from the dark center. I move to her without thinking, two magnets brought too close.
I don’t know why I thought her lips would feel like Jane’s quick flutters on my forehead. I’m unprepared for their smooth and supple resistance. Though it’s a brief encounter, my whole body has crossed a threshold, a threshold of energy brought on by her.
She pulls away with a pert smile and seeks the safety of the door immediately. “Let’s go out to the field,” she cries, as she disappears through the crack and the light from her drifts away into the field. It takes a moment to move my feet, but then I dart after her, immediately planning when I can attempt another kiss. She slows up from retying her hair, but as soon as she hears me coming, she drops her hands and speeds up. She zigs and zags away from me every time I near and always spins away from my grasp. Why have I the misfortune of her having brothers? If it had been any other girl I could have caught her and kissed her again.
She reaches the safety of a massive red oak, climbs, and sits upon a branch before I have any of the glory of climbing up beneath her. She stays out of reach and laughs when I can’t reach the limb across from her, since it’s too high.
I take out a small pocket-knife and begin to carve.
“What are you doing?” She leans down to look over my shoulder.
I bite my lower lip as I dig as deeply as I can. Once finished, I blow the shavings out and EAP & SER glows in the green wood.
Her eyes smile and she reaches out to touch my initials.
“Sara Elmira!” Her ma calls from the porch across the field.
Elmira shoos me back down out of the tree. “Hurry. I have to go.” She jumps down and I try to catch her even though she needs little assistance. “Stay here until we go back inside.”
She begins to run out and I call quietly toward her, “Where shall we meet next Sunday?”
She spins around with a finger to her lip and yells, “I’m coming, Ma!”
I stand peeling an oak leaf into strips as I watch her swishing—dress, hair, shoulders, hips—all the way back to her porch. I wish I’d discussed where to meet her before she had to go.
Chapter 11
Next Sunday is Rosalie’s birthday and the Mackenzies invite me and Henry to attend. I wish I’d been able to send a letter to Elmira so she wouldn’t wait for me in that barn all day, but I have no way of getting it to her discreetly. Fanny calls me in to her. “Edgar, I was hoping to find health today so I could go along with you, but I’m not feeling up to it with this early heat.”
The sun is already strong, but the humidity hasn’t begun just yet. I know not to argue though, and she calls to Thankful. “Please fetch the package we bought in town.” Thankful hands me the brown package tied with twine and gives it one mournful pat. I can tell she envies what pretty item is held inside.
Fanny says, with a weak smile, “Be sure to eat some cake for me.” I nod and gingerly carry the package out.
All of the other young boys and girls are attended by their mothers, all except Henry and me. He bounds into the yard, which is streamed with dyed crepe paper and bows. Fancy white tablecloths cover the many tables and are held down by all of the dried fruit, salty meats, and buttery nuts you could wi
sh for.
Henry grabs a fistful, without much care as to what it is, and he throws them into his mouth as he strides toward where I sit on the tree swing.
“Waiting for someone to push you, dear?” he coos, takes hold of the ropes and releases me violently into the air. Luckily, I’ve put the package down on the table with the other presents, since I’m sure it would have smashed to pieces on the ground.
As soon as the swing slows, I leap off into the air, sending myself rolling from its great height. All eyes from the party dart to me; older faces turn away with brows raised while younger ones look on in awe.
Henry catches up and swings an arm around my shoulders. I rarely feel so protected. He smells of cinnamon and the remnants of sugar buns above his lips. He glances around. “These all your friends?”
“I know most of the boys.”
He squints his eyes at them. “Look like a sorry bunch to me. All mama’s boys, all of them.”
“Some of them aren’t half-bad. There’s a scrappy few who box and race with me.”
“Which one’s your best friend?”
I check to see if he is asking out of curiosity or jealousy. I pick the tallest, strongest one to test him.
He straightens up. “Him? He’s not so tough. I could tousle him.”
Then, right beside the boy I point out, the loveliest form dances out with two other girls. My Elmira.
Henry sees my eyes glaze over, and I don’t notice the hand he waves in front of my face. He whistles. “Edgar!”
I turn. “What is it?”
“Who is it, is the question. Come now, is it the girl with the blue sash?”
“Her name’s Elmira.”
“You’re sweet on her.” A twinkle dances in his eyes. He moves in her direction, and I pull back on his arm, but he shakes me off with a sideways grin. He’s halfway across the field when I catch up to him. Spying her mother in a group behind her, I say, “Her mother doesn’t know we’re acquainted.”
His eyes glimmer.
“Hello, miss.”
Elmira does a double take on who’s addressing her, but then she sees me. Her mother turns to watch who’s come up.