Toby reaches for an arrow, fingering the feathers on each. He chooses an arrow with turkey feathers, pulls it free, and sets it amidst the flower stems on Alice’s grave. “She might need that.”
A blue jay toes along a maple branch, cocks its head to look down. Its eye is beaded glass, curious and then not. It lifts away with a heavy push to the limb, makes the sky with a flap of wings, and settles on the top of another tree.
There’s a brush of movement on the periphery of the gravesite, a darker brown than the bark and the brush. Not the delicate snap of twigs from a deer. Heavy steps that slow and stop. A man holding a rifle, barrel hung to the ground. I grab for Toby’s shoulder to hold him still. “Who’s there?”
But the man remains still. His straw hat is stained dark at the rim, his hair worn long, tucked behind his ears and touching his shoulders. He peers out at us, his eyes a flat, muddy brown. His boiled-wool vest is shiny along his chest; his canvas trousers bag and pool at his boots. He shifts the rifle.
“Who are you?”
He lifts a hand as if to greet us, then drops his arm. “Just looking for work.”
“There’s none here. You might try Widow Humphrey, up the road.”
“I might,” he says. But he doesn’t move.
“Come on.” This time, Toby doesn’t lead. He wiggles his hand into mine, his thumb as tacky with sap as mine, and we take the path side by side back to the house.
“Was that a bad man?” he asks.
“No,” I say and waggle his hand in mine. “Just a lost one.”
“I can show him all the paths.”
“I’m sure you can.” I glance back; the man has moved on. “Will you help me with Alice’s trunk?”
Toby pushes out his chest and takes a bigger stride. His lips slide into a smile, as if he knew all along I would ask him to help. “No time like now.”
“Yes. No time like now.”
Chapter Twelve
Cathy lifts Alice’s plaid skirt from a peg in the wardrobe and runs her thumb over the embroidered niceties along the cuffs and shoulders. There’s an ornate design of wildflowers along the hem. “Lydia’s work. I remember when she did that, I do. For Alice’s birthday. The first year you were away at the war. Alice gave her a watercolor of what she wanted.”
She hooks her finger under one of the wide ribbons that run from the hem and up the skirt, stopping to pull a cord that peeks from the waist. The fabric accordions, just enough to lift the skirts a few inches from the floor. The better for Alice to run in the woods.
“Clever.”
She sits on the bed, smoothing the silk of a corset I’ve removed from the trunk. “This stitchwork. It’s close to art. Look.”
The thread is nearly invisible, as if the stays are weaved into the fabric. The ribbon lace shimmers a pale pink in this corset, a brilliant yellow in the next. “We can rework it for you.”
I turn from the trunk to reach for the corset. The fabric warms under my palm, through to the spring of the metal stays, as if she might inhabit the clothing. I don’t want to wear it. It was Alice’s; it holds the shape of her.
Cathy takes it from me, rolling it to the side so it sits snug with the other. “What’s next on the inventory list?”
Toby holds the hat pin to the light and touches the tip of the songbird’s wing. “Can I have it?”
“What do you need a hat pin for?” She lifts a chemise. There’s a tear under the arm. “To the mending basket, then.” She tosses it to the basket by the rocker.
I hold out my palm to Toby for the pin. Give him a small nod it will be safe.
Cathy tips her head. “We should also rework the skirts.” Her gaze runs down my own dress. “You’re not so far off in size. Take a bit in from here. Dye it black, though I think you could get away with violet soon. And the lace collars, you should keep those. She did have a talent for that.”
Toby scratches the edge of the trunk’s open case, his nail curling the leather strap, then squats down and peers inside. “Can I have the lantern slides?”
“What slides?” I ask.
He holds a box high over his head, and I take it from him. A square box. Ludlow & Pine’s The 7 Wonders of the World etched around the statue of the Rhodes Colossus. I open the top. Seven glass slides sit in velvet, with handwritten cards serving as a cushion between each.
These weren’t on the inventory list. I wonder if she added them at the last minute.
“We’ll need to have a magic lantern show,” Cathy says. “We haven’t done that in ages.”
“Alice painted over the wild animals. On the Africa set,” Toby says. “Except the wildebeest. I did that one.”
“She repainted them all. Those, and Cities of the World. And The Presidents.” Cathy tilts her head to read the slide box. “I haven’t seen what she’s done to these, though.”
I close the lid and move it to the desk, then kneel by Toby. He pulls the books out and sets them by his side. He looks again and reaches for the journals.
“No.” I grab them and stand.
“Let me see,” Cathy says.
But I hold them and riffle the pages with my thumb first. All blank, the paper still stiff and new.
“Can I have the books?” Toby asks.
Cathy blinks, and stares at him as if just remembering he was in the room. “They’re not picture books.”
“Then this one.” He points to the astronomy book. “It’s got planets and stars.”
She leans over to look at the cover. “Hm. Well, I suppose . . .” As she straightens up, her eyes flick to the trunk. It is empty. “We’re done. I’ll have Elias clear it away.”
This can’t be it. There’s so little. The skirt and tops. A brush and mirror. A few books. The pin and box of lantern slides. The 7 Wonders of the World.
Elias will take it to the barn and stack it with all the other forgotten things. The broken furniture and outgrown toys. Mother’s rocker and Father’s smoking stand. Lionel and Cathy will breathe a sigh of relief; nothing to remind them of their part in this.
I grab up the inventory sheet. “No, there’s still the locket. Where’s her locket?”
Toby slams the lid. He bites down on his bottom lip, pearl teeth on skin blossomed red. “Agh,” he says. Then lifts the lid and drops it again.
“Toby. That’s enough.”
He makes a noise. Doesn’t move. He stretches his mouth into a grimace then clamps his teeth. Clack they go. “Where’s her locket where’s her locket? In the ground with the worms and bones.”
Cathy claps her hands in front of his face, startling him to silence.
She grabs his hand and yanks him to the door. “That’s it. Go to your room.”
He holds on to the knob and plants a foot to the frame. His whisper is like a whistle of air. “The Bad Ones took it.”
She pries his fingers and marches him down the hall.
“Mama’s in a snit.”
“Mama is not in a snit.”
Clomps up the stairs. Thuds across his room.
Where is the locket? I want her locket, with the intricate pen-and-inks: Alice on the left, me on the right. I am already losing her image, the vital ebb and flow of her smiles and pouts. How she shook her hand at me for attention and stamped a foot if I didn’t give it. I want to touch the warmth of her skin, which was rough on the back of her hands from the sun and soft as a whisper at the nape of her neck. I want to brush her hair, then plait it and pin it with wildflowers. I want to snap at her for not helping in the house and then make Indian pudding to soothe her hurt.
But it’s her still, dead body I see.
I glance to the trunk and the lining of sea-blue silk patterned with carriages and tall ships. It sags in the middle of the lid and is loose along the bottom. Where’s the locket? Maybe. Just maybe. The lining tears easily. I tug it from the glue and rip along the stitches. Run my palm over the rough wood, then pick at the corners of puckered fabric and the brads that won’t give.
I turn
to the mending basket by the mantel. Dig out my etui. I grab for the scissors, shaking them from their case, and slice through the silk—for the locket could have fallen in a seam, couldn’t it? Wedged itself in a corner or under the bottom casing?
There’s nothing but lint and a split wood button. I sit back. Stare at the fabric strips and the yaw of the trunk. I hurl the scissors; they smack against the bed stand and slide to the floor.
“What’s all this?” Cathy stands in the doorway. I didn’t hear her descend. She closes the door. Snick. Soft and calm. Crosses her hands at her waist and settles her shoulders. Her eyes stop on the trunk, on me, on the window glass and the swing of the willow branches outside. She kneels, taking my hand. Doesn’t look at me, just caresses the top of my hand with her thumb. Her fingers are dimpled and soft. She swallows, squeezing my hand too tight before returning to the caress. “It’s all put to rest now,” she says. “Haven’t we put this to rest?”
“I can’t.” My words strangle then, and I can’t stop shaking. I press my palms to my face. I won’t cry. It does nothing.
She hooks my hand, takes it up again in hers, then pulls me to her and rubs soft circles on the back of my neck. “It’s only us now. We are a small family; we must look out for each other.”
She is alone, Lydia wrote, and does not wish to join her family in Ohio. This wretched war! It marks us all. She weeps and sits often with us, and we feel Paul close at hand when we gather thus.
“I know what it’s like to lose people.” With a raise of her eyebrow, she smiles and stands, smoothing down her skirt and picking lint from the folds. “Let us be like real sisters.”
But then she seems to realize she’s been too forward. She steps back and bites the inside of her cheek before rummaging in the skirt pocket to pull out an envelope.
“You have a letter. It came earlier, but you and Toby were so adamant about the trunk . . .”
Mrs. Abbott is written in neat letters, overthought like a schoolchild, with a dollop of ink wiped from the final T.
I unseal the flap and remove a note written on rough paper.
Mrs. Abbott,
If you could met at the Trademan’s Inn, on 3rd St, H’boro Monday 730am—I would be most aprecitive.
Respectfull, Kitty Swain
—Pls respnd 5 Fayette if you can’t. I am a friend.
I push my fingers to my breastbone, blow out a thin breath, fold the note back to the envelope and into the pocket of my skirt.
“What is it?” Cathy asks.
“Nothing. Just a note from an old acquaintance. A nurse I knew in Baltimore. She’s in Harrowboro.” I swallow, then continue to lie. “She’s asked me to visit.”
“Oh. Well. A friend.”
“Yes. Could I take the buggy? Next Monday?”
Cathy picks the scissors up and sets them to a pillow. “It’s my calling day.”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll take the coach.”
She nods and taps her fingers to her thigh. “Where do you know her from?”
“Baltimore.” But I am afraid I’ve stumbled on the word. “Her name is Maddie Leavitt.”
“Well.” Cathy steps close and runs her hands down my arms. “There you are. You must see your Maddie Leavitt, then.”
Chapter Thirteen
There’s a rumble of men’s voices in the back garden, a cough, the acrid curl of pipe smoke. I shift the curtain. Elias’s pointing at the mounds and ruins of the glass house, then he jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the boathouse. The other man’s back is to me, but there’s something familiar in the way he stands so still, in the brown canvas trousers crusted on the bottom with dirt. He wipes his neck with a bare hand and points to the boathouse. Something familiar. But then he and Elias amble away out of my sight line.
A knock comes on the door, tentative, as if the owner of it is worried he’ll wake me.
I pull a shawl from the wardrobe. “Who is it?”
“It’s only me.”
“Toby.”
“I have something to show you.”
“Can I change first? I’m still in my nightdress.”
It’s quiet then, save for the bump of what I suspect is his ever-present bow against the wall.
“Toby?”
“Do you have trousers? They’ll be helpful,” he says.
“I don’t.”
I hear him sigh and scratch a nail on the doorframe, as if he’s thinking. “It’s all right. I’ll make sure you don’t get caught up on things.”
I smile. “Five minutes, then.”
Pen and paper. I dip the tip to the ink. The bottle is near empty. Enough, though, for this.
Kitty Swain/5 Fayette
I will meet.
—M. Abbott
Cathy’s out by the laundry tubs, directing the laundress to the week’s work. The woman looks too thin to lift a sheet from the line, but she stands listening to Cathy, holding a full bucket of water and nodding. She is new; Cathy isn’t sure if she’ll keep her services or find someone else to take on the weekly wash. Her light eyebrows raise and lower not necessarily in time with Cathy’s commands. Her hair and skin are so pale she is nearly luminous. Only her hands, crackled red and knob knuckled give away her age. She slops the water into the laundry tub and drags a sheet from the basket nearby.
“Ja,” she says. “Ja.” And hums and warbles as she dunks in the rest of the whites.
“Hallo, Ingrid,” Toby says.
She cuts a look to him. “Guten Morgen, Tobias. Mrs. Abbott.”
“More bluing this time.” Cathy leaves her and approaches us. Her hair has come undone on one side and looks to tumble out in a mess. “How many times can I tell her?”
“That man . . .” I gesture to the barn.
She slides a look that direction, then back to me—dark eyelids and pale skin a sign she’s not slept—and keeps walking toward the kitchen. “He won’t be here long.”
Toby and I pass the barn. Elias is alone now, mucking the stalls. I amble over to him. “Fine morning.”
He doesn’t stop the scoop and flip of manure. “Fine morning.”
I hook my arms over the rail. Toby puts a toe to a board and pulls himself up. “We have a hired hand?”
“Ayuh. We’ve that boathouse and all the rest of it to clear out.”
“Who is he?”
He straightens up, tossing the pitchfork to the wheelbarrow. “Amos. Amos Searles.” He pushes the wheelbarrow through to the main barn and to the next stall. I follow the rail.
“Where’s he from?”
Elias looks at me and scratches the whiskers along his jaw. “Should ask him yourself, I think. I’m not for saying what isn’t mine to say.”
I sigh. “Fair enough. It’s just that I’ve seen him in the woods.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He picks up the pitchfork and turns to his work. Keeps his back to us as he tosses the straw.
“I’ll ask my brother, then.”
“It was the missus took him on.”
I push away from the fence and give a quick touch to Toby’s shoulder. “Come on.”
He trails after me as I walk to the road and make the turn to Turee. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“A small detour, Toby. To town.” I raise my finger to my lips. “I need to mail a letter.”
“But the postman comes here at eight o’clock.”
“I’m aware. But it’s after eight, and he has been and gone. This is a special letter that needs to go today.”
“But I want to go to the forest.”
“We’ll go after. I promise.”
He nods and shrugs his bow over his shoulder. It drags a line in the dirt, and he stops to adjust it.
“You need a bow your size.” I put out my hand. “Here, I’ll carry that. I have an idea where to get you one. That’s why we’re going this way too.”
I glance back out the window of the small post office, watching Toby play in the triangle park. He’s on one knee, eyeing a
n imaginary arrow at the poster board for the Future Home for the Statue of the Fallen Soldier.
I slide the letter across the counter and wait for the receipt. “It will be there tomorrow?” I inquire.
The postman taps the coins to the wood counter, then drops them in a square box. “Tomorrow. First light.”
The day warms, though the sky is a low gray. No shadows in the woods as I follow Toby. As if all the trees were cut out of paper. Toby’s jacket is brilliant red. He holds his bow by the leather grip.
“I thought we’d get you a smaller bow.” I’ve been given the honor of carrying the quiver. The hard leather bumps against my back. The ribbon from my hat catches under the strap, and I pull it loose and retie it. “I thought we’d go to the Runyons’.” Her boys are near grown; it’s worth a visit to see if they kept, or ever had, their own bows and arrows.
“I want to show you the fort.” He slaps his knee in frustration that I’m not following right along.
The path we take skirts the pond and then narrows and twists on itself. I wish I’d taken his advice to wear trousers, for the walk is riddled with juts of rock. I envy his surefootedness and keep my eyes peeled to the dirt.
He’s like Alice: more at home wandering the woods than cooped up inside.
The cicadas’ saw is loud enough to mute our steps along what has become no more than a deer path. The light is deep green and brown; we pass between tumbles of boulders and crawl under trunks of trees that have lain long enough to grow others along their backs.
I catch a glimpse of something bright above my head. A ribbon is tied on a limb, and the brass button weaved to it has caught a shaft of light.
There’s another. Then another.
Toby stops in front of a hedge of wild buckthorn that backs to the boulders. He kneels and slips between the mass of branches, disappearing, then reappearing, this time on hands and knees. “It’s still here.” And he holds out his hand.
“I can’t fit through there.” I pull out my skirts and let them drop.
“Take off the underthings. That’s what Alice does. Then you’ll fit.”
After Alice Fell: A Novel Page 10