2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  It opened quite suddenly to a lit candle-stick and a man’s stout, balding head.

  “What is it? I’m closed,” he said. He glanced back and forth at the both of us. “Who are you?”

  He brought the candle closer to Papa. “Joshua?” he asked. Papa looked away.

  He held the candle on me for a moment and stared as Papa sagged against me.

  “Who is it?” called a woman’s voice from the hall. A head craned past the balding man’s shoulder, tangled black hair in a bonnet. Her eyes blinked when she saw me.

  The man held the candle away from our faces. “No one. Go back to your room, Wendy,” said the man. “Now,” he snapped when she didn’t move. Her footsteps hurried down the hall with a creak of wood. The man stepped back and said in a low voice, “You’d better come in.”

  We stepped through the threshold to a set of rolling doors, and into a dark surgery with tall windows. The cracked stone washbasin beneath them was chipped smooth on one corner. The man held the candle to the basin’s oil lamps and turned up the wicks until the room glowed. A black iron swivel chair craned in the center, surrounded by cabinets and wooden benches.

  I dropped the carpet bags and swung Papa into the chair. It swiveled toward the man, who had draped a surgeon’s apron around his neck and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  “What happened?” he asked Papa.

  “He hurt his foot crossing the woods,” I said. The surgeon considered me carefully as he picked up a bandage from a crooked stack and dipped it in the basin. He cranked up the chair’s leg-rest, and peeled back the torn trouser.

  “Now, what were you doing in Lexington Wood?” he asked, looking at Papa’s leg, but somehow I felt the words come at me.

  Papa coughed, cleared his throat. “Traveling my way to Portsmouth. The roadway south is blocked. Deadfall.”

  “Lot of dead ends in the woods,” said the surgeon as he moved the ankle around slowly. “The trees are treacherous. We’ve been clearing eastward, burning the wood at the quarter-festivals. Someday it will all be gone.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t that be something to see Lexington with children running in the streets again?” He seemed to cast his gaze out the window, but I felt his eyes in the reflection as he squeezed blood from the cloth. “Pity it’s a crossroads to the west. Some say Lexington fell because it was tainted by those loose West Union ways,” said the surgeon as he squeezed the wound. Papa winced and looked away.

  “Is he alright?” my voice creaked out, my feet stepping forward.

  “Your daddy will be fine, girl,” the surgeon said. “It’s a bad sprain, but I doubt the bone’s broken. I’ll bind it up with a poultice. He’ll be able to walk on it fully in a day or two.” He turned and dug his hands into a jar of yellowed herbs on the cabinet shelf.

  “I can pay,” I said. I dug through the bags until I pulled out a few fat bundles of red bills.

  “Unionist dollars,” the man said, raising an eyebrow. “We don’t take those here, girl. They’re hardly worth blowing your nose on, even in the west. If you don’t have coin then you’re going to have to trade something.”

  “I got some good venison jerky,” said Papa, “or smokehouse almonds. I have a spyglass with a good fire-making lens.”

  “I think you’ve got something more valuable to trade here, Joshua,” said the man as he glanced at me. “This town would appreciate the services of a good tailor. We’ve got two fine girls of age this quarter festival. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to cut out their wombs if a tailor didn’t pass through by quarter next.”

  Papa nodded slowly as the man wet the poultice and smeared it on his skin. “There is that,” Papa said.

  “Step into the other room child,” said the surgeon without meeting my eye, “Your daddy and I have things to discuss.”

  I felt my face go warm and I drew in a slow breath. Papa looked reluctant. “Go on, girl,” he said.

  I walked into the hall and drew shut the sliding doors. Some dim spill of light came from another door down the hall and I could see the red floral pattern of the hall rug.

  Papa’s voice echoed through the wood with the quick, hushed tones of the surgeon. I turned my head, ear drifting closer to the crack trying to make out the words. I was focused so hard on the sound that I almost cracked my head against the door when I saw the woman staring at me from down the hall.

  The sliding doors next to me rattled open. I stumbled back, the surgeon’s face close to mine. He stepped after me and slid the door firmly shut behind him. The candle in his hand was the only light in the dark hallway. The woman was gone.

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Elana.”

  “I am Mister Greely.” He looked at me as if he was expecting me to curtsy. I nodded.

  “Your daddy has agreed to stay on a few days and lace up our virgins. He is still a practicing tailor, is he not?”

  “Yes sir, best in the West Union. I’m his apprentice daughter.”

  “You uh,” he licked his lips, “you have had your womb branches cut and tied by a surgeon?”

  “Of course,” I said, face reddening. “A summer back, in Georgetown.”

  He gazed at me a moment. “Shame about Georgetown,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “The news only reached us a fortnight ago,” Mr. Greely, said reluctantly, “Georgetown was taken by the woods. Killed every man, woman and child. There’s nothing now but a forest sprung up over it as wide as a county.”

  I blinked.

  “West Union or not,” said Mr. Greely, “damn to hell the whores that ended that place.” He shook his head.

  “How do you know my papa?” I asked slowly.

  “How do I know your papa,” he repeated, his eyes trailing up my chest before continuing up to my lips and eyes. “You look just like your mama. She was a fine woman.”

  “Did you know… Did they pass through here?”

  Mr. Greely sniffed his nose. “Your mama, Daphne, was from right here in Applington. Your daddy was from Lexington. Least he used to be.”

  My mouth felt too dry to form words, but I said “I’m sorry sir, my momma and papa were from a big town called Sacramento, far in the west.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” he said.

  “It was taken by the woods a long time back.”

  “Is that so? Where is your mama, girl?”

  I looked away, “She died on the road when I was young.”

  “Elana!” called papa’s voice.

  Mr. Greely paused, his mouth wide like he’d been about to ask something. He reached back and slid the door open partway. “Your daddy’s going to rest in the chair tonight,” he said. “There’s a room for you across the hall here, next to mine.”

  I could feel Papa’s eyes on me even though I didn’t look. “I’d rather rest in the room with my papa if it’s all the same to you, sir. To take care of him.”

  Mr. Greely’s eyes ran down my belly to my feet.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  • • •

  Every tailor creates a signature stitch unlike any other. Papa’s stitch is like arched branches, holding back the wind. My stitch is a series of lacy, interlocking hearts. I used to practice it in secret on the edges of raw steak, my fingers slick with blood and fat.

  When I knew I would follow my Papa’s trade, I pulled out the simple cat’s cradle of little-girl stitch from my own body, and took to practicing my tailor’s stitch on myself. I’ve completed and pulled it out countless times, working in furtive moments. It feels good to bind the fear in my belly away with a thousand little stitches. I never let myself think that doing this was lying to Papa, or that Papa would ever lie to me.

  • • •

  The sharp points of stars glimmered in the tall windows. I stared restlessly at them until my vision began to go white and I saw points of black on the insides of my eyelids when I blinked. Papa snored in the chair, hat over his face. I pushed off the carpet bags and wr
apped my hands around my feet. Mama’s pendent dropped from where I’d held it gently in my lips, and it dangled against my neck. I tasted the musk of its wood.

  Your mama, Daphne, was from here in Applington.

  The sharp creak of wood from somewhere in the hall startled me. I looked to Papa. He snorted but his breath stayed slow and even.

  I stood up and crept to the sliding door. It was open just a fingers-breadth and the wheels squeaked as I pushed it open farther. Shadows filled the hall, but the red trellis of rug wound its flowers toward a light at the end. A doorway held the glow of a lamp on a kitchen basin. The other doors in the hall were firmly shut, save the one I’d seen the woman looking from. It was open, dark. I glanced back at Papa and stepped into the hall. My toes felt the rough weave of the rug through the holes in my stockings.

  I tried not to breathe as I stepped by Greely’s door. I let my breath out when I was past, but the floor creaked under me as if the sound had escaped with my exhale. A chair scraped in the kitchen and the shadow on the wall stood up.

  “Who’s there?” came the harsh whisper of a woman’s voice.

  The woman stood by a table, knife in hand. The crimson rind of an apple curled off her plate. Her shoulders hunched like I’d caught her at something shameful. Her other arm came up to touch her face, and I realized the slender stump of it had no hand.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, almost stepping back.

  “You shouldn’t be back here,” she said. Then she looked closer, lowering the knife. “You look just like her,” she said.

  “Look like who?”

  “Daphne. She’s your mama isn’t she?” she said. “I’m Wendy—Wendy Greely. Is your mama with you, down the hall?”

  I tucked the pendant back into my shirt. “No, she’s… passed.”

  The woman flinched and looked to the side. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just hoped when I saw you. I mean, your daddy showing up suddenly after all this time. Most folks around here thought she and Joshua were dead after they run off fifteen years back.”

  “Why did they run?” I said, stepping into the kitchen.

  “Didn’t your daddy tell you?

  “I’m starting to think Papa never told me anything at all.” I gripped the back of one of the chairs.

  Wendy looked at me. “I think maybe you should go. If Harlan comes home from the bonfire and sees me talking to you, he ain’t going to be happy.

  “Tell me about my mama,” I whispered as I sat down at the table. “Please.”

  After a moment she nodded. “Would you like some?” she said, pointing the knife at the apple. She pressed her stump into the dimple at the stem and sliced off the rest of the red skin.

  “What happened to your hand?” I asked.

  She hid the stump in the folds of her skirt. “Penance. I touched a boy’s thing. Y’ain’t supposed to do that.”

  She brought the knife up again, sliced the apple in half. She put down the knife and picked up the white meat, bit into it.

  “Daphne was a bit older than me,” she said. “We wasn’t the closest friends, you know, not like her and Harlan and Sarah Turnbuckle, but we all spent a lot of time together. Daphne was arranged to marry Joe Underhill, the preacher’s firstborn son from Lexington. She put up such a fight with her daddy. Had no idea why. He was a boy of good standing. It made the other suitors come right out of the woodwork, it did. No one expected your daddy.”

  “He asked for her hand in marriage?” I said, picking up the wedge of apple.

  “Hardly. Your daddy was secondborn, and a tailor’s apprentice at that.”

  The apple slipped from my hand leaving a wet stain on the table’s edge as it skittered onto the floor. I reached for it but I ended up staring at my own shaking fingers. Wendy gazed at the lamp, eyes far away.

  “Joshua was supposed to help his daddy stitch Daphne up for her wedding day,” said Wendy. “Instead he up and runs off with her. What a scandal. He was my age—just about to get gelded like me. She was in love with him, though. I brought her my daddy’s brass seeding rod from his surgery kit when she asked. Told her she was a fool to do it…” she trailed off. Blinked, looked at me.

  “You’re her firstborn daughter, ain’t you?”

  “No, no,” I said, “I’m just a tailor’s apprentice now. I’m gelded.”

  “It’s ok,” Wendy said with a grin, “I know how to keep secrets. I remember when you were just a dot. Your mama bore you right in that surgery chair in the other room. She and your papa snuck back into town for that. Nobody knows about that but Harlan and me. I think you were the first baby Harlan ever done deliver. He didn’t let me or your daddy watch but I heard you cry through that door crack.”

  “He helped my folks?”

  “Course he did. They ran off from their kin into a world of trouble. Who else were they going to turn to?”

  “What happened to my mama’s kin?”

  “Well… Some of them lived in Lexington, and the rest, they were all there the night that… Well that the woods ate everything. That’s how Harlan tells it.”

  I sat back in the chair, eyes on the glow of the oil lamp.

  “Harlan, Mr. Greely, he’s your husband?”

  “No,” her laugh a nervous bray. “Harlan’s my brother, he’s firstborn but he ain’t married no one yet, so he took up daddy’s trade when he died. I’m secondborn, gelded but I ain’t an apprentice like you. I just keep the house. Help out in the surgery room where I can. But you… you’re Daphne’s firstborn, ain’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Must be frightening, being a virgin-mother with no town or kin to protect you.”

  I felt a chill pass through me, and she must have seen it. She reached out her good hand and laid it over mine. “Only woman I ever met that wasn’t scared of nothing was your mama, so don’t you worry either.”

  I heard a door slam open and she stood suddenly.

  “Wendy?” Mr. Greely’s voice echoed down the hall. I heard the front door close.

  Wendy’s jaw worked, but nothing came out. She picked up the knife and waved me back toward the wall next to the doorsill.

  “I’m getting a bite to eat, Harlan,” she called. His heavy footsteps came down the rug. She pressed me up against the wall by the doorsill with her stump, and stepped into the doorway.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” His voice slurred just outside the sill. I could smell the corn whisky from his breath.

  “Hush, Harlan, you got guests, remember?”

  There was silence, a long sniff.

  “You stay away from them, you hear? Just a tailor passing through. He’ll do his work and be gone come festival end.”

  “Yes, Harlan.”

  I heard footsteps move away, the creak of the hall floor.

  “Not a word about them to anyone, you hear?”

  “Yes, Harlan.”

  The click of a door swinging shut.

  “You,” said Wendy, looking down the hall."Back to your daddy. Don’t come out. Not till you’re done with your work and heading far away from this place.”

  I looked down at her hand with the knife. Her fingers were gripped white on the handle.

  She took up the lamp and left the knife in the basin. I traced her footsteps down the hall past Mr. Greely’s room. She gazed at me as she turned down the wick to nothing. I turned in the dark doorway and couldn’t tell if I had seen the glint of Papa’s eyes, watching from the chair.

  • • •

  The heart of every stitch is the heartstring—the thread that, when cut, causes the pattern to effortlessly slip aside for birthing. The whole stitch must slip wide when the baby’s head is ready to crown or it can strangle the child. A tangle in the pattern can tear out the stitches, letting the mother bleed to death. The pattern must be able to draw back together like a boot-lace the moment midwives lay the leafy green placenta into a hot iron skillet.

  I’ve helped Papa rethread the heartstrings of virgin-mothers. It’
s simple work, whether the stitch is another tailor’s or your own. Sometimes I dream I’m threading a woman’s heartstring and when I look up from my bloody fingers, her face is the one on my mama’s pendant. These dreams always comfort me.

  The nightmare is when the face is my own.

  • • •

  My fingers threaded the needle, licking on a bit of spit to make it lay flat on the eye. I placed it with the others on the fold of cloth, and laid out the spools of silvered thread, the linens, and kettle of steaming water. Papa was quiet the way he’d been since he returned. Nothing more than orders and grunts.

  I had awoken late morning to find him gone. I could hear the bass of his voice from a closed door down the hall, mixing with Greely’s drawling baritone. The sun had crawled past noon before papa returned with a bowl of fried chicken.

  Papa didn’t meet my eyes as we ate in silence. He’d spent his time staring at the empty surgeon’s chair. There was a knock and Mr. Greely ushered in the first of the girls before I’d finished my last drumstick.

  This girl had to be younger than me by a year. She lay in the iron chair, her fingers playing nervously with her bonnet string. The hem of her red velvet dress fanned up below her chin, and she had to stop herself from folding it down as she watched Papa wash his hands again and again in the stone basin. The room felt naked without the familiar group of womenfolk gathered round to chant and hold her hands. I didn’t know if Mr. Greely had arranged to keep the womenfolk away from Papa, or if this was just the way they did things in the east.

  “Mr. Greely has left us some ether to use on the girls, to keep them calm,” said Papa as if the girl wasn’t laying right there, eyes nervous. Next to the bottles of alcohol and penicillin, a wadded rag lay tucked against the ether. On the table before it, Mr. Greely had laid out a white cloth with a line of gleaming scalpels.

  “Remember child, a little ether goes a long way,” said Papa. He folded his sleeves back to the elbow.

  “What are the knives for Papa?”

  “Don’t you worry about them,” said Papa. “Easterners, they often cut… the girls before they sew them. I won’t do such things. You just tend to that ether. No more than a few drops now.”