“You’ve learned well, Evie,” Mama said after she’d taken ill. “Someday you’ll teach Mae like I taught you.”
I shook my head in disbelief, but Mama would have none of it.
“I’m a sensible woman,” she said in the spring. “I won’t see the harvest this year.” Mama seemed to know her time was short long before the rest of us.
Now I looked around the garden and choked back tears. The sunflowers were growing tall again just like when Mama was here.
Searching for Twigs
Five days after Aunt Flo arrived, Papa hitched up the wagon.
“Come, Evie and Mae. We’re going to Caledonia,” he called out.
Mae ran to Papa, and he hoisted her up to the wagon. I was in the garden, hoping to finish weeding before the sun glared brightly. Caledonia was a bustling town with four churches, several hotels, and a general store. I dropped my hoe and brushed off my dress, smiling at the thought of a peppermint stick.
“What are you fixing to buy?” I asked.
“Some nails and stamps and a broom. Maybe a new comb for a pretty little girl,” he said with a wink.
I hurried toward him.
Then I saw Papa help Aunt Flo up to the front of the wagon, and my smile vanished.
“I’m staying here to tend the garden,” I called to Papa, and headed back to my work.
Papa walked over to me, his hands on his hips. “Nonsense, Evie. You spend day after day in the garden. Look at your hands. Even when you scrub them, the dirt doesn’t come off. You are coming with us.”
“But Papa …”
“Come now, Evie!” Papa rarely spoke sharply to me, so I knew I had to obey.
“Yes, Papa.”
I dawdled even more as I climbed in the back of the wagon, frowning at the woman who was taking over Mama’s bureau and the front of the wagon to boot.
On the road to town, Papa pointed out the landmarks along the way. We stopped at the graveyard on the hill where Mama was buried. It was the first time we’d been there since the funeral, and Mama’s grave was already sprouting clover over the fresh black dirt. Mae and I decorated her plot with wild orange lilies. They were Mama’s favorite. Aunt Flo bowed her head and recited several prayers in German as she rubbed Papa on the back. I watched her pray, wondering what the words meant, wondering if it had anything to do with shrouding.
Papa showed Aunt Flo where several Civil War soldiers were buried.
“We lost well over our share of men to the bloody war, all of them Union soldiers born and bred in Minnesota. Probably half of them died not from the fighting, but from the yellow fever,” Papa told her. Mae and I picked some wildflowers to place on a soldier’s untended grave that we decided was lonely.
Then Papa took us by a small park that had a swinging bridge extending across the narrowest part of the Winnebago River.
“A swinging bridge? Let’s have our lunch there,” Aunt Flo suggested. Papa pulled the wagon down onto the road winding toward the river. He stopped under a tall oak tree and tied up the horses while Mae showed Aunt Flo the way to the bridge.
“It’s over yonder, Auntie Flo.” She tugged on her arm, and I strolled behind them. The bridge had seemed scary the first time we crossed it, but afterward we would take turns leaning on the sides to get it to swing. Aunt Flo took a tentative step onto the bridge, hanging tightly to the top rope as she gingerly made her way across the wooden planks. Mae tried to encourage her by holding out her hand for Aunt Flo to grasp.
“Whoa,” she said to the bridge as if it were a runaway horse to be calmed. “It’s a mite high.”
Seeing her so hesitant suddenly brought out the worst in me, and I jumped on the bridge. I made it wobble, then rocked it from side to side. Aunt Flo clung even more tightly to the rope and let out a little yelp.
“Don’t scare Aunt Flo,” Mae yelled at me. “She’s not used to it yet, Evie.”
“Sorry, Aunt Flo,” I apologized, my voice almost a sneer.
Aunt Flo frowned and made her way back to the side.
“I like my feet on the ground,” she said as she sank gratefully onto a bench near the bridge. “You girls go ahead. I’ll watch.”
I skipped across the bridge to the other side in front of Mae, who walked slowly across, looking back at Aunt Flo. By the time we made it to the other side, Mae was scowling at me.
“You scared Aunt Flo, Evie.”
“Good,” I replied lightly, and skipped back to the other side.
“Mean Evie,” Mae called after me. “Your name is Mean Evie.”
Mae’s words didn’t bother me, but the gentle smile on Aunt Flo’s face did. I thought she’d be upset with me. I stood at the edge of the bridge, troubled by her reaction.
Papa tied up the horses and joined Aunt Flo on the bench. I worried that she would tell him what I’d done. But Aunt Flo stood up and started walking under the trees, looking at the ground.
“What are you doing, Aunt Flo?” Mae went running up to her from the bridge.
“Looking for sticks. Would you like to help me?”
Mae grabbed a long stick. “How’s this one?”
“Not quite, Mae. Look for smaller sticks that have a fork in them, like this.” She picked up a twig about three inches long, split at the end so it looked like a y.
Mae hopped along the ground, stooping to pick up sticks and examining each one carefully. Every once in a while she called out, “Here’s one, Aunt Flo. This one is just right.” Aunt Flo smiled at Mae, patted her on the head, and put the sticks in her pockets.
What a sight! I thought as I watched them. But when I spotted a twig with a split in it, I couldn’t resist picking it up. I saw another one and picked that up, too. Soon I had a handful.
“Are we building a fire?” I asked. A slow-moving worm could melt in this heat, and I couldn’t imagine what she would want a fire for.
“They’re for my shrouding duties, child.”
I stifled a scream and dropped a handful of forked twigs on the ground. What would dead people need with sticks?
Even Papa was now searching the ground. “Flo, I heard about a special liquid they put in the bodies of the soldiers to preserve them for the trip home during the war. Do you suppose they’ll start using that on regular people when the family is far away and can’t make it to the funeral quickly?”
Aunt Flo shook her head. “I can’t imagine it. Anyway, they would still need someone to make the deceased presentable.”
“I reckon you’re right,” he agreed. “It does seem strange.”
Strange indeed, I thought.
Papa unpacked our picnic lunch, and I took my food up onto the bridge. I sat on the edge, sticking my feet out as if I could touch the water four feet below. I could hear Aunt Flo and Mae and Papa laughing in the cool shade while the sun burned a red spot into the part on my hair.
After lunch we stopped at the flouring mill in town, where Papa introduced Aunt Flo to everyone he met. He showed her the jail, all four churches, including the German church, and the Spettle Bakery. Mr. Spettle sold church articles as well as fine baked goods at his store. The whole town greeted Aunt Flo with open arms.
“You’re fortunate to have her,” Mr. Spettle told me.
We ended up at the apothecary, where Papa bought Aunt Flo special oils for her shrouding duties. I couldn’t see wasting good money on oils, but I held my tongue. The new combs Mae and I got from Papa and the peppermint sticks that Mr. Frank, the grocer, gave us didn’t make me feel any better.
Aunt Flo placed one hand on my shoulder and one on Mae’s shoulder as she talked to Mr. Frank and watched him fetch her a bottle of oil of camphor.
“Our town is in need of your services,” Mr. Frank said. “And we look forward to seeing you at the church meetings.”
Aunt Flo nodded. “We’ll be coming to the meetings as much as possible.”
As she talked, I felt Aunt Flo’s large hand press gently into my shoulder. I was reminded of the devil’s claw, a sticky pl
ant that grows on the prairie. Once it binds itself to an insect, it’s impossible to get loose.
The Huckster Wagon
I fumed all the way home from town until the sight of Aunt Flo caused me physical pain.
“Papa,” I called out. “I’m going to be sick.” Papa pulled the wagon over and I heaved up my lunch. Papa seemed worried after that, and Aunt Flo switched spots with me so I could sit closer to him.
We barely made it home before we had a visitor. Papa was still unhitching the horse when Mr. Murdoch arrived. He was a door-to-door peddler. We enjoyed listening to his stories of back east, where people lived on top of one another, and of the West, where the Indians were still at war over the land.
Mr. Murdoch felt partial to our town, as it was named for the ancient capital of Scotland. A bagpipe, which he played on special occasions, occupied the front seat of his wagon.
“Mr. Murdoch, have you heard about the railroad coming through Caledonia?” I asked as soon as he had parked his goods in the shade.
“Indeed I have. But you’ll still have need of a traveling salesman, if only to bring word that Buffalo Bill will be passing through this area next month.”
“He will?” I exclaimed with wide eyes. Mr. Murdoch prided himself on bringing sensational announcements to the valley whenever he visited. Papa claimed that most of it was hearsay and not to be taken as fact, but I was always impressed.
He pulled on his thin, dark mustache as he talked. His high-pitched voice lured me to the huckster wagon, where he carried all sorts of items.
Mr. Murdoch waved his hand in the air. “Word is he’s visiting a war buddy of his in Lanesboro. There’s also the rumor that Sitting Bull is getting ready to surrender. Of course, with Crazy Horse shot dead, the uprisings have become less frequent.”
We never had any problems with the Winnebago Indians in our area, but settlers traveling through often told of children wandering off and never being found.
Mr. Murdoch brought out a satchel. “I would kindly show you my private collection of photographs of Sitting Bull in exchange for some of that delicious steamed pudding your mother makes.”
“Mama …” I croaked out, then stopped, unable to speak.
Mr. Murdoch took one look at my face and removed his hat. “Forgive me, lass. I’m so sorry. A more wonderful woman than your mother couldn’t be found in all of Scotland.”
Aunt Flo and Papa walked up behind me. She put her arms around me, and I felt myself tighten.
Papa shook the peddler’s hand. “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Murdoch. It’s just a month ago we buried her, and Evie has had a hard time of it. She’s feeling a bit under the weather today as well. My sister Flo is living here, and you’re welcome to take supper with us all the same.”
Then Papa asked him about a new spring seat for the wagon, as if that was enough talk of Mama.
Mae and Aunt Flo went to inspect the goods. Mae yearned for the pretty hair ribbons, and Aunt Flo examined spices all the way from Boston and some fancy feather dusters. Papa couldn’t resist looking in a magazine that Mr. Murdoch carried with him. It had pictures of water pumps for the well.
I stood off to the side. My excitement had vanished as quickly as it had come.
“Lass, I have something I know you will envy,” Mr. Murdoch said after several minutes, enticing me to come closer. I walked hesitantly toward him. Hanging from the end of the wagon were several hoes, one of which caught my attention. It had a carved wooden handle with a shiny metal blade.
“It’s imported all the way from Europe,” he whispered, as if it was a secret.
“It’s not for people like us,” I told him as I admired the carving.
“It’s costly, but I’ve had a large share of lookers,” he remarked. “It’s good I have my protection,” he added as he patted a rifle behind the seat. I wondered how such a lean man could shoot a big rifle like that.
Mr. Murdoch proceeded to tell us about his run-in with grasshoppers that descended upon his wagon as a thick black cloud of insects. He lay underneath the canvas until the darkened sky lightened up.
“They almost ate through the canvas. I was praying mighty hard that day.”
It didn’t take long to forgive Mr. Murdoch’s blunder about Mama. His stories could hold my attention all night. He told us about a great fire on the prairie up in the Dakotas not far from where Aunt Flo had lived. There was also unrest with the Indians still. He finally pulled out two autographed pictures of Sitting Bull, and Mae and I stumbled over each other to get a look.
“With the new railroad coming in, it will transform the prairie forever,” he predicted. “Lots of changes, now that they’re giving away the land in the Dakotas to people who can prove up a homestead.”
“Can anyone get a piece of land?” I asked him. I imagined a gigantic garden all my own, with mazes of vegetables.
“Anyone over the age of twenty-one. I’ve even seen women whose husbands died take on a homestead. One woman sixty years old came out from Pennsylvania to homestead near her sons. Of course, most Christian men disapprove of women in the fields. It’s a hard living, and many of them have sod homes, not wooden ones.”
I frowned at his comment. Papa was a good Christian, and he didn’t disapprove of my garden.
Aunt Flo made supper while Mr. Murdoch continued to entertain us. I left to fetch the water from the well and peel potatoes, then hurried back to hear him talk. He was full of tales from the big city, where houses sat inches apart from one another, something I couldn’t imagine since our nearest neighbor was over a mile away.
“A wonderful Yankee dinner,” he complimented Aunt Flo. “Vegetables and meat and bread. Seems cheese is all I eat on the other side of the Mississippi.”
Dinner went well until he found out about Aunt Flo being a shrouding woman. He made some unfavorable comments that upset her awful.
“Those informal folkways are changing,” he began. “I’ve seen some fine funeral homes starting up in the cities. Word is that every town will soon have one.”
Aunt Flo’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying they can do a better job than someone who has been trained by her ancestors? Better than the tradition that is learned from one generation to the next?”
Mr. Murdoch nodded, and his thin mustache twitched. “Only telling what I’ve heard.”
Aunt Flo’s reply was a simple “Hmph!” I could sense she wanted to say more but was holding back.
“There’s a new science of embalming,” he continued. “Shrouding is becoming a thing of the past.”
Aunt Flo stuck out her bulky hands. “No science can replace this. The touch of human skin on human skin,” she said loudly.
Mr. Murdoch straightened up in his chair. He seemed taken aback by Aunt Flo’s words. “Times are changing,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Aunt Flo went straight to her room after Mr. Murdoch left without buying any of the spices that she’d been tempted to purchase beforehand.
I didn’t understand Aunt Flo, and I couldn’t fathom why she used special oils like camphor or what was in the old brown box underneath her bed. Besides, something Aunt Flo said bothered me. She told Mr. Murdoch that shrouding was a tradition learned from one generation to the next. Aunt Flo had no children, so the next generation would be Mae and me. Neither Papa nor Aunt Flo mentioned any notions they might have on this subject.
Still, the idea worried me as I helped Papa with clover cutting the next day. It worried me as I gathered eggs and applied goose grease to our mare’s sore leg. I determined to watch this strange woman who was unlike anyone I’d ever met before. I would watch her carefully and learn more about this business of shrouding. Then I would talk to Papa.
The Storm
I stood at the edge of the garden, peering at two long weeds dangling beside a cornstalk. The rest of the garden was meticulously weeded, and after recent rains it bore lavish green leaves and luscious, ripe vegetables. Papa never worked on Sundays, even if it rained the entire
week and he sorely needed to get in the fields. I wasn’t allowed to work in the garden on Sundays, either, although I was tempted to pick a ripe ear of corn every now and then.
Even though we didn’t make it to church meetings very often, we always spent Sunday in a Christian manner. Papa or Mama would read Scripture from the Bible, and Mae and I practiced our prayers so that when we did make it to church, we wouldn’t be lacking. On hot summer Sundays, we often picnicked down at the creek. Mae and I would wade in the water as we looked for toads underneath the rocks.
“I wonder if Aunt Flo is a Christian?” I asked Mae this Sunday morning.
Mae looked thoughtful as she picked dandelions. “Do Christians say prayers?”
“Of course they do,” I replied.
“Aunt Flo says prayers at dinner, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but they’re in German,” I objected. “We don’t know what she’s saying.”
“Is Papa a Christian?” Mae asked, her hands turning a yellow shade from the petals.
“Of course he is.”
“Papa speaks German,” Mae said.
“I suppose Papa wouldn’t let Aunt Flo say unChristian prayers at our table,” I conceded, not thoroughly convinced.
Unless she cast a spell on him, I thought. Last year when the circus came through, I saw a man who mixed potions and spells and sold them in a bottle. Maybe Aunt Flo had a spell that worked on everybody except me. Why else would they all like her so much?
We sorely needed rain, and judging by the way Papa’s leg bothered him, he said we were in for a big storm. After Papa had read from the Bible and we recited our prayers, Aunt Flo packed a picnic lunch. Just as soon as we settled down by the creek, the sky turned purple. It became as dark as night, and the clouds moved swiftly over our heads. Papa was sure it was a sign of a twister.
He grabbed the picnic lunch, and Aunt Flo scooped up Mae. We all ran back to the house. The skies opened on us in full force, soaking us right to the skin. With the rain came the wind, strong at first, dying down briefly, and then coming back with a fury.
The Shrouding Woman Page 2