[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek

by Jan Watson

  “How, Remy? Tell me how.”

  Remy tapped Copper’s chest with her closed fist directly over her heart. Copper didn’t dare breathe, afraid her friend would dart off as quick as a hummingbird if she moved. It was so rare to feel Remy’s touch. “Ye carry it here, Purty. It’ll be safe here.”

  “Hmm, I’ll think on that. But what of you? You must tell me a little about yourself. And of your family . . . I’m so sorry about baby Angel.”

  “It’s all right, I reckon.” Remy began flinging little stones into the creek. “Ma cried fer the longest time.”

  A silence enveloped them. It seemed Remy had run out of words.

  “So you’re living with your grandmother?” Copper asked.

  “It’s real tight there . . . doors and window lights all closed up.” Remy’s eyes drifted as if she’d already taken her leave. “I’d druther be buried without an oak-board coffin as to live indoors.” She stood and started back across the creek. “Makes me feel all stove up.”

  “Don’t go,” Copper begged. “Stay awhile.”

  “I got places to be. Ye can come along.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  Remy’s feet barely rippled the water as she went. When she reached the far bank, she paused to wave good-bye and raised her hand as if in blessing. “Yore place is here, Sister. Where things stay still.” A bright, new, red foxtail bobbed at the seat of her dress as she disappeared once again.

  Copper stood and strolled back to the garden, lost in thought. She raised her hoe and struck out at the weeds that threatened to take over the potatoes. Sister? Had Remy called her sister? A Scripture came to mind: “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.”

  I could use a friend like that. I surely could.

  Summer passed and ushered a long, wet fall into the mountains. Copper was miserable. At times she wished there’d never been a pie supper, that she’d never allowed that first kiss. But then she’d remember the clean, starched-laundry smell of Simon or the feel of his strong arms around her. She’d trace the outline of her lips with her finger, and a longing so intense she’d have to sit down would overtake her. She wished she’d never met him. She’d been so happy before he came, lost in her childhood.

  Mam was no help. She’d just look at Copper with half a smile and give her more sewing to do. They were filling the cedar chest Daddy had made her with all manner of sheets, pillowcases, and towels. Everything had to be marked with the initial C so she couldn’t change her mind. It drove Copper mad to have her life predicted in such a way. But then it was a C . . . that also stood for Copper.

  Finally the weather broke. A glorious Indian summer blessed the mountains with soft sunshine and gentle breezes, and Copper was out the door as soon as she could escape Mam’s chores. She went hunting nearly every morning after she finished milking. Though Willy begged to go along and Daddy would have been glad to keep her company, she went alone. She had to decide if she could actually leave this place . . . this place of her heart.

  Every day she came home empty-handed save for a few late mushrooms, and once she stumbled on some ginseng. She’d take aim at a fat, nose-twitching rabbit hiding in a pile of leaves or a tail-shaking squirrel on a black-walnut limb, then not be able to squeeze off a single shot. Her mind played tricks on her, for every animal she saw she imagined a mate and children waiting at home in burrows or dens . . . a family. So she left her gun at home and took Daddy’s walking stick instead.

  One day she packed a wedge of corn bread and a raw turnip and settled down for her noon meal halfway up the mountain under a butternut tree. She’d just gotten comfortable, shifting about in a pile of leaves, when John Pelfrey’s hound dog bounded up, demanding a share of bread.

  “Hey, Faithful. Where’s your master?” She stood and looked around. There he was, kneeling at the base of a hickory, cracking nuts with a rock, acting like he didn’t see her. “John? Aren’t you speaking?”

  “Didn’t know you wanted company.”

  “You’re not company. . . . You’re just John.”

  He dusted bits of hickory shell from his hands and looked up at her with eyes swimming in tears. “Just John?”

  Flustered, she replied, “You know what I mean. You’re my friend.”

  “Are you fixing to leave, Pest?”

  Unable to bear the anguish in his voice, she didn’t answer but began to gather red and gold and orange leaves. “We missed the prettiest leaves this year. It was too wet.”

  His hand rested on her shoulder. “I deserve an answer.”

  Suddenly Copper sank to her knees, shaking her head, and started to cry. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  John knelt in front of her and took her hands. “I’d marry you, Pest, and you could stay. You wouldn’t never have to leave.”

  She let him hold her and cried upon his shoulder. “Oh, John. I wish it so. I wish it was you I loved.”

  “I love you. Ain’t that enough?”

  She patted his wet cheek. “No, John. No, it’s not. You think you love me because I’m all you know.”

  “Could I kiss you, Pest?”

  She closed her eyes and offered her lips, and he brushed her mouth with his own. It was sweet and gentle, just like John himself, but there was no starburst . . . no longing.

  “I been wanting to do that for the longest time.”

  They sat side by side. She rubbed his knuckles with her thumb and thought her tears would never stop.

  He put his arm around her and drew her close. “Don’t be spilling all them tears.”

  “I can’t stand to hurt you,” she sobbed, her tears like a river in the crook of his neck. “I wish you didn’t love me like a sweetheart. I wish we’d just stayed friends.”

  “It ain’t the loving you that’s hard. It’s you not loving me.” He sighed and ran his hand through his shock of yellow hair. “Don’t be sad for me.” He patted her arm. “I’ll be all right if you’re all right.”

  Mopping her face with her dress tail, she leaned against his shoulder. “How do I know what’s the right thing to do?”

  “You got to go where your heart leads you.”

  She got to her feet and pulled him up. “I never set out for this to happen, but I love him, John.”

  “Well,” he said, shrugging. “Well.” He chucked a few hickory nuts at a raucous jay, then reached in his overalls’ pocket and pulled out a piece of smeared newsprint. He handed it to her. “Guess I’ll be leaving too.”

  She unfolded the small square of paper and read out loud: “ ‘Corsets made to order. You furnish the measurements and we’ll make the garment. Money-back guarantee. Sophie’s Fine Confinements. ’” She looked up, confused. “You’re going to make corsets?”

  Red-faced, he snatched the paper from her and turned it over. “Tuther side, Pest.” They sat back down, and he showed her a story about a sailing ship bound for the Orient. “See, it says they’re taking on hands. Says they give good pay and you can see the world. Wouldn’t that be something—to see the world?” He carefully folded the paper and stuck it back in his pocket.

  “I guess we both got big plans.”

  “I guess so.” Copper started, then yelped as a hickory nut bounced off her head. She shaded her eyes and looked up to see a gathering of squirrels chattering maniacally and beaming hulls their way. “Ow! Ow!” She and John clasped hands and ran away, doubled over in laughter, children again . . . for a little while.

  The beautiful Indian summer was gone. Winter was fast closing in. There wouldn’t be many more days of comfortably wandering the woods.

  One morning as Copper tied a little poke of bread and meat together, Daddy said, “Add a piece of sausage and biscuit for me, Daughter. I aim to go along.”

  She saw the look he exchanged with Mam, and her mouth went dry. He’s going to tell me about my mother, she thought, and then wondered if she really wanted to know.

  He led her to the creek. It was clear and running swiftly over moss-covered
rocks. A sudden cold wind gusted, and she drew her shawl tightly around her arms.

  “It all started here,” he said, his voice suddenly gruff. “It was a flash flood that carried your mother away.”

  They talked and walked for miles. The sun warmed them as they went, but the wind nipped her nose and the back of her neck with its icy fingers. It was nearly over, she knew—the restless fall. The trees were spent, standing naked and proud, save for the oak that clung relentlessly to its faded beauty, like an old woman with her memories.

  Her father’s cough was worse and sometimes stole his breath, but he insisted on leading her up an unfamiliar holler. In the exact spot where her mother’s body had been found was a little marker—a pile of stones in the shape of a cross. It was neat and clean of weeds or vines as if someone kept it up. “Daniel Pelfrey,” he said, without further explanation.

  They walked back down the creek and found a sunny spot to sit and eat. “I should have told you sooner,” he said. “It’s something I’ve wrestled with for a long time.”

  “It helps me to know. I always thought I killed her being born.” Daddy took her hand. “I’m sorry.” His hand tightened and he sighed. “There’s more I have to tell you, Daughter.” He took off his old, shapeless, felt hat and drummed it against his knee. “I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

  Copper couldn’t swallow; the bread turned to sawdust in her mouth. She spat it out and sipped cold black coffee from the pint jar they’d brought along, then passed it to him. “Better just tell me straight-out.”

  He took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She watched him fiddle with the jar lid. He screwed it on and off half a dozen times before it seated itself to his satisfaction. “Aggravating thing’s wore out. I ought to just throw it away.”

  “Daddy?”

  He looked out over the creek, then cleared his throat. “Your mam’s set on going to Philadelphia, Copper, and I aim to go with her.”

  “Philadelphia! Whatever for?”

  “There’re schools up there she wants for the boys.” He cleared his throat again, as if he choked on the words. “That friend of hers—Millicent, the one who owns that fancy school—says she’d find us a house.”

  “But, Daddy . . .”

  He turned his strong, true gaze on her. “It’s pretty much settled, Copper. Your mam fears for Daniel if we stay here. He’s not sturdy like you and Willy.”

  Copper’s face flushed as her anger flared. “How could she ask that of you? How could she dare ask you to leave here?”

  “I asked it of her near seventeen years ago, Daughter.”

  “That’s different,” she sputtered.

  “How so?”

  “’Cause, Daddy, there’s not another place like this.”

  “Don’t I know it. But it’s her turn, I figure.”

  Copper wondered at the tenderness that filled his voice. Could he love Mam like she loved Simon? How strange to think that that could be after all this time. “What about your work?” she asked, unable to keep the anger from her voice. “What would you do there?”

  He squinted and set his hat back on his head. “She wants to teach. And me? I’ll find a coal bank somewhere.”

  “What about me?”

  “Well, honey, we figured to hog-tie you and throw you in the back of the wagon. But, now—”

  “You mean Dr. Corbett?” she asked with resignation.

  “It clouds things, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does, Daddy. It sure clouds things.”

  He stood and stretched and scratched about in the dirt with his walking stick. “You don’t have to marry, you know. I’m not quite ready to give you up.”

  “Daddy?” A thought had just occurred to her. A thought that could set her free. “What if I stayed on here . . . by myself? After you and Mam leave?”

  The look he gave her held no surprise. “This hardscrabble farm is yours if you want it, but what will you do with Doc Corbett? I don’t see him giving up on you very easy.”

  “I don’t mean forever—maybe just a couple of years until I know for sure what I want. Everything’s happening so fast it makes my head spin.” Scattering her bread for the birds, she secured the poke around the half-empty coffee jar. “I’m afraid if I don’t take my time I might live to regret it.”

  “Well, there’s truth in that old saw ‘Marry in haste, repent in leisure.’ If Simon really loves you—and I trust he does—then he’ll wait.” He studied her face. “I’ve not known many folks I thought could handle any situation the good Lord throws their way as well as you, Daughter.”

  She stretched to kiss his cheek. “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you too, sunshine,” he choked. “I love you too.”

  CHAPTER 28

  December came with a light dusting of snow and a cutting wind so cold it rattled teeth and caused the backs of eyes to ache. Nobody ventured far without a layer of wraps, from crocheted mufflers over red noses to double stockings over numbed feet. Still, Copper couldn’t resist stomping on each glass-skimmed puddle on the way to the barn, just to hear the ice crack.

  Molly didn’t seem to mind the weather; she was stabled at night with an extra rasher of feed. She greeted Copper with a soft moo when the barn door opened. Copper scratched her behind the ears, and Molly swung her head in cow contentment, hay sticking out of the corners of her mouth.

  Copper leaned her head against the cow’s warm side and stripped the dangling teats. The swish of milk against the side of the tin bucket was a comfort. Her heart never felt so sore, her emotions still battling within her.

  Dr. Corbett was coming for Christmas. She wished he wouldn’t. Her memory of their time together was beginning to fade, and she found it tolerable to think of never seeing him again. She could stay on Troublesome Creek alone after Mam and Daddy left. Handling the farm wouldn’t be hard. All she’d need was one hired man. Even with John gone there were plenty of near-grown Pelfreys at hand, and Henry Thomas was always looking for money.

  “How could I leave you, Molly?” she asked the sleeping cow. “How could I—?” Her voice caught on a clot of tears. She was so tired of crying. Finished, she stood.

  The little milk stool tumbled over and Molly awoke. She looked at Copper with her soulful brown eyes as if to say, “I agree. How could you?”

  Copper toted the half-full pail to the springhouse and poured the fresh milk into the separator. Mam wanted cream for candy and for the caramel icing she’d top her Christmas jam cake with. After pouring the blue-John into a crock, she stirred the watery milk with a ladle. Funny thing to call milk: blue-John, she mused. Looks like I feel, like my blood has turned to water, like the fullness of life has been skimmed off.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the thick cream-colored envelope that had come in the mail just yesterday. Dr. Corbett had a beautiful hand. The ink flowed pretty as you please scripting her name, Miss Laura Grace Brown, across the front.

  She had written him only once, every other word an inkblot, what with Willy or Daniel interrupting her every minute and Paw-paw jostling her elbow, begging for a piece of biscuit. Besides, she didn’t know what to write. Words that usually came so easily to her jumbled up on the page, but she’d carried the missive to the post office anyway, feeling like she was playing grown-up.

  She smoothed the sharply creased stationery against her skirt. “Dearest,” she read, “I can hardly wait until you are in my arms again. My days are bereft and my nights an agony of longing.”

  She stopped to fan her face with the paper. Her resolve to live without him melted like butter in July and threw her into confusion once again. What she needed was time, more time to come to her own conclusions. She’d write him once more and ask him to wait until spring to visit, and she’d ask him to not write to her and tell him that if he did she’d leave the envelopes sealed.

  She busied herself scraping the rich yellow cream into a crock. She felt better, lighter, her mind clear for the fir
st time in months.

  After Christmas, the weather turned damp and bleak. It had warmed just enough to allow a chilly rain to seep into every nook and cranny of the cabin with its persistent gray drizzle. Everything in the house felt clammy, and it was impossible to dry a wash. Days after the laundry was done, overalls and flannel shirts still hung on a line stretched across the kitchen.

  Willy dragged the sled up on the porch in hopes that the rain would turn to snow. Daddy said he doubted it. He said it was the kind of weather that turned mean, causing sleet instead.

  Everything felt mean to Copper, who sat at the kitchen window in her cotton slip, her hands cupped around a mug of strong, hot tea, an old quilt draped across her shoulders. The fire roared in the fireplace, but its warmth couldn’t seem to make its way across the floor to where she sat, her feet drawn up under her.

  “Laura Grace,” Mam said around a mouthful of straight pins, “let’s try this one more time.”

  Copper moaned but threw off her quilt and went to suffer yet another fitting. She raised her arms, and Mam settled a bodice of blue-and-green-plaid bouclé around her.

  “Turn,” Mam said. “Stop. There’s the problem—this needs single bust darts.” She pinched the material under Copper’s arm. “You see how it pulls with two?”

  No, Copper didn’t see. She shrugged out of the garment and handed it to her mother, who ripped out the offending darts with the skill of a surgeon.

  “One can’t always trust the pattern,” Mam instructed. “A poor fit will always show.”

  “Mam,” Copper replied, “why are you wearying yourself so? I may not even need all these dresses you insist on sewing.”

  Mam settled herself at the Singer, positioned in front of a window to take advantage of the light. “On the other hand, you might. I’ll not have you going off to Lexington with nothing but common clothing. Stop moping about and cut the braid for the trim. No, not that piece—it’s for the jacket. Use the navy.”

  Copper could barely hear Mam’s reply above the whirring of the sewing machine. She took up the yellow tape and measured a length of navy blue braid. The pattern showed the trim extending from underneath the arm to the hem of the walking-length skirt. Mam said walking-length was the newest style. Copper picked up the epaulets that were already finished, fashioned to make her shoulders look wider, which in turn would make her waist look slimmer. Mam had tsk-tsked to measure Copper’s waist at twenty-two inches and had sighed mightily when she slipped the tape around her bust, pulling a little tighter each time.