Aunt had roasted two tender chickens, whipped potatoes, fried sugared apples, and stewed a brown kind of bean they called shuck beans. Apparently parched in the summer heat and reconstituted in boiling water. Tender and salty—I had too many on my plate. I asked outright what they were, and received the quiet, hushed answer. As if the moment we bent over our food transformed a holy moment. That for which one lives. Survival, perhaps? Maybe at the moment we all come together at day’s end, we must simply and quietly sustain ourselves lest our superfluous words spoil Aunt and Uncle’s arduous effort?
Despite any misgivings, I must admit, supper—even the beans— could not have tasted better. Weary as I am from this long day, truth be known, I did not care to rattle-on as I usually do.
An older cousin, Helen, I think, just brought to my door a mug of steaming chamomile tea steeped with honey and a stack of Turkish towels. Another cousin, Kirsten, followed her into my room with a pitcher of hot water for my washstand. Oh, the glory of hot water, hot tea, and the faithful flannel nightgown—and the grace of dark nights, when my own dark clothing can be set aside for something lighter, unrestrained—when life can be still for pondering and sleeping.
Chapter 3
FEBRUARY 25, 1880
I am absolutely frozen to the core. Must find heat. Simply must or they’ll have to chip me out of bed.
After reaching the kitchen, I sufficiently warmed up. Aunt forced me into the hickory bottom ladder chair in front of the woodstove while she cooked breakfast at the range. “You look shaky as a ghost. Coffee’ll cure that!” Her flushed, cheeky-smile and rolled sleeves told me she’d been awake and working for a while.
She handed me a mug of coffee, sweetened and stirred with globby fresh cream. Without my prying, she rattled on about everyone’s duties around the farm, and insisted more than once that I mustn’t feel obligated to take part unless I wished. However, she added, whatever chore I might decide to choose, I would need to let her know so that she might record my plan in the family book.
“What is a family book?” I asked.
She pulled a bulging leather-bound ledger of sorts from the top of the pie safe. (Which, by the way was full of pies. Wouldn’t last long if Father were here.) “This book is why I haven’t ended up in a sanitarium. Yet. With a family as large as ours, I need to keep my children’s goings-on perfectly straight in my head.”
“And that’s quite a lovely head.” Uncle entered the kitchen in a blast of cold air. He limped to Aunt and hugged her. He turned to me. “Good morning, Dorothy. Trust you rested well?”
I assured him I had. “Slept without knowing a thing.” I didn’t mention that exhaustion still yanked at my eyelids. I feel as if I need another long and dreamless night.
I assume Aunt wishes me, quite strongly, to find useful chores to do after her speech. I had expected this, but such a strange way she has of putting it! After city living, I only know how to do indoor things. I shudder at the thought of being asked to milk a cow. Surely they won’t require me to do this else they’ll soon be crying over spoiled milk. I may—perhaps—have the ability to learn, I suppose, but ability doesn’t quite meet up with the mere desire to do so.
Thank Heaven, no one expected me to do work of any kind today. Helen and Kirsten showed me around the farm after breakfast. I could tell the others wanted to shirk duties and follow me—Ernest, the eldest son, tossed his napkin into his breakfast plate (receiving a swat on his sleeve from Aunt) and offered me his arm like a gentleman. He showed me conjoined barns— massive and completely foreign. A good place to get lost and not be soon discovered. Rooms, sections, and levels for every kind of farming implement or stock.
A black barn cat trotted by with a mouse in its mouth. Ernest gave me a sidelong glance, probably expected me to swoon. I did not. “I suppose cats are needed in the country as much as the city.”
He pointed at things to never touch, not that I would, being a woman and all. Then he sat down a stool and began to sharpen some very large blades while Helen showed me the horse stalls. I had already the pleasure of meeting these beasts yesterday. Useful, capable creatures. What struck me most is when Helen turned and I had a full view of her profile. It closely resembles my own! Only her hair is auburn and mine is dark blonde.
Cattle trudged about in the muddy field, making their way towards a large haystack. Uncle worked at a distance tending fences.
“The flower garden is ugly now, but we’ll plant zinnias in the far corner.” Helen seemed to thrill at this. “Nasturtium will climb the grapevine tee-pees and I’ve a mind to put as many roses as will fit into the rest of it.”
I didn’t show my ignorance. Haven’t a clue what a zinnia or a nasturtium is. I smiled and played along.
Kirsten waved me over to another barren stubbly spot near the house. Nothing now, but she seemed excited about this work of hers. “This is where I help mother grow herbs.” She pinched off a thin bit of stick and waved it under my nose. “See, it still has life within. They’ll be greening-up soon.”
“Potent. Quite potent.” Flowers and herbs...I am dropped as a curious character in some Shakespearean play. The sun warmed just at that moment—golden upon our heads. Kirsten twirled before declaring her desire to be off upon her chores. She looks like Aunt but with the family dimple.
Helen turned to me as a chum. “Have you any beaus at home?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Neither do I.” She smiled comically. “Mother says I’m too young to marry at any rate and not to wish for beaus. But I cannot help it.” She sighed. “Consumes my thinking.”
“I suppose you are finished with school?” I asked.
“Last year.” She tightened her shawl as a breeze blew through our bonnets. “There’s always the MacDonald boys but they are too rich for the likes of us.”
“Are they now?”
She shrugged. “I might as well warn you. They come around to see Ernest, but with mother helping at the house now and then, I’m afraid we are looked upon as the help rather than the prosperous farmers that we are.”
“Why does Aunt give herself to serve?” We always hired help, not the other way around. The notion bothered me, if only to know I’d be categorized with this family...my family.
“What else for? Money.”
Oh, how I wished Uncle had accepted my offering. But what care I for men I have never met, nor will likely admire? Though it is more than obvious that Helen fancies them...
After seeing and smelling the inglorious chicken coop, my sense of adventure for this place began to wane. Everyone and every creature moves about a great deal. I’m not sure where I fit in this kind of busyness. The farmhouse appears quite charming—complete with a wrap-around porch and a host of rocking chairs—but it is not a porch of romantic leisure. I can see that. It is a place to rest aching feet and perhaps for still Sunday Sabbath. There’s no sense in me comparing it to my summer holiday at the lake. Or home.
Helen took me by the hand and led me onward, to another barn down a bit of dirt road. Why does this farm require so many? Good thing I wore boots this morning, and good thing my cloak is lined with fur for I am freezing again. Helen let go my hand as she climbed the fence, in her skirts, I might add! How bold. Then she bid me do the same. I glanced around. No one was looking. With shaky footing, I clung for my life to the top railing and managed to slide down, thanks to Helen’s help. Had Mother fence-climbed like this when she was a girl? I would love to have seen her.
Helen jerked her thumb back. “This barn is used for the sheep, when we have them.”
“How precious! Do you get lambs too?” I had never seen one up close.
“They have lambs, you mean.” She laughed. “Look over here. Can’t show you the farm and skip this.”
In the midst of tall bare oaks, gravestone slabs jutted out in all directions. Small unmarked limestone squares dotted around them. Nothing whatsoever like the iron gated church yard where I’d just left hothouse roses on two cold heads
tones only yesterday. I’d seen my share of graveyards—but none like this.
“The whole family is here...well, except...” her face flushed red. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
I stood not feeling any break of emotion. Could I truly be this numb, this accustomed to death? No. It isn’t those two polished headstones that haunt my dreams, but the sounds and smells of the deathbed. The suffering, the wheezing breath, the once vital and wonderfully made beings withering as quickly as fresh-cut grass and flowers. A short, hardworking time on earth with a few good memories pressed between. And then the end. To what purpose?
Maybe the memories won’t end if I carry them forward.
One question lingers and tugs: Am I next? Am I to be similarly snuffed out like a candle? Uncle survived the War between the States when few dodged disease or bullets. Why him? Why had God singled him out to live? These thoughts grip me.
No, these headstones affirm cold finality. Etched names to slowly trace with my fingers as I try to remember a family I’d never met.
I had been too pensive. Helen kindly took my arm and led me away. I looked, but she had pulled her bonnet over her ears, her eyes hidden. A small tear dropped from her jaw.
I tried to encourage her, to smile “Next time, I’d like to know about them—if you can tell me. I’m sure this farm has a heap of stories.”
She nodded and pulled me along.
It was with some relief when the hour for needlework came. This I could do—be a help inside these walls. But they were too shy to receive my sock darning abilities. Too proud for me to patch torn undergarments. So I pulled out a white-work tea cloth Mother and I had started before she became ill. It had been meant for me, for my bulging hope chest. Perhaps I should make it a gift to Aunt...next Christmas. If I am still here.
Toliver hid beneath a small tea table, clutching a stuffed wooly sheep. His brown eyes blinked slowly. His little overalls looked new, knees not even slightly worn. I almost didn’t hear his husky voice, “Mamma die.” His thumb went directly to his mouth as he told me.
Aunt set aside her needle work, bent down and pulled him into her arms. “Yes, mamma die. She’s with Jesus.” He burrowed into the hug.
I wondered at the brown woman who had borne this precious child. His little grief and his little joy. Lost to her for eternity—or until eternity. How Aunt’s small gesture seemed to whisk away any question he’d had about her disappearance.
What grand gesture will whisk away mine?
Chapter 4
JAMES STOOD IN THE middle of his fields—which were already being prepped for the coming season. Thanks to a wet winter, mud stuck like glue to the plowshare. “Like the unwanted guest...” Only Miss Trafton wouldn’t exactly be a guest. A live-in relative, more like. Just how much did the girl hate the farm already? “I bet she groans for city life.”
He tossed his eyes toward the overcast sun, worried. God knew it all. “Like I groaned for the mansion and every other comfort. Back in the day.” That had been awhile. Since then, love for this land had grown on him like moss to a stone. The everlasting green had blotted out scenes of red and acrid, throat-tearing smoke. Mostly. He kicked mud from the blades and unlatched the horse. He shivered and glanced at the sky. Snow—sure and certain.
Ploughing would have to wait until the foals were born at Hammond’s anyway. He’d go the following night and get the introduction over with. He rolled his eyes and hoped against hope she wouldn’t faint dead away at the sight of him.
FEBRUARY 26, 1880, Thursday
I am not wanted in their kitchen. Neither for cooking nor cleaning. I simply cannot fathom why this is the case. My excellent lemon curd would go well with Helen’s gingerbread. She merely raised an eyebrow and looked to Aunt at my suggestion. Aunt made a sour face but did not reply. Perhaps they do not have lemons to spare.
I lifted the clattering lid from a large pot. Ham and pinto beans steamed beneath my chin, simmering toward tenderness. I dared not add savory seasonings or spice. Ham and beans...is this the luncheon mainstay? I crave cool cucumber sandwiches and dripping watermelon. All things summer, all things light. The back door slapped and gave me a scare.
Aunt turned on her heel and chased after Toliver, “I better help you collect the eggs. Wouldn’t want you pecked to death by a feisty bitty, now would I?” Her laughter trailed behind her and I could not help but laugh too. Bare-footed Little Ruby followed after. We always purchased our eggs at market, already nestled in a straw-lined basket. I do not anticipate removing an egg from beneath its vicious Mater. Toliver’s and Ruby’s enthusiasm may save me from the task. Good heavens.
Helen slid three round cakes of gingerbread into the oven. “We’ll eat in an hour.” She smiled sweetly but I was dismissed from this sacred workplace, where nearly half a woman’s honor must be found.
Only yesterday Aunt implied that I needed some valuable occupation—one that would benefit the family. Yet they have not allowed me to lift a finger. After all, I have only been here two days. Perhaps they intend on providing me a time to rest and adjust. If so, then my fear is moot and they are merely merciful. If not, then I am a fifth wheel they haven’t figured out how to utilize. I opt to believe the former. However, it is imperative that I justify my existence on this farm. I shall not, I repeat, I shall not be a wallflower.
Since I am not given responsibility, today at least, I retreated to the porch where the sun would provide comforting warmth. I had raided my book trunk with the hopes of getting lost in words and other places. Anything was better than being trapped by my own idle thoughts.
The bookseller had promised a thrilling read in Edgar Allan Poe. Too thrilling, I’m afraid. It was a new purchase. I say that it was because this book was not long for this world. I decided straightaway it would better serve to help bake the bread than provide meat for the mind. I waited until Aunt went upstairs and snuck back into the kitchen. What might they think of thumping hearts and murder? They’d be mortified. I know I certainly hated it. Death enough without spending the afternoon relishing stories about it.
My own heart thumped as I touched the hot handle, so much so I could hear it in my ears. I yanked a cloth and opened the furnace hatch. I confess the story intriguing, though out of taste. I regarded the fine cloth binding and gilded lettering one last time and tossed it into red hot embers. Put death to death. Yes, that is what I wished to do.
The stories cast a spooky mood within my mind. Ever since, every creak and scratch made me jump. Does my lamp have enough oil? I may need it this night.
I at last became useful at the hour for needlework, if only to myself. Aunt insisted I sit in the horsehair chair, even sending the footstool my way. Upon reflection, I determined that they are truly being merciful to me. What else could it be?
Embroidery is slow work, but I learned long ago that beautiful pieces require patience and hope. I shall be rewarded for all the tedious effort I poured into planning the design and tugging white cotton across the linen. I tell myself this because Mother used to. More often than not, I am usually ready for this hour to be over. Completion will have to come one hour, one day at a time. Unlike me, Mother had the patience of a rock. She could sit in one spot for hours, working tirelessly. I suspect this farm and everything it produces requires the same sort of diligence.
I pricked my thumb and I watched a tiny red drop rise to the surface. I lay the white work aside lest it stain. Father used to quote a famous Welsh preacher, “Sometimes the best you can give requires blood, sweat, and tears.” The blood and sweat part, I understand. Toil and war and death and such. I’ve caught a glimpse of Uncle and my cousins washing up for dinner behind the house covered in farm grime with sweat-soaked hair, despite the cold that keeps me wishing for a cup of tea.
They’ve immersed their living into this place. Is there anything about their occupation that rips into their soul? Tears...might they be how the soul bleeds? When will mine stop? May bleeding ever be suspended? I have heard that direct pres
sure against certain veins can save a life, but applied too late all is lost. My wound still bleeds. Perhaps the missing flesh of my flesh can be replaced with an occupation and a good dose of my own blood and sweat. Simple as that.
FEBRUARY 27, 1880, Friday
The farm is covered with snow, at least a good foot deep. All hopes for an early spring are dashed by plummeting temperatures and a certain family of mice found nesting in the bottom of the oats bin. The snow certainly has its own beauty. Indeed, I have never been in the center of such vast, blinding whiteness.
Aunt’s spirits were dour from the start this morning. At my entreaty to cook the porridge and subsequent discovery of the nasty little creatures, she failed to maintain countenance. Her face flashed as red as her hair and tears followed. “I hate the filthy vermin,” she said. Toliver sat shivering in wet britches by the woodstove. My cousins simply stared at their mother, except for Ruby who laughed as she reached unafraid into the bin and scooped up the creatures. The baby mice squirmed in her hands, their tiny tails squiggling about. The boys stumbled toward her, pushing and jostling, and then roughly snatched them from her hand. She didn’t mind the theft. At least at first.
I had been busy—despite the rodents. I stirred the cooking oats as if no tiny dirty feet had tainted the grain. A good boiling would clean away the traces. I knew without asking that none of this would be wasted...nor the remainder in the bin.
Aunt took herself to the pump and splashed away her tears. Do mice plague this house at times? Apparently. I have not noticed evidence in any other room, but if in the kitchen, I’d best be on the lookout. Perhaps the cat needed an inside invitation. Of course, these decisions aren’t exactly up to me. Yet.
I turned to Aunt. “Please allow me to help you in the kitchen. I do not mind the mice.” She cringed. I added grated cinnamon to the pot. “Cooking is something I can actually do around here.” I tried to make my face pleading but not pathetic.
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 2