Aunt sniffed as she wiped drops of water from her hair. “I despise nothing more than a nest of mice.” She dried her hands on her stained pinstripe apron. “One winter they ruined my wedding gown. Chewed through the trunk and gorged on my fine linen.”
“How dreadful.” The thought of wedding white made me inwardly flinch. I shall be wearing black for a good while, but I am very fond of what awaits within my wardrobe. Many months from now, if all goes as planned.
Aunt smiled. “I hate to see my good niece put to work so sudden.”
“I fear if I don’t do something I’ll fall to pieces.” Blatant honesty fell off my tongue. I did not want to appear a weak or unstable female.
She squinted out the window. “Outdoor work will be impossible, so we shall make today a holiday.” She spied a glance into the oatmeal pot. “Helen and Kirsten will make fudge. Tonight, we’ll have popcorn and roasted apples.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, the bridge of her nose pinched with concern. “I suspect that will cheer you up.”
“I daresay that would cheer anyone.” Grief leaves me with the desire for nothing but cheer, but dread for it at the same time.
Ruby screamed as she peered through a crack in the door that had been left slightly open. She turned and ran, tears coming fast. Boys laughed. Tom, Henry, what’s his name—the one in his teen years? He bungled past her bringing in snow all over the hardwood floor. “Job done, Mother. Those mice haven’t a breath of life left in ‘em.”
Aunt planted her hands on her hips. “Did you have to kill them in front of Ruby?” She expressed absolutely no concern for the tiny victims.
Ruby sat by the oatmeal bin and rocked herself, sniffling. I would have gone to her, but the oatmeal began to thicken. A scorched breakfast would no doubt result in banishment from the kitchen. That I could not abide.
Tom poked his thumb back at her with a scowl. “Would someone talk some sense into her?”
“Tom.” Aunt lifted a brow.
“Yes Ma’am?” His face had already dropped.
“You may do something nice for your sister today. Go to your room and think about what that might be.”
Oatmeal sputtered and burnt my hand. I muffled my “ouch!”
“The rest of you need to get about your duties.” Aunt turned to me. “We must seem like a pack of heathens to you.”
“Not at all.” Just so very different. I wanted to tell her how glad I was to be here, but the words wouldn’t come.
“I am not myself this morning—do forgive me.” Aunt lifted willow ware bowls from the shelf and spread them softly around the large, cloth-covered table. Ruby watched her, tears still streaming.
Is it criminal to cry when one needs to? Certainly not. Father was a tenderhearted man. Mother said he wept at my birth. He also wept when he heard about the Great Chicago Fire. And when the Indians were forced from town at gunpoint. His tears, well, now that I think on it, showed more than just grief. They showed opinions. His love. And the horror of a single, untended spark. While Mother laughed with those who laughed, Father certainly cried with those who cried. And sometimes the two blended into serious countenance with humor resting behind knowing eyes. A hidden wisdom I could never figure. How did they manage to be at peace with the other side of their emotions? It’s a wonder that any of us can be calm with so many great evils in this world. And the one great curse that stands sentry over every moment.
Finally, Aunt lifted Ruby into her arms and soothed her. She allowed Ruby to join in, to place spoons around the table. Uncle and Ernest knocked their boots at the door. The stock was fed and now it was their turn.
Conversation flowed at breakfast, unlike the quiet suppers. Chores traded, sledding routes planned, and the anticipation of fudge brought giggles even from Aunt who seemed to be recovering from the appearance of both snow and mice. I smiled too. My oatmeal must have been to their liking, as I heard no complaints.
The MacDonald boys showed up. At least this is what Helen told me when she dashed inside for extra mittens. I caught a glimpse now and then from my window. Though tall and lean, at a distance they appeared small as the baby mice. They joined Ernest on the steepest hill just beyond the farthest barn—out by the graveyard. Poor Helen. To be smitten is often to be disappointed. I wondered at the difference between the two fellows and which one she favors. I suppose I shall meet them sooner or later. Perhaps in church come Sunday.
I forsook sledding. T’would be looked down upon for a grieving daughter to sled, wouldn’t it? One moment I was jealous, the next I was glad to have a quiet stretch of time.
Helen shied away from them and joined the younger siblings on the more gentle slopes. From my perch in the family room, I watched as they scampered up steep hills and flew down again. I pulled out my sketch book ...so many details to make this picture complete.
I worked in earnest, amazed at the capacity for nature—despite its cursed condition—to not only to provide work but play as well. I wonder if anyone can look around and see the ground and appreciate its permanence. See how things are. The sky, the snow, the terrain, the cloud. The blazing fire and fudge that wait for them...
My poor rendition has pleased Aunt very much. She asked to have it when I am done. I confess a small swell of pride, but I know Mother would have executed a far superior drawing. I shall pull out Mother’s portfolio and continue to learn... See Mother, I still need you to teach me.
My soul smiles at having pleased Aunt, but I know I shan’t make a living from drawing.
The girls came in sooner than the boys to make the fudge. Since little Ruby and Toliver were put down for a nap, I was given the honor of licking the stirring-spoon after the fudge had been poured. There I stood in my black, silk gown clutching that chocolate covered spoon as if it were my golden destiny. I nearly wept as Aunt had earlier this morning. It must have been the warm kitchen, the sweet aroma...
Hours ago, I would not have expected such an evening. Even now, as my lamp sputters for lack of oil, I hear them laughing downstairs. Uncle and his guest...
No one informed me of company. An oversight? I doubted it. He arrived just after we roasted apples. Mine had reached the perfect temperature, and when I took my first bite—my very first, I had not eaten a roasted apple before—I knew the earthy-sweet, apple-sauce flavor had also been seasoned with the cheer Aunt had spoken of that morning.
We were sitting on the floor in Aunt’s parlor, a place she had declared a gift for her family and not guests alone. Blankets spread about in all directions. How good it was to be surrounded by Mother’s kin, how lovely it was to hear them laugh about their day on the slopes.
Uncle snatched a nearby book and began reading The Blackberry Queen when someone whacked the front entry door as though using a riding whip. Ernest opened the door. I pulled a hanky from my sleeve and quickly wiped my sticky chin of any trace of my present enjoyment. One mustn’t be informal with strangers, of course. I rose and pressed myself into a cold corner of bookshelves.
“It’s David!”
Uncle rose to his feet and limped to the satchel-laden figure that filled the entry. The little ones scampered about his legs instantly, holding on to him like a buoy in a bay. Toliver had already found his hiding place beneath Aunt’s apron again. She had remained sitting in a low rocking chair and one might think she appeared great with child, except for Toliver’s dirty stocking-feet poking out.
My cousins thrilled at this strange man’s arrival—a chatter of questions compared to the shy reception I received. Obviously, they already knew him, were comfortable with him.
The man, finally released from his many admirers, stepped into the lamp light. I squeezed farther back into the corner. His face transfixed me.
I thought I knew what it meant to live with heartache each day. This man meets suffering each time he beholds his own reflection. The mirror a constant reminder. Some brutality had plagued him, distorted him, and I instantly feared knowing how it had happened. And the man himself. Unfair, cer
tainly, and yet my curiosity was terribly provoked.
Uncle bid me to meet him. I did not want to be touched by further pain, but I am a proper young lady. I could hardly avoid the contact. “This is my niece, Dorothy Trafton,” he said.
He offered his scarred right hand, I forced mine to take it as my left hand clutched the sticky-saucy apple.
This suffering-David looked me in the eye, boldly, before bending over my hand. I confess I am glad he did not press his half-melted lips upon them. I suppose this is cruel but can’t help myself. Alright then, I know it is a cruel thought and should feel ashamed. However, I am only being honest about that uncomfortable moment. He is but a stranger, not family.
The clear side of his face smiled, forcing the left side to twist as though Comedy and Tragedy vied for center stage. “I am James Bleu.”
James? Why did everyone else call him David?
“I am pleased to meet you.” I am not in the habit of lying, but when is it ever good to be rude? I knew that I ought to have been pleased to meet him. Though I tried, I could see nothing in his visage to merit such delight from my cousins.
If he sensed my apprehension, he did not show it. I imagine he is accustomed to sensing dread from others unless surrounded solely by those who have affection for him. As this family seems to have. Perhaps he loathed meeting another person unfamiliar with the story his scars.
Apple juice dripped and gathered between my fingers becoming as grubby as a street urchin’s. I slipped out of the room behind Helen who ran to get Mr. Bleu an apple for roasting.
I met her in the kitchen. “Who is he?” And why was he shown such favor?
“Father’s friend from war days.” Her eyes were wide. “He comes sometimes.”
“Why?”
“To visit us, of course!” She ran out, too enthralled with the company to regard me with real answers.
I sat at the table and devoured the rest of my apple in a way that made me glad no one was around to see. I rinsed my fingers under icy cold pump water, wiped them on my apron, and walked back to the parlor to bid them good night. My adieu was hardly noted.
Their laughter continued as I wrestled off that beast of a black gown and took down my hair. I sat in front of the vanity mirror and leaned forward. With difficulty, I imagined his scars were my own and allowed the shame I deserved to fill my heart. Why couldn’t I bear to see him? I have sketched my version of my scarred face here so that I won’t forget. His physical shortcoming shouldn’t cause me such cold fear. Yet they did. It isn’t as if I’ve never seen these war-survivors before.
And how very odd that he introduced himself as James...
JAMES EASED ON HIS attic cot, reluctant to be away from the glowing fire and dear friends downstairs. She had his room now, and no doubt was a good deal warmer. He slid off his boots and blew out the lantern. He wasn’t here to be pampered. He tugged the wool blankets around his chin and buried his head into the feather pillow.
Nothing, no nothing could dispel first impressions. His face, her eyes. The lift of her brows, the slight parting of her lips. A hint of distress. Uncertainty. Could she touch him without being scarred too? He’d seen the looks, time and time again. And they replayed through his mind, all of them, right down to his mother’s. He felt a frightful squeeze of horror rather than a hug. She fell into a fit—a stroke, the doctor called it. Screamed unceasingly the next time she’d seen him. His wealthy socialite of a mother didn’t have a son so disfigured. Couldn’t James still be out there somewhere, trying to make his way home? Who is this imposter? She’d demanded of his father.
The years after the war at Bleu Manor were nightmarish. His father did all he could for him. Refusing him a place in college, he’d educated James in the manor’s sufficient library. Rules crowded him, protected him. He must never bother his mother again. Never go near her. Must not join the family at dinner, eat only in the kitchen. His father and sister joined him there at times, when Mother was indisposed. All of it a great charade to keep Mother from being sent to an asylum. How could she not accept the affections of her war-torn son?
He had run away—but—Miss Trafton’s face pushed away the past. He stopped the zoetrope before it spun out of control. Miss Dorothy Trafton had not behaved any worse than anyone else. While she’d been taken back by his looks, he’d expected it.
He rubbed the unmarred side of his face and grinned. Still a good-looking guy at least half of the time. His personal joke never failed to lift his spirit. What she thinks doesn’t matter. But what she will do, oh that was a praying matter. He grinned again. Couldn’t help it. Had she been hiding a sticky apple behind her back?
Chapter 5
FEBRUARY 28, 1880
Despite needing sleep, I tossed amid my blankets from one cold side to the other for hours, unable to shake his image. His face. I dreamt that tragic Mr. Bleu reintroduced himself over and again and I repeatedly imitated dramatic shock—swooning like a gothic maiden. Baby mice jumped from his coat pockets by the hundreds. Ridiculous rodents. Must have tasted too many sweets yesterday.
I am exhausted and in need of a large pot of real tea. Aunt and Uncle prefer coffee or chamomile. Suppose that will have to do. As soon as the roads clear of deep snow drifts, muddy or not, I intend to walk to the mercantile and purchase a few tins of Chinese green and perhaps even some orange pekoe. A sliver of my inheritance is well worth a bit of normalcy. I believe I need lemons too. Will the others think me spoiled? Honestly, I care not.
I have spot-cleaned the black silk gown as best as I can manage, shoved a fresh handkerchief in my pocket, and daubed lavender water on my wrists. And folded my thin arms. What should be done next? Simple day-to-day doings should not perplex me, but they do at times. Especially here. What if my simple day-to-day doings don’t matter a jot within the scope of existence? What if I don’t matter to anyone but myself?
I knew what to do. I knelt by the trunk and lifted the lid. A carefully wrapped package waited, snug between newspaper and straw. I thought not to open this trunk again until I married, but a clean break between past and present isn’t to be.
I unwrapped the simple Brown Betty tea pot, the glaze still shiny after years of daily washing. My blue-striped china cup cradled perfectly between my hands, delicate by comparison. Mismatched for sure, but a ritual nonetheless. Always preserved for my breakfasts and afternoons. Had it mattered to me, I could have saved the silver set Mother used for company—more impressive by far. I sold it to the judge’s wife and guarded this pair as the greater treasure. These are some of the things I can bear to use. I believe I would cry if I didn’t salvage them.
I placed the teapot here on my desk, recessed into the cubby hole so there is no chance of grabbing hands or little elbows knocking it to the ground. There. I have a small purpose. I shall apply myself to learning my larger purpose for this one day, I will figure out what to do with myself, what needs to be accomplished. Soon. But first I need breakfast.
What shall I first report? That Mr. Bleu is to remain with us a fortnight or the fact that the MacDonald boys made an entrance as soon as breakfast had been eaten? To dispense with the difficult, I will start with Mr. Bleu—who made no correction when I called him so. I feel strange that the rest of the family calls him simply David. Mr. Bleu is his name, and as a mere acquaintance, I should not mind the usual title.
I looked him straight in the eye and gave out a hearty, undignified greeting. I fear I looked and sounded like a goose. I felt my smile too large and my neck poke out an inch forward. Not to mention I enunciated my words as if he were deaf.
Humiliating. He copied my clownish greeting, showing me instantly my absurd behavior. A normal, quiet “good morning” should have sufficed, but I was trying to make up for my off-kilter feelings. Feelings Mr. Bleu did nothing to salve. Not only that, he turned his back to me and settled in at the opposite end of the table where Uncle sat.
I ate with a burning face, unaccustomed to such rudeness. Of course, no one else seemed
to notice. I assume he is irritated that I live here now...as though I had changed the dynamic of the family by my very presence. Very often my thoughts run away with me as much as my dreams do. My assessment may be completely unfair. But I doubt it.
Father always said that we must never give up on another human because Christ surely does not. At this early stage of our acquaintance, I shall shove all judgments aside for the Last Day. I shall not, however, forgo discernment. Thus far, I discern Mr. Bleu to be reticent in regard to young women. And I cannot blame him. My small theory may yet prove incorrect. I don’t pretend to care either way. At any cost, I shall avoid further humiliation while in his presence. What have I to do with him?
Being a Saturday, and being cooped up a day too long, I resolved to pull on my boots and take a long walk through the snow. Alone, I hoped. As for the MacDonald boys, I find reserving judgments with that pair a difficult task.
I had just bitten into a soft doughnut when those two men walked into the kitchen. Why didn’t they knock or at least ring the guest bell? That’s only courteous. Ernest scooted down the bench making room for them. Their faces were obscured by the children’s small heads, I could not get a good look at them until some moments later.
“Good morning, madam, good morning, sirs.” Jovial, but what manners!
I saw portions of blonde and black hair. Short fuzzy beards. I glanced at Helen. She’d pasted on a soft smile and refrained from eating a single bite. Really, she was far too transparent.
“Philip and Chess, what brings you here?” Aunt seemed delighted. “Sledding again?”
Elbows landed firmly on the table. “Your doughnuts. We can smell them all the way to Cedar Gate,” spoke dark beard.
“Help yourself—I made too many,” she laughed.
“See, Chess, she knew we’d be here.” Philip grabbed a handful like he’d never eaten before.
Of Needles and Haystacks Page 3