Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  A couple of foolish brothers, likely not ready to settle down. Helen looked back at me. Her smile showed teeth now. I know how her heart beats quickly and how far her hope exceeds reality. Though she is a few years younger than me, am I beyond similar dreamy entrapments? I hope and pray so.

  When Mother lay dying, she used her last breaths not to say farewell or that she loved me but to advise me not to marry a man unless he is very like Father. But who is like Father? I have not met him yet. Probably never shall. But if I do not meet him, perhaps I can be like Father myself. His example of a good heart produced an unequally good history—with an unquestioned reputation that surely none in my hometown may soon forget.

  Such a thought unnerves me. I do not feel as good as he at all, mostly because of the agony that lies between God and me. It bars me from trusting Him. Yet I have no choice. I understand that. To be good and happy means that I must enjoy Him first, because all true joy flows out of Him. Isn’t that true? But how am I to enjoy the tragic circumstance of their deaths?

  Without thinking, I looked to Mr. Bleu and caught Toliver climbing into his lap. His brown fingers touched the scarred and mottled portion of his face. A single small finger poked at his lip. “Ow.” The child sensed the man’s pain.

  Everyone else shuffled from the table in busyness. Grabbing scarves and hats for another day on the hills. Mr. Bleu returned my stare, not smiling. Just steel gray eyes I failed to read. As if eyes could ever be properly read. Like tea leaves, no fortune will be found there. Just his own inner-sight or perhaps only darkness, not meant for me to comprehend. If I moved closer, I would only see that strange double reflection of myself.

  I smiled a little and barely nodded, but he turned his complete attention to Toliver. “Do you want to be a giant, little man? Yes?” He studiously ignored me.

  “Yes! I giant!” He lifted Toliver on his sturdy shoulders so he might touch the ceiling. Remarkable that this little one should be so drawn to one so damaged. At least the man showed kindness to children. That was a small point in his favor.

  I stood and Helen grabbed my hand, pulling me to the nearby entry. “Philip, Chess, I want you to meet my cousin.” They squeezed into the small space.

  “Forgive us, Dorothy.” Earnest blushed. “We forgot.”

  Philip and Chess MacDonald gave very charming, overly gracious introductions, though Chess was all too ready to release my hand. He grasped it gently, then tossed it as if it had been a scrap for a dog. Unless material changes occur in his manners, I can say at this moment that I will not be tempted to set my heart in his direction.

  “Join us, if you wish.” At least Philip was kind enough to offer.

  Ernest shook his head. “She won’t come. She’s in mourning.” He pointed to my black shawl then rocked back on his heels. “Tried to get her to come out yesterday.”

  Philip buttoned his cap under his chin. “Widowed already? You’re awfully young.”

  “Indeed not.” Impertinent man.

  Chess laughed. “Don’t tell me you are one and forty? You don’t look that old.”

  Ernest gave me an apologetic look. “Her parents, you idiots, and only recently.”

  “My apologies.” Philip slightly bowed. “Another day, then. Good to make your acquaintance.” And with that the boys flew out the door, leaving behind a trail of chill breeze that snaked around my bare fingers and neck.

  The cold moved Helen from her trance. Truly, she seemed dazed by their energy. Kirsten handed her a pair of boots but she did not take them. Her eyes followed the backs of Chess, Philip, and Ernest.

  In my room, I gathered my cloak and boots. This was one of those times I decided I might think better outside my room than in. Besides, Aunt might worry if I sequestered myself. A long snow- hike seemed ideal. My thoughts and I needed to be alone and return with a singular purpose.

  As I reached for the door handle, Uncle’s heavy hands dropped on my shoulders and gently turned me.

  “Wait for us. We don’t want you to get lost now.”

  “How did you know I was going for a walk?”

  Uncle squeezed my shoulder. “I saw it in your eyes. Your mother’s had the same look when she needed to get outdoors.”

  And here I thought eyes could never be properly read. “Is Aunt joining us?”

  “Just David and me.”

  How awkward. I almost refused but no excuse came quickly enough to mind.

  Uncle and Mr. Bleu had already donned their boots. I wished Aunt would join us, begged her to do so. “You know I can’t, Dorothy.” I thought of the many mouths, the cook stove, and the little ones to tend. Her choice had been made for her.

  How would I converse with two grown men? That wasn’t comfortable. And how possible was it that Mr. Bleu fought in the war? Despite the scars that wrinkle in places, he seems far too young to have gone, especially standing next to Uncle. He has no creases around his eyes and his hair is dark as my gown.

  I did not need to worry about conversation or about humiliating myself again. The two walked ahead of me by a few good paces and I was left to flesh out my purpose for being outdoors. For my future. Before my ruminations got too deep, however, I thought it good manners to speak up but couldn’t divine what to say to start a new conversation. I must admit though, that to leave a young woman without an arm to lean on (disregarding my solitary intent) seemed discourteous. Yet another small but noticeable slight.

  We trooped over the sledding hills, by low stone fences bordered with cedar trees of every size. By snow-covered haystacks and piles of firewood. Uncle glanced back a time or two and asked if I was alright. I was indeed. The exercise, cool air, blue sky, unmarred snow—I might have been able to nod an affirmative to alright. Refreshed is perhaps a better word, even with the man-of-misery marching ahead of me. He never looked back. Not once. Apparently he hadn’t the least curiosity about my condition.

  The best hill, which must be a mile distance from the house, stood ahead. Philip and Chess shouted, panic clouding their voices. We ran as though chased by tigers, my skirt hem laden with snow and slapping between my legs.

  Could he be? I nearly blushed. Mr. Bleu seemed to be taking God’s name in vain until I realized that his repetitive sputtering of the word “God” was some sort lifeline to sanity, a prayerful lifeline to prod him toward the fence post where Ernest leaned.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God...” came after every heaving breath. Why would Mr. Bleu be so affected by a wound not his own? Ernest was no doubt hurt. That was all. Why the fuss? Nothing so terrible that a little attention couldn’t fix...I had hoped.

  Uncle remained calm when he reached Ernest. Philip held a handful of snow atop Ernest’s back. Blood seeped around the edges, turning the white mound dark red. His coat had been slashed through.

  “Papa—papa...” Ernest gasped for breath. “My other shoulder, dislocated...”

  Uncle tossed his leather gloves to me. “Get the snow off.” He pointed at Philip. “Now. Let me see how bad it is.”

  Philip wiped it away. “Sled runner plowed right into him. I couldn’t stop fast enough.” Philip paled as Uncle’s lips pursed tight. “Ernest must have been ten feet in the air.”

  Mr. Bleu stood farther back. His mouth twitched. I stepped closer to Ernest.

  “What can I do?” I asked. A simple, stupid question. Unworthy of an answer, I was ignored.

  “Son, this will hurt, it can’t be helped. I need to get your left shoulder back into socket. Your right one is cut deep and it’s gonna hurt like hellfire.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “Be a man, now. Place both hands on the fence.” My cousin reached out. “It must be done.”

  Ernest began to cry. I turned away out of kindness. I knew that later he would hate knowing that I’d watched. When I turned, Mr. Bleu looked down to the ground with fists clenched. How could he display such anger at a moment like this? He was not being particularly helpful.

  Before I knew it, Ernest cried out, long and
sharp. His breath came in puffs while Uncle and Chess hauled him to one of the sleds. For men, they were gentle settling him in.

  Mr. Bleu staggered to the fence, one fist opening enough to grab the top rail, frosty puffs keeping time with his heavy breathing.

  Uncle unstrapped a canteen from around his shoulder and handed it to me. “Stay here with him. I’ll be back.”

  I wanted to say, “No, wait!” But in such a situation an argument would have been far worse for my character.

  Uncle and the MacDonald boys trotted quickly down the gentlest slope toward the house pulling Ernest behind them while I stood five feet away from a man who was either suddenly ill or ill-tempered. Either way, his bewildering behavior appears to be expected by Uncle. I pulled my lavender-scented handkerchief from my sleeve, plunged it into the snow, and handed it to him.

  He snatched it from my hand and mopped his face, trembling.

  “Leave me.” His voice steeled. “Leave me now.” His scars splotched white against flushed skin.

  “Uncle bid me stay.” I handed him the canteen, he snatched that too.

  I trudged a good thirty paces away and stood facing the farmhouse. I’d have to suffer this man’s disrespect an entire fortnight. Surely, he wouldn’t impose on this family—my kin—any longer?

  Fifteen odd-minutes later, Uncle returned. “David being cantankerous?”

  I shrugged in silence.

  Uncle patted me on the shoulder and whispered. “He was just a boy. Saw too much war too young.”

  I’m afraid my mouth hung wide. Wasn’t sure what seeing “too much” meant. If it was anything like watching my parents die, then perhaps the chasm between himself and God was far larger than mine. Men in battle endured many deaths, not just two. How this connected to a minor emergency, I do not know. Certainly, Ernest is not dying.

  “Come on, David. The giant’s dead now.” He looped an arm around Mr. Bleu. His trembling persisted. “You need some hot coffee.”

  I led the way this time, the two war friends straggling behind.

  Chapter 6

  FEBRUARY 28, 1880, evening

  I didn’t see Mr. Bleu until supper, and as I have mentioned before, no one speaks at the dinner table. I don’t believe I can ever embrace this tradition. Last night had been cheerful, even hopeful. This night, everything had changed. Aunt worries over Ernest who lies in bed with an herbal poultice. The lavender-minty fumes reach all the way to my room. Perhaps she was more worried about that other question...as well she should have been. Had I been party to such secrets, I would have hidden myself away too. Such goings on! I wonder that she didn’t just ask me from the start. I wonder a great many things now.

  Helen, Kirsten, Henry, Tom, Ruby and even little Toliver—all the children of the house were downright sullen. I didn’t blame them. Ernest seems to be a great favorite—the leader of the offspring.

  Mr. James-always-called-David Bleu behaved as though he caused the accident. Why—I have yet to determine. His head dipped down, slightly cocked to one side, brows squeezed together as if listening intently for a train to arrive. One that never did.

  Does a conundrum pursue him? One certainly does me. At dinner time, I made a wish. I wished that I could become truly good at something. That I could be of some honest value. Become independent of my Uncle’s family. My mid-section squeezed uncomfortably at the thought of being out on my own. This worthlessness defines spinsterhood worse than living off relative’s bread. Heat flashes upon my face as I think about what I now know and how it has tailored my worries.

  At my age, I assumed I might have my own family to care for. Or at least be spoken for. I have had no prospects. Zereo. I often used to sit in front of the mirror and worry over the slight crook in my nose. It is ever so small, but girls at school assumed I was a tom-boy and had broken it playing baseball. Wait. Stop! I am veering far from tonight’s dinner and what happened that has me scribbling away. It is easy to become so self-absorbed that I do not write what I intend to write!

  After dinner, I insisted on washing up so that Aunt might tend to Ernest. I delivered a basin of hot water and heard him say, “My shoulder must have been cut by a poison spear—ceaseless fire.” I pray to God that infection stays away. I remember faithfully praying the same for my parents...

  When I returned to the kitchen, Mr. Bleu stood at the sink scrubbing my handkerchief I’d loaned him that morning with a hard lump of soap. One should always scrub one’s own handkerchiefs, but in this case, I was more than happy to let him. I did not care to be in the same room with him. Before he noticed me, I ran back upstairs to my room to give him five long minutes to finish. When I crept back down, he had removed himself to the kitchen table. Propped open before him was a thick book, open to the middle. His eyes stayed on the print. My sopping handkerchief now draped the back of a chair.

  Never mind him. I rolled up my sleeves and prepared to work through thirteen plates, bowls, cups, and myriad of pots. I have to write about the mundane chore for greater contrast. I never, never expected my first few days here to be as they have been and I certainly never expected what happened next.

  Mr. Bleu, in a stolid voice, bid me sit before him. What? Had I heard him correctly? I felt like a schoolgirl about be lectured.

  “Your parents died?” He did not look up.

  Did he have no pity? How would he feel if the question were put to him in the same manner? “Yes. Are yours dead too?”

  His eyes snapped up at that. I suppose I was tactless, but so was he. I thought about getting up just then, but he placed his hand on my arm, anticipating my flight. Warm, yet firm. My heart shivered.

  “My parents are dead to me, or rather, I to them.” He spoke as if issuing a challenge.

  “What are you talking about?” His words jumbled in my brain.

  He shook his head. “They cannot bear to see me. I am no longer welcome in my home.”

  Should I believe him? Self-pity drove him to think himself disowned, surely. If only my parents lived, scars would be nothing! No matter what our kerfuffle I would find a way to resolve matters. Never would I be as pig-headed as this man. Though I do not forget my unfair thoughts when I first saw him.

  I grew tired of his game. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

  “You know that your father purchased this farm from your uncle five years ago.” A statement that should have been a question.

  Heat filled my face. “I never knew.” Father’s lawyer never breathed a word. Something was wrong. This made absolutely no sense.

  He tapped a row of fingers on the table space between them. “Are you being honest?”

  How dare he? “Why shouldn’t I be? And why is my honesty significant or even questioned at all?”

  “This farm is held in trust for you until you turn twenty-one.”

  I gasped. “In a few weeks...” Suddenly I understood.

  He pressed his hands together and placed them in front of his mouth. “Why have I never seen you here before?”

  “Same reason I’ve never seen you here before.”

  His eyelids shuttered closed. I felt his condescension. I was losing patience with him, and my dishwater was cooling. “You will not do your uncle a bad turn.” He raised an eyebrow.

  He is commanding me now? “My father’s lawyer would have told me if such an arrangement existed.” I took a breath. “I believe you jest. How cruel of you.”

  “Miss...”

  “Trafton.”

  “Miss Trafton,” He brushed an imaginary crumb from the table. “I never jest and am never cruel.”

  Only brutish and blunt. “I don’t understand. Why did no one tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Uncle...” These were private words for family only. Not this stranger.

  “Asked me to have this little talk.”

  “Why? I have no history with you.” I scooted my chair back. “Never even met you until last night.”

  “You don’t have much of a hi
story with your mother’s family either. We are all quite strangers to you.”

  I really needed to get to my dish pile. “That is true, but blood is thicker than...”

  “Water. Another point I need to discuss with you.”

  “Good heavens.” I attempted to stand, but his hand shot out again. I jerked away.

  “The adjoining farm to the west is mine.”

  “Don’t tell me I own that too.” I was feeling quite saucy. To think Uncle and Aunt squeamish enough to have this man tell me the truth—Of what exactly did they think me capable?

  “Only the back ten acres.”

  “What?”

  “Where the creek that divides the land is—waters the cattle.” He turned the page of his large volume. “His and mine.”

  “Oh.” I failed to see the significance of his point. Land, water, cattle. I’m just a town-girl. I want my old home, my own people and not this random stranger attacking me for a mystery purchase from the past.

  Suddenly, the key fit. “Was Uncle in debt? Going to lose the farm?”

  He sat back, irritated. “What else?”

  “And father paid the debt, so you are angry with me for inheriting?” I quavered at that point. I had not thought Father and Mother left me anything much, as I had other debts to pay at the time of their deaths. I had been living off the leftovers until I came here a few days ago. They left me this farm...Mother’s farm. So, despite any family discontent, Father had been kind to his brother-in-law. But why did he never speak of it?

  Understanding fell into place. This family coddled me in case I knew these curious facts. They were, in a way, indebted to me. In a large way, actually. Fearful of what I might do or say when I reached the age of majority. I had to insist on washing dishes tonight or I wouldn’t have been allowed. Are they truly afraid that I would cast them out of the only home they’ve ever known? As I have been? How could they think such dark thoughts about me? There is no worse misery than losing a sense of home. I know. They should know that I’m completely harmless.

  Mr. Bleu ran a finger down the center of his book. I’m not sure now if his scars are his pain. It’s the loss of home. Has to be.