Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  She led me to the largest building in town—Harley’s General. Not as polished as the shop I am accustomed to. And not sufficient to meet my needs. I left Helen and Kirsten by the fabric bolts, dreaming of dresses they’d like to sew. I knew my mission.

  “I would like a tin of tea, please.” Did he sense my desperation?

  The clerk swiped a small tin from a low shelf and placed it on the counter as a jeweler might present a precious gem. A small hand-scripted label read “sassafras.”

  “I need real tea, if you have it.” I panicked. “Black tea?” What if Paris, Kentucky never had a true cup of tea before? Like some pioneer shanty town?

  “All out, ma’am.” He tapped the top of the tin. “This sassafras here’ll do.”

  “No, I’m afraid it won’t. Do you expect a delivery any time soon? Or perhaps you have some Darjeeling hidden away somewhere...”

  “Most folks here make their own brews.” He tapped the tin yet again. “Like this sassafras here. Or herbs outta the garden.”

  I must have grown pale. “You okay, miss?”

  “Fine. I’m just fine.”

  “I can getta note to my supplier.” He shrugged. “Might see some in a few weeks. I’m sure Lexington’s got store-tea.”

  “How far is Lexington?”

  “Twenty miles, give or take.”

  Might as well be a hundred. We had already walked two and a half to get to the store. I picked up the sassafras tin, nudged the lid off and inhaled. Smelled sweet and strong—like medicine Mother used to make. Perhaps with a bit of sugar it wouldn’t be so bad.

  “I suppose this will have to do for now.” I placed it into my black velvet reticule and pulled out two dollars. “A pound of sugar, please.”

  His eyes opened wide as he lifted a sack to the counter. “Will that be all, or is there anything else here you might be needin’.”

  “I suppose you don’t have a lemon or lime?”

  “You suppose too much. I happen to have one of each, and only one mind you.” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Sassafras and citrus tea. I should not be surprised by the outcome of my shopping venture. This puny town surrounded by over-sized farms...

  Once home, I sipped the sassafras slowly. Put in extra sugar when Aunt wasn’t looking. Not too bad. Just unusual, like all facets of my life right now. I need real tea. Just this one bit of normalcy. For now, I can try to savor what I do have.

  I held my teacup beneath my chin and the fragrant steam warmed my face. Mother said that this was like my prayers—that God savors my words as they rise towards heaven. All of them, she said. The sincere ones, the hurt ones. The desperate ones...

  Despite the strange sassafras tea and all that transpired this afternoon, I began to feel a calmness fall on me like a blanket warmed with hot bricks. I nestled in. I wished every moment could be like this. I looked to the future with a little more confidence, knowing that in winter I would get too cold. In summer, I would get so hot I might wish to sleep in cool bathwater. Troubles would come. I didn’t want more. But they would come as sure as the seasons change. I never understood this until now, so preoccupied I’ve been with growing up and thinking only on myself. For now, I am calm and warm, safe and well. Today, the day good normal things happened. Well, mostly...

  I’ve received an invitation to Cedar Gate. Mrs. MacDonald would like to have a gander at me, no doubt to confirm her son’s opinions. Whatever they might be. Of course, my opinions might be confirmed after meeting her for myself.

  What kind of woman is she that does not also invite Aunt or Helen at least? I am to arrive on the porch steps Tuesday at two o’clock. I’ve no doubt such a grand woman must have real tea—none of this sad sassafras.

  Helen is behaving stiffly with me. I wonder if Philip and Chess will be made to sit-in while their mother drills me on my parentage and other nonsense rich women like to track. She shall have every detail she desires. I’ve nothing to hide and am certainly not embarrassed by my situation. I own a farm, after all. Like any other pioneering American, I set forth and discover my fate as I go, with or without such people.

  When Philip and Chess came with the invitation, I’d been helping Kirsten adjust her skirt hems. School is set to begin next week. The older boys acted as though they had to meet with death himself.

  My school days are long gone, but I feel as though my true education has only just begun. To make sense of everything. Isn’t this what all people must do eventually? Just as Mrs. MacDonald seeks to meet me in order to understand me. Or in case my acquaintance may prove important or a distraction for her wealthy sons. I suppose that is not fair. This lady may be delightful and lacking in glittery assumptions. Like the ones I’m making. I certainly don’t expect my life to directly intertwine with hers. No thanks. Helen dreams after Philip or Chess—don’t know which. I do not plan to break hearts or steal hopes. Or match this person whom Aunt sometimes serves...

  I have to confess gloating. Earlier I caught Mr. Bleu eating my molasses cookies with a large mug of milk. He even closed his eyes while he chewed! I knew it! Every man has a heart for food. Even this one.

  I sniffed so he’d know I’d entered. I took two cookies from the large brown crock and made this now cooling pot of sassafras. I sat across from him while my brew steeped. “Do you cook for yourself most days?”

  He shook his head in the negative.

  “You enjoy reading?”

  His eyes clamped mine. “I suppose so.”

  “Have any favorite authors?”

  “Many.”

  “You had a rather large volume of something the other evening, when you told me about my future ownership of this farm. I took you for an enthusiastic reader.” I tried to smile, encourage...

  “Dictionary.”

  I may have sputtered. I don’t wish to think of it. “A dictionary? That’s what you were reading?”

  “Don’t you ever have to look up a definition?”

  “Only if I’m really reading. Most of the time, I understand people quite clearly.”

  He lay the last edge of a cookie down and brushed away the crumbs from both hands. “You shouldn’t be saving a horse for yourself, Miss Trafton.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why...” He shook his head in confusion.

  “I spoke before thinking. I wish I could take back my words.”

  “Your uncle needs the money.”

  “I figured as much. He’s seems stubborn enough—don’t think I’ll be able to change his mind.”

  “Well I can’t do anything about it. You’re his favored niece that needs petting.”

  “Mr. Bleu, I am not a horse.” How dare he insinuate I’m spoiled?

  Uncle walked in at that moment. We were both mortified. Mr. Bleu’s throat became mottled red and white, the nice side of his face blushed completely. My own cheeks singed.

  My dear uncle grumbled like far-off thunder. “I’d give her the moon if I could, David. Anything for Clara’s child. Anything.”

  “She’ll rule you to ruin.”

  I about spoke then, but Uncle pointed a finger at David, I mean, Mr. James Bleu, “You are far out of line. Give the girl a chance. We all deserve that. You understand what I mean.”

  My heart pounded. Such a low opinion Mr. Bleu had of me and we’d only known each other for mere days. I spoke up. “What would you have me do, go live on the street?”

  Uncle shook his head. “Don’t get all-fired up, Dorothy. David’s just being protective of me.”

  “Why? Why all this fuss? Why use him to tell me details of this estate? Why have him here at all if he despises the notion of my ownership? It just isn’t fair.” My voice began to shake. I wanted to hide. “I had hoped to make friends here, instead I am set to make enemies. Already, I have this man, angry at me for my parent’s deaths, two of your sons—jealous over that silly horse, and now Helen. Because I am invited to tea with Mrs. MacDonald. What childish behavior...” I spat out the last w
ords.

  Uncle lowered his eyes, embarrassed. I hated that. “David, apologize to Dorothy.”

  Mr. Bleu’s eyes flashed towards the hot cooking range. The kettle still steamed. “Perhaps this whole business has rankled me a bit.” His shoulders slumped.

  “That’s not an apology.” Uncle grumbled.

  Mr. Bleu reset his lips to speak again. As if good words had to be forever forced from him—at least concerning me. “Forgive my attitude, Dorothy. I spent too many years on the high horse myself.”

  His words were more softly spoken than usual. Maybe Uncle had a calming effect on him. I wish I could say the same for myself, for fire still kindled in my belly. I wanted to puff more smoke. Apologies can feel like a cold-water dousing. Once he said those magic “forgive me” words I knew I had to behave as humbly as he. I wasn’t sure I understood his “high horse” comment.

  I may have sputtered again. “Please, Uncle. I want you to sell the horse. I was too quick to claim one. Mr. Bleu informs me of your need.”

  Uncle sighed as he looked up at the ceiling. “Alright, Dorothy. This time, we will sell them. But next ‘round, you can choose one for yourself. Promise me you won’t change your mind?” He smiled, his jaw locked in a straight line—a promise to put David in his place?

  I inwardly smirked, outwardly accepted his future gift as a bargain.

  Uncle walked out without another word, leaving Mr. Bleu and I alone.

  I hoped Uncle wouldn’t repeat my rant. I must learn to keep my mouth shut. Would Helen be chastised? Poor girl.

  I couldn’t look Mr. Bleu in the eye, but knew I needed to ease the tension between us. I lifted the tea pot. “Would you care for a cup of sassafras?”

  He shook his head.

  I left for this quiet nest of mine...where calm and future hopes mingle in my mind. Perhaps I should feel awkward. But I don’t. My feelings did need to be clearly stated and understood. I’m not sure I’m ever going to really fit in here—maybe with Aunt and Ernest—the others? Maybe they’ll have to grow up a little first.

  I closed my eyes and pretended to be home with my folks. Spices floating through the air mixing with father’s pipe smoke. I’d perch on the stool by the hot grate, leaning against the soft velvet settee...

  I liked being an only child. Sometimes I remember my older brother, but that’s spotty. He was taller than me, pale blonde hair. We rode the pump handle and played in mud. I recall the muddy tub we made when Mother scrubbed us clean. I remember painting the cold parlor window with dribbling spit—making pictures in each of the squares. And then he was gone. If he had lived beyond five years, he’d be taking care of me instead. What a strange thought.

  My brother has them now. My parents. I suppose it’s about time he enjoyed them.

  JAMES SHUDDERED AGAINST the wind that crept inside his collar. He’d been an absolute bully. He planned to merely scope out the situation. Reveal to her the matter of her ownership. Not create an enemy out of his new neighbor. Still and all, she seemed amiable enough despite their words. The situation had cast a glow inside of her, kind of like a Halloween jack-o-lantern.

  He winced at his own words, “She’ll rule you to ruin.” He’d heard those words before and used them on her. Harshness from another time...

  True, she did not need to claim a horse. He’d gone to great lengths to get Hammond into horse breeding. Her ignorance of farm life and its requirements gave him another reason to be irritated. Hammond needed to stop tiptoeing around the girl and she needed to start learning the life. Hard as it was. That would take time, like it had for him, not so long ago.

  He released his breath he’d been inadvertently holding. He must be patient. Leave irritation behind him. Become again the good neighbor and friend he’d always been. The answer was always easier than his question. She’d felt unwelcome as a result of his confrontational stance. And she made mistakes she didn’t know she was making. To make matters worse, her cousins were becoming outright jealous of the girl. All while she grieved death. He touched a ridge of scars along his jaw. She needed time to heal.

  He bowed his head and let the wind carve into his hatless hair, begging forgiveness from His Father. He had to hope for the best. Trust God.

  The unease in his soul slipped away, even as the sun gave him its last and only glimmer of the day.

  At the distant barn, Hammond was making himself clear to a certain row of children. At this rate, they’d be mucking the stalls and chicken coop until dinner tonight.

  MARCH 5, 1880, EVENING

  When I went down to supper, a packet of tea lay at my plate. I thanked Aunt, but she shook her head. I remained quiet along with the family as we dined. Perhaps the tea hadn’t come from her. I wondered if Uncle coerced Mr. Bleu into giving me his pantry staple?

  I asked him outright after the table had been cleared. “Did you leave this at my plate?” I held the fragrant packet as though sacred.

  “The last of my supply. Enjoy it.” He grinned sideways.

  “Well, I certainly shan’t toss it into the sea. There is no tax, I suppose?” He seemed taken off guard. I was the colonial, perhaps, that needed to be subdued by the offshore king. I laughed unintentionally. “Thank you for this.”

  “I need to show you that I truly am sorry.” He appeared all seriousness.

  “How did you know I wanted real tea?”

  He whispered, “I know what it’s like moving from nice living to—this...”

  “This isn’t so bad.”

  “Indeed not, but those herbal concoctions...” his eyes creased with humor yet remained dignified.

  Was I exonerated from his prejudice? His kindness seemed genuine. I held out my hand firmly, not cringing as I shamefully did that first evening. He took it weakly. I felt forgiveness seep through me, for real this time.

  “I am just dying for a real pot of tea. You have to share some with me. Since the others seem to have made themselves scarce.”

  “Hammond had more than a few choice words with your cousins. I think they’d rather not be seen just now.”

  “How embarrassing.”

  “They’re not used to you yet. Not sure how to act—or what to make of a girl accustomed to a finer lifestyle.” He pointed a finger to his chest. “I, however, do know. That’s what made me uncertain about your intentions. Wealthy women can be very manipulative.”

  He thought I came from wealth? “Some women can be, true. I had better parents than to let me fall into that mire.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  Besides, men can be manipulative too. What about that little show he put on when confronting me about ownership? Not nice. I yammered on, “Preconceived notions are akin to lying to oneself. Assumptions have little or no roots to grow on. Hardly fair to anyone unless you have obvious grounds for feeling and acting about it a certain way. And even if you did have strong reasons...” he seemed appropriately abashed by my little speech.

  I wondered at that moment if he’d had strong reasons after all. What did he know about my father that I did not? This man before me, if I may be bold enough to assume, seems solid enough. But he carried a grudge towards me before I’d met him. Being afraid of losing a small section of creek shouldn’t scare him to the point of protesting my inevitable ownership. Of usurping any power I might wield. What made Mr. Bleu and Uncle shake in their boots? I needed to figure this out. “Mr. Bleu, when did you meet my father?”

  He did not respond straight away. He looked past me, the way Uncle had gone. Out of earshot? My stomach flipped. I was sure he knew something.

  Mr. Bleu slid the packet from my fingers. “I’ll make the tea.”

  I bit my tongue. Would be a true waste if he did not do this properly.

  He dumped three mounded teaspoons of shriveled tea leaves into Aunt’s blue willow pot. Instead of sugar, he drizzled honey, long and slow. He helped himself to my sacred lemon I’d stashed on a small shelf by the back kitchen door. Two thinly sliced rounds were added to the pot. When w
ould he speak? Is the information so touchy that I must wait for his version of a perfect brew?

  I sat down and spread my hand against the coarse homespun cloth that covered a rather fine table. What truth have they covered? What needs protecting? What is the true character of this situation?

  He snatched the nicer china cups from the cupboard rather than the everyday stoneware mugs and placed them on matching saucers. He set one in front of me with no clatter at all. I wished he would answer my nagging question. Instead, he set the pot down between us and watched the tea leach amber into the hot water, stirring the honey as if coaxing it to sweeten. After a moment, he lifted the infuser, gave the pot an extra stir and poured my cup.

  “I wouldn’t think any man able to properly serve tea, but here you are.”

  The compliment was ignored. “Your question.”

  I slid my hands around my cup, oblivious that I had been thirsting for such a brew for many days now. “Yes. When did you meet my father?”

  “I met him first when I traveled to Cincinnati, three years ago.”

  “What business did you have with him?”

  His scarred eye twitched. “Just business.”

  “What kind of business? And what has happened between you that sparked such distrust? I am not fickle as you feared.” Doubts crept in. “Father had nothing to apologize for, I am certain.”

  “Your Father’s done nothing wrong. Did you think he might have?” Confusion knit his brows as he carefully held his teacup. “I borrowed from him and paid him back. Paid him back in full. And on time.”

  “Him and not the bank? But why?”

  Mr. Bleu gazed into his tea. Father had lent money to both Uncle and Mr. Bleu. Uncle had not been able to pay back Father. Mr. Bleu had, and in a very short amount of time.

  I sipped my tea, hot and fragrant. Delicious. I looked into the liquid, waiting for his answer. A few years ago, several months had been difficult for Mother and me. We boiled bones for broth, and patched my frocks. And then, there had been plenty again and we went on as always. Why in the world did Father give what we needed to him? Clearly, we survived the sparse months, but this made no sense.