Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  “Toliver!” I yelled without thinking. I started to run but slowed as Mr. Bleu caught up with me. “What are they doing with him?” I strained to see. The boy struggled to be released from the woman’s arms. “Toliver!”

  “Hush!” Mr. Bleu spoke. “Don’t make matters worse.”

  The wagon lurched forward. Toliver’s screams echoed over the hills, straight to my heart. His cries hurt that deep place. My peace was gone.

  I stopped, eyelids burning, and reached for my handkerchief. Mr. Bleu’s throat worked, his hands trembled. I knew what was happening. No one had to tell me. Anger surged.

  I supposed that they thought Toliver belonged with his own kind. This didn’t feel right, though my head would have proclaimed this truth before now. We loved Toliver. I loved Toliver. He was ours.

  His first words to me were “Mamma die...” Perhaps God was giving him another chance at maternal comfort. Did these people have proper housing? Did they live in an old, nasty shanty from slave days?

  When we stepped back into the house, Mr. Bleu went to the water pump and I went straight to Aunt. Here I am, about to own this place, but evidently not the people within. It’s the people I want to keep safe. Together. Oh, the irony. A building may last for generations, yet people...

  I truly do not wish to write more melancholy words. My afternoon was delightful, after all. Common sense says that Toliver needed to be with relatives, as Aunt pointed out that they were.

  Her eyes had been red and raw from crying. The anger I’d felt moments before changed when I saw her. She can’t help the circumstances in life any more than I can. Ownership is a poor playing card.

  I threw myself into kitchen work, scrubbing and blackening the stove for Aunt. Kirsten sat in the corner, forever thumping the butter press, her eyes dreamy with thoughts she didn’t share. Helen still avoided me, hardly asking about my visit with Mrs. MacDonald at all. The boys ate the remainder of the cake, the girls boycotted it altogether. Stubborn young women.

  The day has been mostly good, so why—on the cusp of new friendships must my cousins step away? If they’d lost everything perhaps they’d not be so cruel.

  Somehow, I must reach out to them. My new gowns...what if I give them one apiece? I hesitated. Mother helped me choose them. Could I part with them? Before greed convinced me otherwise, I ran upstairs and pulled all eight of them on the bed. I’d be left with three summer gowns and three winter...and the bolt of green moray on the top shelf of my wardrobe. I ran my hand down the deep rose-colored gown, thinking how much I loved that one. This should be for Helen. And my second favorite, the blue one, for Kirsten.

  I tiptoed down the hall and peeked into their room. Empty. Heart thumping loudly in my ears, I laid the gowns across their bed with a name card on each and slipped out of their room before I could change my mind. The evidence of my greed surprises me. The loss pinches. I wish I were more like a missionary without worry over changing trends.

  I spied the small trunk filled with mother’s gowns peeking beneath my bed. More matronly than my own—they’d do if I had need for more. I touched the edge, but didn’t pull it out. Not yet.

  I opened my door and checked their room again. Gowns still awaited surprise. Before I closeted myself once more, I heard and smelled popcorn. I smiled. Sweet and sour day though it be, popcorn seems to bring us to the end of it with more hope than not. When I went downstairs, Aunt’s strong arms were deep in the large wooden mixing bowl, tossing the bright yellow pieces with Kirsten’s fresh butter.

  Mr. Bleu sat by the woodstove lightly strumming a guitar. Little Ruby stood close, watching his fingers move up and down, creating a melody I’d never heard. Her sweet little eyes were red from tears like Aunt’s. Toliver was a brother of her heart.

  The young boys were making a log tower on the table. “As high as Babel,” Uncle said. Ernest sharpened a knife by the back door. Helen and Kirsten finally turned and welcomed me to their family scene. I was struck by their red eyes too. Their quietness must have been about Toliver. Not me. Their sadness far reaching. I have been selfish...and wasted two gowns making up for an imaginary offense! No, no. Not true. Kindness is never wasted, Father said.

  Uncle handed me a bowl of popcorn as we trooped to the parlor.

  Mr. Bleu sang low tunes with words too soft to understand. Little Ruby remained at his knee, sucking her fingers clean of the tasty butter and salt. Been a good spell since I’ve heard music, except for the march-style hymns sung in church. His songs were low and lingering, soft and soothing. A balm to the day’s wounds.

  Toliver...I wondered if he’d calmed in the brown woman’s arms. If he hid beneath her apron like he did Aunt’s, or if they’d caught his eye with sugar plums and kittens. Ruby rested in her arms now as Aunt stroked her long brown hair, no doubt thinking about our lost boy too.

  Oh, the happenings of life! All the circumstances we’ve no power to help—save one. I prayed for someone besides myself. I prayed for Toliver, for God to have mercy on him—for love. I prayed for Uncle. For Mr. Bleu. For all of them. These utterances to Him were secretly prayed with my eyes wide open. For this family and for the parts of them that I didn’t know or understand.

  My words ended on an unanswered-wondering. To know the history that existed between Uncle and Father. And Mr. Bleu. I hurriedly offered this to God too, but my heart wasn’t prepared to give up the quest. I should talk to Ernest. Couldn’t hurt.

  I trailed off to bed first so that my poor family might have time alone without me. A hand touched my shoulder as I washed my hands at the kitchen pump. I turned. “Mr. Bleu.”

  He reached into his vest and pulled out a packet of letters. “I’ve changed my mind. My business with your father may also be your business. You deserve to know what kind of man he was.”

  Father’s handwriting slanted sharp, northwest—in a style that made one think of threaded needles. Mr. James Bleu, Paris Kentucky recorded on each of five envelopes. Just seeing his ornate script triggered respect in my posture. I felt my back straighten and my head lift.

  “I ask you to keep the contents a secret.”

  “Does Uncle know?”

  “He knows what he knows, and that only.”

  “I knew there was something!”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Read them and give them back to me. Quickly.”

  “Thank you. I will not tell a soul.”

  He cocked his head in disbelief. Did he still think me a child?

  “I promise.”

  “They are incriminating.” His steel eyes grabbed mine again. I looked away.

  “Incriminating?”

  “I know that you do not wish to tarnish your father’s good name.”

  “Tarnish...” That dark gray and black that plagues brass and silver... The word criminal is hidden within incriminating. An invisible knife threatened to stab me. I had to read these as soon as I could.

  I slipped an extra candle from the box and headed upstairs. My hands shook as I lit the candle and opened the first letter.

  Bills and receipts. All that he had handed me was a dull record of business transactions. Nothing more. Funds lent, debts paid. The packet of four envelopes showed two loans altogether, mere weeks apart. Why had Mr. Bleu been so mysterious? So silly. Toying with me again. Incriminating? I should douse him with cold water, salt his tea, and put a snake in his bed. Only I won’t touch snakes and thankfully have yet to see any.

  I shuffled back down stairs to find him coming up. I shoved them back into his hands.

  He stared at me agape.

  “Why?” His cruelty was unmatched.

  Uncle watched us. I didn’t care. Mr. Bleu should not treat me like this. Must not.

  JAMES REELED. THIS was not supposed to happen. She promised him secrecy! Instead she’d gone all looney on him, right in front of Hammond. What was she thinking?

  He shoved the letters deep into his vest and met Hammond’s glare head on. “What’s all that about?”

 
; Innocently asked. How to divert him? “You asked me to take care of any paperwork.”

  “Ya told me there wasn’t any.”

  James shrugged.

  “What are you keeping from me? You didn’t go and pay one of her bills behind my back now, did you?”

  “No, no... I...”

  “Let me see that stack.”

  James panicked, sweat broke out. “It’s a private matter. I’m sorry.”

  “Private, my foot. Anything having to do with that girl is my business, not yours.”

  “But you’ve made her my business since her parents died.”

  “So, what’s the problem, David? Why won’t you show me?” Then a look of understanding dawned on Hammond’s face, then a bit of consternation. “You’ve gone and written her love letters.” Disbelief shocked his face. “You want this farm. Can’t say as I blame you.”

  “Absolutely not!” James was shaken to his core. Did Hammond think him capable of such manipulation? His voice dropped low. “Just a few receipts that needed clarifying. No need to worry about them.”

  James faced Hammond, both staring in disbelief over what had taken place.

  “Davy-boy...James...we never had words before this. I’m sorry. Guess the whole thing has me on edge. I’m heading to the barn.” He turned to walk away. “I trust your business skills. More than anyone.” He mumbled behind his back.

  James stared after him and then up towards Dorothy’s door. He’d taken a big chance on her. True, he’d left out the letters and only handed over the receipts. They made it plain, plenty clear enough. Hammond was right. Women didn’t have a place in business. He hiked up the attic stair, feeling the crinkle in his vest. How on earth did she get so all-fired mad?

  Chapter 12

  MARCH 10, 1880

  I spent most of the day in the strawberry field with Helen who kept her distance down the patch aways. My generous gift upset her more than ever. I found the dress placed in the front of my wardrobe this morning. It felt like a slap.

  Kirsten, on the other hand, embraced me as she has often done since coming. “The most glorious dress I’ve ever owned!” Her smile validated her words.

  Helen had mumbled, “Everyone will know where it came from.”

  Kirsten shrugged. “I don’t care. I shall enjoy it to the fullest. Dorothy is like our sister now, isn’t she? Sisters share.”

  Helen hadn’t replied and left me feeling a fool for my kindness. I wasn’t sure what she needed of me. Nevertheless, I knelt beside her and swiped rotten leaves away from the greening plants. Helen cut and replanted daughter shoots still attached to the mother.

  Ernest said the daughter plant would receive nutrients from the mother’s nutrients so it could thrive while growing its own sufficient roots. And hopefully grow triple the strawberries than produced the year before. Strawberries were an expensive treat to purchase in the city. Out here, I may eat my fill once they are ready! Such a prospect brightened my day, even after last night.

  Helen began to hum but stopped when she remembered me. Even though the day was cloudy, it wasn’t as cool as it had been. I stood staring into the distant fields, not doing one profitable thing for this strawberry patch but dream up future desserts. As it stands, they may be all sour if moods could taint the plants.

  I decided to confront Helen. I did not want to spend my day shadowed by her irritability. “How have I offended you, cousin?”

  She lifted a glance in blushed surprise. She shook her head.

  “I must know. If I am to live here day by day, I’d rather be your friend.” I held her glance. “Let me apologize for how I must have hurt you.”

  She planted her hands over her bent knees. “You haven’t hurt me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Chess...” She gulped but didn’t continue.

  “I see.”

  Her eyes watered around the edges. “You do?”

  “Young men can seem cruel.” But I only knew this from novels. Young men had yet to try my heart...

  Helen stood, soil sprinkling across her apron. “He likes you. Likes you a lot. I overheard him speaking to Ernest.” Her eyes drooped down. “I shouldn’t have been in the hayloft, couldn’t help myself.”

  “You realize I’ve spent a scant five minutes in his presence? He must have been speaking of another.”

  “No. He wasn’t.” A tear escaped and she brushed it away with her sleeve.

  “Did you think I would fall in love with him and spoil your chances?” Without trying, I was finding myself in a sticky situation with several members of this house simultaneously.

  “I’m not sure what I’ve been thinking.” She flushed clear down to her collar bones.

  Jealousy is like a mouse hidden in our hearts. Comes out at the darkest moments to gnaw our hopes to shreds. Mother said that good, honest truth can help tear jealousies out by the roots.

  “The truth is, Helen, I’m not the least interested in Chess.” Should I continue? “Believe me, you want to marry someone who truly loves you. Why should us girls set our caps after men who don’t give us a chance?”

  A smirkish grin spread across her face.

  “I take comfort in knowing that God has the right one set aside for me. Trust Him.” Oh, but did I take comfort? Did I actually trust Him? I spoke Mother’s truth to my dear cousin because it seemed like the best answer for a difficult moment. I took a deep breath, realizing again, in my pain, that I had no choice but to trust. But comfort, I knew I had to choose.

  She wrapped her arms around my neck. “I am so sorry. With Toliver leaving and...”

  “Say no more.” I nearly offered the dress back—but perhaps this was not the right moment.

  Indeed, many moments turned hazardous if I didn’t properly handle them.

  Last night, Uncle and Mr. Bleu had words. Me, handing a packet over to Mr. Bleu in full sight of Uncle had been a good punishment for him—toying with me as he had done. As if receipts held actual answers. I bit my lip in concern. Perhaps there had been something there that I’d missed. Perhaps I had been rash in handing them over. I hoped not.

  Uncle demanded to see what they were. Mr. Bleu refused. He truly didn’t want them seen. Uncle immediately suspected them to be unwanted love notes. Perfectly foolish thought.

  Loud accusations snapped down the hall and snaked into my room. Aunt visited me later—came in without knocking. I suppose that is her way with her daughters, though my mother would never dare such an invasive entry.

  Her boldness surprised me so that I spilled ink down the inside crease of this journal.

  “I never saw my husband and David have words before.” Her mouth set in a firm line. “I want to know why.”

  Gone were my illusions of being the great Queen Elizabeth. Now I was the trapped Lady Jane, plotting some way to get out of a mess others had caught me up in.

  I was as honest as I could be. “Mr. Bleu had some business dealings with my father, I wanted to know what. Nosey of me...but you must understand my confusion. His behavior to me has been—”

  “Say nothing against David.” She held up a hand.

  That firm line stayed across her face. Here, I saw unwavering trust in the man they loved as a brother. But all good people sin and do wrong sometimes. “He and I have attempted to build a bridge, though I’m not sure I won’t burn my side.” I allowed myself the shadow of a smile.

  She was not amused.

  I took her hand into mine, breathing a quick prayer. This was not a moment for made-up spiders. “They were receipts of his dealings with my father. I don’t know why he won’t show them to Uncle or why he chose to let me see them.”

  Aunt’s lips parted. “They angered you for some reason.”

  “Because they are meaningless. I suspect Mr. Bleu has dealt with my father on many occasions, borrowed money when we were short...I don’t know. I’ve been confused. I wanted to know what the transactions had been about. Especially since I’m to own this place.”

  Aunt’s
face relaxed. “Well then, let’s leave the business to the men, shall we? No more of this confusion.” She released her hands and patted my cheek...

  I shook free from last night’s scene. I left Helen, still working amongst the strawberry plants toward that open, empty field that begged to show me more of Mother’s stifled country heart. If only I would look. I turned around. Helen raised her hand to me in friendship. I nodded. A fine dress failed to mend the rift, but the quick and honest words we shared healed the breach. How simple.

  Uncle approached me, but I turned from him and continued to walk on. This was not a good idea. His large hand gripped around my arm, but when I turned to face him, a hint of Mother’s worried expression swept across his face. My mouth seemed to go dry.

  He began to ask something, odd sounds snaked up his throat as if the weight of his words required strength.

  I knew what he wanted. His questions need to be presented to Mr. Bleu—not myself. I spoke up. “I believe that Mr. Bleu merely endeavored to acquaint me in the ways of business.” This was the most generic idea—not quite a lie—that I could think of. He clearly needed answers. I know the feeling. Looked as though Mr. Bleu has secrets from both of us.

  “Can you tell me,” Uncle cleared his throat, “what manner of receipts are they?”

  A goose honked overhead. An entire flock followed, filling the silence with a messy melody.

  “Why does he not show you?”

  “Just tell me, Dorothy. I feel I stand in place of your father.” He cleared his throat. “I believe that’s what he would have wanted.”

  I nearly twirled away from him. I didn’t want to hear that. No man could take his place.

  “I scarcely knew what I was looking at.” And this was the honest truth. “I wasn’t raised to understand business. Perhaps Ernest can teach me to read the ledgers someday.”

  “The ledgers? Don’t worry yourself about my ledgers.”

  I nodded, what else could I do? The men here want me to have no part in understanding the financial workings of this farm. I don’t even expect to be good at such juggling. But if I am to own this place hook, line, and sinker, then I needed some sort of understanding. I already felt immense embarrassment at the situation I’d caused. What stupidity I have exhibited to Mr. Bleu!