Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  “The Birch siblings do you in?”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else. Uncle might have warned me. Or you.”

  Mr. Bleu shrugged, exasperated. “I might as well warn you that the entire town knew your mother and Mr. Birch quite well. I’m not even from here and I’ve heard the same sad story many a time.”

  I shook my head, despite my earlier sentiments that they were just normal people being friendly. “What do they want from me? I am not my mother, nor her first husband’s child. I am a complete stranger to the Birch family. I have nothing.”

  “That’s not quite true.”

  “Oh yes, the farm. Would they want to buy some acreage? I won’t sell. Not fair to Uncle.” I inwardly trembled.

  “I wasn’t speaking of your farm, Miss Trafton.”

  He called it my farm, without hint of previous resentment. Despite his hand of friendship, I still wonder at it. “Perhaps I should part with that old sketchbook, though I might tear out Mother’s picture.”

  “That may be a kind deed you can do. The family would likely treasure it.”

  I couldn’t admit that I am reluctant to part with it. The artwork drew me in, came alive in my imagination. I had begun to measure my work against his. I’m sure it once had a place in Mother’s heart. But it’s more than that, though I can’t quite put my finger on why.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. “I promised you, and I can’t hold it back any longer. Isn’t right.”

  “Mr. Bleu?” What more could there be?

  “It’s been plaguing me since your birthday. Your Uncle thought it best to wait. We both know he’s been somewhat oversensitive regarding the farm deed. Among many other issues at hand. Dash it all, ultimately he’ll beg me tell you anyway.”

  “What now?”

  He threw one hand in the air as if he wished to fling the fact away from himself. “You own a piece of Birch land too.”

  I threw my head back and laughed. Of all the crazy news! “And how is this possible?”

  “Belonged to your mother. A wedding gift, I believe, when she married Abraham. She never sold it. Just ten acres. Not much...”

  “How do you know? Where is the deed?” Father’s box of business papers has been missing. I hadn’t the chance to be aware of any of his dealings. Or Mother’s.

  “Hammond pulled it out of the trunk before you opened it.” He kicked a rock and watched it careen down the path.

  Uncle meant to spoon-feed the truth to me one small bite at a time? Or did he mean to take the land for himself? Or did he not trust me? Another thought pulled at a thread. “They want it back, don’t they? The Birches?”

  “They haven’t the money to buy it, that much is true. The grandmother grumbles about it regularly.”

  I felt a rising tide of resentment towards the Birches. The old ones were set against me before they even knew me. Like Mr. Bleu and Uncle had been.

  Why didn’t Mother ever take care of it? Surely after all the years, her initial pain would have subsided enough to square away matters. Unless she wanted me to have this bit of land too. But why? Certainly, they didn’t care for me, the child not of Birch blood—they wanted land. My land. All this wealth doesn’t enrich my life. “I wish I never came here.”

  He touched my arm. I looked at my shoes.

  “That can’t be true.” He shook his head. “Look. I promised you, no more secrets. That’s the last one I know of. Hammond will be relieved it’s over, I daresay.”

  Unbidden tears welled up. Embarrassment and grief came rippling up all together. I fought it off to no avail. Grief accompanies every mood these days. The ugliness of finding oneself at odds with others, standing alone. But I wasn’t completely on my own.

  Mr. Bleu stood like a deep-rooted tree. His hand stayed on my arm, the other came around and held me at a distance. As if putting me in place. “Why are you so worried?”

  But he had been concerned, too. For a moment, I wished Helen had come along and spared me this further humiliation. I challenged him, “How would you feel in my shoes?”

  He tightened his hold, bowed his head, and began to whisper. I couldn’t understand him at first, but realized he was praying...for my pain and grief. For God’s love to surround me.

  The tears fell. Never in my life had I anticipated such an event. He stopped praying and dropped his hands, his tight jaw working as if he might weep too. “I do know some of your pain, Dorothy.” He gave another crooked smile, “Come, you’ll be late. There are many books to discuss.”

  But I couldn’t move. Nor articulate what came jumbling out. “No one has ever...no one...” I wiped my face with a handkerchief, holding my waist as if my insides could fall out to join my exposed hurts and wants. I couldn’t speak anymore. He pulled my arm into his and guided me onward.

  I glanced at him as we walked. His face turned the other way. Avoiding mine? His hands tremored slightly. He remained silent the rest of the way, his horse clomping behind us.

  Wagons and carts pulled along the road now, pedestrians toting market baskets and workmen their tools. There was not much more we could say in the open.

  He delivered me to the minister’s home and pardoned himself of the subsequent invitation. “I shall fetch you in an hour.”

  .

  My time in their home was an oasis. I was offered as many cups of tea as I could wish, calming my rankled nerves. A platter of delicate sandwiches and shortbread disappeared as Reverend Meade and I discussed Dickens further and dipped into Wordsworth. And if Dickens had co-written with a poet, how more lyrical might his novels be? “Almost biblical!” Rev. Meade satisfied himself with a fifth sandwich. Had not God done the same in His story? Plot above plot, story within story. Hidden treasure, and always the ever-cascading songs in the background. Sometimes in the forefront. “Tragedies, truth, love, healing.”

  Mrs. Meade removed my empty cup and placed a novel in my hands.

  “Our Mutual Friend, as promised.”

  I lifted the leather volume to my nose. “Thank you. I will begin tonight and try to go to sleep at a decent hour.”

  Mrs. Meade laughed. “Perhaps Reverend, Dear, you might try to do the same?” Her eyes twinkled with humor.

  Mr. Bleu knocked at their door and Mrs. Meade led him in. “You have time for refreshment, I insist.”

  He nodded and sat down on the couch next to me. “The General Store will now supply good black tea on a regular basis.”

  Mrs. Meade exclaimed. “This is good news! How did you manage it?”

  Mr. Bleu shrugged. Had he done this for me?

  “After all these years of begging.” Rev. Meade shook his head. “Miraculous.”

  Mr. Bleu stood and looked straight at me. “Reverend, might I have a word?”

  Mrs. Meade patted my hand, I jerked to attention. “Why don’t I show you the quilt I’m working on.”

  I glanced behind as we went upstairs. A rumble of voices carried on. Why did I always want to be privy to these private moments? Did I really think I was the center of everything discussed? Hogwash. And yet, the way he looked at me...

  I invested my focus on the quilt and the flying goose design pieced in traditional red, blue, green and white. Perfect triangles pointed in square flocks, sweeping up, another sweeping down. Geese are scarcely ever alone, knowing their place for the benefit of others. Wish I had this wise instinct.

  Mrs. Meade spoke her intent to give it away but uncertain of the deserving party. “Or undeserving...” she said. At the time, I scarcely understood what she meant. “Maybe some poor soul’s life would be changed a beautiful gift.” She rubbed her hand across the design. “Assuming they found it pleasing as well.”

  “It certainly is! I’m sure anyone would be blessed to have it.” I could think of nothing more lovely than being covered by friendship in this way—every patch declaring this truth: a piece and a place...

  She sighed and went back downstairs. Mr. Bleu waited by the door, ready to walk me home.

  A
warm wind blew, and I removed my bonnet and shawl. I didn’t care if I freckled or tanned. We walked slowly.

  He kept our conversation on an even keel. Asked about my visit...talked of books. His childhood hope to be a sailor, never having seen the ocean in his life. “But I had ridden on a steamship on the Mississippi when I was eight and swallowed the dream hook, line, and sinker.”

  We spoke of daily things. Laughed over childhood ideas. His unusual prayer over me hovered.

  We came to the crossroads where I had hidden the staff. Mr. Bleu reached over the stone wall and then handed it to me.

  “Do you want me to walk you the rest of the way?”

  Chapter 18

  MAY 13, 1880

  A clutch of daisies grew at the corner of the cottage, bending to the light wind, rising toward the hot sun. The red brick rectangle offered little charm except for the wide windows, unnaturally large for its face and dangling shutters grasping to the house in a final plea, as if fighting the vines that pulled them back to the earth.

  I wanted to go in. I reached toward the handle, but Mr. Bleu stepped in front of me. “No. Let me go in first. I hear you aren’t too fond of snakes.” Amusement pulled at his lips and eyes.

  I winced and nodded all too gladly.

  I walked back towards the gate, my dress hems full of sticky seeds and prickles. I looked around at the ten acres—certainly useful for something. A small barn had fallen in on itself. A broken down wagon sat beside it. The well handle had rusted and stuck with misuse.

  Ernest had accompanied us and sprinted around the fallen structure looking for discarded iron or forgotten tools that might come into full use again.

  Mr. Bleu shouted. “Floors’ rotten, but you can at get a glimpse through the doorway safely enough.”

  He held the door open and I peered in. An earthy stench seeped from its forgotten corners and decomposing plaster. I covered my nose with my handkerchief.

  One large room with a smaller room walled off to the side. A few animal skeletons littered the place. A forgotten tin cup in the window sill...a bottle on the mantle. Altogether lifeless. Such are my riches.

  “I suppose it needs to be torn down.”

  He shrugged. “Or restored and used. I hate to see the original house destroyed.”

  The place had been a wedding gift to my mother and Mr. Birch from his family, yet they had never lived here. Had it always sat empty and waiting for occupants?

  I can’t decide what to do with it. Its abandoned aura left me feeling emptiness in a desolate, friendless way. A hopeless way. A Fatherless way. It held no cheerful thought captive. I wanted to escape and edged back to the road without thinking.

  Mr. Bleu caught up with me. Ernest straggled behind, hiking stick keeping time with his dusty steps.

  “I always imagined a ruin to be romantic—” When I’d emptied my parent’s house, there was still a homey air about it. Grieved as I’ve been to leave it, this house hadn’t held stories or love in it for a very long time.

  “A house can be grand, full of costly things and still be forlorn...” He spoke as if remembering. I did not push for more.

  What was in my heart at that moment was a gaining trust in the man that walked beside me. I felt at home by his side. This is hard to admit. To put ink to paper in one’s very own singular handwriting makes me more certain of myself than I ever expected to be. And then begins the cycle of hope and fear and hope and fear. Prayer is my only reprieve.

  JAMES EYED THE METAL box of business papers. He needed to return them. They sat, mocking him for thievery. His dishonesty. How did he fall into Hammond’s desires so readily? Fine thing for a thirteen-year-old boy to do what he’s told on the battlefield. But a thirty-year-old man needed to stand up for his convictions. Hammond’s simple fears had tipped in James’ favor and so this deed turned sour. Obedience is better than sacrifice. It had been obedience to start with. No question about that.

  But his secret had to be protected. As did Hammond himself. But so did Dorothy. Too many tangled strings. How did a good deed turn into suspicion and derision? The truth would yet teeter on the edge again.

  Dorothy being marriageable, well, that complicated everything. Hammond needed security. Needed protection. Help for the man to be secure in raising his family after enduring war. And God help him, he had to tell the truth at some point. When?

  His thoughts drifted back to Dorothy. He sensed resolve around her. Joy began to show around her eyes. Time, sunshine, blooms. Healing. If only she could be his. He brushed that thought away reluctantly. As he’d practiced many times before. An unbidden tear slipped down his scars.

  He grabbed the box and headed to Hammonds.

  He turned around five minutes later and shoved the box under his desk and sat in his chair with an annoyed “humph.” He pulled it back out again, did what he should have done the moment his guilt accosted him. “God, I repent of this.” Dorothy’s trusting eyes rose in his thoughts, shadowed by a fear that only love could dash away.

  Her request and his promise that he’d not keep secrets from her nagged at his spirit. He knew God was giving him a directive. Repentance always bred instant relief. He’d not be allowed to sit on this one. How much would she hate him as a result? He tried to pray against her anger, but his words pinged against the ceiling and dropped again into his lap. How she responded was between herself and God.

  The details of what he must do grew in his mind and began to weigh on him. Suppose he told her everything? What if she told Hammond? What Lord? Tension squeezed up his neck and into his eyes until all he could do was look upward, turn away from his murky fears.

  The whole family was coming in a few days. He’d be ready by then. He’d have to be.

  Chapter 19

  MAY 15, 1880

  I woke extra early and my stomach growls for oats and sausages and toast and a large pot of tea. One would take me for a horse.

  When we left that decrepit house, it was as if I was choosing to walk away from death itself. Journeying alongside Mr. Bleu towards home gave me such a sense of rightness that I did not want to look back any more. Knew I must not. Rather I should slam shut the graves and caskets of my mind and look to the Resurrection and Life instead. Death takes only a moment. A flash. A crossing from one life to the next. From light to light.

  I must abide in living thoughts, words, and works. My parents died, but they are alive. I refuse any chain that binds my heart to a moldering grave.

  In three hours, we make our way to Mr. Bleu’s farm. I will not be wearing black.

  RUTH HAD BEEN IN THE kitchen since the wee hours of the morning. Giving a luncheon for twelve was no small task but James didn’t feel sorry for her. She relished creating the fine dishes she’d been known for in her slavery days. An odd mix of thought, for sure. For while she’d worked most of her life for a cruel man, she’d been exposed to rich food and learned priceless recipes. A kind of grace that had helped her through the thorny side of her situation. As a freewoman, her work was confined to mostly plain cooking. But this was an opportunity to shine.

  James grinned. She was singing at the top of her lungs. If he weren’t so reserved, he’d join her. Soon, he’d be free of a burden as well.

  “Mornin’ Ruth!”

  She swirled to his greeting. Brightness flashed from her eyes, a toothy smile followed. “Cut your own bread, spread your own jam too. But I gots yer coffee.” She lifted the pot and poured his cup, fresh and steaming.

  “Anything I can do for you after I eat?”

  “Firewood,” she held up her fingers, “two armfuls.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He lifted his coffee and inspected the dining room.

  He’d set the china himself the night before on a stretch of plain white linen. Lay the silver with a ruler. Added a small vase of early wild roses in the center. His mother would have called it droll compared to the cascading arrangements she usually ordered. He straightened his shoulders, standing taller. He couldn’t think about
her at a time like this. Refused to.

  As the hour drew near and the fine scent of roasting and baking filled every corner of the house, James found himself in front of the mirror of his bedroom, looking this way and that—trying not to recall how Dorothy had called him “still handsome”. What that meant to him. At the end of the day, he might well feel the depth of his ugly scars.

  A blackness edged his vision and nausea slipped in. He dipped the edge of his towel and patted his face with cool pressure, focusing on the action. He dipped again pressed it to his neck and let out a long breath. There. He popped a peppermint in his mouth, and ran to the porch.

  Nearly swallowed the mint whole when the wagon arrived. The little ones jumped on him as soon as they scampered over the edge. He playfully pulled them off and held out a hand to Dorothy.

  Something was different about her. He didn’t catch it until he’d seated her in the dining room. She wore a light blue plaid rather than her usual never ending black. Her hair was arranged differently, too. He shifted in his seat, her beauty creeping on him like vines ready to cling and destroy his sanity. Couldn’t allow that to happen.

  The family enjoyed his hospitality with zeal. Hammond and his wife gave every exclamation about the home he’d labored over for the past six months. While the children were sent outside, and Helen and Kirsten bid to help Ruth clean up, Dorothy followed them on the grand tour.

  Her quiet approval, kind compliments seemed reserved unless he looked her in the face and saw a full smile. Especially when she’d seen his library. The whole thing set him off kilter. It didn’t matter what she thought. But it did, God help him.

  Soon, he needed to find a way to speak to her alone. Come what may.

  The older ones were to stay for some hiking around his property. Hammond and Aunt had loaded the younger set, unhappy with the early departure, and made a dusty path homeward.

  James donned his hat and put on his knee boots. Ernest, Helen, and Kirsten lingered on the porch steps, tapping favorite walking sticks brought for the occasion. Dorothy stood still, hand folded, gazing down at the tips of her boots. Lost in thought? Did she wish herself away?