Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  I had hoped to run into Mr. Bleu, to ask simmering questions for which I had no real words. Would he understand my boiling babble? Perhaps best I did not see him.

  Aunt had a ready smile, she must feel hopeful. Uncle is still abed, but when I saw him, he was dressed and propped up on several pillows. With an air of diplomacy, he took my hand as if I were a privileged stranger. Months ago, at the train station, his eyes had glimmered with tears perhaps, overcome by emotion. Now they had a dull shine.

  “I see the MacDonald’s are treating you well enough.” What a tone he took.

  He might only guess how spoiled I’ve been. “Too well, I’m afraid. Wish we were back on the farm together.”

  “Do you now?” he nodded. “I do too. Can’t stand this sitting.”

  “When does the doctor think you can be up?”

  “I’m going to ride out to the farm tomorrow, with or without his approval.”

  Spoken like a true farmer. “Is that wise?”

  “Well, it’s foolish to not keep an eye on things. Got to take care of my family. And that includes you.” He cleared his throat. “Get tobacco in before it’s too late.”

  “You’ve done a wonderful job.” I hoped this were true. “I’ve been to visit Ernest. He and Mr. Bleu are—"

  “Don’t speak of him.” Uncle spat.

  I gripped the iron bedstead, fearing he’d suffer another setback. I kept my mouth closed.

  “He right made a shameful embarrassment between us, Dorothy.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Sorry that anger opened the door to sickness and that sickness kept him from being the man he could be.

  “David had no right to do that to us. Wheedled his way and tried to steal your heart to steal my land.”

  My land. I gulped back the truth. It seared my lips like Isaiah’s hot coal. Except I could not offer it like the seraphim to Uncle, and atone for him. It wasn’t my gift to give! Or was it?

  “Anyone wanting to court you is gonna have to come through me.” He firmly nodded, jaw set. “Your parents would have wanted this for you. I’m your protector. You’re like one of my own daughters now.”

  I suddenly felt like a possession rather than a beloved child. As if in possessing me, he possessed the land. My thoughts grew cloudy and confused. It was a very fine day with sunshine and blossoms. Sparkling ponds and cantering horses. All I wanted to do was wear a fine dress and be outside. Independent of the confining shackles that kept my hand gripping the edge of the bedstead.

  I couldn’t stand there and listen to his wild suppositions about Mr. Bleu stealing land. What a charge! To my mind, he ought to own it outright, for all he’s probably done. A queer tremble went through me. As though I were on a boat about to capsize. “I believe Mr. Bleu has done nothing wrong. I certainly don’t feel wronged.”

  “You wouldn’t know the signs, you’re a woman.”

  Don’t I? “Mr. Bleu has done more for you than you imagine.” There. I dared to say it. But I could not say more, for death still frightens me.

  He seethed. “What would you know about that scoundrel?”

  “I thought he was like family! Your David. How can you turn your back on him now? Over my father’s box of papers.” Bitterness edged my voice. I knew this, but failed to remain diplomatic.

  Uncle began to sweat, though a good breeze lifted the curtain. “He betrayed me.” He wiped his face with a bandana.

  “Betrayed you?” I was dumbfounded. “He’s been kindness itself. Even now, he spends every hour of every day helping Ernest repair your home. How he can continue to do so is beyond me.” I felt my pulse pounding.

  Aunt marched in, her glance taking in the intensity on both sides. I appealed to her. “Mr. Bleu should not be cut off from your family. I can see how much he cares for each one of you. If there is any betrayal happening, it’s on your side. You are the ones who are wrong. All of you.”

  Uncle turned his face to the window, to those keen breezes and a promising sunlight. Only there was no promise in his unseeing eyes.

  Aunt stood with her mouth agape. This stunned silence accosted me. Without Bleu here to speak for them, or Ernest to create peace, they had nothing to offer. No dove or bridge or rainbow. I wanted to tell them everything. I couldn’t. What would it take for Uncle to forgive James his imaginary indiscretion? When might we move past ridiculous ideas?

  I didn’t realize tears gushed down my cheeks until I had left the room and found myself at the pump in Mrs. Meade’s kitchen. I think she heard everything. My honest accusations resounded in my pounding head.

  “Oh dear, dear, dear,” Mrs. Meade murmured. “Should I send for the doctor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her hand slid over my shoulder. “Might as well.”

  I’ve not been good for this family. Truth be told. Cedar Gate is somewhat tempting. Somewhat. I had hoped Aunt would have some sense. My stomach stayed in knots all afternoon, and I scarcely ate lunch.

  Back at Cedar Gate, I begged Mrs. MacDonald for some ironing work to do. A long, white linen tablecloth took most of two hours to press. Slow, hot mind-numbing work.

  I hoped that by the end of this horrible day, I’d be too tired to think. I wanted to drop into bed and sleep away my sorrow. Unfortunately, my mind remained as active as ever and all I could think about was not having a real home in Aunt and Uncle’s hearts. How will I be able to bear watching them live on as a family while I am forever forced to remain on the outside? If I pretend to agree with Uncle for the sake of peace, I’ll be living a lie.

  James Bleu in no way deserves the depth of their unfounded rejection. There is still a missing piece here. Some truth that isn’t known to me, but certainly to Uncle, and certainly to James. Or does one know a truth that’s hidden from the other? Something more than what’s being told? Or beyond what James himself knows? What is it? What makes one man so fearful and the other so kind?

  I dozed in and out all night. Wakeful enough for pondering, and back to sleep again. In my dozing and dreaming, I had an idea. I shall go there alone this morning. To the cottage on that small piece of land from Mother’s first husband.

  My, my. This thought is still so foreign to me. And might be a foolish one, if I’m honest. Still, I must go.

  I don’t care if there are snakes. At this moment, I feel they are less of a threat than being around Uncle. I wonder if this is why Father never pushed me to visit as Mother had tried? Did he know Uncle’s true nature? And Mr. Bleu. That man is plain confusing.

  JAMES GLANCED AROUND his own farm with regret. He’d wanted to put more work into the stables. Prepare for the new string of horses he’d buy in a few weeks. A shame to let go of the horse breeding venture with Hammond. At least the surviving fillies and colts would have a chance to thrive at Cedar Gate. The MacDonald’s were a generous people.

  Well, Ernest needed all the help he could get. He mounted his horse and rode the few miles to Hammonds, hoping to haul the final logs down to the sawmill. They’d be able to start re-framing the damaged side of the house. Get everyone back where they belonged.

  Ernest met him at the top of the road, near the gate. “Don’t bother to come. Pa’s here.”

  “Good, I need to talk to him.”

  Ernest pushed his hands forward. “Please, David. I don’t want to start more trouble.”

  Ernest needed to learn how to confront a situation like a man, not hide behind a rock or placate a man’s fickle emotions. Like Hammond. “I didn’t cause that tornado.”

  “I know, I know.” He shook his head, looking at his shoes. “And I know you didn’t do nothin’ wrong. You wouldn’t try to steal our land by marrying Dorothy.” Ernest looked up, catching James’ eyes. “Even if you did like her and ended up with the land, well I...” Ernest cracked a boyish grin.

  James’s face flamed.

  “I can’t say I wouldn’t like you to be happy. Or to have the land as well as my cousin. Still can’t figure how Pa got all kerfuffled.” He kicked at a loo
se rock.

  James patted the side of his horse’s neck, a calming gesture, as much for himself as the animal. “I need a chance to talk some sense into him. We’ve been friends for a long time. He’s confused, somehow.” James hoped he could clear things up. Hammond’s expression at seeing the box sitting out before Dorothy had ignited him like flint to rock.

  “Please don’t make him mad again.” Ernest’s face scrunched with worry. “Dorothy showed up yesterday. They had words and Mrs. Meade had to send for the doctor.”

  James grunted. The boy was terrified.

  “She defended you.”

  Ah, a glimmer of boldness. Good. “Did she now?” As if he needed defending. He hadn’t done anything worth fury. And more importantly, had Ernest defended him? “What about you? What have you spoken to your father about me? How have you stood up for me and Dorothy?”

  “I believe you, David. I just can’t...I just...” Fear etched right down into his soul.

  Exactly what he expected. “You ever hear the story about why your father calls me David?”

  Ernest shrugged. “He said you earned it during the war.”

  “I earned it alright.” James slid off the horse and stood eye to eye with him. “I was in the drum corps, as you know. Got too close to battle at first. It was horrible. Your father found me hiding in the damp hollow of a tree. A year and a good deal of heckling later, I was finally brave enough. The Reb’s, they had their Stonewall Jackson. I was going to be their little David. They didn’t give guns to drummer boys. But I had a sling shot and a pocket of stones. Hid behind a boulder and knocked a few men out cold.

  “Like David, I stood up to the giant. Put myself in the middle of battle. Came out unscathed every time. A far different child than I’d been just a year before.” He’d earned his place. “I’d find your father in the trench, and he’d salute me like the man I’d wanted to be.” He stepped closer to Ernest.

  “One day, I got too close to the giant. Nearly killed me.” James pointed to his scars. “But I never regretted facing the enemy. Attacking the men who purposed to kill my friends.” He jerked his thumb to his chest. “I learned to defend them. Die for them if need be.” James shook uncontrollably.

  Ernest paled.

  “Courage doesn’t have to kill a man, but bravery must defend a friend at the very least.” Nausea grew. He needed to find the right words, right now. “Tell your father I’ll be by in a few hours. We need to talk.”

  James galloped back home, the cool wind easing the sickness. His valiant young King David days awakened the lion pacing within. He hadn’t picked up a sling shot in years. Today he would.

  MAY 28, 1880

  Mrs. MacDonald pried me with questions this morning. Offered to take me wherever I wanted to go in her gig. She’d even drive. But, no, I needed to do this alone.

  I’m afraid she got wind of my unfortunate altercation with Uncle and Aunt. Though I trust Mrs. Meade’s confidence. Perhaps I am wrong.

  “I’m worried about you, Dorothy. Whatever is the matter? You can confide in me.”

  Her genuine entreaty nearly broke my protective shell. Still, I can’t forget her efforts towards my courtship with her son. I do long for a clear-minded friend. But will she forgive me when I reject his offer?

  I rolled up my sleeves against the heat, as she had done. “Thank you. I will remember your kindnesses to me always. I may need to discuss some things with you soon.”

  She gave me an encouraging smile. “Well then, I see you are as stubborn as I was at your age. May as well see that you have a picnic of sorts. Will you at least take that?”

  “Of course.” What a perfect idea.

  “And Dorothy? I am praying for you.” She patted my hand. As if her prayer would take care of everything. I clung to that confidence. I sometimes fear that prayer doesn’t work, for all the pain that erupts in my life and the lives of those around me.

  I began with joy, but panicked on the way. Had the tornado knocked it flat? I added my own plea to God. “Help me today.” I went forth, looking for a lifeline—one that connected my wild idea to a practical plan.

  With a light shawl and a lunch tin of rolls, an apple, and some fried chicken, I made the hike to the scrap of land that Uncle doesn’t care a whit for. Never mind that the Birch’s feel they ought to have it back. I have to ignore that fact if I am going to make my own way. Survive.

  I had to pass an intersection of road that led into Mr. Bleu’s property. I felt compelled to go there and even wanted to. But I feared I shouldn’t, and kept going.

  I slowed as I reached that dead, forgotten cottage. It appeared as empty-hearted as before. A sad, needy place without memories. Maybe I could create some. I wondered why the Birch family cared. Ten acres was insufficient for a decent farm.

  I prayed to God to remove the snakes before I stepped into the tall, greening overgrowth. Miraculous! I did not spot even one slithering menace.

  I opened the door to the cottage and glanced about. Someone had been here. The rotten flooring had been torn out, exposing the darkness below. More animal skeletons littered about. Several other broken jars. The heavily-stained plaster remained. I stood there pondering a weighty decision. The answer was clear. I’d already chosen, in the depths of my exhausted dreams.

  I did not go in—not yet. I hiked to a nearby low slope and nestled beneath a maple tree filling out with light lacy leaves. Nature hummed its tune. I removed my pocket knife and cut a small branch with a few miniature leaves to carry back to Cedar Gate.

  I’ve never been more certain of myself. I’d found my home. A home lacking heart wouldn’t be able to shut mine out. I enjoyed my lunch with open zeal. Licked my fingers and gulped down cool sweetened tea. Finally, a plan!

  I pulled out a pencil and notebook and listed what’s needed to make this cottage livable. I considered what I had remaining from Father. A mere $50.00. I’d have to do something to survive.

  Chapter 25

  JAMES HAD SEEN HER hiking to that slice of old Birch land. “Trafton land, now,” he allowed. Shameful her cousins alienated her from the family. The whole passel of them should be off hiking together on this beautiful day. Making memories, dreaming of their futures together. Linking arms like sisters. Instead, the silly girls took up Hammond’s offense without a second thought. And certainly without evidence. He murmured to himself, “He is their father...would I have done the same?” Perhaps so.

  His meeting yesterday with Hammond had been too brief. A chasm as wide as the Kentucky River flowed between them. Where had the man-to-man salute gone? At one time, they’d fought on the same side for the same reasons. Now they stood like enemies.

  “You’ve always been the spoiled rich kid.” Hammond frowned. “You don’t know what it’s like to work your whole life for something.”

  Didn’t he?

  Hammond jerked a crooked fence post loose from the barbed wire that trapped it.

  “I’m not going to stand around and watch someone take what’s rightfully mine.”

  “Dorothy needs to...”

  “She needs to stay out of my way. Her father did me a good turn, I’ll admit. He also knew that this place is mine down to the deepest roots. I’m the one that’s stayed forever and worked it hard. Not my privileged sister. Nor anyone else.” He pointed to his chest. “Me. They didn’t so much as bother to visit. Not for twenty years! Dorothy don’t know a fence post from a stick of firewood.”

  “Do you imagine she’s just going to hand over that deed?” He needed to be reasonable.

  Hammond’s mouth grew in a thick line. Looked down to his shoes. Fear, again. Would his fear make him do something he’d regret?

  James tried again, with a low, calm voice. He didn’t want to rile him into another fit. “I’d never steal anything from you. Why would you think that? How could you?” Last time he checked, getting married wasn’t stealing anyhow. The thought burned.

  Hammond had been weakened by spells but toughened by anger. To imagine
that he, James, would be so greedy. He wanted to share his life with his friend. Cultivate life and land together as they had marched forward during the war.

  Neighboring land had been for sale when he had visited years ago, the timing was perfect. When he’d moved here, he’d grafted right into the family. Or so he thought.

  “You give Dorothy all those papers? The ones that I wanted?”

  “I did. I should never have taken them. Neither should you. Would have been better to ask first and avoid a conflict.” Truth set people free, didn’t it?

  Hammond walked away without a reply. Gave a directive to Ernest who’d scarce looked his way the whole time.

  When he found out that Hammond had borrowed against the farm and was about to lose everything, well, the rest was history. Maybe he should have stayed out of it. Watched the family suffer humiliation. Become tenant farmers with little to their name. Didn’t Hammond realize how close he’d been to complete and utter destruction? Tornado damage was nothing by comparison.

  His mind wandered to Dorothy, who had indeed lost her home in a devastating way. The brave girl had defended him. Kept his secret. If Hammond found out what he’d done. But no. Wasn’t worth telling now. He only hoped he hadn’t offered Hammond enough rope to hang himself.

  Does Dorothy fit in at Cedar Gate? Mrs. MacDonald’s welcoming personality would be good for her. Keep her teacup filled with the right kind of tea. He smiled, remembering her astonishment at her first taste of hot sassafras. Eyes widened after a quick swallow. He chuckled. Wished he could sit across from her again. Talk things out. If only things had gone well the afternoon he confessed...