Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  She juggled the flowers as Charles took her belongings, setting the basket down to keep from dropping the bouquet. Out popped the kitten, and in jumped the pup. The kitten hissed and swiped the pup, the pup, poor thing, hid behind Kate’s skirt, growling pitifully. Peals of laughter later, Dorothy and Kate secured the animals in their arms and rode away. He chuckled to himself. She caught his eye, gave a slight nod. He waved, but kept his distance.

  On his way home, he’d meandered by her cottage, stepped in through the unlocked door. She wouldn’t mind. Much had been done. The plaster had nearly dried. Quarter-sawn ash wood flooring had been evenly fitted into the floor joists. Ernest kindly brought over extra glass panes from a nearby collapsing clapboard house. The good pieces had been used for the farm. Dorothy wouldn’t know or care. Or realize that Ernest had spent a few days laboring for no payment, a sort of quiet penance on behalf of his family.

  The chimney had been tuck-pointed, the hearth nicely swept. To the left, an elephant stood. The polished, black, oversized cook stove stood ready to feed an army. What had she been thinking? “It’s gonna take a wheel barrow full of wood to simply boil water.”

  He had to admit though. Covered in fancy filigree, it was a beauty. True, but still an abject waste of funds. A two-plate range should have been sufficient. He ran his fingers along the edge. Would she be as happy as she planned?

  He hoped so.

  Chapter 29

  JUNE 7, 1880

  I’m told I can move in Friday! Everything is happening so quickly. First, I was completely surprised that the MacDonald’s didn’t bother to come pick me up from the station. I learned later that Charles and Kate had begged the privilege. So unexpected! And sweet. Thankfully, they didn’t speak of our strange connection. Or talk about the cottage, though I suspect this is exactly why they’ve turned up friendly. What am I to do? Pretend they don’t want it back? I don’t wish to be like Uncle, carrying around inaccurate suspicions. Suffice it to say, all three of us behaved with caution.

  The maid is in my room, though I have assured her I can clean after myself. She ignored me. Soon, I will do everything alone. Might as well get started.

  I have been gifted with another animal! Charles and Kate have given me a rambunctious pup. Little Ruby would love him, help me name the creatures...I miss the dear child! I still often think of Toliver, his precious brown eyes seeking his lost mother, hiding beneath Aunt’s apron. I never knew what joy little ones bring to a household. I doubt Aunt or Uncle will allow Ruby visits.

  I hope the pup will make a good watchdog. The animals are in the barn together, and aside from a scratched ear, they are set to be friends. I found them nestled together in the hay-filled stall, fast asleep. A wonder, how two very different species can learn to get along so quickly. If only that were true for humanity. Family, even. The scratch comes first, the healing and friendship later...

  I’m downright restless.

  My hand continues to mend. I shall have Mrs. MacDonald pull the stitching out tomorrow. A scar will no doubt remain, reminding me to never reach for broken things without a protective glove. Just as James reminded me. And never assume I won’t get hurt for trying to help things move along.

  Ernest was just here, Helen unwillingly in tow. We were all seated in the parlor, behaving too formally for the depth of our relationship. She barely spoke or looked at me, but glanced at Chess more than once. Chess behaved like his regular, enthusiastic self. Nothing can bring him down. Not even rejection? No. I know for a fact rejection is difficult. He certainly never had any real love for me. Nevertheless, I was grateful for his distracting presence.

  Ernest sat with dirt-stained hands splayed across threadbare knees. Sun-singed cheeks, despite the hat he constantly wore. “I’ve been planting tobacco,” he said. A simple explanation for a good deal of work.

  I wondered if he’d question me about the land. I prayed Chess would keep quiet, despite the fact that they knew what I’d done.

  Ernest nodded. “Your cottage is looking right nice.”

  Chess meandered around the room and mumbled, “Absolutely perfect for a young spinster.”

  I caught the spark in his eyes and met his challenge. “I am no spinster.”

  “Me either.” Of course, men are never considered on the shelf!

  Helen blushed. She needed rescuing. I stood, anxious to get away from Chess’s daring comments. “Come see what I have out in the barn. You’ll love it!”

  Helen had no choice but to follow.

  I wish now that I had not tried to dull the prickles between us with my furry peacemakers. Nor did I have the ears for what she had to say.

  Her words seared me. Her pitiful glare accused. “You never should have come to Paris. We didn’t have any problems whatsoever until you showed up. Why didn’t you stay in Cincinnati?”

  Bold, daring, cruel...I would rather have stayed around Chess than to hear these words fall from her lips.

  Ernest stepped in, sending a similar glare to Helen. I had no clue he’d followed us. “Shush now! Don’t say another word. You shoulda stayed home.” His disgust was obvious.

  “Home?” I asked.

  “We’re back at the farm. Gotta lot done with Pa there.”

  “Oh.” I’d wished, so wished for them to reach out. Beg me to come back with them. I suppose I’d nipped that possibility in the bud. I guess I knew deep down that they wouldn’t offer. It was wise for me to move on.

  Helen walked out of the barn, right into Chess’s fury. “Childish and petulant, are we? Very unbecoming.” His harsh words bit deep. Anguished and humiliated, she ran off without Ernest.

  Chess rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what’s got into you Hammonds.”

  Didn’t he? Helen had spouted the exact reason. Me.

  Ernest mumbled. “Sorry.”

  So. I shall not have peace in this regard.

  Chapter 30

  JAMES SAT ON HIS FRONT steps, strumming his guitar. The stars shone in profusion, Sagittarius barely visible over the hill. Hercules tumbled upside down, a Greek warrior with outlandish stories to his name, claiming his rights by sheer brute force.

  Ruth came out and sat beside him. Regardless of the tune he played, she started singing another. Spirituals passed down from her forefathers. Or mothers. Fathers were often traded or sold away. Had hers been? How little he knew about her.

  He picked up the tune for Swing Low, Sweet Chariot—played deep and slow as she preferred. Her eyes never left the stars. Often times, these moments unlocked and spilled forth memories. Did she look away from her past to a future? At her age, did it still matter? Much of her life had already been lived. Perhaps he asked the wrong question. Why did it matter? She sang of being carried away to home. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  He’d tried to give her a good home. The aging lady was just a scrap of a woman when he gave her work and a place to live. She was much sturdier now. No family to speak of, she’d been adrift having lost her job for pilfering food out of the household’s pantry. No one in their right mind would hire the little thief. Except him, of course. He grinned. He was more than happy to help her help poor folk. No more experiencing empty pockets or brutal tongue lashings from her employers. If only more people were caring like her. Not only waiting for a chance to be kind, but pursuing it. Chasing an opportunity as though the wind carried it and the brief moment might be lost. The victory of the catch, a restoration of hope...No regrets. All moments golden.

  JUNE 11, 1880

  My world has changed. I’m sitting by lamplight in the single, large room, made cozy with my furnishings and the pieces Mrs. MacDonald insisted I take. She’d stayed the whole day with me, placing and decorating as if my small cottage were her mansion. Her light hum bespoke her fancies. We laughed and giggled like girls.

  She exclaimed over Mother’s old things, pointing out each darling quality. Nodding an appreciation over my secretary and bedstead. We hung long linen curtains over the windows, unrolled a large, multi
-colored braided rug, along with Mother’s turkey-red oriental. At that moment, this place began to breathe, live.

  The freshly plastered walls are so clean and bright! No child’s handprints or smears. No coal dust or grime. I can scarce believe this was the desolate place I never wanted to see again.

  My cook stove is a beauty. The star of the kitchen. Philip and Chess brought a load of firewood over and stacked it neatly behind the house, with a good portion in a copper bucket next to the stove.

  Mrs. MacDonald stood beside the settee wistful, confident. “You shall be very happy here.” Her proclamation enabled me. As if she’d planted me here herself and was proud of her choice. Proud of me.

  I am still not so sure of her desires concerning my land. How afraid I am! Life is all sweet and sour. I cannot discern. I am here, that is what matters. And she has stood by me, as a mother might.

  We ended the day with jam tarts from Cedar Gate and my first kettle of tea heated on this cook stove. Then she left me.

  I watched the wagon until it disappeared. The pup began to howl, I’ve yet to name him or feed him. I lifted the heavy ham from its hook and sawed a good ten minutes until I had enough. The effort left me completely weary. Many new things to learn. Most can wait until tomorrow, I suppose.

  This tiny home and only myself within... Coyotes howled a chorus, the pup and I shivered. The kitten hid beneath my bed. I reached for my Bible and held it to my heart, as though the paper and ink are a weapon against fear. But they are, aren’t they? I bolted the door, locked the windows, and scooted close to the fire. The light drew the animals also. I opened my Bible. Time to name them. They blinked drowsily, still preferring to snuggle like twins side by side.

  I looked up quite a few. Hezikiah, too complicated. Mary—too common. King David...James Bleu. Distracted, I turned backwards in my journal by a few months to the night I sketched his face. I snatch my hand mirror and covered the scarred portion, the good side reflecting a complete picture of who he had once been. But this is not the man I know, and I am ashamed for having changed his reflection even for a moment.

  I’ve disappointed him again.

  JUNE 12, 1880

  The day is mine!

  Or not. I went to draw water from the well and watched Philip and Chess pack up camp. Those two! I had not been alone last night as I had bravely thought. How did I not notice? Were they really afraid I’d be carried off? Or run screaming back to Cedar Gate, and they’d be there to give me a ride? Yes. That’s probably it.

  Philip tipped his hat when he saw me. Chess waved. “Hallooo! Got any biscuits ready yet?”

  “I’m sure Cedar Gate has enough to feed you two oafs.” I yelled, waving.

  “After all we’ve done for you?” Chess tossed his pack over his horse. “You owe us.”

  A joke? “I’ve oatmeal, and that’s all.”

  “Naw, I’m going back home for some real food.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  They could not continue to do this, even though I had slept with blankets over my head all night like a frightened child! They don’t need to know my business.

  I sat at my breakfast for a long while, savoring each unencumbered moment. No one to dance around, no brittle emotions to snap, no expectations to fulfill, no family to disappoint.

  I opened my Bible, this time not to hunt for pet names. I’d decided on Lad and Rosie. Not very original. I will give more thought to naming when I have my own children. If I’m ever afforded this pleasure.

  I read a terrible story, followed by a solemn Psalm. I’d opened it to find peace in my solitude. A reviving, as traveling preachers like to call it. But here I find difficulty—and His presence all at once. I turned to the miracles and noted the contrasting hardships as well, otherwise the miracle would not have been so miraculous. Or needed. Then I read the greatest commandment, the one I need the most help with—perhaps my personal miracle in waiting. To love my neighbor as myself. To love Uncle as much as myself? To love Helen, though she sneered and wished me away? To authentically love as He does... Loving them wholeheartedly means I must honestly forgive them.

  Have I? Can I?

  The oven has cooled. I am unsure of what to do with myself. Walk to town? I’ve embroidered until my fingers are sore.

  It’s decided then. I don’t know to properly forgive.

  JUNE 15, 1880

  I’ve purchased a horse! A saddle will be delivered shortly. The horse is small and of some age, but will serve my purposes. I’ll have to keep it tied to a nearby tree at night until I hire out for a stable to be built.

  I’m a bit afraid of the beast. I’ve been warned to never approach the animal from behind. His previous owner pointed to a scar beneath his chin, and a row of missing bottom teeth. Reverend Meade believed him to be in jest, but I’m not so sure.

  Took me nearly two hours to lead the creature home—so interested he was in the roadside clover, I didn’t have the heart to stop him from pleasantly munching. He was in no hurry. Nor was I.

  Afterward, I began heating water for a good soaking bath. I smelled like horseflesh. I remembered then that I do not own a tub except for an enameled tin to wash my clothing in—only half my legs will fit within. I might pay to have one delivered. How long would my funds last at this rate of expenditure?

  I bathed as well as I could and tried not to think of what I was missing at Cedar Gate—or at Uncle’s. After I’d donned a fresh nightgown, I realized that Rosie and Lad were nowhere to be seen. Some caregiver I was.

  The sun rapidly sank beyond the hills. I lit two lanterns and searched the perimeter of the house. Not a head or tail in sight. I checked the horse, standing as though lock kneed, staring at me, likely wishing for more oats. I filled an old feeding bag, left a bowl of water. How much do horses drink? Another forgotten question. Perhaps I should ask James.

  I called Lad and Rosie by name, but this was a fruitless endeavor since they don’t recognize them yet.

  I went back inside, uneasy. Poured myself a cup of tea, and looked again. Maybe I’d find them waiting on the doorstep in the morning.

  I pulled out Father’s boxes, began going through the papers. First, the one that caused this lack of forgiveness in my heart. I layered them by type, adding up the numbers on my old school slate. Lay the notes aside that has caused me concern since I found them. Those hot, tell-tale coals of Father’s and Mr. Bleu’s. That burned us all.

  I opened Father’s personal things, hoping to find some clues—his hat, his pipe, his neckties, his pocket watch. His Bible. Portions of his life that I’d never paid special attention to. I can feel his tickly whiskers over my head as I rested in his embrace. I ache for him and wrapped Mother’s shawl more tightly about my shoulders.

  I spread everything out on the small mantle above the fireplace, to give them further thought. I wished my Father back...and the secure home he’d given me.

  In the bottom of one of the boxes, I found a small tin, closed tightly. I pried and pushed until the lid popped off, pinging against the plastered wall, leaving a tiny chip in its place. Another repair. Inside were folded scraps of paper. I’d expected receipts again—not the scribbled notes written from my child-self to him. Silly crayon renditions of ourselves—the three of us. I propped one up on the mantel with the rest, too tired to weep.

  A knock came to the door and fear flashed through that moment of private grief. I had no way of knowing who’d be on the other side. I snagged my shawl around my shoulders again and cracked open the door. Relief. Charles and Kate.

  “Missing anyone?” Kate grinned. She held up Rosie by the scruff of her neck, the wide- eyed and whiskered bit of fur.

  I opened the door wide. “Oh my. Where did you find them?”

  Charles gripped wiggling Lad in his large hands. “Seems this boy here took his new friend on an adventure back to our farm. We’re just a quarter of a mile that way, you know.” He pointed with an elbow.

  Of course. Made perfect sense, if this portion had
been Birch land at one time. “I’ve been so worried.”

  I scooted the runaways into the house, tightened my shawl. They stood there as if waiting to be asked in. To be proper, I supposed I should make some sort of kind invitation. I found myself offering, “Tomorrow—won’t you both come to dinner? You’d be my first real guests.”

  They answered quickly, “Thank you, we’ll be here.”

  And now I’m wide awake, wishing I’d waited a few days. Given myself time to assess what food filled my larder and what I might serve.

  I glanced at Father’s things above the fireplace. I’d have to sweep them back into the box before guests arrived. I snuggled on the settee with my bed quilt, Lad and Rosie hiding beneath. A strangeness crept into my heart and mind.

  Philip and Chess weren’t camping outside anymore. Helen and Kirsten? My should-be sisters. I wonder what dreams they share back in their old room.

  JUNE 17, 1880

  Kate’s hands showed telltale signs of having scrubbed something all day. Laundry was no small chore. Chapped and bright from the ointment she’d used.

  I seated them around the table and began to place dishes around. I’d slaved all day to make a presentable feast. Lad gobbled down the remains of a ruined spice cake and had already been sick twice before they’d arrived. Messes I didn’t need today.

  Heating the stove proved to be quite a venture. Maybe I should have ordered a smaller one! Heat clung to my body, clung to the walls. Even the wild buds I’d picked from the field drooped in protest.

  I threw open the door, hoping for a breeze, hoping not to make a complete fool of myself. Their arrival brought butterflies to my stomach. But soon felt more settled