Of Needles and Haystacks

by Ann Elizabeth Fryer

  “Am I gonna wait here all day? Wear right through this here floor.”

  Lad sat and wagged his tail for bacon. I fed him a slice and he ran out the door—then fetched the broom like I was told.

  JULY 14, 1880

  She is still here. Every inch of this place has been scrubbed whether needed or not! I’m a good kind of tired. She sits in my rocking chair with her eyes closed. I can’t tell whether she is awake or asleep. Guess it doesn’t matter.

  She spoke of fresh buttered corn for supper. I haven’t any, though I suspect the corn growing in nearby fields have barely pushed up from the earth. She’s mumbled about juicy watermelon too. Awakening dormant cravings fulfilled only in the summer.

  JULY 15, 1880

  Was that foolish? I hiked the direction that Charles and Kate pointed, in search of them—truthfully, in search of the fresh produce Ruth kept on about.

  What an awkward scene! A few people I recognized from church, Birches apparently, were busy hanging laundry or peeling potatoes from their front porch. They ran inside like frightened rabbits. Like Birches apparently.

  Kate came out, her forehead creased with worry. I floundered for a moment before handing out coins—in payment for anything fresh out of their garden.

  She helped me fill a basket of greens and cucumber, and a few early tomatoes as well. She refused payment altogether.

  “Here’s a few eggs too. We have more than we can eat.” She smiled reluctantly. “I wish I had time to walk you home. Come see me again!”

  I had the feeling that the others didn’t want my coming around, else why hide? Why not introduce themselves? I gave Kate my brightest smile and turned toward home.

  When I plunked the basket down, Ruth set to inspecting the contents. “Ahhh, ah. Make us a salad.”

  Us? Did she not plan to return home tonight? “How long do you plan to visit?”

  “Don’t rightly know.”

  Oh my. What a strange predicament. Stranger still that Mr. Bleu had not come to fetch her.

  I washed the produce, sliced the cucumber, arranged the tomatoes around the perimeter of the platter like Mother used to. Mixed the dressing nice and tart.

  And we ate, a cold biscuit in our left hands and cold tea at our right. How strange that she should be here. How unexpected for me. How...good.

  RUTH HAD NOT RETURNED quickly like he’d expected. He agonized over whether or not to go check on Dorothy. Ruth no doubt took her by surprise. Or shock! That woman had a way about her.

  He’d tried to visit Hammond today, but they told him he wasn’t up to visitors. Tired excuse. As though I haven’t seen the worst in my lifetime already. Ernest had waved from a distant field.

  His own overseer had all the fields sown and producing nicely, the tenant farmers also. He grew jittery. There had to be something besides lounging around his study lost in unreal worlds of his books. This house was way too quiet without Ruth’s soulful singing filling the rooms.

  He pondered building Dorothy a stable for that tired old horse of hers. He opened his desk and pulled out a clean sheet of paper and rule and began mapping it out. He’d make it large enough to be a proper outbuilding too. Plenty of storage as well.

  Would she accept the gift? Maybe he wouldn’t give her the choice.

  Chapter 32

  AUGUST 3, 1880

  I sipped several strong cups of coffee this morning. Had anyone a more tortuous night than I? Perhaps Ruth herself. The moans began sometime after midnight, the weeping came an hour later. I could do nothing for her, she didn’t seem to be awake and yet would not, could not be woken.

  She gripped the blankets to herself, gathered them right into her middle, her pain obvious. Writhed in place for hours on end, weeping all the while.

  I’d slipped from bed long before sunrise. I tried to nestle on to the settee, too hard for sleeping. Despite my need for rest, I fumbled around and lit an oil lamp. Made coffee. I figured Ruth would show up any moment and benefit from the hot brew. I spent the wee hours of the morning sipping the pot clear down, praying, “God, oh, God, have mercy on her! I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what she needs, Lord? Please, take the nightmare away.” As I prayed, her grief rose to a wail. I peeked through the door. Her upper body rocked back and forth and the high-pitched wails sank into wordless moans again.

  I grabbed my Bible and held it tight, sitting on the edge of my chair—more jittery than a squirrel. There was a verse, Mother used to say it when she was upset by something. No weapon formed against thee shall prosper. That was it! I flipped open my Bible hoping the words would present themselves. They didn’t, but it didn’t matter. I had them, and spoke them softly. “No weapon formed against thee shall prosper.”

  I tried to wake her. I crept to her side of my bed and knelt on the floor, her thrashing body still rocked. I said it again. “Ruth...Ruth...” I put my hand on her shoulder to stop her movement. “No weapon...” her crying drowned out my words and I wept. “Jesus...Jesus.” The only word I knew to say came from my lips. It was enough.

  She grew calmer.

  “Jesus is here, Ruth.” Like Mother told me, on her death bed. Jesus is here, Dorothy. He is with you.

  She stilled. Opened her eyes, blinking.

  With a light touch, I reached for her hand—dark brown, old and gnarled, like roots that gripped a towering tree to the earth. “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, Ruth.”

  She grunted assent, “Mmm, hmm...” Rolled over on her side and slept.

  But I was far from true respite.

  Hours later, when she presented herself once again at my cook stove, dressed and neatly tying her apron, she gave no hint that anything unusual had happened. I was half afraid to mention it. Soon after, she loaded some burlap sacks with food from my larder and left without so much of a word. Not even a “good bye.”

  So very strange, yet so very affected I was by the experience last night. Mother’s verse coming to me as it did. A war kind of verse about weapons failing when used for harm...because God wouldn’t let them keep hurting us...

  Set my mind to thinking of my enemies. I wouldn’t have them be so! God has commanded me to love them, to do good to those persecute me, but what do I know of persecution? My life has never been in jeopardy because of my faith. But what if...what if their lives are on the line? And my faith, my love, my goodness—drawn from God Himself—will be what brings peace to my family again?

  Lad barked at the rattle of a wagon coming close to my home. I glanced out of the wavy glass window panes that distorted my view, but I could still tell who had arrived. Lad lifted his furry black and white paws to the sill, tossed his chin up and barked again. Mr. Bleu was parking a wagon filled with wood. He rushed to my door and gave it a heavy knock.

  I swung it open, joined him outside. I had not anticipated his arrival in the least—and I was well aware how I must look. Dark circles, bedraggled braid. “I suspect you need your cook back.”

  A grin cracked his unscarred side. “I am out of pie.”

  Lad hid behind my legs, nose poking around my skirt, and finally dared to leave my side to sniff the man’s boots. “She loaded some bags of my food and left—that way.” I pointed. “Have no idea where she plans to live next.”

  He nodded in understanding. As though Ruth needed a little explanation. I’d say a lot. “Yes, I passed her on the way. Figured she cleaned you out. I’ll replace whatever food she took.” He laughed lightly. “But don’t worry. She’s not really a thief. I know exactly where she went. Feeds some poor folk over in the next county.”

  “Oh. Well, then I suppose it’s okay. If the people really need it.” I thought of Father and his never-ending efforts to help as he was able.

  “They do.” He knelt to give Lad a rub behind his ears. “She have another nightmare?”

  I nodded. Of course, he’d know about them.

  “She can’t help them. Not much you can do for her but pray.”

  “That, and make a large p
ot of coffee.”

  He laughed.

  I risked another query about the deed. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” He knew exactly what I meant.

  “No.” He glanced to the side of the house, then back at me. “I’m going to build a stable for your horse.”

  How quickly he changed the subject, how much it irked my good senses. I suddenly noticed the wood piled in the wagon, the box of tools by his feet. “I’m not sure I can pay for that just yet.” Unless I’m to sell a few more acres and, risk more heart break.

  “Nah. Wood’s been sitting in my barn. Needs to be used, and you need Old Becky kept safe and warm.”

  I was still angry with him for rejecting my offer. Confused to boot. Now he stood in front of me with a generous offer, avoiding more discussion concerning that deed. Will it never end?

  He smiled a smile that melted my heart right on the spot. So giving is this man. Not one of us deserving. “I suppose.” I smiled too.

  While he worked, I pondered what qualifies a person as deserving, when all of us fall short. Miserably so.

  I boiled several pots of water to wash my bed linens. I didn’t expect Ruth to return, but what if she did? I worked swiftly, very aware of the saw and pounding hammer. For a few hours, I swirled soap in the hot water, pressed the cloth against the wash board with the scrub brush, the linen all a-twist and dripping across my clean floor. Guilt tugged.

  I dried my hands and pulled out the precious bottle of lemon syrup I’d purchased. He deserved a decent drink.

  When I arrived at his heel with a glass of lemonade and a sandwich, his eyes crinkled with merriment. “Perfect timing!” He enjoyed his work, plain to see. And his lunch as well.

  The stable’s skeleton was already in place. Sturdy and tall. I couldn’t help feeling excited. Old Becky was another piece of my new life and independence. And the third member of my animal family, if Rosie ever turned up again.

  “Good. Thank you,” he said between bites.

  “I wish I could offer you better.”

  He shook his head. “During the war, we’d fight each other over food this fresh.” He gulped more lemonade. “Makes a body grateful for every crumb.” He averted his eyes.

  Father rarely spoke of the war. His duties had been clerical, thank goodness.

  I took his glass and plate back inside and hauled my linens to dry in the breeze across a section of fencing. He was loading the wagon. “I’ll be back tomorrow to finish. I promise.”

  I could only hope.

  AUGUST 3, EVENING

  Ruth came a few hours later with steaming hot pies in a large basket. “Stopped by the house on my way home.” Her grin was almost wicked.

  Wait a minute—was she insinuating that my house was now her home? But I was distracted by the wafting spicy scent.

  “Are you staying on another night?”

  “Oh, why of course!” She scooped a heaping slice for each of us and we ate together as before, at my little table set as though for expected company.

  And she snuggled herself right back into my bed. I should have begged Mr. Bleu to take her home where she belonged. I may never sleep a full night again.

  Weariness overtook me, but I’m reminded of Mr. Bleu’s smile, his helping hand...I’d see him again tomorrow. Thankfully. I wanted to be upset with him for not taking the deed, but couldn’t find the will. After all, he’s not my enemy. Far from it.

  Chapter 33

  BUILDING OLD BECKY’S stable for Dorothy assuaged his guilt some. Well, a little. With the work completed and the horse safely installed, he had no good reason to visit again anytime soon. Glimpses of Dorothy about her duties, her through-the-window gaze fixed on some distant thought until her eyes saw him looking back. A reflective flit, and she’d slip away for a spell.

  His life had dulled considerably without his horse breeding venture with Hammond or his interaction with those rambunctious boys. He missed the rest of the family as well. Ruth’s abandonment and lack of her perfectly baked pies on his table left him hungry all the time. How long did she plan to stay away?

  Not even Ernest popped by as before. Couldn’t hardly blame him, poor fellow, between a immovable rock and a difficult place. He’d been forced to choose a side without any desire to do so.

  Contacting Mr. Trafton had been a long shot, a risk he’d willingly taken. Sure, he’d known about Hammond’s gambling. Knew the habit had formed in the desolation of the battlefields, the sorry campsites with little else to do between battling the enemy. He knew too well of the fierce grip that can hold a man’s soul captive.

  Mr. Trafton’s heart had been softened by James’s frantic appeal. Then as now, people still suffered from the war, in so many different ways. Nostalgia, a cheap word to put on so costly a sacrifice. That’s why he’d been willing to reach deeply into his own pockets. Let Mr. Trafton be a part of Hammond’s redemption from himself. They’d shaken on the promise. Kept it hidden under his hat.

  No longer would Hammond be able to gamble against the farm and put his family at risk. But here he was, losing out all the same. That adorable niece of his shouldn’t have to suffer either. How else could he show how much he cared?

  He had a bothersome feeling that wouldn’t go away. God expected him to do something else. Wish he knew exactly what.

  AUGUST 5, 1880

  “Gots to learn you a song so you can join me.”

  I stopped cold. Ruth perched in my rocking chair with knitting in her lap, humming like she always did, one foot on a rung, the other flapping against the floor when the rocker tilted forward again. She’d been with me for a week already. I scarcely know how the time had passed.

  “Set on down here with yer’ needle an’ linens. Follo’ m’ lead.” Ruth sang one of her Negro spirituals.

  I absolutely balked. I do not have a rich, buttery voice for singing, though I enjoy singing when alone and out of earshot. Not in the mood to be made to sing anything at all. I sat down and threaded my needle.

  Ruth squeezed her brows together at my silence. I couldn’t resist her. When she finally heard me sing, I thought she might beg me to stop.

  At least there was no one else around to hear my attempts. I released my voice to follow, “Swing low..., sweet chariot...” A memory surfaced some moments later. Father and I had taken an adventure walk—with no maps. We ended up at the edge of a Negro community. Children stood in rows outside a small clapboard schoolhouse, singing this very song. Father applauded and discretely handed the teacher some coins. I’d been mortified. Did my best to hide behind a maple tree, away from curious eyes. Oh Father, what I would do to take that walk again. I’d sing with them, yes.

  Our voices mingled, hers taking up for what talent I lacked. We kept going until I relaxed, no longer embarrassed, her knitting needles quickly clicking, my needle and thread tugging, stitching white thorns on a blackberry bramble.

  “And if you get there before I do, coming for to carry me home, I’ll cut a hole and pull you through...” Snip went my scissors through the cloth, cutwork for the berries.

  Ruth’s voice trailed off. I wondered at this woman, with her night terrors. Who is turning me into a coffee drinker as never before. Who calms at the name of Jesus.

  I asked her then. “Ruth? Why did you come here to stay?”

  She looked at me with bewilderment. “You gots to ask?”

  I nodded.

  “To be yo’ family.” She rose from her rocking chair and put the kettle on, not knowing later what would happen. No hint of her distant ancestors tugging at her hem, pulling her through. She didn’t suspect for a moment.

  AUGUST 15, 1880

  Had I known the pain that riding a horse would bring, I’d never have bothered to learn. I kept reminding myself how important this was to my independence.

  Ruth was there to help me alight the patient beast, Kate Birch held the reins. I am ever so glad that no men—or anyone else—was around to see me slip to the ground on the other side in a plume of
dust and skirts. A few tries later, I was high on Becky’s back, hanging onto the pommel for dear life. I tried hard not to be afraid and took strength from Kate’s confidence. Her genuine smile bolstered me.

  After that adventure, I invited Kate in for lemonade and some of Ruth’s pie. It seemed, for those few hours, that I had true friends around me. Our laughter rose, spirits high. For no good reason at all except that we enjoyed each other’s presence. My, it had been a long time. School friends seemed a world away.

  This evening, as I readied for bed, I noticed Ruth’s hands shaking as she buttoned her night gown.

  “Are you unwell?” Fear plunged to the pit of my stomach. Memories. Too many memories.

  “I be fine chile.” Her smile didn’t negate my concern.

  I let her snuggle in first. Not ever having sisters to share with, I’ve been dreadfully spoiled. I found it least awkward to let her fall asleep before slipping in. I’ve relished my time alone in the kitchen, Lad at my feet, his fur better than wooly slippers, a good book in my hands. My dreams and hopes spring buoyantly, undashed by the rigors of the day.

  But tonight, I am uneasy. She does not toss herself about with that odd, inner pain she doesn’t talk about. She only trembles.

  I made my bed on the lumpy settee, hardly able to sleep.

  SEPTEMBER 13, 1880

  Ruth had been ill for days. I was so afraid to leave her side in order to send for the doctor. Or run for Mr. Bleu. I wasn’t confident enough to ride Old Becky yet.

  I decided to run down the road a short piece—hoping for anyone to pass by. I spied Uncle riding the wagon into town, Helen and Kirsten were with him. I waved like a mad woman. I know they heard me, yet they did not acknowledge my shouts. Ignored by my own kin.

  I quickly ran back to Ruth. I propped pillows behind her head and spooned tea through her chattering lips, all the while tears slipping down my face. The last time I had to do this, I lost them both. My parents.