by Ami McKay
Dinner was almost finished when the true reason for Archer’s flattery came to light. When his mother asked him his plans for the spring, he spooned the last of the potatoes on his plate and replied, “I’m glad you asked. There’s something I’d like to talk over with you.”
Hart picked up the empty serving bowl and ran his thumb around the edge, scraping off the last bit of potatoes still clinging to the rim. “How’re you gonna swindle money from the pockets of the hard-working people of Kings County this time, Archie? Can’t imagine you’ve found anything more honest than peddling the Lord’s word, unless, of course, you’re planning on selling tickets to the other side of the Pearly Gates…and in that case, be sure and save one for yourself, you’ll be needing it.”
Archer ignored Hart’s remarks and began moving the plates around on the table, puckering the tablecloth into soft, wrinkled mountains and valleys. “Say this serving tray is the Bay, and this ridge over here is the mountain…” He motioned along the gap between the two. “Most of the houses are built along here.” Then he ran his hand along a smooth slope of cloth leading to the top of the peaks. “And these fields here, the ones that are cleared, they’re used for what, grazing cattle, growing hay? You can’t grow anything worthwhile on them.”
Hart interrupted, “Laird Jessup grew some cabbages back there this past year, and they did just fine.”
Archer laughed. “Cabbages? How much cabbage does one little town need? How many people really like cabbage anyway? The stuff stinks. The only other things that’ll eat it is pigs, and it leaves them bloated. For all the work it takes to grow it, you’re left with a few cents and a bunch of angry swine.”
Hart shook his head. “Well, it’s too windy there to grow much else.”
Archer snapped his fingers. “Exactly! Wind’s the one thing we have plenty of here in the Bay, so why not farm that instead? We can build windmills, lots of them. Instead of praying each spring that a freshet doesn’t come and wipe out the lumber mill you’ve got built over Ells Brook, you could have a wind-powered mill. And better than that, we can use the windmills to generate electricity. The townsfolk of Canning have been trying for years to get electric for their street lamps, let alone their homes, so it’s certain the county won’t be bringing it up the mountain anytime soon. Why should we wait? With a few windmills here and there, we’d have enough electricity to power all this side of North Mountain.” He made a proud sweeping gesture, like a rainbow had just formed over his head. “The Bigelow Electric Company of Scots Bay…then, Halls Harbour, Arlington, Blomidon, Medford, Ross Creek, Delhaven…”
Confused, I pointed to his tabletop landscape. “I’m not sure what you have in mind, but the church cemetery and our house look to be right in the middle of your wind farm.”
He patted my hand. “Those folks are dead, my dear, I’m sure they won’t mind.” He circled his finger around the gravy pitcher. “We’ll build the windmills around the house. It’ll be like living in a field of giant twirling daisies, and you, my dearest wife, will be the first woman to have electric, right in her home.”
Hart scowled. “What exactly do we need electric for? A small windmill or hand pump brings enough water for a house, and oil lamps give off plenty of light. Seems to me we do just fine without it.”
Archer sighed and looked at his mother with pleading eyes. “This is why I’ve had to come to you. Hart’s not the only man in the Bay without a sense of vision. I’ve tried to talk to some of the other men about my ideas, and have gotten much the same response.” He took her hand. “Hens will only lay eggs in the sunny months of the year. Once autumn comes and the days grow short, they’re through until spring. But, if we had electricity, we could give them the light they need and they’d lay all winter long.” He grinned at his mother. “You always said the hens were smarter than the roosters.”
With that, the widow agreed to give Archer the rest of his inheritance and anything else she could spare. She also promised to make arrangements for Archer to speak at the spring meeting of the White Rose Temperance Society. He is over the moon. I’m left wondering if, once again, he’s making a promise he can’t keep.
~ February 26, 1918
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PostScriptPicturemajesticwindmillsrev.eps
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A large package arrived for Archer today from Vaughn’s Almanac Inc. He has been holed up in the barn since after lunch. Despite the cold, damp weather, he is determined to keep at his task until it’s finished. I took a plate to him at dinnertime and an extra sweater as well. He motioned for me to set the food on an apple barrel in the corner and then continued his work, circling around a makeshift table he had made from two sawhorses and a few wide boards. Tacked to the side of Buttercup’s stall were three large sheets of blue paper, crowded with figures, diagrams and numbers. As of my last visit to the barn at midnight, his table was still empty.
~ February 27, 1918
Went to take Archer some breakfast and found the barn doors barred shut. His voice grumbled from inside. “Just leave it, I’ll get to it in a bit.”
I pressed my lips to a knothole and said, “Don’t forget to milk the cow.”
Not long before lunch I heard the angry sound of Buttercup, deep in protest. I looked out the window in time to see Archer whipping the poor, bawling creature out to the pasture. He stomped back to the barn, threw out the milking stool and pail and slammed the door.
I took the cow by her harness and pulled her to the south side of the barn, where the roof hangs over the woodpile. I stroked her side, milked her swollen, red udders until they were dry and walked her down to the Widow Bigelow’s barn to see if Hart might have room for her.
Once she was settled, Hart offered to bring me home in his buggy. When I refused, he insisted I at least let him walk with me so he could get a look at Archer’s handiwork. Pepper scampered along as we walked, sniffing in the ditches and along the fencerows. She smelled the food still sitting untouched in the lunch pail outside the barn door and raced ahead to gobble it down. I didn’t scold her. Archer’s breakfast had long gotten too cold to be any good. I did scold Hart, however, for his teasing and saying that he was going to “kick in the doors to make certain Archer was still alive.” Instead, we snuck around to the back of the barn and stared through the cracks between the boards.
The way Archer had paced the floor waiting for its arrival, you’d have thought this thing, this grand invention, was going to be as big as a church. When Jack Tupper brought it to the house, Archer wrapped his arms around the large wooden crate, his face peering over the top, eyes lit up like Christmas morning. From the size of the box, I had expected something at least as tall as my husband, something formidable, and strong enough to hold up against the winds off the Bay. Hart went on and on, whispering and laughing, “That’s some small. But I suppose the mice could have a nice little tea party under it.”
Archer leaned over his workbench, one arm braced on the roof of a dollhouse, tinkering with his toy-sized creation. He whistled and hummed, occasionally talking to the thing, proclaiming his skill with nuts and bolts, praising the ingenuity of man, promising to “show her off, some good.”
For the first time I had ever seen, my husband was truly devoted to something. Yes, there is our marriage, but compared to this, it’s clear that his effort and his desire have never belonged to me. With a baby or not, I’ll never inspire the sweet, hypnotic words of Shakespeare’s lovers or the winning smiles and delicious conversation of Jane Austen’s heroes. I’ll never be cause enough for shivering in the cold or going without supper.
~ February 28, 1918
Just before dawn he came through the door, calling to me. “Dorrie, come on, she’s up!” He carried me from the bed to the barn, blankets trailing down between my legs. “You sit right here.” He dropped me in a pile of hay and ran to push the barn doors apart as wide as they would allow. “Keep your eyes on the dollhouse.” Cold gusts of wind rushed through the barn, kicking up stray bits of hay
, rattling the blades of the windmill into a whirl of motion. Lights flickered from inside the rooms of the small house. A chandelier, a lamp on the staircase, a light in the front window. “Let there be light!” he said, as he pulled me into his arms and twirled me around, everything spinning, our breath hanging in the air in the first warmth of the sun.
31
The Ladies of the White Rose Temperance Society
Invite you to their spring tea
Sunday, March 3, 1918
At 2 p.m.
The Seaside Centre
Our special guest will be Archer Bigelow
Presenting the lecture
Electricity: A Woman’s Best Friend
WE SET UP THE TINY windmill at the Seaside Centre after church. I borrowed one of Aunt Fran’s tablecloths and some of Precious’s dolls and furniture to help make the presentation complete.
For all the troubles Archer had last year with his temper and drinking, one thing hasn’t changed: he can still turn any woman’s attention to anything he wants. Even with the windows wide open, the ladies never complained (not even his mother). They huddled around the dollhouse, their faces peeking into the brightened little rooms, their mouths open with wonder. Once the windows were shut and they were settled in their seats, Archer told them of his magnificent wind farm and the superiority of hens to roosters. It wasn’t long before they were clucking for more.
This is the time of year when spring is a tease in the air. The sun warms the ground, the snowdrops have appeared, but as soon as two people start talking about blue skies and planting peas, it begins to snow and there’s another inch or two of “poor man’s fertilizer” covering the ground. Archer had every head nodding in agreement when he proclaimed that this year’s winter must be the longest on record. “Some cold, too, I’d say.” He walked over and took his mother’s hands in his own. “Cold hands, warm heart—they must have been thinking of dear ladies like you when they came up with that phrase.” Even Aunt Fran blushed at that.
He opened the pages of a Sears catalogue and pointed to the large black lettering across the top of the page.
“Electricity can do more for the women of the Bay than just getting your hens to lay eggs.” He smiled and asked the women, “How many times have you wished for more hours in a day? Or dreamed of having an extra pair of hands?” He snapped his fingers. “If you had electricity, you might just feel as if those wishes had come true.” He passed the catalogue to my mother and me. “Look at that page and tell me there isn’t one thing there that wouldn’t make your life easier.”
“I promise you, if you support this venture, I’ll deliver electricity straight to each and every one of your doorsteps before the days turn short and the nights turn cold.”
By morning the porch was crowded with pickle jars, filled to the rim with coins. After breakfast, Archer carefully packed his miniature wind farm in an old steamer trunk, taking great care to make certain that every bit of it was padded and safe. He said he was off to put all the money in the bank in Kentville—the money from his mother and the money from the ladies. Then he’d be off to Halifax to seek out investors. “I need real money, city money, to make this work.”
“You have to leave today?”
“I can’t wait around any more to get this thing started, and I certainly wouldn’t want people to think I can’t provide for my dear little wife. You don’t want women to start coming here to have their babies in our parlour, giving us cabbages and beans because they feel sorry for you. Do you?” He kissed me and gave a firm pinch to my bum. “Anyway, if I wait around for you to decide that you want me to go, I’ll never get out of here.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Can’t say. But if I don’t get going…”
I felt the tears coming to my eyes. “I think I might be—”
He ignored my sadness, giving me a broad smile as he went through the door. “Now don’t make me worry over you, Dora. That’s what selfish girls do, and I never guessed you to be like that.”
~ April 15, 1918
Bleeding today. No baby, again.
Archer’s been gone over a month, the war is still on, and it feels like darkness is winning at everything. By all reports, March 1918 was taken by the Germans. Many soldiers captured, many more killed.
Mother has heard from Albert and Borden. They are fine. I do wonder about poor Tom Ketch, wherever he may be. He never sent word after I wrote to him. It seems so long ago.
I did get a package from Charlie in today’s post and there is (as I suspected) a girl involved in his move to Boston (or woman, I should say, from the photo he sent). Her name is Maxine Cabott, and she’s as beautiful and sophisticated a thing as I’ve ever seen. Charlie is standing next to her, grinning like the cat that came in with a mouse in his teeth. Although he claims he’s in her employ, it looks to be much more than that.
He even sent me a book of poetry by Emily Dickinson…his thoughtfulness makes me wonder if he isn’t in love!
I hope you like this little book of poems I’ve sent along to you. It was Max’s idea. I told her how much you love to have your nose stuck between the pages, and she said, “She’d probably prefer some thing racier, like Balzac or Lawrence, but some postal clerk would confiscate it in the name of Comstockery and virtue, and then where would we be? Send my regrets. Miss Dickinson will have to do for now.”
32
THE PINK MOON, April’s moon, pulls the green of the earth right up from the roots. The pink moon, the Lady moon, gives wide silver rings to the sky, her sudden, bright face coming over the spruce, singing, Three days of rain, day and night. Three days of rain and unexpected houseguests.
Precious came down for supper. I fixed boiled ham with potatoes, cabbage and carrots. Had to keep a fire in the kitchen at night, just to hold the chill off. After dinner, we sat at the table, dunking brown bread in thick cream and maple syrup. Sucking at the tips of her fingers like a child, Precious begged to have her tea leaves read. “Please, Dora, I won’t tell my mum. I won’t tell a soul.”
At fifteen, she’s in a sweet and terrible spot. On Easter Monday, Sam Gower went off to war. He’s decided to “do his part.” For her part, Precious has promised to write, to place his letters under her pillow and to keep his mother company until he returns. It’s nothing short of painful to watch her give her heart away for the first time. We are all standing guard, Aunt Fran, Uncle Irwin, Mrs. Gower, Reverend Pineo, everyone who knows and loves her. There is something in her waiting, in her sad patience, that warns us, “If this girl’s heart should happen to break, the whole world will be broken along with it.”
“Watch carefully now…I hold the cup in my left hand, left is closest to the heart, see? Turn it over and let the last drops drip out past the handle.” Precious was watching, squirming in her seat with anticipation. “Upright the cup and place the saucer over top. Then, fast as you can, turn it the other way around so now the cup is on top.”
“Now, Dora? Can we look now?”
“Shh…No, now we wait.” I placed my hands piously on the cup, slowly turning it, just as Miss B. had always done. One, two, three times ’round the clock. “Always pick it up with the left hand, always the left.”
She peered between her fingers as she held her hands over her face. “I’m afraid to look, Dora, is it any good?”
“I can see…a hand. Someone you know will need your helping hands. Be sure you give them your assistance, and good luck will come back to you.”
Precious sighed with disappointment. “I always help others, that’s easy enough. Isn’t there anything else in there?”
“Wait…oh yes, a ribbon and an ear. Someone thinks highly of you, and soon you will get news from far away.”
Precious smiled and closed her eyes. She whispered, “Sam.”
“Maybe so.”
“I think I should marry Sam when he comes home.”
“I think you’re too young to think about getting married off.”
; “But you were only eighteen when you married Archer. That’s not so different.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
“When you come from a house with six brothers and no money to speak of, a marriage proposal is a gift, not a choice. Count your blessings, dear cousin. You’re an only child from a well-to-do family. You have plenty of time to decide who you’ll marry.”
Precious retied the ribbon at the end of her braid. “Aren’t you anxious for Archer to come home? Don’t you love him like mad? Don’t you wish he were here?”
“Wishing doesn’t make it so, and no matter how badly you try to help her along, Love always makes it plain that she can take care of herself. Here, let’s clear the table.”
She sat pouting, with her hands folded in her lap. “Not until we look in your cup too.”
“Oh, alright.” I turned the cup, not looking to find anything important. One, two, three times ’round the clock. Then with the left, always the left, it’s closest to the heart. There, see? “Blackbird flying. Two hands shaking. A treasure box.”
Before I finished, we heard horses and voices in the dooryard. Too late for Hart to come by, too soon for Archer to be home. I tried to hide my worry from Precious as I opened the door.
A man was pushing a young girl ahead of him, their bodies moving together, then apart. It was difficult to judge if it was fear or illness that was causing their cumbersome gait. The man called out, “You Judah Rare’s girl, right? Oh—I should say, Mrs. Archie Bigelow…” Brady Ketch’s speech was crippled by drunkenness, his clothing and face soiled.
“Yes, but—”
“Here ya go, My Wild Iris Rosie…Mrs. Bigelow’ll know what to do with you.” He shoved the girl up the steps and through the door, causing her to fall into my arms, whimpering. “Take her.”