A Family Apart (14 page)

“A dog!” Petey shouted. “Is it yours?”

“Yours, too,” Jake said. “His name is Barker.”

Jake held Frances’s hand as she jumped from the wagon. Margaret was being hugged, and everyone was talking at once, exclaiming over Frances and Petey.

“Two! Aren’t you lucky!”

“What wonderful boys!”

“What are their names? Tell us about them.”

Petey, suddenly shy, dove for Frances and wrapped his arms around her neck. She was glad to hold him. It gave her a chance to duck her head against his so that she wasn’t facing everyone at once. She could peek through the corners of her eyes to examine them, especially the boys who seemed to be about her age and who were frankly examining her.

“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you say anything?” the stocky boy asked Frances.

“There’s nothing to say,” Frances answered back.

“Huh! You come from Boston,” the boy said.

“Naw, Elton,” the other said. “All those orphans were coming from New York.”

“He talks like some of them who come from Boston.”

“He talks Irish. That’s what you hear. It’s Irish.”

“And proud of it!” Frances said, raising her head and attempting to stare them down.

One of the women, who had tied a billowing white apron over her long homespun skirt, gave a little tap on the stocky boy’s shoulder, saying, “Elton, Johnny, mind your manners. These boys will be your neighbors and friends. Make them feel at home.”

Margaret put an arm around Frances and Petey. “I know you’d like to get acquainted and play with the other children for a while, so I’ll show you your new home later.”

“I could see it now,” Frances said quickly, anxious to escape these strange faces.

“No. Just have a good time for yourselves,” Margaret said as though she thought Frances were only trying to please. “We’ll have dinner on the table in a short time. I know you must be very hungry.”

Already the women had set up a large table covered in white cloths. Margaret bustled off to join them. Some of the men went with Jake to store the wagon and help with the horses.

“Want to play tag?” a small girl asked Petey. Without a word to Frances, Petey wiggled out of her arms and raced off with the younger children, all of them shrieking at the top of their lungs. Barker, living up to his name, ran with them.

Johnny and Elton ran off, too, shoving, poking, and yelling at each other, ignoring Frances. For this she was thankful. But some of the women began darting little concerned glances at her, so she went after the boys, wanting only to get away from all these people.

As she rounded the corner of the house she discovered she was alone. Enjoying the silence, she gladly leaned against a nearby elm tree. The Cummingses’ land was beautiful. The house overlooked a large meadow dotted with trees, a few of them still green, many bright with orange and yellow leaves. To one side lay a field of black soil rising in rows of low mounds separated by shallow valleys, cleared except for a scattering of dried stalks. Next to the back of the house was a-garden, and she could see rounds of orange and yellow poking through green vines. Were they squash? Pumpkins? She had eaten squash and pumpkin both but had never imagined what they looked like before they arrived in huge piles at the greengrocer’s shop. If only she could show this to Megan or Ma. She pushed the thought that would lead to tears from her mind.

A bright spot of color lying on a patch of grass near her feet caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. It was a doll, made all of cloth. Frances had never seen anything like it. It was so different from the elegant dolls with china faces and silk dresses in the store windows of New York. This homely doll, with its embroidered eyes and smile and hair of tangled brown yarn, went straight to Frances’s heart. For just an instant, she held the doll close.

“Whatcha doing with a girl’s doll?” The mocking voice came from just behind her.

Frances whirled to face Elton and Johnny. “Never
saw one of these before,” Frances mumbled and dropped the doll to the ground.

Elton grinned. “You dropped your dolly. You ought to pick it up before it gets all dirty.” He grabbed Frances’s shoulder and pushed down hard.

But Frances was no stranger to bullies. Having learned well from Mike how to protect herself, she reacted instinctively. Twisting into Elton, she butted him in the stomach. She hooked a foot behind his and jerked. Elton landed on his back in the dirt.

“What’s going on, boys?” A woman who had come from around the corner of the house wiped her hands on her apron and stared at them suspiciously. “You’re not fighting, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” Frances said. “Just having fun.”

The woman looked a little dubious but said, “Dinner’s about ready. You can wash up by the back door.”

As the woman walked away, Frances reached down, grabbed Elton’s elbow, and pulled him to his feet. Dusting him off much harder than necessary, she murmured, “Want to talk any more about dollies? Or have you got enough sense to talk about something else?”

“Whatcha get so mad for?” the boy answered. “I was just making some fun.”

Johnny folded his arms and appraised Frances. “Did you learn to fight like that in New York City?”

“That’s where I’m from,” Frances said.

“How’d you do that thing with your feet?” Johnny asked. “That was fast. Could you show me how to do it?”

“Children! Everyone! Come to dinner!” one of the women called.

“C’mon! Let’s eat!” Elton shoved Johnny so hard he
nearly knocked him off his feet. He was off in a moment, Johnny right behind him.

Frances relaxed, once more leaning against the tree and letting out a long, slow breath. That was close. In the future she’d have to be a lot more careful.

Frances splashed her face and neck with cold water from the basin, then dried herself with the towel that hung on a hook over the wooden bench. The water felt good, and she realized how hungry she had become.

She walked around the house to join the others. Petey was sitting on the grass with some other children, a filled tin plate between his legs.

A short, plump woman with smiling eyes greeted Frances, propelled her toward the table, and handed her a plate. Frances struggled to remember the woman’s name. Mrs. Mueller. Johnny’s mother. Yes, that was it.

“Help yourself, Frankie!” Mrs. Mueller said.

What a feast! At first Frances could only stare at the baskets and plates that covered the table. She had never seen so much food in one place. At the far end of the table were large bowls of red apples and stacked loaves of brown bread, with pots of honey and butter near them. Nearby were bowls and pans piled with meats and vegetables she didn’t recognize, but that were so fragrant the smell of them caused her stomach to rumble.

Mrs. Mueller patted Frances’s shoulder and said, “Maybe some of our food is strange to you. But I think you’ll like it. Over there in the brown dish is game-bird pie.” She named one dish after another: cured and roasted pork hocks, pickled carrots, Indian cornmeal pudding—from which rose the tantalizing fragrance of molasses—and cold sliced potatoes seasoned with a sauce of bacon drippings and onions. “And squash pie, especially for
Margaret,” she finished proudly. “That’s a real favorite with New Englanders.”

“Aren’t you from New England, too?” Frances asked.

Mrs. Mueller shook her head. “No. My husband and I settled our land even before these good friends arrived. We live just over the border in Nebraska Territory.” The laugh lines around her eyes crinkled as she giggled and whispered, “But I didn’t forget my own favorite—the potatoes. It’s my mother’s recipe.”

Frances continued to stare at the food. Would her brothers and sisters be eating this well? She was greedy to taste the fine dishes but guiltily remembered the watery cabbage and mealy potatoes that Ma had to eat. But Mrs. Mueller heaped a plate for Frances and pushed it into her hands. “Eat well,” she said. “You need a few good meals to build those young muscles.”

Some of the children had carried their plates and forks to the front porch, where they sat in a row, dangling their legs over the edge, intent on the good food they were eating. The men had taken their plates inside the house, and Frances could hear the low, comforting rumble of their deep voices. The women didn’t sit still for long anywhere but bustled back and forth between the kitchen and the table, sometimes stopping to fill their plates and stand, eating and chatting, for a few moments.

Frances didn’t know where to take her plate. The boys were too rough, and she couldn’t sit with the girls. They wouldn’t want her anyway. Thankful that no one was watching her, she slipped into the parlor, where the men were seated, and sat on the floor near the side of the fireplace. It was a warm, inviting room, and Frances had a strange sense of belonging there. As she looked around she understood why. The embroidered pillows
on the chairs and the lace curtains at the windows came from the house she had built in her dreams. It was perfect, except for one thing: her family was not there with her.

The men began to speak of Abraham Lincoln. “He’s not much to look at, being a long bean pole of a man, but he’s a mighty fine orator,” Mr. Mueller said.

“You heard him speak?” a younger man asked.

“Yes, and met him, too. Last year he came to St. Joseph on the side-wheeler boat
Emile
, on his way to Council Bluffs.”

“You know what it means if Lincoln is elected,” someone said, and the conversation turned to the possibility of war among the states and to terrible, bloody raids made over the past few years along the Kansas-Missouri border by both proslavery Missourians and Kansas abolitionist jayhawkers.

“Lincoln will do away with slavery,” Jake said, and the others agreed.

The conversation was interesting, but the plate of food, with its mingled spicy, sweet, and pungent fragrances, demanded Frances’s attention. She decided to try a bite of pie first and didn’t stop until she had devoured every crumb. Then she attacked the rest of the meal, forgetting her manners and stuffing herself full of pork and potatoes and some strange—but delicious—things she still couldn’t name. It was only when the plate was as clean as though she had licked it, and her stomach round and tight against her trousers, that Frances leaned back against the wall and really paid attention to what the men were saying.

Someone was talking about the “Underground Railroad.” She imagined a train with tracks that rattled and rocked along through caves and caverns.

“Until the Fugitive Slave Act is abolished, the Underground Railroad is the only answer,” Mr. Mueller said.

There was silence for a moment, then a man with gray in his hair spoke up. “Don’t forget, Klaus, that taking part in helping a slave escape is against the law. There are severe penalties.”

“How can you balance penalties against helping a man to gain his freedom?”

“You would risk going to prison?”

A young man leaned forward and spoke earnestly, holding up a hand to interrupt Mr. Mueller. “Wait. Think for a moment before another word is said. We are all neighbors and good friends here. We can trust one another. But we still should not be too outspoken. We are all working within the law to help Kansas become a Free State. That is the first step.”

“The process is slow,” Mr. Mueller grumbled.

The man’s tone became more deliberate. “None of us knows anyone who is a part of the Underground Railroad. Let us keep it that way.”

Jake stood up. “More coffee, Klaus? William? Henry? Let me fill your cups.”

The young man bounced to his feet. “Real coffee, and not roasted rye! This is quite a party!”

“Aha!” Mr. Mueller said, his mood changing to match the others’. “Wait until the Christmas season.
That
will be a party. Frieda will bake a Christmas cake big enough to feed the whole countryside!”

“With plenty of raisins?” someone asked, laughing.

“Yes, raisins! And, Henry, we’ll expect you to bring your fiddle.”

“I would bring it, even if you hadn’t asked me to!”

A few minutes later the young man put down his cup
and said, “It’s time for me to collect my family and prepare to head for home.”

“Also for me,” another one said.

By this time all the men were on their feet. Some of the women began hurrying into the house, and Frances made her way to the kitchen. She could never have imagined a kitchen like this one.

It was a large, square room with a huge fireplace at the far end. A row of long-handled iron skillets, two large kettles, ladles, a toasting fork, and some other cooking tools hung on pegs above the fireplace. Next to the hearth stood a cupboard with double doors. An ornate, round wood stove was at one side of the kitchen, a cloth-covered table and some ladder-back chairs at the other. Near the center of the room was a sturdy worktable, and against the inside wall were shelves laden with stoneware jars and crocks of all sizes, tinware, and kitchen tools that Frances had never seen before. The room was cozy with the odors of food, the leftovers of which were now being parceled out among the women and tucked into cloth-covered baskets.
Oh, Ma!
Frances thought.
You wouldn’t believe this wondrous kitchen unless you could see it with your own two eyes!

It hurt too much to think of Ma. Frances knew she had to get busy to force her mind to go in another direction. With a folded towel to protect her hands, she swung out the iron crane from inside the fireplace and removed a steaming kettle from its pot hook, pouring the water into two large, metal bowls that had been set on one of the tables. The youngest woman—Mrs. Busby—thanked Frances. Into one of the bowls Mrs. Busby stirred a dollop of soap from a jar of scrapings and water that sat on the windowsill. She then added a small amount of cold water to both bowls.

Frances immediately dumped the tray of used forks and knives into the soapy water and began to rub them clean.

Mrs. Busby’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “Where did you learn to wash dishes like that?” she asked.

Puzzled, Frances frowned. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Busby said. “It’s just that you don’t often find boys willing to do women’s work.”