Alice's Tulips: A Novel (19 page)

Believe me, I remain your contrite, loving sister,

Alice Keeler Bullock

A quilter saved every bit of fabric left over from making clothing and bedding. When she went to piecing, then, she found ready supplies in her scrap bag. Quilters also traded scraps with one another. A quilt became a kind of scrapbook, for as she worked, a quilter remembered the original use of the fabric—a wedding gown, a baby frock, the dress of a cherished friend. Fabric was never wasted. An inch-square block might be carefully pieced of two or three tiny scraps of the same material. When the only remnants left in her scrap bag were too small to be cut into shapes, a quilter made a String or Scrap quilt, sewing small, uneven pieces together into a Strip, Kaleidoscope, or Cobweb quilt.

June 17, 1864

Dear Sister Elizabeth,

What do you think Mr. Samuel Smead would say if he found out his ring paid your rent for three months? Oh cow! I would like to tell that to Mr. Jack Ass, but I would not dare, even if I saw him again. I think I will not, however. There has been no sign of him since I got home, and I think my words are the
reason. Of course, I would never let Nealie know I saw him in Hannibal (and think, after the outcome, that he would not mention it, either). When I saw her at quilting, I inquired about things at home. She replied only that they were quiet, which I hope to mean that Mr. Samuel Smead may not have returned. In that case, I will have to wait and see if my words had the desired effect.

The money from the ring I sent is not a loan; I do not want it back. The ring was never mine, and I know now it was stole, plain and simple. I would return it if I knew the true owner, but I do not, so what better use than that you shall pay your rent with it. Aren’t you glad I did not toss it to the pigs?

You must not worry about me, Lizzie. I have no one else to share my feelings with, so I put them all into my letters to you, which is not fair. But I need to confide in someone, and oh, Lizzie, I am so grateful for you. What would I do if I had no sister to tell my troubles to? Little wonder with my long list of complaints you think me ill-used and ill-content, but the truth is, things here are as good as could be expected. They certainly could be worse: I could have been born a Secesh girl.

Besides, I count many blessings: Charlie is safe, although he has been in a skirmish or two, and the news is they are marching farther south, possibly to Georgia. We get along finely on Bramble Farm. It is a beautiful summer, and while it is hot enough to roast an egg in the sun, our thick log house surrounded by woods is as cool as can be. Our crops do well. And Mother Bullock seems better, although she moves like real estate these days. I came in from hoeing one afternoon and found her asleep under a tree, with no sign of supper under way. So instead of waking her, I did chores, then went inside and fixed a meal of buttermilk and cold corn bread, and we dined beneath the tree. Mother Bullock was wore out because she had attacked the old flower garden and will make it bloom again, she says. I did not know it was there until a few weeks since. Her eyes were bright when she talked about how, as boys, Charlie and Jo helped her with the planting and the weeding. But Mr. Bullock did not like
flowers much—I think men do not understand a woman’s need for them—and as soon as the boys were of an age to help, he set them to farming. She never talks about Mr. Bullock, who died some years back. Charlie has said he was a hard man, who used Mother Bullock bad.

“Charlie’s favorite flowers were always the yellow ones—buttercups, brown-eyed Susans, dandelions, hollyhocks the color of lemons,” she says to me.

“Why, that must be why I like Charlie so. Yellow is my favorite color, too.”

“It must be the reason we are having corn bread for supper,” she says. Since Mother Bullock makes few jokes, I waited for her to smile before I laughed. Now she works a little each day in the flower garden. I am glad for it, but it seems an odd thing, for she has always been so practical. Her hands have never left undone any work they could do, but now she spends her time amongst the flowers. Tending flowers pleasures her the way quilting does me.

Annie and Joybell moved into the house with us three days ago. It was a surprise because they liked the little shack hugely. The problem was that Annie left Joybell there when it was too hot for her in the fields. The little girl was trusted not to stray far, and I never saw such a person, girl or woman, for sense of direction. I think it is because she does not go distracted by seeing things. So there was no worry she would wander away. But on the day they moved here, Annie came home, to find two rattlesnakes sunning themselves on the doorstep. Joybell could have stepped right on them! I shudder to think of that little blind girl, all alone, snakes crawling over her. Annie did not tell her, but Joybell knew something was wrong, because she has been agitated ever since. Now she and Mother Bullock keep each other company during the day, so both benefit, and Annie is company for me in the evenings. She helped me with my Kitty Corner quilt. The top is done, but I do not care to quilt it and have put it away. Last night, me and Annie started piecing a Spiderweb for Joybell. It will be like a String quilt and will use up all the tiny scraps.

“I would fancy a piece of that new blue of yourn for it. I
wouldn’t ask for myself, but as it’s for Joybell, would you spare it? I never saw that shade before,” Annie says.

I was glad to give her the Prussian blue, but I wondered why she would waste such a pretty piece of fabric in a quilt for a blind girl. “How will she know it’s there?” I asks.

“I’ll know.”

“Well then, take it all, and use it for setting squares, too,” I says. I was that tickled at her remark, and besides, you know how looking at each piece of fabric in a quilt reminds you of some occasion—the remnant Grandma gave me that was brought from Connecticut or the piece left from the shirt that Charlie wore when he marched off to war. That’s one of the joys of quilting, reliving those old times just by looking at a tiny piece of fabric. Well, the blue reminds me of Hannibal, and that is an old time I’d rather forget.

I told Annie we would embroider our names and Joybell’s on the quilt in turkey red, so that she could feel of them and remember us.

Lizzie, I work this farm harder than ever I did, but I don’t mind it now. I expect this to be a good summer, so, like I said at the outset, don’t worry about me. I am in first-rate spirits.

So much from your sister,

Alice

July 5, 1864

Dear Lizzie,

It being the Fourth of July yesterday and us being the family of a Yankee soldier, we put aside the farm work for the day and went to Slatyfork to celebrate—me, Mother Bullock, Annie, and Joybell. I hadn’t seen so many people in one place since Hannibal, what with the parade and the band concert. There were windy prayers, and speeches by a veteran of the 1812 war and by boys who have been mustered out of this war. One had both legs shot off. Oh Lordy, if that’s the only way Charlie can come home, it’s
all right, I guess, but I surely hope he doesn’t get maimed that way. I wore that old red-white-and blue-ribboned hat, having perked it up by boiling its faded ribbons with red flannel to make them cherry red, and Annie tied on the yellow one. I hoped Mrs. Kittie wouldn’t see her in it. Then I hoped she would, and she did.

“It ain’t her color, but the cut of the bonnet looks pert on her,” Mrs. Kittie says.

“Annie doesn’t have any other hat, just a sunbonnet. I thought she should have something nice,” I explain.

“I’m sure I don’t mind if you gave away my present. It means nothing to me.” Mrs. Kittie was sweating heavily in the heat and swirled the air in front of her face with a paper fan with pictures of Chinamen on it. Then she leaned close to me and says, “I have heard from Mr. Howard.” She cocked her head and raised one eyebrow, fanning herself harder than ever.

I did not want to hear about Mr. Howard and reminded her we had agreed not to talk about two particular gentlemen.

“No, sis. You agreed not to talk about Mr. Howard, and I agreed not to talk about Mr. Samuel Smead. I have kept my word and haven’t spoken of Mr. Smead to a soul, but Mr. Howard is a fit subject for me to talk about if I choose to.”

I tried to sort out her logic, then gave up. As long as she keeps her mouth shut about Mr. Smead, what do I care who she speaks of?

“He writes that he misspoke and sends his apology. It was all a misunderstanding, he says, and begs me to return to Hannibal. What would you think if I did?”

“Do as you please, but go alone.”

“Now, pet, don’t be angry with me. I only invited Mr. Smead along because I thought you would enjoy yourself. You made such a fool over him last summer. Everyone knew of it. There is much talk behind your back about it.”

“Now who has broken the bargain not to speak of a particular gentleman?” I was angry and started to go.

Mrs. Kittie took hold of my sleeve and whispered. “Well, I’ve spoke of it to nobody but you.”

“I do not hold with your promises,” I says.

Mrs. Kittie thought that over, then mutters, “Oh, the money. Well, here it is, then. I said I would pay you when I had it. Now I have it.” She opened her reticule and thrust a handful of coins at me.

It would have served her right if I had refused them, but we need money bad, and I had earned it by keeping my part of a bad bargain. I counted the money and handed her back a five-dollar gold piece, for she had overpaid.

“Now that that is settled, please to do the kindness of giving a friend some advice,” she says.

I nodded but did not reply.

“Mr. Howard writes if I will not meet him in Hannibal, he proposes joining me in Slatyfork with an idea toward matrimony. Do you think I would be an old fool to marry him?”

You know how easy it is for me to lie, and I could have done so—and should have, I suppose—but instead, I says, “Yes.”

“You are too free-spoken.”

“Forgive me. I misunderstood. I thought you asked for a truthful opinion. If you wanted to hear a good opinion of yourself, you should have asked a fool. Jennie Kate comes to mind.”

I tried to leave again, but Mrs. Kittie took my arm. “I value your good opinion, Alice, and I will consider it. And do not speak ill of the dead, or the soon-to-be dead. Have you not heard that Jennie Kate will not last the week?”

I jerked up my head, and Mrs. Kittie nodded. “Jennie Kate has been enjoying an early death for nearly a year,” I says. “I thought she was malingering.”

“She might be dead already. Last week, she took a turn for the worse. We did not send word to you, for I know Mrs. Bullock has been ailing herself. Piecake has been sent to an old aunt.” A tear rolled down Mrs. Kittie’s cheek. “Jennie Kate has always been too full of herself, lazy and self-centered and a burden to all. She has not spunk enough, like you. But it’s no cause to wish her dead.”

“I don’t. I must find Mother Bullock and tell her. I suppose we should call on Jennie Kate.” I took a step or two away, then turned back. Mrs. Kittie had been good to me, and although I
disrespected Mr. Howard and thought him no great scratch as a husband, I liked her. “Mrs. Kittie, would you rather live out your days as a scandalous old fool or a dull old lady? If you want to marry Mr. Howard, then I shall dance at your wedding.”

She wrapped her sticky arms about me, and I felt as if I had fallen into the middle of a jelly cake. “You are capital, Alice,” she says. I hope she will not repent of the bargain.

I found Mother Bullock, and the two of us left Annie and Joybell to call on Jennie Kate, although I find visiting the dying to be a foolish custom. If I was about to go beyond, I would not want to entertain a string of women who didn’t like me much. But it must be done.

Jennie Kate’s house was shabby, the fence bare of paint in spots and the garden unkempt. I felt a wave of shame and thought I should have helped her in some way, but I did not know how I could. I had a farm and family of my own to care for. But we women always feel guilt, even about things that can’t be helped.

Jennie Kate was propped up in her bed, covered by quilts, and was the color of sour milk. The windows were closed, and there was a stench like sour milk in the room, too. “The smell of death,” Mother Bullock whispers to me.

We offered to stay awhile so that Mrs. Middleton, who had been sitting with her, could go home and rest. Then Mother Bullock and I sat down on chairs beside the bed. “I am sorry we have neglected you,” I tell Jennie Kate. I didn’t know what else to say to a dying person.

“I’m hot. I don’t want to be hot,” Jennie Kate tells me. “Open the window. Oh, I am hot. The heat is dreadful to me.” I wanted to tell her that complaining about it wouldn’t make her any less hot, but instead, I did as she directed, whilst she turned to Mother Bullock. “I’m glad you come, Mrs. Bullock. I got something to say.”

Mother Bullock leaned forward, her arms on the bed. “Don’t tax yourself, Jennie Kate.”