All the Truth That's in Me (9 page)

XXVII.

Harvest must be brought in without Darrel’s help, and hay cut for winter, too. I toil in the fields, and Mother comes when she can. I don’t mind the work, only the sun scorching down. I have groundhogs and quail for company, and the task drives brooding thoughts away. The job is immense, and I must work faster than my limbs allow.For once, Darrel hankers to do his chores.
For once, Darrel envies me.

XXVIII.

I let Phantom out for a run in the pasture, and once again she leaps the fence easily. This time she keeps on running, straight for the river. I follow pointlessly, then hurry back and fill my apron pockets with apples.

She’s crossed the river by the time I reach it, and I pick my way carefully over the rocks. When the river is well behind me I take the chance of calling out to her, “Ooo-ooh.” She pauses to linger sometimes, then sees me and trots off once more.

She leads me on an exhausting chase.
She goes straight for the colonel’s valley.
I find her at the entrance to the crevice, for all the world

bragging she knew how to get back.
I offer her an apple, and she grabs it between her lips. I weave my fingers through her mane, and she follows me easily back home.

XXIX.

It is a day for callers. First Preacher Frye comes by to lay his hand on Darrel’s shoulder and admonish him to have faith sufficient to be healed. He speaks with Mother in low tones. Her mouth remains a straight line, like the deep grooves in her forehead. His charm with women bounces off her, which makes him try all the harder, until he gives it up for lost.

“Haven’t seen you at Sunday meetings lately,” he says, and reaches for his hat and coat.
Mother answers the charge with a hand swept toward Darrel. “My son’s illness needs tending.” He waits before nodding to grant his pardon.
At the door he pauses, a hand on the doorpost. “Jesus said, ‘And if thy foot offend thee, cut it off: it is better for thee to enter halt into life, than having two feet to be cast into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched.’”
Darrel turns over in his bed until his back faces the preacher.
“Thank you, Reverend.” Mother closes the door.

XXX.

Soon after, the schoolmaster, Rupert Gillis, comes. I answer his knock, then shrink back into the shadows when I see who it is. He doffs his hat to me and calls me “Miss.” Mother’s eyes catch all of this, and there is a glint in them I do not like.

“How are you, Master Finch?” the schoolmaster says, standing by Darrel’s bed.
“See for yourself,” is Darrel’s lordly reply. I almost wish Mother would intervene and reprimand him, but she makes no move. She is still hard at work shucking ears of corn.
Mr. Gillis wets his lips on the cup of water I offer him.
“When you’re better, Master Finch,” he ventures, “perhaps you’d consider returning to school.” He speaks to Darrel but his eyes never leave my body. I slip into the pantry.
Mother makes a small noise in the depth of her throat.
“Some learning might take your mind off your troubles.”
Darrel makes no sound.
“We’ve no one yet who can raise a candle to you in recitation,” the schoolmaster coaxes. “A mind like yours needs training up. You might be a teacher yourself one day.”
Husks and corn silk squeak as Mother rips them from the ears.
“Thank you for calling, Schoolmaster,” she says. “It was thoughtful of you. But as you can see, my son hasn’t strength for much company.”
I come forth to show the schoolmaster the door. His fingers brush my arm in the doorway as I hand him his hat.
Mother’s eyes miss nothing.

XXXI.

The edge of Darrel’s wound turns black. Mother won’t touch her food, nor will Darrel.

Goody Pruett prods and jabs at the black flesh with her fingernail, and Darrel barely notices.
Dr. Brands does not sleep for tending the wounded, and we, a mile from town, on the outskirts in more ways than one, have not yet made his list. Perhaps the fault is mine for bringing Darrel home myself, instead of letting him be dragged half dead the next morning for his share in the spoil of glory for the wounded. Then the village would be more mindful of him.
I do all I can for Mother and Darrel, and Phantom and Person, which is what I’ve christened the cow. She resented sharing her barn with a named horse, lacking a name herself. “Person” was the furthest thing from “Phantom” I could find, and the best fit for her, cud-chewing bag of bones that she is.
I harvest the pumpkins and roll them to the barn. I fill my barrow with squashes and carrots. I trim the late parsley and cut the cabbages. I chop them into soup to tempt the sickly and the sour, but no one will touch my creation. I rub and water Phantom and Person for the evening. Coming back to the house, I see the moon hanging fat and low and orange, only a night away from full. I tell myself the moon no longer need remind me of him.
I collapse into bed, needing a bath but too weary for one. For the first time in days, Mother speaks to me from where she sits staring at the ashes.
“Tomorrow morning,” she says, “fetch us Horace Bron.”

XXXII.

I wake and ready myself for my trip into town. Darrel lies gray-green on his mattress, his arms limp, his face and neck slicked with sweat.

I take a last look at his bandaged, fetid foot before I set off for Horace Bron, the blacksmith, who can chop a limb with his massive cleaver if the doctor can’t, or if one can’t afford to pay the doctor.

Must it come to this?
In town the church bells ring, and people in Sunday best march through the streets. I hang back against the corner of a house to see what it means.

The door opens and Maria bursts out, dressed in china blue, with dried white flowers crowning her cap.
“Judith!” She seizes me by both arms and drags me inside.
I stumble after her, shocked.
She throws her arms around me and kisses both my cheeks. I feel the two damp spots.
“Come to my wedding, Judith,” she says. Her eyes glow and her cheeks blush. “Come celebrate with me, for I marry my Leon in half an hour.”
Oh, she is lovely, so beautiful in her joy, it hurts.
She wants
me
to come?
I press my hand against my heart and lift my eyebrows. Me? She understands.
“Yes, you,” she says. “I have wished to speak with you, but Leon has needed me to nurse his poor leg.”
I remember last night’s nearly full moon: today was to be your wedding day.
Still I stare, not comprehending. She understands and embraces me again.
“I have long since decided there is more to you than meets the eye,” she said. “Your tongue may be damaged, but your mind isn’t. You miss nothing.”
I am unaccustomed to anyone paying such attention to me, nor even taking time to think about me for more than a moment. I lower my head.
She squeezes my hand. “And even with how they treat you, you are kind.”
At this I look up in bewilderment.
“Kind to me, when I never gave you a reason to be. Not even before.”
I feel my face grow warm with confusion.
“I have been a selfish, spoiled thing all my life, Judith,” she says. “But I wish to be otherwise. Today I’ll have a new name. It’s the start of a new life for me.”
I can’t help my gladness at the new name Maria will
not
take today.
“Be my friend, Judith. Come to me in my new home. Sit with me and we will talk.”
I close my eyes.
“Yes, talk,” she says. “We shall. We shall understand each other. I am determined to know you better.”
I don’t know what to do but watch her.
“I’m a byword now,” she says, her dark eyes sparkling. “A scandal, breaking my engagement to His Highness. But I don’t care. I have my Leon. And now that people know Colonel Whiting was alive all this time, with Lucas apparently concealing the fact, I daresay no one will blame me for long. Still, I shall have need of a good friend. A friend with some intelligence.”
I nod my head, too stunned to think clearly. Has she praised me or accused me? Her eyes appear kind, but what can this mean?
“Will you come to my wedding, Judith?”
I shrink back and look down at my dingy work apron and clothes. I shake my head.
She looks disappointed, and it occurs to me that Maria Johnson is unused to disappointment. But she is in a generous mood today.
“I understand. You will come and sit with me, all the same? Some day next week?”
It takes some remembering how to do it: I smile. I will.
She kisses me again, on my forehead. “Bless you. Wish me joy?”
I smile again.
She gathers her skirts in her hands. “I must go.”
I hold the door for her and we return, blinking, into afternoon sun. She hurries toward the church and I head for the blacksmith’s shop.

XXXIII.

The forge is cold and still today. Naturally, the wedding. So rarely do we get a chance to celebrate, everyone in town will go. Even if Maria is a scandal for the moment.All but Mother, and Darrel, and me.
And, I imagine, you.

XXXIV.

Abijah Pratt rounds a corner as I am on the verge of leaving town. He startles me. There is no surprise in his scowling eyes. It is as if he had lain in wait for me.“Strange thing, seeing a female at a battle,” he says.

I take a step back, my heart pounding. There are other ways home—I try to clear my mind and think of one.
“Almost as strange as seeing a man supposed to be dead.”
I search around. There is no one else on the street. The main street of town stretches behind me, and farmland out in front, yet I feel cornered, trapped by his accusing eyes. I take one step forward, and he tenses. Another, to my right, and he leans the same way.
What are you planning, old man? Neither old nor young, in truth.
“You’re only alive because you’ve got no tongue,” he says. “Otherwise you’d be punished for adultery, you know that? ‘Every knee shall bow and every tongue confess.’ Except you can’t confess, can you? So you escape the punishment. For now.”
His words are insects buzzing in the corner of my vision. I do not grasp them right away.
Silence is the method I’ve perfected, adaptable to almost any need. Silence and stillness. I wait. I lower my eyes to the ground.
After a minute or two, he walks back toward town, swinging wide of where I stand.
My body is still but my mind is ringing with his words as I make my way home.
Adultery? Punishment?
What is he planning?

XXXV.

I make my mother understand. Wedding bells, blacksmith will come tomorrow. She peppers me with questions and I nod yes and no. After two years, we have our ways, when we must communicate.

Mother uses her frustration to peel a dozen apples for a tart for Darrel. We’ll have our own wedding feast here, or else it’s a farewell party for his foot. Her thoughts are far away, and so I slip out unnoticed.

Phantom’s glad to see me, glad to eat the apple peels. I loose her for a run through the pasture, watching her tail fly as I gnaw an apple of my own. Even I can taste its tartness, faintly. It is as if flavors are still there, though far away, like a memory. But the apple is a hard lump in my belly when I think of what the town is doing to you, and of Abijah Pratt, and what he may plan to do to me.

Phantom’s coat is smoother now since I’ve been brushing her. Her mane glistens. I’ll need to think of a way to pay Horace Bron to shoe her.

Wedding bells ring out again. The ceremony’s over. Maria and Leon are one in the sight of God and man. I feed Phantom my apple core and follow my footsteps to your house.

You’re not there. All day you are not there, until I begin to worry.

XXXVI.

At dusk, I start roving through the woods. I hear the thud of your ax before I see you. You’re chopping green timber. Still at work on your addition.

This is the hour when tales of forest magics and evils begin to seem more than tales. Shadows grasp at you with ghostly fingers. This is no time for someone grieving to be alone in the woods.

Your work would go faster with a partner and a saw, but you chop as if in a frenzy, your shirt brown with sweat. Two other trees lie fallen nearby, their pale stumps jutting up from the fallen leaves like broken teeth. Beside one stump, I see an uncorked jug lying on its side, and Jip lying next to it, half asleep.

Ax pounding, chips flying. Men have died from such exertion, and I wish you would stop. Whose face do you see in that green pulp?

The tree yields with a crack as it topples. A cloud of orange leaves flies up where it lands, and the chill wind sweeps them over you.

You pant. You swab your forehead with your sleeve and lean against another tree. You press your face into its bark.

XXXVII.

You sink down on your haunches. I see the boy I once knew in your huddled limbs and face. Jip curls up beside you.You’re soaking wet, and the wind is cold.

You lay yourself down in a hollow of ground, still clutching the handle of your ax.
Your eyes close, and still I watch. I am alarmed for you— this is not like you. I know you are assaulted on every side, by jeering youth and gossiping women, by wedding bells and memories. But this, and the bottle, these aren’t like you.
In time, you sleep.
You’re ill and exhausted. You wouldn’t know if a tree fell beside you. But you could catch your death out here.
Should I wake you and send you home, and mortify us both?
No. I have a better plan, one that will leave you guessing in the morning, but that thought pleases me.
I hurry to your house where I take the blankets from your bed and bring them back to where you lie. I ease the blankets over you, tucking them in around your legs, your back, your chest. You stir and murmur but you don’t wake. Slowly I twist the ax from your grip and lay it down behind you.
The wind bites, and you’re damp.
Then a terrible, wonderful thought bursts upon me and leaves me breathless. Would I dare be so wicked? What might happen?
The sun is fully set, and we are closeted by shadows. I take off my cap and untie my braids. The wind brushes over my skin, lifts my hair, reaches through my dress to cool my burning inner parts.
I crawl under your blankets and lay me down beside you. The ground is cold and rough underneath my hip. I press my back into the bend of your body. The feel of you washes over me.
The earth tilts.
Your sleeping breath moves a section of my hair. I press in closer, fearing each breath of mine might wake you, each gallop of my heart might stir you.
I look up and see stars winking down on my transgression. But sin and the dread of it can’t reach this far. Together we grow warmer under your blankets. Jip moves and drapes himself over our ankles.
The stars’ cold stare reminds me: worse than a sinner, I’m a thief. I steal the touch you would not choose to give me.
You’ll never know you’ve been robbed.
You need warmth.
Night in the woods makes all things possible.