Beholding Bee (27 page)

122

I have to run out to Ruth Ellen’s and tell her all about how Pauline named our new baby Sophie and how I am the one who came up with the name.

I stop and give Cordelia a long scratch all along her backside. She is getting so big she could use some more exercise.

“We’ll go chasing chipmunks when I get back,” I promise.

Pauline is not happy at all we have a pig, but as soon as I can get her to look past all that and see Cordelia as she really is, I know she will come around. I am already planning on showing Sophie how beautiful pigs are right from the start. I scratch Cordelia between the ears just like she likes. “Hold your head high,” I tell Cordelia. “Don’t worry about Pauline.” I give her one more scratch and then I am off, running for Ruth Ellen’s.

I concentrate on my breathing, on the way my body moves. I don’t bounce and my stride is the length that is right for me. I start out slow and don’t run as fast as I could because I know I have a long way to go and I will make it if I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Don’t stop
, I hear Bobby telling me.
You have to keep trying and trying and you will find the strength deep inside yourself, and when you find it, you will be proud, really, really proud. When you have a goal like that, you will get better, I promise
.

When I get to the house all is quiet, and I think maybe
nobody is home, but that is funny because Ruth Ellen’s mama’s automobile is parked in the yard. Of course with gasoline rationing so strict now, most folks are walking.

I go up on the porch and knock. There are some whispers and then Ruth Ellen’s mama opens the door. Her eyes are red. I look behind her and Ruth Ellen and Sammy are sitting at the table. There is a candle lit. They are crying, too.

Oh no
, I think, my heart dropping to the floor, and I am losing my balance and need to hold on to the door before I collapse on the porch right in front of Ruth Ellen’s mama.

“Come in, Bee,” she whispers.

I am too afraid to ask anything. So I stand there and look at Ruth Ellen and then Sammy, both of them with red eyes and tears dripping down.

“Your papa?” I ask finally.

“It’s his birthday and we still haven’t heard anything,” says Ruth Ellen’s mama. “It is a very long time to have no word. It is very hard for us. Come sit and say a prayer with us, Bee.”

My prayer is all about how I am thankful that the news isn’t worse. I pull a chair over. Then without even having to say anything, Ruth Ellen reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze and her mama takes my other hand and they both take Sammy’s. And then we are all one circle, breathing in and breathing out, and I notice it gets quiet and peaceful. “Ruth Ellen, it’s your turn,” whispers her mama.

Ruth Ellen squeezes her eyes awful tight as she says, “Please, Lord, we thank you for our many blessings and pray that you send your angels to watch over all our soldiers and
that you send an extra one—an especially strong one—to watch over our papa because we love him so and it has been a very long time.”

She stops because she gets all choked up and I see that her mama’s eyes are wet and even Sammy is crying again. It must be very hard to miss your papa so. We all squeeze hands tighter after that and I ask angels to watch over Bobby, too. I don’t know if he is building fighter bombers or flying them. I send a prayer out either way.

Then Ruth Ellen’s mama gets up and gives everybody a hug, even me. I look at this family I love so much. I think they have it harder than anyone I know, with their papa gone so long and them trying to be brave and sometimes not feeling too brave.

“Bee, isn’t your birthday coming up soon?” Ruth Ellen’s mama wants to know.

I nod. “Yes, I will be thirteen.”

“Well, we have been saving something for you.”

Ruth Ellen’s mama drags her chair over to the counter and stands on her tippy-toes so she can reach the highest cupboard. She opens the door and pulls out a bag of rationed sugar.

“We thought you’d like to make yourself a cake,” she says, climbing down and handing the bag to me.

“A real cake with real sugar,” giggles Ruth Ellen.

After we have several chocolate cupcakes with no-sugar frosting (since they were saving sugar for me), many mugs of milk, and many more stories about their papa, I tell them it is time to go home because Pauline and Sophie are waiting.

Ruth Ellen’s mama says she will be over soon for a visit.
“I can sleep a little easier knowing you are not alone in that big house, Bee.” She smiles, and now I see there are tears not just for their papa. Her eyes are filling with caring for me.

I do not bother going over everything again about Mrs. Swift and Mrs. Potter. Sometimes it is better to let things alone.

Then I hug them all, this family that I love so much. And when I go home, I walk the whole way because I do not want to spill any sugar.

123

It turns out that Pauline likes to clean house much better than me. This works out very well for all of us.

When she is cleaning drawers or sweeping a floor or arranging spices or putting practically anything in order, she sings. It is usually a song like “Silent Night” or “O Come All Ye Faithful” or “Angels We Have Heard on High.” I guess Pauline hasn’t had enough Christmas in her life.

She ties Sophie to her chest with a wide strip of flannel and walks around for a big part of each day with a feather duster or she folds towels and blankets and washes dishes. She spends a very long time each morning cleaning the room she shares with Sophie, waxing and dusting and polishing everything, over and over.

She won’t step inside Mrs. Potter’s or Mrs. Swift’s room, which is fine with them. She still doesn’t believe me when I bring up the lady in the orange flappy hat, and Mrs. Swift and Mrs. Potter say that is surely for the best. They are usually resting now and don’t like to be disturbed.

When I have had enough of Sophie and her crying, I hurry into the library and close the double doors. Mrs. Swift and Mrs. Potter are already there.

“My head. My aching head.” Mrs. Swift rubs her temples and closes her eyes, leaning back in the chair at her desk. “Why does that baby cry so much?”

Mrs. Potter giggles. “All babies cry—a lot. You sure did.”
She gives Peabody another biscuit. He jumps on her lap and circles around until he finds just the right spot.

“Humph,” says Mrs. Swift, opening another book. “Beatrice, look up the word
acerbic
.”

I don’t want to move. I like being snuggled up to Mrs. Potter.

“Beatrice?”

“Oh, all right.” I blow my breath out in a loud wet sputter.

I flip through the heavy book. I am getting faster at this. After a little bit, I read: “Biting, bitter in tone or taste.”

This time it is Mrs. Swift who sputters. “Can you believe they wrote I was those things?”

Mrs. Potter grins. I snuggle back on the sofa.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Swift rubs her temples again. She throws down her spectacles. “I simply cannot do this anymore. My eyes, my headache, what shall I do?”

Mrs. Potter opens one eye. “Have Beatrice do it.”

Mrs. Swift purses her lips and stares at me. She looks at her crooked fingers, over at Peabody, and then back at me. “I suppose it would be for the best,” she says. “We won’t be here forever.”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Potter, pulling me close.

I do wish they wouldn’t talk like this. No one wants to lose their grandmothers.

After that Mrs. Swift turns the job of writing her autobiography over to me. “Now, I have arranged the books on the desk into piles,” she tells me. “The ones that say the terrible things about Abigail Swift, like what a difficult, opinionated woman she was for wanting to speak her mind in a public forum, well, I pushed those to the side. No sense even reading those.”

Mrs. Potter winks at me.

“How unbecoming to womankind, how narrow-minded, how forthright, they say,” Mrs. Swift sputters.

Mrs. Potter chuckles.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Of course not.” Mrs. Potter grins.

Mrs. Swift rubs her temples. “I do believe a woman should be allowed to vote and seek public office, Beatrice. I do believe slavery is a sin and that all people should have the same rights as white men.”

I spend the whole afternoon looking up facts about Mrs. Swift: She took a speaking class in college but was not allowed to speak publicly alongside men. She and her friends went into the woods to practice their speeches. Eventually, she became a famous lecturer and abolitionist.

“You were pretty special, weren’t you?” I say when it is time for supper.

Mrs. Swift laughs and opens her eyes. Her new napping spot is right beside Mrs. Potter, with Peabody in the middle. “I wasn’t afraid to make a place for myself in this world, even when conditions weren’t ideal.”

She bores her eyes into me like they are spikes.

“Don’t you agree, Beatrice?”

After many days my notes fill only a few pages because I have to ask every few minutes, “Is this true? Did this really happen?” and Mrs. Swift tells me if it did or not. Sometimes she throws a book on the floor.

I know it will take a very long time to finish a whole book. That is fine, though, because I have discovered something: When I am writing, I don’t worry so much over things, like if Bobby will come back, if Francine will bother
me anymore, if Ruth Ellen will get her papa back and her brace off, or about my diamond. I don’t worry so much about Mrs. Swift and Mrs. Potter, and how thin they are and how they nap all the time.

It is very nice to have your troubles disappear when you are writing.

124

“Now, there are some things we want to remind you about,” Mrs. Potter is saying. I am washing the mixing bowl and putting away the eggs. My birthday cake is in the oven. The cake is made with lots and lots of snowy white sugar. There’s a world of difference between a cake made with corn syrup and one made with sugar. Ask Peabody.

Mrs. Potter sinks into a chair by the table. Her limp is getting worse. “I want to remind you of some things so you don’t forget.”

I giggle. “You can always remind me of everything I need to know. I am right here.” I drop the washrag into the sink and come over and wrap my arms around her.

“Bless your heart, Bee,” she whispers. “You really are cute as a bug’s ear.” Then she pulls away. “Now, I’m serious. There are some things we need to go over. Sit down.”

I sit. Peabody jumps onto my lap. I can smell the cake baking. It is heavenly. I do not want to talk about serious things. I scratch Peabody between the ears.

“Now, somebody who owns a house is going to have to remember everything. Like don’t forget to drain the pipes before the winter. That’s why the water is so filthy now. No one drained the pipes for years after your grandfather moved to Florida. And don’t forget to put on the storm windows the first of October and don’t forget to take them down the
first of April. You’ll get enough good sun then to start warming the house.”

“But why do I need to know all this?” I ask, feeling anxious.

“Shush, Bee. I’m telling you important things. The roses out front need to be pruned in the fall. Don’t let Peabody get near Mrs. Marsh’s chickens or you’ll have a tempest in your teapot. Stay away from that woman. And the front door will stick if you don’t oil the hinges.”

I am not listening anymore. I have scooted my chair closer and am wrapping my arms around her.

“You will be fine.” She squeezes me back. Then the teakettle is whistling and she asks me to make her a cup of tea.

“Very weak, Bee. I like it very weak now.” She rubs her leg and winces.

I bring the tea over and sit down and rub her leg. “How come it is bothering you so much more now?”

“Humph,” she says. “I could write my own autobiography. Maybe I will when I have time.” She leans over and whispers, “I didn’t get the whole musket ball when I pulled it out of my hip myself. Mrs. Swift doesn’t want me to tell you. But the truth is, I was a soldier. I fought for General Washington at Bunker Hill. Pretended I was a boy. I had to do my own operating on myself so I wouldn’t be found out. My leg has never been the same.”

“I don’t want you to tell her what?” says Mrs. Swift, coming into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

“Nothing,” says Mrs. Potter, and we all let it drop, which is okay by me because I really don’t want to think about how old Mrs. Potter is while I am hugging her.

“Sit down.” Mrs. Potter pulls out a chair for Mrs. Swift. “I’ve been telling Bee about the things she needs to know.”

Mrs. Swift sighs deeply. “Yes, you already know about the leather envelopes in the attic. The bills are very old, but no matter. I’m sure they still work.”

I put Mrs. Swift’s cup on the table. “But we can do this all together, right?” I look anxiously from Mrs. Swift to Mrs. Potter.

“And I want you to go to school, Bee, and college. Nobody has been able to make anything of themselves without a proper education. Even in my day.”

“But …”

“Beatrice, we came to show you there’s a long line of women behind you who have stood on their own two feet, and to show you that you can do it too.” Mrs. Swift sips at her tea.

I drop into my chair. “But where are you going? I don’t want you to leave me.” Already my eyes fill. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

“But you’re not alone, Beatrice. You have a family now.” Mrs. Potter puts her hand on mine. “And you’ve accomplished it all yourself.”

“Yes, dear,” says Mrs. Swift, “and we won’t go until you’re ready.”

I look at Mrs. Potter and wonder about the musket ball in her leg. I wonder about Mrs. Swift’s mama saying it was a shame she was born a girl, and about my own mama, Bernadette, who wouldn’t let her papa hide her away.

As I think about them all, I feel their bones gathering within me, knitting their strength to my insides. And I feel new tears dripping right over my diamond.

125

That afternoon, while the cake is cooling, I find a new issue of the
Billboard
in our mailbox.

I rush upstairs, where Pauline is changing Sophie on the bed and rubbing Johnson’s Baby Powder all over.