Bittersweet (5 page)

Boots sounded and there was a thump as someone leaned against the shed. Sarah held her breath and listened. Sam Ebbitt began to speak and she bent to her task again.

“I’ll come right to it, Emmanuel. Didn’t want to say anything in front of the missus, this being your affair.” Sarah’s ears pricked up. “Mrs. Beard give this to me when she saw me heading out of town yesterday,” Sam went on. “Said she didn’t see as how it had come to her, being’s it was for Margaret, but as I was coming this way anyhow, could I leave it by. Your boy, David, did my seed orders and I know his writing. I figured you best see it first.”

“Burn it.” Emmanuel’s voice was hard and clipped. Sarah started to her feet. The drawing slipped from her lap and she slammed it into her knees. “Shh,” she hushed herself. Her father’s footfalls grew faint. She tiptoed to the door, putting her eye to the crack. Sam faced the evening star. Shoving his blunt thumb under the flap of the letter, he tore it open. Holding the pages to the last light, he read them, then took a tin of matches from his shirt pocket. Sarah ran from the shed. She stopped abruptly when Sam looked up.

“You know I can’t show it to you. You heard your pa.” Sarah said nothing. Sam took a match and struck it against the sole of his boot. The breeze had died with the sun, and the flame burned steadily. He looked past the match at Sarah, her eyes pleading, catching the reflected fire, her lips parted. She scarcely seemed to breathe. Sam lit the corner of the paper and she cried out as though he had put the match to her skin. “Your brother’s okay,” he said.
“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you that.” The paper flamed and he dropped it to the ground. Sarah took his rough hand between hers, pressing it to her cheek.

“Thank you, Mr. Ebbitt.”

Sam looked at the small pale head bent over his fingers. He raised his free hand toward her hair; it faltered and froze midway. “Now, now,” he said gruffly, “quit your crying, it’s time we were going.”

Sarah smiled up at him and squeezed his hand before releasing it.

The hay was alive with young people when the wagon pulled away from the church. A harvest moon, full and fertile, hung on the horizon. Frost covered the ground with translucent silver, and the sound of the horses’ shod hooves striking the frozen earth echoed through the babble and laughter. Sarah and Karen were snuggled down in the straw near the rear of the wagon bed. Sarah waved to Mrs. Beard and Mam Tolstonadge. The women called their farewells from the steps of the church. Behind them, the windows were ablaze with light, and strains of accordion music sounded, muted, from within. “You girls stay warm,” Mam hollered. Sarah waved again.

Karen didn’t. “Your ma thinks we’re babies.”

At the end of the main street, where the road started down toward the railroad tracks, Sam turned the wagon into a wide, treelined lane. A shadow slipped from behind one of the last buildings and vaulted over the side of the slow-moving vehicle. A girl squealed and her young man laughed. “You come and go like the devil himself, Earl,” the boy said. Karen’s head popped up at the sound of Earl’s name, and Sarah’s mouth went tight with annoyance.

“Hello, Mr. Sneaky B.” The girl had recovered from her start. Earl made a place for himself in the hay and the two boys fell into conversation. Earl struck a match, the flare shadowing his lean, handsome face. Karen rustled in the straw.

“Let’s pay him no mind,” Sarah whispered. “He’s just showing off.”

“I don’t care a fig for Earl Beard,” Karen said in a voice meant to carry. It caught Earl’s attention.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” Sarah hissed. “He’s coming over.”

“We’ll just pretend he ain’t here.” Karen threw a pert glance
over her shoulder and turned her back resolutely on the approaching figure. Earl sat down, leaning back against the planks.

“Fine evening, Miss Cogswell.”

“Lot you know.” Karen wriggled in the hay, a plump shoulder and rump pushed up.

Sarah settled back into the straw, staring resignedly out over the tailgate. The moon climbed until it was no bigger than a thumbnail, and the stars shone brighter. The wagon had grown quiet as the horses plodded their steady way, circumnavigating the town. Sarah leaned back into the corner, watching the stars flow through the dark skeletons of trees overhead, Karen and Earl a single lump of shadow several feet away. Karen sucked in her breath sharply, making a tiny sound in her throat, and Sarah looked over at them. Karen’s cloak had fallen back, and the bodice of her dress was unbuttoned. Earl worked his hand under her clothes, his fingers closing over her breast. Sarah jerked involuntarily, her elbow striking the wood. Earl looked up and saw her staring.

“Well, Little Miss Hot Eyes,” he said softly, “why don’t you run along and play?”

Karen grabbed her shirtsleeve. “Don’t you tell,” she hissed.

“You oughtn’t to do what you don’t want told,” Sarah said, and levered herself up until she was sitting on the top plank. She swung her legs over and jumped to the ground. Her knees buckled and she fell, she had been sitting still too long. Scrambling to her feet, she ran alongside the wagon.

“Mr. Ebbitt? Can I ride up here with you?”

Sam looked startled, then pleased. “I’ve been wanting some company,” he said, then reined in and extended an arm to her.

“Here, put this over you. Nights are getting cold.” Sarah pulled the proffered robe over her lap, moving closer so she wouldn’t pull it off his knees. Her skirts brushed over his boot tops, and his beard bristled into a fan as he smiled.

SATURDAY NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, THE STREET OUTSIDE THE
schoolhouse was alive with people. To celebrate the season and the new windows the town had provided for the school, Imogene had held a spelling bee and potluck. The whole town had turned out, even those without school-aged children. Mrs. Tolstonadge and several of the women had stayed to clean up, by way of thanks, they said, insisting that Imogene go home.

Men seeing to teams and wagons, and women holding toddlers and skirts up out of the snow, made their way down the street. People shouted “Merry Christmas!” and held lanterns high, lighting neighbors and townsfolk into wagons and over icy spots.

Lugging a basket, Sarah picked her way through the cut in the snow to the schoolmistress’s house. “Sare, you riding back with me?” Sarah looked up to see Sam Ebbitt smiling down from the seat of his carryall. “Your pa said it’d be okay.”

“I got to see Miss Grelznik,” Sarah excused herself.

“Suit yourself,” he said shortly, then shook the reins and drove out past Joseph Cogswell’s shay, where it was pulled up near the school. Karen stood nearby, adjusting her fur-lined hood.

Sarah saw her and started to call out, but the “Merry Christmas!” died on her tongue as Earl Beard materialized from the shad
ows. He held Karen’s waist as, simpering, she clambered heavily into her father’s shay.

“Karen! You come away from there,” Joseph Cogswell hollered from the school steps. His daughter gave him a stare of such contempt that he finished lamely, “Sarah Mary’s wanting to talk to you.”

Earl sauntered off in the direction of the town.

As her beau deserted her, Karen shot Sarah a mean look. “What do I care? Sarah Mary’s such a child.”

Sarah looked away, pretending not to have heard, and hurried to Miss Grelznik’s door.

The little house at last looked like a home. Imogene’s furniture had arrived from Philadelphia intact; the dining table and the chest of drawers bore scars from the journey, but nothing had been lost or destroyed. The high-backed mahogany rocking chair from which her mother had ruled the house sat in its place before the fire; heavy oak trunks stood guard on either side of the fireplace, collecting knickknacks; a squat rolltop desk in the corner under the window harbored writing supplies; the rickety table and broken ladder-back chairs had been replaced with a cherrywood table and two graceful chairs with thin, curved arms. The cot was gone from the bedroom, and the old, well-oiled furniture Imogene had had since childhood crowded the small space. There were two pictures: over the bed, a portrait in an oval frame of her mother as a girl, and on the chimney above the mantel, a painting of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Imogene lit the lamps and put the kettle on. As she settled down with her tea, there was a timid knock at the door; Sarah Tolstonadge stood on the front step, holding in both hands the same basket she and her mother had brought Imogene the first morning.

“Sarah. Come in where it’s warm.” Sarah stepped over the doorsill and tripped on the hem of her dress. She would have dumped the contents of the basket onto the floor if it hadn’t had a new lid, a homemade wooden flap hinged in the middle and fastened on both ends. Sarah righted herself and the basket and stood tonguetied. Imogene reached out to help her but she clutched the handle tightly, her eyes fixed on her hands, and didn’t see the gesture. “Would you like to set the basket down? It looks pretty heavy,” Imogene suggested.

“Oh! Yes, ma’am. It’s for you—the inside—Mam wants the basket back.” Sarah thrust it at her, blushing. Imogene set it on the
trunk under the window. Sarah made no move to go, but stood near the door, pleating and unpleating a fold of her cloak. Imogene smiled.

“Would you stay for a cup of tea, Sarah Mary?”

“I gotta stay till Ma’s done cleaning up.” She looked up. “I didn’t mean it like that, like it sounded.” She stumbled over her words. “What I mean is yes, please, I’d like a cup of tea, ma’am.”

Imogene left her alone and went into the kitchen to fetch another cup. “You can hang your cloak by the door if you like,” she called back. “and take a look around. You’ve not been here since I got my things.”

“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am, I will.” Sarah took off her wrap and draped it over the nail. The sleeves of her bodice were frayed and too short for her arms; the hem of her dress had been let down, and a dark circle ringed the skirt where the old crease had been. Sarah pulled at the cuffs, trying to make them cover her wrists. Giving up, she clasped her hands behind her back as though they might dart out and break something of their own volition, and look around curiously. Her eyes lighted on the basket and she carried it a bit nearer the fire. “There you go,” she whispered, setting it down carefully by the hearth.

Imogene came out of the kitchen with the tea things and a hot-pad. She lifted the kettle off the hook and poured hot water over the tea. “Honey?”

“Yes, please.”

They sat by the fire, Imogene in the rocker and Sarah Mary on a small stool near her. Imogene looked at the basket.

“It’s from Mam and me,” Sarah said into her teacup, “and everybody else.” There was a pitiful cry from the direction of the fireplace. Imogene looked perplexed and knelt by the fire, peering up the chimney. Sarah laughed delightedly. “There’s a little cat in the basket.”

Imogene stared stupidly at it. There was another cry, louder and more long-suffering. “A kitten?”

Sarah laughed again.

“Let’s let it out, shall we?”

The girl scrambled after the basket and dragged it onto the hearth rug between them. “I bet she’s mad; Pa wouldn’t let me bring her in ’fore the supper and the bee. She’s been hid under the wagon seat. Gracie wrapped a horse blanket around her so’s she
wouldn’t get too cold—that’ll account for any wrong smells,” Sarah chattered on, forgetting herself for a moment. She lifted the lid half an inch and immediately a yellow paw was thrust out. Imogene laughed and ran her finger along the straw so the kitten would reach out for it.

Sarah lifted the lid, took out a short-haired orange tiger kitten, and set it on Imogene’s lap. “She’s rare because she was born in November, and cats hardly ever litter in the winter like that.”

Imogene stroked the fat little belly and instantly the cat began to purr. “I’ve never had a cat.” She tickled it and laughed as it tried to catch her fingers. “What do I feed it?”

“Milk and scraps. When she gets older she’ll catch mice for herself. She was Pa’s idea. Pa said you ought to have a cat because you might have mice and you were an old—” Sarah turned brick red.

“An old-maid school teacher.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl whispered. She was all thumbs again and slopped her tea when she picked it up; she set it back on the hearth untouched.

Imogene smiled. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I don’t know, ma’am.” Sarah started picking at the fabric of her dress; her voice was so low that Imogene had to lean forward to hear her.

“You’re shy, aren’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“Is that why you misspelled ‘house’ at the spelling bee just now? So you could sit down?”

Sarah looked up. “How did you know?” Imogene smiled and petted the kitchen; it had gone to sleep curled up in her lap. “I was afraid you’d just think I was stupid or something,” the girl rushed on. “Everybody does, except maybe Mam and David. Sometimes I think I really am stupid.”

“You mustn’t ever let anyone tell you you’re stupid,” Imogene declared. “You’re a very bright young lady.” Her vehemence startled Sarah, and the girl’s face firmed into the finer lines of womanhood for a moment. Imogene took her chin in her hand. “And you’re going to be very pretty. I have a gift for you as well. I was meaning to give it to you as soon as school started again. Shall I give it to you now?”

“If you’d like,” Sarah murmured politely.

Imogene laughed. “That wasn’t a fair question. I’d like.” She handed the kitten to her guest and left the room. A minute later she returned with an oblong wooden box, the surface scratched and dulled with use. She joined Sarah on the hearth rug. “Here, you open it.”

Sarah took the box gingerly in both hands and lifted the lid. Rows of bright colors, arranged in the spectrum from white through the deepest midnight blue, bordered a narrow trough containing two fine-tipped sable brushes.

Sarah let out a long breath. “Paints. Real paints.” Her eyes lit up as she ran her fingers over the box and delicately stroked the brush tips. “They must have cost a lot.” The thought caught her up short. “I oughtn’t to take them…”

“Take them, Sarah. You’re an artist. You need good tools. I never had the talent for watercoloring. They were wasted on me.”

Sarah smiled. “An artist,” she repeated, pleased. “Can I show you something?” she asked suddenly, and pulled a bundle from her pocket: two flat bits of wood, a couple of inches square, fastened together with string. The wood protected a small square of paper. “It’s a miniature,” Sarah explained. Drawn in pencil was a three-quarter view of Imogene’s face. The drawing was beautiful. In the tilt of the chin and the angle of the jaw, Sarah had captured Imogene’s strength and intelligence.

“Sarah, you are truly an artist,” Imogene marveled. “This is exquisite. May I have it?”

“I’ll make you a better. Would you sit for me?” Sarah asked shyly.

“Of course.”

“You would! Miss Grelznik, it will be truly good this time. With colors.” Impulsively she kissed the woman’s cheek.

There was a sharp rap on the door. Imogene jumped to her feet, her skirts upsetting the teacup. The kitten ran underneath the rocking chair, and Sarah dabbed at her tea-soaked dress.

“Dear me.” Imogene took out her handkerchief to help mop up, but her hand was shaking and she let it drop to her side. “I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Miss Grelznik. Mam’ll get the stain out fine.”

It was Mr. Tolstonadge calling for his daughter. Imogene thanked him for the kitten and wished them all a merry Christmas. She stood at the door watching as they helped Mam into the wagon.
Mrs. Tolstonadge’s considerable weight rocked the wagon and set the bells on it ringing. The rocking and the ringing had Margaret Tolstonadge laughing, and when she laughed, the children couldn’t help but laugh with her. Sarah pushed from behind and Emmanuel and the little girls tugged from the wagon, calling out encouragement. Walter steadied the team and looked miserably self-conscious.

Imogene closed the door on the families and the couples going home to their Christmas trees and fires. She turned her back and leaned against the wood. A tear rolled to the end of her nose and she rubbed her face vigorously and sat down at her desk in front of the window. Lighting the lamp, she started to write. The kitten crept out from under the chair and jumped onto her lap.

My beloved Mary Beth
, she began in a clear, bold hand,
I have been so cold, so alone, without you next to me, warming my heart
. Imogene read the words back and barked a humorless laugh. “Don’t commit your soul to the public post, my girl,” she said aloud. “Darrel Aiken’s cry of ‘unnatural woman’ will hound you to the ends of the earth. Which cannot be too awfully far from Calliope, Pennyslvania.” She balled up the paper and began again in cramped, schoolmarmish script:
Dear Mary Beth, I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits
…

When she was finished, she signed the letter, looked down at the sheets of foolscap covered with her neat, restrained handwriting, then crushed them and stared into the lamp for several minutes with dry, unfocused eyes. The kitten stirred on her lap and she looked down. “I’ll get you a little something to eat soon.” She scratched the soft ears. “You’re a dandy present for an old-maid schoolteacher, aren’t you?” The cat yawned audibly and she smiled. “Dandy.” The kitten stretched, peeping over the edge of the desk, ears flattened against some unseen enemy. A yellow paw shot out, patting at the foolscap still wadded up in her hand. “Discerning little creature, aren’t you?” Opening her fist, she smoothed the pages and, folding them, thrust them quickly into an envelope.

She scribbled
Mary Beth Aiken, 72 Elm Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
on the face. She printed her return address in the upper left-hand corner, then hastily crossed it out, marking and overmarking until it was illegible. Having sealed the envelope, she slipped the letter into her pocket and let herself out into the night.