Still House Pond (10 page)

Manda hopped down from the wagon. “Sounds good.”

“Leave your parcels here and we'll pick them up on the way back,” Dimm said as he drove off, leaving Manda to her pleasure.

Mr. Coomb was out front polishing the store's plate-glass window.
Coomb's Dry Goods and Apothecary
was etched across the glass in flowing black script. Underneath in small print was
If we don't have it, you don't need it.

“Morning,” Manda said as she crossed behind him.

Mr. Coomb laid his cloth aside and hurried to the door, which he opened with a flourish. “Good morning, Miss Whitt. Beautiful day.”

“That it is,” Manda murmured and stepped inside. She loved the feeling of plenty emanating from the store shelves and cases. Slowly she wandered up and down the aisles, stopping now and then to finger a bolt of cloth or to drool over a display of confections behind the glassed-in candy case. She could picture Darcy doing this daily. What must it be like to have such freedom? Dimmert's feelings aside, Manda would trade every mountain on Troublesome Creek to live in a proper city. She was sure she would never tire of shopping.

“Could I help you find something?” a store clerk asked.

“Oh,” Manda said with a sigh, “I'm just taking it all in.”

“We got some new patterns from New York City just this week,” the salesclerk said, steering Manda toward the notions display and a rack of patterns. “These are up-to-the-minute,” she said discreetly as if she were telling Manda a secret meant for her ears alone. “I hear a modified bustle is the latest necessity.”

Like Manda didn't know all about braided wire bustles and Empire corsets and Hygeia bust forms. She probably studied more fashion magazines in one month's time than this clerk had ever seen. Manda took Cara's mundane list from her pocket and handed it to the clerk. “Could you get these things for me? I'll be picking out buttons for a new frock.”

Frock
—that sounded like something Rose Feathergay would wear.

“Certainly,” the young woman said, pulling out a long drawer containing cards of snaps and buttons and fabric frogs. “Let me know if I can assist.”

Manda was glad when the saleswoman bustled away leaving her to enjoy the sudden wealth at her fingertips: pearl buttons and jet buttons and nickel-size blue buttons shaped like daisies among dozens of other fasteners. Manda took two cards of buttons from the drawer and held them up to the light. The pearl buttons were pretty and the least expensive, but the daisies . . . oh my. Ten cents for a card of eight—that was much more than she had expected to pay, but she simply had to have them.

A wire rack of Standard Designer patterns squeaked when she turned it. She really should have picked the pattern before selecting the buttons. Now she would have to find a dress to fit the notions instead of the other way round.

She selected one envelope from the dozens of offerings. The pattern was of a ladies' blouse waist over a five-gored bell skirt. The blouse was closed with hooks and eyes but needed six buttons for embellishment. Perfect. The pattern cost twenty cents and was cut in eight sizes from thirty-two to forty inches bust measure. According to the instructions on the back of the envelope, Darcy would need four and three-eighths yards of material for a dress Manda's size. Darcy had not said how much dress goods she had, but Manda supposed it would not be a problem.

“Have you decided?” The pesky clerk popped up again, ruining Manda's concentration.

“Almost,” she said.

The bell over the door tinkled. The clerk hurried off.

Manda lingered over a display case of women's products including Milk Weed Cream, Mennen's borated talcum, and Madame Rowley's Face Glove.
What a creepy contraption,
Manda thought. Madame Rowley's toilet mask was held in place with a series of elastic bands. The printing on the box stated the face glove, if worn three times a week, was guaranteed by eminent physicians and scientists to remove wrinkles and brown spots on the face without the injurious effects of cosmetics. Manda studied her reflection in a counter mirror. Maybe she should think about it.

There were so many powders and potions, it was hard to decide on one. Her eyes lit on the one thing she really needed, a self-heating hair curler. It would be worth every penny of the one-dollar ticket.

“Could I show you something?” the clerk asked, walking behind the case and sliding the heavy glass door open. “Maybe some Correll's Goat Milk Soap? I personally use the crème oatmeal toilet bar—guaranteed to lighten the complexion.”

“Might I see the curling iron?” Manda calculated the price of the curler along with her buttons and the pattern. She should have just enough.

“This is nice.” The clerk set the shiny curling rod on top of the case. “You can get it in the silver for just two dollars.”

“I thought the tag said one dollar.”

“Oh, that's if you buy the nickel finish. I'm sure you'd want the silver.” The woman put a pretty leatherette case with a velvet lining alongside the curling iron. “The case is only one dollar more.”

Three dollars? The silver was nice, though. Manda sighed. Maybe next time. She handed her pattern and packet of buttons to the clerk. “I'll just take these for now.” Manda patted her upper lip with her index finger as she stared down into the case. “And give me one bar of the oatmeal soap.”

Manda felt light as air when she stepped out the door onto the wooden sidewalk. She'd left Cara's order for later pickup but she carried hers, swinging the paper bag against her skirts. If no one had been watching, she would have skipped, but the town was bustling with folks doing their weekly shopping.

In front of the barbershop, she saw a couple of ladies she knew from church and stopped to chat, which led to showing off her purchases.

“My,” one of the ladies exclaimed, “I don't know when I've seen a prettier button.”

“What are you looking for today?” Manda asked.

“Just stocking the pantry,” one said. “Nothing near as nice as what you bought.”

“A new broom,” the other said. “Mine's near worn to a nub.”

“I saw some in the window of the hardware store,” Manda said. “See you all tomorrow?”

“Certainly,” one of the women said. “See you in church.”

The livery station where Dimmert was selling his wares was on the outskirts of town. She walked on. Just across the street in front of the hotel, a crowd was forming. A little boy danced a jig as a familiar voice filled the air—soaring and dipping like a bird on the wing. She paused to listen. “Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies,” surely one of her favorites. How often did she and her sisters sing that tender tune of young love and dire warning? In a flash the song carried her right back to her childhood before the death of her mother turned things wrong.

Mommy hadn't been one to cuddle and spoil her children. She had been a woman of few words and could go days without uttering an unnecessary one. But on hot summer nights after a supper of lard on biscuits or soup beans from the bottom of the pot, Mommy's fine voice would soften the edges of their hunger. She would start a song, and soon the girls would join in harmonizing and singing parts. They had loved “Barbara Allen” and “Pretty Polly,” “Mary of the Wild Moors” and “The Wayfaring Stranger.”

And “Tender Ladies,” of course. Mommy had sung those words like a promise: “Love is handsome. Love is charming. Love is beauty while it's new. Love grows old. Love grows colder and fades away like morning dew.”

Mommy had had her reasons to be a little jaded by love's sweet promise, Manda suspected.

Manda crossed the street. It was the middling man. Manda knew it before the crowd dispersed, pitching change in a felt hat at his feet. She watched as he tucked a fiddle in a black case before pocketing the coins. Her heart trilled. Any moment now he might notice her and say hello. Instead, he slicked back his hair, stuck the wide-brimmed hat on his head, and quick as a wink disappeared around the side of the building.

Manda couldn't believe it. She'd lost her chance.

Heart speeding up, she brushed past the bench where he had been sitting and glanced down the alleyway between the hotel and the grocery store next door. Two men and a dog with a long, skinny tail stood halfway down the alley, just past an overflowing trash bin. After a moment's bickering, money and liquor changed hands.
White mule,
Manda thought, seeing what looked clear as springwater in the quart jar the middling man held. Nobody'd pay money for water. The other man elbowed the middling man, and he looked up the alley, catching her watching. Her heart thumped, beating painfully against her rib cage.

She ducked around the corner and nearly ran across the street. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she hurried along the slatted wooden sidewalk, but nobody followed. Her heart didn't settle until she neared the livery station, where she could see several men selling wares from the beds of wagons: ax handles and one-eyed hoes and gallon jars of molasses. She'd just spotted Dimmert and started his way when she felt a presence close as a shadow behind her.

“Where you going in such a hurry, good-looking?” the middling man said, stepping around to block her path. “I been watching you watching me.”

Manda didn't know whether to run or pass out. Maybe run and then pass out. It was his eyes that stopped her from doing either. Lightning seemed to leap from them and send teasing sparks up and down her arms. “I-I um . . .”

“What's your name, little lady?”

Manda would have gladly told him, but at that moment she didn't rightly know.

With one finger he traced the line of her jaw. “I bet it's right pretty. A pretty girl's bound to have a pretty name.” His breath smelled like liquor, too bright and perilous.

Manda went weak in the knees. She closed her eyes and reached out a hand to steady herself against a lamppost. When she opened them, he was gone.

She was home and eating supper before she realized that somewhere along the way she had taken leave of her shopping. Somehow it no longer seemed important. All that mattered was the kindling heat along the set of her jaw where the middling man had left his mark. Over and over her hand traced what his had mapped. She had never felt so beautiful.

10

Sometimes Lilly didn't know why she picked Kate Jasper for her best friend. Kate never wanted to do anything but play with Mazy and Molly. Right now she was trying to braid Molly's wispy hair while Mazy waited her turn. Lilly got more than enough of that every day.

“Don't you want to go catch crawdads?” Lilly asked.

“No.” Kate sighed. “I've told you a thousand times. Besides, they're vile.”

“They are not. You just think that because they build their houses out of mud.”

“Stands to reason if they live in mud houses, they have to be dirty. We could go down to the creek, though. We could play house on the big, flat rock. I'll be the mother and you can be the father. Mazy and Molly can be our babies.”

Lilly plopped down on the porch steps with her back to her friend. She rested her elbows on her knees. She wanted to walk along the creek in the worst way. She'd been looking forward to showing Kate the rock wall where she had first seen the beagle, not to mention Tern Still. A couple of times after supper she'd gone to the wall with scraps for the dog, who was always hungry, but she'd not seen Tern again.

“We played house last time. It's my turn to pick what we do.”

“Pick all you want,” Kate said, “but I'm not touching any disgusting crawdads.”

“Lilly,” her mother called from the kitchen, “could you come here a minute?”

Lilly rolled her eyes, but she got up. “What?” she said when she got inside.

“You're not treating your guest very nicely,” Mama said, cupping Lilly's chin in her hand. “I'm very disappointed in you.”

“But, Mama—”

“No buts. You go out there and apologize to Kate.”

Lilly could feel tears damming up behind her eyes. “Why can't I—?”

Mama's hand tightened on Lilly's chin. “Right. This. Minute.”

When Lilly turned, she could see her friend's round, freckled face pushed up against the screen. “I'm sorry, Kate,” she said before she even opened the door. “We'll play house if you want.”

“Can we take Molly and Mazy?” Kate asked.

“Sure. They can be the babies and you can be the mother.” Lilly remembered to close the screen door gently. “I'll be the father off catching crawdads for supper.”

Kate jumped up and down. “Oh, good. Molly can be the baby girl, and Mazy can be the boy.”

Lilly hoisted Molly to her hip.

Kate took Mazy's hand. “We'll need a cook pot,” she chattered, “and a fishing pole. What'll you use for bait?”

“I know just the thing,” Lilly said. “We'll stop by the corncrib for an ear, and we can get a pot from the shed. This will be fun.”

Kate stuck out her tongue. “Told you.”

Lilly blew a raspberry against Molly's neck. Molly laughed.

The day had turned out sticky and hot, but it was cool there on the flat rock overhung by the plate-size leaves of a sycamore tree.

Kate settled down, arranging the stash of old kitchenware Lilly kept handy for making mud pies. “Find a piece of shale,” she bossed Lilly, “and mark off the rooms.”

Finding the shale was easy enough, but marking the rooms was another matter. “This rock isn't big enough for rooms. It's only big enough for a kitchen.”

Kate stood in the middle of the rock and looked around. “Well, let's pretend it is. Mark it off exact—we need a kitchen, a parlor, and two bedrooms.”

Lilly scraped a line straight down the middle of the rock with the thin, sharp shale, then dissected the line. There, four rooms. “Nobody has a parlor on Troublesome Creek.”