Still House Pond (12 page)

After the bookcase was finished, Manda began to clean the wood floor with Murphy Oil Soap. Midjob she stopped and sat back on her heels to admire her progress. The dark wood floor gleamed where the sun shone in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Mr. John had torn down an old barn and laid the floor with the deeply grained siding. She liked how he had combined the old with the new. The many-paned windows were like nothing she had ever seen. There were no curtains, so it was like inviting the outside in. The room had a big fireplace, but it also had a Warm Morning stove so they didn't have to depend on the fireplace for heat in the dead of winter. This was the only place Manda had ever lived where it was warm all the time.

Copper looked in from the kitchen doorway. “That floor never looked so good. I don't know what I'd do without your help.”

Manda felt her face flush with pleasure. “Thank you.” She bent to her task again, dipping the floor rag in the bucket and wringing it out until it was nearly dry. She wiped back and forth in steady strokes so the wood wouldn't streak.

“Hold on a second,” Copper said. She left and returned with a piece of ratty toweling, which she folded and handed to Manda. “Tuck this under your knees. It will ease them and take the strain off your lower back.”

That was so like Miz Copper, Manda thought. She was always thinking of others. “It sure is quiet since Tillie and the baby left.”

“Poor Abe thought he was going to starve to death without Tillie standing at his stove, but she was more than ready to go home. I need to check on her tomorrow.”

“I'm glad not to be cooking for Abe no more,” Manda said. “For a man too skinny to make a shadow, he sure could pack it away.”

“He could that.” Copper laughed. “When you're finished with the floor, why don't you take a breather? The new
Woman's Home Companion
came in the mail yesterday. I put it aside for you.”

Manda looked up from hands and knees. “What about dinner?”

“Well, John's gone, so we don't need to cook at noon. I'll feed the kids biscuits and apple butter. We'll have rabbit for supper. I dressed two this morning after I milked. They're in the springhouse in the meat keeper.”

“What do you want to go with it?”

“How about smashed potatoes and a wilted salad? We've got more lettuce than I know what to do with—hence the rabbits. They can't get enough of my garden.”

“Will Mr. John be back?”

“Yes, he's just over to Dimmert's. They're building a new wagon. Ours is giving down.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Miz Copper got a gleam in her eye. “You know what would be fun? We could fix a picnic supper and carry it over to the Whitts'.”

Manda followed her gaze to the clock on the mantel.

“It's eleven now, so we have plenty of time. If you start frying the rabbit about two o'clock, we can finish up and be over there before Cara starts her supper.”

Miz Copper's enthusiasm was contagious. She had the best ideas.

“I left the magazine in the basket by the corner cupboard. I'll just go check on the children; then I think I'll bake a pie. Dimmert always loved my pies.”

Manda split two biscuits and spread them thickly with apple butter. Miz Copper never minded how much she ate. She always acted like there was plenty enough to go around with some left over. Unlike her stepmother. Nora knew the exact number of eggs in the basket and the level of milk in the jug. At Nora's table, if Manda dared to reach for seconds, Nora would fix her with a stare. Manda had probably gained ten pounds since she started working for the Pelfreys. She wrapped the buttered biscuits in waxed paper and stuck them in her linen poke along with the new periodical and a jar for springwater.

Manda felt free as a bird as she hiked up Spare Mountain. She had plenty of time to go to her favorite spot and read. About halfway there, she detoured from the narrow cow path to cross a meadow to the spring. Years ago Ace had discovered the spring and dubbed it sweetwater run. It had the sweetest, coldest water you ever tasted. She wasn't supposed to know this, but Ace used to make corn liquor with that water. Of course that was before Ace was saved. Thinking of Ace made her feel sorrowful. She couldn't help but feel pity for the way he seized up sometimes. He'd be perfectly fine one minute, then lock up like a pair of rusty pliers before falling flat out on the ground.

She knelt by the rocky aperture where the clear mountain water bubbled out in a steady stream and half filled the fruit jar. After taking a long draught from the lip of the jar, she twisted the zinc lid in place. She wasn't going to waste her precious time thinking about sad things. Anyhow, Ace never let his circumstance get in his way. He traveled hither and yon on that old mule Pancake, visiting the sick, sitting up at all-night wakes, and such. The old mule was really Dimmert's, but he had loaned it to his brother-in-law so Ace would have safe transportation. If Ace happened to fall from the saddle, Pancake would stop dead in his tracks and wait. Ace would recover directly and climb back on, dusting his hat, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Manda had seen it twice. Once on the way to town with Miz Copper and once heading to church with Dimm and Cara. Miz Copper told her the best thing to do was stay with Ace and make sure he didn't swallow his tongue. Manda didn't know if she could do that or not, but she guessed she would try.

Dimmert and Cara were over to the Sheltons' most every day, helping. One of the Sheltons' kids—Merky—lived with them. She had lived with Cara after her father was hurt and now she was partial to Cara. Dance was good to let her stay. Maybe she did have a spark of kindness. Cara said Dance was much stronger since Ace got mostly well. Manda was glad of that. Even though she aggravated Manda, Dance was her sister.

Manda sat on a fallen tree limb and took another drink of water. She wished she knew what Darcy was doing today. It was sure to be something industrious, something worthwhile. Right before she got her job with the Pelfreys, she had visited her sister in the city. She should have stayed. Darcy had asked her to. As soon as the time was right, she would go back. She needed to stay out of Coomb's Dry Goods, though, or she'd wind up spending the money she had saved for a train ticket. She was determined to follow Darcy's example and be independent just like the dashing Rose Feathergay.

Maybe she'd just sit here and read. An auburn-haired beauty in a low-cut gown graced the cover of
Woman's Home Companion
. Her complexion was flawless. Manda wondered if she used oatmeal toilet soap. She would have herself, but she'd lost the soap along with her pattern and her buttons. That was sure a waste of hard-earned money.

Manda flipped through the pages looking for a serial to read. She missed Rose and her exciting life. A sharp sting in the tender crease of her inner arm caused her to cry out in pain. She unbuttoned her bodice and freed one arm, turning the sleeve inside out. A sweat bee was caught in the sleeve. His tiny body thrummed with anger. Manda didn't know if he could sting again or not. She flicked the bee away. A red welt formed where the stinger went in.

How could it hurt so badly when the sweat bee was so tiny? Holding her blouse together, she went back to the spring and laid her arm under the steady, icy flow. The water felt so good, she bathed her face and neck, letting the water trickle down her chest. Comforted, she picked up the hem of her skirt to dry her face. A daddy longlegs meandered up her skirt as if he were surveying a plot of land. She plucked him off by one of his appendages, being careful not to touch the second-longest pair, and watched to see in which direction he would point with his longest leg. It was a known fact that a daddy longlegs held in such a way would indicate where to find the cows. Not that she needed to go get the cows, or cow as the case may be . . .

The spider twitched and dropped back onto her skirt, leaving one leg pinched between her fingers. She shook her skirts and the daddy longlegs ambled away, bobbing up and down on the seven limbs he had left. The one that was missing would grow back. Even though daddy longlegs didn't bite, Manda was not happy to be in this buggy place. Buttoning her blouse, she went back to the fallen limb to gather her things. She still could make it to the ledge and read for a few more minutes.

As she reached for the magazine, an eerie feeling came over her. Her spine prickled. She looked off into the forest that bordered the small meadow but saw nothing untoward. A gust of wind set the top of the trees to dancing, and a dark cloud scuttled across the sun. Chilled, she grabbed the linen poke and dropped the water jug in, uncaring if it crushed her biscuits. Halfway across the meadow, she remembered the
Woman's Home Companion
. She would have to go back—the magazine didn't belong to her.

She decided she was being silly. Probably a bear was searching for berries in the woods or maybe a wampus cat was stalking a rabbit or some other prey. Neither would be hunting her. What would Rose Feathergay do in such a situation? Why, she'd make some noise and march right back.

Manda decided to whistle. It wasn't smart to come upon a bear without giving fair warning. She puckered up her lips like she was eating green persimmons, but she managed only a trifling note. You couldn't scare a fodder mouse with that. What she needed was something to starch her backbone. A song from church came to mind. Swinging her arms, she stalked back toward the spring singing loud enough to make Rose Feathergay proud. “‘I love the Lord; He heard my cries, and pitied every groan; long as I live, when troubles rise, I'll hasten to His throne. I love the Lord: He bowed His ear, and chased my griefs . . .'”

She couldn't rightly remember the rest of the second verse, but that was okay because the fallen limb was just a step away. She'd left the magazine open to a story, but the wind had blown it shut. When she picked it up, a small, round object fell from between the pages and plunked down right in front of her. Hardly believing her own eyes, she picked up a blue daisy-shaped button. Beyond the log, she could see where grass and weeds had been trodden. This was no gift from a bear. Someone had walked out of the woods and left the button while she was bathing her arm in the spring.

More curious than afraid, she put the magazine in her poke and followed the faint path to a black walnut tree. The tree was ancient and huge. Tiny green globes of fruit hung like ornaments from every branch. A gray squirrel, high over her head, chattered and flipped his long tail in anger.

Manda's arm throbbed where she'd thoughtlessly carried her linen bag in the crook of her elbow. Looking down, she covered her mouth and stared, for at her feet lay the butt of a perfectly rolled cigarette. The unmistakable heady scent of tobacco lingered in the air like a whispered secret.

It seemed a long way back to the house. Manda's mind played with possibility. Might it be the middling man had picked up her lost package? Was he playing with her mind and with her heart? The spring had become a popular meeting spot, so it wouldn't be a stretch that he knew about it. Her pulse quickened. Excitement nearly took her breath. Could it be so? Not likely. He surely had a dozen girls from which to choose. He'd have no need to track her comings and goings.

More likely she had disturbed a couple's trysting spot. Maybe the woman had also chosen the pretty buttons to adorn her blouse. Maybe she hadn't stitched the button on quite well enough. But how did it get in her magazine? Could the wind have blown it there? Possibly. So what about the tromped-down grass and the rollie?

Lost in thought, Manda turned the button over and over, liking the way it felt in her fingers. If she had disturbed a courting couple, they had more than likely fled to the shelter of the tree. Then, when Manda went to the spring, they fled—him leaving his unfinished cigarette, her not realizing she had lost a button. It all made perfect sense.

The wind picked up a little. She hoped it didn't blow up a storm and ruin their picnic.

12

Adie's time came in the middle of a hailstorm. Remy awakened Copper just after 3 a.m. “Hit's time” was all she had to say. Copper was instantly awake.

Now the two of them hurried across the yard and down the path to the little house while stones the size of marbles pelted them and lightning cracked the night sky.

“Any other time and this would be fun,” Remy said. “I love me a good storm.”

“Me too,” Copper yelled over the tempest, “but I like it best when I'm not in the middle of it.”

Copper struggled against the gusting wind, trying to keep John's slicker over their heads. Remy held on to her arm with both hands. She carried her crutch up over her arm like a fancy purse. When they reached the porch, the bouncing hail reverberated like gunshots against the tin roof.

Copper shook rain from the oilcloth slicker and opened the cabin door. A cheery fire greeted her from the potbellied stove in the corner. A lamp burned brightly on the nightstand beside the birthing bed. A stack of linen was neatly folded on a chair. An open kettle of water and a cast-iron teapot heated atop the stove. Remy always set up a sickroom perfectly.

“One or two hours,” Remy said, throwing out the answer before Copper even asked how close Adie was. “More likely two.”

Copper shrugged into the gown she'd carried to the house, then tied a mask to cover her nose and mouth. It wouldn't have done any good to bring one for Remy. Remy took her chances.

Adie lay on the bed. She looked at Remy. “Did ye bring a knife?”

Remy opened a blade on a pocketknife and slid it under Adie's mattress. “I should have thought of this before.”

Adie grimaced. “My husband's old mommy always puts a knife under my bed to cut the pain.”

“My ma done the same thing,” Remy said, standing back. “Maybe it'll relieve you somewhat.”

Copper stood at the table scrubbing her hands. She wished it were that simple to ease the pangs of childbirth. Adie was doing well, though; many would be screaming by this time. But it was her sixth. She knew what to expect. With first-timers the pain fed on their fear until pain was the biggest thing in the room. It was a rare woman who hadn't been indoctrinated with horror stories about other women's labors.