The Mapmaker's Children (9 page)

No one else was awake, so if she chose to forget, it would be gone, she decided. It was the memory that made it real, and the only important thing to remember from the night was that the Hills and the Fishers were most undoubtedly UGRR stationmasters. Whether she helped Freddy barn up the horse or not was of little significance.

“I was headed in that direction anyhow,” she replied and walked to the opposite side, so that the girth of the horse's muscular neck and head was between them. Gypsy trailed behind, sniffing Sarah's footsteps for bread crumbs.

An owl hooted, and the other barn animals bawed and bayed when they swung open the door, bringing with them the chilled air.

Freddy tied Tilda in her stall. The hay crunched beneath his feet. His silence set Sarah's mind to worrying despite her resolve not to care—and she didn't care. At least not in theory. But it needled her: finding her in the garden so indecorously dressed, did this young Mr. Hill see her as unfit? Or worse—juvenile?

To break the silence, she said the thing on the forefront of her mind: “I like Mr. Fisher. He's kind, and it meant a great deal what he said about my father.”

“You heard?”

She nodded. “But you needn't worry. I'm a Brown. We're excellent secret keepers. I know about the…” She lowered her voice to a whisper: “Freedom Train—the Underground Railroad. I paint the maps.” The last word came out like a hiss, though she hadn't meant it to.

“You painted all the picture maps?” Freddy stared at her a long minute, his face bemused.

Sarah's heart quickened at the unspoken accusation declared in the barn. Danger and fear could be wildly potent, like flint and steel. Useful in some situations. Destructive in others. She was about to turn and flee back to the house when he smiled.

“Impressive. You're very talented.”

The lobes of her ears went hot despite the chill of their tips.

Freddy slid his hand along the ridge of Tilda's neck, across her back, and over her hindquarters. “The Fishers,” he continued, “are an extension
of our family. I'd fight tooth and nail for them.” He led Sarah out of the horse's pen, closed the door securely, and locked gazes with her. “I understand the abolitionist mission. A lot of people do. Your father has cut the way, not just for the end of slavery but straight through the heart of this country. However…” He looked down to the bridle in hand. “There are those who don't agree with his particularly violent tactics. They stand for the cause but believe there's a better way for action.”

He was making a point. The UGRR and her father's raid were not held in matched esteem. While a majority of Sarah wanted to agree, she felt the fiery impulse to defend her father. Wrong or right, it was the eve of his greatest sacrifice. He was due reverence from his child, at the very least.

“Pigments
must
be muddled to create a new landscape,” she said.

“Can't that be achieved by brushstroke as well as the painter's knife?”

Sarah couldn't deny that. It did take both.

The barn was balmy with the scent of wool and leather tackle, cow's milk and nesting mice in the rafters. Motes of chaff floated by, glinting like sand in a black-bottomed riverbed. Sarah could vaguely make out the contours of Freddy's profile, fine and pale. Color lost to the night shade.

His eyes glistened gold despite the darkness and studied her with equal curiosity. “You're different from your mother and sister. You have your father's spirit.”

A strand of hay floated down from the rafter above and landed on her forehead. She reached a hand to whisk it away at the same time as Freddy. Their fingertips brushed, and Sarah's heart took off at a dash. She'd never been alone with a man not her kin. She shuffled backward and tripped over Gypsy. Freddy caught Sarah by the bare arm. The blanket fell away. He steadied her, then draped the blanket back over her shoulders. Her skin crawled with a thousand fire ants—anger, embarrassment, and something else she couldn't put a finger on.

“Mr. Thoreau might approve of a brisk outing to tire the body, but I doubt he'd endorse a girl not sleeping,” said Freddy.

Girl
. The word bit sharply.

“Quite. I'm
exhausted
by it.” She marched out of the barn, keeping two steps ahead of him: through the yard, across the garden, to the kitchen door. There, she stepped out of the boots and turned. Best to say good night now, as she had no intention of being escorted to her bedroom like a
little girl
.

“Good evening, Mr. Hill.”

“Freddy,” he said. His fair face, full and more handsome than ever, shone bright as Mr. Fisher's Moon Man above.

“Freddy,” she repeated. She didn't return the invitation to call her by her familiar name.

“I hope you're able to rest. Tomorrow”—he paused and exhaled—“will be full of tomorrow.”

He must've waited in the garden until he was sure she'd reached her room, for only after she'd cast off the blanket and climbed into the bed beside her mother and Annie did she hear his footsteps on the stairs. She sipped the air with each creak. When the door to his bedroom opened and shut, she fought her mind from imagining him a wall away, staring up to the ceiling as she did now. She squeezed her eyes until starlight eddied behind her eyelids.

God, forgive me. I ought to be praying for my father's soul
. He had not escaped—would not. It was the hope of a quixotic child to believe he could. No matter how perfectly her map had been drawn, he could barely rise to take a sip of water. How could she have been so foolish as to think he was a saint, capable of miracles, when even Christ bled to death on the cross. At that hour, he was just where she'd left him: in a southern jail cell, dying even as death would soon be noosed to him.

“Drink the balsam, sister,” Annie murmured.

Sarah got up and took a swig straight from the black bottle. She gagged at the sharp bite and placed the woody tang from her sick bed. Then she lay with her fingers laced over her chest to bind her heart from its pounding.
Sleep
, she prayed.
This day must end
. Like Freddy had said, tomorrow would be full of tomorrow.

Within minutes, the drug granted her request.

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

and a cannon ball blew my eyes away!

—B
OB
D
YLAN
, “J
OHN
B
ROWN
”

T
he quote was decoupaged across the neck of Denny's guitar case. A duffel bag stuffed like a man-sized sausage blocked the screen door from fully opening. Eden squeezed through, and it clapped at her back.

He turned, and the first thing she noticed was that he'd grown his hair out. The shaggy whorls spilled over his ears, and aviator sunglasses were pushed up on his forehead. Great, she thought, this must be his new thing. A Dylan phase.

“E!” He opened his arms wide, exposing a tattooed heart surrounded by thorns on his biceps.

That was definitely not there the last time she'd seen him. Her face flushed hot. “What is that?”

He bear-hugged her, and she was buried in his chest. Pine and nutmeg: he still wore their father's same aftershave. Her stomach dipped at the olfactory memory of father, brother, family, and days she'd forgotten—but here they were.

“Does a little brother need an excuse to visit his big sister?”

Not an excuse but a call first, yes. She suppressed her maternal annoyance that he hadn't told her about coming or the tattoo and hugged him back. She liked to think they were as close as ever. He didn't keep secrets from her. Sure,
she
kept things from him, but she'd been doing that since they were kids. That's what good older siblings did.

When their mother had one of her dark spells and locked herself in her
bedroom, playing Petula Clark's single “Downtown” so loud the teacups in the curio cabinet clinked against their plates, she'd take Denny outside to wait for the ice-cream truck on the sidewalk. She still saw him with a cherry bomb ice pop, looking up at her, though now their vantage points had swapped. His chin rested heavily atop her head; the bottom of the tattoo peeked out from his shirtsleeve like the tattered edge of a bullfighter's cape.

She stabbed a finger at it.

“Has moving here turned you into a conservative?” He feigned horror and rubbed the offended spot.

Eden rolled her eyes. He wasn't going to divert the spotlight that easily.

Denny flexed his biceps so the tattoo was more prominent. “What can I say—my body is an artistic masterpiece.”

She grinned despite herself and swatted his arm. “All grown and
tatted
up. What would our parents say?”

Denny rubbed his tattoo. “It's for Dad, so I doubt he'd mind too much.”

Eden leaned in for a closer look. The ring of thorns formed letters:
Dennis
. Their father. Denny's namesake. A pang shot through her. It was a loving tribute, though their mother would never approve.

Eden shook off the nostalgic ache and changed the subject. His eyes were bloodshot. “You look exhausted.” She pointed at the duffel. “Plan on moving in?”

“If you ever invite me through the front door.” He whistled, scrutinizing the house from pitch to garden. “Some place. Jack got a good one. Almost feels like the grand, royal abode in Larchmont.”

Eden frowned. “You want me to fix you a cot on the porch?”

“Relax. Just trying to get a rise out of you.”

He wrapped his muscular arm around her, and she felt like a baked chestnut between cracking levers.

“The place is
très
sweet. I thought I was entering
The Twilight Zone
. Do people still live old-fashioned like this?”

“Afraid so.” Eden reached for the screen door.

Cricket greeted them with paws planted and tail raised. Seeing Denny, he gave a bark that resembled a chicken's cluck.

“Who's this?”

Eden scratched at her tight scalp. Where to begin…? “That's Cricket. Jack just got him.”

“You sure his name isn't Dumbo? He's got a set of ears.”

Eden felt unexpectedly protective.
Don't call my dog Dumbo
, she thought, though she knew Denny meant well.

“What's the breed?” His guitar gave a deep, hollow twang when he set it down. Cricket skittered away.

Predominantly cocker spaniel, she supposed, but with the stubby legs of a corgi, the ears of a bassett hound, and the hair of a poodle. He wasn't the cutest mutt. But what he lacked in pedigree, he made up for in gentility.

“Not a guard dog, obviously,” said Denny.

Eden had left Cleo in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, but the girl was gone. The backyard: empty, except for a squirrel feasting on her snow peas.

“Come here, fella, I'm your Uncle Denny.” He squatted to let the dog sniff his fingertips. “See, I'm harmless, and I'll even feed you treats behind your mom's back.”

Cricket was a dog, and she was far from his mother. Despite herself, Eden smiled.

“I can't believe you finally broke down and got a pet.”

“Correction: he's here until we find a family that can take him.”

In under a minute, Denny had ingratiated himself with Cricket, who flopped onto his back for a belly scratch. He gazed at Eden upside down, then let his tongue flop out merrily. If only human beings could be so easily satisfied, Eden thought. She stirred the Canine Casserole. Rice kernels browned and stuck to the bottom of the pot, so she figured it must be done.

“You should keep him,” said Denny.

She scooped the food onto a plate and placed it on the floor. Cricket waddled over, one ear over his forehead like a sock slugged inside out. She righted it.

Before she could stop him, Denny went to the Dutch oven and spooned a heap into his mouth.

“Denny! That's Canine Casserole!”

He stared at her for a blank moment, then clutched his throat. “Oh shit, did I eat chicken gonads?” He stuck his mouth under the faucet and gargled.

All Eden could do was point to
The Holistic Hound
open on the counter, until the laughter cramp in her side unhitched.

He glanced over the page. Shook his head. “Well, if that's dog food, I don't know what to call the crap I've been living off of in Philly.” He helped himself to more.

Truthfully, Eden was proud that her first home-cooked meal was a hit. She wished Jack had been there to see. She
could
cook! Not that it mattered now, really, but he'd be impressed. She realized then how badly she'd needed that moment of success. Even one as small as Canine Casserole.

“You know you got a Chucky doll sitting here, right?” he said.

The doll's head didn't exactly blend in with the stainless steel and Italian marble decor.

“Yeah, I know,” said Eden.

That seemed to suffice. He nodded. “Museum-creepy.” Then continued eating rice off the wooden spoon.

When he'd finished, he hoisted his duffel onto his back. “Where do you want me?”

Where did she? The only two beds in the house were occupied. She started toward the staircase, mapping out a convincing story in her mind with each step up. Denny followed; the planks groaned under his weight. He paused at the framed picture of Eden, Jack, and himself on vacation together in Holland.

“That was a fun trip,” he said.

Eden nodded, the wheels of her mind busy. She swung open the door
of the guest room: tangled bedsheets, pillows askew, Jack's T-shirt balled in the corner, his extra razor and toothbrush in the adjoining bathroom.

“Somebody already here?”

“Jack has
severe
sleep apnea. It's like a foghorn!” It was the best tale she could spin together in under a minute. “He pushed over here for a few nights—to give me some rest. He thinks it may be related to the renovations. Dust particles from God knows how long ago. We put in a new air-filter system and ordered anti-allergen bedding, but he's gone so much with work…”

It wasn't entirely a lie. He did snore. He had offered to sleep in the guest room. He was away all week, working in Austin.

She stripped the bed, snatched up Jack's dirty laundry from the floor, and pulled fresh sheets from a box marked
LINENS
, with a drawing of a laundry line beside the word. No wonder it had taken them five days to move out of their two-bedroom apartment. Her packers were too busy drawing cartoons on box tops!

While Denny was using the bathroom, she did one last check to make sure everything was normal—at least in appearance.

Denny opened the door. “Eden?”

She snapped up like a child with a mouthful of syrup sucked straight from the bottle.

“What are these?” He held out a box of syringes.

She'd forgotten that she'd put the extras in there.

“Uh…” She took the box and turned it over, willing her mind to come up with a perfectly legitimate excuse that had absolutely nothing to do with the truth. “Looks like needles.”

Denny furrowed his brow.

She tapped the top. “Everybody has a box of syringes for emergencies.” It was such a lame explanation that she had to look away, down at her toes and the braided red-licorice rug.

“Seriously?”

She knew she'd have to tell him the truth. Otherwise, he'd obsess and go seeking answers to his worried thoughts in every nook and cranny. They came from the same DNA pool.

“God, Denny, I really don't want to go into it. Nobody's dying—well, at least not me or Jack.” She rubbed between her eyes with her ring finger.

His gaze intensified. She wasn't easing his mind.

“Don't get the wrong idea. We're both sort of fine.” She groaned. “It's complicated.” She had no desire to talk ovaries, sperm counts, and baby making with her kid brother.

“Are you into recreational drugs?”

Eden cackled at the absurdity.

He didn't flinch, not even to wipe away the drop of her spittle that landed on his forearm. “Because you seem…off.”

She sat on the bedside, dabbing the tears of laughter that she was sure would turn to sobbing if she didn't plug them. “You hit the nail on the head, Den. I was off.
We've
been off—Jack and me—for a long time.”

He sat beside her. “Our bass guitarist had a nasty crack habit. A dime-sized hole in his arm that he kept shooting that crap into. He went to Arizona for a month. Rehab.” He eyed her thin arms.

She turned them over for his examination. “I'm not on crack, Den. I'm shooting up totally legal doctor-prescribed hormones, but they probably make me even crazier than cocaine would.”

He did the Denny left-right head thing.

“We were trying to have a baby.”

It came out more easily than she'd anticipated. She'd expected the word to sting but felt nothing.

“In vitro fertilization. I used the needles for my daily hormone shots. It didn't go well, to say the least, but that's done. Maybe we aren't meant to have children.” She shrugged.

She was impressed by her calmness. Her ability to provide a rational, controlled explanation. The telling seemed an unburdening. After years of keeping so much a secret, telling Denny brought her unexpected relief. So she went one step further.

“I'm not sure we're meant to be together. Jack and me.”

Denny's chin hung to his chest, his face drawn down like a sad clown's. He'd always been a softhearted guy. “I'm sorry, Eden.”

“Aw, don't worry.” She laced her arm through his, the heart tattoo
against her skin. “If life gives you lemons, well, at least you got lemons to do with what you want!” She swung her elbow lightly into his ribs. “Isn't that what Dad used to say?”

Denny nodded, then grabbed her hand and squeezed gently. “You're okay?”

She smiled as if to say,
Sure, of course, absolutely
, but the words didn't come.

“Settle in and make a list of stuff,” she told him instead. “I'm going grocery shopping tomorrow.”

Denny pulled his guitar from the case and strummed. “Oh, Mr. Cricket, would you care for some brisket or caviar on toasted rye.
Woof, woof
, you say, I want crème brûlée! Well, let's bake some and give it a try.”

The song drifted down the hall, over the banister, and through the house. Below, Cricket snored to the melody while Eden went back to her room and did a search on the Internet for antique Civil War dolls. Until she heard from Vee Niles, she couldn't find out much more about the house, but she could investigate the porcelain head.

Denny had inadvertently made a good point: it might be worth a pretty price tag to a museum. Look at Christie's auctions in New York City. People waved their paddles and paid out their life's savings for the most inane things with a story: a backscratcher said to have belonged to one of the
Mayflower
pilgrims, Winston Churchill's dentures, John Lennon's toilet bowl, a marble one Kentuckian claimed was Abe Lincoln's lucky shooter—the list went on. If it was something the rest of the world couldn't have, they wanted it. The trick was to find that secret trait—or, at the very least, make someone believe there was one.