Together Apart (8 page)

"I promise this is as far as I'll go, Mama." I hadn't given a moment's thought to moving on, but, once made, the promise felt like a too-small and scratchy wool coat.

My promise tucked up her sleeve like a handkerchief, Mama was full of chatter. Papa had finished planting the corn, her snap beans were coming up, Lila had broken one of her best teacups. It was the first time in my memory that I'd had Mama all to myself for more than just a few minutes, and I paid extra attention to the strands of gray that laced her dark hair, the garden scent of her, the warmth that filled the space between us, so I could imagine her into my room whenever I was lonely for her.

After a bit, Mama ran out of homey news and shifted her talk back to me. "What kind of a life do you imagine for yourself, when you're grown, that is?"

If she had asked me this question before the blizzard, I might have answered that my dream was to set off walking and not stop until I'd called out my name from a mountain peak, danced circles in a dense forest, and wet my feet in an ocean. That dream being dead and buried, I gave Mama the safe answer—that I hoped to marry a fine young man. I ached to tell her that Isaac Bradshaw might be that young man. Ached to ask her if she thought Papa would ever approve. But I knew I couldn't and Papa wouldn't.

Papa had also begun coming to Eliza's. He'd pull his wagon into the drive, drop off Mama or Hester or Lila and the goods meant for the market. When he returned, I'd bring him a glass of ice water, and if there was a strawberry pie or chiffon cake or other delicacy among that day's freewill donations, I'd offer my share to Papa. His stomach seeming to be in greater need of feeding than his pride, he never turned me down. Thinking that perhaps he was softening toward me, I'd once slipped a dollar from my wages in with the money Mama had earned from the market, but Papa, with his quick mind for numbers, saw that the item-by-item receipt didn't add up. He thrust the dollar back at me and then drove off. One step forward, two back. I hadn't tried that particular trick again, but I was still saving my money, hoping for that day in the future when Papa was ready to accept my wage, ready to forgive.

I'd spent only twenty cents of my savings on myself—for two months' dues in the Working Girls Social Club. Though the club met Wednesday evenings in the resting room, I chose to pay my way like the others. There were nine of us, all farm girls working for families in town. The idea of it came about one market day. Inga Swenson, who worked for Doctor Forbes and his family, had been sent by Mrs. Forbes to fetch back a pint of cream and mold of butter. After making her purchase, Inga took me aside and asked if the resting room might ever be open to visitors in the evenings.

"Is there a need?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. I've made the acquaintance of other working girls, but there's no place for decent young women to socialize. Our employers don't allow us to invite visitors to our rooms, not even on Wednesday evenings, which besides Sundays is the only time we're free to do as we please."

Working girls. Working girls with a need. Maybe not as great a need as the girls in Eliza's articles, but a need all the same. And I could help. So without even thinking to ask Eliza's permission first, I boldly declared, "Spread the word—from now on the resting room will be open to working girls every Wednesday evening."

When I did tell Eliza at the end of the day, she said it was a splendid idea and that she was proud of me. But I wasn't very proud of myself when I rapped the all-clear signal on the print shop door. In my eagerness to please Inga, to please myself, I'd narrowed Isaac's freedom by one evening a week.

I told Isaac of the thing I'd done in one breath and promised to undo it with the next. "You'll do no such thing," he said, grinning big. "What red-blooded fellow wouldn't give up a little freedom for the chance to be a wall away from a room full of girls?"

I thought something then, felt something I had no right to think or feel. Jealousy leaves a sour taste in the mouth, and I was afraid Isaac might sniff it on my breath. "You've become quite the ladies' man, haven't you?"

Isaac stuffed his hands in his pockets. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down with his swallow. "Naw. There's only one girl for me. I think you know her. Her name's spelled the same forw—"

My hand flew up and covered Isaac's mouth. I don't know what I was going to say then, but something, because I knew if Isaac finished his sentence everything would change, change as surely and permanently as it had after the blizzard. I'd have to stop pretending that we were just friends, that living and working in the same house with the boy
I
was sweet on wasn't indecent. Have to stop pretending, pack my things, and go home. But I never got so much as a word out because I started in hiccupping, one right after the other and so loud that they carried all the way into the resting room. "Are you all right?" Eliza asked, rushing in.

I didn't even try to answer.

"We'd better get you into the kitchen. Garlic's what you need. It always does the trick for me."

***

The garlic Eliza mashed and told me to hold on my tongue didn't stop my hiccups, nor did her second choice of a cure, gulping cider vinegar. Her remedies only made me reek. Isaac's remedies didn't work either, though they were easier to swallow—dill first, then dried bread, then a spoonful of clover honey.

So I was sitting there at the kitchen table, hiccupping hopelessly, when Isaac rubbed his chin and, with the most sober of voices, said, "I heard tell of a man who hiccupped himself to death. Eliza, do you reckon I should go out to the stable and start building a coffin?"

"'Tis a pity, but perhaps you should."

They later told me that I was so startled I nearly fell off my chair. But my hiccups were cured, and I'd kept Isaac from saying my name.

***

"Something happened here yesterday after I left," Dru said not five minutes after arriving the next morning. "Some tiff between you and Isaac. I can tell by the way you two are avoiding each others eyes."

"It was nothing, just my foolishness."

"There's a story here, and I'll not stop pestering you until I've heard every detail."

In hopes of turning Dru's attention in a new direction, I said, "I have news. The working girls here in town will be coming to the resting room every Wednesday evening."

"May I come?" Dru asked.

Eliza joined us then. "Only if you finally agree to accept a wage for all the work you do around here."

"I should be the one paying you. Being here has spared me from a summer cinched into my corset unable to breathe properly. And I've learned so many things I otherwise wouldn't have learned."

It was true, Dru was a tireless worker, pitching in wherever there was a need, be it helping with the laundry or changing a toddler's nappy while a young mother was occupied with a nursing infant. She was especially gracious when serving tea, though her true gift was in her storytelling. She was so good the children often shrieked when she told scary parts. As for the corset, when Dru had learned that Eliza didn't wear one, thought them harmful to a woman's health, Dru had stopped wearing hers, too. I'd never worn a corset myself. Being poor had its advantages.

"Will you at least accept a token wage?" Eliza asked.

Dru smiled. "The least amount that will qualify me as a working girl. Could you see your way clear to a penny a day?"

"A penny it is then."

"And might I invite Clarice, Mother's hired girl? Though I've tried to befriend her, she is very shy and will only give me a nod. Perhaps meeting with the other working girls will bring her out."

"By all means, invite Clarice and all the girls who work for your mother's friends," Eliza said.

Needless to say, Dru's penny wage always found its way into the freewill donation tin.

Dru held herself back during the first meetings. She sat quietly and listened as the girls told amusing stories about mistakes in etiquette they'd made or charming things the children in their charge had said. It was only when the girls had become better acquainted that their conversations began to circle around the conditions under which some were made to work. Cass, who was seventeen and from a farm to the north of town, worked for a mistress so particular that if a garment or table linen was not ironed to perfection, the mistress would grab it away, crumple it, then require Cass to press the piece again. Mary, who was eighteen, was unhappy that she wasn't allowed to entertain her fiancé, not even on her employer's front porch in broad daylight. Sadie, who was sixteen and the youngest save for me, had the worst of it. She was made to sleep in the same bed with a four-year-old boy who wet the sheets, and then she was assigned the blame for not waking the boy every hour throughout the night. All the girls had unpleasant stories to share—Inga and Carol, Imogene and Gertrude. All the girls save for Clarice, who accompanied Dru to the resting room each Wednesday evening. She smiled politely but spoke only with a nod.

I said little myself, having no unpleasant stories to share. I did listen, did sympathize, but more often than not my thoughts fell on Isaac locked away behind the print shop door.

Eliza made herself scarce during the Working Girls Social Club meetings. She spent the time in the print shop with Isaac, writing articles for the next edition of the gazette or, alongside Isaac, working the press. I knew this was a sacrifice on her part, knew she'd have loved nothing more than to join in the girl talk.

We'd been meeting for about a month when, during a lull in the conversation, Dru finally spoke up. "What we need is a purpose."

"What sort of purpose?" Inga asked.

"Oh, I don't know, something to throw ourselves into, keep our minds off our troubles."

"And what troubles might you have?" Carol chimed in.

"Oh, I didn't mean to imply—"

I jumped in before Dru could finish. "Dru's right. We should always make time for those who need to talk, but that shouldn't be our only reason for getting together. You all have talents—perhaps we should think of ways to put them to good use."

"A pageant," Dru said. "We should have ourselves an end-of-the-summer pageant, right here in the resting room—invite the families you work for, your families at home. It'll be grand."

Several girls groaned, but it was Mary who spoke first, "Might we invite our beaus?"

Eliza, who had come out of the print room to see what all the excited voices were about, pulled up a chair, sat down, and said, "I think a pageant is a splendid idea, and you may count on my assistance, if assistance is required. And yes, if you have beaus, by all means invite them."

"Are there any plays among your books?" Clarice asked Eliza. It was the first time we'd heard her speak. Her voice was lovely.

"Greek tragedies and Shakespeare, of course, but might it be more satisfying if you wrote a play of your own? One that speaks to your lives in this time and place?"

"Yes, exactly," Dru said, "and there is one among us who can write it." Dru then turned to me. "Hannah, you are the one who can make magic with your make-believe. You must write the script for our play."

"Oh, no. I couldn't possibly. You are the storyteller. It should be you."

"But I can only retell stories I've already read, not make them up new."

Clarice tugged at my sleeve. "Please write a role for me." Her cheeks glowed.

How could I say no to that? "I can't promise, but I'll give it a try."

"Three cheers for Hannah," Dru said, and when the cheer went up I heard Isaac's voice join in with the others.

E
LIZA, IN A RUSH TO FIND OUT WHY THE WORKING GIRLS WERE
making such a ruckus, had left the print shop door ajar. I was about to ease it closed when I heard Dru say, "Three cheers for Hannah." I couldn't help but join in. Soon after came the all-clear rap, and I opened the door to Hannah. "I heard you," she scolded.

"Did the others?"

"I can't be sure, though no one turned an ear. You must be more careful, else you'll find yourself in a place even more confining than this."

"What about you were we cheering?"

Hannah stared at the floor. "They'll not be cheering when next we meet and learn that I have no talent for writing a play."

"A play!"

Hannah looked up and said, "Yes, a play, and I don't have a clue where I'd even begin."

"You were always good at those dramatic readings you gave at school."

"Reading is one thing, writing quite another."

"If you'd be willing to go for a walk with me, the fresh air might clear your head."

"I'm not sure a walk tonight is wise. The moons so bright it's nearly like daylight out there."

That was closer to a "Yes, I'll go for a night-walk with you" than I'd gotten from Hannah since the day I'd stupidly set off her hiccupping spell. Only an even stupider fellow would let moss grow on a second chance like that. "Breathing in a little of that moonlight might be just the thing to stir up your make-believe, and we can hold to the shadows."

"Well, maybe just this once."

***

We left the gaslights burning in the resting room because Eliza and Persephone would soon return after driving home the girls who worked on the far side of town. We'd just passed the woodpile when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Quick as a lightning bug's flash, I covered Hannahs mouth with one hand and pulled her to the ground behind the woodpile with the other. Hannah peeled my hand away. "What is it?" she whispered.

I craned my neck and looked over the top of the woodpile. A man moved in the shadows near the stable not a stone's throw from where we crouched.
Mr. Richards,
I thought, reaching for the handle of an axe wedged in one of the logs. The man passed in front of the window light, and then it was Hannah yanking me down. "It's Sheriff Tulley," she whispered close to my ear. I let go of the handle and squeezed my hand over hers. Hannah squeezed back.

The next time I looked, Sheriff Tulley was inside the resting room. He passed by one window, then the next, and then he must have opened the door to the print shop because the paper covering the windows lit up.