Nevada Barr - Bittersweet

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.