Nevada Barr - Bittersweet

With unnecessary clatter he hefted the tongs over the lip of the furnace. “Got none. They all been let.”

“What about that one?” She put herself between him and his anvil. Forcing his attention, she indicated a small wagon visible through the stable door.

The blacksmith never looked where she was pointing. “It’s busted. Nobody can take it.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“All been spoke for.” He pulled the iron from the forge. One end glowed a dull red. “Better stand back. You’ll get yourself bad burned.”

Imogene retreated toward the door. “Is there nothing you can let me have? It’ll only be for an hour or so in the evening.”

“Sorry.”

Imogene watched him as he laid the metal on the anvil. He seemed to feel her eyes on his back. “Sorry,” he said again.

Clay hailed her as she crossed the stableyard, motioning her to him. “Didn’t mean to go flapping my arms at you like that,” he apologized. “I was afraid Mr. Rorvak’d see us together if I was to come over to you.”

“That wouldn’t do, would it?” Imogene said sarcastically.

“No, ma’am. Wouldn’t do at all. You be needing a wagon?”

“Yes.”

“That one there,” he jerked his chin at the wagon Imogene had pointed out to the blacksmith, “ain’t hardly broke. Mr. Rorvak’ll be up to the mine late this afternoon. Maybe five, six o’clock, I could bring it by. I’d like to do it for you, ma’am. And little Mrs. Ebbitt.”

Imogene’s eyes softened and she laid a hand on Clay’s arm. Hard muscles met her gloved fingers. “Thank you, Clay, you’re very good. But won’t you lose your situation here?”

“I’m not smart, Miss Grelznik, but I’m real strong. Stronger even than Mr. Rorvak. When comes something he can’t lift, he calls for me. But I’m not so smart and maybe I don’t know no better’n to let you have that wagon for a bit.” He tapped his temple with a sooty forefinger, and a look as close to cunning as he could muster sparkled in his guileless blue eyes.

Imogene laughed. “Thank you, Clay. You are a strong man.” Bright blue skirts and running steps caught Imogene’s eye. Her hand fell from Clay’s arm as a gawky girl in her early teens flitted from the side door of the Beards’ house and down the street. She was wearing a blue-checkered dress and carrying an armload of clothes. Imogene looked from the girl to Clay. “Your sister, Jillian, is wearing Sarah’s dress.”

Clay shifted uncomfortably. He stared at the ground and squeezed his cloth cap in both hands. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ebbitt brought ’em before dawn this morning. Gave them to Ma to give out. Said there was no sense decent women going cold. Ma saved some things for the girls, but they’re pretty little yet. And Karen, though I see her pretty as she ever was, well, she likes her food and she’s not the little spit of a thing Sarah Ebbitt was.”

“Is.”

“Anyway, Ma’s given the dresses and whatnot to folks as can use ’em.”

Imogene inhaled slowly through pinched nostrils. She sucked in her cheeks and nodded to herself. “The baby?”

“Ma’s looking after him.”

The clash of the smith’s hammer stopped and Clay looked nervously over his shoulder. “It won’t do to have Hugh see us talking, he’ll sure tell me how I can’t let you have that wagon, and as it ain’t mine, I couldn’t take it then.” Clay put on the cap he’d been mangling, and hurried back into the stable.

In the street, people turned away, whispering, as Imogene passed. It was after ten o’clock when she reached home. As he opened the door, Sarah flew at her, Imogene’s voluminous nightgown trailing over her hands, the hem dragging on the floor.

“Where were you?” she wailed. “Where’ve you been?” Laundry, strung across the room on a makeshift clothesline, got in her way and she became entangled in the line. “You left me alone!” Sarah cried, and broke into noisy sobs.

Imogene went to cradle her in her arms, but she threw her hands up, warding the schoolteacher off. “Don’t touch me.” Then, “You left me alone!”

The schoolteacher caught her by the shoulders and shook her. When the frenzied look left her eyes, Imogene held her close and Sarah clung to her.

“You left me alone,” Sarah said again, when she’d quieted. They were sitting together on the hearth, Sarah resting her head on Imogene’s shoulder.

“I had to. I’ve got to take care of us now, don’t I? I wanted to let you sleep. You feel a little cooler now than you did this morning. Would you like something to eat?” Sarah shook her head. “Maybe you’ll feel like eating a little something tonight.”

“Maybe.”

Imogene stroked her hair. “Where’s the cat?”

“I put her out.”

“We’ll have to find something to carry her in. Why don’t you go lie down now, I can finish up here. Clay’s coming by for us around five o’clock.”

Sarah raised her eyes. “Why?”

“We’ve got to leave Calliope,” Imogene said gently. “We can’t stay here now.”

“We can’t leave. Matthew…Mam…my clothes…”

Imogene took her hands.

Sarah jerked free. “No! My baby, I can’t leave him. He’s so little. No!” The thin arms flapped in the big sleeves, and a look of determination flitted across the small face.

Imogene caught her and forced her to be still. “Listen to me. We can’t stay here. I can’t work here, and I must make a living for both of us. They won’t let us stay.”

“You go,” Sarah cried. “You go. I can stay here. I’ll live here and I’ll take in wash, or cook maybe. I’ll-” She broke off and hid her face in the folds of the nightdress.

“You can’t live here anymore. This is school property, Sarah.” As gently as she could, Imogene said, “You have nothing. Even Matthew is not yours. He’s Sam Ebbitt’s boy. If we could find him, steal him away, then he, too, would have nothing. Sam will let you go-he’ll never let his son go. He’d hunt you down. You don’t want that for Mattie. Nothing is yours.”

“You’re lying!” Sarah cried.

“Nothing,” Imogene went on inexorably. “You haven’t even a change of clothes. I saw that girl Jillian wearing one of your dresses this morning. Sam’s given them away.”

“They’re mine!” came the muffled cry.

“No, they aren’t. They belong to Sam. Even what you had before you were married. It all belongs to Sam. If he wanted, he could have you arrested and sent to jail for stealing the clothes you had on your back when you ran away. That’s the law. It’s all Sam’s.” Imogene pulled Sarah’s shirtwaist from the clothesline. “This is his.” She jerked the skirt and draped it over the rocking chair. “And these.” She snatched up Sarah’s underthings from where they’d been heaped when Imogene changed her bandages the night before. “These are his stockings.”

Sarah held up the frilled pantalets and smiled a little. “These are Sam’s pantalets?”

“That’s my girl. We’re going to be all right. You’ll see.” Imogene hugged her. “You go rest. I’ll finish up here and wake you so we can get ready ourselves.” She helped Sarah to her feet. “It will be all right. I promise.” Sarah didn’t move. “The leaving is for Mattie as much as for you,” Imogene said, and the girl allowed herself to be led.

While Sarah slept, Imogene packed, parceling the scattered bits of her life into boxes and closing them up with itemized lists carefully pasted to their lids. Then, mopping, dusting, scrubbing, she worked her way from room to room, cleaning away the last traces of her residency. When the house was bare but for the molehill of her possessions piled near the door, and the rooms smelled of soap and water-the homier smells of coffee and lavender having been washed away-Imogene carried in the bathtub. She filled it half-full of cold water and put the kettle on to heat. The water began to boil and she went to wake Sarah.