Annie Proulx - Barkskins

“Truly unusual the way this winter hangs on,” said Mrs. Trumbull.

“Ah, James,” said Lenore, “you will harden up in Boston. The dulcet climate of England is in your distant past. Here we must wrap in furs to keep alive. Going out in the winter or a spring like this one is always a dangerous adventure.”

Josiah Tendrill told of a great snowstorm that had come in his childhood. “The snow fell for five days and when it ceased the drifts were up to the eaves of three-story houses. It took fifteen men three days to shovel us out.”

The dinner was long, but not a single word was spoken about the business, Duke & Sons.

At last an English pudding streaked with blue brandy fire came in, and when it was reduced to a rubble of crumbs the ladies retired to Mrs. Trumbull’s sitting room and the men to the library for cigars and imported cognac.

“I beg you tell me more of the family,” said James. “I remember a large number of cousins. Are not some of them involved in the family business?”

Edward sighed. “Time has not been kind to the family. We lost almost an entire generation. Your uncle Piet on a visit to Virginia took the cholera in the very warm summer of — what — years ago now, and did not survive the attack. He is buried there. Aunt Patience Deckbolt suffered mental exhaustion and finally passed away in her sleep. Three of her daughters still live in the city with their husbands and families and you shall meet them at a future gathering. None of their husbands — well, I shall forbear to describe the husbands. Patience’s grandson Cyrus is a clever young man and shows some promise for the company. We employed him. In time he will ascend the ladder of success. You will meet him when we have our meeting in June. Your half siblings, Sedley’s second family, have all repaired to Philadelphia. Maury, the eldest, who is Sedley’s only other son, your half brother I suppose we might say, works for a banking firm and I wish he had remained in Boston as he is certainly good timber.”

“And are there no other cousins and relatives I should know?”

“Your great-uncle Old Outger Duquet returned to Amsterdam or Leiden and lived there. He continued to draw his stipend from the business to the end. But now he is gone. His half-breed daughter lived in flagrant concubinage with an Indian in Outger’s house on Penobscot Bay. They produced an army of Indian brats. They are quite unknown to us. I have mentioned Cyrus Hempstead. And we have Lennart Vogel, the only son of your great-aunt Doortje Duquet. So, you see, it comes down to you to help replenish our ideas and fortune.”

• • •

Weeks passed and James often called on Mrs. Brandon. They had become great friends. It was foolish to pretend he was calling on both husband and wife. Mr. Brandon was always in his fits and James had never actually seen him save for the glimpse of wild eyes on his first visit.

He had read attentively through Mrs. Brandon’s notes on her father’s timber business. “There is still much I do not understand,” he said. “For example, I hear everywhere that Maine is the place for the best pine, but I know little or nothing of Maine.”

“What could be easier? Maine is not yet a state, but sure to be very soon. It is a large territory heavy with forests, especially the valuable white pine. Maine is spotted with a thousand lakes and ponds like a slice of yeasty bread is riddled with holes, has great rivers, each with a hundred branches. I can name some of them for you and next time you come I will have a map of sorts showing the best waterways — the Androscoggin, Kennebec, St. George, St. John and the Allagash, and the best, the Penobscot. All the rivers of Maine have countless streams feeding them, but you can only get logs down them with dams in the time of the spring freshets.” He could hardly think when she looked at him so intensely and struggled to find sensible questions.

• • •

One afternoon he came into the now-familiar parlor and found her sitting at the table with a stack of bills and accounts. Her face showed traces of tears, and wiping them away and throwing down her pen she rushed into the kitchen to make the tea. He glanced over the accounts; ye gods, what was she living on? The Brandons had no money at all. And was it right that such an intelligent and handsome woman had to scratch up the tea herself in some back kitchen? Although he had never been in any of the other rooms of the house, he set out for the kitchen. He would help her. Damme, he would help her!

She was stuffing kindling into the stove. The kitchen smelled of bad drains and the disagreeable odor of the wet soapstone sink, old ashes and a sour dishclout. She turned, frowning horribly when she heard his footstep, but the frown transformed into a tear-wet dimpled smile when she saw it was James.

“Ah! I thought—”

He knew what she thought; she thought it was the fit-prone Mr. Brandon blundering in on her, perhaps twitching and spewing, pissing in his filthy pants.

“My dear,” he said and took her hand. “You shall not endure this another day. I shall hire a woman to come in and do for you at once. Let us now forget the tea, go into the parlor and have a little talk about what must be done,” for he intended to pay up those nagging past-due accounts, intended to have Mr. Brandon put in an asylum, intended much more. He had money and he would put it to use. He could get what he wanted and he wanted Posey Brandon.

She confessed that she had pawned the silver dish he had brought her to pay some of the bills and to buy food. He was deeply shocked and deeply pleased that he could set matters right. When he left the house two hours later he had set changes in motion.

• • •

“Come in, sir,” said Mrs. Deere, the new cook, who also served as housemaid, opening the door. The parlor table gleamed with waxy luster and there was a jar of pussy willows on the windowsill. He could smell something pleasant in the distant kitchen, something Mrs. Deere said was “a rhubarb roly-poly, first rhubarb of the year.” And, as was now his right, he went to that delicious room where Mrs. Deere had performed miracles. The new stove glowed, the soapstone sink no longer reeked.

“Very good, Mrs. Deere. Have you had any trouble with — with Mr. Brandon?”

“No sir. I make him bread and butter and hot milk, which Dr. Hudson says is good for deranged people. Missus Brandon takes it to him and brings back the dishes.” She came closer and whispered: “But I have to lock away the leftover joint as he strives for meat.”

“I hope we will have a solution to the problem before long. I met with Dr. Hudson myself this morning. Would you be so good as to bring tea into the parlor while I discuss the doctor’s findings with Mistress Brandon?”

“And dried apple pie?” she said, pointing with her chin. “Or roly-poly?”

“And pie,” he agreed, for rhubarb could be sour.

• • •

“My dear,” he said to Posey Brandon, waving his hand over his saucer of steaming pie. “I spoke with Dr. Hudson this morning for some time. He is of two opinions. He thinks it possible that Mr. Brandon may someday come to his senses. He thinks fresh air would be very good for him, and a place to walk and exercise. To that end he suggests that you send Mr. Brandon to the care of a farm family. They would be glad of the extra money and would keep him clean and expose him to much fresh air. He has a farmer in mind, a Jeremiah Taunton, who lives about five miles out of town, a man of calm ways. His wife is a generous woman, very pleasant and quiet. They have two or three children. They would welcome Mr. Brandon and house him comfortably. Does that not sound a good solution?”

“Oh yes, yes. But you said Dr. Hudson had two opinions.”