The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(11)
The spring had barely snapped shut before Livonia straightened her back and resumed her seat at the table. She sat there with her eyes unblinking and her mouth rigid in grim determination—it was a look of fierceness that could make an onlooker believe Livonia had been the one who heaved a pitchfork through the screen door. Seeing Abigail and her mama sitting side by side as they were left no doubt as to where the child got the strong tilt of her chin
“Can they really lock you up in the insane asylum?” Will asked.
“Of course not, dummy,” Abigail snapped. “He’s just trying to scare us.”
“Well, he sure enough scares me.”
“You children stop talking such nonsense,” Livonia said. “Your papa and I just had a family disagreement. Lots of families have disagreements and nobody ever gets locked in an insane asylum. Now, finish up that soup.”
“I’m not the least bit afraid of him,” Abigail said, her chin tilted exactly like Livonia’s but the stony set of her eyes an indication that there was something only she knew. “Papa’s got a terrible mean heart and I hate him, but I’m not afraid.”
“It was just a moment of anger,” Livonia reached across the table and touched her fingers to Abigail Anne’s face. “Your papa didn’t mean to do this; other troubles just set him off. You’ll see tomorrow, there’s no reason to be afraid of your papa.”
“Oh yes there is!” Will said. “He’s got it in for Abigail now! He’ll get hold of her when she’s sleeping and poke her eyeballs out so she can’t see to ride Malvania no more.”
“Hush talking nonsense. He’d do no such thing!”
“He just might do it,” Abigail said. “He sure hates me enough. He hates me more than even I hate him and I hate him more than bee stings. I got enough hate for him to last long as I live!”
“Enough of this,” Livonia snapped. “Will, you go get washed up for bed and Abigail, come with me so we can get some salve on your face.” Livonia quickly dismissed the thought that William might harm the girl, but that night, and every other night for as long as she lived, she slept in the bed alongside Abigail Anne.
At a time of year when a cold wind blows through the Valley and the sky is thick with heavy clouds that threaten snow, William Lannigan once again unlocked his grandfather’s secretary and took out the family Bible. Beneath Abigail Anne’s name he wrote Livonia Lannigan, died January 1926.
Two days later, William clumsily shifted a long wooden box onto the back of the wagon. It was a simple unadorned coffin made from wood that came from the oldest orchard on the Lannigan farm; apple trees planted two generations back. The two children sat beside their father as the plow horse carried Livonia across the north plateau and down to the far meadow where the other Lannigan wives were buried. When William stepped down from the wagon, he handed his son a shovel and nodded toward the spot that would be Livonia’s final resting place, but the boy just stood there with a limp hand locked onto the shovel and a stream of icy cold tears rolling down his cheeks. Four men from the Callaghan farm were among the handful of black-clad neighbors that had gathered; it was the eldest of the boys who stepped forward and took the shovel from Will’s hand. As the men tore chunks of earth from the ground, Missus Callaghan and Cora Mae walked over to stand beside Abigail.
Missus Callaghan draped a large heavy arm across Abigail Anne’s shoulder. “Honey,” she said, “your mama was a fine woman. I know how much you children are gonna miss her; especially you, Abigail Anne. It’s bound to be a lonely old time, but if you need to talk woman talk, come see me.” The girl nodded but held fast to the stony set of her face, a lost look in her eyes, a look that reminded Agnes Callaghan of a new calf cordoned off from its mother. “You cry if you’ve a need,” Agnes said and affectionately squeezed the girl’s shoulder.
Abigail Anne didn’t cry, nor did she speak a word; she just stood there with her line of vision set to the dark thicket of scrubby pines that marked the far boundary of the meadow. Not once did she turn to watch the men wielding shovels or the mound of dirt that kept growing larger. When they lifted the apple wood box onto the ropes and lowered it into the ground her eyes looked straight past her father and focused in on a large crow perched on the uppermost branch of a black balsam. She kept staring at that crow the whole time Pastor Broody spoke, then when he closed his Bible and said “Livonia Lannigan, may you forever rest in peace,” Abigail Anne turned and walked back to the wagon.
A hard rain started up as three wagons made their way back across the plateau and followed the ridge road that led to the Lannigan farm. January was customarily a time when most Valley people stayed close to home for it was rumored that in the first month of the year a man could lose his way in a blinding snowstorm and freeze to death hours before he was found. On this particular day there was no snow but an icy cold wind roared down off the mountain and drove the rain at a slant so that it pounded against the faces of the Lannigan family and the few others who followed along.
The Terrells, who lived the next farm over, said their boy was feeling poorly and headed home even though Claudia Terrell considered herself a friend of Livonia. Beside William and the two children, there were only nine others: the Coopers, their boy, and the Callaghan family. Two of the Valley farmers had come to call yesterday; they delivered heaping dishes of meat and potatoes, biscuits and pies, said how sorry they were to hear of Livonia’s death, then took their leave and headed back across the ridge before darkness could set in. Those men were somber-natured and gave little more than a nod to Abigail Anne and her brother. Clifford Callaghan was different, the sort of man who usually ate with a hearty appetite and laughed loudly. Even though Cora Mae was in the eighth grade, a full year ahead of Abigail Anne, he would still lift her into his arms and swing her around like a little kid. Last summer at the Methodist Church Annual Picnic, he did just that.