The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(5)
“Cooking the supper and seeing to a man’s needs, that’s woman’s work!” he’d say and usually it was the end of the discussion.
The more William ignored her, the more determined Abigail Anne became. Livonia saw this in the child, so she fussed and badgered until the girl was allowed to ride the gentlest of the horses, Whisper. By the time Abigail Anne was six years old she could ride as well as boys twice her age, even bareback. Little as she was, she’d take hold of the mane and dig those heels into the mare’s side hollering “giddyap, giddyap.” Of course by then, Whisper was well into years and the most the poor horse could do was a sluggish trot. “Let me ride Malvania,” she’d say. “Please, Papa, please!” Of course, he wasn’t about to; especially when Will had not yet sat astride that gelding’s back.
“He’s no horse for a girl!” William would answer.
“But I can do it Papa, I can, I can!”
William wouldn’t even hear of it. “Stop pestering me, girl!” he’d say. “Get in the house and help your mama like girls are supposed to do. The Good Lord didn’t see fit to make you a boy, and I swear, by Jesus, you ain’t gonna act like one!”
“But, Papa …” Abigail would whine and stand rooted in the spot as he turned his broad back and walked off. No matter how many times William turned away, Abigail didn’t give up; she followed after him, pestering him first about one thing and then another. “I can fix the tractor,” she’d say. “I know how to do it. I can tend cows too!”
When Livonia saw this happening, she would come to Abigail Anne’s side and lead her off to some other interest—a new path that needed exploring, a new flower that needed planting, stories of women who, bold as brass, marched into Washington, DC and pestered congress to give them the right to vote. “Same as men!” Livonia would say, and a big smile would stretch across Abigail’s face. The child’s favorite was always stories of the fair-haired girl who lived in the glass snowball. When Livonia shook the ball, a flurry of flakes went flying, and as the snow drifted down she told tales of the girl’s life—enchanting stories of friends and parties and far-flung adventures. But once the story ended and the snow settled, Abigail would be saddened because the little girl was still sitting there with her dog alongside a big Christmas tree.
“Why can’t we see the parties?” she’d ask.
“Because they happen in our imagination,” Livonia would answer. “Magic happens inside our heads, people can’t see magic.”
Abigail Anne Lannigan
Seventy Years Later
The first time I laid eyes on Destiny was back in 1994, when she rented the old Meyerson place—it sat cattycorner from mine. By then, the house had been empty for four, maybe five years; the windows were near black and the grass so tall that from June ‘till late October the front yard had the look of a wheat field. It broke my heart to see the place in such a state— especially when I’d think back on dear Margaret Meyerson and the hours she spent squatted down by that flowerbed. She truly did love those flowers. The summer before she died, I caught sight of her picking aphids off the geraniums and shaking her head as if those little bitty bugs were the most worrisome thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Anyway, I’d begun to believe that poor house was on its way to ruin; then one morning I looked across and there was Destiny. She was perched on a wobbly kitchen stool, her yellow ponytail swishing back and forth as she scrubbed at those windows. I watched her for a good long while—watched as she’d wipe and shine one window then move on to the next. Dirty as those windows were, you’ve have figured it to be a full day’s work, but when she finished the windows, she started in on the yard. She hauled out the old lawnmower Ben Meyerson kept in the shed and took to muscling her way through a tangle of knee-high grass. I must say, it was good to hear that lawnmower again, it brought to mind the way Ben took care of the place. His lawn wasn’t much bigger than a picnic blanket, but twice a week he’d haul out that lawnmower and set to work. You knew without looking that it was him, ‘cause he’d be whistling some out-of-tune song you couldn’t quite recognize. Back when Ben lived there, I’d find my morning paper carried right to the doorstep and slipped inside the screen. Every time I mentioned something about how nice that was, a grin would slide across Ben’s face but he never did take credit for doing it. After he went to live with his daughter in Schenectady, I’d find my paper over behind the bushes or at the far end of the drive.
Destiny lived in the Meyerson place for a good two months before we actually spoke in any sizeable measure. Oh, she was neighborly enough, toot the horn and wave as she drove by in that little red Pinto—it had the look of a piecework quilt, one green fender and a patch of blue tape on the side window— but once she rounded the corner, she was gone for the day. She left early in the morning and didn’t get back ‘till after dark. Whenever she was home she’d be working on the house. With the windows wide open and no curtains or shades, you could see her plain as day—scurrying up and down the ladder, painting and polishing. I’d heard tell she actually had a full time job in the bookstore downtown but that didn’t stop her from scrubbing and cleaning the way she did. I certainly had to admire the girl’s industriousness.