A Northern Light(42)

My father spat a mouthful of tobacco juice. "Bet he don't even make it to Utica. Bet he don't get past Remsen," he said.

"Pa?" Beth's voice was quavery.

"In a minute, Beth."

"All right then, Michael. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night, Charlie."

"Pa!"

"What, Beth?"

"What's poleaxed mean? Where's Uncle Fifty? He said he'd take me to the circus, Pa. Ain't he coming back? He said he'd take me, Pa."

"You can't believe everything your uncle says."

"But he said he'd take me!"

"Beth, he ain't going to and that's that, so hush."

"But he promised! I hate him, Pa!" she sobbed. "I hate him!"

I was sure Beth was going to get cracked for that, but Pa only said, "No more than he's going to hate himself in a day or two." Then he told her to stop her noise and take the bacon in to Abby.

I sat slumped on my milking stool, knowing that the last chance I had to go to Barnard was on its way into the till of some bartender. Knowing that my uncle was off on a three-day spree. Or four. Or five. Or however many days it took to spend a hundred dollars. It was a hard and hopeless thing.

Recouriumphoration. What a stupid, stupid word. I'd do better thinking up a word to describe how it felt to have your hopes dashed over and over again, rather than restored. Dolipeatalous or vicipucious or nullapressive or... bitter. Yes, bitter did the job just fine.

"What is it?" a brusque voice suddenly said. It was Pa. He was standing next to Daisy, frowning down at me.

"Nothing," I said, wiping my eyes. I grabbed my bucket, brushed past him, and went to work in the milk house. I heard his footsteps behind me as I poured the milk into a separating pan.

"Mattie, I don't know what Francis might've said to you, but when he promises things, it's the whiskey promising, not him. You know that, don't you? He don't mean bad; he can't help it." I felt his eyes on my back, heard him take a step toward me.

"I'm fine, Pa," I said sharply. "I'll be along."

He stood where he was for a few seconds, then left. I was glad for once that straining the milk was my job. Glad of the time it took to pour it into the pans. Glad no one could see me sitting on a bench and bawling. Served me right, my uncle breaking his promise to me, seeing as I'd been only too eager to break the promise I'd made.

When I'd cried myself dry, I wiped my face, covered the milk pans with cheesecloth, and left the barn for the kitchen. Abby had started the supper. There would be no apple fritters or tarte au sucre tonight. No songs. No music. No stories.

But there would be fresh spinach, the first crop. And potatoes fried with the bacon Pa had traded for. There would be a big jug of milk, a loaf of bread, and a dish of butter to spread on it.

My father had put these things on the table.

I looked at him standing by the sink. He was washing his hands, splashing water on his face. My mamma left us. My brorher, too. And now my feckless, reckless uncle had as well. My pa stayed, though. My pa always stayed.

I looked at him. And saw the sweat stains on his shirt. And his big, scarred hands. And his dirty, weary face. I remembered how, lying in my bed a few nights before, I had looked forward to showing him my uncle's money. To telling him I was leaving.

And I was so ashamed.





You can't argue with the dead. No matter what you say, they get the last word.

I try to have it out with Grace as I sit with her. I tell her that she was wrong to have given me her letters and that sneaking around on her behalf will cost me my job if I'm not careful and that I need my wages because I am to be married and they'll help pay for a stove and pots and pans. I tell her it is entirely possible that Carl Grahm is really Carl Grahm and that Chester Gillette is someone else entirely and the fact that Grace called Carl "Chester" and wrote "Chester, I have done nothing but cry" and "Chester, do you miss me"—while certainly a big fat coincidence—proves nothing. I tell her I have taken plenty of risks for her already and that I won't take another. I say I'm not going to read any more of her letters, either, and if it was her intention all along to get me to, then she is very selfish and underhanded.

Was. She was very selfish and underhanded.

I look at her arm as I argue with her, because I don't want to look at her face anymore. I notice that the fabric of her sleeve is puckered from dampness. I see tiny hand stitches where some lace was added at the cuffs, and I wonder if she'd made those stitches herself or if maybe her mother had. Or if she had a sister who was good at sewing, like my sister Abby is. I wonder how she got her nickname, Billy. It was what Chester—no, Carl, his name is Carl— had called her. Did her pa give it to her? Maybe she had a brother who called her that. It sounded like a nickname a brother would give. Lawton was the one who'd first called me Mattie. Tillie would've been so much prettier. Or Millie. Or Tilda. Or even Hilda.

I open another letter.





South Otselic

June 20, 1906

My Dear Chester—



I am writing to tell you that I am coming back to Cortland. I simply can't stay here any longer. Mamma worries and wonders why I cry so much and I am just about sick. Please come and take me away to some place, dear ... My headache is dreadful tonight. I am afraid you won't come and I am so frightened, dear ... You have said you would come and sometimes I just know you will, but then I think about other things and I am just as certain you won't come ... Chester, there isn't a girl in the whole world as miserable as I am tonight, and you have made me feel so. Chester I don't mean that, dear. You have always been awfully good to me and I know you will always be. You just won't be a coward, I know....