A Northern Light(51)

Mamma also liked to tell us how Pa had asked her to marry him in the woods, in the dead of winter, under a bough of snowy pine branches. And how—on the night they'd eloped—he'd told her to take just a carpetbag with her. "Pack your most important things," he'd said, thinking she would know he meant dresses and boots and underthings and such, but she was so young and giddy, she'd packed her favorite books, a box of caramels, and her jewelry. He'd had to sell a gold bracelet right off to get her some clothes. He'd wanted to sell the books, not the bracelet, but she wouldn't let him.

I hardly recognized the man in those stories as my pa, but I recognized my mother in them. I missed her all the time, my mamma, and I missed her dreadfully just then. I wondered what she would make of Emily Baxter. I wondered if she'd scold me for reading such a book, or touch a finger to her lips and smile and say, "Don't tell Pa," like she did when she spent money he'd given her for nails or paint on ribbons and candy.

I traced the letters of my mother's name on the cold gray stone and conjured my favorite memories of her. I saw her reading to us at night from Little Women or The Last of the Mohicans, or reading us stories from Peterson's Magazine like "Aunt Betsey's Best Bonnet" or "Flirting on Skates." I saw her reading the poems I wrote her for Valentine's Day and her birthday. She used to tell me that I wrote real nice, as nice as the poems on the fancy cards at Cohen's in Old Forge. As nice as Louisa May Alcott, even.

I remembered her singing as she cooked. And standing downstairs in the root cellar in November, smiling at all the food she'd put up. I remember how she made us fancy braided hairdos and how she trudged through the winter fields on snowshoes to bring Emmie Hubbard's kids a pot of stew.

I tried very hard to remember only the good things about my mamma. To remember her the way she was before she got sick. I wished I could cut the rest out of me the way the doctor tried to cut the cancer out of her, but I couldn't. No matter how hard I struggled to keep my last images of her at bay, they came anyway.

I saw her as she looked right before she died, her body wasted, her face hollowed out.

I saw her as she wept and moaned with pain. And as she screamed and threw things at us, her sunken eyes suddenly bright with rage.

I saw her as she pleaded with the doctor and Pa and Aunt Josie and the Reverend Miller not to let her die. As she kissed Lawton and me and my sisters over and over again, pressing our faces between her hands. As she cried and cried, frantically telling me that Pa didn't know how to braid hair or mend a dress or put up beans.

I saw her as she begged me never to go away, as she made me promise to stay and take care of her babies.

And I saw myself, tears in my eyes, promising her I would.

The memories faded. I opened my eyes. The peepers had started up. It was getting late. Pa would be wondering where I was. As I turned to go, I nearly trod on the body of a young robin half hidden in the grass. Its wings were twisted and bent. Its body stiff and bloodied.

A hawk's work, I thought, wondering if the robin had seen the brilliant blue of the sky and felt the sun on its back before its wings were broken.





Mattie, shut the light! What are you doing up?" a voice hisses in the darkness.

"Nothing, Ada," I say, quickly tucking Grace Browns letter back in its envelope. "Just reading."

"At this hour? Go to sleep, for cripes' sake! Cook'll have us up soon enough!"

"Stop your damn noise, you two!"

"You don't want to let Cook hear you curse, Fran," Ada warns. "She'll box your ears."

"I'll box yours if you don't shut up, I swear I will—"

"Box my ears? I'm not the one who lit the lamp and woke the whole room! And after the day we've had ... after everything that's happened..." Ada's voice catches and turns to tears.

"I'm sorry, Ada. I'll shut the light, all right? There, it's out. Go back to sleep now."

There's a gulp, a sniffle, and then, "She's right downstairs, Matt. All cold and dead."

"Then she won't be bothering you, will she? Go to sleep."

I mean to go to sleep, too. I try to, but I can't. Every time I shut my eyes, I see Grace's battered face. I hear Mr. Morrison tell Mr. Sperry that there's no Carl Grahm in Albany.

I wait for a bit. Until I hear no bedsprings creaking, no sighs or groans as some girl tries to make herself comfortable in the heat. And then quietly, carefully, I unfold the letter again. I only get the pages open partway, when they crinkle. I stop and hold my breath, waiting for Ada or Fran to scold again, but neither of them stirs. It's dark in the room now, but there's a window next to my bed and I can make out Grace's words if I hold her pages in the moonlight.





South Otselic

June 23, 1906

My Dear Chester—



I am just wild because I don't get a letter from you. If you wrote me Tues. night and posted it Wed. morning there isn't any reason why I shouldn't get it. Are you sure you addressed the Utter right? I have been home nearly a week and have not had one line from you ... When I didn't hear from you Thurs. morning I cried and as a result had a nervous headache and stayed in bed all day. You can't blame me, dear, for of course I thought of everything under the sun. That night when my brother came up he said that if I would get up early he would take me driving ... I was so tired and went to bed for an hour after getting home; then I went downstairs and got some dinner all alone. Now, dear, I know you are laughing—in fact, I can hear you, almost—but honestly I had splendid luck. My brother, who seldom says a word in praise of anything, said, "It's not half bad, Billy" That is a whole lot for him to say ... I miss you, oh dear, you don't know how much I miss you ... I am coming back next week unless you can come for me right away. lam so lonesome I can't stand it. Week ago tonight we were together. Don't you remember how I cried, dear? I have cried like that nearly all the time since I have left Cortland...