A Northern Light(71)

"A bit."

"That's good. Eileen Hennessey makes a nice piecrust. A good Baltimore cake, too. She's a methody cook, as I recall. Writes everything down. You should see if she'll give you some of her recipes." She straightened her back. I heard it crack. "Well, I reckon that's that," she said, picking up her basin. "Royal, take the pods out to the pigs before you come in."

"Yup."

The screen door slammed and we were alone.

"You're going back up tomorrow?" he asked me.

"Yes. First thing."

"You got a day off anytime soon?"

"I don't think so. Don't dare ask for one. Not after being home for a whole week."

"Huh."

There was a minute or two of silence. I stared at Mrs. Loomis's peony bushes. Some of the flowers were already losing their petals. I hadn't the time or the inclination to look up a word while my family was so sick, and even if I'd had, I'd left my dictionary up at the Glenmore. Fugacious was one of the last words I'd found, though. It means falling or fading early, fleeting. The dying peonies reminded me of it.

"Well, here then," Royal suddenly said.

He held out a small square of tissue paper. It was folded over several times. There was something inside of it. I opened it and saw a dull gold ring. It was set with three stones—a chipped opal flanked by two tiny garnets. It must've been pretty once.

I looked at him. "Royal, do you ... do you love me?" I asked.

"Aw, Matt. I bought you a ring, didn't I?"

I looked at the ring again and thought how we'd lost two cows and would've lost more if it hadn't been for Royal. The surviving animals had been very sick. They'd only just started to give good milk again. Royal had fed them and cared for them for a whole week. He'd looked after the calves, too. He'd driven three of his father's milkers over to keep them from starving. They'd latched right on, every one except for Baldwin. He wouldn't take milk from the Loomises' cows, only from a pail. And he wouldn't pick his head up. He no longer frisked with the other calves, he just stood by himself in the pasture, day after day. As soon as she was able, Lou went into the pasture after him. She offered him little lumps of maple sugar, but he wouldn't take them. She scratched behind his ears and rubbed his neck, but he pulled She wasn't what he wanted; he wanted Daisy. But he couldn't have Daisy, so he finally took what was offered.

Like we all do.

"I've got ten dollars of my own saved up, Mattie. And my ma, she's got some put aside, too. She'll help us. And you'll have some savings, too, won't you, by the end of the summer? It'll be enough to make a start, all of it together."

I stared at the ring hard.

"Will you, Mattie?"

I slipped the ring on my finger. It fit.

"I will, Royal," I said. "You'd best come home with me now so we can tell my pa."





South Otselic





July 2, 06

Monday Night

My Dear Chester:



I hope you will excuse me if I don't follow the lines for I am half lying down. Have worked awfully hard today ... This morning I helped mamma with the washing and then helped with the dinner. This p.m. I have been after strawberries. It was fun, only I got so awfully tired. The fields here are red with berries. Tonight mamma is canning them and making bread and cookies. We have had berries nearly every day since I came. Mamma says I am getting to be a splendid cook. What do you think of that? I got supper alone tonight and had potato dice and French toast and a whole lot of good things...





I stop reading Graces letter and stare off into the darkness. I miss my own mamma so much right now that it hurts. She used to can strawberries, too, and she made the most delicious pink strawberry cake. It was as sweet as her kiss on my cheek. Sometimes she would pick a basketful of berries in the afternoon and set them, sun-warmed and fragrant, on the kitchen table, along with a dish of fresh cream and one of maple sugar. We would dip them first into the cream, then in the sugar, then bite into them greedily. Somehow, they always tasted of more than themselves. They tasted like my pa whistling as he came in from the fields at night, or like a new calf getting to its feet for the first time, or like Lawton telling us ghost stories around the fire. I think that what they tasted of was happiness.

Once, Mamma made this treat just for me and her. It was after I'd started my monthlies. She'd sat me down at the kitchen table and covered my hand with her own, and told me that I was a grown woman now, not a girl anymore, and that a woman's virtue was the greatest treasure she possessed and that I must never, ever give mine to any man but the one I married.

"Do you understand me, Mattie?" she'd said.

I thought I did, but I wasn't sure. I knew what virtue means—goodness, purity, and excellence—because it had once been my word of the day. But I didn't think men wanted to get ahold of those things because Fran told me all they want to get ahold of is your bosoms.

"Where is it, my virtue?" I finally asked her.

"Up under your skirts," she said, coloring a bit.

I colored, too, for I knew what she meant then. Sort of. At least, I knew where a cow's virtue was, and a chicken's, too, and what they were for.