A Northern Light(72)

Then I asked, "How do you know if a man loves you, Mamma?"

"You just do."

"How did you know? Did Pa say 'I love you and give you a nice card or something and then you knew?" Mamma laughed. "Does that sound like your pa?"

"Then how did you know, Mamma?"

"I just did."

"How will I know?"

"You just will."

"But how, Mamma, how?"

She never answered me. She just shook her head and said, "Oh, Mattie, you ask too many questions!"

Grace must have loved Chester very much to give him her virtue before they were married. I can see why she would have. He was very handsome. He had dark hair and full lips and the kind of slow, easy smile that makes your stomach flutter. He dressed nicely and walked with a sauntering, almost lazy, gait, hands in his pockets. I try to remember what his eyes looked like, but I can't. He never looked me full in the face.

I wonder how Grace convinced herself that Chester loved her. And if she kept pretending it right to the end. Men rarely come right out and tell you. Minnie says you have to look for signs from them. Do they wash before they come to call on you? Do they let you climb up in the buckboard yourself, or get out to help you? Do they buy you sweets without your hinting for them?

Royal washes. And he puts on a clean shirt, too. And if he says he will call for me at seven o'clock, he is there at seven o'clock. He does other things, too. I lie back against my pillow and spend a long time silently repeating them to myself, over and over and over again like a litany, but it's no use. Mamma said I would know. And I do. I guess I have all along.

"Poor, sad, stupid Grace," I whisper to the darkness. "Poor, sad, stupid Matt."





thren ? o ? dy


"Mattie, you get the package that came for you?" Mrs. Morrison asked me. She was standing behind the front desk, sorting through the mail. It was three o'clock. Dinner was over and the dining room was closed until supper, which began at six. We were never idle, though, and I was just on my way upstairs to restock the second-floor linen closet with a pile of freshly ironed sheets.

"No, ma'am. What package?"

"A package from the teacher. She left it about an hour ago. I looked for you, but I couldn't find you. I had Ada bring it upstairs."

I thanked her and ran to the attic as fast as I could, dumping off the sheets on my way. I was powerfully curious. No one had ever sent me a package before. When I got upstairs, I saw that it was a heavy parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. There was an envelope tucked under the twine, too; it was Glenmore stationery. I opened the package first, eager to see what was inside of it. There were three books: Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser; The Jungle, by Upton Sinclair; and Threnody, a volume of poetry by Emily Baxter. Miss Wilcox had written another book even though her husband told her not to! I was so excited, I hugged the little volume to me. I didn't know the meaning of threnody, so I pulled my dictionary out from under my bed and looked it up. It was defined as a song of lamentation, a funeral dirge. I smiled at that, pleased to know that I was not the only one in these parts given to things morbid and dispiriting. Next I opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet of paper inside, and caught my breath as a five-dollar bill fluttered out. I picked it up. There was a letter, too.





Dear Mattie,



I thought you might like these books. (Do take care to hide the Dreiser.) I hope, particularly, that you enjoy the volume of poetry, as I wish to leave you something by which to remember me. I am departing Eagle Bay tomorrow. I won't be teaching next year. I had hoped to tell you this in person, but Mrs. Morrison was unable to locate you. I am including Annabelle's, my sister's, address in this note. I've told her all about you and she's very eager to have you as a boarder. The enclosed will help get you to her house...





There was more, but I didn't read it. "You can't go!" I said aloud. "You can't!" I ran out of the room and was downstairs in the kitchen in no time flat. Weaver was sitting at the table, eating ice cream. The trappers' handiwork was still visible on his face. His eye hadn't healed completely and his mouth was still tender. Cook and Mr. Sperry had the top of the stove off and were frowning down into it.

"Can I please take the trap, Mr. Sperry?" I asked, panting. "I've got to go to Inlet. I've got to."

"Have you lost your mind? Supper's only a few hours away. And besides, you can't handle Demon by yourself," Cook said.

"I'll be back in time, I swear it," I said. "And I can manage Demon. I know I can. Please, ma'am..."

"No. And that's the end of it," Cook said.

"I'll walk, then."

"You'll do no such thing."

"Mattie, what's this about?" Mr. Sperry asked.

"It's a friend of mine. She's ... she's in trouble and I've got to go to her."

"You can't go alone. Mrs. Hennessey's right, Demon's a handful. I'd take you if I could, but I've got to get this stove working before supper."

"But I've got to," I sobbed. "I've got to."

Mr. Sperry, Cook, and Weaver all looked at me. The other girls are always crying for some reason or another—homesickness, moods, a spat—but I have never cried here. Not once.