A Northern Light(73)

Weaver put his spoon down. "I'll go with her," he said.

Mr. Sperry looked from me to Weaver and back again. He shook his head. "Go on, then. But be back here ready to serve supper by six sharp. Or else."

I hitched up Demon, Mr. Sperry's own horse, and drove hell-for-leather all the way down Big Moose Road to the highway and on into Inlet. I told Weaver about the package on the way and who Miss Wilcox really was.

When we arrived at Dr. Foster's camp, Weaver took the reins and told me to go in. "I'll wait outside," he said. "I can't stand a lot of female drama."

I knew that was just his way of giving me time alone with Miss Wilcox, and I appreciated it. I ran up the back steps, past the boxes and crates piled up on the porch, and banged on the door.

"Mattie, is that you?" Miss Wilcox said, opening the door. "How did you get here?"

"Miss Wilcox, why are you leaving? Please, please don't go!" I said.

"Oh, Mattie!" she said, hugging me. "Come in. Come in and sit down."

She led me into the library. I sat down next to her on the settee and looked around. The books were gone. Every last one of them. The desk was bare. The fine paper, pens, and pencils were all packed away.

I heard a match flare, smelled the sulfur. Miss Wilcox was smoking. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked me.

"Why are you leaving, Miss Wilcox?" I asked, fighting back my tears. "You can't go. You're all I have."

I heard her bracelets tinkle, felt her hand on my arm. "Oh, Mattie, that's not true. You have your family and Weaver and all your other friends."

"They aren't what you are!" I shouted angrily. "All these weeks, Miss Wilcox, when I tried to get the money to go to Barnard from my aunt Josie and my uncle Fifty, and you came to speak to Pa and he said no, just knowing you were here in this room reading your books and writing your poems made me feel good and brave. Why are you leaving? Why?"

"My husband made good on his threat. He's furious about the new book. He's cut off my funds. And he's made sure I can't earn my own living. At least not here. He's written the school trustees and told them who I am. I've had to step down."

"But you're a good teacher! The best one we ever had!"

"Unfortunately, Mattie, the trustees don't agree with you. They say I am a pernicious influence on young minds."

"But they wanted to keep you on. They wrote you a letter in May. You told me they did."

"They wanted Emily Wilcox, not Emily Baxter."

"Can't you stay, anyway? You could give readings at the Glenmore. They have literary evenings. Or you could—"

"My husband is on his way, Mattie. My sister wired that he's a day away at most. If I'm still here when he arrives, the next stop for me is a doctor's office. And then a sanatorium and so many drugs pushed down my throat, I won't be able to remember my own name, much less write."

"He can't do that."

"He can. He's a powerful man with powerful friends."

"Where will you go?" I asked, afraid for her.

She sat back against the settee and blew out a long plume of smoke. "My grandmother left me a little bit of money. It's in a trust and my husband can't touch it. It's not much, but it's something. Plus I have my car and a few pieces of jewelry. I'm going to hock them and go to Paris. I won't miss the jewelry so much, but I'll sure miss that car." She took another drag on her cigarette, then stubbed it out in a plate on the table.

"I'm driving it back to the city tomorrow. I'll go as far as McKeever on the main road and then take the Moose River Road to Port Leyden. I can take back roads from there to Rome, then head straight for New York. I don't want to risk running into Teddy The car's big enough to hold my clothes and a few boxes of books. That's all I need for now. I'm having the rest of my things sent to my sister's. I'm going to hide out at her house while I sell the car. And once I'm in France, I'm going to do my best to get a divorce. Teddy's dead set against it, but I'm hoping I can make him so angry that he'll change his mind. A few more volumes of poetry should do the trick." Miss Wilcox smiled as she said that, but I saw the cigarette tremble between her fingers.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"For shouting at you. I was selfish."

She squeezed my hand and said, "You are many, many things, Mathilda Gokey, but selfish isn't one of them."

We sat together in silence for a few minutes, Miss Wilcox smoking and holding my hand. I didn't ever want to leave this room. Or my teacher. But I knew the longer I stayed, the longer I kept her from packing. And come morning, she had to be gone.

"I have to go," I finally said. "Weavers waiting for me outside. We have to be back by six or we're going to be in trouble."

"Well, we can't have that, Mattie. You need your wages. Maybe you can visit me in Paris someday. Or maybe, if all goes well, I can come home sooner rather than later. And then we can have lunch on the Barnard campus."

"I don't think so, Miss Wilcox," I said, my eyes on the floor.

"But why not?"

"I'm not going to Barnard. I'm staying here."