A Northern Light(74)

"My god, Mattie, why?" she asked, releasing my hand.

I couldn't answer her for a few seconds. "Royal Loomis asked me to marry him," I finally said. "And I told him yes."

Miss Wilcox looked like someone had drained all the sap from her. "I see," she said. She was about to say more, but I cut her off.

"Here's your five dollars back," I said, pulling the bill out of my skirt pocket. "Thank you, Miss Wilcox, it was very generous, but I won't be needing it."

"No, Mattie, you keep that," she said. "Money can be tight when you're first married. You keep that for yourself. Use it for paper and pens."

"Thank you," I said, knowing that was what she wanted me to say. Knowing, too, that it would likely be spent on seed corn or chickens, never on paper or pens.

"You take care of yourself, Mattie," my teacher said, walking me to the door.

"You, too, Miss Wilcox."

She said good-bye to Weaver as I climbed into the trap. She gave him a hug and told him to study hard at Columbia. She told him she was going to spend some time in Paris and that he should come visit her there. I looked back as we drove off and saw her silhouetted in the doorway. She looked small to me. Small and fragile and defenseless. She had not looked that way when I'd arrived.

"Giddyap!" I told Demon, snapping the reins. He broke into a trot.

"You all right?" Weaver asked.

"I'm fine," I said, driving down the middle of the street. Past the saloon. Past O'Hara's and Payne's stores, past the barber's and the post office and the school.

As soon as I made it out of the village, I pulled up on the reins until Demon stopped, then leaned my head into my hands.

"Aw, Matt," Weaver said, thumping my back. "She didn't die; you'll see her again."

"She may as well have. I won't see her again. I know I won't."

"You will so. She won't stay in France forever. She'll be back in New York one day."

"But I won't be," I said quietly.

"What?"

I didn't want to tell him, but I had to. I'd kept it from him for weeks, but I couldn't keep it from him forever. "Weaver ... I'm not going. I'm not going to New York City," I said.

"Not going? Why?"

"Royal and I ... we're sparking. I'm going to ... he's ... I'm staying here. We're going to be married."

"To Royal'. Royal Loomis?"

"You know another Royal?"

"Jeezum, Mattie! I don't believe this! I've seen him call for you, seen you out riding together, but I didn't think it was serious. Why don't you marry Demon? Or Barney? Or that big rock over there?"

"Weaver, stop it."

"But he's nowhere near good enough for you! Does he write? Can he write a story like you can? Does he read? Does he even know how?"

I wouldn't answer.

"You ever show him your composition book? He ever read your stories? Just tell me that. Just answer that one thing."

I didn't answer. There wasn't much point. I couldn't explain to him that I wanted books and words, but I wanted someone to hold me, too, and to look at me the way Jim looked at Minnie after she'd given him a new son and daughter. Or that leaving my family—that breaking the promise I'd made to my mamma—would be like tearing my own heart out.

Weaver railed on and on as we drove. I let him. There was nothing else I could do.

If you harness two horses together and one is stronger, the weaker horse gets buffeted and bruised. That's what being friends with Weaver was like. A farmer can put an evener on his team's yoke to compensate for the weaker horse by shifting some of the load to the stronger one. But you can't put an evener on two people's hearts or their souls. I wished I could just up and go to New York City. I wished I was as strong as Weaver was. I wished I was as fearless.

But I was not.





con ? fab ? u ? late


"Ada! Weaver! Mattie! Frances! Get those pies outside! And that ice cream, too!" Cook bellowed from the doorway.

"Yes, ma'am!" we hollered in unison.

"And don't forget the lemonade!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"And stop shouting! This is a resort, for pete's sake, not a lumber camp!"

"Yes, ma'am!" we shouted, laughing as we clambered out of the kitchen, through the dining room, out the front door, across the porch, and down the steps to the Glenmore's front lawn.

"Chat," Weaver said, passing me.

"Converse," I shot back.

It was the Fourth of July, the biggest night of the summer season, and no hotel on Big Moose Lake, or Fourth Lake, or any other lake in the whole state of New York threw a better party than the Glenmore. We had about a hundred of our own guests, plus some guests from the other hotels who'd rowed across the lake especially, plus just about every family from Big Moose Station, Eagle Bay, and Inlet, too. Anyone could come, and most did. The hotel charged a dollar for grown-ups and fifty cents for children, and people saved all year to bring their entire families. For your money you got to eat as much barbecued chicken and pork spareribs and corn on the cob and potato salad and three-bean salad and macaroni salad and biscuits and strawberry shortcake and pie and ice cream and beer and lemonade as you could hold. You got to listen to a brass band from Utica, and you could dance, too, if you wanted. You could walk in the woods or take a boat out. And when it got good and dark, around nine-thirty or so, you got to see real fireworks shot off from the dock.