A Northern Light(86)

Emmie's house was tidy. The floor had been swept and the bed made. Her kids were clean—mostly. Myrton's nose still dripped, Billy's ears needed attention, and Lucius had sticky hands, but their faces were scrubbed and their clothes had been washed.

"Mattie, please tell Mrs. Hennessey thank you for the pie," Emmie said.

"I ... I will," I said, embarrassed to find myself gawking.

Weaver and I had asked Mr. Sperry if we could take Demon to visit Weaver's mamma after the dinner service. He said we could, and Cook had given us a pie to take with us.

Weaver sat down on the bed next to his mother. She'd tried to get up to help Emmie with the tea, but Emmie had waved her away. "How are you feeling, Mamma?" he asked.

"My arm pains me some, but I'm all right," she said.

"I heard you got the pig back."

"That's right. The Loomis boys found her. They fixed her pen for me, too. I'm awful glad I didn't lose her."

The kettle whistled. Emmie leaned over the stove to get it. I remembered seeing her bent over the stove another time, for another reason. I had a feeling Frank Loomis wouldn't be fixing her stove again anytime soon. Not while Weaver's mamma was around. She was a righteous and upstanding woman. If she ever saw his bare ass in here, she'd tan it for him.

Emmie served the tea and cut slices of pie for everyone. The children loved the taste of chocolate. Even Lucius. He was too little to eat the crust, but Emmie gave him some whipped cream and filling and he smiled and clapped. We chatted for a while, and Weaver's mamma told us how Emmie was making fruit pies according to her recipe and selling every one down at the train station and how she, Weaver's mamma, minded Emmie's kids while Emmie was gone, but that was all she did, because Emmie didn't let her lift a finger. Emmie smiled and flushed and said it wasn't true—why, just the day before they'd both been over picking beans out of the Smiths' garden and at least the trappers hadn't managed to destroy that. Emmie's eyes darted to Weaver's mamma constantly as she spoke. It was like she was feeling for her, making sure she was there. Weaver's mamma nodded and smiled at her.

It was nice to sit in Emmie's neat house, watching her bustle about, seeing her kids smile as they ate Cook's pie. It was pleasant and peaceable and made a change from trying to haul her out from under the bed.

But then Weaver forgot himself and asked Emmie why she didn't plant a garden herself. It wasn't too late to get beans and greens out of one, he said, and then the whole room went quiet and I could see from the look on his face that he'd suddenly remembered about the auction. Nobody wanted to talk about it, though. Least of all me, knowing, as I did, who was going to buy it.

"But Mamma, we have to talk about it...," Weaver pressed.

"Hush, Weaver," she said, her eyes darting to Emmie. "I know, son. We will."

Emmie looked at us and bit her lip. She pulled at a tendril of hair.

"Where's Tommy?" I asked, anxious to change the subject.

"Over at your place. Helping your pa," Weaver's mamma said. "They've got an arrangement now. Tom's to help with the plowing and clearing, and your pa will pay him for it in milk and butter."

"I like butter," Myrton said, sniffing a string of snot back up his nose.

"Myrton, honey, what did I tell you about using your handkerchief?" Weaver's mamma said.

"Oh yeah."

He dug a piece of calico out of his pocket, wiped his nose on it, and showed it to me. I mustered an admiring smile for him.

We stayed for a few more minutes, and then we had to get back to the Glenmore. Weaver was quiet on the drive. I was the one who spoke first. "Your mamma's one tough nut," I said.

"Don't I know it."

"I didn't think anybody could ever shape Emmie Hubbard up. God only knows how she did it. And with one arm broken, to boot."

Weaver smiled a sad smile. "You know, Matt," he said. "Sometimes I wish there really was such a thing as a happy ending."

"Sometimes there is. Depends on who's writing the story."

"I mean in real life. Not in stories."

Tergiversation, my word of the day, means fickleness of conduct, inconstancy, turning renegade. I felt like a renegade myself just then. I didn't believe in happy endings. Not in stories or real life. I knew better. But then I thought about Emmie's shabby little house and how it was warm and welcoming now. I imagined my pa showing Tommy how to handle a plow, and Tommy all manly and important as he brought home the milk and butter he'd earned. I thought about Weaver's mamma being looked after for once in her life. And Emmie's pride in doing the looking after.

And then I thought of Mrs. Loomis crying in the barn, and Jim and Will tormenting the Hubbards every chance they got, and the set of Royal's jaw when he talked about wanting them gone.

"Me, too, Weaver," I sighed. "Me, too."





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"Mattie Gokey, what's ailing you? You're slow as a mule tonight and every bit as stupid! Pick up for table eight. Pick up!" Cook yelled.

It was evening, right in the middle of the supper service. The dining room was full to bursting and Cook was in one of her tempers. I ran one order out and came right back in with a new one. John Denio was sitting at Cook's worktable as I called the order out, eating his supper.