The Mapmaker's Children, page 19
“That could be arranged,” Ms. Silverdash laughed. “Years of eating café food are catching up to you.” She turned to Eden. “A body can’t have ham hocks, corn bread, and pie to the sky every day and not expect a thing or two to turn funny.”
“My daddy and granddaddy ate exactly that, and both lived to nearly ninety.”
“Mr. Morr-is,” she said, breaking his first name into two exasperated syllables. “Your granddaddy spent the last decade of his life in his bed, pained with arthritis and a weak constitution. Your daddy had eight of his ten toes taken off from the diabetes. God rest both their souls, but why would you ever want to follow down either of those paths? For what?”
“Lemon pie is what.”
Ms. Silverdash shook her head but smiled. “There’s lemon chicken in that salad. Dig down deep and get a piece.”
He dug: a curly stem of frisée dropped to the table, and he left it where it fell. “Must be hiding from me.”
Ms. Silverdash threw up a hand. “Fine, fine. If you’re going to keep on like this, I’ll go next door and have Mett make you a fried peanut butter and bacon sandwich, but when your heart gives out from the clog, don’t expect me to give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”
“A man has one little surgery and wakes up to a world upside down—and tasteless.”
“Little surgery? You had a heart bypass, Morris!”
“I clean forgot!” He gave his breastbone a dramatic tap. “Well, by all means, bring on the turtle food.” He plowed the lettuce until he found a misshapen chicken chunk. “But don’t tell me that’s lemon pie.” He grinned sarcastically. “A yard rock is not a diamond, no matter how well you polish it.”
“Rocks or diamonds—it matters little what you’re buried beneath. Grave is grave.”
Morris looked to Eden. “A touch dramatic, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Anderson?”
“I’m not the best person to ask. We—I try to eat organic.”
“Indeed. Even her dog is on the path of clean health. You should take a cue.”
Morris gave a wan grin of defeat. “I’m surrounded.” He ceremoniously lifted his fork to them. “The South concedes.”
“As well it should.” Ms. Silverdash winked. “If you ate instead of talked, you’d fill up and feel better. You know your mood is improved by a full belly.” At that, she brought a cup of tea to his table. “Peppermint is good for digestion.”
He looked to her then with such affection that Eden cast her eyes to the floor. It seemed strange that they weren’t married and never had been. She thought of what Cleo had told her—about Morris marrying Ms. Silverdash’s best friend—and it saddened her to think that they’d lived side by side yet divided. She wondered if they’d ever been lovers in their youth. Even just once? It seemed cruel of fate to deny them that. Perhaps even crueler to grant it. After nearly a lifetime, did love still need ordainment? Maybe, maybe not. But Eden thought Ms. Silverdash deserved something official. If even just a token of fidelity. Love was a tricky flame to kindle and keep, Eden knew well.
“I ought to be going,” she said. “I’ll let you two enjoy your lunch break without a third wheel.” She bit her tongue after she said it, worried that it gave the wrong suggestion.
“Not at all. We enjoy the company.”
Morris nodded. “The bookstore used to be full of people every hour…”
Ms. Silverdash sighed. “Times have changed.”
Eden felt caged. She wanted to stay to talk to Ms. Silverdash about the porcelain doll’s head but was hesitant to bring it up in front of Mr. Morris. He and Mack had been the property owners from whom they’d purchased the house on Apple Hill—and, unknowingly, the relic therein. Their real estate agent, Mrs. Mitchell, had negotiated down the Miltons’ asking price, dropping it by more than ten thousand dollars. The doll alone could be worth that much. The house, far more. Eden didn’t want to put all her cards on the table just yet.
“I’m sorry. I would, but the dog—my dog—Cricket is waiting. My brother, Denny, is here, too, and my husband, Jack, is home. He’s not usually. So anyhow, I best go.” She stepped toward the door. “Monday, same place, same time?”
Ms. Silverdash bowed. “It’s your Children’s Story Hour.”
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Milton—Morris.”
“Happy to have you folks in the old Potter place. A welcomed new neighbor, even if you subscribe to the turtle diet.” He waved a red radicchio leaf as good-bye.
Eden backed out of the bookshop. Her first step on the sidewalk tore more flesh from her foot. The blisters hadn’t bothered her for the entire Story Hour, but now they stung. She kicked off her sandals as soon as she reached her car and drove home barefoot. By the time she parked in her Apple Hill driveway, the pain and heat had left her sweaty despite the air-conditioning.
She got out and flinched at the stones underfoot. Leaning against the side of the car, she picked the sharp bits out from between her toes.
“First blisters and now damned rocks.”
“I’m sorry,” came a woman’s voice she didn’t recognize.
Eden shot up straight.
A girl stood on the porch. She looked to be in her early twenties. Pretty in a plain way: brown hair, brown eyes, not too tall, athletically built. She had the face of the best friend in every romantic comedy Eden had ever seen. However, unlike her movie counterparts, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked downright tragic.
Her sad expression prompted a soft reply: “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry,” the girl repeated and came down the porch steps. “I shouldn’t be here.” She took a sharp breath and pulled her bangs back behind an ear. Her hands shook. “I couldn’t get ahold of Denny. His roommates said he moved out—that he was at his sister’s. They gave me the address.” She looked up, on the verge of bursting. “My name’s Jessica. I’m Denny’s…”
The tears came, and she never finished. Denny’s what?
Sarah
NEW CHARLESTOWN, VIRGINIA
SEPTEMBER 1860
The storm brought wind and torrents of rain that sent the maple tree thrashing its arms against the bedroom windowpanes. Gypsy gave a low, continuous snarl, while the women huddled together in the farthest corner of the master bedroom. Alice cried into the belly of her Kerry doll with Siby softly rubbing her back; Annie, cheek to Bible leather, prayed and rocked herself; Priscilla held a shotgun, its safety on but aimed at the door. Sarah stayed posted by her side.
John Brown had taught his children how to shoot—sons and daughters. One of Sarah’s earliest memories was the feel of the smooth wooden stock between her palms. The smell of gunpowder and grease and her father close by. His hand over hers, pointing at a green ear of corn stood up on the fence post.
“Get where ye be aiming lined up in your sight,” he’d told her. But when she’d tried to adjust the barrel a fraction right or left, he’d held the gun as he saw fit. “Ready?”
She’d shaken her head, unsure of what was to come and afraid of what her trigger pull might do. Without waiting, he’d jerked his finger down atop hers. The gun flashed and kicked back so forcefully against her chest that it left a yellow bloom that purpled in under a minute. The bullet struck the ear in the side, sending white kernel pom-poms to the right and the cob to the left. Annie had been with her, and her father had shifted his attention while Sarah rubbed at her breastbone and sniffed back the tears. Annie was older and more eager to do whatever it took to gain their father’s favor. She’d taken aim at a fat squirrel and shot it right off the tree limb without blinking.
Now the same girl cowered in the shadows, and Sarah wondered when her brave sister had died and this sad changeling had taken her place.
A man called out. Another answered. In the din of the storm, they couldn’t recognize either. Priscilla’s grip tightened on the gun. Siby hushed Alice’s sobs. Annie rocked harder.
The front door opened, and the house seemed to inhale and hold its breath with it.
“Browns!” Sarah distinctly heard.
The air changed: tensed and pulsed. A squealing pitch rang high in Sarah’s ears. And then a crack—of lightning or bullet, they couldn’t tell, but the four women gasped in unison. Gypsy’s snarl broke to white teeth, and she barked ferociously at the window. A child cried. Feet pounded back and forth below. Doors slammed. Angry voices bellowed in the barnyard before hooves hammered the sodden ground, blending quickly into the beating rain. Another crack. The smell of sulfur. No mistaking: a gunshot.
Priscilla’s thumb trembled on the release, but her trigger finger was steadfast.
Boots on the stairs. Alice and Annie went silent. Gypsy moved to the door, sniffed and whined. Priscilla uncocked the safety.
The door swung open, and had he not said her name before showing his face, Sarah was sure Priscilla would’ve shot her son through.
“Mother?”
“Thanks be to the Almighty,” she exhaled and set the safety back. “Freddy.”
His face was paler than Sarah had ever seen a man’s.
“They’ve run off—after Mr. Storm.” He shook his head. “He tried to lead his family out through the back door, but the bounty hunters had surrounded the house without our knowledge. His daughter dropped the doll. The head broke and cut her badly. She cried out, and the men attempted to pursue. Mr. Storm made himself known to divert their attentions and ran into the woods. We tried to stop him but…” He exhaled.
“But Mr. Storm be a free man.” Siby’s eyes were moons of worry.
“Black is black in the night,” whispered Annie. She cradled her Bible. “God be with his soul.”
Sarah thought she might vomit where she stood. The room swayed. The doll she’d given the child…the doll Mr. Storm had made his daughter accept. A white woman’s cursed gift.
“The girls—were they captured, are they hurt?” Priscilla rose and set aside the shotgun.
“The child’s cut is deep. It will leave a scar. Mrs. Storm is inconsolable. She said her husband couldn’t abide putting our family in harm’s way. We hid them in the hayloft and are transferring them immediately.”
The Storms hadn’t known the bounty hunters were really after Sarah and Annie. Mr. Storm had sacrificed himself unnecessarily. Sarah’s heart clutched. “Maybe he’ll get away or they’ll catch him and go for the bounty but find his free papers and be the fools.”
Everyone seemed to look away in unison. What she’d said was naïve. If the posse caught Mr. Storm, they’d hang him from a tree with all damnation pouring down.
Siby headed for the door. “I best tend to the wounded child, the sick one, too…and their ma.”
Freddy exhaled loudly. “I was the fool for inviting you here. It isn’t safe in the South. For black or white, free or slave. Child of John Brown or otherwise.”
Sarah and Annie might’ve been the daughters of a convicted criminal abolitionist, but they were young, white women from the North. Any man who dared lay a hand to them, drunk or not, would’ve incurred the full rage of the “John Brown’s Song” singing people.
Better to have stayed downstairs and faced the rabble. If they were hurt or, worse, perished, their lives would’ve been fuel to the abolitionist legacy. But who would sing songs for Mr. Storm? Who would tell his story?
If only they’d been braver and not hidden like mice in the attic. If only she’d not given that doll to the girl. If only she’d not insisted they come to visit. If only, if only…Sarah’s knees went weak, and she buckled.
Freddy steadied her. “It’s all right.”
She shook her head. Everything was far from right. It was her fault. She’d only wanted to help, and instead she’d caused this tragedy.
Outside the rain turned to hail, beating against the gabled roof and rolling down the shingles.
“We must forward them north as soon as possible,” said Priscilla.
“Mr. Fisher is harnessing the wagon,” said Freddy. “We’re taking the Storms to Shepherdstown station. No one will be on the roads in this weather. Mr. Storm ran south, toward Harpers Ferry. We must honor his courage by ensuring that his family reaches safety.” He turned to Sarah. “At first light, I’ll drive you and Annie to the train depot. Father and Mr. Fisher will stay behind in case the men return. Though, from the look of it, they were so drunk they could barely stay on their saddles. I’m hoping that works in Mr. Storm’s favor. Father will call for the sheriff, too. They’ll scour the woods. New Charlestown is law-abiding. We won’t fall into anarchy as easily as the southern states.”
“Have the wicked men gone far, far away?” Alice had nearly vanished into the seams of the room and now emerged with a tear-streaked face.
“Yes, darling,” said Priscilla. “Far, far away.”
Despite Freddy’s words of assurance, George insisted that the women remain upstairs, locked in the master bedroom. Gypsy, too. The storm continued to howl and spit against the windows.
“The cold pushing out the warm,” said Siby. “Seasons be violent changing.”
She did her best to make everyone as comfortable as possible, draping a Jacob’s ladder quilt over them as the air did just as she’d predicted and took on an icy chill. At the glisten of clear daybreak, she woke them, having not slept a moment herself.
“We live to see another day of mercy,” she said. “I best be down to make breakfast. Menfolk been up all night. I’ll use the last of our coffee bean and chicory, if that be all right with you, Miss Prissy.”
Priscilla thanked her kindly, and Siby left them to dress alone.
Outside, the sun shone sharply, melting the pebbles of ice into the grass and the gnarled tree roots sticking up from the land. Downstairs, Freddy, George, and Mr. Fisher sat at the table; their grave voices carried through the house’s walls along with the smell of fritters, coffee, and burning oak.
“It’s this talk of war that’s turned men’s minds to savagery,” said George.
“I didn’t recognize any of ’em—not from New Charlestown,” said Mr. Fisher.
They silenced when the women entered the dining room.
Priscilla kissed George squarely. “God be praised. You are safe.” She turned to Mr. Fisher. “Is there news of Mr. Storm?”
Mr. Fisher looked down at his empty plate speckled with hush puppy crumbs.
“Mrs. Storm and the girls will be in Philadelphia by nightfall,” explained Freddy, though that wasn’t the question Priscilla had asked.
Sarah winced at the mention, blaming herself for the girl’s cut hand, her cries, her father’s sacrifice. The breakfast smells turned rancid to her senses. She had to breathe into her sleeve to keep from gagging.
Siby came through the kitchen door with butter-fried pumpkin. “Figured we could use something sweet to settle our stomachs.”
She went to serve Alice from the skillet, but Alice shook her head. “Thank you, but no thank you. Thank you.”
Freddy forked a pumpkin cube. “It’s good—you’d like it, Alice.”
She turned her chin down.
“My secret’s a squeeze of lemon,” Siby explained. “Nobody be thinking lemon and pumpkins court well when in fact they’s just what the other needs to be at they best.”
Alice refused still. Sarah couldn’t blame her. No one but the men had an appetite.
“I put good love in that cooking, Miss Alice,” said Siby.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled back.
Siby frowned and went back into the kitchen. She returned with a doll no bigger than a corncob. Much smaller than the medicine dolls Sarah had seen in the delivery box.
“This one was hiding under the others. Scrawny thing. I fattened her up cotton pretty for you.”
A fairy doll. Sarah recalled Auntie Nan’s description.
Alice’s eyes widened, and her fingers itched to touch. “She’s a baby,” she whispered. “Kerry’s baby girl.”
“You’ve got to promise you’ll eat first,” said George.
Alice nodded. Siby handed her the fairy doll, and Alice adjusted Kerry Pippin on her lap and the miniature on Kerry’s so that each skirt mirrored the one beneath: baby, child, adult.
“Her name is Pumpkin,” she said. Then, to the doll: “I won’t let any bad men hurt you, Pumpkin.”
Freddy pushed back from the table and stood. “The northbound B&O departs Washington at five P.M. We should go as soon as possible.” While Sarah recognized the prudence of their hurried departure, it wasn’t until that moment that she felt the impact of its meaning: she was leaving with no foreseen date of return; she was leaving with her canvas map incomplete. The byways and secret routes of her larks’ final passage up the Potomac River had yet to even be sketched in charcoal. It would be nothing more than a romantic picture if she didn’t finish.
She understood the danger at hand, but this wasn’t merely a painting. It was her hand of action in her father’s great work. It was a way she could make amends to Mr. Storm. Just as Mary Lathbury’s songs were taken south to unknowing plantation masters, her painting could be used as a guide for men and women on the Underground Railroad. No need to conceal. It could hang proudly in any southern home. Its message would be readily understood by those who knew the secret codes. She would not leave without the last details seared into her memory.
It was just past dawn, and they had yet to pack. That would take Annie at least an hour. Sarah had to go to the Bluff. And she had to go now.
She stood, her aim set: “I’ll fetch my paints.”
Priscilla nodded. “Yes, Siby, let’s see to the girls’ things.”
Sarah grabbed her satchel of onion paper and pencils from the parlor, snuck down the servant’s hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. Just past the barn, she heard a whistle. She forged ahead, each footstep sinking deep in the waterlogged apple orchard. At the edge of the woods, she heard it again—this time closer and with more urgency. Gypsy sprinted across the leaf-scattered grass, wagging her tail and circling Sarah. She turned. Freddy had followed.
Eden
NEW CHARLESTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA
