The Mapmaker's Children, page 22
Cleo’s head popped around the living room wall, looking as disembodied as the porcelain doll’s.
“Nope. Just me. Cricket’s dinnertime—he eat?”
Eden nodded. “Leftover chicken soup and a biscuit.”
“Oh, okay—when he’s ready, I can walk him.” But instead of walking anywhere, she sat down beside Eden. Her sandaled feet dangled off the couch. “I’ve been figuring,” she said decisively. “Mr. Anderson hired me for the week, so technically my duties are done, and I’m owed my paycheck.”
“Yes, of course.” Eden was a firm believer in honoring contracts. She tapped her chin with a finger. Her wallet was empty, and she’d already given Cleo the twenty bucks from the laundry hamper. She could check all of Jack’s pant pockets, but she doubted she’d find enough to make the total sum. Plus, she simply hadn’t the get-up-and-go for a treasure hunt.
“Jack’s got the cash. Do you mind waiting for him to come home?”
She expected Cleo to nod affirmatively, resolved in her coming salary, which was a heap more than Eden had ever earned tending neighborhood plants and pets at her age. Instead, Cleo frowned and picked Cricket’s hairs off her shorts.
“Actually, Miss A, I was hoping we could make a deal so as I can keep on working for y’all. You see, I was on the Internet and started thinking about your idea to sell CricKet BisKets.”
“My idea to what?” Eden thought back through the last few days and couldn’t recall ever saying as much.
“Sell. CricKet. BisKets,” Cleo repeated slowly, as if Eden had a hearing impairment.
Eden pursed her lips. She was curious as to where Little Miss Moxie was headed.
“I looked it up, and gourmet dog food is B-I-G. There’s a ton of it everywhere, but there’s no biscuits like ours in New Charlestown or within a fifty-mile radius. I Google-Mapped it. No organic pet treats. Sure, you can order ’em from the city or California or something, but they aren’t retail accessible.”
She enunciated the last bit like she’d just read it in an online article. Eden hid her smirk. It wasn’t a completely outrageous idea.
“I talked to Mr. Morris and Ms. Silverdash today,” she continued. “Told them all about our pumpkin biscuits and even brought samples from what we baked yesterday. Mr. Morris called them ‘Garden of Eden turtle food,’ but he thought they tasted pretty good. He said if they’d’ve been entered in the Dog Days End Festival Baking Division, he’d never have known they were for dogs, not people.” Her breath came gleefully fast. “So I jumped on that and asked if he and Ms. Silverdash would let us—you and me—sell CricKet BisKets at the festival. I’d help you do everything! And in return for using your kitchen and idea, you wouldn’t have to owe me a dime—not even the seventy dollars from this week. We could use that money for logos, packaging, and advertising instead. See, I got it totally worked out!”
“Advertising?” At most, Eden had envisioned a plate of biscuits sold for a quarter each. Now Cleo was talking about logos and packaging?
“I watch the Shark Tank show with Grandpa. Good marketing is key. Didn’t you say you used to work in advertising stuff?” Cleo screwed up her nose.
Eden was equal parts stunned and impressed. Her public relations wheels were spinning, and she wondered why nobody had snatched up the idea before. While the festival’s name was a reference to summer’s end, it was also a direct nod to dogs. And she did know a company from whom they could order simple cellophane wrappers at warehouse pricing. The owner had done promo materials at the PR agency. Everything from logo-emblazoned quill pens to candy Pop Rocks. If they had an image, a CricKet BisKet mascot…In a flash, she saw the whole thing. It wouldn’t take her more than a phone call. A local festival. A few dozen biscuits.
Like Cleo said, it could be their shark tank trial analysis. Who knew—if it went well, she might not need the house to sell as premium historical real estate. She wouldn’t need the doll to be anything but an old doll. This could be her ticket to financial security. She could be a business owner, like Ms. Silverdash. The Mrs. Fields of the dog cookie world! Well…Miss. She and Cleo could share the title: Miss CricKet BisKets.
“It would have to be well done,” she agreed. “Nothing half-baked. And I’m going to need your solemn oath to help me.”
Cleo bounced on the couch. Cricket woke, yawned, and repositioned himself with his nose tucked into the bend of Eden’s knee.
Cleo lifted one palm. “I do solemnly swear never to leave you alone in the kitchen and to help you do everything.” She extended her finned hand. “Shakes?”
Eden shook. “Deal. And may I say, you have quite the gift of persuasion. I’d take you into a boardroom any day.”
At the compliment, Cleo pulled her top lip between her teeth to conceal the grin. “To be a real detective, you’ve got to know how to get folks to see things differently. The rope in the attic is never just a rope in the attic.” She pulled out her pad. “I haven’t forgotten the case of the Apple Hill doll’s head, either. On Pinterest, I saw some that look like yours, but they all got bodies attached. None with different-colored eyes either. That’s just weird.”
Eden had discovered just as much in her own searches but was glad to have a corroborating accomplice.
“That reminds me—we found more. A button, we think.”
Cleo raised her pencil high, like an exclamation in the air. “Another clue!” She scribbled on her detective pad. Serious business. “In the cellar?”
Eden nodded. “A broken doll’s head, a not-so-old key, and a rusty button. If these walls could talk.”
“My grandpa says if walls could talk, they wouldn’t need us humans. Coming and going so fast. We’d probably annoy them, thinking every minute is the first of its kind.”
Eden laughed. Such an odd kid. Cleo was perpetually making Eden see the world in a topsy-turvy way.
“The new evidence is in the kitchen, if you care to take a look, Detective.”
“I think I best,” she said and went to investigate.
The screen door clapped before the wooden one swung inward. Cricket bounded off the couch, attuned to the sound of new company.
“ ’Ello, ’ello,” Jack said to them both.
His salt-and-pepper hair was soft and disheveled by the wind, making him look more awake and vibrant than he had in months. His face was clean-shaven and flushed. From the heat or the haste of homecoming, whatever it was, it pleased her, and she felt the old prickle of affection spill down her spine. She’d missed that—missed him—more than she’d realized.
From behind his back, he pulled a nosegay of petite damask roses shaded blood-red to the lightest pink. True damasks looked like petticoats aflutter and smelled richly of springtime. They were her favorites. She recalled the crushed rose from earlier in the week and was ashamed she’d disregarded it so.
“Take two?” Jack put up his left hand in mock defense. “Just these. No more Crickets, I swear.”
Cricket clucked at his name.
“You’ve gone and hurt the poor guy’s feelings.” Eden smiled. “Besides, I’m starting to wonder if the dog isn’t one of those ‘blessings in disguise’ I’ve heard tales about.”
A lump formed in her throat after she said that, thinking again of Denny’s accident. She breathed in the roses’ fragrance and bottled the emotions.
“A blessing in disguise—you don’t say?” Jack studied her for a moment, then turned to the door. “Did the evangelists come calling today? Have you been converted in my absence?”
She rolled her eyes. “They’re lovely.”
“Am I forgiven?”
Truthfully, she didn’t know if his request was in reference to their argument on Monday, something from the day before, or that morning. So many weeks and months of grief between them; so many hostile words and angry nights. It made her tired to remember: the blame, the bitterness…Can’t throw out the baby with the bathwater, her mother used to say. They had no baby, just bathwater, so could they start fresh? She inhaled the nosegay’s scent deeper. Eden and Jack Anderson of New Charlestown.
“Yes,” she said.
Forgiveness. She wanted that, no matter what.
Cleo returned holding the button.
“Nice flowers. What’d ya do wrong?”
“Why, you cheeky monkey,” Jack laughed. “Only a fool would give an account of his offenses when the noose has been removed!”
“A fool or a righteous man,” Eden countered.
“Miss Cleo, which do you think me?”
She plumped out her bottom lip and shrugged.
“It’s a coin toss, I know,” he said.
“No coins, but I got a button.”
Jack gave Eden a puzzled look. Eden waved a hand to imply that she’d explain later.
“By all means then, toss away.”
“Call it, Mr. A.”
“Tails.”
Cleo flicked the button into the air, then caught it to reveal the braided face. “Heads.”
“I guess I’m a fool then.” He gave a lopsided grin to Eden, and her pulse quickened.
She’d take the honest fool over the self-righteous man any day. Upstairs, Denny’s guitar had stopped. Accident, blessing in disguise, fate, fortune, or happenstance—they were definitions of the same: life with no guaranteed happy ending. What fable and history could agree upon was that everybody was searching for their ever-after, whatever that may be.
NEW CHARLESTOWN POST
Concord, Mass., December 1, 1860
Dear Freddy,
Please say you forgive me. I know you said no forgiveness was necessary, but I need it all the same. After the profound silence on the journey to the station in September, I told myself that October was a restoration of our friendship. But then November came with still no word. I made myself wait until this first of December to write.
Annie is home in North Elba while I continue at Mr. Sanborn’s school. I’ve worked on my New Charlestown canvas daily. The report of Mr. Storm’s gruesome death increased my resolve that this monstrous oppression in our land be forthwith obliterated! My greatest hope is that you will approve of the portrait and I will have been of some use to the greater good.
Please, write me and let me know how it is there. With Lincoln’s election and the Black Republicans in power, the newspapers from the South are as unsettling as your silence.
Your eternal friend,
Sarah
New Charlestown, Virginia, January 2, 1861
Dear Sarah,
No happier New Year greeting than your letter. The mail is running slow. I received your December 1st post on the 31st. I suppose I ought to be grateful it arrived at all, given the rumors of mail pilfering.
October was, as you presumed, a period of repair. You know my affections for you, so I needn’t explain why. With the turmoil of the elections and the results viewed by a majority as disastrous, November was a wearisome month for its own purposes.
Then Father was stricken with a case of Piles and to his great dismay was condemned to lie stomach-down for over two weeks, on doctor’s orders. While not life-threatening, it was not a condition Alice, Siby, or I could attenuate. He would only allow Mother to nurse his “wound,” and she fretted over his every discomfort so that we didn’t see either until nearly the week of Christmas.
When I said there was nothing to forgive, I meant it. Unconditional rapport means you take no offense in the first place—be it in friendship or otherwise; you seek the good and best in the other person, and as you seek, so shall you find. Isn’t that what the Gospel commands? My father and yours would say ’tis so. However, I know how your mind tumults…so if you insist, then rest assured in this: we are two of eternal absolution.
Please give my warmest regards to Mrs. Brown, Annie, and little Ellen. I pray this letter puts to rest any discord between us, Sarah. There is already enough in this precarious time. We are faithful to our northern friends as they are loyal to us despite our southern latitude. We look forward to seeing your New Charlestown portrait complete, if you still intend to share it with us.
Eternally yours,
Freddy
Concord, Mass., January 29, 1861
Dear Freddy,
I am nothing short of jubilant! Thank you for alleviating my fear that our time in Virginia might’ve been the last. I could not go on if that were so.
I’m glad your father recovered from his sickbed. Rubeola, scurvy, smallpox, while more life-threatening, are far easier to battle under the care of loved ones. Even in death, family gathers round. It’s the suffering we can’t share that torments the most…
At the present speed of the mail service, I wanted you to know as soon as possible that your letters henceforth should be posted to me at: Fort Edward Institute, Saratoga, N.Y. I am moving there to study under the full tutelage of Mary Artemisia Lathbury. We got on so well this summer, Mary being a mere five years my elder and already lauded across the country—North and South—for her stories, illustrations, hymnals, and diligent work with our mutual friends.
Please give my love and affection to the Hills and Fishers. And a special head rub to Gypsy, if you please.
Eternally your friend,
Sarah
P.S. I am working on my New Charlestown canvas this very hour and plan to share it forthwith upon completion. Hearing from you has catalyzed my efforts!
Eden
NEW CHARLESTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA
AUGUST 2014
It was the Friday before the Dog Days End Festival. Eden successfully prepared Bulldog’s Buffaloaf for dinner without a burnt smidgen. She ceremoniously placed the loaf on a cake stand between the trays of cooling CricKet BisKets. But with no one to witness, it felt a hollow triumph.
Cleo had just gone home. A Jeopardy! tournament was in progress, and she had it in mind to win the last cents necessary to open her own Bronner Bank account in anticipation of the bazillions she was certain they’d earn at the festival booth that weekend.
Earlier in the day, she’d come over with Suley Hunter to lend a hand in mixing, cutting, and baking dozens of pumpkin (Original) and apple (Apple Hill) CricKet BisKets.
“She may be a couple years younger than me, but she’s real good at cooking,” Cleo had explained while Suley was at the sink washing her hands. “Has to be. Hunter kids would starve otherwise. Mrs. Hunter baked some raisin bread for a church picnic once. Mr. Morris said not even the ants took to it.”
Cleo was right. Suley needed no instructions. She joined their baking assembly line like a well-oiled gear. Eden had loved the girls’ company in the kitchen. The giddy chatter over butter and flour, pumpkin and apples; the sight of their ponytails swishing back and forth as they stirred. Both eager to create something—to put their magic touch to an adult vision. All grown up, Eden couldn’t say she’d grown out of that yearning. Maybe no child ever did.
Denny had gone out for beers and burgers, depressed that even the managers offering the most trivial positions had said they were considering others. He’d been on daily interviews. Positions ranging from a statesman’s personal gofer to a dishwasher at the Willard Hotel’s Café du Parc. His lack of a college degree held him under the “solid salary” echelon, but he couldn’t go back to sharing a dirty apartment with a crew of revolving bandmates and what—use the hookah stand as a high chair, sing Def Leppard lullabies? Ludicrous.
He was at a logjam: no going back, no moving forward.
“My last hurrah before I’m eating rice cereal,” he’d said on the phone.
“At least that’s organic.”
Eden’s attempt at a joke garnered little more than a grunt. She worried about him, but this was one journey he had to travel alone. She couldn’t carry him, not even a step. The weight of her own life was all she could bear.
Jack had just flown back from Austin, Texas, and was upstairs changing.
Before he’d left for that week’s trip, Eden had roused him from the couch, hoping to finally get him alone after everything with Jessica.
“Jack,” she’d whispered. “Jack, wake up.”
The early hour had a waning-days-of-summer nip to it and made her long for autumn to hurry in with its cozy way, change the leaves to bright oranges and blazing reds, give the summer of their discontent a new dress. She’d placed his roses in a glass jelly jar on the telephone stand, and they seemed to have blushed deeper overnight.
“Want to walk with us? Cleo has church this morning.”
She’d bent down to the couch to scoop up Cricket, and a wavy lock of hair fell down across his cheek. He didn’t brush it away.
“Yes, of course, yes.” He stumbled over himself to find his sneakers, then joined them on the porch.
Apple Hill Lane on a Sunday morning was quiet. The congregants had set off to sing their hymns while the rest remained blissfully bedded. For once, there were very few neighbors out on the lawns and porches. Only the sound of sprinklers spattering round and round. A dewy haze clung to the ground, the earth cooler than the ether. Cricket wandered aimlessly through the pea soup, relying on their lead for direction.
“Here.” Eden passed Jack a paw-printed leash with matching collar she’d picked up at Milton’s.
“Does this mean we’re keeping him? In sickness and health, rabies and fleas?”
She couldn’t very well sell CricKet BisKets with no Cricket, and she’d grown fond of him. It wouldn’t feel like home without him there.
“We do.”
“Cricket Norton Anderson,” Jack proclaimed, giving him a good scratch behind the ear. “Welcome, little bug man. I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve won the lady over.”
They set off slowly down the sidewalk.
“I wanted to talk to you. I think you already know, but…Jessica is pregnant with Denny’s baby.”
He stopped but didn’t put on a veneer of shock. She felt grateful. She wasn’t in the mood to play games.
“So, he did tell you.”
He nodded.
“What advice did you give him?”
