The Mapmaker's Children, page 24
He left the door cracked so that a sliver of light cut clean through the darkness. The shower began.
“Jack Anderson, Jack Anderson,” she whispered to herself, and then: “Jack and Eden. The Andersons of New Charlestown.”
There was a rising magic in the incantation, as if they were finally made true by it being spoken aloud. She gazed out the window at the gypsum moon. A V of geese sliced through it.
Suddenly, Jack’s cell phone pealed from the floor. She leaned over the mattress edge and dug it out of his jeans pocket. An incoming text. Austin area code.
Having once been Jack’s public relations attaché, she was familiar with the majority of his business contacts. The only people in Austin were big-ticket Aqua Systems investors. It might be important. So she pulled up the message and read:
Pauline: I’m sorry we couldn’t get together this trip. Sounds like you had a busy week. Are you back Monday? Lulu and I are waiting on you for our next dessert date. The Hot Kiss cake ball was definitely my favorite. Love, P
Pauline? Lulu? The smell of Jack’s shower was potent. Reminiscent of that rainy night when she’d discovered her father creeping back from his mistress’s bed. She thought she might throw up.
The shower turned off. Jack came out, towel around his waist. The light silhouetted him, and steam rose from his skin. A ghoulish brume.
The breeze had taken an icy edge, stinging her nose.
“It’s freezing,” he said and closed the window.
She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them to shield herself. “The phone.” She was surprised by the firmness of her voice. “A text…from Pauline.”
Jack gave her a quizzical look, then reached for it.
“If you would, please take it outside,” she said. She got up, pulling the sheet with her, picked up his jeans and shirt, and pushed them at him. “I mean, outside the house.”
He scrolled on the phone; then his face went stark. “It’s not what you think.”
Her caustic laugh snapped the air. It was the best she could do to keep from crying. “Classic, Jack.”
“Lulu is a child—Pauline’s daughter!”
A distressing picture blossomed: Jack. Child. Mother. No wonder he didn’t need her to have a baby—he already had one. An illegitimate child. An affair. How could she not have seen the signs?
His crumbling poise was more proof. Jack never lost his cool.
“Eden, please, it’s not at all what it sounds like. She’s an old friend I knew when I was twelve—before my parents’ accident. I ran into her and her daughter on the plane months back. They live in Austin. We had cake balls.”
“What is that, some kind of sick code? Hot Kiss cake balls? Please, Jack, spare me the spin-doctoring. Remember, I’m the one you once hired for it. I was a pro at turning bullshit into gold!”
“Cake balls are cake balls! It’s not a euphemism. It is what it is. A Hot Kiss—bugger—I don’t know why people put silly names to desserts time after time. Sex on the Beach drinks, Eton Messes, monkey breads!”
“Spin, spin, spin.” She was shaking, enraged and hurt. “You know what is the same no matter how or when or what you name it? Adultery. And when a woman signs ‘Love’ to a married man, there’s more than meets the eye. It’s code for ‘There are real, big feelings involved.’ ”
“It’s code for Americans being too blasted chummy with each other!”
“I’ll give you ten minutes to get your stuff, and then I swear to God, I’ll call the police if I have to.”
He calmed himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Eden, darling, I admit, I shouldn’t have been meeting up with them without mentioning it to you. But I swear on my life, it was entirely innocent. She’s going through a nasty divorce, and her daughter is suffering miserably—”
She’d heard enough and didn’t care what trials this woman and her daughter faced. Suffering? What the hell kind of cakewalk did he think she’d been on?
“Get out,” she growled, and he backed away onto the upper landing, covering himself with his balled-up jeans.
“Eden, this is madness.”
She slammed the door. How dare he try to make her feel like she was—“Madness!” she yelled through the wood. “You’ll see madness if you don’t get your ass out of this house. You have eight minutes now.”
The stairs creaked under his weight. Still standing in nothing but the bedsheet, she pressed her ear to the door and listened: Jack said something to Cricket; shoed footsteps clapped the floor; the screen door banged. Eden had wrung the sheet so tightly in her hands that it bound her like shackles. She loosened them. Her nail beds were shaded blue and cold from lack of circulation. She pulled on her robe and cracked the door.
Below, Cricket whined, but otherwise, the house was silent. Jack was gone. She came down and sat on the bottom step, taking Cricket into her lap and rubbing her fingers over his warm belly until they regained feeling.
“We forgot to feed you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” She stood and carried him into the kitchen, where his plate of Buffaloaf sat on the countertop and the oven was still slightly warm.
THE AMERICAN TELEGRAPH COMPANY
TO MISS SARAH BROWN
RECEIVED AT SARATOGA, N.Y., JULY 5, 1862
FROM NEW CHARLESTOWN, (NEWLY RATIFIED) WEST VIRGINIA
FREDDY WAS SHOT IN THE SEVEN DAYS’ BATTLE. HE IS HOME. INFECTION HAS SET IN HIS LEG. WE HAVE DONE ALL THAT WE CAN, BUT HE WORSENS WITHOUT PROPER MEDICINE. THE UNION BLOCKADE HAS HALTED DELIVERIES TO VIRGINIA. IF ANY OF OUR GOOD FRIENDS IN THE NORTH MIGHT OFFER SOME AID, WE WOULD BE MUCH OBLIGED. MRS. GEORGE HILL.
Sarah
NEW CHARLESTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA
JULY 10, 1862
Sarah had immediately sent word to Priscilla that she would take the southbound train to the capital. From there, a hired buggy transported her across Virginia’s battle lines into the new state of West Virginia. Disguised as a Sister of Mercy, she wore a borrowed habit. In the heat of July, the wimple made her head itch considerably, but she would’ve worn a crown of thorns to get to Freddy.
She wasn’t just going for him, either, she told herself. She was aiding friends who had sheltered and protected her at great personal risk. As vital members of the Underground Railroad, the Hills needed the abolitionist community to help them now. She was bringing the medicine Freddy required to stay alive, which would, in turn, help many more. Her father would have done the same.
“If you are determined in this venture, then your surest safety is to travel as a nun,” Mary Lathbury had argued. “Rebels and Yankees are assaulting women of every age. They will rule their vulgar molestations as lawful, given the items you conceal.”
Beneath the bulky frock, Sarah carried a purse containing three bars of antiseptic soap, a vial of iodine, and another of carbolic acid. It was illegal to bring these across enemy lines. They would be confiscated if found. Sarah’s slight frame worked to their advantage. She looked entirely natural padded and swathed in black and white.
Before setting off, she’d consulted the Saratoga nursing brigade and spent a good portion of her weekly allowance to telegram Dr. Nash in North Elba regarding optimal treatment of bullet wounds and infection. None of what she’d learned had been encouraging. Patients had a higher chance of survival if the affected limb was amputated within forty-eight hours. Given that it had been weeks and infection had set in, Dr. Nash advised water dressings and antiseptics. The nursing staff graciously provided Sarah with the various items without asking questions. Two of the junior nurses taught her proper dressing procedure before she boarded the train.
She wrote Annie and her mother a quick letter of explanation and posted it at the station. It would be weeks before they received the news, and by then, she’d be lodged at the Hills’. She didn’t want them fretting themselves to illness over her journey or trying to talk her out of it.
She considered the Hill family as dear as her own. Was there a means to be kin without blood or marital ties? George away at war; Freddy on his deathbed; no medical aid; and a desperate Priscilla telegramming: they were alone and in jeopardy.
Harpers Ferry was held by Union forces but had slipped into Confederate hands time and again. Daily rumors swirled of Stonewall Jackson’s plans to seize the Shenandoah Valley stronghold for the Confederacy.
Sarah would not sit still in New York waiting for the news of Freddy’s death. The very prospect stung her to tears. After all, she loved him—as purely and truly as one could love. Enough to give up her own happiness for his. Her life for his, if it came to that.
Now, as the buggy wheeled into New Charlestown, she gasped at the alien scene. The forests she and Freddy had once ambled within had been slashed to stumps. Acres and acres of deforestation up and down the once verdant hills. No longer the landscape she’d painted. She saw now that her canvas had been rendered obsolete before Mr. Sanborn and Mr. Stearns had even had a chance to replicate it. The land was naked clear to the two algae-brown rivers snaking through the mountain gorge. Triangular tents pitched where broad oaks, poplars, and maples had once stood. Fronds of campfire smoke spiraled to a canopy across the July sky. Even the sun seemed remote, banished behind a mantle of war.
Passing through the still streets, the horse’s hooves elicited the attention of the tent residents. They hung their heads out of the flaps: Negro men, women, and children, with a handful of whites between. A shred of what was once a uniform here and there. Blue or gray, Sarah couldn’t tell, so threadbare and sun-faded were the garments.
“Who are they?” Sarah asked her driver.
“Contraband camp. Runaway slaves, mostly. They turn themselves over to the Federals as impounded property. It’s one way.”
“One way to what?”
“Freedom.” He shrugged. “Until the Rebels come back. Then they’ll be sent deep down south, shackled and at the command of the slave catchers. Better-off waiting out the war on their masters’ plantations. Lincoln’s going to win…eventually. Boatloads of Irishmen arriving every day up north. Fresh recruits putting on kepis for a hot meal and a gun. They got the fighting spirit, y’know. Southerners are fools, thinking they’ll get the Frenchies in uniforms. They come into Louisiana port and run as fast as they can into the swamps. Too smart for this mess.”
The driver brought the horse to a halt before the Hill house. The white fencing was gone. The lawn, a mess of sprouted onion grass and dandelion heads. A wild garden of beastly eyes. A broom lay warped and splintered across the front porch, barring entry.
“You sure this is the place?” asked the driver.
Sarah nodded.
He jumped off and pulled her carpetbag from the back of the carriage, then helped her down the steps. Navigating her footing in a habit proved more cumbersome than the same task in a corset and hoop skirt. Sarah left muddy footprints all over.
The driver lingered, scratching his neck and watching Sarah. He’d been paid by Mary Lathbury, and Sarah had nothing more to give him except thanks.
Quickly, she made her way up the front path, moved the broom aside, and knocked. After a minute passed with no answer, she knocked again, louder. There was the jerk of a dead bolt that she hadn’t remembered from before. The door creaked open a sliver.
“It’s an angel,” came a whisper. Then a doll plunged through the crack, and Sarah sprang back, stumbling over the habit’s hem.
“Move on, Miss Alice, that no angel.” Siby swung the door wide. Alice held Kerry Pippin, both alabaster pale.
“Why, Miss Sarah.” Siby’s eyes were big as sodden dumplings. “That be you under the hood and church-bride sheets? Baby Jesus, what you gone and done to yourself up north?”
“Sarah’s an angel,” Alice proclaimed. “Angel come to take Freddy to heaven.” She cradled her doll to her chest.
Sarah shook her head, then nodded, then shook again. “Yes, it’s me but no—” She turned to ensure that the driver was gone. “It’s a disguise. To keep safe on the road.”
Siby’s shoulders fell with relief. “I sees. Oh, Miss Sarah.” She embraced her, then collected herself. “Miss Prissy be mighty glad to have you here.”
Seeing the affectionate display, Alice moved forward to join in, bear-hugging Sarah and smelling exactly as Sarah remembered. Dried blossoms and churned butter.
“Come in, come in. They’s all upstairs with him now. Miss Prissy and Miss Ruthie—Mr. Freddy’s missus.”
Concealed beneath the holy garment, Sarah flinched at the mention.
“Made up your room, same one as always.” Siby took her bag. “I set your things up, then fetch you a cold lemonade. Fresh-squeezed this morn and kissed with honey. Lemons all we got left a-growin’. Rebs cut down every one of them apple trees for firewood. But the lemon, she too reedy tough and like to smoke when burned green.” She ushered Sarah and Alice inside and bolted the door.
The windows were swathed in the same black fabric from Sarah’s father’s execution day. Fear, as swift as a hatchet, cleaved her.
Siby took her hand with a squeeze. “We put those up over a year ago, after a couple Rebs broke in and stole Miss Prissy’s china plates. Tore her heart up, but I countin’ it as a blessing. I would’ve had to bury the whole lot anyhow, and I’s got enough to do. The teacups and silver spoons be back there somewheres now.” She pulled Sarah away from the window. “Miss Alice, you be kind enough to help me gussy up a tray of lemonade? Bet Miss Sarah would love a flower for cheer.”
“Forget-me-nots are in bloom,” Alice said directly to Sarah. “Those would suit best.”
Siby patted Alice’s back. “Remember to look round that the yard is safe ’fore you venture. Be quick and quiet in your collecting.”
“Like a butterfly sipping from a dewdrop,” said Alice.
“Yessum. Just like.” Siby smoothed a lost wisp of hair back into Alice’s bun before letting her dart down the entryway with the doll under her arm.
Despite the passage of time and suffering, the house was the same: the lingering smell of baked corn pones; the lamplight falling in glowing arcs; stairs creaking underfoot; the wooden banister, welcome and familiar beneath Sarah’s hand as she ascended.
She hesitated at Freddy’s door, unable to open it. His bedroom. Now it belonged to him and his bride, and he lay dying within. She closed her eyes for composure. The veil of her wimple seemed to amplify everything: the air moving in and out of her lungs; her heartbeat drumming too fast; the voices emanating from the other side.
Siby returned from putting Sarah’s things in the guest room. She didn’t ask why Sarah stood motionless. Instead, she put a hand to Sarah’s back and gently led her in.
The room was unadorned. No wallpaper or pictures. No soft rug underfoot. No color except the exposed brick in one corner. To the right, by the window, was a hutch with a white washbasin; to the left, a short clothing trunk with a shelf of books above. Taking up the majority of the room was the rough-hewn bed where Freddy lay. His skin was opaque as the muslin sheets; his black hair in frightful contrast; his eyes half-open, though his chest moved in the unsettled rhythm of fevered sleep. His body was too neatly tucked into the bedding to be natural, like a corpse in a coffin. A chill spilled over Sarah. She wanted to rush to Freddy’s side, push off the layers, and take away the curse. But he was not hers to awaken.
Ruthie and Priscilla sat next to each other, working hooks through a crocheted blanket, Gypsy amid the skeins of yarn at their feet. The dog lifted her grayed head but didn’t rise on all fours until Priscilla spoke.
“Dear heavenly Father—is that you, Sarah?”
Gypsy cautiously pattered over, burrowing under the habit until she found the familiar scent of Sarah’s boots. She wagged her tail in greeting.
“It’s a getup,” explained Siby.
“The Sisters of Mercy nurses.” Sarah pulled the veil off. “My teacher insisted. Especially since I’m carrying these.” She slid a hand through her armhole to pull free the hidden purse against her belly. She held it up to the women. “Medicine, soap, clean bandages. They’re not an absolute cure, but they’ll help us fight the infection.”
Priscilla stood from the chair and embraced Sarah forcefully.
“Ask and ye shall receive,” she whispered into Sarah’s ear. “You are our miracle.”
Over Priscilla’s shoulder, Ruth set aside the crocheted blanket and patiently waited her introduction. Peach-skinned with hair the color of raw sienna paint, she was narrow and plump in the right places. Like an unshelled almond, full of promise. Beautiful, but starkly different from Sarah.
Priscilla wiped away a joyful tear, then brought Sarah to Ruth. “This is Mrs. Ruth Marie Hill.”
“My family calls me Ruthie.” She warmly held Sarah’s hand. “I’d very much like for you to do the same. I’ve heard so much about you. I feel like we’re sisters.”
Before Sarah could respond cordially, Ruthie pulled her into an earnest hug.
“Thank you for coming at such danger. You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known. I can’t ever thank you enough.”
The girl’s looped braids were scented with chamomile, and Sarah couldn’t help but like her for the simplicity. The slight calluses of her hands showed her to be a diligent worker, not a girl of pretension. She was as she appeared: honestly kind and sincere in her affections. Sarah was glad Freddy had chosen her.
Gypsy leaned her heavy head against Sarah’s knee. The faithful dog understood what it was like to live silently devoted. Sarah scratched behind her ear, and she thumped her tail.
At the sound, Freddy turned his cheek. His fingers fluttered to find purchase. “Sarah…”
The women moved quickly round the bed.
“He hasn’t spoken a word,” Priscilla gasped. She pulled Sarah to Freddy so that their faces were inches apart, her hand in his. “She is here.”
The candlelight glimmered in his dark eyes, glassy and still as two water jugs. Sarah could not blink.
