CHAPTER 19

DARCY WAS RIGHT PLEASED with herself. Her new pink blouse would be finished as soon as she set in the sleeves, and she’d only cut it out the day before. The ruffled collar was so pretty. Maybe she should try the bodice on.

The ruffles pinched under her chin, making her neck disappear. “Look at this, Mammaw,” she said, turning from the mirror. “Does it look as bad as I think it does?”

“Kindly puts me in mind of a chipmunk,” Mammaw replied from her rolling chair. “Makes your cheeks look nice and full.”

With a sigh, Darcy began to rip out the top ruffle. It was one setback after another. She’d aimed to go by Cara’s today and see if she had finished some more handles. An order for half a dozen feathered fans had come in yesterday’s post. Evidently they had become ladies’ necessities in Lexington. Darcy popped a stitch and worried. Would she have time to finish her outfit before Henry came again?

Once she had one offending ruffle off, she slipped into the blouse again. “Much better, don’t you think?”

Mammaw cocked her head to one side, then the other. “You’re pretty as a speckled pup in a red wagon. Now, why did you say you’re sewing this?”

Darcy gathered her courage. It was time to tell her grandmother the full story. Turning back to the looking glass, she watched herself begin to speak. It was easier than watching her grandmother’s face. “I know it’s not right, but I’ve been hiding something from you.”

Mammaw made a funny snorting sound.

“Just listen. Please.” Darcy peered closely at her reflected image. One bust dart seemed a hair lower than the other, so she adjusted the blouse before she plunged ahead. “I’m in love with Henry Thomas, and we aim to wed.”

There, she’d said it. She held her breath and waited for her grandmother’s reply. The silence made her nervous. “We’ll probably go away for a short time, Henry and me,” she chattered on, unable to turn around and face the music. “He ain’t of a mind to tarry. That’s why I’m working so hard on this outfit. I don’t want to be wed in an ordinary dress.”

Slipping out of the half-finished blouse, Darcy fitted it on the dress form that sat beside the mirror. “I don’t want you to worry none. Remy has promised to care for you while I’m away —or if that don’t suit, I’m sure Ace will come and take you to his house.” She felt desperate as a fish floundering on a line. Why didn’t Mammaw say something? “And Cara —you know Cara will help out. Gracious, Mammaw, say something. It ain’t like I’m leaving you for good, just a few days —a week at the most. Then you’ll have me and Henry both.”

An uneasy aura, like seeing buzzards circling in the distance, stopped Darcy’s chatter. Slowly she turned around. Mammaw was slumped in the chair. Her face was like wax. Her good hand was fisted and drawn up under her chin.

“Help us, Lord,” Darcy moaned an all-inclusive prayer as she dropped to her knees in front of the invalid chair. “Mammaw! Mammaw!” She stroked Mammaw’s cheek. Was she drawing air? Was she dead?

Darcy ran to her room and fetched her tortoiseshell hand mirror, a gift from Miz Copper. Back in front of the invalid’s chair, she held it under her grandmother’s nose. “Please, Mammaw, don’t die on me.”

Darcy’s hand trembled so violently she nearly dropped the mirror, but there was the sign she hoped for —Mammaw’s breath visible on the surface.

She sat back on her heels and, careful as careful could be, laid the mirror aside. The mantel clock ticked loud as buckshot. The air grew dense and still. For a moment she thought she’d killed her grandmother. Laying her head on Mammaw’s knee, she sobbed and sobbed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Behind her the screen door squeaked. “What’s happened here?” Remy asked. “What’s wrong with Fairy Mae?”

Darcy stood on wobbling legs and mopped up streaming tears with the hem of her apron. “I don’t know. I was telling her about going away —just trying to prepare her, you know, so it wouldn’t come as a shock.” She tripped over words so heavy with guilt she might need a wheelbarrow to carry them.

Remy dropped her crutch and shook Mammaw’s shoulder. “Fairy Mae, you wake up.”

Darcy watched hopefully as Mammaw’s good hand relaxed and fell limply to her lap. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she smiled the sweetest smile.

“Mammaw,” Darcy cried as more tears spilled down her cheeks, “you like to have scared me to death.”

“Reckon she needs some honey?” Remy asked. “I used to give Hezzy honey whenever she had spells.”

“She seems back to herself,” Darcy replied. “You’re all right now, ain’t you, Mammaw?” she yelled.

“I expect she can still hear. Ain’t no need to deafen her.”

Darcy’s short laugh was shaky with relief. “You’re right, Remy. I don’t know what I’m hollering about. I’ll make us all some tea and put extra honey in Mammaw’s.”

Remy patted Fairy Mae’s hand. “You’re going to be fine as frog’s hair now. We’ll have some tea; then we’ll get you down for a nap. Does that sound good?”

Mammaw didn’t speak, but she nodded. The childlike smile still lit up her face.

At the stove, Darcy spooned leaves into a tea ball and hung it over the edge of a porcelain teapot. It struck her that as many times as Remy had visited this house, this was only the second time they had taken tea together. Of course most times she was leaving when Remy came. And Remy wasn’t exactly easy to get to know.

Mammaw looked like a baby bird, stretching her mouth in a big O each time Remy lifted a spoon of tea from the cup.

Darcy took the opportunity to freshen Mammaw’s bed. She pulled clean linens from a cupboard and tucked one sheet tightly over the mattress. Then she folded the top sheet to the bottom of the bed and slid the pillows into crisply ironed cases. As she plumped the feather pillows, she wondered if Mammaw realized how hard Darcy worked to provide such nice things for her. If it wasn’t for her sewing, no telling what would happen to both of them. Since Mammaw was a widow and Darcy wasn’t married, they’d be at the mercy of her brother Dimmert or Dance’s husband, Ace.

At least they had relatives who would be glad to help if needed. Some women were not so lucky. When she lived with Miz Copper, they used to see the old widow Case being hauled back and forth over the road to one son’s house or another. Her journey was as regular as the change of seasons. Story was Mrs. Case had four sons, which meant four daughters-in-law, none of whom were particularly fond of their husband’s ancient mother. There she’d be, eighty-seven years old, sitting in a straight-backed chair in the bed of a hay wagon, clutching a tattered carpetbag in her lap. Darcy used to wonder what she kept in that bag.

Once Mammaw’s bed was ready, Darcy wheeled her in for her afternoon rest. Mammaw seemed glad to be in bed. Her eyes closed as soon as her head hit the pillow. Darcy said a quick prayer of thankfulness before she joined Remy at the kitchen table.

“That old lady you lived with, were her spells like Mammaw’s?” Darcy asked, scared to hear the answer.

Remy perched on the edge of her chair. She poured hot tea in her saucer before taking a loud slurp. She seemed to be studying the question. Darcy wondered if she ever talked without mulling her words over first.

“Not perzactly,” Remy allowed. “Hezzy’d be gathering eggs one minute or sweeping the front porch and the next she’d be flat out on the ground. Usually she’d know beforehand. She’d say, ‘I’m having a sinking spell.’ I learned to fetch the honey pot then.”

Darcy stirred her tea. She’d yet to take a taste. “I sure wish Miz Copper was home. She’d know what to do.”

“She’s good at doctoring,” Remy said.

“Have you heard from her? Seems like they’d be back from visiting her father and stepmother by now.”

“She got grounded by the doctor up yonder. Says she can’t travel until the young’uns are borned.”

“Young’uns? She’s having twins?”

“Yup.”

“Forevermore. I’ll have to tell the folks at church. I know Miz Copper will want our prayers.” Darcy brought a spoon of tea to her lips, but she couldn’t swallow. Guilt backed up from her heart, nearly strangling her. “Do you reckon I shocked Mammaw so bad she had a stroke?”

Remy fixed her with a steady look. “Sticks and stones. If words could kill, we’d all be wearing oak-board overcoats.”

Darcy slapped a hand over her mouth, but she was so tickled she couldn’t help but laugh. Her teacup rattled in the saucer, and the spoon clattered to the floor. “Remy,” she sputtered, “that’s the funniest thing I ever heard.”

“It’s the truth though, ain’t it?” Remy said before taking another long sup.

“Remy,” Darcy started, then hesitated. It was hard to spit out words that should have been said many times before. “I thank you for being so kind to me and Mammaw.”

“I ain’t much use for anything except being good to old folks and animals,” Remy replied with her usual frank stare. “I reckon it’s my talent. The one the Lord gave special to me.”

Darcy relaxed. It felt right to be chatting with Remy. Maybe she wasn’t so different after all. “Whatever happened to that fox that used to follow you around?”

“Foxy got old and passed on like everything is prone to do. I figure I’ll see her again when I pass through the pearly gates.”

“That’s sure a happy thought,” Darcy said and drained her cup. “More tea?”

“Nope. I’ll just go check on Fairy Mae; then I’m heading home.”

Darcy tapped her two fingers against her lips. “I was thinking I’d like to measure you for a dress before you go. I’ve got some printed calico you might like.”

For a moment Remy’s eyes looked wary, like a barn cat’s when offered a treat. “I wouldn’t want nothing fancy,” Remy finally said. “And it would have to hang straight down. I don’t like me no bindings.”

Darcy smiled. She felt as if Remy had given her a great gift. The gift of trust.

“I wouldn’t even need a pattern,” Darcy responded, fetching her measuring tape. “How about a pretty bonnet to match?”

A week to the day later, Darcy stepped outside the cabin into the most melancholy of times. Twilight in lavender hues of loneliness tiptoed down the mountains and crept across the yard. When she was a girl, she and her brothers and sisters would play Mother, may I? or hide-and-seek on summer evenings. She remembered her mother sitting on the porch with her face turned away. Was she missing Darcy’s father when she sat like that, lost in sadness? Did she yearn for him like Darcy now yearned for Henry?

The gloaming of the day was different for children, she supposed. Dusk was just a signal to squeeze in a little more fun before they had to go indoors and wash their feet before bed. Somewhere from beyond the yard, a mourning dove cooed its plaintive song. Lightning bugs flew low to the ground, flashing their strange cold light, like lanterns signaling a sweetheart.

Darcy sank down on a bench placed against the wall of the porch, hugging her arms close against the chill night air, glad to have a minute to herself. Mammaw had eaten cinnamon toast and applesauce for supper. Darcy carefully cut the toast in small squares and watched as Mammaw pinched each piece between her fingers and aimed for her mouth. Same with the applesauce spoon —sometimes it landed closer to her ear. It was like watching Dance’s set-along baby, Cleve, eat. Mammaw seemed to enjoy supper, though, banging her spoon against the table with a smile instead of frustration like she sometimes used to do.

The upshot of Mammaw’s spell last week was that childlike manner. Nothing seemed to bother her except Remy’s leave-taking. Remy came each day now, helping with one thing or another. Darcy enjoyed her company, and she thought Remy stood three inches taller when she wore her new dress and hat to church last Sunday evening. Funny what a pretty frock would do for a gal’s outlook.

A salty tear ran the length of Darcy’s face and settled in the corner of her mouth. She shook out a fancy handkerchief with crocheted edges and dabbed delicately at her nose. It hurt to think of Sunday —for Henry hadn’t come calling as she had hoped. And yesterday, when she took a package to the post office, the cardboard sign in the office window said, Closed.

Another tear slipped down her face, and her heart ached just remembering how it felt to stand there on the sidewalk —missing him. How could you love a person as much as she loved Henry and not even know where they were on any given day?

She still couldn’t believe what she’d done next, sneaking down the alley between Henry’s law office and the barbershop next door. Thankfully, the street was quiet and nobody seemed to take notice. Maybe he was out back saddling his horse or some such manly thing. She was surprised to find the lot behind the office was enclosed by a high wooden fence. The fencerow was neat as a pin. Neither a weed nor an unruly blade of grass could be seen. Beyond the yard she could see a stable painted black.

Gathering her courage, she had marched right up to the stable and knocked —like she had every right to be there. She pressed her eye to a crack between the double doors and peered into its shadowy depths. “Henry?” Her voice quivered. Her burst of bravado was quickly fading.

But something stirred beyond the door. Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation. But, no, she realized, it was not Henry, just an old dog unfurling from sleep on a bed of gunnysacks. The dog yawned and stretched before he ambled over and stuck his graying muzzle through the narrow gap in the door. She slid her hand in sideways and scratched the top of his long nose. She didn’t even know Henry had a dog.

“Barooo!” she heard from behind. A second dog barked and threw itself with mighty thumps against the yard gate. “Barooo!” It sounded like a hound and maybe a mean one. Soon barks and brays from all up and down the street answered the call. Half a dozen or more dogs of various breeds shot through the alleys and headed her way. With a mighty heave, she slid one of the heavy, double-hung doors open just far enough to slip through. She’d take her chances with the old dog.

Everything inside the barn was as orderly as Henry himself. His tools from saw to claw hammer were tidily arranged in order of size on a shelf. A rake, shovel, and pitchfork hung from nails against the wall. The absence of his horse told her he was gone.

She stayed in the stable for the longest time, watching dust motes dance in a beam of sunlight. Stayed until the pack of dogs wandered away —stayed even though she wasn’t sure Henry would be glad to have her there. After a while, the old dog went back to sleep and the other one stopped throwing itself against the fence. Darcy crept out then, like a thief in the night, but the only thing stolen was her dignity.

Now she sat on her own porch in the twilight still unsure of Henry’s intent. Was he finished with her? Why had he said he loved her anyway? And what would a man like Henry, so handsome and so sure, want in a woman like herself?

Thinking of Henry stayed her restless heart for a little while —until the dove cooed again. There was something so forlorn about the bird’s call, like all the hurt in the world settled right there in that one sound. Darcy’s thoughts turned inward. Would Henry ever come for her again? Would she go with him if he did?

From the road she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves fast approaching. Could it be Henry? She tossed her apron toward the bench and raced barefoot across the darkening yard. The horse didn’t slow, and the stranger upon its back didn’t even tip his hat when he saw her standing there.

Disappointed, Darcy turned back. Once safely off the road, she scooped lightning bugs from the air. Though they were captured in her cupped hand, their flashing signals did not cease but sped up as if they sensed their time to find true love was threatened. Taking pity, Darcy uncurled her fist and watched as the tiny beetles climbed to the ends of her fingers before launching heavenward.

Darcy smiled for the first time that evening. Life for the fireflies was fleeting, lasting only a season —and love was hard to find. She would take her chance with Henry. The light of love was worth it.