9

Saturday! Finally! Manda never thought the day would come. She’d suffered Monday: wash day; Tuesday: ironing; Wednesday: cleaning—including the kitchen and sickroom windows—ugh; Thursday: mending; Friday: baking light bread, pies, and a cake. And now it was glorious Saturday. It was her free day, and she was on her way to town with Dimmert. In her pocket was a scrap of dress material, and she was set on finding the right buttons to match it at Coomb’s Dry Goods.

Wednesday’s post had brought a letter addressed just to her from Darcy, who lived in Eddyville, Kentucky. She couldn’t remember ever getting a piece of mail addressed singly to her. It made her feel special. The letter was wonderful enough, but the little bit of material enfolded in its pages made it even better. Darcy would make a dress for her after Manda mailed back a pattern and buttons. Manda was delighted.

Of all the Whitt sisters, and there were many, Darcy was the one who had made it, as far as Manda was concerned. Darcy was a dressmaker and owned her own shop. She had a house at the edge of town—a solid brick house with flower boxes at the windows. She had two full-time employees at the dress shop and a woman who came to her home to care for her little son, clean her house, and cook her supper. Manda could not imagine the freedom of such a life: no scrubbing floors on hands and knees, no endless tending of stoves, no hauling buckets of water, no coddling other women’s children.

“Sure was good you hearing from Darcy,” Dimmert said, flicking the horse’s reins and startling her out of her reverie.

“Yes,” Manda said. “I brought the letter with me. Do you want me to read it aloud?”

“Maybe just the high points,” Dimmert said.

Manda took the missive from her linen poke and slid it from the envelope. Since Dimmert couldn’t read, she was happy to share it with him.

“The first part talks about the baby, how he is walking well now and has most all his teeth. Then she says the shop is doing good; ‘business is booming’ is exactly how she puts it.”

“Booming,” Dimmert said. “That does sound good.”

“She bought a new living room suite. It’s overstuffed.” Manda looked at Dimmert. “What do you think that means—overstuffed?”

“Sounds like me after one of Cara’s Sunday dinners. I reckon it means it hurts to sit on it.”

Manda shared a laugh with her brother. “Can’t you just see a big old sofa popping its buttons all over the room?”

Dimmert whooped. “You’re going to make me drive off the road, Sis.”

A load of wagon wheels shifted in the bed of the wagon, clicking and clacking when the wagon hit a hole in the road.

“You’re supposed to go around the chunk holes.”

“Your fault,” he said, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “You got me laughing so hard I can’t see to drive.”

“Want me to take the reins?” she said hopefully.

“Nah. How would that look? My sister driving this load of wheels into town? Why, folks would think you made them instead of me.”

“So? What if they did?”

“Don’t get too full of yourself. We don’t want you being overstuffed.”

That set them to laughing again.

They were nearly to town before Dimmert sobered and asked, “Does Darcy say anything about her husband?”

Manda slid page one behind page two. She ran her finger down the filmy onionskin stationery. “It’s right near the end.” She hated to put words to the nightmare that attached itself to Darcy’s dream like a tick on a dog. “Darcy writes that Henry is doing as best he can. He has lost weight. The prison food does not agree with him. And he has blisters on top of blisters from swinging a sledgehammer day after day.”

“Are we supposed to feel sorrow for him?” Dimmert asked. “He has got to make restitution one way or another for what he done. Breaking big rocks into little rocks is a start.”

Manda folded the fancy paper and stuck it back in the envelope. “Darcy isn’t fishing for sympathy. She says, ‘Don’t say anything about my Henry unless someone asks.’ You asked, Dimm.”

“Well, Darcy is family, and I do feel pity for her and her baby. But as for her husband—nary a whit.”

Manda put the letter away and leaned back against the wagon seat. It was warm from the sun. “I didn’t live here when the accident happened. So all I know is what I’ve gathered from listening to others. Ace and Dance don’t talk about it.”

“Accident is putting it kindly. I guess that’s how Darcy chooses to see it; otherwise she couldn’t live with herself.”

A buggy driven much too fast overtook them and whizzed by on the right side. Manda dodged a rock that was churned up by the buggy’s wheels. It hit the seat and bounced back to the road.

Dimmert threw out his arm as if he could protect her in hindsight. “You okay?”

Manda shivered. That’s just how quick your life could take a turn for the worse. “So what do you think happened that day at the sweetwater run? I’ve never heard you talk about it.”

“I guess I shouldn’t judge Darcy’s husband. I wasn’t there when it happened either,” Dimm said in his slow and thoughtful way. “But I don’t think Henry Thomas cleaving Ace Shelton’s head with a tomahawk was ary fluke of nature.”

“Having an opinion is not the same as judging someone, is it?”

“That’s one for the preacher to answer,” Dimmert said.

Manda turned on the bench until she could see her brother. “I’d really like to know what you think.”

Dimmert’s face turned pensive. “I had a little dealing with the lawyer Henry Thomas when I had my brush with the law. I think Henry was hatching his plans even then. He was lusting for Whitt land, and he aimed to get it any way he could.”

“How do you mean?”

Dimm pulled over to the side of the road. Laying the reins across his knee, he counted off his fingers as he talked. “Number one: get me sent to prison. Like he did by not taking proper care of my case, so’s he could trick Cara out of my land. Number two: marry Darcy Mae and steal her inheritance from our dying mammaw. Number three: slip up to the sweetwater run like a sheep-killing dog and accidentally bash Dance’s husband’s head in. Dance would be no match for a slick Willie like Henry. He’d’ve got her acreage by hook or by crook once Ace was out of the picture.” He whisked his hands together with a loud slap. “Wham, bam—line up the lambs.”

Startled by the loud noise, Manda jumped. “Don’t seem like the land handed down by our ancestors is valuable enough to drive a man to all that evil.”

Dimmert gave her a long, studying look. “There ain’t nothing but the land.” From where they sat, they could stare off into the distance at layer upon layer of fog-shrouded mountains. “God ain’t making any more of this as far as I know.” He flicked the reins and they were on the road again. “Where you heading to this morning?”

“Drop me off at the dry goods store. I’m looking at patterns and also picking up some items from Cara’s list.”

“Done,” Dimmert said, pulling in front of Coomb’s store. “You want to walk down to the livery stable after your shopping? I hope to sell all these wheels by morning’s end.”

Manda hopped down from the wagon. “Sounds good.”

“Leave your parcels here and we’ll pick them up on the way back,” Dimm said as he drove off, leaving Manda to her pleasure.

Mr. Coomb was out front polishing the store’s plate-glass window. Coomb’s Dry Goods and Apothecary was etched across the glass in flowing black script. Underneath in small print was If we don’t have it, you don’t need it.

“Morning,” Manda said as she crossed behind him.

Mr. Coomb laid his cloth aside and hurried to the door, which he opened with a flourish. “Good morning, Miss Whitt. Beautiful day.”

“That it is,” Manda murmured and stepped inside. She loved the feeling of plenty emanating from the store shelves and cases. Slowly she wandered up and down the aisles, stopping now and then to finger a bolt of cloth or to drool over a display of confections behind the glassed-in candy case. She could picture Darcy doing this daily. What must it be like to have such freedom? Dimmert’s feelings aside, Manda would trade every mountain on Troublesome Creek to live in a proper city. She was sure she would never tire of shopping.

“Could I help you find something?” a store clerk asked.

“Oh,” Manda said with a sigh, “I’m just taking it all in.”

“We got some new patterns from New York City just this week,” the salesclerk said, steering Manda toward the notions display and a rack of patterns. “These are up-to-the-minute,” she said discreetly as if she were telling Manda a secret meant for her ears alone. “I hear a modified bustle is the latest necessity.”

Like Manda didn’t know all about braided wire bustles and Empire corsets and Hygeia bust forms. She probably studied more fashion magazines in one month’s time than this clerk had ever seen. Manda took Cara’s mundane list from her pocket and handed it to the clerk. “Could you get these things for me? I’ll be picking out buttons for a new frock.”

Frock—that sounded like something Rose Feathergay would wear.

“Certainly,” the young woman said, pulling out a long drawer containing cards of snaps and buttons and fabric frogs. “Let me know if I can assist.”

Manda was glad when the saleswoman bustled away leaving her to enjoy the sudden wealth at her fingertips: pearl buttons and jet buttons and nickel-size blue buttons shaped like daisies among dozens of other fasteners. Manda took two cards of buttons from the drawer and held them up to the light. The pearl buttons were pretty and the least expensive, but the daisies . . . oh my. Ten cents for a card of eight—that was much more than she had expected to pay, but she simply had to have them.

A wire rack of Standard Designer patterns squeaked when she turned it. She really should have picked the pattern before selecting the buttons. Now she would have to find a dress to fit the notions instead of the other way round.

She selected one envelope from the dozens of offerings. The pattern was of a ladies’ blouse waist over a five-gored bell skirt. The blouse was closed with hooks and eyes but needed six buttons for embellishment. Perfect. The pattern cost twenty cents and was cut in eight sizes from thirty-two to forty inches bust measure. According to the instructions on the back of the envelope, Darcy would need four and three-eighths yards of material for a dress Manda’s size. Darcy had not said how much dress goods she had, but Manda supposed it would not be a problem.

“Have you decided?” The pesky clerk popped up again, ruining Manda’s concentration.

“Almost,” she said.

The bell over the door tinkled. The clerk hurried off.

Manda lingered over a display case of women’s products including Milk Weed Cream, Mennen’s borated talcum, and Madame Rowley’s Face Glove. What a creepy contraption, Manda thought. Madame Rowley’s toilet mask was held in place with a series of elastic bands. The printing on the box stated the face glove, if worn three times a week, was guaranteed by eminent physicians and scientists to remove wrinkles and brown spots on the face without the injurious effects of cosmetics. Manda studied her reflection in a counter mirror. Maybe she should think about it.

There were so many powders and potions, it was hard to decide on one. Her eyes lit on the one thing she really needed, a self-heating hair curler. It would be worth every penny of the one-dollar ticket.

“Could I show you something?” the clerk asked, walking behind the case and sliding the heavy glass door open. “Maybe some Correll’s Goat Milk Soap? I personally use the crème oatmeal toilet bar—guaranteed to lighten the complexion.”

“Might I see the curling iron?” Manda calculated the price of the curler along with her buttons and the pattern. She should have just enough.

“This is nice.” The clerk set the shiny curling rod on top of the case. “You can get it in the silver for just two dollars.”

“I thought the tag said one dollar.”

“Oh, that’s if you buy the nickel finish. I’m sure you’d want the silver.” The woman put a pretty leatherette case with a velvet lining alongside the curling iron. “The case is only one dollar more.”

Three dollars? The silver was nice, though. Manda sighed. Maybe next time. She handed her pattern and packet of buttons to the clerk. “I’ll just take these for now.” Manda patted her upper lip with her index finger as she stared down into the case. “And give me one bar of the oatmeal soap.”

Manda felt light as air when she stepped out the door onto the wooden sidewalk. She’d left Cara’s order for later pickup but she carried hers, swinging the paper bag against her skirts. If no one had been watching, she would have skipped, but the town was bustling with folks doing their weekly shopping.

In front of the barbershop, she saw a couple of ladies she knew from church and stopped to chat, which led to showing off her purchases.

“My,” one of the ladies exclaimed, “I don’t know when I’ve seen a prettier button.”

“What are you looking for today?” Manda asked.

“Just stocking the pantry,” one said. “Nothing near as nice as what you bought.”

“A new broom,” the other said. “Mine’s near worn to a nub.”

“I saw some in the window of the hardware store,” Manda said. “See you all tomorrow?”

“Certainly,” one of the women said. “See you in church.”

The livery station where Dimmert was selling his wares was on the outskirts of town. She walked on. Just across the street in front of the hotel, a crowd was forming. A little boy danced a jig as a familiar voice filled the air—soaring and dipping like a bird on the wing. She paused to listen. “Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies,” surely one of her favorites. How often did she and her sisters sing that tender tune of young love and dire warning? In a flash the song carried her right back to her childhood before the death of her mother turned things wrong.

Mommy hadn’t been one to cuddle and spoil her children. She had been a woman of few words and could go days without uttering an unnecessary one. But on hot summer nights after a supper of lard on biscuits or soup beans from the bottom of the pot, Mommy’s fine voice would soften the edges of their hunger. She would start a song, and soon the girls would join in harmonizing and singing parts. They had loved “Barbara Allen” and “Pretty Polly,” “Mary of the Wild Moors” and “The Wayfaring Stranger.”

And “Tender Ladies,” of course. Mommy had sung those words like a promise: “Love is handsome. Love is charming. Love is beauty while it’s new. Love grows old. Love grows colder and fades away like morning dew.”

Mommy had had her reasons to be a little jaded by love’s sweet promise, Manda suspected.

Manda crossed the street. It was the middling man. Manda knew it before the crowd dispersed, pitching change in a felt hat at his feet. She watched as he tucked a fiddle in a black case before pocketing the coins. Her heart trilled. Any moment now he might notice her and say hello. Instead, he slicked back his hair, stuck the wide-brimmed hat on his head, and quick as a wink disappeared around the side of the building.

Manda couldn’t believe it. She’d lost her chance.

Heart speeding up, she brushed past the bench where he had been sitting and glanced down the alleyway between the hotel and the grocery store next door. Two men and a dog with a long, skinny tail stood halfway down the alley, just past an overflowing trash bin. After a moment’s bickering, money and liquor changed hands. White mule, Manda thought, seeing what looked clear as springwater in the quart jar the middling man held. Nobody’d pay money for water. The other man elbowed the middling man, and he looked up the alley, catching her watching. Her heart thumped, beating painfully against her rib cage.

She ducked around the corner and nearly ran across the street. She kept glancing over her shoulder as she hurried along the slatted wooden sidewalk, but nobody followed. Her heart didn’t settle until she neared the livery station, where she could see several men selling wares from the beds of wagons: ax handles and one-eyed hoes and gallon jars of molasses. She’d just spotted Dimmert and started his way when she felt a presence close as a shadow behind her.

“Where you going in such a hurry, good-looking?” the middling man said, stepping around to block her path. “I been watching you watching me.”

Manda didn’t know whether to run or pass out. Maybe run and then pass out. It was his eyes that stopped her from doing either. Lightning seemed to leap from them and send teasing sparks up and down her arms. “I-I um . . .”

“What’s your name, little lady?”

Manda would have gladly told him, but at that moment she didn’t rightly know.

With one finger he traced the line of her jaw. “I bet it’s right pretty. A pretty girl’s bound to have a pretty name.” His breath smelled like liquor, too bright and perilous.

Manda went weak in the knees. She closed her eyes and reached out a hand to steady herself against a lamppost. When she opened them, he was gone.

She was home and eating supper before she realized that somewhere along the way she had taken leave of her shopping. Somehow it no longer seemed important. All that mattered was the kindling heat along the set of her jaw where the middling man had left his mark. Over and over her hand traced what his had mapped. She had never felt so beautiful.