Sylvie had not been planning to go to Old Home Day. She had made the decision the night before, telling the boys that they had too much work to do and that they would stay at home. They had been disappointed, but had not pushed back, even Louis, who had been talking about Old Home Day in the same way he talked about the Bethany Fair, remembering its delights and speculating about what it would be like when they went this year. Last year, he had ridden a pony and eaten two pieces of cake when Hugh was off talking to someone about selling some of their heifers. Hugh had never been aware of the cake and Louis had never told him, mentioning it to Sylvie only in quiet moments when he knew Hugh could not hear. She had been expecting tears from Louis; he had just nodded and absorbed the news stoically.
But then, after the younger boys were in bed, Scott had come out to find her where she was bringing the washing in and said seriously, “Is it because of … because of the fire, that you don’t want us to go, I mean?”
She had stopped folding the sheet she’d taken down and turned to look up at him. “Well, yes, I suppose that’s why,” she said. “I don’t want people looking at us, feeling sorry for us. I don’t like that.”
“I wouldn’t like it either,” he said. “But maybe it would be … maybe it would take the boys’ minds off it. It might make it better for them.” He looked away and she reached out to touch his shoulder, trying to say with her touch what she couldn’t put into words. His face was in profile against the almost-dark sky. She caught a glimpse of her oldest brother suddenly, something about the shape of Scott’s forehead.
“Let’s see how we all feel tomorrow,” she’d said. “It may be raining and then we won’t want to go anyway.”
But though the skies looked threatening, it didn’t rain in the morning and by the time they’d finished chores and she’d made lunch for them, she felt lighter, almost optimistic, and she said, “You know what, let’s go down and get some cotton candy! I’ve been thinking about cotton candy!” and the younger boys had smiled, confused but excited by the turn of events. Scott had looked apprehensive but pleased and said he’d go out and start the truck up. She hadn’t driven in a while and as they’d clambered in, Scott next to her and the other boys in the bed, she said, “I’ve almost forgotten how. It will be good when you can drive us to town, Scott,” and he smiled shyly. It wouldn’t be long now. He was supposed to start high school in September, but she worried he might feel differently about it now. She’d have to talk to him, even if she’d been avoiding it. He felt so much, saw so much. There was so much unsaid between them, so many things they would have to figure out now. And yet, she didn’t want him to have to be old before his time. She had been taking care of babies before she was ten years old in her large family, always too many mouths to feed and not enough to put in them. Her parents had done their best, but she had hoped for something different for Scott. But now … Sylvie sighed as the truck bumped onto County Road. In the back, the little boys laughed and hung on to the sides of the truck bed, comfortable on the pile of loose hay that had been in there for weeks now.
The green was still full of people when they parked the truck at four. Scott and Louis ran ahead and Andy held Daniel’s hand so he wouldn’t get lost. There were more tents than she remembered from last year, people selling crafts and jams and jellies. She should have brought her jam after all. How many jars might have been bought out of sympathy? The boys were already waiting at the cotton candy tent when she got there and she took out a few of the bills Mrs. Bellows had tucked into the basket and bought everyone their own cone of cotton candy—a rare indulgence.
People were staring; she knew they would. But she found she didn’t care as much as she had thought. Let them stare.
Barbara Falconer came up to them and the boys stood there shyly, watching her, while she said, “Sylvie, all of you. I’m so very, very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Sylvie said. She had always liked Barbara. Barbara had told her a few times how bright the boys were and had made her feel that she was doing a good job with them. It was interesting, Sylvie thought, how when someone told you you were doing a good job, it made you want to do a good job. That was how it had been with Barbara. When Barbara took the job at Goodrich Hill School three years ago after she finished at the University of Vermont, she had immediately noticed that Andy was a strong reader, though he needed to work on his math. She had praised Sylvie for giving him so much exposure to books and writing and then said, “You can work with him on his times table, if you want. You’ve done such a good job with the reading that he’ll have them in no time,” and Sylvie had found that she wanted to work with him and, sure enough, he’d gotten them right away. That was the kind of student Andy was. You only needed to push him a little in the right direction and then he had it immediately. Hugh had been a bit jealous of that sometimes, Sylvie thought, of how quickly Andy understood things, how quickly he could get all the way inside an idea or a fact. It was ridiculous, a grown man being jealous of a boy, but nonetheless Sylvie had known it to be true.
Barbara gave Sylvie a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “How are the boys? Is there anything I can do to help? I hope you got the basket we sent to the Uptons.”
“Yes, thank you. It was delicious. We’re okay, all things considered, though you can help me convince Scott that he should go to high school,” she said, checking to make sure he wasn’t listening. “I think he might have decided he needs to stay home now, to help me. But I can manage fine. I want him to go.”
Barbara smiled. “Of course. Leave it to me. I’ll work on him.”
And while Sylvie finished her cotton candy and let her mind float just a little as she watched the crowds, Barbara asked the boys about the animals and told them about the puppies and then she said offhandedly to Scott, “Oh, Scott, I meant to tell you. The new wood-shop teacher at the high school is wonderful. I told him all about you and about the little table you made for the school last year and he said he is going to look for you on the first day of school. You’ll like the new math teacher too. She’s very smart. She’ll be able to keep up with you.”
Barbara chatted with the boys and Sylvie looked around at the crowds. The Ferris wheel and merry-go-round moved at the other end of the green. There was something so pretty and festive about the white tent and the tables and colorful banners hanging by each one. Outside the Ladies Aid tent, there were tables with large pink flower arrangements from Mrs. Bellows’s garden. Blossoms of light? Drops of color? How to describe the cheerful colors of Old Home Day? Her brain was tired, but she wanted to take a picture of it, to remember later.
The voice from behind her snapped her back. “Mrs. Weber. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
It was Jeffrey Sawyer, taller than she remembered, tall enough that she had to tip her head back to see him, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. He had a long gray beard and he was wearing army clothes, a tattered olive-green jacket with patches and badges on the pockets and shoulders, and olive-green trousers. She was confused by that at first and then she remembered that the veterans usually marched in the parade. Hugh, who had not served because of his terrible eyesight, had always seemed uncomfortable when they marched past.
“Thank you,” she said. She didn’t know what to say after that. Sylvie often felt that she didn’t know what to say to people. They looked at you as though they were expecting something, like there was a script, but no one had given the script to her. It was hard to translate her thoughts into words sometimes. But he just nodded as though he also did not know what to say. A loud popping, like a gunshot, startled them both and when she looked up at his face, she could see he was anxious. But then he said, “One of those old cars that was in the parade.”
She nodded and he was turning to go when an angry voice came from behind him.
“What did you mean by that? What did you mean by that display in the parade? That was shameful. Are you a communist or what?”
Gordo Forbush, his face red and angry, pointed at Jeffrey Sawyer. He was drunk, Sylvie knew. She recognized the unfocused look of his gaze, the way he overpronounced the word “communist,” like it tasted new in his mouth. She felt her body freeze, her mind go narrow. She knew too well the electric tension in the air between the men. When they were like this, when drink was involved, well, things moved very quickly. She didn’t know Gordo well, but she had heard enough stories from Hugh to know he had a reputation for fighting.
“I was just exercising my right to free speech, Mr. Forbush,” Jeffrey said. “That’s what I fought for over there, after all.” He said it breezily and started to turn away, but Gordo wasn’t going to let it go. He grabbed Jeffrey by the arm and spun him around.
Jeffrey shrugged him off and then drew himself up and put his hands on Gordo’s arms and looked down at him. “I don’t want to fight with you,” he said. “I want peace with all men.”
Where were the boys? Sylvie looked around. If this was going to be a fight, she didn’t want them to see it. She reached up to wipe sweat from her forehead. It was very hot standing out here in the sun and she needed some water. The baby kicked, as if protesting the heat, and she put a hand on her belly, feeling a bit dizzy.
A few people had gathered and Sylvie could feel them all holding their breath. Gordo was staring up at Jeffrey, his face crumpled in anger. Jeffrey stared back impassively. After a long moment of tight silence, Gordo swore and stumbled away.
Relief washed over her. She called to the boys and said they would walk around the green and then it was time to head home. She was so tired all of a sudden, exhausted by the week and the grief and the worry and the heat. Above the green, the skies were gray now, but no rain had fallen. The air seemed infused with energy.
It felt now like everyone really was staring at them. She had had nothing to do with the argument between Jeffrey and Gordo Forbush, and yet everyone seemed to think she was a part of it. She felt suddenly that they needed to get home now, right now, and she tried to smile at the woman walking toward her, holding a baby. Sylvie couldn’t remember her name, but she was married to Erik, who worked at the tavern. Perhaps he was working today. Hugh had told her about Erik, that he was a Dartmouth student and seemed to be “a bit more intelligent than your usual fellow in town.” Sylvie had met them a few times in town, had sat in the waiting room at Dr. Falconer’s with Erik’s pretty wife, hardly more than a girl, who started to raise her hand in greeting.
Suddenly, she saw Hugh’s brother approaching. He was coming from the direction of the inn and like Gordo, he was quite drunk already. She could tell from the way he weaved and held his arms at his sides to steady himself.
Sylvie felt everything start to blur. All she cared about was getting the boys away from him. She turned, looking for them, but everything was strange, blurry and indistinct. She thought she heard Louis’s voice call out “Maman?” But she wasn’t sure. She closed her eyes, trying to gather her strength, and suddenly, he was right in front of her.
“Are you enjoying your newfound wealth, Sylvie?” he slurred, looking at her with a mixture of disgust and wanting that made her terrified. She couldn’t find a single word in her head, though she thought she might have made a small, strangled sound.
“I needed that money and he promised it to me,” he said in a low voice meant only for her. “Did you make him change his will?”
What was he talking about? She stared at him. “I don’t know … I don’t know what…”
“I’m his executor, or did you forget that? I called the bank and they told me all about the accounts. You’re a rich woman now. Are you happy? Are you happy?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed to say. “Anything he had . . it’s for his children.”
“If they’re even his,” he spat out, the words tangling on his tongue. “He told me about you, you know. He said he thought you’d be a good breeder. Turned out he was right.” He was really slurring his words now, speaking slowly and trying to enunciate. “But I wondy … wonder about you. He told me he’d never leave anything to you, because you’re too stupid to know what to do with money. Simple, he called you! He knock you up? Is that why you married? Because you tricked him into—”
She heard someone say, “Mr. Weber!” and then Victor leaned forward and she could smell the whiskey on his breath and feel his hands digging into her arms as he tried to make her look up at him and she turned her face away and closed her eyes and felt the world start to slip. The boys, where were the boys?
“Mr. Weber, step away!” It was Chief Longwell. “Mr. Weber!”
“Are you okay, Mrs. Weber?” someone asked her. Warren, the policeman. She recognized his voice and she opened her eyes and tried to tell him to make sure the boys couldn’t hear, but then a wave of nausea rose up. Everything slowed down and she felt as though she were hearing the voices in slow motion.
She heard thunder and felt rain on her face and then everything went dark.