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"I’VE BEEN THINKING," Melissa said, "about that comment of hers."
"Which comment?" Rebecca Jo asked.
"The one about Homer being so upset about something."
"Why?"
A good question. I wondered the same thing.
"Even if she found out, do you think she’d necessarily write the answer down? I mean, maybe he told her or she heard about it—about something that had upset him—from somebody else, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she would have explained. After all, she didn’t know we’d be questioning it more than two hundred years later."
I had to think about that one. Apparently everybody else did, too.
We all swiveled toward Sadie when she spoke. "Do people ever really tell the truth in their journals?"
"I think she’s told the truth so far." Maddy had a tinge of anger in her voice.
"I’m not accusing Mary Frances of anything," Sadie said. "But it’s the old thing about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"Hmm," Rebecca Jo said. "Are you suggesting that maybe there were things she couldn’t bring herself to write about?"
"Exactly."
"Maybe not," Ida said, "but with what she has written, I think she’s been pretty open." She glanced over the next page in the journal. "Let’s just keep going. There’s really no definite answer to your question."
Sadie shrugged in agreement.
Monday, 21 October 1745
I saw my Hubbard yesterday at church, and hoped that he might not leave immediately after the service as is his wont. But I was disappointed again, for he left even more rapidly than usual. Miss Julia made a point of approaching me, though, and we arranged for her to come here to my house, after the harvest, to show me how to divide my skirts. She did in fact appear this morning, before the dew had disappeared, rather than waiting for another fortnight. I am delighted to know the technique she used to so cleverly conceal the seams—until she is astride a horse or until she walks with such surety down the street that the wide legs of her “skirts” billow out, no one would suspect her secret. I know though that I will not have the nerve to tailor my own clothing in such a way. I fear what Mister Martin might say. No, I fear instead what he might do if I were to go so much against the grain of what is considered proper for a woman.
"That’s too bad," Pat said, stretching her pant-clad legs out in front of her. "I can’t imagine life in long heavy skirts all the time."
"I’m surprised that Homer didn’t throw Miss Julia out of town if he objected that much to her outfits."
I had to agree with Melissa. "Still," I said, "maybe he enjoyed watching her legs—or what he could see of them."
"Dirty old man," Rebecca Jo muttered.
I fear, too, to bring his thoughts too much to bear upon the Gilmans, lest he somehow become suspicious of their presence here in the village.
I had only a few more moments to speak with her, for the women of the town began bringing their small children for me to tend while they worked behind the men in the fields, and all thought of conversation went out the window. I did take a moment though to tell Miss Julia that I would not alter my clothing. She did naught but study me with those kind eyes of hers. I suspect she had noticed how carefully I must hold my right arm—indeed, writing in this journal of mine is still difficult, for I cannot hold the book steadily with my right hand in order to wield my quill with my left. I should, I suppose, be grateful that Mister Martin did not injure me any further and particularly that he vented his anger on my right arm rather than my left. His ravings seem to have dissipated his anger somewhat. I know not what angered him so that day, but then again, I seldom know. All I know is the sullenness of his mood and the quick explosion of his fist.
“That bastard,” Pat said.
Maddy uncrossed and re-crossed her legs on her pile of pillows and cupped her chin in her hands. “So much for the hallowed name of Homer Martin. I’d vote for a lynch mob if he were still around.”
“Just put him in one of your books.” Dee’s eyes could really get narrow when she was angry, I thought. “Kill him off, and it’ll make you feel better.”
“Before you do that,” Sadie said, “I would suggest that you tell the world he was impotent. That’ll serve him right.”
My eyes must have goggled out of my head because Sadie spread her hands and splayed her fingers.
Before she could defend her opinion—not that I disagreed with her—Ida tapped the journal. “That probably wouldn’t be a lie. I think he really was. He certainly never got Mary Frances pregnant, even though they were married all those years.”
Rebecca Jo wiped her forehead. “All those years living with a monster.”
“Why”—Amanda spoke for the first time in a long time—“did the men of the town continue to hold him in such high regard? Surely somebody would have noticed that he was drunk most of the time—”
“Only every evening,” Pat said.
Amanda kept talking. “He was drunk, he couldn’t make a decision without consulting Silas first, and his wife barely tolerated him.”
Carol dusted her hands off, as if what she was about to say was repugnant. “Her opinion, I’m sorry to say, wouldn’t have mattered that much way back then.”
"I need a bathroom break," Charlie said, and most everyone jumped to their feet, agreeing with the need for a break, but Charlie made it to the stairs before anyone could get ahead of her.
It’s a good thing we have a lot of bathrooms in this house, I thought. And an even better thing that they’re still all working.
Sadie looked over at me and winked. "Charlie always was fast on her feet."
"She was?"
"When she was little, she almost reminded me of my Wallace, the way he liked to run so much. Only Charlie did more dancing than running." Sadie looked around her. Everybody else had left the two of us alone in the attic. "She was a cute little thing."
"You knew her well back then?"
"As well as an old neighbor lady can know a small child. She was like a little redheaded angel. Very thoughtful for such a youngster."
"How old was she when they left?"
"Oh, I don’t know. Eight or nine I suppose." She gazed over toward the head of the stairs. "I really wish she hadn’t dyed that hair of hers such an unlikely shade of black."
I shrugged. "Different tastes."
Sadie scoffed. "Some of which are abominable."
It was the most unkind thing I’d ever heard from Sadie. "I bet she hopes this storm doesn’t last too much longer. Her blonde roots are beginning to show."
Maddy and Charlie came back upstairs, followed shortly by Ida. I looked Charlie over, hoping she hadn’t heard my last comment, but she didn’t seem perturbed.
"I think it’s our turn now," Sadie said, and preceded me down the steps. I followed, trying to figure out why she’d looked so puzzled at my last comment. People’s roots always showed if they didn’t keep up with the touch-ups.
~ ~ ~
MONDAY, 21 OCTOBER 1745
THE LAST THING Hubbard Brandt felt like doing was wielding a scythe, for he longed to work on the carving of the church doors, but there would be much need of hay this winter to feed the livestock, as well as oats and barley. The growing season had been long, and the crops had fared well. There was a half-patch, to be shared by all the folk of the town, of the small legume called the black-eyed pea. Miss Julia had been delighted to find that it was included in the crops, although she had called it a cowpea. According to Mistress Surratt, the Martin clan had tasted of it at one of the towns on their journey south, and had obtained enough of the dried beans to plant. Fortunately, these could be harvested over a period of months, rather than the intensive weeks of harvest proper.
Hubbard had swung a scythe often enough in past years, but was fearful that his missing eye would cause him not to be able to maintain a steady rhythm. He still misjudged the distance to the ground occasionally and stumbled as a result. Back in Brandtburg the hay harvest, conducted in August rather than the mild October of these southern fields, had always been accompanied by a joyous gathering of all the Brandt families.
He let his mind wander to how much he would have enjoyed seeing Mary Frances, with her hair tied back and wrapped in a scarf to protect it from the wisps of hay that clung to everything it touched, laughing with the other women. He had no doubt that she would have been welcomed by the women into the Brandt family, for the women, unlike the men, had ever seemed to have cordial relations.
“Gilman!”
It took Hubbard a moment to remember that Gilman was who he now was. He met Call Surratt’s quizzical gaze. “Yes?”
“We’ve work to do, in case you had not noticed.”
At that, John did notice. They had reached the hayfield, and already young Edward Surratt had waded into the edge of the tall growth. John could see the narrow strip of hay—perhaps two swipes of Edward’s small scythe—that lay awaiting the women who would come along behind them to rake it into rows and gather it into bundles after it had dried sufficiently.
Silas Martin and his stepson, Brand Tarkington, worked two dozen paces away, already headed well into the field, and beyond them he could see the other men and boys, each with a family strip to complete.
They should finish this field by early afternoon. Then they would go on to the barley and the oats. Why did the grains not ripen at different times, like the cowpeas, rather than all at once?
~ ~ ~
ONCE WE HAD ALL GATHERED back after the bathroom break, Ida and I compared journal dates. "Good grief," I said, "Hubbard doesn’t write anything else until the end of November, the twenty-sixth."
"Guess it’s up to me to keep going then," Ida said.
Tuesday, 22 October 1745
I feel so exhausted, I can barely hold up my head, but I must take a moment to write, for Mister Homer Martin lies insensible on our bed. All the men of the town no doubt lie so this night, and the women as well, for we all laboured long on the harvest.
"That explains why Hubbard wasn’t writing," Carol said.
"What do you mean?" I couldn’t see a reason in just those two sentences.
"The harvest." She pointed to the journal. "Everybody worked so hard to get the crops in on time before the winter set in, it’s a wonder she managed to write anything. Nobody was exempt. These were the days when all the harvesting had to be done by hand. Even with machines, it’s exhausting work. I can’t even conceive how pooped they must have been with all that bending and hauling."
"Makes sense," Ida said.
The men began yesterday, but I did not join in the work, for my arm pained me too much to rake the hay. I made my excuses and accepted instead the task of watching the children who are too young to walk with their parents to the fields. I think I would have had less difficulty wrestling the crops! Each time I had to lift one of the children, I found it necessary to clench my teeth together lest I cry out and frighten them. Feeding baby Barnard Surratt proved almost to be beyond my capability. That child already seems built like a young ox, though he is but five months old. I found myself often asking for help from the young girls who shared my task. They did not question me, but I noticed many covert looks.
"I wonder if that woman knew how funny she was,” Pat said.
Ida pinched the bridge of her nose. I do that, too, when my head is aching. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Volunteering to watch the babies and then almost regretting it because it was so much harder than raking hay would have been.”
“I can empathize,” I said, “having at one time had three in diapers. I thought Sandra was never going to get potty-trained.”
For that reason, today I went into the harvest fields. I was soon caught up in the rhythm of the work and found ways in which I could alleviate the pain in my right arm by shifting most of the effort onto my left. That worked well while we raked the hay, but when we moved into an adjacent oat field and I had to trade my rake for a sickle to cut off the oat heads, I was at a disadvantage. They make no sickles for women who use their left hand, so I would have been awkward anyway using my right. At least being cack-handed gave me an excuse for the difficulty I was having,
"Cack-handed?" I asked. "What’s that?"
"Left-handed," Maddy said.
"Oh. Of course."
so no one need know what Mister Martin has done to me. At one time I found myself separated from the other women, and felt true joy as I showed young John how to fashion a little poppet for himself from wisps of oat straw that were too small to gather into the bundles. He will soon enough have to do his fair share of the work. For now, I was content simply to have him at my side and could have happily stayed there—had my arms and legs been able to sustain the effort—forever. Better to be so imprisoned there in the oat field than to be immured here in this love-forsaken house.
My arm is somewhat better. I think the movement is good for it. Once I begin the threshing tomorrow, I may feel differently!
My kitchen garden fares well, with turnips and pumpkin, beans and cabbage, potatoes and carrots aplenty. I have already collected a large number of baskets of cowpeas. We will be well provided for this winter.
“Too bad Mary Frances didn’t live nowadays when they make scissors for us left-handed people,” Glaze said. “I don’t know about sickles, though. I wonder if she ever got used to using her right hand to cut the oats.”
“What’s the difference between a scythe and a sickle?”
I stared at Maddy. It never occurred to me that somebody wouldn’t know that.
“I grew up in Atlanta." She must have noticed my incredulous look. "What do I know about farming?”
“No need to get defensive,” Melissa said. “A scythe has a long handle and it’s used to cut things at ground level, like hay or grass. A sickle is a hand-tool that’s used for wheat or oats. You grab a handful of the grain stalks a little below the heavy heads, use the sickle to chop off what you’re holding—it has a curved blade that makes it easy to do as long as you keep it sharp. Then you dump those in a bucket you have strapped around your waist, and grab the next bunch.” She stopped speaking, as if that explained everything.
“And you have to be sure not to chop your hand off,” Sadie added helpfully.
“Then what?” Maddy insisted.
“Then,” Sadie said, “when you’ve collected all the heads of the oats or wheat or whatever, you have to separate the grain from the chaff. That’s called threshing. It helps if there’s a stiff wind blowing when you do it."
"You know what this reminds me of," I said. "That thing by Dinah somebody or other about the comfort of friendship."
"Huh?"
I couldn’t blame Dee—I guess I hadn’t been very clear. "Something about how you can talk about anything with a good friend—I think she said something like how you can speak chaff and grain together—and then the breath of friendship would blow away all the chaff and leave the good grain."
Several blank stares greeted this pronouncement.
"Sorry," I said. "I’ll have to look up the whole quotation."
"Right," Maddy said. "So once you have a stiff wind, what’s next?"
"You pound on the heads—we used a wooden mallet—and the wind blows off the chaff, and what you’re left with is the good oats. All the stubble—the lower stalks of the oats—is scythed, raked, and bundled up. That’s the straw that’s used for bedding in stables.”
"What if there’s no wind that day?"
Sadie stared at Maddy for a moment. "I don’t know. You just wait until there’s a breeze, I guess."
"That might take a while," Carol said.
"You can plug in a fan," Melissa said, "if you have one that’s big enough."
"But they didn’t have electricity back then," Patty said.
"We don’t here, either," Charlie noted.
"There usually is a breeze here," I told them. "Something about the configuration of river and cliffs I would imagine."
"Maybe I’ll plant a small patch of oats next year," Melissa said. "Give Maddy a back to the earth experience."
“Really? Wow, thanks! It sounds like it might be fun.”
“Depends on how long you have to work at it,” Melissa said. “It becomes back-breaking after a while.”
“So, did you actually do it, or have you just read about it?”
“We did it, Maddy,” Sadie said. “My parents had a big oat patch out behind our house—where the beehives are now—and we gathered enough each fall to keep us eating oatmeal through the winter.”
“And I did it,” Melissa said, “when I went through my back-to-nature phase.” Her mouth quirked in a silly grin. “It didn’t last long.”
"Sometimes," Sadie said, "they gathered the chaff and used it to stuff pillows if they didn’t have enough goose down."
"Did that work?" Pat asked.
"I doubt it," Rebecca Jo put in. "It would be scratchy as heck."
"A sickle," Maddy mused. "Or better yet, a scythe. Sounds like a great way to kill somebody."
Ida stood and stretched. “Attic stuff for a while. We have to get Maddy’s mind off murdering Homer Martin.”