Cradle to Grave (19 page)

Hot with embarrassment, Rees hurried his foster family to the rearmost log pew. Once they were settled, with the children behaving for the moment, Rees took a breath and looked around.

Maggie had drawn a good crowd. Owen Randall and his daughter sat upon a beautifully polished wooden pew several rows in front of Rees. Constable Cooper, accompanied by his wife, sat behind them. Miss Pike, her proud eyes fixed upon the pulpit, sat in the front, across the aisle from the Randalls. The Bakers and the Griffins occupied pews across the aisle, with a scattering of unfamiliar faces among them, and way in the back, seated upon the very last log, was Mary Pettit. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes.

Rees scanned the crowd again. What he found interesting were the absences: none of the selectmen, except for Mr. Randall, was in attendance, and certainly not Demming. He should have shown up, just for form's sake, Rees said to himself, a bubble of anger tightening in his chest. Poor Maggie. She'd lived among these people and deserved more than their disdain. And she'd fought hard for her little family. For that alone, she deserved some respect.

Heads began to turn right but Rees couldn't see why. Then Reverend Vermette appeared, his black robes sweeping behind him like the wings of a bird. He climbed into the chalice-shaped pulpit and opened the Bible before him.

“Before I call you all to worship,” Reverend Vermette said, his voice hoarse, “let us take a moment to remember our sister, Margaret Tucker Whitney.” His voice broke and he turned away momentarily. At least Vermette grieved; Rees was glad to see it. When the pastor turned back to the congregation, he had composed himself. “Many of us remember Maggie fondly. Some of us grew up with her while others met her as an adult. She experienced many tests in her life and did not pass them all with grace, but despite that she remained cheerful and determined to provide a home for her children.”

Rees lost the next few words; he turned to scold Nancy, who was squirming on the hard bench. He settled her with a hand upon her shoulder. When he turned his attention back to Vermette, the pastor had moved into Psalm 23.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

The congregation echoed the pastor in a ragged chorus, and Rees found himself joining in, almost involuntarily—his mother had dragged him to church for his first twelve years of life.

Lydia, holding Joseph tightly upon her lap, leaned across to scold Judah. Biting her lip in frustration, she moved the little boy to her other side, pinning him to the seat with a stern glare.

“Let us raise our voices in song,” the Reverend said, extending his hands in supplication. “Dust to dust, the mortal dies, both the foolish and the wise.…” His clear golden tenor soared through the church and the sudden lump in Rees's throat startled him.

The congregation shuffled noisily to their feet, their less than angelic voices rising into the hymn. Rees, who would cheerfully confess that he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, listened to the singers around him. Caleb Griffin, the owner of a pleasant tenor of his own, and his wife, who sang with more enthusiasm than melody. Mr. Baker bellowed the words rather than singing them, but Rees was glad to see the fervor; here was another who mourned the young woman.

All of the children remained quiet during the hymn, even Joseph. But when the singing stopped and Vermette announced his text for his sermon, Judah made a break for freedom. Tearing himself from Lydia's side, the little boy began running down the aisle toward the pulpit. Rees jumped to his feet. With the restraint of his looming presence gone, Nancy promptly climbed down from the bench and went after her brother. Joseph began shrieking at the top of his lungs, twisting his body in Lydia's grasp as he stretched his pudgy hands after the other children. Simon and Jerusha abandoned their seats and hastened after their younger siblings. Rees looked around at the horrified expressions surrounding him. With his cheeks burning, he pursued the children.

He caught up to Jerusha first. “Return to Miss Lydia,” he said. “Now. Go.”

“But Judah and Nancy…”

“I will deal with them,” Rees said. Jerusha peered into his face and then, without speaking another word, she turned around and went back to her seat.

Rees turned. In two long steps, he caught up to Nancy and grasped her skirt, jerking her backward. “Stop. Now.” The commands snapped out. Gulping and beginning to cry, Nancy halted. Rees took her hand and, spinning her around, pushed her toward Jerusha. “Go to your sister.”

“Disrespectful!” someone muttered. It must have been someone close to Rees, otherwise he would not have been able to hear it over Joseph's wails.

“Remove these children,” Vermette shouted. His lanky arms shrouded in his black robes flapped helplessly. Lydia, her face white except for two spots of scarlet burning on her cheekbones, stood up. With Jerusha and Nancy before her, and Joseph in her arms, she swept toward the door.

Rees started toward the pulpit, veering left as Simon went right, with Judah in between them. Judah's shrill giggles rang through the hall.

“This is a place of worship!” Vermette shouted.

With a gasp of relief, Rees scooped up Judah and carried him, kicking and screaming, toward the back door. Very conscious of the condemning glares from the congregation, Rees did not dare look to either side. He was dimly conscious of Simon running after him.

They burst through the doors and out into the gray morning light. The air was already much colder and smelled of snow. Rees put Judah down and turned to Simon. “Take him to the buggy. We're going home.” The girls were already inside but Lydia had paused by the wheel. Her shoulders were shaking, and Rees put on a burst of speed to reach her. “Lydia. What's wrong?” He put his arms around her. “It's all right.”

She turned a face streaked with tears and a mouth trembling with emotion toward him. “I'm sorry. I know it's wrong.” She erupted into helpless laughter. Rees stared. “It's so disrespectful. But when Judah ran around that pulpit…” Gusts of hilarity overtook her once again.

Rees smiled. “Yes, it was very funny.”

“The expressions on their faces.” Lydia's words disappeared in a burst of helpless laughter. “Judah's skirts flapping.” She fluttered her fingers.

As the image unrolled in Rees's head, he began laughing, too. “Judah's break for freedom,” he said.

“My mother's death isn't funny.” Jerusha's small voice barely penetrated the laughter but both Rees and Lydia heard her. They sobered instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lydia said, turning and touching the child's arm. “We aren't laughing at your mother.”

“No,” Rees said. How did you explain to a child that sometimes the most awful tragedies elicit laughter as a way of softening the blow? “Your mother would have found the scene funny, too, to see all of those sitting in judgment upon her confounded by Judah.”

Jerusha shook her head.

Rees held out his hand to Lydia. “Let me help you into the buggy. I think it's time to leave.”

She nodded. “I feel so sorry for your mother,” she told Jerusha in a trembling voice. Since Lydia's laughter seemed ready to evolve into tears, Rees put his hand upon her shoulder and gave a brief squeeze.

“It has been a very emotional time. And you are overtired.” He glanced at the children sitting in the buggy, all staring in rapt attention. He jerked his head in their direction. Lydia wiped her eyes and smiled at them all. Jerusha responded with a tremulous grin.

“Time to go home,” Lydia said.

“I have to go back to the Baker farm,” Simon said. “I promised I would help the Bakers.”

“But it's Sunday,” Lydia objected.

“The livestock still have to be fed and watered,” Simon said, “and the cows milked. I have to go. I promised.” Rees understood; hard work was how the boy coped with emotions he couldn't comprehend.

Lydia turned to continue the argument. Rees put a hand upon her wrist. “He must go.” She shook her head without understanding but said no more.

So Rees stopped by the Baker farm and watched Simon climb the drive. He looked so small and so determined struggling over the slippery snow; Rees was unprepared for the wave of protectiveness that swept through him.

*   *   *

Thick gray clouds continued to stream in from the west. All the melt was freezing, although it was almost noon and usually the warmest part of the day. When they reached the cabin, Rees was careful to put Ares into the lean-to and close the ill-fitting door before he went inside. He suspected the horse would need protection from the weather tonight.

And they would probably need more firewood, he thought, for tonight as well as for the few days he would be away. He went around the lean-to to the woodpile. He chopped the larger of the branches into logs and then split them. Most of the firewood he stacked outside the cabin door but when he went inside he carried a large armful.

Because of the fire blazing on the hearth, the small cabin felt fairly warm. Rees dropped the freshly split wood by the fire and shucked his greatcoat. He could feel the icy air streaming in around the door and up through the floorboards, but at least the walls were tighter against the cold, he thought, surveying the amber-colored barrel staves he'd nailed up. Lydia had put beans in a bake kettle and thrust it into the embers to cook. The churn had been abandoned; Nancy carded wool while Jerusha struggled to spin an even strand of yarn. Judah staggered busily around the cottage on some toddler errand. “Joseph?” Rees asked.

“Napping.” She came forward to greet him.

“I chopped enough wood for several days. It should last while I'm in Albany.” Lydia nodded, clenching her hands involuntarily together. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes.” Lydia forced a smile. “It will be lonely.”

Rees touched her shoulder gently. “What happened to the butter?”

A crease formed between her brows. “I can't get it to come.”

“Ah. I think it may be too cold in here. My mother used to pour a little hot water down the dasher. That may help.”

With a doubtful expression, Lydia went to the churn. She pulled out the dasher and poured a thin stream of hot water from the teakettle upon it. Dropping the dasher back into the churn, she began the rhythmic pounding, up and down. Joseph's soprano babbling floated through the bedroom door into the cabin.

With a sigh, Lydia abandoned the churn and went to fetch him. Rees went to the churn and peeked inside. The butter would form soon; he pounded the dasher down with such force he felt the vibration through his boots.

Jerusha rose from the chair and peered through the small window by the door. “It's snowing harder,” she said. Rees joined her, looking over her shoulder to the whirling white outside. In just those few minutes since he'd been outside, the weather had gotten much worse. The wind had picked up, and it whipped the snow into a blinding curtain. Rees could feel the change in temperature; it felt very cold standing by the window. “Will Simon be able to make it home?” Jerusha asked, her voice trembling.

“Of course,” Rees said. “Don't worry.” He urged her back to the fire. But he threw an anxious glance through the window at the blizzard outside.

The weather worsened throughout the afternoon. Not only Jerusha but Rees and Lydia spent many minutes staring through the window, cleaning away the frost patterns as they developed. Darkness fell in mid-afternoon, and then they could see nothing at all.

“Where is that boy?” Rees muttered, trying in vain to see through the whirling white outside. “Mr. Baker must have gotten home from the funeral hours ago.”

“Mr. Baker probably kept Simon,” Lydia said, joining him at the glass. Using her apron, she scrubbed a large circle in the frost but it did not provide any additional visibility.

“Simon should be home soon,” Jerusha said, squeezing in front of Rees to lean her forehead on the cold glass.

“Little while,” he said, trying to see through the unbroken wall of gray outside.

“Supper is almost ready,” Lydia said.

Rees nodded and pulled up a chair to the table. As he sat down, Jerusha fetched an oddly shaped object shrouded in a linen towel from the counter. She watched breathlessly as Rees unfolded the linen from a lumpy loaf of bread, slightly burnt on one side. “Did you make this?” he asked. Jerusha nodded, pride and anxiety mingled in her expression.

“Her first attempt at baking,” Lydia said as she placed bowls and spoons around the table. Her tone warned him to be kind.

“It looks wonderful,” Rees said, sawing a slice off at the end with his pocketknife. He took a bite. It was chewier than it should have been and Rees could feel his jaws working. Still, it would be edible once he dunked it into his beans. “Great,” he said, through the sticky mass in his mouth. “Wonderful flavor.” Lydia took pity upon him and scooped a large spoonful of beans into his bowl. He took several large bites. With a smile Lydia poured him a mug of cider. Rees swallowed the whole of it in one draft. He could still feel the bread lodged somewhere under his breastbone. Sliding the remainder of the ragged piece into his bowl, he added, “I'll enjoy eating the rest of it with my supper.” Jerusha beamed.

Lydia called all the children to the table and served them. For Joseph, she soaked some of the bread in milk and a little of the molasses syrup from the beans. He seemed to like the soggy brownish mass. Rees couldn't watch.

Simon still had not returned by the time they finished supper. Rees wondered that the parade of feet, as he, Lydia, and Jerusha went back and forth from the window, did not wear a path in the floor.

“Maybe I'd better go and fetch him,” Rees said, rising to his feet.

“He might be coming over the hill by now,” Lydia said anxiously.

Rees put on his coat and lit the candle in the lantern. “I'll start walking over the hill toward the Baker farm; maybe I'll meet him,” he said. He knew Lydia would not rest until the boy was safely home, and anyway Rees was worried, too.