In the Face of Danger (15 page)

Megan could see no reason not to tell Emma most of the story, so she described the dirty house and how she had cleaned it. “Mrs. Haskill doesn’t care about her house,” Megan said.

“That’s a bad sign.” Emma sighed. “Poor Ada. We must try to make things easier for her. I wish I knew how.”

“I don’t think there’s a way in the world to make things better for Mrs. Haskill,” Megan said. “No matter what I do for her, it doesn’t please her. I don’t like helping her, not one little bit.” There. Now that the words had been spoken, Megan sighed with relief.

“I’m sure, knowing you, Megan, that you helped Ada the same way you would have if you
had
liked her. Didn’t you?”

“Well, yes. That I did,” Megan answered.

“Then it comes to the same thing.”

“But not the way I feel about it. That’s not the same.”

“Is the way you feel as important as what you do?”

“Yes! No.” Megan flopped into a nearby chair. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,” she said, even though she had to admit to herself that Emma was probably right.

Later, Emma repeated Megan’s account of Ada Haskill’s problems to Ben.

“It’s obvious that Ada’s lonely,” he said. “We’ll invite them when the Parsons come to visit, and we can certainly share our Christmas with them. That might help.”

“Of course,” Emma promptly answered, but there was little enthusiasm in her voice.

What Ben had said was right and the only neighborly
thing to do, Megan knew, but Christmas was going to be hard enough to bear, so far away from her family. Having Ada Haskill around would truly turn the holiday into a miserable day for everyone. With all her heart Megan wished that Mrs. Haskill would just go away.

Her wish had been so strong that Megan felt both shock and guilt when two days later the Haskills drove up in a wagon heaped high with their household possessions. Emma’s down pillow rested on the seat between them. Behind the wagon a cow was tied.

“We’re leaving Kansas,” Mr. Haskill said. “It’s too hard a life here for a lady like Ada.”

Mrs. Haskill, her beautiful hat pinned firmly in place, glanced at her husband with approval.

“Granted, it takes a lot of hard work,” Ben said in a mild tone.

Mr. Haskill hunched his shoulders defensively. “There’ve been plenty who’ve had the good sense to leave,” he said.

“That’s right,” Emma echoed, and Mrs. Haskill glanced at her with grateful surprise. “It’s important for the two of you to put your marriage first. Where are you going? What will you do?”

“We may try Ohio,” Mr. Haskill said. “Maybe we’ll settle even farther east.”

“In a city,” Mrs. Haskill added firmly. “Mr. Haskill is skilled at many things. He should have no trouble finding well-paid work to do.” Mr. Haskill’s cheeks grew red with embarrassment.

Ben quickly tried to change the subject. “What about your land, Farley? Are you going to just abandon it?”

Mr. Haskill pulled off a glove, reached into an inner pocket of his outer coat, and tugged out a folded piece
of paper. “If you want to take it over to add to your own, I’m giving you the right. It’s all written down here. Should be legal enough.”

“But you might be able to sell it.”

“Who’d want it?” Mr. Haskill jerked his chin toward the back of the wagon. “The cow’s yours, too, and the chickens—only I left them on the place. I figured you’d have an easier time collecting them and getting them over here than I would.”

“That’s a mighty fine gift, Farley,” Ben said.

Mrs. Haskill sat up straighter. “We couldn’t put a price on them, but it would help if you could pay a little something toward—”

Mr. Haskill’s eyes blazed, surprising all of them, as he snapped, “I said they were a
gift
, Ada!”

“The Browders are better off than we are,” Mrs. Haskill grumbled at her husband. “Look at them—a real house, and they’ve even got an Irish to help with chores.”

There was a long moment of echoing silence.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Haskill said, and his shoulders drooped. “I’ve been proud to have you as neighbors, Ben and Emma, and you, too, Megan. You’ve all been good to us. Thanks for all you’ve done and given us.” He broke off and reached down to hand Emma her pillow. “You’re a good, kind woman.”

Ben quickly untied the cow, and Mr. Haskill turned the wagon, heading toward the road. He twisted around once, to wave good-bye, but Ada Haskill sat stiffly and never looked back.

As Ben led the cow to the barn, Emma put one arm around Megan’s shoulders and the other around her pillow and hugged them both tightly. “Please don’t feel unhappy about what that terrible woman said.”

“I don’t give any importance to what she said,” Megan
answered, “but now you have no near neighbor, and that’s my fault. I made a selfish wish that Mrs. Haskill would go away, and the wish came true.”

“That’s not your doing. It’s poor Farley’s misfortune that he married a woman who has no faith in him or in what he can make of himself.”

“There’s more to it than that.” Megan shivered.

Emma looked at her with concern and said, “Let’s not stand out here in the cold.”

As soon as the door had shut behind them, Megan said, “There’s something I must tell you. Bad things happen because I’m under a gypsy’s curse. I’m a bad-luck penny for sure.” Tearfully, angrily, she told Emma about the old gypsy woman and how her ominous words had haunted Megan’s life.

“So that’s what the gypsy in your dream was all about,” Emma said.

“Look at all the misfortunes I’ve brought on this family!” Megan said, and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I think you should send me away.”

Emma reached out to hold Megan tightly. “Nonsense! We could never send you away.”

“But if I bring bad luck—”

“Life is not easy. We all have problems—even tragedies—to deal with, and luck has nothing to do with it. ‘Bad luck’ is only a superstitious excuse for those who don’t have the wit to deal with the problems of life. And you’ve proved that you have the wit and intelligence and cleverness to handle any crisis.”

Megan raised her head, and Emma smiled. “Don’t keep stumbling over what some addled old woman said. Believe in yourself.
I
believe in you.”

“I—I’m not sure that I can.”

“Of course you can.” Emma paused, then asked, “What did your mother say about the gypsy’s curse?”

“Ma said it was only foolishness.”

“She was right, but it’s even worse than just foolishness. Think about what I said, Megan. You’re a practical young lady. Isn’t trusting in your own good mind better than hiding behind a gypsy woman’s silly superstition?”

Megan was disturbed. “Hiding? From what?”

“Maybe from something inside yourself. Only you can discover the answer to that.”

Megan shook her head, thoroughly confused. “I don’t exactly understand what you mean, but I’ll think about it,” she promised.

Daylight hours grew much shorter, pale sunlight giving way to deep blue twilight. The long December evenings were spent by candlelight and lantern light. Megan took turns with Emma in reading aloud, and she proudly wrote painstaking letters to Ma and to Frances, Mike, Danny, Peg, and Petey, ready to mail whenever the opportunity arose.

Megan was aware that long after she went to bed each night, Emma sat by the fire, working with her needle. The baby quilt had been finished, but when Megan asked Emma what she was sewing, Emma just smiled.

Ben had secrets, too. Sometimes he went back to the barn after dinner, and Megan occasionally could hear the sounds of a saw and hammer.

The approach of Christmas drew Megan’s thoughts repeatedly to the past. The children in her family had never had much for Christmas; often they’d been given an orange or an apple for a treat, and maybe a shiny penny. But what Megan remembered was the love they shared, and their happiness at being together. On Christmas
Day—the only day in the year that none of them had to work at jobs outside their home—the Kellys would go to church. They dressed in their best, such as it was—and sat among the fine ladies and gentlemen. To Megan’s way of thinking, none of the ladies, with their fur muffs and velvet skirts, was half as beautiful as Ma, with her hat balanced on top of her swirl of bright red hair, and none of the gentlemen who strolled down the church steps, brandishing their silver-topped canes and clapping their elegant top hats on their heads, could match Da’s strong, dark handsomeness.

The fragrance of candle wax, the wonderful music that swirled to the high-domed ceiling, the painted statues that seemed to smile down on those at prayer—Megan would hug them to herself, wrapped in the beauty and joy that were so special to Christmas. But all that was left of these Christmases were memories, and there could never be another Christmas for all of them together.

Each night, as Megan lay in bed, a wrapped hot stone from the Browders’ fireplace warming her toes, she would squeeze her eyes shut and try hard to fall asleep. She’d hear Emma humming softly as she worked and wish it were Ma. She’d sensibly remind herself that she had much to be grateful for, that Emma and Ben were good, kind people, but in her mind Megan would see her family and long for them with such agony that she’d have to press the quilt against her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud.

I want to go home!
Megan cried to herself over and over, even though she knew she couldn’t. Her family had been separated forever. Even the room she had known as home was gone. And all because she was a bad-luck penny. The gypsy had said so. She reminded herself of what Emma had told her, that her own wit and cleverness
were stronger than any gypsy curse, and over and over she asked herself,
What could I be hiding from?
But the answer never came, and deep in her heart was a growing dread that there was even more bad luck in store.

O
NE EVENING
C
LEM
Parker came by to join the Browders at dinner and share the news that Abraham Lincoln had been elected. Although Ben rejoiced, Mr. Parker shook his head sadly. “They say the Southern states are ready to pull out of the Union.” He took a second helping of apple butter, piling it high on his bread. “President Buchanan’s not strong enough to hold them. Between the election and March fourth, Buchanan’s a lame duck.”

“A
what
?” Megan asked.

Even Emma couldn’t keep from laughing. “It does sound comical,” she said. “But a lame duck can neither run nor fly. He isn’t much good to himself or to anyone else. And that’s the way it is with a man who holds a political office that someone else is soon going to take over.”

Megan shrugged. “I understand. I just think that it’s silly to call a man a lame duck. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Mr. Aesop’s behind that name and the story to go with it.”

Mr. Parker clapped a hand to his pocket and widened
his eyes in mock surprise. “Bless me if I didn’t almost forget. Speaking of news from back East—” He pulled out a packet of envelopes. “Here’s the mail from the post office in St. Joe.” He handed the top two letters to Ben. Then he looked at Megan and smiled. “My, my. It seems the rest are for this young lady.”

Megan leapt from her chair and tried not to snatch the letters from Mr. Parker’s hand, barely remembering to say thank you as she took them. There was a letter from Ma dated one month ago, and one from Frances, and even a letter from Mike!

Emma gave Megan a smile and a pat and sent her off to read her letters. Megan lit the lamp in her room, then sat cross-legged on her bed. She laid the letters on her lap, touching each with her fingertips, tracing the familiar handwriting, making the moment last longer in order to treasure it more.

She opened Ma’s letter first. Megan had practiced every day at reading the cursive writing sheets Emma had prepared for her, so although some of Ma’s words were hard to make out, she worked on the sounds of the syllables until they made sense. Megan was delighted that she could read the letters without asking for help.

Ma had a funny story to tell about the cook in the great house where she worked, who accidentally mixed the salt and sugar one morning, creating a rumpus throughout the household. “At least it woke up the sluggards,” Ma wrote. She went on to tell about the eldest son of the family, who every day slumped at the breakfast table, his chin almost in his porridge, grumbling about having to wake up so early to accompany his father to his uptown office. “After a big gulp of coffee flavored with lots of salt, he went to work with his eyes wide open.”

Megan smiled at the stories, even though she ached
with loneliness for Ma. Again and again she read the letter, then closed her eyes, trying to picture the people Ma wrote about, trying to picture Ma herself at the table in the big kitchen writing her letter.

Megan opened Frances Mary’s letter next. Petey had grown at least two inches, Frances insisted, and had been allowed to ride the gentlest of the horses. “I can drive the team by myself,” Frances wrote. This was exciting news, and Megan wanted to know more about it, so she was disappointed that the rest of the letter went on and on about someone named Johnny Mueller. Megan read that part of the letter twice and didn’t understand why Frances had filled most of the sheet of paper writing about this boy. Was he really that special? Nothing Frances had written led Megan to believe so. She shrugged. Lots of boys could whistle through their teeth.