Manroot (5 page)

It was over, of that she was sure; it would never happen again.
She didn’t understand what had changed, but she was safe. He would be angry with her, certainly, but it didn’t matter for she was safe.

After that night, Jesse seemed to do even less work and Katherine grew used to covering for him.
The weekdays were slow now, for it was autumn and the season had ended. Sally stayed on working carelessly and chattering about her many boyfriends, of whom Justin was still her favorite. Frieda enjoyed Katherine’s quiet company and serious attitude, so she taught the girl about cooking and canning and gathering useful plants. Katherine had a natural bent for the plants. She knew herbs without knowing how, she brewed up mixtures in the kitchen and Frieda encouraged her, for through trial and error Katherine’s mixtures worked. She had concocted a salve that eased backache, another for corns, and she was what Frieda called a ‘natural with the healin’.’

The woman talked about the preserves they would put up this autumn, and during the week, when things were slow, they enjoyed outings into the woods.

“There’s plenty of free food around if you know what to look for. A body wouldn’t starve if you know what to get and where to go get it,” Frieda bragged.

Katherine
’s mind spun with the unfamiliar plants that Frieda talked about – the river haws, cattails, Jerusalem artichokes and basswood. “Katherine, come September we’ll go sang-hunting,” Frieda promised.

“
I don’t know anything about hunting,” Katherine answered. “I couldn’t kill an animal.”

“
No, silly, it’s not an animal. Seng is the manroot – ginseng. Never mind for now.”

One slow autumn day Frieda produced some large burlap sacks.

“Is this for the sang-hunt?” Katherine asked eagerly.

“
No, it’s a little too early for the manroot, but there’s lots of other things we can harvest now.”

Sally begged off saying she always got po
ison ivy, so they went, just the two of them, through the trees to a wild, unkempt meadow.

“
There…” Frieda pointed to a group of scattered sunflowers that towered, some as high as twelve feet. “It’s a little early, they’re best in late fall, but they’ll do.” A covey of blackbirds took flight as they approached the giant flowers.

“
We’re not after the seeds. Let the birds have them.” She took her small spade, dug into the earth, and toppled the plant. “It’s the roots we’re after. Breadroot, my mama used to call it. Some call it Jerusalem artichoke.”

Katherine watched her clip the large knobby root that looked very much like a potato; and soon their sacks grew heavy.

“That’s enough,” Frieda said. “We’ve only got five to feed tonight. Now for some onions.” They walked a long distance before they noticed the sharp smell of wild onions. They pulled only a few and moved on, Frieda’s eyes rapidly scanning the trees, bushes and meadows to see if she could find anything familiar. She looked for birds, and in the distance spotted some, diving and circling, and landing.

“
Could be a grove, with all those birds around,” she said, walking briskly toward the thicket. Katherine struggled to keep up, carrying both sacks, as well as the spade and shears. As they approached the grove Frieda spied it, a small tree with narrow leaves growing in clumps. “We’re in luck. These are plums,” she announced. “Chickasaw plums… Indians planted these trees a long time ago. They can be found in lots of places in these woods.”

Katherine smiled and felt a special pride for the Indians who had planted here so long ago.
She glowed as they pulled the branches down, and picked the yellowish plums that the birds had left.

They walked back slowly; Katherine guessed at the pl
ants that were useful, trying out her innate skill. Often she stopped to pick a leaf, and rolling it between her fingers and sniffing it, she gingerly guessed at its use. She had an instinctive feel for the medicinal properties of plants.

“
You’re good,” the older woman said. “Some’s got it, the knowing, and I reckon you do.”

Katherine flushed with pleasure for she was so unused to compliments.

That night they worked eagerly in the kitchen and Katherine followed the older woman’s methods faithfully, her mind crammed full of the recipes she had already learned.

Unpacking the sunflower roots, Frieda said, “
We’ll bake ‘em – they’ll be good with roast pork. ‘Course, we can boil ‘em or bake ‘em, but I think baked for now, and sometime when we get enough of the root, we can pickle ‘em.” They scrubbed the roots clean, sliced them thin, and layered them in a flat pan with finely cut onions, scattering a light covering of grated cheese over the top.

After putting the casserole in the oven, Frieda turned her attention t
o the Chickasaw plums. Washing them carefully, she handed Katherine a large plum and bit into one herself.

“
Sweetest plums ever. Wild plums are the best, you can make most anything out of them – catsup, cobbler, pudding, jam, sauce, pickles…just about anything. Anna liked pudding best – so let’s make pudding,” Frieda decided.

They pitted the plums, filled the pot with water to cover the fruit, then sat relaxing with tea while the fruit simmered fragrantly.

Katherine so hoped the reference to Anna might be the preamble to another story, but Frieda seemed to have forgotten as she gathered the necessary ingredients for the pudding – a cup of sugar, four tablespoons of butter, and one egg. She mixed the ingredients vigorously with the beater until the mixture was a thick cream. To this she added one cup of milk, two cups of flour, and two teaspoons of baking powder. The boiled plums were arranged in a baking pan, and the mixture was poured over them. Frieda spat on the stove trying to judge the heat. She lifted the iron plate and added two small logs before putting the dessert in the oven to bake. “Log-basket wasn’t filled this morning,” she said, “and it was empty a couple of days last week.”

Katherine squirmed.
Frieda must know, even though Katherine had always hurried to do her father’s chores early. She looked at the girl. “He’s gone, hasn’t he?”

Chapter 4

Pacing the room at night, Katherine would run to the window whenever she heard a strange noise.
‘Papa, is that you?’ was her eternal question. She felt terror at being left totally alone. It was his tongue, his glib ways that had always managed to find them work. Alone, she would be tongue-tied – no one would hire her. The season had been over for some time; she knew Frieda had not told Mr. Taylor that the handyman was gone. He stopped their wages in October, assuming that Frieda had let them go.

Finally, Frieda called in the sheriff, who took a Missing Persons report.
His manner was cold and unconcerned. “Lots of men run off,” was his comment to the girl. “Times is hard.” Then, seeing the anguish in her eyes, he softened his words with hope that neither of them believed. “Maybe he’ll come back.”

“
The river?” Katherine said. It was a whisper of a question.

“
Oh, that’s a treacherous river, all right. You say he’s been gone two weeks? He’d be up by now if he was in the river.” He rubbed the stubble of his beard. “‘Course, if a body’s caught on a branch…” Katherine knew why Papa had left. Lying in the dark with him in the next bed was no worse than knowing he was gone forever. He would not come back for her. In his sober moments, he was afraid of himself.

Frieda finally told Mr. Taylor, who came down and looked at the girl.
“We can’t pay wages in the winter,” he said, yet his eyes flickered over her, measuring her body.

Frieda knew that look and it brought home her deepest worries.
She feared the time when he would notice that she had grown old and not want her anymore, although it had not happened yet. Their arrangement had been going on for years. Neither of them pretended it was a love affair. It was after Anna that she had come here; her prudent ways had saved him money, her willing arms had sealed the bargain. He came to Frieda maybe two or three times a month when his wife slept.

“
She’s slow,” Frieda told Mr. Taylor. “Slow and very strange, with those Indian ways, but the girl is a big help and it doesn’t cost much to let her stay in the room.” She pleaded for Katherine, yet instinct made her protect what was hers. “Smells, too, but she’s a good enough worker.”

“
All right,” he agreed.

For the heavy work, they hired Bruce on a part-time basis.
Although he was slow, his work certainly rivaled Jesse’s leisurely pace.

Bruce was a boy of twenty-six, who lived t
hree clubhouses away from the hotel. Rumor said he was kicked by a horse when he was six years old, and his powers of reason were left on the horse’s hoof. He was a big man, but so harmless and timid that it was difficult to think of him as a man at all; most folk referred to him as ‘the boy’ or ‘the dummy.’ His powerful shoulders could easily hoist and carry the heaviest logs, and his arms, which were far too long in proportion to his thick chest, gave him the appearance of a gentle ape. His shirt more often than not buttoned up the wrong way, and when he could, he removed the tight shoes that someone had given him, and walked barefoot. He obeyed Frieda when he could; he worked well enough when he understood what was needed. He adored Katherine.

The days we
re slow and easy, but Katherine grew pale and drawn, for she had heard it again in the night – the Oh mu. It made her wonder, could her father be down there in the dark water, caught on a branch like the sheriff said?

No.
In her heart she knew he was off somewhere drinking in some dim bar, and she said a number of ‘Our Fathers’ for him.

Katherine kept busy and Frieda took to a mad house-cleaning spree.

They knew Sally would be leaving soon, as there was no more paid work available, so Frieda left the two girls alone to talk, to dream, to do whatever young girls do – she didn’t really remember. She took on the chore of cleaning out all the guestrooms’ closets. Collecting an assortment of things left and forgotten by a series of paid-for women, she brought the bag to Katherine’s room saying, “If it were your birthday, I should like to give you a present… It’s not much, but here.” She handed her the bag.

“
I don’t know when my birthday is. Papa said I was born in the summer, but I don’t know the exact day.”

“
Well, then, make it today – October the second. Now open it,” she said gruffly. Frieda sat on the unoccupied bed in Katherine’s room, feeling uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to being tender.

Katherine gave a small
‘Oh!’ and ‘Ah!’ as she drew each item out of the sack: a string of imitation pearls, an ivory comb, bits of ribbon, satin and velvet, half-empty perfume bottles and a pair of red satin garters. The thing she loved most was the shimmery red Valentine box; its ribbon was somewhat crumpled, but the inside of the box still smelled of chocolate.

“
I’ll keep all these things in this beautiful box,” Katherine said. She felt an urge to rise, throw her arms around Frieda’s neck and kiss her cheek.

Almost as if guessing her thoughts, Frieda stood.
“It’s late,” she said. “We have to get up early, and Sally needs help with her packing. She’ll be leaving in a week or so.”

Frieda hurried out of the door; she felt like cr
ying. The girl was so grateful for any little thing. It made her think of Anna, and for the first time she lay in bed and thought of her daughter – not the preposterous stories she made up, but the truth, the real truth about Anna. And she wept far into the night for her lost child.

Katherine went to the dresser drawer, and from under the carefully folded pillowcases she brought out the other items she wanted to keep in the heart-shaped box.
Ever since she had admitted to Sally that Judge Reardon was her favorite, it had unleashed something that had slept deep inside of her. She now took notice of everything in the Judge’s room, and when he departed on Saturdays she searched for bits and pieces of him. It didn’t matter that on the Fridays when he arrived he always put out a framed picture on his bedside table of a smiling blonde woman who must be his wife.

While cleaning up, Katherine collected a cigarette from the ashtray, a handkerchief
– lipstick-stained, with the initials W.R. – and a tiny gold shirt stud that, ordinarily she would have turned in. She even kept two sandy-colored strands of hair that she found on his pillow.

Now as she stared at these relics of him, it seemed to her like some sort of magic rite that she performed without knowing how.

Chapter 5

Working alone in the kitchen, Katherine scrubbed it clean. Looking up at the calendar, she knew tomorrow was Friday. The Judge was one of the few people who stopped here regularly, even now, in late autumn. Perhaps it was telling Sally that had started it all, for now her thoughts of the Judge were like a fever that stayed with her. Last Friday when she took him his bourbon and spring water, she noticed it for the first time, the birthmark. It was on his right hand, so clear and vivid that she had almost dropped the tray. He had smiled at her nervousness, called her ‘my dear,’ and given her a silver dollar for a tip.

Katherine slept restlessly; she dreamed of the Oh mu and heard its moan of agony echoing in he
r sleep. She dreamed of Papa floating in the muddy river, caught and held under by a treacherous branch, his eyes vacant pools staring upward through the water. It was so real that in the morning when the siren from the firehouse once again split the air, she rushed into the kitchen where Frieda was telling Bruce, “You be careful…another one’s gone and gave herself to the river. It was a suicide, a painted woman from the Eagle’s nest…” Frieda shivered as she told the story the way that she had heard it from the postman. The woman in the night had cut her wrists, but the dying was too slow, so she ran from the clubhouse, perched only for a moment on the railing, then jumped headlong into the cold water.

Katherine moved slowly this morning.
Frieda fussed at her, but knowing the girl had never been lazy, she thought the drowning must have upset her or maybe she was coming down with something.

The guests were all gone.
They only expected one tonight – Judge Reardon. They’d have time to go into the woods today, hunting for herbs and the manroot. But Frieda went alone as the girl looked a bit too peaked.

Alone, Katherine cleaned the rooms again; it took no time, for they w
ere already clean. She lingered in Number 8, The Judge’s room.

She knew a lot about him now, and she felt a very real presence that he left in the room.
She knew intimate things about him – like the size of his shirts, the smell of his aftershave, which side of the bed he slept on, how he preferred his coffee, the brand of cigarettes that he smoked…numerous details about him that she had collected bit by bit, saving them in her mind and in her dreams, like pennies to be spent at a later date.

He knew nothin
g of her dusting his dresser, straightening the bed after he had risen. He was not aware that while he was out, she pressed his shirts to her lips, inhaling his aroma, and sat on the bed in the same crevices his body had made over the years that he had slept here. Now she knew with the wisdom and instinct of centuries, she knew that what would be, would be.

Last week for the first time she had seen it, the birthmark, on his right hand.
It was paler than the surrounding skin, crescent-shaped like a slice of the moon, and within its outline, unmistakable, a perfect five-pointed star. She knew its shape by heart, as just above her right breast she had its identical replica.

The Navajo blood flowed strongly in her veins, with all its beliefs in the signs, even t
hough her father had tried vainly to smother these strange alien traits. Since her childhood she had believed that she could speak to animals, and she could find herbs hiding under any rock and knew exactly what they would cure.

She stayed dreaming in the
Judge’s room until she heard Frieda calling her. The woman had returned from the woods, carrying a full burlap sack.

“
You should have come today…I found it…the time is ripe, and you’re much quicker than I. You would have climbed the higher spots where it grows.”

Placing the sack on the table, she pulled out one root.
“It’s perfect…it’s prime, probably ten or fifteen years old.” She held the root up to the light. Its torso similar but lighter in color than a carrot, with no hint of orange, just tannish-brown, the root seemed to have two arms, two legs, and a fine network of tendrils. It appeared to be a miniature figure of a headless man.

“
What is it?” Katherine questioned as she stared at the unusual root.

“
It’s a manroot!”

“
The manroot,” Katherine repeated, liking the sound of the word and feeling it described the plant perfectly. “It seems as if it could contain magic?” she said, as she gingerly touched it with a timid finger.

“
Oh, they say it does. It works wonders. The Orientals prize its properties – to them it is also the love root. It does many things, cures most anything that ails you. For me it lines my pockets – Bailey’s general store pays about four dollars a pound.” Emptying the sack on the counter, Frieda explained, “You can’t let it get damp – it ruins the root.” She began taking them out, examining and inspecting and drying each root with a clean dish-towel.

“
They’re not all like this one, that’s special. Some don’t come with the likeness of arms and legs, some just look like a pale carrot…but the old ones, the very special ones do. Here, Katherine – take it, it’s yours.”

They sat at the table and by habit Katherine helped her.

“If you weren’t such a lazy girl, you could have come with me today. When these are dry, I’m sure Bailey’s will be paying twenty dollars or so for the batch.”

“
Twenty dollars?”

“
Yes, ma’am!” She knew the girl wasn’t lazy; it was her way of trying to shake her out of the listlessness. “Put on the kettle, Katherine. I’ll slip a little of the root in it. That will perk you up.”

They drank the tea, and Frieda continued drying the root.
She did a rare thing: she hummed as she dried the fine tendrils.

“
It takes time for the manroot to grow. You shouldn’t harvest a root less than seven years old, and you must always plant the seed when you harvest – each red berry has two seeds – not deep, just under the leaves. It’s a sin…to harvest and not plant the seed,” she said solemnly.

Katherine watched the clock.
“I better put on my uniform. The Judge…”

“
No need to. When I was coming in, he was headed for the Eagle’s Nest. He told me he wouldn’t be wanting any supper.”

Katherine
’s face fell with disappointment.

In previous gossip from Frieda, Katherine had learned that the Judge lived twenty miles up the road with a w
ife who was said to be fragile since the births of her two stillborn sons. There was not much in these parts that the Judge did not own; he was rich, well-liked, respected, and known to be a fair man. Remarkably young to be a judge, no one faulted him for his tendencies to card-playing, drinking whiskey, and relieving himself with the local women. A lesser man with these leanings would be called no account, but he was, after all, the Judge, and this title brought with it a tendency to look at vices as virtues.

It was just another Friday.
Destiny waited for her; she felt it close, closer than it had ever been.

The hotel was quiet.
There were no guests and the only person staying was the Judge, who would be out late.

Katherine played the radio softly, dancing about the room, pretending she was at Castlewood waltzing under the lanterns with him.
She put the perfect manroot in the Valentine box with her other things. After midnight when he rang, Katherine shook the sleep from herself when she realized the bell from Room 8 was ringing.

She owned no robe, and the persistent ringing threatened to wake Mr. Taylor.
She flew up to the Judge’s room and knocked timidly, aware that her hair was down, and she was in her nightgown. It was plain enough – white cotton, sturdy and sensible.

He opened the door to her.
He seemed surprised.

“
I’m sorry, sir, everyone is asleep,” she said, not really knowing how to apologize for her attire.

He blinked at her, his hair ruffled, his shirt-tail
out; she had never seen him like this.

“
You’re new?”

“
No, sir I’m Katherine. It was late; I didn’t have time to put on the uniform.”

He nodded and leaned forward studying her face.
“Come in.” She did so, but left the door open.

“
Sit down,” he said. She could tell he was very drunk. She sat timidly in the vanity chair. He paced the floor unsteadily, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s my head… I have a headache that won’t stop. I thought maybe you had something in the kitchen.”

He kept pacing.
“I went out tonight, trying to forget. I’ve drunk a lot…it doesn’t stop…my head hurts so.”

“
Sir, I could go look, or…” She wondered if she should chance it – maybe he would laugh. “My grandmother had a remedy that always worked.”

He stopped pacing.
“Yes? What is it?”

“
Well,” she said, “if you rub your thumbs vigorously for a few minutes, it has something to do with the blood flow…if that didn’t work, then a leaf of boiled cabbage on the forehead never failed.”

He smiled and stopped.
“Well, try it.” He pulled up a chair in front of her and held out his thumbs.

She blushed.
She hadn’t meant that she should rub his thumbs, but he was there across from her, waiting.

She reached forward, and with a firm grip clasped his thumbs and rubbed vigorously, while he leaned ba
ck and shut his eyes. She alternated between each thumb. It seemed natural to her to be touching him.

“
Do you know what it’s like to play God?” he asked abruptly.

Startled, she didn
’t know if he was really talking to her, but she replied, “No, sir, I don’t.”

“
Well, I do, and it’s not pleasant, not pleasant at all… Today I’ve sent a man to the gas chamber – well, not me personally, but the jury.”

“
I’m sorry, sir,” she said quietly.

“
Stop saying ‘sir’ – my name’s William. The Judge…sir…that’s somebody else. I don’t feel like a judge right now. I never wanted to be a judge.” He opened his eyes and she drew back.

“
Do you know what it feels like to judge other people?”

“
No, si–” She stopped herself. “No, I don’t.”

He looked down at her hands.
“Don’t stop. By god, I think it helps!” He closed his eyes once more and held out his thumbs to her. The house was quiet. Somewhere a night-bird called; the ticking of the clock in the hall kept time in its steady rhythm, and Katherine felt the sound of their breathing in tune.

His face looked so young.
He seemed to have relaxed, and every so often he issued a deep sigh.

After about ten minutes he opened his eyes.
“By God, it did it. Or maybe it’s just that I didn’t look forward to a cabbage leaf on my head.” They both laughed.

“
Do you have any more of those old remedies from Granny?”

“
Yes, sir, lots of them.”

“
I told you my name is William.” He looked at her intently. “I’m sorry to have awakened you, but I was very troubled. Tell me, Kathy, what do you do when you’re troubled?

His calling her Kathy instead of Katherine sent a shiver through her.
No one had ever called her that.

“
Well, sometimes I go and sit by the river and watch the water, or I look at the stars to find Ursa Minor, or Major, or the Pleiades.”

“
That’s wonderful. I used to do that when I was a boy…” He seemed to be far away, remembering.

Abruptly he rose, went to the French doors, opened them and stepped out on to the porch.
“Show me,” he said loudly.

Afraid of waking anyone she hurriedly went out to
the porch after him. The cold night was brilliant with stars.

“
There,” he said, “the Big Dipper. It makes the world seem constant.” She nodded, agreeing with him. “And look, the little guy is up there, too.”

She smiled at his silly reference to the Little
Dipper.

“
Now the rings of Saturn, or Halley’s comet – that would be something to see,” he said, feeling a new excitement. Those were the sort of things that had thrilled him as a boy.

He looked toward her.
Her upturned face, bathed in starlight, glowed.

“
Orion,” she said softly, and he looked in the direction of her gaze.

“
You like astronomy!”

“
Yes,” she agreed.

“
You seem to know a lot about it.”

“
No, not really, just the things my mother and grandmother showed me. I don’t know about the comet or the other circles – the –” She stopped, not remembering what he had called it.

“
Rings of Saturn,” he said.

They both looked back up to the night sky.
She shivered in her thin cotton gown. Just then a falling star fell, leaving a trail through the velvet sky.