The Mapmaker's Children (11 page)

Freddy opened the door cautiously, then smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Niles.”

“The bells rang out. Seems the deed is done,” said Mr. Niles.

“We've brought funeral biscuits for the Brown women,” said Mrs. Niles. “Being as we're the only Scots together in town, I wasn't about to abandon tradition, no matter the soil beneath our feet.” She gently handed over a parcel. “Just because this isn't a typical passing doesn't
make it less mournful. The
Spectator
ran an article about Captain Brown. Leaving behind young daughters and a wife and losing practically all his sons in this dreadful business.”

Annie threaded her arm through Sarah's and leaned into her. Sarah leaned back. It was easier to sit up straight as one link.

“We won't be staying,” continued Mrs. Niles. “We left Ruthie at home, keeping after the little ones. She sends her condolences, too.”

“I'll be sure to pass them along.” Before Freddy could close the door, a woman called out, “Frederick!”

Freddy gave Sarah a sympathetic smile, as if to say,
Our neighbors mean well. Bear with us
. Or at least that was Sarah's interpretation.

“Mrs. Milton.”

“I see the Nileses have beaten me to your doorstep.” Mrs. Milton spoke robustly. “And the Jamisons are coming down the side street. I won't be taking up a minute of your time, but I had a meat pie I thought I'd bring over. No doubt your mother has Siby preparing sustenance, but extra never hurts.” She placed a round pastry atop the biscuit package in Freddy's arm. “I suspected Mildred Niles baked up her cinnamon teacakes, so I made a savory.”

“Thank you.” Freddy readjusted the pie.

“Tell your parents they're good people for helping the Browns like they are. Real good people…” Her voice trailed off.

Priscilla rose and took the gifts from him. Freddy didn't bother closing the door. “Here come the Jamisons with their two young ones.”

“Bringing a cider jug and a spruce wreath, too. Can't fault them for kindness,” said Priscilla.

“What should we do?”

She looked to Sarah and Annie, then back to him. “We'll have to burn twice the wood to keep warm if we have the door open the whole day.” She pulled the collar of her dress up under her chin.

It was true. The windowpanes had fogged, then frosted in a snap. The fire had drawn back on itself from the draft, and Annie's fingers on Sarah's arm had chilled.

“Mrs. Brown plans to immediately return to New York with Captain
Brown for a wake and funeral,” explained Priscilla, “so as considerate as these gifts are…”

“Should I turn them away?” asked Freddy.

“No,” said Annie. Her eyes were tearful wide, and Sarah knew what she was thinking: Hebrews 13. Turning a stranger away might be turning away their father, come to them in angel form.

Of course, Sarah didn't think Mrs. Milton and her pasty were really their father, but she agreed with Annie. “We can't turn them away when they've come at their own risk and against the governor's restriction.”

After the raid in October, no one in North Elba had stepped a foot near their farm. When any neighbor had lost a child to illness, a father to unexpected tragedy, a mother in childbirth, or the like, they'd attended churchyard funerals, otherwise leaving the family alone to grieve. Sarah couldn't imagine herself dropping by anyone's home—friend or stranger—with funeral offerings as these southerners did. And yet she was deeply touched by the practice.

Her father was gone. He would not drive through New Charlestown in a fire-drawn buggy, but that didn't mean his spirit hadn't sparked in people.

Sarah stood from the settee with Annie hooked to her elbow. Arm in arm, they went to the front door to meet the Jamisons. After them was Mr. Reedling, who ran the sawmill. He brought a small cured ham. The Smiths, brother and sister, arrived next, apologizing that their parents would not come as they were a slave-owning family and did not agree with the abolitionist agenda; however, their mother had thought it right to send a little currant bread from her oven.

By the time Alice and Siby returned with baskets of vittles from Mrs. Fisher and black friends in households across town, they'd already amassed enough food to feed an army: funeral biscuits, meat pie, currant bread, two jugs of apple cider, corn pie, a purse of roasted pecans, three mourning wreaths, and a jar of pickled beets. The girls had stood by the door all afternoon, receiving and thanking the townsfolk for their sympathies as if they were lifelong residents. Freddy left their side only once, to bring coats, scarves, and mittens. Gypsy joined them, lying across the
threshold, half inside, half out. Siby stoked the fire, and it never diminished in its blaze.

The grief that had hardened to bitterness in her brothers was purified like boiled water in Sarah. Her father's death wasn't an end to his mission but the beginning of something greater.

People were capable of more love and benevolence than they realized. The collective public voice did not always represent the individual heart. Yes, there were terrible men doing terrible deeds to one another. Men in this very town who abused others based on the color of their skin. There were prideful men who thought their marrow was made of more golden stuff than others'. Her father had proven to them all: when a beating heart stopped, there was no black or white, only blood-red. The flesh was equal. It was the character of a man that made him better or worse.

These kindly strangers were evidence that while Sarah's family had lost nearly everything at Harpers Ferry, the good would rise as unstoppably as a river after a storm.

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

T
he smell of coffee percolating awoke Eden early. She dressed and came down to find Denny sitting alone at the marble kitchen island. He faced the windows where the doll rested, so it appeared from afar as if they were locked in an anxious staring contest.

She cleared her throat.

At the sound, he flinched and his coffee sloshed over the side, full to the brim. Jittery. She wondered how many cups he'd drunk. That couldn't be his first.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said, though it was the earliest she'd been out of bed in months. “How long have you been up?”

“Never went to sleep.” He wiped up the spill with a paper towel. “Can't turn my head off. Night owl.”

Of course. He usually played Mother Mayhem's Café until closing, at midnight. They'd said their good nights at ten
P.M
. But something in his tone said there was more to it. Why wasn't he still sleeping now, then?

Eden nodded. “There's a mini TV set in the—” She hesitated over what to call the not-to-be nursery. “The other room. We can move that into yours so you can at least veg out on
M*A*S*H
reruns.”

“Grrreat, just what I want—‘Suicide Is Painless' as my lullaby.”

She hadn't known that was the name of the theme song.

Denny started to sing, “The game of life is hard to play…”

She waved her hand. “Okay. Not
M*A*S*H
. Watch
Gilligan's Island
. That's got a happier beat.”

She poured coffee into a mug.

“Your dog walker, Cleo, came over,” he said.

“Did she?” Eden was impressed by Cleo's young professionalism. “Nice girl. A little strange. I think she's lonely over there.”

Denny nodded. “I got that impression.”

“A chatterbox, too. Bossy as all get-out. But I appreciate her capitalist spirit. She doesn't have siblings. No parents to speak of. Lives with her widowed grandfather. I haven't met him, but our real estate agent mentioned he's a banker—Mr. Bronner of Bronner Bank.” She tapped her mug with a fingernail.

She was as bad as Cleo, jabbering on like she knew the child better than she did. Or maybe that was just it—she wanted to know her better. She swallowed down the feeling with her black coffee.

Denny stared at the frothy brown ring staining the inside of his cup. “That's horrible.”

“It sure is. You aren't a very good barista.” She winced at the heartburn beginning to gurgle.

“I mean about Cleo.”

Eden thought it sad and unfortunate, but “horrible” seemed overly dramatic. She shrugged. “The only granddaughter of a wealthy banker? She could have it worse. Others do.”

“Our father died, but we still had each other and Mother. We still had people who gave a shit.”

His profanity was disproportional to the conversation and made her wonder again what was
really
going on. She was about to insist he fess up to what was bothering him when he asked, “So how long have you and Jack been trying to have a kid?”

The question fell like a punch and sent her flying back. She set her mug on the marble with a clink.

“Awhile.”

She steeled herself for the follow-up questions:
What's wrong? Why hasn't it worked? Why didn't you tell me?
Instead, his attention returned to his coffee, leaving her to fill the lull.

“We didn't tell anybody. It's just one of those things.” She dumped the rest of her cup down the sink, undrinkable, and watched it coat the steel
sepia. She didn't want Denny to be sad for her. “Mother Nature can be a friend or foe—depending on the perspective.”

“Fickle bitch,” said Denny.

She wasn't sure if it was a cynical or serious statement. His countenance hinted the latter, so she laughed to lighten the mood.

“Suppose so.”

He rose then and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a strong hug that felt more take than give. She squeezed him back, and the tension in his muscles slackened.

“I'm glad we have each other.” He sighed, and his chest bowed wide in her arms.

She wondered when that had happened: When had he grown so big? She could still smell the sunbaked crown of the little boy whose head fit into the nook of her neck. Only now he was tall as a beanstalk.

“You'd be lost without me,” said Denny.

When she pulled back, his scowl was gone. She poked a finger at his sternum. “Completely.”

A note sat beside the doll's head. Fat, loopy handwriting:

Mrs. A,

If you want Cricket to eat from The Holistic Hound, then we need A Lot of stuff. We got carrots, peas, spinach, kale, and potato in the garden, but we need brown rice, ground chicken, flaxseed, and canned pumpkin. That's for Cricket, but I really think you should get some other stuff, too. PEOPLE FOOD.

I met your brother. He said he'd walk Cricket at noon if that's okay. I'm neaded over to the niles Antique Mill to ask about that doll, then to the bank during grandpa's lunch break. BTW, I'm reading your Mexico guide. I like it.

–Cleo

The Niles Antique Mill? Vee Niles had called Eden's cell phone and left a puzzling voice message, apologizing for business hours being off and mentioning something about her father breaking his pelvis. She said she had her hands full but might be able to swing by during her ice-cream-truck rounds in the next few days.

The whole message had left Eden entirely confused and annoyed that she'd have to put her plans on hold. She hated having to jump through hoops when it was very simple: she wanted an official seal that said, yes, this house is a historical monument and worth much more than a common dwelling for two childless, pitiful individuals…only the first part in writing, of course. Unlike other items, a home wasn't something you could bring to someone; they had to come to it. So Eden would have to wait for Vee. She still wasn't sure why an ice-cream truck was involved.

“Cleo came over with the note prewritten and was damned determined to get it to you,” explained Denny.

“The girl has moxie.” Eden liked her even more now. “I told you to make a list, too, Den. Otherwise, you and Cricket will have the same prix fixe menu.”

“You know what I like. My tastes haven't changed in twenty years.”

“Cheerios, chicken fingers, and Capri Suns?” she countered.

He pretended to seriously consider the items. “Not a bad start. Maybe some salted nuts and beer, too.” He scratched his stubbly jawline. “Aw, throw in bread, milk, meat, and cheese. Let's pig out!”

Before she could fend him off, he slid his hands beneath her armpits and lifted her above his head in a movement like a military press—one, two, three times—while Eden fussed at him to put her down this instant.

She grabbed Cleo's list and her car keys from their hook, then slipped into a pair of red sequinned sandals that her mother had sent from Santa Fe for her birthday. Hearing the jangle of keys, Cricket padded into the kitchen and sat his haunch on her toes, sniffing the sparkling sandal straps.

“Keep a watch on this guy while I'm gone,” she told her brother. “He's trouble.”

Denny scooped up Cricket and held him like a ukulele. Almost at eye
level now, the dog fixed his gaze on her, and something inside her flexed like a river reed in the wind.

She cradled his furry jowls in her palm and gently scratched. “I'll be back soon, buddy.”

Denny strummed the dog's stomach with his left thumb. “We're going to go for a walk. Clear our heads.”

“Keep him on a leash,” instructed Eden. Did they even have one? She added that to her shopping list. “Don't let him eat or drink anything funny. Or go tromping through mud puddles. Take a plastic baggie with you. And—”

“Look both ways before crossing the street—got it, got it, Mom. I'll take care of your little darling.”

“I'm not—he's not…” she began, then stopped and let it be.

E
DEN GOT
as far as the street corner. With her left hand on the steering wheel, she'd typed “Milton's Market” into her car's GPS and run into the curb twice, so she'd stopped to fiddle with the touch pad. After all her effort, the system flashed back a noncommittal “Unfound.” If it couldn't confirm the address, she'd rather it said the place didn't exist at all. “Unfound” was some kind of directional purgatory. It made her the idiot who couldn't see the forest for the trees. The place was findable. But without the GPS map's verification, she sat at Apple Hill Lane, one foot on the brake, debating right or left.

Children squealed and dashed through a neighborhood yard sprinkler. Eden was checking the rearview mirror for cars coming up behind when a flash of silver spokes wheeled by: Cleo! Her saving angel to lead her by Schwinn.

She quickly lowered her window, but Cleo was pedaling faster than the retraction. So she pushed open her door, her foot still holding down the brake.

“Cleo!” she called out the crack.

The bike cruised back around and came up at her side. “What's up, Miss A?”

Eden was glad she'd risen up the ranks from Mrs. Anderson.

Cleo braced her legs on either side and leaned a handlebar against the car's polished paint. Eden tried not to let it grate on her nerves.

“Hey there, where're
you
off to?” She wanted to come off easy-breezy, not like what she was: a frenzied hot mess. The girl had already been subjected to that unflattering first impression, which she hoped to replace.

Cleo's hair was pulled up in a ponytail that, though high, seemed too loose or too heavy to stay upright, so it flopped to one side. She lifted her wrist to Eden and tapped a purple plastic watch.

“Lunchtime.”

Was it noon already? Eden checked the car's digital clock. Technology had already let her down once.

“Didn't your brother give you my note?” Cleo gestured back up the road. “Just come from the Antique Mill, but the Nileses were at a doctor's appointment. Mr. Niles fell off a barn. Got himself totally Humpty-Dumpty. Broke. You meet Vee yet?”

“Yes and no.” Eden cleared her throat. Her foot was starting to cramp, so she put the car in park. “Actually, I'm headed to Milton's Market for your list. You said the bank is nearby. Do you want a ride?” She smiled, praying Cleo would take her up on the offer and play personal navigator.

Cleo leaned in close to examine Eden's leather backseat. Her cheeks smelled like tomato flowers on the vine.

“My bike won't fit.”

Eden hadn't thought that far. “Okay.” She forced a grin.

“I'm going to be late.” Cleo put a foot to the pedal and started off.

Eden followed. She expected to see some sign of commerce, some signal that her destination was a block away, but no, just more tree-lined streets and neatly gabled houses. She slowed to stay covertly one car length behind; only it wasn't covert at all.

Cleo turned. Eden turned, too. Another left, followed by a quick right. At a four-way stop, the girl surprised Eden by swooping around perpendicular to her car.

“This is the street.” She pointed ahead. “But it's easier to park behind Milton's. There's a lot up one block.”

“Thanks, Cleo,” said Eden. “For showing me the way.”

“Even a bullfrog can't get lost in New Charlestown. Ain't but one big street, really.” She took to her pedals again, slowly circling. “Get some deviled eggs while you're in Milton's. Best in the world! The deli only sells them for special occasions. Got some now 'cause the Miltons—Mack and Annemarie—had their first baby on Sunday.”

The child who is born on the Sabbath Day is bonny and blithe and good and gay
, Eden recited to herself, each word like an old seam splitting anew inside her. She envisioned Annemarie Milton singing lullabies to her baby, mother's milk wet on its lips. The back of her neck prickled. Eden wanted to turn around, go home empty-handed, lock her bedroom door, and crawl into bed. She studied the heat rising in waves like a mirage on the tarred pavement, feeling nausea.

At her lack of response or movement, Cleo doubled back to Eden's side.

“Did you hear what I said—about the parking lot?”

Eden nodded, her eyes brimming firewater, her throat dry as bone.

“I'll find you after I check in with Grandpa,” Cleo called over her shoulder, then raced down the street, wheels spinning at a pace.

Eden watched until she vanished beyond a row of parked cars.
Such an odd kid
, she thought, and it made her smile.

Milton's Market was more than she expected, with a cheesemonger station, a butcher, a bakery, and a deli, in addition to the aisles of cans and prepackaged items. Everything was clean and neat, with gingham awnings over each of the designated areas. She picked up everything on Cleo's list, plus snacks for Denny. She took Cleo's recommendation and got a dozen of Milton's Devilishly Divine Eggs. The swirled yolks were toothpicked with miniature
“IT'S A BOY!
” flags. Quaint, like being at a Milton family picnic.

As the cashier tallied her bill, Cleo walked in.

“You found it,” she said to Eden. Then: “Hey-ya, Mack.”

“Hi there, Cleo,” he replied.

Eden hadn't taken the time to notice the name tag prominently displayed.

“Mack—as in Mack
Milton
?”

His had been the second name on their real estate contract. Right after Morris Milton. While she'd never met either man, their designation as “the sellers” was the counterpart to Jack and her, “the buyers” in the home-purchase negotiations.

“The one and only.” He grinned.

She extended her hand. “Eden Norton…Anderson. We just moved in, you know.”