The Mapmaker's Children (31 page)

THE OVERLAND TELEGRAPH COMPANY

RECEIVED AT NEW CHARLESTOWN, W. VA., NOVEMBER 19, 1864 FROM RED BLUFF, CALIF.

FREDDY, WE RECEIVED YOUR LETTER OF OCTOBER 20 AND ARE REPLYING POSTHASTE. SEND. WE HAVE BEEN IN TOUCH WITH THE ALCOTTS. AN OHIO QUAKER THEY CALL MR. HAYMAKER IS FAMILIAR WITH MR. S AND IS AT OUR SERVICE. ETERNALLY, SARAH

R
ED
B
LUFF
, C
ALIFORNIA
F
EBRUARY
1865

S
arah sat up in bed reading to Hannah and Clyde, tucked to either side beneath the pictorial quilt. “ ‘Once upon a time, there was…' ”

The two had arrived on the first of January, like New Year gifts. Clothes in ribbons with foreheads glinting of sand from the journey across the western plains. They'd been timid of every face, wary of even the kindest touch, and clinging desperately to their few belongings.

For Clyde, that had been the Hills' translation copy of the Hans Christian Andersen stories: the pages dulled to moth's wings; one sentence penciled inside the front cover:
These help him sleep
.—
Freddy
. Clyde had carried the book under his shirt all the way from Virginia to California, so that even now, he slept with arms crossed over his chest in a security stitch.

Hannah had arrived clinging to Alice's Kerry Pippin. Though bibbed in an embroidered smock of apple blossoms, the doll was a macabre sight: headless, filthy, and gutted of her softness. Sarah knew why. She took a knife to the seam running down the middle while her mother and Ellen bathed the twins. Within was a rolled bundle of unmailed letters from Freddy dated over the course of the last year and a tintype encased in a gold-etched frame: Freddy, Ruthie, and little George.

It was her first glimpse of Freddy's child. Her first glimpse of Freddy or Ruthie since she'd left them. Freddy's hair was dark as ever, his eyes matching in sepia. Her whole thumb fit over his face, and she'd pressed it there a long moment.

Both Ruthie and he were far thinner than she remembered, and the seriousness of their expressions didn't match Sarah's memories. She wondered
if it was a permanent change of wartime or a temporary one of the camera lens. She prayed the latter. Her worry was lessened at the sight of little George, who appeared to have no concern for either his parents' stony stares or the stark canvas against which they sat. He was plump, smiling with open mouth, and stretching a blurry hand toward his mother's cheek. Sarah imagined him touching it a blink later. The tintype stood on her bedside table so that the children could see their kin whenever they wished.

Despite its lack of face, Sarah had washed Hannah's doll, restuffed it with lavender and cotton, then sewn it up in even stitches. She'd been practicing her needlework extensively and had advertised her services in the local paper. To her delight, she'd received a number of orders for embroidery, stamping, and design and had accrued quite a following of customers among the Red Bluff society ladies. Every penny was welcomed, and she worked her fingers raw each night after long days at the schoolhouse. She and Annie had acquired teaching positions. The employment had afforded them the financial stability to purchase a two-bedroom home of their own in town while her brother Salmon and sister-in-law Abbie started a ranch in Bridgeville.

Mary attempted to have Hannah share a room with Ellen, but the twins refused to be separated. So Ellen begrudgingly went to her mother's bed while Annie slept on a rollaway and the twins took roost with Sarah.

Now, by the light of a paraffin candle, Sarah finished reading and closed the book. Hannah squirmed against her while Clyde's breath came even.

“But, Miss Sarah, I's not yet tired,” Hannah whispered, no louder than a broom's sweep.

Sarah wrapped her arm around. “You must be part nightingale, Han.”

“No I's not. I's all girl!” Hannah pulled her doll over her face to muffle her giggles.

Sarah moved it aside tenderly. No more hiding or codes. Let a smile be a smile, safe in its own truth. She sat the toy upright on her lap and adjusted its headless lapel.

“You know, this baby needs a face.”

Hannah stared thoughtfully at the empty space above the shoulders. “Siby say we have to leave it in the hiding place 'fore it breaks and cuts us on the railroad train,” she explained.

Sarah grimaced. She wondered where Mr. Storm's girls were now, grown up in freedom but fatherless. The sorrow of that night still haunted her, along with so many other moments she wished she could change.

She hugged Hannah closer. “Nothing will break or hurt you here. I'll make sure.”

“ 'Cuz ain't no soldiers in Red Bluff?”

“That's right, and because you're part of our family now, too.” Sarah leaned her cheek to Hannah's head, smelling the rose shampoo Annie had made from the rambles of wild bushes encircling their porch.

The child raised a fawn finger to the painting on the bedroom wall: the Bluff, with a villager's wheelbarrow of red harvest in the center. Sarah had been sure to retrieve her original painting from Mr. Sanborn before she left Concord. It was all of New Charlestown she could claim as her own.

“I miss them's at home,” said Hannah.

“Me, too,” Sarah sighed. “It was the hardest thing for them to give you up, but I'm glad to have you with me.”

Hannah grinned, covering her mouth with her hand. Sarah pulled it away. “You have the prettiest smile. Don't hide it. It brings me joy.”

Hannah lifted her face to Sarah. “Mister Freddy says God be having a joyful heart even when he's sad 'cuz joy be like a garden. Once it take root, ain't nobody—not even soldiers!—keep it from growing when the sun come out,” she said, proud to have remembered the sermon.

Sarah's chest pinched. “That's from the Gospel. Mister Freddy gave you the Word.” She rubbed the skin above her heart with a thumb and returned to the doll. “So you see how important it is that we give this girl a new face. It's up to you. You tell me what kind you want, and I'll sew the finest one I can.”

Hannah nodded eagerly one, two, three times. “I think she smiles like Gypsy,” she said at last.

“Gypsy? How do you know Gypsy?”

Hannah had been too young to have any memories of the loyal dog.

She shrugged. “Everybody know Gypsy. She be the Fur Fairy watching over us. Siby say so.”

Sarah thought this odd, but who was she to contradict? Whether real or imagined, the sentiment was true.

“Then it's settled. We'll give her a Gypsy smile.”

Hannah beamed but quickly sucked her lower lip under her teeth. Remembering the talking-to, she let it go, and Sarah was pleased to see her growing more comfortable—even in something as minute as a grin.

“We'll start sewing tomorrow, but for tonight, sleep.”

Hannah pulled the quilt up in agreement, then turned on her side, facing the table. “Good night, Mister Freddy, Miss Ruthie, and little George.” She kissed her hand and placed it to the tintype. “Good night, Miss Prissy and Siby,” she whispered. “Good night, Ma and Pa, wherever you be. Good night…” She yawned.

“Good night, Miss Hannah,” said Sarah. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Miss Sarah,” she whispered, halfway to dreaming. “Good night, Fur Fairy.” She hugged the doll to her chest, and her breathing fell into rhythm with her brother's.

Sarah kissed her own hand and did as the girl had, hoping her father had been right in his preaching. That believing as a child could manifest miracles.

Good rest to all you, my beloveds
, she prayed, and she glanced one last time at her painting of the Bluff before snuffing out the candle.

NPS Form 10-900

(Rev. 10-90)

United States Department of the Interior

National Park Service

NATIONAL REGISTER OF HISTORIC PLACES

1. NAME OF PROPERTY

Historic name: Hill, George and Priscilla, Underground Railroad Station Home

2. LOCATION

Street & number: 8 Apple Hill Lane

City or town: New Charlestown

State: West Virginia

Code: WV

County: Jefferson

3. STATE/FEDERAL AGENCY CERTIFICATION

As the designated authority under the National Historic Preservation Act of 1986, as amended, I hereby certify that this nomination request for determination of eligibility meets the documentation standards for registering properties in the National Register of Historic Places and meets the procedural and professional requirements set forth in 36 CFR Part 60. In my opinion, the property meets the National Register Criteria. I recommend that this property be considered significant nationally.

Signature of certifying official/Title:
Alanna White

Date:
10/17/2014

State or Federal agency and bureau:

West Virginia Division of Culture and History

(State Historic Preservation Office)

In my opinion, the property meets the National Register criteria.

4. NATIONAL PARK SERVICE CERTIFICATION

I hereby certify that this property is:

entered in the National Register.

Signature of keeper:
Patrick Peabody

Date of Action:
12/1/2014

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
D
ECEMBER
2014

A
light and steady snowfall quietly transformed New Charlestown from autumn gold to winter silver. Eden and Jack had gone to bed under a gentle flurry and awoken to a scene resembling Ms. Silverdash's newest Christmas diorama.

Jack had said good-bye with a quiet kiss to her forehead and a morning song: “Christmas is a-coming, and the geese are getting fat.” He'd pulled open the bedroom blinds so she could see the shimmering branches.

“It stuck,” she'd whispered, then pulled the blankets up warm around her chin and breathed in his musky sleep smells still lingering in the bedding.

Later, he'd texted: Made it to office fine. D.C. is operating full-speed. Wear your Wellies there.

Which she did, and she was glad for dry feet as she drove to Main, wheels crunching on leavened powder. A handful of cars had ventured out by quarter till noon. Most were parked near Milton's Market—people collecting last-minute staples so they could hunker down in comfort. Her tires were the first to leave tread marks before the bookstore.

She wasn't sure if any of the children would come. A cancellation of that Friday's Story Hour was certainly prudent, but Ms. Silverdash would not close the shop unless snow blocked the door from opening. And despite the enchanted feel, there was no more than an inch on the ground. In Eden's old Adams Morgan neighborhood, the salt trucks would've come through before dawn, churning the white to gray sludge so that by morning rush hour they'd merely have to scrape their car windshields and go on as usual. She liked that it was not the usual here. Nothing was anymore.

They'd finally cleaned out the nursery bedroom, unpacked the brown boxes in the kitchen, and given everything a place to call home. All the baby gear had gone up to the attic for the time being, and the house seemed renewed by it. They'd started a CricKet BisKet website, with orders coming in by the dozens from as far north as Connecticut and south to the Carolinas. With Jack's help and Mr. Bronner's advice, they'd trademarked the products and were looking into broadening their sales through a manufacturing facility. Cleo had agreed to have her company shares siphoned into a college savings account, and Eden was thrilled to contribute to her good future. It would've pleased Cricket, too, she thought.

The Nileses offered up their ice-cream truck, retired during the cold months, to the CricKet BisKet services. Eden had suggested that Denny come work for the company. She'd have to hire someone to deliver goods nine to five anyhow, so why not him? He needed to get out of Philadelphia. His wildness had been tamped down by the Jessica affair. No more rock-star gazing.

On Vee's suggestion, he'd placed an advertisement in the
New Charlestown Spectator
for after-school and weekend guitar lessons and had become quite popular with local high school students looking to “make it big.” Their youthful idealism appealed to him, and to his surprise, he was a natural teacher. Between the two jobs, he earned enough to rent the one-bedroom apartment over Morris's Café and had moved to New Charlestown permanently.

It had been Mett Milton's place until he'd announced that he'd been accepted to L'Academie de Cuisine that fall. Annemarie Milton had stepped in as café cook until Mett's return. She brought baby Matthew to Ms. Silverdash's each day while she worked between Morris's and Milton's Market on Main. Mr. Morris and Ms. Silverdash relished having the grandchild in their keep and doted on him endlessly.

Now the youngster sat on Ms. Silverdash's hip, merrily sucking his pacifier with a cheek pressed to her shoulder.

“Looks like just the Hunter twins today,” she said. “Snow or heat, storm or clear blue, Laura's children never miss Story Hour.”

Eden sat in the rocking chair. No matter what became of CricKet BisKet Dog Treat Co., she'd decided to retain her storyteller role at the Silverdash Bookstore. One hundred and sixty-eight stories in the Andersen collection, and they were on 104: “The Pen and the Inkstand.” But Eden paused, thinking it unfair for the rest of the children to miss out.

“What if we read something else today—a special treat for you boys being good for your mama?”

Doug and Dan exchanged grins.

“Fur-furry!” said Doug.

Dan nodded. “Fur-furry!”

Eden could easily tell them apart now. Doug's nose was lightly peppered with freckles, and Dan's was not.

“Ask the Fur Fairy?” She pointed to the dog doll stationed on her bookshelf throne.

The boys looked from the toy to Eden's lap, where a real puppy slept. Both pointed to the latter.

“Furry,” articulated Doug.

Eden smiled approvingly. “Very good. Ladybug is furry.” She cupped the napping pup to her chest.

Ladybug's head bobbled unsteadily at the change of position. She blinked her long eyelashes, once, twice, then gave in and closed her eyes again. Puppy breath came milky sweet. She was nine weeks old. A King Charles spaniel that looked like she could've been Cricket's sister. Eden and Jack were smitten. The week before, they'd picked her up from a Harpers Ferry family with a litter and had hardly put her down since.

“It seems she's too sleepy to weigh in. How about you boys take the Fur Fairy to pick a book?”

They returned with
Maurice Sendak's Christmas Mystery
, a story puzzle in a box.

Eden moved from the rocking chair to the reading rug, sitting Indian-style with Ladybug snuggled in her lap. She read while the boys pieced together the final solution. At the end, they skipped excitedly around her and the puzzle image singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” in vowels
and consonants she couldn't understand. She didn't correct them—sometimes the spirit surpassed words and memory.

B
Y THE
time Eden arrived home, the sun had risen high and bright, making the icy tree boughs wink spectrums at every turn. Coming through the front doors, she was greeted by the rich smell of braised chicken. Ladybug yawned and sniffed the air, eyes wide with appetite. The day before, Cleo had brought over her Gram's slow-cooker Crock-Pot. Eden had never used one but was quickly impressed.

“It's just your style,” Cleo had explained. “You throw whatever ingredients you want in and turn it on.”

“Incredible. Where's this been my all my life?”

“In our house. Under the fry pans.”

Eden had thanked her with the promise of her first official sit-down family dinner. Cleo, Mr. Bronner, Denny, and the Niles were coming over, and Eden was eager to impress. She lifted the top off the slow cooker. A plume of steam rose, hearty as a bite.

Ladybug pawed at her foot.

“Just be patient a little longer, baby. Daddy's not home from work yet.”

The phone rang. She put the lid back on and scooped up the pup as she answered. Ladybug rolled to the side and let a paw dangle over her arm.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Norton Anderson, it's Dr. Baldwin at Cherry Grove Fertility Center.”

Her fertility specialist. It'd been so long, she'd nearly forgotten.

“Oh! Hi, Dr. Baldwin, how are you?”

It caught her off guard, like revisiting a place you used to call home but didn't anymore. There you'd shared a kiss, there a tear, over there your first taste of jam on bread, on those steps you tripped, in the sun you stood here. Yet it was entirely foreign. You couldn't wait to leave and go back to where you now belonged.

“I'm fine, thank you,” Dr. Baldwin replied, then continued formally:
“I'm calling because the last we spoke, we were going to give you and your husband time to…rest.” There was a shuffle of papers in the background. “I'm looking at your chart, and it seems we have four frozen embryos. Fertilized and viable. We've previously discussed your age and blood-work levels, and your cervix is already showing signs of early atrophy.”

She winced at the description. She'd forgot how businesslike the clinic's physicians could be. A kind of factory feel that, in the past, she'd interpreted as a sign of good practices.

She hugged Ladybug closer to feel something alive—flesh and blood, breathing, real.

“If we are going to implant, sooner is best. Time is critical if you wish to carry the child yourself.” Again with the raspy papers, like leaves being raked into a pile. “Given your medical history, I would suggest two or three for the first go. That would leave one or two as backup if the others don't bear out.”

Eden ran her hand through her hair. What if…Hope sprouted fast and green, but she was more cautious now.

“So we'd restart hormone injections, schedule doctor appointments, do everything we did before, and what—wait and cross our fingers?”

“Yes. Maybe your body just needed to recalibrate. I can't predict the future…I'm just a doctor, not God.” He chuckled at his own comparison.

Right, thought Eden.

“I can pass you over to the nurse for an appointment?”

“No, I need to talk to my husband first.”

“Of course. Call the front desk whenever you're ready, and they'll set you up.”

Easy as pie. Only it wasn't. Eden bit the inside of her cheek, thanked him for calling, and hung up. The words echoed:
atrophy…time is critical…recalibrate…the future…
Her head swam. She sat down on a kitchen stool.

Normally she'd engage in a mental Rubik's Cube of how it could go: imagining the possibilities one way and then the next, turning the pieces over and over until a row made sense. Now, however, all she saw was the
glittering layer of snow outside the windowsill where the doll's head had once been.

After Cricket's burial, she and Cleo had made rehabilitating the doll their mission. Vee had helped them locate a muslin body from her supply of antique toys. They'd repaired the cracked skull with porcelain glue and painted the face afresh, keeping the features the same, the eyes different colors.

Ms. Silverdash was officially able to authenticate both the head and the body as from the Civil War era; furthermore, the peculiar facial painting was in fact part of an elaborate Underground Railroad code. An unsuspected map for runaways. The only doll similar to this one had been unearthed in a safe house outside of Cincinnati, Ohio. Unfortunately, its face had faded to near disappearance on a wooden head. The National Underground Railroad Freedom Center's forensic anthropology team hadn't been able to determine who the artist might've been, but its use as a UGRR code carrier was unmistakable. Now, through Eden's discovery and Ms. Silverdash's letters, they were certain that the Sarah of correspondence was none other than Sarah Brown, the daughter of legendary abolitionist John Brown.

Eden wondered how many lives Sarah's dolls had helped save—not just the people who'd carried the mapmaker's secrets but their children and their children to follow. Ms. Silverdash had let Eden read the letters between Sarah and Freddy, and Sarah's passionate words matched the piercing gaze and tender smile of the painted doll. An uncommon woman for her time, a mighty woman for all time, thought Eden, and she cherished it as legacy.

Unwilling to part with the artifact, no matter the price, she set the refashioned doll beneath the hallway telephone stand, greeting all guests to the Andersons' home.

“Hey, Miss A!” Cleo swung in the front door. School was over. Everyone would be there in an hour.

“Smells
awesome
.” Cleo went to the crock and tapped the lid. “Works like a charm, right?” Confident of the answer, she didn't wait for Eden
to respond, slinging her backpack off and pulling
Frommer's Mexico
from within.

Cleo had chosen the guide for her final book report before the winter holiday. Eden had helped her put together the class presentation, complete with a rainbow poncho (from Eden's closet), a grand bouquet of tissue-paper blooms (produced in their living room), and Mexican scribble cookies (baked in the Andersons' oven).

“Public Relations 101: it's not about the product. It's about the product's story. The experience of a shared dream,” she'd explained to Cleo while tying bright tissue paper into floral bunches. “Emotion is the most indelible memory. You give that to your class and they'll remember Mexico forever. It's the Once-Upon-a-Time effect.”

Whether you were promoting books or dog biscuits, the principle applied to any kind of audience. People didn't just want shampoo; they wanted Rapunzel's beauty to make a prince scale a tower wall. Legend.

“Like this.” Eden had put a red flower behind her ear.
“Viene con migo, muchacha,”
she'd said in her best Spanish accent, then mimicked the flamenco dance she and Jack had seen in Puerto Vallarta.

“Zorro! Zorro!” Cleo had joined in, skipping and blading Z's in the air.

Now the girl waved the guidebook. “I got an A plus! Mrs. Blakey said it was the most stylish book report she's ever had.”

“Bueno!”
Eden pulled her into a one-armed hug, and Cleo leaned in fully, kissing Ladybug's head.

She stayed in Eden's embrace while the pup licked her nose. “You got carrot breath. Must've liked those puppy biscuits.”

A spin on the CricKet BisKet recipe: adding pureed baby carrots and whole flaxseed, double-baked extra crunchy for teething. Ladybug had devoured their trial batch.

The front door gave its signature groan and clatter.

“E, it's us.” Denny and the Nileses arrived at the same time, exchanging hellos and laughing.

Hearing the jingle in Denny's and Vee's voices, Eden felt something flicker inside her. They complemented each other, she thought, but before
she could surmise further, Ladybug swam her arms and legs toward the new arrivals. Eden put her on the ground to scamper down the hall.