The Snow Child: A Novel (46 page)

“All right, Mom. All right.”

Bill and his wife and two small children piled out of the automobile looking as if they had stepped off the streets of Manhattan. The children were dressed in ruffles and bows and shoes that shined in the sun. The wife was wearing a stylish flapper dress in mauve silk and a brimless hat pulled low over her bobbed hair.

“They don’t even look like they’re part of the family, do they?” Esther whispered in Mabel’s ear. “But I guess you can’t kick them out just for that.” And, in fact, Mabel was surprised to find them all warm and charming. Bill’s wife, Lydia, quickly offered to help with food and flowers and anything else that needed doing, while the children ran happily around the meadow.

The Bensons’ other son, Michael, arrived next with his wife and three daughters, the youngest still in her mother’s arms.

“Is she here yet? I can’t believe none of us has even met her before,” Mabel heard the two young wives whispering. “I wonder what she’ll wear? Have you heard anything about the gown?”

As she helped Esther spread white tablecloths over the picnic and kitchen tables, Mabel tried to concentrate on the billow of fabric and the feel of the linen over rough, splintery wood as she smoothed out the wrinkles.

I’m here.

The voice was a whisper over Mabel’s shoulder, but when she turned, no one was there.

Here. Inside the cabin. Will you help me?

It was Faina. Her voice came through the empty window frame of the cabin. How had she gotten past without anyone noticing? Mabel excused herself and stepped through the cabin door. The log frame overhead broke the sunlight into sections and dazzled Mabel’s eyes.

I’m here.

Have you put on the dress?

No. You can’t see it yet. But will you help me with my hair?

Faina stood in bare feet, wearing the cotton slip Mabel had sewed for her. There was the slightest rounding in her belly, just enough to pull the slip tight, and across her breasts as well. Faina was no longer a child, but a tall, beautiful young woman, and she had never seemed so substantial, so full of life. Mabel quickly let the curtain fall closed behind her. This morning she had hung the bridal cloche and veil on a hook on the log wall and laid out the boar-bristle brush and hand mirror with their mother-of-pearl shining in the sun. Faina swept her hair across one bare shoulder.

Will you plait it for me?

That would be perfect, child, with the veil I’ve made for you.

So Mabel brushed Faina’s long hair, so blond it was white. She brushed out the tiny bits of lichen and torn ribbons of birch bark, the knots of yellow grass. Once it was as smooth as silk, Mabel braided it into two plaits, one on each side, that laid neatly down the front of her chest. Just as Faina looked away, out the empty window frame, Mabel pulled a tiny pair of sewing scissors from a pocket in her dress and snipped some hair from one of the plaits. Silently she slid the scissors and hair into her pocket.

There. There, now. You look lovely.

For my head, a veil you called it?

You can’t put it on until your dress is on.

I can do it. Just help me, please. You mustn’t see the dress yet.

Mabel took the cloche and veil from its hook and set it on Faina’s head, securing it with hairpins. Then she wove the wild pink roses and white starflowers into the lacework above Faina’s braids and across her forehead. But it wasn’t a crown, not a circle of flowers that could sprout from the earth.

You will leave now, so I can put on the dress.

Are you sure? It will still be a surprise.

Mabel let her eyes dart around the room, but the dress was nowhere to be seen.

Please.

All right. All right, child. We’ll all be waiting for you. Your bouquet is there, in the pail.

Faina reached out for Mabel’s hand and squeezed it. Her touch was strong and warm, and Mabel squeezed back and then impulsively brought the girl’s hand to her lips to kiss it.

I love you, child, she whispered.

Faina’s face was quiet and kind.

I wish to be the mother you are to me, she said so softly Mabel doubted her own ears. But those were the words she spoke, and Mabel took them into her heart and held them there forever.

When Faina stepped across the cabin threshold and onto the green grass, a hush fell across the small gathering. Even the children quieted and stared up at her, and Faina bowed her head down to them and smiled as if she had known them all her life.

At first, Mabel could not see what was different about the dress. It fit her perfectly and moved with a soft rustle against her skin. Faina wore leather moccasins beaded in shimmering white beads and tied with white ribbons up her calves. The veil flowed down her back and the flowers were sprinkled across her forehead. She held the bouquet of wildflowers, ferns, and currant vines.

Then, as Faina stepped closer, Mabel saw the feathers—white feathers, stitched along the neckline of the dress. They lay flat against the fabric so that they seemed part of the raw silk, a mere variation in the texture. Mabel could see the pattern now, how the feathers went from smaller to larger at the center of her chest. Other feathers were sewed along the hemline, and not one covered her embroidery of snow flowers, but each seemed part of the design.

Mabel heard someone take in a breath, perhaps one of the young women, but then Faina was walking past her to Jack’s side, and she could see the back of the dress. Pure white feathers fell down the center of the skirt and fanned out into larger and larger sizes until along the hem some were as long as a woman’s forearm, all laid flat against the fabric and moving gently with the silk. Like the fabric, the feathers gleamed ever so slightly, a sort of luminosity that came from within the filaments themselves.

Jack, wearing his best and only suit, took Faina’s arm, and they began to walk slowly toward the river where the jars of wildflowers sat on tree stumps. The smell of cut spruce was strong in the air. Everyone followed without speaking, and the rustle of Faina’s gown became the gentle roar of the river. They arranged themselves near the shore, the jagged, snowy mountain peaks behind them.

“Where is Garrett?” Mabel heard someone whisper. They
shifted awkwardly in their dress shoes, and the baby let out a whimper. The sun was unbearably hot on Mabel’s head and shoulders, and her eyes ached from the piercing brightness. When she looked up at Jack, he nodded at her and gestured with his chin back toward the wagon trail. She turned and looked over her shoulder, and there was Garrett, riding his horse at a gallop across the meadow. He, too, wore a fine suit, and with one hand he kept a black hat on his head, and with the other he held on to the reins. At the horse’s feet, Faina’s husky sprinted, his tongue flapping at his mouth.

Garrett slowed the horse as he neared the cabin and dismounted even as the horse was still trotting. He loosely tied a lead rope to a nearby cottonwood, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and walked toward the gathering. Mabel was surprised when he came directly to her.

“Do you have the flowers?” he whispered.

Mabel frowned in confusion.

“The wreath?” Then she remembered and pointed to the table where the circle of fireweed and roses and ferns lay.

“Thank you,” Garrett said, and he kissed her on the cheek.

Curious, she watched him pick up the wreath and then tap the side of his leg with one hand. Faina’s dog ran to him. Garrett held up a hand, and the dog sat. He slipped the wreath over the animal’s head, and then what looked like a loop of ribbon and a small pouch. Again he held up his hand, and the dog stayed sitting while Garrett walked to the wedding gathering.

“Not a bad entrance,” Bill whispered as Garrett joined him.

As the ceremony began, Mabel held to Jack’s arm, but it was as if she were floating and spinning. The hot sun blurred her vision. She would faint, or already had. Words swam and
dodged, and she could not tell if they were spoken aloud or only in her head…

… Hope is the thing with feathers… perches in the soul… to have and to hold… Do you?… hurry… hurry… to the ragged wood… no roses at my head… Do you?… until death do you part… until death…

I do…

I do…

I do…

I do…

There was a whistle, like a chickadee’s, and Faina’s dog trotted past as Mabel’s eyes focused again. She clung to Jack’s arm. Faina was calling the husky to her, and Garrett was grinning proudly. The dog, the wreath of wildflowers around its neck, sat obediently at the bride’s feet, and Garrett knelt beside it and untied the ribbon from its neck. He opened the pouch and poured two gold rings into his hand. Mabel heard a child clap and Esther laugh.

Then all sound was lost to the river’s roar, and the ground shifted beneath Mabel. She saw Garrett and Faina, face to face. She saw the flicker of the gold rings in the sun, and then they were kissing and suddenly everyone was cheering.

“Are you all right, Mabel? Mabel?” Jack held her from behind, his arms firmly beneath her elbows. “Here, let’s sit down at the table. It’s this heat. It’s gotten the best of you.”

Someone brought her a glass of water, and one of the young women swept a fan back and forth in front of her. At last she could breathe and think.

“Faina? Where’s our Faina?”

“She’s over there.” Jack pointed to one of the big cottonwoods, where the girl stood, white and shimmering, beside Garrett.