She looks up and nods.
Pop’s face flashes into her mind, and then she feels a sudden panic. She hasn’t seen Libby angry. Libby is …
It’s hard to describe. Steady, maybe. Libby smiles, but she doesn’t laugh. She speaks slowly, quietly. But suppose that’s just one side of Libby. Suppose she’s furious when she sees this. Suppose she puts Elizabeth out.
Where could she go? Hitchhike back to her empty house in Middletown? Break in through a window? Live there by herself until Pop came back?
She leans back against the wall. There’s a round red stain on her jeans.
“Don’t move,” Annie says. “Let me get some help.”
So she sits there, wondering how she’s ever going to tell Libby, while the custodian sweeps up the frame and the glass that someone put together for the future.
She holds the drawing on her lap and turns it over. On the back she sees a group of uneven lines. In one corner are three triangles, the one in the center larger than the other two. Up a little farther are intersecting bits, curling around themselves.
What is it? What could it mean?
Mr. Stewart comes along and gives her a hand up. He helps her wrap the drawing. And all the time, she’s thinking, Libby.
What will she say to Libby?
What will Libby say to her?
zee
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
I started home from the Patchins’ place along the river’s edge, walking softly in the mud. I was mindful of disturbing the kingfisher that was balanced on a hollow log and the purple finches that flitted along the willow branches, chattering to each other.
But why was I watching the birds? It would have been better for me to think of what I’d say to Mother. How could I ease her disappointment when she saw me returning without soap?
The kingfisher flew up suddenly, and I realized the finches had stopped their chirping.
It was almost as if Old Gerard stood in front of me, hand up, warning me. Someone was coming—someone who didn’t care about the noise. Twigs crackled and small stones pinged as they were dislodged. Ghosts weren’t about in the daylight, but I slipped back into the trees and held myself completely still. I heard the sound of someone’s hard breath, and whoever it was stumbled past me.
“Ammy!”
She reached out to me to steady herself. “I’m so glad it’s you,” she said when she could talk. The hem of her petticoat was wet, her sleeves were muddy, and her hair had escaped from her cap. “I was coming to find you, but I have only a moment.”
I reached out absently to wipe a spot of mud from her cheek.
“Father has gone ahead,” she said, “and Mother has stopped for something at Mistress Eddy’s cabin.”
“I was late this morning,” I said, trying to make sense of it all. “When will we make soap?”
“Zee! Look at me.” Her face was the color of old milk. “I’ve come to tell you. You must leave, or you’ll be hurt.”
I ran my tongue over my lips. What was she talking about?
“The Loyalists are massing together; they’re determined to put an end to this rebellion.” She raised my chin with her finger. “And your family—”
“We’re Americans,” I said slowly, finding the words John used over and over. “And this is our country.”
“No,” she said. “We’re on British soil, and those who deny it are nothing but—” She hesitated. “John and his friends left frightful messages at the Loyalists’ doors. And those who are true to the king won’t stand for it.”
I stared at her. She looked almost wild.
“The Loyalists have the power,” she said. “The Iroquois have come in on our side.”
I felt a tremor in my fingers, my chin quivering.
“My father wants no part of this fight,” she said. “We are going to Ticonderoga, and then to Canada. A terrible journey, but we’ll be safe there, away from all this.” She stopped, her own chin unsteady. “Tell your father.” She waved one hand uncertainly. “Find safety.”
She gave me a little push, then turned and was gone, splashing through the mud along the riverbank.
How long did I stand there, frozen in that spot? It was enough time for the chatter of the birds to begin again and the kingfisher to swoop back onto his log.
I ran from the riverbank, taking the old Lenape trail that wound through the trees. Only at the edge of Old Gerard’s field did I stop to gasp for breath.
Gerard stood at the far end. He waved, and I raised my hand, but I kept going, running across the field, climbing over the rocks near the river, looking for Father.
I burst into the house after circling Stout Lucy, who was sunning herself on the stones in front. Mother stood there silently, shaking her head as I began to speak.
“Zee,” she said, “what you have to say will have to wait. There’s something I must tell you first.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Your father has gone north to Tryon County to prepare for battle with Herkimer’s men.”
There was that name again: Herkimer.
“General Herkimer’s father came from nearby in the Old Country.” She took a breath. “Father said he cannot wait, he cannot stay, he has to be part of this fight. If we don’t win, we’ll lose everything, house and land, maybe even—” She stopped, biting off her words the way she’d bite off a strand of sewing thread.
“We’ve spent our days together, your father and I. How strange to be without him now.” She waved her hand toward the table. “I told him I couldn’t bear not to know where he was, and so he left us this.”
A piece of parchment lay on the table, a map drawn with walnut ink. The lines led to Father, to John. The lines led to Herkimer.
“Keep it, child,” Mother said. “It’s a piece of Father. I have it in my head now, in my heart.”
I picked it up and held it in my hands. Then I tucked it under my kerchief to keep it safe.
I sank onto the one chair in front of the hearth, trying to take everything in. “Ammy says that the Loyalists will come after us,” I said finally, “that they’ll hurt us.”
She didn’t answer.
“The Iroquois have joined them.”
I saw her look of fear, but her voice was calm. “And the British regulars are not far away, I suppose,” she said. “But we will go on as we have been. There is nothing else we can do.”
And so that was what we did. I picked up the yarn that had been dyed, and began to knit a sock. Knit one, purl one, knit one—
I lost a stitch and watched it travel down three or four rows before I caught it with the edge of my needle.
Mother prepared the pans for cheese making and then began a supper of bread and a few early strawberries.
The only sound we heard as the sky darkened into evening was the snapping of logs in the fireplace. We listened, waiting for something else.
elizabeth
TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY
Waiting is so hard. How is she ever going to tell Libby? She walks home from school, the packaged drawing under her arm. She remembers a book Pop read to her: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
That was today. At school Annie and two other girls went with her to the nurse’s office. They stayed while the nurse slapped bandages on her knee. Then Annie made room for her at the lunch table. If anyone had told her a week ago—even three days ago—that she’d have friends here, she wouldn’t have believed it.
Suppose she just leaves the drawing on Libby’s dining room table. Suppose she packs up a few things—not two heavy duffel bags’ worth, of course. She sees herself at the entrance to the highway a few blocks away, raising her thumb. Dangerous. She could never do it.
How many miles is it to home?
She thinks of Pop. When he e-mails her, she doesn’t e-mail back. She barely speaks when he calls. If she’d been home, she would never have gotten into this mess!
She realizes she’s been standing under a sycamore for the past several minutes. A woman is peering at
her from her window.
She begins to run, her backpack bouncing gently. But as she turns the last corner, she sees the blue car in the driveway. Her mouth goes dry. Libby is home early.
Elizabeth walks up the front path, pulls out her key, and lets herself inside. Is Libby in the kitchen? In a corner of the living room? Everything is quiet, except for a tiny ping coming from the faucet in the kitchen.
She lays the drawing on the dining room table. Then she climbs up to the bedroom and throws herself into the chair. She sinks into the pillows, wishing she could stay there forever. She glances at the quilt with its crooked houses and picks a green one. She pretends it belongs to her, that she’s sitting on the porch reading a great book. Inside, Pop would be carving a small animal, or a bird. Neither of them would have ever heard of Australia.
Outside, movement catches her eye. She leans forward to see that several dead branches have been piled up in a corner of the yard. Libby is raking furiously, her face red under a wide straw gardening hat.
Elizabeth watches her; has Libby seen the empty space? Does she know the drawing is gone?
Elizabeth ducks back in the chair, just to be sure Libby won’t look up and see her.
What can she say? What can she possibly say? Why has she done this terrible thing, anyway? Think, Pop would have said.
Libby glances up. Her eyes look worried, or maybe sad.
Libby must be able to see her. Elizabeth raises her hand to wave.
Libby pushes her hat back and motions for her to come down.
Elizabeth walks to the stairs and looks back at the room. If only she could stop time and hold on to this moment, seeing this wonderful bedroom, the quilt with its crooked houses.
She goes downstairs slowly, then through the kitchen, tightening the faucet. How will she explain?
But she doesn’t have to explain to Libby yet; she doesn’t have to say a word. Libby says, “Hi! Can you help me with the winter branches?”
They drag the branches out to the back and lean against the fence, winded.
“Elizabeth,” Libby begins, and stops.
Elizabeth looks away. “I’m sorry,” she says in a voice so low she wonders if Libby can hear her. “I took the picture of Zee. I broke the glass, the frame. I’ve ruined everything.”
“Your father called,” Libby says, as if she hasn’t even heard Elizabeth.
Elizabeth tries to connect this. Libby has seen that the picture is missing? She’s told Pop? And Pop—what?
Libby rushes on. “I’ve lived alone for such a long time.”
“I should never have taken it.” Elizabeth’s eyes are so filled with tears that it’s hard to see. Libby’s eyes seem blurred to her, but soft behind her glasses.
Libby reaches out and touches Elizabeth’s cheek; she runs her hand over Elizabeth’s hair. “Poor child,” she says, as if she’s the one who has to be sorry about what has happened.
For the first time, Elizabeth realizes what it must be like to have a mother. How wonderful it would be. If only she could do everything over, she’d be perfect—so perfect Libby would never want her to leave.
“Having you to look after was such a shock,” Libby says. “Not being able to read at dinnertime, trying to talk, having to cook meals when I’m the worst cook—”
“You’re not so bad,” Elizabeth says automatically. Libby couldn’t be much worse. But what difference does it make? She knows what’s coming, knows that Libby is trying to tell her she can’t stay.
And that’s exactly what Libby says. “Your father is coming home early. He called an hour ago. He’s finished in Australia. He said to tell you he’s sold all the carvings, even the miserable ones.” Libby stops. It’s as if she can’t get the words out. “He’ll pick you up on Monday.”
Elizabeth thinks of leaving Libby, leaving Zee. Her mind goes to the chess set in the living room that she’s never tried, to lunchtime today, to swapping stories with Annie.
She stares down at the branches and the few crumpled leaves that still cling to them. She hears a woodpecker knocking at the oak tree in back of them and a mourning dove cooing its sad song.
She hears something else. Libby is making a sound in her throat.
“I’ve wanted to tell you,” Libby says, “that my life has changed since you’ve been here. I hurry home after work, and—” She reaches out and wraps her skinny arms around Elizabeth.
Elizabeth is used to Pop’s hugs, but this is different, softer, a little awkward because she’s not used to it. Was her mother skinny like this? Would her arms have felt the same way?
She’s going to lose all this, her new life with Libby.
“I argued with your father,” Libby says. “I told him you’re happy here, I’m happy. I’ve asked him to let you stay for a while and finish the term at school. But he says he misses you. He needs you.”
Elizabeth looks up.
“Of course he misses you,” Libby says. “Who wouldn’t?” She pauses. “I didn’t tell him that we both love Zee. I didn’t tell him we both talk to her.” She nods. “I’ve heard you.”
Elizabeth is really crying now. She feels as if she’s going to choke.
“The first time I talked to Zee,” Libby says, “I was exactly your age.” She takes a breath, crying, too. “You’re so much like your mother, Elizabeth.”
Libby’s hair smells shampoo clean, and the plants against the fence are green. If only she’d never come here, she wouldn’t know what it was like.
“If I know anything,” Libby says, “I know that Zee would have loved you. Don’t worry about the picture. We’ll get a new frame, and a piece of glass. That’s not so terrible.” And then she stops. “What will I do without you?”
zee
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
The days passed, warm days, waiting days. Everything was alive; there were mud nests of barn swallows over the doorway, eels in the river, woodpeckers hammering, frogs peeping at night from the trees, their music so loud the whole world hummed with it.
I remembered one year; a wren had fallen from its nest. Isaac had held me up, the bird cupped in my hand, to bring it back to its frantic mother.
Where was Isaac now?
Where were John and Father?
How hard it was to be alone, Mother and I going about our work quietly, watching, listening.
I had a new thought. It began as I looked at the land around me; the sturdy corn in neat rows; the herb garden that Mother tended, bending, her face red with effort; the house that Father had built with his own hands.
Did I not have a part in that building? I had helped fill in the spaces between the logs so that inside we’d be snug and warm. I’d brought hay to the cow and milked her in the mornings. I’d helped with the birthing of the lambs.
Our land, our food, our house. Not the king’s.
I felt that even more when I pulled open the door that led to the root cellar. At the bottom of the steps, shelves were filled with potatoes that looked like the faces of old men, and rounds of pale cheese. On hooks overhead were dried sprigs of thyme and rosemary, and underneath, withered apples, the last of fall’s harvest. I was almost drunk with their sweet smells.
Ours. All of it. Miller had said that once.
That fierce feeling grew inside me each day.
At night I no longer slept in the loft. Mother and I shared the bed near the hearth. I awoke dozens of times, listening to the tree frogs. They were sentinels. Should something disturb them, even a footfall, their music would stop.
Half-asleep, I thought of the river and the bateau, a flat-bottomed boat that had carried us here when I was four years old. Mother and Father had brought John across the ocean from the Palatine before I was born, searching for freedom from the French swords just across the Rhine. In the new country, they’d worked on one farm after another until they were able to settle on their own land.
That day Father had stood in the front of the bateau, shattering the river’s thin crust of ice with his pole. I
’d leaned out to push against the skim of ice with my palm, watching black water appear that numbed my hands, until Mother pulled me back by my petticoat. “Zee, what will we ever do with you?”
Beside her now, I slept again.
When trouble came, it wasn’t night. There was a hint of daylight, and mist still floated above the fields. The tree frogs slept.
The chicken coop went first.
I walked between the house and the coop, swinging a pail of corn. There was a curl of smoke, a twist of gray, and before I had time to move, the roof exploded. Pieces of wood flew off, and in the opening, orange flames shot out.
The pail clattered away from me as I ran to open the door. The rope was gone, burned away, and I wasted moments trying to dig my nails into the rough edges of the door to free the poor hens.
Smoke came up from around the base of the coop, thick and black, and I stepped back, horrified by the pain of the hens. I took in great gulps of air until I heard Mother screaming, “Run, Zee! Go!”
The house was in flames. Mother was in the doorway and men were around her. In the dim light, I couldn’t see who they were. I started toward her, coughing, retching, and she screamed, “Go!”
One of the men separated himself from her and moved toward me. I flew. Barefoot, breathless, I clambered over the rocks between the fields, trying to reach the safety of the trees. I remembered the rabbit and the hawk.
I was the rabbit.
His footsteps were light and sure; he knew the ground as well as I. A Loyalist from the valley, then, or one of the Indians. If I had turned, I might have seen who he was, but there was no time for that.
The trees came closer. They were thick and the ground was overgrown. I reached them, darting between them, backing up against a trunk with rough bark. Don’t move, I told myself, don’t cough.
I was Old Gerard’s pupil, after all, and whoever was chasing me passed by. Had I reached out, I could have touched him.
I bent over, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, to slow the beating of my heart. What should I do?