All the Truth That's in Me

  Robinson. Eunice’s younger sisters. I pretend to cough.

  “It left me in an awkward position. Naturally I tried to reassure them both. Frankly, I don’t see what’s immoral about you sitting in class. But I was hard-pressed to counter their charges concerning your virtue.”

  He’s startled me despite my defenses.

  He nods at my changed expression.

  “The other visitor was a friend and protector of yours, it seems. He used language ill fitting a gentleman to urge me to treat you fairly in my classroom.”

  My insides squirm. Did you do that? Confront the schoolmaster on my behalf?

  Perhaps some child took home a report of my ill treatment, and his father spoke on my behalf out of Christian decency.

  But I don’t think so.

  “Some for you, some against you. A woman of controversy.” The schoolmaster pushes back his chair and stands. “Your mind is not inferior, Judith.” He comes around the corner of his desk. “You’re sadly behind for your age, but you could learn much if you had closer instruction.”

  He stands so close, he is peering down the length of his nose at me.

  “I could help you. I could tutor you at length this evening, at my home, if you came to me.”

  There is no mistaking the gleam in his spectacled fish’s eyes.

  I back away but he seizes my wrist. His grip is surprising for one so thin. I shake my head violently and try to pry his hand away with my other.

  “A maidenly display,” he says. “But we both know differently.” I can smell his heat through his musty woolens. “There is no use pretending you don’t know what I need, when I’ve seen you come from Lucas Whiting’s cabin, scarcely dressed, in the middle of the night.”

  No. Oh no no no.

  He knows he hit a mark that time. Again he traces circles on my captive palm with his free finger.

  “If him, then why not me? I like a girl who doesn’t tell tales.”

  I struggle to free my hand. Then I stomp my foot on his toes. He lets me go, utterly at ease. There is a sound of stamping boots at the door. We both look to see one of Darrel’s friends come indoors. I feel smeared in grease, so polluting are the schoolmaster’s words and eyes upon me.

  “If not, then we’ll let Mrs. Robinson and the town decide if you deserve to be taught. Yes, Master Pawling? What can I do for you?”

  XXXV.

  When you come to drive us home from school in the mule cart, Darrel and I are bundled and ready, but we must wait while Rupert Gillis flaunts his pretended friendship with you. “So good of you to look after these poor unfortunates,” he says to you. “You’re a model of Christian charity toward them.” Your face darkens.

  You say nothing at all on the whole ride home. Nor do you so much as look at me.

  Can Gillis have said something to you about seeing me leave your house?

  XXXVI.

  The sudden cold and rapid thaw are no helpers to the squashes. I visit the heap in the barn, pick out the two pumpkins most affected, and heave them onto a butchering block. One is round and fat and wrinkly, the other tall and smooth and skinny. The latter is clearly Rupert; the former, I decide, is Goody Pruett. I chop Goody Pruett into chunks, scoop her pulp, and peel her skin with Mother’s butchering knife. The tang of pumpkin fills my nostrils. Person’s, too. She lows for some. Then I take the hatchet to Rupert and scalp him, leaving a lovely hole. I scoop out his pulpy brains and seeds and dump them in a pail for Person. Indoors on the hearth, a pan of water heats, ready to simmer the pumpkin until it’s soft.

  The door to the barn opens and I look up, expecting to see Mother.

  It’s you, silhouetted in the doorway of the barn in late afternoon light.

  Despite the late season you’re clad only in a shirt and pants. No hat or coat. I am elbow deep in pumpkin mess, wearing a soiled apron that I quickly remove and lay aside.

  “What are you making?” You come farther inside and reach out a hand to stroke Phantom’s neck.

  I scrub at my syrupy arm with my apron. “Ssttew.”

  Your fingertips make Phantom knicker with pleasure. “Sounds good.”

  “Where’s Jip?”

  You grin. “Locked him home, the mongrel. He stole my dinner today when my back was turned.”

  I’m slow with my manners. You haven’t had dinner. “Would you sstay and have ssome?”

  “Some what?”

  Oh dear. My face must be red. “Pumpkin. Ssttew.”

  You reach for the knife and start shaving the skins off the chunks. “I don’t know how well your mother would enjoy that.”

  I can’t pretend you’re mistaken.

  “I would like to, though.” You reach for another pumpkin piece. “Why does your mother dislike me?”

  I set down my hatchet and look at you. How can I answer this? I can’t.

  “I could ask the same quesstion,” I say. “I think, after I . . . went away, and Father died, all the love she had left wentt to Darrel.”

  You’re watching me closely. My answer doesn’t satisfy you. “But you came back!”

  I shook my head. “Not the ssame. Not for her.”

  You set down your knife and lean against the wall with your arms folded across your chest. “That must hurt.”

  This conversation has taken much too sad a turn. Time for a change. I point to the scalped pumpkin. “This is Mr. Gilliss.” I split him in two with my hatchet.

  The juicy crack of the cleaving pumpkin makes you jump. You smile and reach for the hatchet. “Let me have a go at Gillis.” Soon the schoolteacher’s head lies in small pieces on the block. You reach for the pumpkin chunk you were peeling before. “This one isn’t me, I hope.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “I thought as much.”

  Your smile fades. “Is Gillis still troubling you?”

  I consider what to say. I don’t want you to think me weak if I admit that he is.

  You seem to accept my unwillingness to answer. You go to Phantom’s stall and stroke her neck. “I came to talk with you about something.”

  Your somber tone worries me. “Phanttom?”

  “No.” You run your hands through her mane. “But I’m glad to take her in whenever you decide.”

  I’m relieved that you don’t claim her. But then why have you come, if not for my horse? I drop my hatchet and take a pumpkin chunk over to her stall. She devours it and noses my sticky hands for more. I press my cheek against the hard bone of her face. What do you say, girl? Will you be happy if you go live with Lucas?

  Phantom nibbles my cheek in answer and nudges against me as if to shove my reluctance away. And then we’re both there, side by side, stroking her dappled hide. You take up a brush and groom her in earnest, so I pick up a comb and start working on her mane.

  The barn grows rapidly darker now. Only bits of reddish gold filter through gaps in the beams. I sense, more than see, you standing beside me.

  “She’ll be happy with you,” I tell you. “Take her today. Mother will be gladh.” I put on a brave smile, but my heart aches at the thought of coming to the barn each morning and finding Phantom gone.

  You are so close beside me that we almost touch each other as we groom my horse.

  I stiffen and wait for you to move aside.

  And then you’re behind me, brushing against me while one arm reaches around me to curry Phantom with slow, fluid strokes.

  What is happening?

  You stop, drop the brush, and lean against me. You rest your jaw in my bonnet and wrap your fingers around my arms.

  I’m so confused I panic. I don’t want to be touched.

  “No,” I say.

  Immediately you step back and look away. You stand there looking mortified, and then you make as if to leave. You are at the door.

  “Why?” I say.

  You stop. “Why what?”

  I am trying to breathe, and trying not to cry. I can barely comprehend what has just happened, but I need to know why. I once woul
d have given anything for a touch from you. Your father may have taken away my girlhood, but it’s Rupert Gillis who has opened my eyes. I’ll not be the pet of men who feel like touching something, anything. I’ll not be thought easy to have for having been had before.

  I hate to think it of you. If we ever were friends, neighbors, children together, let me believe you would not use me cruelly, nor even for your selfish comfort.

  So I demand to know your reason why.

  “Why me?” I take another breath. “Why this?”

  I force you to look at me from across the barn. I will not let your eyes escape mine.

  There is only the sound of Phantom breathing and Person chewing.

  “It was always you, Ladybird,” you say softly. “Don’t you know?”

  XXXVII.

  Nothing can restrain my tears from falling now. You hate to see them, and you take a step toward me, reaching out your hand.

  I wipe my eyes fiercely on my loose apron.

  “Then what about Maria?”

  You nod. You can’t deny my asking.

  “I’m sorry about Maria,” you say. “Not sorry that it ended. Not now.” Your eyes plead with me. “Forgive me, Judith.”

  Forgive you? “For what?”

  You make no sense. Who can blame you for courting Maria? Who can blame anyone for succumbing to her appeal?

  “Maria is wonderful,” I say. “She is very beauttiful, and kindh.”

  Your smile is sad. “Leon is a lucky man.”

  I will not be satisfied with merely this as your answer. How can you say it was always me? You have more explaining to do.

  You swallow and plow on. “Maria deserves every happiness. But I never had her heart, and I see now, she never had mine.”

  I am trying to understand, I am trying to think, trying to feel, trying to forgive, trying to stay standing on my own two feet.

  “I was unfair to her, and untrue to myself.” You rake your fingers through your hair. “Judith, since we were little, I’ve been waiting for the day when I could tell you this.”

  What can be happening here? Can you truly have come a-wooing tonight when you entered my barn?

  I lean against Phantom’s stall and wrap my arms around a post. How many times had I dreamed that you might one day feel for me one fragment of what I’ve felt for you? But what you have not yet said is still larger and more final than all you have.

  “And my ttongue? My sspeech?”

  Still you do not look away from me. I am waiting for even the smallest twitch. Instead, you take one step closer, though a gulf still stands between us, and I will not let you bridge it.

  You cannot pass this test and be truthful. What shall you say? That it doesn’t matter to you at all how I sound? That whole or marred makes no difference to you? For clearly, it made a difference before, when you chose to go a-calling at Maria’s door.

  “It’s a cruel world,” you say. “Why did it have to happen? And to you?”

  Phantom nudges my back with her nose. These are questions I can’t answer.

  Your eyes grow wet. “I let it get in the way.”

  I nod and look away. I can breathe again. It’s done.

  Thank you for being honest with me.

  It’s good of you to say all this. What you’ve given me tonight will help me to heal. I see that I can forgive you for all of it, now. For affection running cold, for moving past me and falling under Maria’s spell. For wondering about your father and wounding me with probing questions. You’re only human, as am I.

  You’re a good man, Lucas. A kind and decent man. Some misfortunes ruin our hopes. And that is all. We might even have grown up and married and been happy together, my little-girl dreams and even your growing-boy dreams coming true, but tragedy intervened. We are not the first for whom it has.

  Tonight, I think, you mistook pity and remorse for desire. Loneliness made you confused. Heaven knows I have long been confused about you, too.

  I truly forgive you, Lucas. And I will always wish you well.

  I feel my sadness float away, my regret and humiliation. I can forgive myself for the fool I’ve made myself before you. The awkwardness is over. My body is left empty, and empty is a great relief.

  XXXVIII.

  I hold out my hand to you, for peace, and for friendship. “Thank you,” I say. “You’ve been kindh. You can go. Mother will come looking ssoon.” You take my hand, but you look bewildered. “I’m not done,” you say. “I came because—”

  “Ssome other time,” I say. We both hear the banging of the door to my house. I point to the rear door of the barn. “Quick, that way, through the woods, or Mother will see you.”

  I push you toward the door, but you protest all the way. “Judith, please, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Go!” I hiss. “Later!”

  At the last second you disobey completely. Instead of leaving, you vault over the top of Person’s stall. The squelching sound and the stink would tell me what you’ve landed in, even if your groaning laughter didn’t.

  In spite of myself I start laughing, too.

  Mother enters the barn, and we both make ourselves still.

  “So you’ve got my knife.”

  “Umm-hm.”

  She sniffs. “Ugh! Haven’t you cleaned out the stalls today?”

  I mustn’t laugh. “Unh-uh,” I lie. I can’t let her inspect them.

  “Can’t hardly see a thing in this dark. What’s taking you so long out here? Your pot’s been boiling a while now.”

  I know she doesn’t really want me to answer, which is just as well.

  “We can’t keep that mare, you know,” she says, revisiting a favorite theme. “Suppose that Whiting boy’s got enough to buy it off us?”

  “Mmmm.” I roll the note to say, I don’t know.

  “If he could afford Maria Johnson, he could afford a horse. I’ll ask him next time I see him. Hurry and bring those squashes. Your brother’s ready to eat the tablecloth.”

  I think of you crouching in cow dung and hearing this, and don’t know whether to laugh or groan.

  Mother goes back toward the house.

  “You can come outt,” I whisper.

  You stand up, grinning broadly. “So I can afford Phantom, can I?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I am in a wicked mood. “Could you affordh Maria Johnson?”

  You make a wry face, and I laugh.

  “Good night, Lucass,” I say. “Ssee you tomorrow.”

  You will not easily surrender the last word, but at last, you leave.

  “Lucass?” I call after you.

  You turn back.

  “Wipe your feett.”

  I carry my pail of pumpkin chunks inside to fix for supper.

  XXXIX.

  Mother sends me back to the barn for the knife I forgot. I feel curiously afloat tonight, like an autumn seed carried aloft on the air. Something holding me has released me, leaving me free to move.

  I hug Phantom and kiss her nose, then Person, too, so she’s not slighted. She deserves a better name than Person.

  Io, of course. The beautiful cow.

  I grab the knife and go back toward the house. I know the way with my eyes shut. I inhale the wild, warm autumn wind, smelling damp, dead leaves and soil and rotting apples and wood smoke carried on the breeze.

  A twig cracks.

  I stop and listen.

  There is another step. It must be you, come back to tell me what you couldn’t before. I wait for another step, and there it is. You’re carrying a lantern, mostly shaded, with only slivers of light peeking through the slats.

  The lantern approaches. Its light gleams on the edge of my knife.

  It isn’t you. He’s not tall enough.

  And now he, whoever he is, may be too close for me to run away.

  I clutch the knife handle and brandish the blade before me.

  It can’t be the schoolmaster. He has your height and then some. This man is lower to the gr
ound.

  “Whatt do you wantt?” I call in the most menacing, fearless voice I can make.

  The lantern stills. The footsteps stop. I hear a sound, like a grunt or an intake of breath, not enough for me to recognize a voice. I hear the grating sound of metal on metal, then the lantern closes completely. The man in the darkness begins to move.

  I fly toward the house, leaping over tree roots that cross the path. My pursuer grunts again as he stumbles over them. I reach the safety of the door and the lamplight pouring from the windows. I wrench the door open and tumble in, slamming and bolting it behind me. Mother rises, wide-eyed, and runs to me while I pull down Father’s flintlock from a high shelf. She takes the knife from my hand, and Darrel, to my surprise, pulls Father’s pistol out from under his mattress.

  “Bear?” Mother asks.

  I try to calm my heaving breath, and shake my head. “Manh.”

  Mother’s knuckles tighten around her knife. “Who?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  Mother presses her face against the window, scanning the darkness for some trace.

  “You sure you saw someone?” she asks after a time.

  I nod decisively.

  “We need to get a dog,” Darrel says. I turn to look back at him, realizing I’d all but forgotten about him. He grips his crutch with one hand and dangles Father’s pistol from the other.

  “Put that away,” Mother tells him, indicating the pistol. “We can’t afford you losing both your feet.”

  Darrel’s face flushes with shame but he says nothing. I feel sorry for him, but I confess, the same thought went through my own head.

  XL.

  All through dinner I pick at my food. Who is after me? It couldn’t be Rupert Gillis. Mr. Robinson? Surely not. He is a shorter man, but he couldn’t be. One of the louts from school? Whoever it is, he’s a coward. But a dangerous one. I hope he saw my knife.

  I make up my mind to tell you about him next time I see you.