All the Truth That's in Me

  Must it come to this?

  In town the church bells ring, and people in Sunday best march through the streets. I hang back against the corner of a house to see what it means.

  The door opens and Maria bursts out, dressed in china blue, with dried white flowers crowning her cap.

  “Judith!” She seizes me by both arms and drags me inside.

  I stumble after her, shocked.

  She throws her arms around me and kisses both my cheeks. I feel the two damp spots.

  “Come to my wedding, Judith,” she says. Her eyes glow and her cheeks blush. “Come celebrate with me, for I marry my Leon in half an hour.”

  Oh, she is lovely, so beautiful in her joy, it hurts.

  She wants me to come?

  I press my hand against my heart and lift my eyebrows. Me? She understands.

  “Yes, you,” she says. “I have wished to speak with you, but Leon has needed me to nurse his poor leg.”

  I remember last night’s nearly full moon: today was to be your wedding day.

  Still I stare, not comprehending. She understands and embraces me again.

  “I have long since decided there is more to you than meets the eye,” she said. “Your tongue may be damaged, but your mind isn’t. You miss nothing.”

  I am unaccustomed to anyone paying such attention to me, nor even taking time to think about me for more than a moment. I lower my head.

  She squeezes my hand. “And even with how they treat you, you are kind.”

  At this I look up in bewilderment.

  “Kind to me, when I never gave you a reason to be. Not even before.”

  I feel my face grow warm with confusion.

  “I have been a selfish, spoiled thing all my life, Judith,” she says. “But I wish to be otherwise. Today I’ll have a new name. It’s the start of a new life for me.”

  I can’t help my gladness at the new name Maria will not take today.

  “Be my friend, Judith. Come to me in my new home. Sit with me and we will talk.”

  I close my eyes.

  “Yes, talk,” she says. “We shall. We shall understand each other. I am determined to know you better.”

  I don’t know what to do but watch her.

  “I’m a byword now,” she says, her dark eyes sparkling. “A scandal, breaking my engagement to His Highness. But I don’t care. I have my Leon. And now that people know Colonel Whiting was alive all this time, with Lucas apparently concealing the fact, I daresay no one will blame me for long. Still, I shall have need of a good friend. A friend with some intelligence.”

  I nod my head, too stunned to think clearly. Has she praised me or accused me? Her eyes appear kind, but what can this mean?

  “Will you come to my wedding, Judith?”

  I shrink back and look down at my dingy work apron and clothes. I shake my head.

  She looks disappointed, and it occurs to me that Maria Johnson is unused to disappointment. But she is in a generous mood today.

  “I understand. You will come and sit with me, all the same? Some day next week?”

  It takes some remembering how to do it: I smile. I will.

  She kisses me again, on my forehead. “Bless you. Wish me joy?”

  I smile again.

  She gathers her skirts in her hands. “I must go.”

  I hold the door for her and we return, blinking, into afternoon sun. She hurries toward the church and I head for the blacksmith’s shop.

  XXXIII.

  The forge is cold and still today. Naturally, the wedding. So rarely do we get a chance to celebrate, everyone in town will go. Even if Maria is a scandal for the moment.All but Mother, and Darrel, and me.

  And, I imagine, you.

  XXXIV.

  Abijah Pratt rounds a corner as I am on the verge of leaving town. He startles me. There is no surprise in his scowling eyes. It is as if he had lain in wait for me.“Strange thing, seeing a female at a battle,” he says. I take a step back, my heart pounding. There are other ways home—I try to clear my mind and think of one.

  “Almost as strange as seeing a man supposed to be dead.”

  I search around. There is no one else on the street. The main street of town stretches behind me, and farmland out in front, yet I feel cornered, trapped by his accusing eyes. I take one step forward, and he tenses. Another, to my right, and he leans the same way.

  What are you planning, old man? Neither old nor young, in truth.

  “You’re only alive because you’ve got no tongue,” he says. “Otherwise you’d be punished for adultery, you know that? ‘Every knee shall bow and every tongue confess.’ Except you can’t confess, can you? So you escape the punishment. For now.”

  His words are insects buzzing in the corner of my vision. I do not grasp them right away.

  Silence is the method I’ve perfected, adaptable to almost any need. Silence and stillness. I wait. I lower my eyes to the ground.

  After a minute or two, he walks back toward town, swinging wide of where I stand.

  My body is still but my mind is ringing with his words as I make my way home.

  Adultery? Punishment?

  What is he planning?

  XXXV.

  I make my mother understand. Wedding bells, blacksmith will come tomorrow. She peppers me with questions and I nod yes and no. After two years, we have our ways, when we must communicate. Mother uses her frustration to peel a dozen apples for a tart for Darrel. We’ll have our own wedding feast here, or else it’s a farewell party for his foot. Her thoughts are far away, and so I slip out unnoticed.

  Phantom’s glad to see me, glad to eat the apple peels. I loose her for a run through the pasture, watching her tail fly as I gnaw an apple of my own. Even I can taste its tartness, faintly. It is as if flavors are still there, though far away, like a memory. But the apple is a hard lump in my belly when I think of what the town is doing to you, and of Abijah Pratt, and what he may plan to do to me.

  Phantom’s coat is smoother now since I’ve been brushing her. Her mane glistens. I’ll need to think of a way to pay Horace Bron to shoe her.

  Wedding bells ring out again. The ceremony’s over. Maria and Leon are one in the sight of God and man. I feed Phantom my apple core and follow my footsteps to your house.

  You’re not there. All day you are not there, until I begin to worry.

  XXXVI.

  At dusk, I start roving through the woods. I hear the thud of your ax before I see you. You’re chopping green timber. Still at work on your addition. This is the hour when tales of forest magics and evils begin to seem more than tales. Shadows grasp at you with ghostly fingers. This is no time for someone grieving to be alone in the woods.

  Your work would go faster with a partner and a saw, but you chop as if in a frenzy, your shirt brown with sweat. Two other trees lie fallen nearby, their pale stumps jutting up from the fallen leaves like broken teeth. Beside one stump, I see an uncorked jug lying on its side, and Jip lying next to it, half asleep.

  Ax pounding, chips flying. Men have died from such exertion, and I wish you would stop. Whose face do you see in that green pulp?

  The tree yields with a crack as it topples. A cloud of orange leaves flies up where it lands, and the chill wind sweeps them over you.

  You pant. You swab your forehead with your sleeve and lean against another tree. You press your face into its bark.

  XXXVII.

  You sink down on your haunches. I see the boy I once knew in your huddled limbs and face. Jip curls up beside you.You’re soaking wet, and the wind is cold. You lay yourself down in a hollow of ground, still clutching the handle of your ax.

  Your eyes close, and still I watch. I am alarmed for you— this is not like you. I know you are assaulted on every side, by jeering youth and gossiping women, by wedding bells and memories. But this, and the bottle, these aren’t like you.

  In time, you sleep.

  You’re ill and exhausted. You wouldn’t know if a tree fell beside you. But you c
ould catch your death out here.

  Should I wake you and send you home, and mortify us both?

  No. I have a better plan, one that will leave you guessing in the morning, but that thought pleases me.

  I hurry to your house where I take the blankets from your bed and bring them back to where you lie. I ease the blankets over you, tucking them in around your legs, your back, your chest. You stir and murmur but you don’t wake. Slowly I twist the ax from your grip and lay it down behind you.

  The wind bites, and you’re damp.

  Then a terrible, wonderful thought bursts upon me and leaves me breathless. Would I dare be so wicked? What might happen?

  The sun is fully set, and we are closeted by shadows. I take off my cap and untie my braids. The wind brushes over my skin, lifts my hair, reaches through my dress to cool my burning inner parts.

  I crawl under your blankets and lay me down beside you. The ground is cold and rough underneath my hip. I press my back into the bend of your body. The feel of you washes over me.

  The earth tilts.

  Your sleeping breath moves a section of my hair. I press in closer, fearing each breath of mine might wake you, each gallop of my heart might stir you.

  I look up and see stars winking down on my transgression. But sin and the dread of it can’t reach this far. Together we grow warmer under your blankets. Jip moves and drapes himself over our ankles.

  The stars’ cold stare reminds me: worse than a sinner, I’m a thief. I steal the touch you would not choose to give me.

  You’ll never know you’ve been robbed.

  You need warmth.

  Night in the woods makes all things possible.

  XXXVIII.

  Bliss and agony together. I steal my bliss from your agony. Every forest sound makes me nervous.

  The passage of time reminds me of Mother.

  Every moment I tell myself I don’t dare stay any longer. Just this minute more, and then this, and then I must, must go. I’ll count to ten, and then I’ll leave. But when ten comes, the leaving is unbearable, the cold that flows into the gap when I move even an inch away from you is more than flesh can take.

  And anyway, I must keep you warm. More sounds. Small nocturnal hunters making noisy midnight steps. Even you stir. I panic. Now I truly must flee.

  You fling your arm over me. It lies heavy on my side, dense with strength yet soft with sleep. Your arm is enough to arrest me. I reach slowly forward and curl my hand in yours.

  XXXIX.

  Is it minutes later? Or hours? I can’t say. You pull your arm back and roll over onto your other side, turning your back toward me. In your sleep you make little grunting noises as you search for a comfortable spot. Sweet sounds, like a baby’s. Here is my chance to escape. Mother will be livid by now. And Darrel needing us both tomorrow . . .

  I leave for him. Not for you, nor Mother, and certainly not for me.

  I can’t walk home. I have to run, for if I slow down I’ll turn around and run back to my place beside you. I slow down when I see our house and frantically brush off the specks of dirt and contamination that could make Mother wonder. But all my worry is for nothing, for this time she has gone to bed without me. No doubt her fear for Darrel overshadows everything else tonight.

  XL.

  In bed I lie awake and listen to Darrel whimper. I marvel at my daring, and I curse myself for not considering how much more bitter I have made my future, now that I’ve sampled a syrup I will never taste again. But even through my drunkenness and my worry for Darrel come unwelcome images of Abijah Pratt halting me in the street.

  Darrel’s cries sound like a child’s. Mother doesn’t wake, so I go to his side.

  We’re saturated in this, Mother and I. Darrel is not a patient who inspires pity. Only aggravation. I can’t blame her for not rising.

  Tonight Darrel’s tears are not for pain. He knows what tomorrow brings.

  I blot his eyes with a cloth.

  “I’m frightened, Judy,” he says to me.

  I wipe his face and hands.

  “It’ll hurt ferocious.”

  There is no denying it.

  “I’m not brave.”

  No one accused you of bravery, Goose.

  Darrel’s face contorts. “It wasn’t even them that got me,” he says. “It was me. I made a mistake with the gun.”

  He thinks this is a revelation; I pretend to receive the knowledge. I push his tangled hair back out of his eyes.

  “Oh, Judy,” he cries, reaching for me. I gather him into my arms and press him to me.

  He’s skinny, wasted away with days in bed. He stinks foully.

  My heart is swollen with love for my baby brother, and with that love comes fear. Don’t die tomorrow; don’t leave me here alone with Mother. What kind of world would it be without your rascal face?

  He relaxes his grip and we slide apart and look away.

  “I smell bad,” he says. I nod, hard as I can. He grins. It feels good to laugh together, even if softly.

  Our mirth passes quickly and I have an idea. I pull the tin washtub toward the fire as stealthily as I can. The kettle is hot in the coals, and the soup pot holds water for tomorrow’s wash. I pour them both into the washtub and refill them from the bucket. I add some wood to the fire, then tiptoe out to refill the bucket.

  When I return, Darrel sits up and removes his shirt. He’s excited. A bath, in secret, without Mother’s approval!

  Despite our efforts, of course the noise makes her stir. She rises up in her white nightshirt and cap, frowns at us both, and goes back to sleep.

  Now we are less careful. I help him take his drawers off. It’s dark, and I look away for his privacy.

  I help him into the tub. There are still only a few inches of water, but soon I have more to pour over his head. I hand him the dish of sticky soap and a cloth. He attacks his face, shoulders, arms, and body, and I give his back a scrub. While he soaks I change his bedding and drop the soiled linens in a heap. Even his puffy black foot we soak a bit. Why not? It doesn’t hurt him anymore.

  “Let’s send it clean to hell,” he says, and I agree.

  While he dries and dresses, I scrub his dirty bedding in the warm water and go outside to hang it on the line, shivering in the November cold. I look through the darkness toward where you were. Are you still asleep?

  I go back in. Already the house feels lighter, and we can breathe more clearly. I help Darrel back into bed, smelling of wet hair and soap, his skin squeaky and red.

  “Thank you, Worm,” he says, and gives my hand a squeeze.

  XLI.

  I wake before sunrise and lie in bed wondering how much of the night before was only the substance of dreams. Then I remember what day it is, and I rise and dress quickly, my stomach a stone. Darrel lies so still in bed, I fear we may be too late. I run all the way to town and reach the blacksmith shop before the fires are lit. I find Horace talking with some other men, Melvin Brands and Alderman Brown. I step back and wait in the doorway.

  Alderman Brown, with his long gray beard, is venerable enough to risk talking to me.

  “Fares your brother well, Miss Finch?” he says, coming out onto the porch with the others trailing after.

  I shake my head. No.

  “Is that why you have come?”

  Yes.

  “Horace,” he says, not turning his face away from me, “Miss Finch has come to seek your help with her brother’s foot.”

  “I’ll go,” says Melvin Brands, the doctor.

  I make a gesture toward my empty pocket and shake my head sadly.

  He waves my protest away.

  “I’ll go,” he says, “and Horace will come with me.”

  XLII.

  We march in silence out of town, pausing only for the doctor to fetch his bag. Horace’s mighty cleaver is slung over his shoulder and he whistles as he walks. I believe he thinks it will cheer me. I don’t need cheering. I just want this to be over. We pass by your house and see you coming out
of the woods, your blankets over one arm. You have bits of leaves and twigs stuck in your hair and clothes, and your ax lying over your shoulder. Seeing us three, you halt, embarrassed.

  The stone in my stomach becomes a jackrabbit. Thank heaven, the men’s eyes are on you, not me, for I fear I’m turning scarlet.

  “Morning, Lucas,” Horace calls. “Gone camping?”

  Bless Horace Bron. There’s too much earth and iron in him to be swayed by idle gossip. But Dr. Brands, I see, doesn’t greet you.

  I look back to see how you take his coldness, but you haven’t seemed to notice. Your eyes insist that I look back at you. You indicate your blankets with a small gesture, and wordlessly demand to know: Did you do this?

  My face can be as mute as my voice. But it is hard to hide anything from you. I look away and hurry on.

  I feel your eyes burning the back of my head until the path bends out of sight.

  XLIII.

  Mother has Darrel whiskeyed up and the fire roaring. Every pot we own sits full of simmering water in its coals. “Excellent,” Dr. Brands says, surveying the chopping block and bucket she’s hauled indoors and placed at the foot of Darrel’s bed.

  A ruthless competence, my mother has. There’s a knock, and then you appear. For once, Jip isn’t with you.

  Must I forevermore turn hot and red the moment that I see you? Sin brings its own punishments, it seems. No matter. It was worth it.

  You’re combed and dressed and wide awake.

  “Looked like you might need help,” you say to Horace and Dr. Brands.

  “Good of you,” the blacksmith says. Still the doctor doesn’t answer. Your eyes are like a child’s, one eager to prove he can be helpful to win a parent’s favor.