Almost as tall as he, and as broad, she stared him down while the sons dropped their fists, waiting for the father’s signal.
“Whether they be your woods or not, we do not require the peace of our Sunday to be disturbed.” Her voice rang out loudly in the silence.
“I come to buy corn,” said Old Man Soakes, who had removed his hat and was inching the brim through his fingers.
“Then buy your corn and go home. Fight on your own doorstep, and leave peaceable folk to theirs.” She waited until the group had moved back to the tavern entrance and the crowd closed in; then she bent to look at Jack Stump, who lay at her feet.
“Well, Jack, are you mortally wounded?” She turned to me. “Help him up and give him a dusting; then bring him along to my house and we’ll see what we can do to repair him.”
10
“Brawlin’ in the streets,” the old lady exclaimed, sitting Jack Stump down in one of her kitchen chairs and bending over his battered face. Pale and shaken, the peddler felt his jaw and winced as he tried to move it. It appeared badly dislocated, and though he offered no complaint I could see it was causing him intense pain. Beth, Kate, and I stood watching as he entrusted himself to the Widow’s capable care.
“Here, now, Jack,” she said in a kindly tone, “lay your head against the back of the chair-that’s good, just so.” She peered down at him through her spectacles; then, standing behind him, she laid a hand on either side of the jaw, her sensitive fingertips probing their way along the mandible bone until they had located the desired spot. Her back muscles tightened, she gave a quick yank, and there was an audible sound as the jaw snapped back into place and Jack’s face went white under the stubble of beard.
“Lord, Jack,” she told him, “can’t a man shave for Sunday? There, now, how’s that suit you?”
He felt his jaw again, wiggling it back and forth, then nodding.
“And now you’ll be tellin’ me they started the fight, them Soakeses.”
Jack nodded vigorously while I related the details, including the episode of the flying beer can which had precipitated the attack. The Widow darted me a look.
“You’re as bad as him-and Justin, too. The three of you. What’ll Mr. Deming say?” She clucked behind her teeth and asked Beth to hand her the black valise from the counter; she set it on the table and opened it. Taking a piece of cotton, she selected one of the labeled bottles, poured some of the liquid on the cotton, and cleaned Jack’s swollen eye.
“You’ll be a fine sight tomorrow, you will. And a fat lip to boot.” She touched the swollen tissue lightly. “Now, then, I won’t hurt you. You’ve had enough hurtin’ for one day. That eye’s goin’ to need a poultice. Kate, put the kettle on.”
Kate filled the copper kettle and set it on the burner, while the Widow employed some fragrant-smelling ointment, carefully dabbing it on the injured lip. Then she slid a small tin of it into Jack’s pocket, with instructions for use.
She took a mixing bowl from the cupboard, and a cloth bag from a shelf, measured out a handful of what looked to me like plain corn meal, and added to the contents a pinch from one jar of herbs and a pinch from another, until the kitchen became one delicious amalgam of aromas. When the kettle began singing, she poured some boiling water into the bowl and mixed up a mash which she put into a piece of cheesecloth and rolled into a poultice. Letting it cool slightly, she gently tilted Jack’s head back again, and laid the poultice on the half-closed eye, tying it there with a strip from a rag.
“Jack, you look piratical. Right debonair, y’are.” She gave him a pat and dispatched him to bring in the used clothes he had for her, then showed us into the parlor while she dug out scraps for Beth’s quilt.
If the homely character of her kitchen told much about the Widow, her parlor told more. A room I suspected to be a repository for all her “best” pieces, it was cozy and comfortable-looking, and well used. Without ever looking shabby, the furniture showed long wear, and the rugs, hand-hooked or braided, were thin in spots, testament both to the feet that had trod them and to the years of treading. I asked if she had made them.
“Beth, you’ll most likely find that rocker comfortable. Kate, try the sofa. Yes, I done ‘em, every last one. Keeps me busy through the winters when I’m not makin’ scarecrows.”
I went to the bay window, which was filled with potted plants, and looked at the neatly carpentered bench that bore beautifully carved Roman numerals from one to twelve.
“Clemmon built that bench. My clock bench, he called it.” The bench was a sundial, and where the sun streamed through the window, hitting the frame, it cast a shadow. “I been tellin’ time from that bench the better part of my life.”
“How do you set it ahead for daylight-saving time, Widow?” asked the peddler, coming in with an armload of clothes.
“You’re a fool, Jack Stump. I been here long before daylight savin’s and I guess I can set my head for any such government notion.” As Jack began laying out his hoard on the piano bench, I glanced at the mantel, where an old-fashioned shaving mug sat, and beside it an ivory-handled razor. Mementos of the dead Clem Fortune, I decided. His widow, meanwhile, was examining each of Jack’s secondhand garments carefully, and with a smile in her eyes, but in a gruff voice, she demanded, “You don’t think I’m goin’ to buy any of these old rags, now, do you?”
The peddler held up a tattered coat. “Feel that material, the finest worsted. And the lining’s good as new.”
“Practically. Needs a bit of sewing, mebbe, but you’re just the one to do it.”
“I wouldn’t ante up a quarter for that rag, Jack Stump. What else have you?”
He displayed another jacket, then some pants, then one or two dresses. “Here, now, what’s this?” she asked, ignoring them and snatching up another garment, her eyes flashing as she inspected it at arm’s length.
“I knew you’d hanker for that one, Widow.” Jack hopped to her side and held out the sleeves to better effect. It was an army tunic, green with age, the epaulettes on the shoulders tarnished to gray, the threads unraveled. “Got this from a woman over to Ledyardtown. Belonged to her great-uncle. Spanish-American War uniform.”
“Sort o’ dashing, en’t it?” She turned it backward and sniffed the material. “Smells o’ mothballs. And the Lord knows what else.” She darted a wary look at him. “How much?”
“Well, I figure I ought to ask ten dollars-”
“Jack Stump, you’re out of your mind if you think you can come into an old lady’s parlor and sell her a motley coat for ten dollars.”
Beth and I exchanged glances, smiling as the pair began haggling over the price, and we benefited by a lesson in good old New England trading. Well, the peddler said, she really had him; he was off on one of his territory circuits which would take him all through the northern part of the state and even over into New York; he couldn’t go dragging them clothes along with him-would she give him eight for the coat? The Widow held out for five dollars for the coat, plus some dresses he had laid out, and two pairs of pants, though what she might do with those she was sure she didn’t know.
The bargain was struck, and, scorning the remainder, she paid for her purchases and took them into the next room, where she dumped them in a corner. Through the doorway, I could see her hanging the tunic on a dress dummy and regarding it speculatively. “All of you, come and see,” she said. “This’ll make a fine scarecrow.
“Pay no attention to the higgledy-piggledy mess,” she told us as we came in. “Here’s where I make my scarecrows, and this is what I make ‘em from,” indicating a chaotic array of odd garments. “And that’s what I make ‘em on, my old Fairy Belle.” She pointed to an ancient sewing machine, the kind with a foot treadle. “The only new thing I ever hoped for was a fancy sewing machine with an automatic bobbin, but I expect I’ll sleep beside Clem before I ever stitch on one of them.” She sighed over the Fairy Belle, then looked around her. “All hodgepodge. It’s the same thing, year in and year out. Seems like I just get to know my scarecrows through the summer and I have to say goodbye to them.”
“Goodbye?” Beth asked.
