“Aren’t we sort of old to start the nursery business all over again-even if the Widow’s elixir worked?”
“We’re not exactly ready for Sun City. I’m not about to go through the change of life. Kate will be married in no time-darling, she
“What?”
“I’d like to be a mother again. Once more, while there’s still time. Oh Ned, I want it. Your child. A son.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I had put the idea out of my mind for so long that it felt like a completely new one. And what if the Widow failed? What if Beth’s hopes were raised and we couldn’t produce? And whose fault would it be? Beth with her obstetrical problems or me with my mumps? I suggested tests; let a medical man determine the case before-
No, she said. Stubborn Beth. No doctor-the Widow.
“Well,” I said. “Well.” I grinned, then kissed her, a tacit submission to her wishes. I guessed the spare room could become a nursery, if between us we could provide an occupant. I kissed her again, and decided we had had the perfect afternoon. When we spoke of it later, it became That Day, one I’ve relived many times since; and I sometimes wonder if she has too.
I decided to go that evening to Saxony and talk to Mrs. O’Byrne about the slates for the studio roof. A sirocco-like breeze had come up when I left Beth and drove out along the Old Sallow Road, and the sun was dropping behind the cornfields on my left as I headed toward the Lost Whistle Bridge. Coming over the rise, I looked down on the panorama of the Tatum farm, its barn and sheds already becoming dark shapes on the hill. Across the road lay the edge of Soakes’s Lonesome, with the river winding along its farther side.
Passing the Tatum house, I noticed that the fire under Irene’s soap kettle was cold. Figures were moving in the front parlor where the lighted windows cast their shadows on the porch. In the drive were several vehicles, and the Widow’s little mare stood between the buggy shafts. Silently wishing the ladies a pleasant evening of quilting, I continued along past the woods. When I passed the next bend, I saw the peddler, Jack Stump, on his rig. I tooted the horn as I went by, and he waved. Glancing in the mirror, I saw him trundle the cart over the gully and pull it up among the trees.
I could feel the wind buffeting my car as I drove onto the covered bridge. There were still figures hunched over some work on the Soakeses’ jetty, where the skiff was again tied up. Curious to see what they were doing, I stopped halfway across, took the binoculars from the glove compartment, and got out to look through the latticework that trussed the bridge.
Leaning on the railing between the cross-trussings, I adjusted my lenses and brought the group into close view. I recognized Old Man Soakes himself, and the boys I had fought with that morning. There were ducks in the water, and I realized they were not live ducks at all, but decoys, attached to strings. It was the manufacture of these fake birds that the Soakeses were engaged in, the father cutting canvas sections from a pattern, one of the boys sewing them together, another stuffing them with some sort of material. The one sewing was using a sailmaker’s curved needle to stitch up the seam along the back.
Twenty minutes later I was in Saxony, and I stopped at a drugstore and looked up the name O’Byrne. The drug clerk gave me directions and I located the house a short distance away.
Mrs. O’Byrne was amiable and friendly, and readily disposed to sell me the slates, which were piled out behind the garage. With the wind whipping her skirts, she took me out to view the slates, and she showed me where the breezeway had collapsed between the house and the “summer kitchen,” as she called the large shed that had once been connected to the main structure.
“I figured when that rooftree came down, there wasn’t any point in rebuildin’.” Besides, she said, she was alone, and couldn’t afford any household repairs. I decided the price of slates had just gone up. But they were the proper size and color, each drilled with holes for nailing, so I bought forty of them. When I had loaded them in the car trunk, I wrote out a check for the figure she asked.
Was I, she wondered, interested in old clocks? She had a particularly fine one which she would like to sell, a genuine signed Tiffany. I said I might be interested, and she took me into the house to show it to me.
The clock was a beauty, black onyx and ormolu, with works that made a pleasant ticking sound, and a delicate chime. I offered her a hundred and twenty-five dollars and she took it.
While I wrote out a second check, Mrs. O’Byrne quizzed me about life in Cornwall Coombe: how long had we lived there; did we raise corn; was our daughter in school there; did I know an old lady over there somewheres who birthed babies — she must be passed away by now. No, I said, the Widow Fortune was very much alive. Well, Mrs. O’Byrne said, she was competition for Dr. Bonfils, who lived here in Saxony. Yes, the doctor had treated our Kate several times.
Then: “Have you come across someone named Gracie Everdeen?”
Yes; in a way, I said. Did Mrs. O’Byrne know her?
“Indeed I did. She stayed with me most of one whole summer back some years ago.” She spoke with interest of the girl, whom she immediately dubbed “that poor unfortunate creature.”
“She was the most melancholy thing I ever saw. She just appeared one day, right there at the door. I was canning cherries, so it must have been late June. Usually I’m able to can all season as the various things come along, but just about that time I’d boiled up a mess of corned beef. I was carrying the kettle out to dump the water between the bricks when I slipped and scalded my foot. That would have put an end to my canning that year, except here came Grace Everdeen looking for work. I told her I couldn’t pay much, but she could have board, and sleep in the little attic room. That was fine with her, she said.
“So she moved her few things up to the attic and looked after the house pretty well till I could get back on my feet again. She canned the quinces when they came in, and the tomatoes, and all. She was a good worker and a neat one but, as I say, melancholy.”
Mrs. O’Byrne shook her head. The wind had caught a shutter and was rapping it against the clapboards; she asked me to oblige her by securing it. When I had done so, she continued her story.
“She’d been in some trouble, and she’d run off. I took it she’d done a deal of travelin’ and was gone most of two years. But now she’d come back. She had a sweetheart over in the Coombe and she wanted him, though how she expected she might have him, looking as she did, I’ll never know. In any case, there was another woman.”
Who, I asked, might that have been? Mrs. O’Byrne did not know. “But she cursed the pair of them, and I could hear her up in the attic crying to break your heart. Then she wrote him a letter, which she asked me to check for spelling, demanding he come and meet her. I stamped and mailed the letter for her, and by well into July-we were canning peaches, I remember-there still wa’n’t any answer. Then one day it come. That evenin’ she went to meet him. What happened then I got from Mrs. Lake.”
“Mrs. Lake?”
“Old Mrs. Lake that lived by the bridge. She’s dead nine years at Easter, and the house was pulled down. In any case. She lived close by the Lost Whistle, as they call it ‘cross river. Mrs. Lake heard and saw, and when she came to visit me, if I didn’t see, I heard.”
Mrs. O’Byrne having heard from Mrs. Lake, now I was to hear from Mrs. O’Byrne. Roger Penrose had ridden out on his horse to the bridge, where Grace was waiting for him on the other side, but neither of them, for unknown reasons, would cross to meet the other. Roger begged Grace to return over the river, while she demanded he come to her. But the meeting was a stalemate; Roger rode away without Gracie.
They continued to rendezvous through the summer, always in the evening and always with the same result. Thwarted, Roger became angrier and angrier with Grace, while she, standing at the bridge portal, shouted wild and passionate pleas through cupped hands. It was to no avail; still the lovers did not see each other.
“Mrs. Lake said their voices echoed somethin’ fierce through the bridge, and the pain of them two was somethin’ terrible to hear, like wounded animals. In any case, raspberries came and went, and then we was into blueberries and damson plums, and by this time I was off my crutches, so I did up the gooseberries and currants from the fields, and that must have been September, for that’s when gooseberries is ripe. One evening I decided to walk down to the bridge and have a look for myself. I left before Grace had redded up the dishes, and Mrs. Lake and I hid on her porch, with the light off, and here comes Gracie, with a scarf wrapped around her head, standing this side, while there he came ahorseback-I could hear the hoofs as he rode along the road, then cloppin’ up on the approach. Then he stops and calls: ‘Grace, come home!’
“Finally, he must have gotten mad beyond reason, for now over he came at a gallop. Grace tried to run, but he pulled alongside o’ her and scooped her up right out o’ the roadway, and carried her back across the bridge.”
