The mapmakers children, p.11
The Mapmaker's Children, page 11
“Awhile.”
She steeled herself for the follow-up questions: What’s wrong? Why hasn’t it worked? Why didn’t you tell me? Instead, his attention returned to his coffee, leaving her to fill the lull.
“We didn’t tell anybody. It’s just one of those things.” She dumped the rest of her cup down the sink, undrinkable, and watched it coat the steel sepia. She didn’t want Denny to be sad for her. “Mother Nature can be a friend or foe—depending on the perspective.”
“Fickle bitch,” said Denny.
She wasn’t sure if it was a cynical or serious statement. His countenance hinted the latter, so she laughed to lighten the mood.
“Suppose so.”
He rose then and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a strong hug that felt more take than give. She squeezed him back, and the tension in his muscles slackened.
“I’m glad we have each other.” He sighed, and his chest bowed wide in her arms.
She wondered when that had happened: When had he grown so big? She could still smell the sunbaked crown of the little boy whose head fit into the nook of her neck. Only now he was tall as a beanstalk.
“You’d be lost without me,” said Denny.
When she pulled back, his scowl was gone. She poked a finger at his sternum. “Completely.”
A note sat beside the doll’s head. Fat, loopy handwriting:
Mrs. A,
If you want Cricket to eat from The Holistic Hound, then we need A Lot of stuff. We got carrots, peas, spinach, kale, and potato in the garden, but we need brown rice, ground chicken, flaxseed, and canned pumpkin. That’s for Cricket, but I really think you should get some other stuff, too. PEOPLE FOOD.
I met your brother. He said he’d walk Cricket at noon if that’s okay. I’m neaded over to the niles Antique Mill to ask about that doll, then to the bank during grandpa’s lunch break. BTW, I’m reading your Mexico guide. I like it.
–Cleo
The Niles Antique Mill? Vee Niles had called Eden’s cell phone and left a puzzling voice message, apologizing for business hours being off and mentioning something about her father breaking his pelvis. She said she had her hands full but might be able to swing by during her ice-cream-truck rounds in the next few days.
The whole message had left Eden entirely confused and annoyed that she’d have to put her plans on hold. She hated having to jump through hoops when it was very simple: she wanted an official seal that said, yes, this house is a historical monument and worth much more than a common dwelling for two childless, pitiful individuals…only the first part in writing, of course. Unlike other items, a home wasn’t something you could bring to someone; they had to come to it. So Eden would have to wait for Vee. She still wasn’t sure why an ice-cream truck was involved.
“Cleo came over with the note prewritten and was damned determined to get it to you,” explained Denny.
“The girl has moxie.” Eden liked her even more now. “I told you to make a list, too, Den. Otherwise, you and Cricket will have the same prix fixe menu.”
“You know what I like. My tastes haven’t changed in twenty years.”
“Cheerios, chicken fingers, and Capri Suns?” she countered.
He pretended to seriously consider the items. “Not a bad start. Maybe some salted nuts and beer, too.” He scratched his stubbly jawline. “Aw, throw in bread, milk, meat, and cheese. Let’s pig out!”
Before she could fend him off, he slid his hands beneath her armpits and lifted her above his head in a movement like a military press—one, two, three times—while Eden fussed at him to put her down this instant.
She grabbed Cleo’s list and her car keys from their hook, then slipped into a pair of red sequinned sandals that her mother had sent from Santa Fe for her birthday. Hearing the jangle of keys, Cricket padded into the kitchen and sat his haunch on her toes, sniffing the sparkling sandal straps.
“Keep a watch on this guy while I’m gone,” she told her brother. “He’s trouble.”
Denny scooped up Cricket and held him like a ukulele. Almost at eye level now, the dog fixed his gaze on her, and something inside her flexed like a river reed in the wind.
She cradled his furry jowls in her palm and gently scratched. “I’ll be back soon, buddy.”
Denny strummed the dog’s stomach with his left thumb. “We’re going to go for a walk. Clear our heads.”
“Keep him on a leash,” instructed Eden. Did they even have one? She added that to her shopping list. “Don’t let him eat or drink anything funny. Or go tromping through mud puddles. Take a plastic baggie with you. And—”
“Look both ways before crossing the street—got it, got it, Mom. I’ll take care of your little darling.”
“I’m not—he’s not…” she began, then stopped and let it be.
—
EDEN GOT as far as the street corner. With her left hand on the steering wheel, she’d typed “Milton’s Market” into her car’s GPS and run into the curb twice, so she’d stopped to fiddle with the touch pad. After all her effort, the system flashed back a noncommittal “Unfound.” If it couldn’t confirm the address, she’d rather it said the place didn’t exist at all. “Unfound” was some kind of directional purgatory. It made her the idiot who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. The place was findable. But without the GPS map’s verification, she sat at Apple Hill Lane, one foot on the brake, debating right or left.
Children squealed and dashed through a neighborhood yard sprinkler. Eden was checking the rearview mirror for cars coming up behind when a flash of silver spokes wheeled by: Cleo! Her saving angel to lead her by Schwinn.
She quickly lowered her window, but Cleo was pedaling faster than the retraction. So she pushed open her door, her foot still holding down the brake.
“Cleo!” she called out the crack.
The bike cruised back around and came up at her side. “What’s up, Miss A?”
Eden was glad she’d risen up the ranks from Mrs. Anderson.
Cleo braced her legs on either side and leaned a handlebar against the car’s polished paint. Eden tried not to let it grate on her nerves.
“Hey there, where’re you off to?” She wanted to come off easy-breezy, not like what she was: a frenzied hot mess. The girl had already been subjected to that unflattering first impression, which she hoped to replace.
Cleo’s hair was pulled up in a ponytail that, though high, seemed too loose or too heavy to stay upright, so it flopped to one side. She lifted her wrist to Eden and tapped a purple plastic watch.
“Lunchtime.”
Was it noon already? Eden checked the car’s digital clock. Technology had already let her down once.
“Didn’t your brother give you my note?” Cleo gestured back up the road. “Just come from the Antique Mill, but the Nileses were at a doctor’s appointment. Mr. Niles fell off a barn. Got himself totally Humpty-Dumpty. Broke. You meet Vee yet?”
“Yes and no.” Eden cleared her throat. Her foot was starting to cramp, so she put the car in park. “Actually, I’m headed to Milton’s Market for your list. You said the bank is nearby. Do you want a ride?” She smiled, praying Cleo would take her up on the offer and play personal navigator.
Cleo leaned in close to examine Eden’s leather backseat. Her cheeks smelled like tomato flowers on the vine.
“My bike won’t fit.”
Eden hadn’t thought that far. “Okay.” She forced a grin.
“I’m going to be late.” Cleo put a foot to the pedal and started off.
Eden followed. She expected to see some sign of commerce, some signal that her destination was a block away, but no, just more tree-lined streets and neatly gabled houses. She slowed to stay covertly one car length behind; only it wasn’t covert at all.
Cleo turned. Eden turned, too. Another left, followed by a quick right. At a four-way stop, the girl surprised Eden by swooping around perpendicular to her car.
“This is the street.” She pointed ahead. “But it’s easier to park behind Milton’s. There’s a lot up one block.”
“Thanks, Cleo,” said Eden. “For showing me the way.”
“Even a bullfrog can’t get lost in New Charlestown. Ain’t but one big street, really.” She took to her pedals again, slowly circling. “Get some deviled eggs while you’re in Milton’s. Best in the world! The deli only sells them for special occasions. Got some now ’cause the Miltons—Mack and Annemarie—had their first baby on Sunday.”
The child who is born on the Sabbath Day is bonny and blithe and good and gay, Eden recited to herself, each word like an old seam splitting anew inside her. She envisioned Annemarie Milton singing lullabies to her baby, mother’s milk wet on its lips. The back of her neck prickled. Eden wanted to turn around, go home empty-handed, lock her bedroom door, and crawl into bed. She studied the heat rising in waves like a mirage on the tarred pavement, feeling nausea.
At her lack of response or movement, Cleo doubled back to Eden’s side.
“Did you hear what I said—about the parking lot?”
Eden nodded, her eyes brimming firewater, her throat dry as bone.
“I’ll find you after I check in with Grandpa,” Cleo called over her shoulder, then raced down the street, wheels spinning at a pace.
Eden watched until she vanished beyond a row of parked cars. Such an odd kid, she thought, and it made her smile.
Milton’s Market was more than she expected, with a cheesemonger station, a butcher, a bakery, and a deli, in addition to the aisles of cans and prepackaged items. Everything was clean and neat, with gingham awnings over each of the designated areas. She picked up everything on Cleo’s list, plus snacks for Denny. She took Cleo’s recommendation and got a dozen of Milton’s Devilishly Divine Eggs. The swirled yolks were toothpicked with miniature “IT’S A BOY!” flags. Quaint, like being at a Milton family picnic.
As the cashier tallied her bill, Cleo walked in.
“You found it,” she said to Eden. Then: “Hey-ya, Mack.”
“Hi there, Cleo,” he replied.
Eden hadn’t taken the time to notice the name tag prominently displayed.
“Mack—as in Mack Milton?”
His had been the second name on their real estate contract. Right after Morris Milton. While she’d never met either man, their designation as “the sellers” was the counterpart to Jack and her, “the buyers” in the home-purchase negotiations.
“The one and only.” He grinned.
She extended her hand. “Eden Norton…Anderson. We just moved in, you know.”
“The Apple Hill house, next door to the Bronners. Great property.” He shook warmly. “Annemarie’s going to be jealous I met the new neighbors before her. She’s been after me to bring y’all some welcoming cider doughnuts.”
“Those are my favorites.” Cleo made a Mmm sound.
Eden demurred: “Very kind of you, but really I ought to be the one giving congratulations. I hear you have a new baby in the house.”
Mack beamed. “My first. Matthew.”
“All the Miltons got M names. It’s a family tradition,” explained Cleo.
“Ah, I see,” said Eden. “Cleo’s been giving me the New Charlestown Milton primer. Matthew and Mack of Milton’s Market. Then there’s your brother, Mett, at the café and your dad, Morris…”
At that mention, Mack stoned up. Eden had spoken the unspeakable, and it seemed to flash-freeze the air around them.
“Gotta jet!” Cleo jumped to Eden’s side, swooping up the brown grocery bag. “Children’s Story Hour is ’bout to finish. I got to swap a book. Ms. Silverdash is expecting us.”
This was news to Eden. She rolled her lower lip to hide her surprise.
“You best be off, then. Good meeting you, Eden.”
“You, too. I’ll be eager to meet the rest of your family—and introduce my husband, Jack.”
If they stayed in town and together long enough. It was a conventional slip—the habit of introducing herself as a couple. But the Anderson duo had never been problematic. In fact, Jack and she had been quite stellar as a pair, loving and successful in their careers. They’d boasted at dinner parties that it was like finding their other magnet half. Click. On that principle they’d stood strong. On that principle they’d wed. It was the attempt to insert a third that had caused separation. Just like a magnet, the dyad forces of attraction could extend only so far.
Cleo pulled Eden’s sleeve toward the exit. Her Schwinn leaned against a parking meter a few yards away.
When they reached it, Eden sighed. “I guess bringing up a family feud doesn’t make the best nice-to-meet-ya.”
Cleo shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a secret anyhow.”
She placed Eden’s grocery bag inside her front basket, flicked up the kickstand, and rolled the bike along the sidewalk by the handlebars.
Somewhere, an unseen ice-cream truck’s song jingled the tune “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.” Follow, follow, follow, follow, Eden hummed to the tick-tick, tick-tick of the sherbet-colored reflectors falling up and down Cleo’s bike spokes. She was off to meet Ms. Silverdash.
Sarah
NORTH ELBA, NEW YORK
DECEMBER 23, 1859
Before dawn, Sarah and Annie had cut snowy evergreen branches and holly clusters from the woods behind their house. It wasn’t fair, they decided, to stamp out Ellen’s Christmas joy for the sake of funeral propriety. Black drapes hung over all the windows and mirrors, and the Lake Placid winter had blustered up a blizzard, banking snow thigh-high. They were glad they’d buried their father as soon as they’d returned. If they hadn’t, they might still have his coffin in their parlor that very minute.
The Alcotts had sent a copy of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, which Sarah enjoyed—except for the beginning with ghost Marley in his chains. She was in the midst of reading it to little Ellen, skipping the particulars of those pages. A ghost named Marley came to warn Scrooge of three spirits’ visitation…She kept it simple. That was all that was required to understand the rest of the story.
Sarah and Annie tied the cut pine boughs over their door lintels with scarlet ribbon. The fragrance reminded Sarah of Virginia and Freddy and kind neighbors come with wreaths in their arms. She pressed her sappy fingers to her lips and nose.
Annie caught her, hand to face, inhaling deeply. “I know,” she said. “It reminds me of that horrible day, too.” She sighed as if their father had died all over again. She’d been gloom and doom since returning from the South. “Will we ever be able to smell jack pine again without cringing?”
Sarah worked the holly stems into the evergreen needles. It was a wonder to her that a scent could evoke such opposing responses. She didn’t wash the sap off until it was time to help her mother cook.
Mr. George Stearns and Mr. Franklin Sanborn, two of her father’s Secret Committee of Six, were traveling down from Canada, where they’d taken refuge after the raid on Harpers Ferry. They were men of great wealth and influence for whom Sarah had painted a number of pictorial maps on papyrus paper, including the very one that directed their journey to the border of “Heaven”—the code word for Canada. With southern justice recompensed by her father’s blood, the men were returning to their families and stopping at the Brown farm to pay their respects. Sarah planned to pass them a note vowing her unwavering assistance to the UGRR as soon as she found the opportunity. Before dinner, she hoped.
The women had mustered what foodstuffs they could: a Christmas mold and butter cookies. Sarah helped Mary assemble the dinner: shreds of roasted guinea hen, boiled eggs, and savory jelly to bind it into a single quivering mass. They put a cheese shroud over it and placed it outside, in the cold root cellar, to set up. Meanwhile, Annie and Ellen cut hearts and stars from rolled sugar dough to bake on buttered tins. Ellen giggled and nibbled raw strips.
Mary kissed the top of her head. “Not too much or you’ll spoil your appetite.”
Since their mother’s return from the execution, her stutter had vanished. None of the women had immediately noticed, too caught up in the whirlwind of attending to John’s body and preparing for the journey home. But when it finally dawned on them that she was speaking without lisp or hesitation, the girls were shocked and somewhat afraid. Mary couldn’t put a finger to when the miracle had occurred, but she was convinced it was one.
“Your father entreated to the Almighty on my behalf. A gift to temper a curse,” she said.
Whatever the cause, it cheered Sarah immeasurably to hear her mother speak in smooth succession. Even this mundane moment in the kitchen felt finer than any that had come before. A Christmas mold and butter cookies were not the feast of years gone by, when her brothers and their wives had gathered together to hear their father give glory. No, they’d never have a house or table so full again. But that didn’t mean there weren’t blessings to be counted.
Sarah couldn’t be like Annie, carrying the weight of the past around her neck like the chains of Marley’s ghost. She was different from her blood kin. Her life and actions had already deviated from the traditional path.
She thought of Mr. Thoreau and his nature walks at Walden Pond, his grand ambling adventures, and then Freddy’s face in the dim barn. She flushed at the memory of her brazenness, her naïve hope that her father would rise like a phoenix with her map as his tinder.
“You’re red as a beet, child.” Mary stopped to put the inside of her wrist to Sarah’s cheek. “Feeling poorly?”
“No.” She turned her face away from the stove. “Just excited for a little Christmas.”
Her mother smiled. “ ‘Go your way. Eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions to anyone who has nothing ready, for this day is holy to our Lord. And do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength,’ ” she quoted, the words as melodic as a lullaby, a carol of the season, and so it fell on Sarah’s heart as much as her ears.
Ellen danced her secondhand dolly along the kitchen table and hummed “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.” No painted mouth or embroidered smock of chestnut hair like Alice’s; Ellen’s doll was made of muslin and stuffed with beans. Sarah decided she’d buy it a shiny ribbon sash for Christmas. Ellen would like that.
