The mapmakers children, p.31
The Mapmaker's Children, page 31
Eden ran her hand through her hair. What if…Hope sprouted fast and green, but she was more cautious now.
“So we’d restart hormone injections, schedule doctor appointments, do everything we did before, and what—wait and cross our fingers?”
“Yes. Maybe your body just needed to recalibrate. I can’t predict the future…I’m just a doctor, not God.” He chuckled at his own comparison.
Right, thought Eden.
“I can pass you over to the nurse for an appointment?”
“No, I need to talk to my husband first.”
“Of course. Call the front desk whenever you’re ready, and they’ll set you up.”
Easy as pie. Only it wasn’t. Eden bit the inside of her cheek, thanked him for calling, and hung up. The words echoed: atrophy…time is critical…recalibrate…the future…Her head swam. She sat down on a kitchen stool.
Normally she’d engage in a mental Rubik’s Cube of how it could go: imagining the possibilities one way and then the next, turning the pieces over and over until a row made sense. Now, however, all she saw was the glittering layer of snow outside the windowsill where the doll’s head had once been.
After Cricket’s burial, she and Cleo had made rehabilitating the doll their mission. Vee had helped them locate a muslin body from her supply of antique toys. They’d repaired the cracked skull with porcelain glue and painted the face afresh, keeping the features the same, the eyes different colors.
Ms. Silverdash was officially able to authenticate both the head and the body as from the Civil War era; furthermore, the peculiar facial painting was in fact part of an elaborate Underground Railroad code. An unsuspected map for runaways. The only doll similar to this one had been unearthed in a safe house outside of Cincinnati, Ohio. Unfortunately, its face had faded to near disappearance on a wooden head. The National Underground Railroad Freedom Center’s forensic anthropology team hadn’t been able to determine who the artist might’ve been, but its use as a UGRR code carrier was unmistakable. Now, through Eden’s discovery and Ms. Silverdash’s letters, they were certain that the Sarah of correspondence was none other than Sarah Brown, the daughter of legendary abolitionist John Brown.
Eden wondered how many lives Sarah’s dolls had helped save—not just the people who’d carried the mapmaker’s secrets but their children and their children to follow. Ms. Silverdash had let Eden read the letters between Sarah and Freddy, and Sarah’s passionate words matched the piercing gaze and tender smile of the painted doll. An uncommon woman for her time, a mighty woman for all time, thought Eden, and she cherished it as legacy.
Unwilling to part with the artifact, no matter the price, she set the refashioned doll beneath the hallway telephone stand, greeting all guests to the Andersons’ home.
“Hey, Miss A!” Cleo swung in the front door. School was over. Everyone would be there in an hour.
“Smells awesome.” Cleo went to the crock and tapped the lid. “Works like a charm, right?” Confident of the answer, she didn’t wait for Eden to respond, slinging her backpack off and pulling Frommer’s Mexico from within.
Cleo had chosen the guide for her final book report before the winter holiday. Eden had helped her put together the class presentation, complete with a rainbow poncho (from Eden’s closet), a grand bouquet of tissue-paper blooms (produced in their living room), and Mexican scribble cookies (baked in the Andersons’ oven).
“Public Relations 101: it’s not about the product. It’s about the product’s story. The experience of a shared dream,” she’d explained to Cleo while tying bright tissue paper into floral bunches. “Emotion is the most indelible memory. You give that to your class and they’ll remember Mexico forever. It’s the Once-Upon-a-Time effect.”
Whether you were promoting books or dog biscuits, the principle applied to any kind of audience. People didn’t just want shampoo; they wanted Rapunzel’s beauty to make a prince scale a tower wall. Legend.
“Like this.” Eden had put a red flower behind her ear. “Viene con migo, muchacha,” she’d said in her best Spanish accent, then mimicked the flamenco dance she and Jack had seen in Puerto Vallarta.
“Zorro! Zorro!” Cleo had joined in, skipping and blading Z’s in the air.
Now the girl waved the guidebook. “I got an A plus! Mrs. Blakey said it was the most stylish book report she’s ever had.”
“Bueno!” Eden pulled her into a one-armed hug, and Cleo leaned in fully, kissing Ladybug’s head.
She stayed in Eden’s embrace while the pup licked her nose. “You got carrot breath. Must’ve liked those puppy biscuits.”
A spin on the CricKet BisKet recipe: adding pureed baby carrots and whole flaxseed, double-baked extra crunchy for teething. Ladybug had devoured their trial batch.
The front door gave its signature groan and clatter.
“E, it’s us.” Denny and the Nileses arrived at the same time, exchanging hellos and laughing.
Hearing the jingle in Denny’s and Vee’s voices, Eden felt something flicker inside her. They complemented each other, she thought, but before she could surmise further, Ladybug swam her arms and legs toward the new arrivals. Eden put her on the ground to scamper down the hall.
“There’s the bug!” Vee cooed.
“Are we still making Green Bean Amandine?” asked Cleo. “It’s my favorite.”
“Sure are. Wash your hands and get your apron on, Señorita A Plus. You can snap ends for me.”
Denny entered with a family-sized box of gingersnaps. Mr. Niles carried a bottle of Cairn o’Mohr, and Vee a giant drum of Neapolitan ice cream. Eden had asked them to bring dessert, but this was enough for an army.
Ladybug pranced figure eights about their feet.
“We followed the star and come bearing gifts.” Denny bowed. “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh of the culinary sort.”
“If you’re a wise man, we’re in trouble,” Cleo chided from the kitchen basin, behind a veil of bubbles.
“Oh, lookee here,” Denny said in a mock-gangster accent. “A little wise-gal, eh?” He gently pulled Cleo’s ponytail.
Eden’s cell phone rang with a new text: Coming home!
“Jack’s on his way.”
“Grandpa, too,” said Cleo.
Vee set the table, and Mr. Niles poured glasses of tart apple cider while Eden transferred the chicken onto a platter. Denny put on a CD he’d made of himself singing classic carols to the strum of his acoustic guitar. Eden thought it the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard and told him so. Music filled the house with earnest cheer. She and Cleo hummed along as they lit tapered candles in the dining room.
“Once-Upon-a-Time effect?” asked Cleo.
Eden nodded. “Exactly.”
She’d talk to Jack about Dr. Baldwin’s call later, when they were alone. Decisions had to be made, but for now, her house was full and happy and just as it should be.
Hannah
NEW CHARLESTOWN, WEST VIRGINIA
DECEMBER 1889
Before their carriage had come to a full halt, the front door on Apple Hill Lane swung open and out came the Hills, one after the other, in a neat column of beaming faces despite their black mourners’ armbands.
“There’s Miss Ruthie and little George—not so little anymore.” Clyde pointed through the window.
Hannah peeked around the carriage curtain to see. The ringlets over her forehead caught in the bright sun and shimmered in sunset hues. She adjusted her feathered hat so the violet wisps fell away from the brim and she could get a better look. She’d ordered the dress and matching bonnet from a boutique in San Francisco, where her mother had taken a job as an adjuster for the U.S. Mint.
Her mother never wore a corset, so Hannah hadn’t expected her to appreciate the cinched waist, lace trimmings, bustle, and bindings.
“The new fashions are nothing but fluff, puffs, and ruffles.” Her mother had shaken her head, then smiled admiringly. “You do look lovely, Han.”
Hannah had grown to be a beauty. Her skin was the color of a doe’s belly; her eyes like early spring buds hinting green through the russet; lips so naturally colored, they made flowers seem pale. A true California rose, everyone said, sun-kissed and blossoming. Her brother, Clyde, mirrored his sister’s bronzed complexion, handsome features, and good nature. Red Bluff folks commented that the Fishers’ kin—lost in the war—must’ve been of Italian or Spanish descent. The details of their heritage remained a family secret.
Shortly after Hannah and Clyde had arrived as babes, Sarah had begun teaching immigrant workers’ children and local orphans. On the side, at first, but soon those students outnumbered the residents’ children at the schoolhouse where she was employed. So the Red Bluff Ladies League (many of whose members were avid clients of Sarah’s, regularly purchasing her needlework designs and paintings) had decided that something must be done. They’d opened an additional school, with Sarah as the primary teacher, and assumed that her compassion must have compelled her to adopt the twin Fisher pupils. How benevolent. A pillar of our community, they said. Never imagining the dangerous journey the two had endured or the family losses they’d suffered as children of freed blacks.
Their home in California afforded them safe distance from the wounds that remained raw and open long after the surrender of the Confederacy and the Thirteenth Amendment’s abolition of slavery. John Brown’s life’s calling had been attained, but the hand of action could change only so much. It couldn’t cleanse the blood, no matter how copiously it had been spilt. While the country had legally made all men equal, they’d heard enough reports to know that bigotry festered and continued to kill with equal malice.
It was for this reason that Hannah and Clyde had remained in the West all these years. Their aunts Annie and Ellen had both married California men. But Sarah had remained unwed, raising the twins and caring for their ailing grandmother Mary until she passed away.
As a girl reading fables, Hannah had once asked if Sarah had ever been in love and, if so, where had her prince gone? Sarah had said simply that God wrote her story differently. He gave her two magical children worth ten thousand kingdoms, and that was more love than could ever be written of. Hannah saw the truth in that.
Freddy and Ruthie had seven children: five boys and two girls. The Hills had faithfully kept in touch through letters since Hannah’s earliest recollection. They felt as much a part of her life as anyone. Their first son, little George, was now grown. Having graduated from the University of Virginia’s School of Medicine that spring, he was beginning his medical practice in New Charlestown. Freddy and Ruthie’s eldest daughter had married a clergyman under Freddy’s pastorship. The couple had refurbished the barn into a second house so they could live close by. The rest of the children had made homes on the roads branching off the newly denominated Main Street.
A government mapmaker had come in accordance with the Ninth Census for the publication of the Statistical Atlas of the United States. The Hills had been honored when the official had christened their street Apple Hill Lane.
While Priscilla had died a decade before, faithful Siby had remained by the family’s side. She’d searched out her parents in the Deep South after the war ended, but the trail had gone cold at the North Carolina state line.
“If they’s alive, they’ll come back. If they’s dead, they’s spirits already here,” she’d said.
The Fishers’ home had been recompensed to Siby. She swore the ghosts of old Rebels had taken roost within and wouldn’t spend one night under its eaves. With Freddy’s help, she’d sold the property for a goodly purse. He invited her to continue on with them. The Fishers and Hills were family, and they couldn’t imagine living without her.
And so Siby had stayed and been mammy to Freddy’s children and eight grandchildren. The Fishers’ finances sat safely in the town bank through the carpetbagger years, producing a mighty investment. Not trusting currency that could burn or change insignia, Siby insisted the funds be converted into gold and kept in a lockbox, which she bequeathed to Hannah and Clyde. It was the news of her death that had called the twins back to New Charlestown. Hannah and Clyde were Siby’s only blood kin, and they remembered their elder sister lovingly.
Sarah had helped them pack their belongings and had bid them good-bye at the train station. She wouldn’t go with the twins, despite Hannah’s pleas. She said she wasn’t the same young woman she’d been. The journey back was too great. Her life was in California, and there she’d stay, beside her mother, sisters, and brother unto death. The twins couldn’t argue with that. It was this same familial devotion that had drawn them back across the continent now.
Outside, Freddy and Ruthie were the last to come down the Hills’ front steps. The house had a new face, different from the one Hannah remembered: a stately white porch with overhanging eaves and a black gable roof. The older couple was framed by it and by their children fanning out before them in the yard.
“It’s just like one of Mother’s paintings,” said Hannah.
Clyde agreed.
The year they’d started grammar school, their new teacher had organized a bake sale to raise funds for winter coal, board chalk, and the like. Hannah and Clyde had come to Sarah meekly and asked if she wouldn’t mind them calling her “Mother,” since they hadn’t one to name the way the other students did.
Sarah had first written to Freddy for Siby’s permission. As soon as the letter of approval arrived, she’d agreed to the moniker. Both children had danced around her using “Mother” in various references: What story will we read tonight, Mother? The supper stew smells good, Mother. How are you, Mother? Where is Mother, Clyde? I don’t know, I’ll call her: “Mother!”
Sarah, too, had been overjoyed, so much so that she couldn’t hold her sewing needle steady. So she’d put away her embroidery work, and though they had school the next day, they’d taken their baskets to the orchard and feasted on ripe, round peaches by moonlight.
Hannah and Clyde had gone to bed with full bellies and sticky lips, but Sarah had stayed awake, painting a still life of their celebration basket. The children discovered it beside its inspiration the next morning.
“I can’t tell one from the other,” said Clyde at breakfast.
“I want to eat it!” Hannah had swiped her finger across the wet fruit in the corner.
“If you eat that, you’ll have an awful bellyache,” Sarah had cautioned. She had cleaned Hannah’s finger, then pulled both children to her waist. “No painting can fill you up. It’s not real—just one moment. A memory for when peaches aren’t in season.”
She’d taken an actual fruit from the basket and bit it, exposing the dewy flesh, then passed it to Hannah. Hannah had eaten it to the stone and remembered always.
The carriage door swung wide. The chilly river breeze swept through the cabin with the earthy scent of pine.
“Welcome!” Little George acted as footman. He had his mother’s russet hair with the confident stance of his father.
Despite the hospitable greeting, Hannah sat rooted. Clyde gave her an elbow nudge, and she bashfully extended her hand.
While Clyde was thoughtful and reserved in word and deed, Hannah was the first to plunge headlong through whatever door gave her entrance. It was unlike her to be timid.
She stepped out and stood with her hand in George’s, looking up to his golden eyes. The corset bindings strained tight, and although she held her breath, her heart fluttered wildly beneath the laces. She’d never felt anything as potent. She could not let go.
“Litt—George,” Clyde interrupted, extending his palm.
George released her then, and she willed her knees to hold steady.
“I’ll always be little George to family,” he greeted. “Welcome, brother Clyde. Sister Hannah.” He turned to her and smiled.
Her head spun.
Then came a flurry of arms, faces, and embraces. Variations of the familiar mold: Freddy in the eyes, Ruthie in a brow, Freddy again in a mouth, Ruthie in a curl. The grandchildren looked alike, too. One fair child cradled a beautiful doll, which drew Hannah’s attention.
“I had a doll like that when I was a girl,” she told her, “only we had to change her face to a magical one.”
“What happened?” asked the child. “Why’d she change?”
Hannah smiled. “I had to leave her old face behind.”
“Because she became a Cali-for-ya girl?”
Hannah nodded.
“Grandpa gave her to me.” She thrust her doll forward. “She’s from Boston. Her name’s Nancy.”
“She’s pretty,” said Hannah. “But not as pretty as you.”
“I think you’re the prettiest lady I ever saw.”
Hannah kissed her cheek, and the girl kept close to her side.
They moved through the crowd of Hills to Freddy and Ruthie. The couple embraced Hannah and Clyde as if they were children returned.
“We’ve missed you terribly these many years,” said Freddy. For a moment’s pause, his gaze skimmed past them to the empty carriage, as if looking for someone more, then quickly returned. “It’s good to have you home. Son, please see to their luggage.”
“My pleasure.” George bowed to Hannah, and her breath caught.
Ruthie put an arm around her shoulder. “Come have tea and corn-bread pie. It’s not as good as Siby’s, but I hope it has her blessing, with you two back at the table.”
Within the house, a dog barked a welcome as the Hills escorted the twins down the brick pathway lined with forget-me-nots and ruby balsams, still blooming in the unconventionally warm winter month.
U.S. Patent and Trademark Office
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF COMMERCE
PATENT APPROVAL
1. NAME OF INVENTION:
Original CricKet BisKets®
Adapted from The Holistic Hound.
