Fire by Night (4 page)
Phoebe had no choice but to change her clothes. She barely got the blasted skirt closed around her waist. And she’d grown bigger on top, too, so the shirtwaist gaped open between each of the buttons. It would serve Mrs. Garlock and Mrs. Haggerty right if the buttons popped clear off right in front of Mr. Haggerty, that leering old coot. Phoebe folded up her shirt, overalls, and union suit, stuffed them into the burlap sack with the rest of her things, and said goodbye to the cabin a second time.
“About time,” Willard mumbled as she emerged through the door. When Jack gave a wolf whistle, Phoebe punched him in the arm. He punched her back, so she socked him again, harder.
“Quit your fighting,” Junior ordered. “Save it for Johnny Reb.”
Phoebe hopped onto the back of the wagon as it started forward and sat with her legs dangling over the edge. From the way her brothers yammered on and on about the things they were gonna do and the sights they were gonna see, no one would ever guess that not a one of them had ever traveled more than twenty miles from home before. Phoebe hadn’t, either, but the difference was that now they were finally gonna get a chance to see the world—and she wasn’t. It made her mad enough to spit nails. As they drove down the narrow dirt road into town, she wished a band of wild-eyed Rebels would come flying out of the woods and carry her off as booty. It couldn’t possibly be a worse fate than working in the Haggertys’ store.
“Hey, Ike, you gonna write to us once in a while?” Willard asked. “Tell us what-all’s going on back home?”
“Only if you write first,” she said sullenly.
“You know I ain’t no good at writing. Can’t spell worth a hoot, neither.”
“Then don’t expect to hear from me.”
“Why’re you being so ornery?” Jack asked.
“You’d be ornery, too, if you had to wear petticoats and a dress and work for Miz Haggerty. You know she’s just about the meanest woman in town. How’d you all like to live with her?”
“You forgetting that she’s gonna pay you every week?” Junior asked. “Plus give you room and board? Save up that money and you could be rich by the time this war is over.”
“Ha! Why don’t you put on a skirt and go work for her, then, and I’ll go fight in your place.”
For Phoebe, the worst part would be living in town. She hated town, preferring to work in the fields alongside her brothers all day or to roam the hollows and hills around the farm, shooting rabbits and squirrels for supper. Junior was going to loan the wagon and team of horses to Jeb White, so once Jeb and his bride drove out of town with it, Phoebe would be trapped.
The wagon sank axle deep in mud in a couple of spots, but with all of her brothers pushing, they didn’t stay bogged down very long. They reached town shortly after noon and pulled to a stop in the narrow, littered alley behind the general store. They may as well have dropped Phoebe off at the jail—it felt no different to her. The ramshackle building looked as though it had been built with leftover packing crates—and probably had been. The Haggertys lived above the store on the second floor; they’d promised Phoebe a bed in the attic. It would be hotter than blazes up there in summer, and she’d probably get frostbite in winter.
“You better behave yourself for Miz Haggerty,” Junior warned, “and do what she says. You can’t lip off to her like you always done at home, or she’ll smack you right on the mouth.”
Phoebe stayed rooted in place in the back of the wagon, feeling too sick to move or speak.
“Well, what’re you waiting for?” Willard asked. “Get off, already! We ain’t got all day.” He shoved her from behind until she slid off the rear of the wagon. Her knees felt so weak when her feet hit the ground that she had to grab onto the wagon bed to keep from falling.
“So long, Ike,” Junior called. “See you after the war.” He started to give the reins a shake and drive away, when the Haggertys’ back door flew open and a horde of children poured through it, swarming around the wagon like flies around a carcass.
“How many blasted kids do they have, anyhow?” Willard murmured.
The kids remained in constant motion—poking, punching, tussling with each other—so that Phoebe couldn’t even begin to count them all. The biggest girl, who looked to be about nine or ten, was the only one who stood still. She planted herself squarely in front of Phoebe, holding a squalling baby out in front of her as if waiting for Phoebe to take him. Phoebe retrieved her sack of belongings from the wagon and clutched it tightly to her chest in self-defense.
“Go on! Y’all get out of the way now,” Junior yelled, “or I’ll run you over!” The wagon began moving slowly forward, and the flood of children parted like the waters of the Red Sea.
“Hey, Ike,” Jack called, “if you find yourself in church on a Sunday, say a little prayer for us, okay?”
Phoebe was too dazed to reply. She stared at the retreating wagon until it rolled around the corner, out of sight. This wasn’t happening to her. Her brothers should have tied her up in a sack and thrown her into Bone Creek like a litter of kittens if they didn’t want her—it would have been kinder than this.
As the dust settled, the stream of swirling children surrounded Phoebe, propelling her forward through the back door and into the lean-to that served as the kitchen. The top of her head grazed the roof beams, where bunches of dried herbs were hanging. It took a long moment for her eyes to adjust to the scant light that seeped through the grimy window. The air was so greasy with the smell of bacon that it seemed to Phoebe that she could just scoop out a handful and grease wagon axles with it.
“About time you got here,” Mrs. Haggerty said in greeting. She stood at the table with her hands in a pan of gray dishwater, scrubbing a frying pan. “They told me you was planning on getting here before lunch—so’s you could help me feed this brood. Now lunch is over and the dishes are done and here you are just showing up. What took you so long?” She slammed the frying pan down on the table.
“Sorry, ma’am. We—”
Mrs. Haggerty didn’t wait for an explanation. She lifted the dishpan with both hands, kicked the back door open, and slung the dirty water outside without bothering to look where it landed. Phoebe decided she’d better not stand around by the back door after meals.
“Noon’s always the busiest time in the store,” Mrs. Haggerty said as the door slammed shut again. “That’s why I need you. My, you sure are a big gal, ain’t you? Built like a brick wall. No wonder you ain’t married. How old are you?”
“Nineteen, ma’am.”
“Don’t know who sewed your clothes, but you’re busting clear out of them. Never mind, you can sew yourself some new ones at night when the kids are asleep and your chores are all done. I’ll take the thread and cloth out of your pay.”
“Oh no, ma’am. These clothes are fine,” Phoebe said as she saw her meager earnings going up in smoke—and for a hated dress, no less. “I don’t need—”
“You take over with these kids now so’s I can get back to work. Store closes at six-thirty, and Mr. Haggerty and me are gonna want our dinner about then. Your brother says you can cook.” She removed her filthy kitchen apron as she talked and put on a slightly cleaner shop apron in its place. Before Phoebe had a chance to ask what she was expected to fix for dinner, Mrs. Haggerty disappeared through the door that led into the store.
“Here, take him.” The oldest girl had planted herself in front of Phoebe again, only this time she dangled the squirming baby by his arms, ready to drop him on the floor if Phoebe didn’t catch him in time. “He’s poo-ey,” the girl said. “Change him.” Her voice was every bit as bossy and insistent as her mother’s.
A smell like rotting cabbage drifted up to Phoebe’s nose. She had no choice except to set down her bag and grab the baby before he dropped to the floor with a
splat
. Mrs. Haggerty would likely subtract the price of mending his cracked skull from her pay, too.
Phoebe’s burlap sack had barely hit the floor before half a dozen Haggertys pounced on it like catfish going after breadcrumbs.
“Touch that bag and I’ll skin every last one of you like you was raccoons,” Phoebe said. The swirling bodies froze for a moment, their dirty faces upturned as if trying to measure her meanness. She narrowed her eyes, trying to look ornery enough to scare a nest of rattlesnakes. She felt ornery, too, as something warm and wet oozed from the baby’s diaper and ran down her arm.
“You’re ugly,” one of the bigger boys said.
“Oh yeah? Well, you’d better get yourselves outside before I count three, or your sorry little faces will wind up even uglier than mine. One …two…” The back door slammed shut on the last of them before she got to three.
That night Phoebe’s attic room proved hotter than she’d imagined— plus it had bats. She’d been standing across the alley at dusk, trying to herd all the Haggertys home, when she’d seen the bats streaming out of her window. She’d counted thirteen of them— which seemed unlucky. Phoebe still hadn’t counted all the Haggertys. Every time she thought she had their number, one or two would wander off somewhere and three or four new ones would wander home from who-knows-where, and then she’d have to start all over again. She had tried to wipe one boy’s bloody nose after he’d gotten himself punched, and he’d squirmed away from her, saying, “I ain’t no Haggerty! Leave me alone!” That had thrown her count way off. Who knew how many of them she’d already counted who weren’t Haggertys at all?
She wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Haggerty themselves had any idea how many there were, seeing as nobody but the two of them ever bothered to sit down to eat. And how could anyone keep track of their kin when they were all called Bubba or Sissy?
From the moment her brother Willard had shoved her off the back of the wagon, Phoebe had seen nothing but kids, chaos, and chores. The worst part was never having a moment to herself from the time she’d arrived until she’d climbed the ladder to the airless attic—and now she was too tired to enjoy the fact that she was alone. Phoebe lay down on her scratchy corncob mattress, feeling wretched enough to hang herself from one of the spidery rafters above her head. Not only was the bed so short her feet hung off the end, but she was wringing wet with sweat after only five minutes, even stripped down to her chemise and bloomers. She could probably wring a cupful of water from her hair.
“Ain’t no way I can stand living here,” she mumbled aloud.
When the war had begun last April, everybody said it wouldn’t last more than ninety days. Now here it was six months later, and the Rebels showed no signs of backing down. In fact, they were cockier than ever after whipping the Yanks at Bull Run. Who knew how long the fighting would drag on, how long she’d be sentenced to this Haggerty hell?
Somewhere in a room below, the baby began to cry. It was the last straw. Better to die with a Rebel bullet between her eyes than get worked to death by these blasted Haggertys.
Phoebe stood, careful not to crack her head on the rafters, and dug in her bag for her beloved overalls and shirt. She tore a long, wide strip of muslin from her bloomers and tied it around her bosom to flatten herself, then put on her one-piece union suit. She had to admit as she changed her clothes that girls’ underthings were a whole lot cooler than men’s, but that was about all that could be said for women’s clothes. When she was finished, she laid the chemise, petticoat, skirt, and bodice neatly on the bed so that it looked as though she’d simply shriveled up and vanished, leaving her clothes behind. Then, carrying her shoes and burlap sack, Phoebe descended the ladder and crept down the stairs to the kitchen.
She found a sewing box on the kitchen mantel and dug through it for scissors. Grabbing handfuls of her hair, Phoebe chopped it short without even bothering to look in a mirror and threw it into the fireplace by the fistful. The embers sparked and sizzled when her damp hair hit them, but Phoebe poked and fanned until it finally burned. The smell made her gag nearly as badly as the baby’s messy diaper had.
She took a heel of bread left over from supper and a cold baked potato from the larder, figuring she was owed at least that much for a day’s work. Then Phoebe Bigelow ducked through the back door to freedom, disappearing into the night.
“Julia Anne Hoffman! Whatever is the matter with you?” Julia’s mother stood in the bedroom doorway, kid gloves on her hands, hands on her hips.
“Go without me,” Julia mumbled. “I don’t feel like going.” She stared at the top of her vanity, avoiding her mother’s reflection—and her own—in the mirror.
“Why not? And don’t try telling me it’s ‘the curse of womanhood’ again. You used that for an excuse last week. And the week before, if I’m not mistaken.”
Julia didn’t reply. Her silence seemed to make her mother angrier. The older woman stormed into the room, hoops swaying like an unanchored skiff, her Richmond accent growing more pronounced with every word.
“Look at you. Why, your hair isn’t even fixed. Inga!” she said, turning to shout at Julia’s maid. “Why are you standing around like a dolt? We are supposed to be taking afternoon tea at the Blairs’, and we are already late.”
“If you please, ma’am …Miss Julia wouldn’t let me comb it.”
“Julia, I want this silly business of brushing your own hair stopped immediately. Do you hear me?” She picked up the brush with an angry swipe and shoved it into Inga’s hand. The maid carefully began brushing, as if she expected Julia’s hair to fall out in clumps.
Mrs. Hoffman’s hands returned to her hips as she stood beside the dressing table. “You’ve been moping around for nearly three months—ever since you returned from Washington. I’ve tried very hard to be patient with you because of the shock you received at that battlefield, but honestly, I am all out of patience. I’m absolutely exasperated with you. Your behavior has been downright rude— refusing dinner invitations from perfectly fine gentlemen, walking out on your social obligations. And that insulting remark you made to Mrs. Reed about not fixing the tea herself. I was positively mortified.”
“But she doesn’t fix it herself, Mother. Neither do I …and neither do you.”