A Difficult Boy (22 page)

Ethan's eyes grew heavy with waiting. He closed them for a moment. When he opened them again, the moon was a tiny gold coin high in the sky. He glanced up with a start, afraid that Daniel had gone back to the Lymans' ahead of him and would discover him missing. He was relieved to see Daniel still there, sitting on the mound with his knees hugged to his chest. His cheek was pillowed on his knees, his face turned
toward Ethan, his eyes closed as he rocked and hummed tunelessly to himself. The moonlight softened his features, making him look almost as young as Ethan. Ethan felt suddenly uneasy, though he wasn't sure whether it was from seeing Daniel so alone and unguarded or from fear that Daniel would open his eyes and discover him spying. Softly, he crept toward the road and headed back to the Lymans'.

Daniel didn't return until just before daybreak.

Ethan opened and closed the jackknife half a dozen times. He savored the way the blade eased out of the handle with the tiniest pressure of his thumbnail, then folded back into its groove, soft and neat as a whisper. The knife had caught his eye long before he'd started working for Mr. Lyman. Although there'd been no hope of getting it, he'd visited it every time he came to the store with Ma or Pa. Now, from the other side of the case, he called on it each time he was in the store, managing to find a second or two to reach in and stroke the cool cream-colored bone handle when Mr. Bingham's back was turned.

Today was the first time he'd dared to take it out. While Mr. Bingham waited on Mrs. Smead and Clarissa, Ethan had slipped his hand into the case to caress the knife. When he'd drawn his hand back, the knife was nestled in his palm, a perfect fit. He balanced it, noticing how it was heavy enough to have substance but not so heavy that it would tire his wrist. The sun smiled at him along the blade.

He glanced up. Mr. Bingham's head bent low over the waste book as he lined out Mrs. Smead's purchases. Clarissa fondled the silks and ribbons, chattering about what colors the
Lady's Book
said were in vogue this season in Paris and London.

Ethan crouched behind the counter to test the blade. When he drew it across his forearm, it cut through the fine hairs as easy as skimming cream.

“Ethan?”

His thumb flipped the knife shut, and he shoved it back into the case. It sat crooked in its row. He made a mental note to fix it as soon as he could. “Um—yes, sir?”

“Could you put this silk back while I wrap up Mrs. Smead's things?”

“Yes, Mr. Bingham.” Ethan scurried across the store, nearly colliding with Mr. Lyman as he came out from the back room.

The storekeeper scowled. “Look where you're going, boy.”

“Yessir. Sorry, sir. I just—um—I didn't see—”

Mr. Lyman clasped his hands behind his back and rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “You'd better learn to pay attention if you want to make anything of yourself, hadn't you?” Although his tone seemed jovial, he pinned Ethan with a sharp glare.

Ethan ducked his head. “Yessir. Sorry, sir.”

Mrs. Smead turned toward them with a smile. “Good day, Mr. Lyman. I was afraid we might have missed you.”

The storekeeper's face softened. “I would be sorry if you had.” He returned Mrs. Smead's smile and gently pressed the hand she offered. “And how is Clarissa today?” His head bobbed toward the slender, dark-haired girl, who gave him a graceful curtsy. He fingered the soft shell-colored silk that Mr. Bingham had cut from the bolt. “An excellent choice, just what they're wearing in Boston. That pink will suit you perfectly. And I think it will suit the young men even more, don't you?” His smile widened as Clarissa blushed and fluttered her eyelashes.

Mrs. Smead laughed. “Oh, Mr. Lyman, you do flatter so.”

A little tsk-tsking noise chortled merrily in Mr. Lyman's throat. “It's not flattery when it's the truth, is it, Mrs. Smead? Now, when are you ladies going to take tea with us? Mrs.
Lyman would be delighted. And so would Silas.” He raised his eyebrows with the last sentence.

“Silas? Oh, I'm sure he doesn't care a whit who comes to tea.” Clarissa's curls bobbed as she tipped her head to a flirtatious angle.

Half a dozen bolts of silk lay in a shining spill of color on the counter. Ethan wound the tail of cloth back onto one fat bolt. He kept his eyes on his master, trying to will him back into his office and storeroom. But Mr. Lyman and Mrs. Smead settled in for a long chat about her relatives and his, the weather, the news from Springfield, and the new wares that Mr. Lyman wanted Mrs. Smead and her daughter to notice. Ethan tried to mentally steer them away from the case containing the knives. He held his breath as Mr. Lyman started toward the case, then spun toward the back of the store to show the Smead ladies some new lace that had arrived last week.

Ethan balanced the bolt of cloth on his fingertips, stretching up to replace it on its shelf. Just as he had it angled to slide into its place, the top fold of cloth slithered loose, and the bolt tumbled down. It rolled as it fell, sending a drape of pale pink over his head and shoulders. He grabbed blindly, relieved when the weight of the bolt settled safely in his arms. He clutched the cloth tight against his chest and held his breath, certain that his face was pinker than the silk that hid it.

He heard Mr. Lyman's voice. “What—” Then “Oh, my! Oh, my!” from Mrs. Smead.

The cloth shifted, and Ethan stared up into Mr. Bingham's blue spectacles.

“Dear, dear,” the clerk muttered. “Dear, dear. Must be more careful. Yes. More careful. Here.” He lifted the bolt out of Ethan's arms and laid it on the counter.

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Smead said again. “The boy is hurt.”

“No, I—” Ethan protested. Then he saw the red smudges dotting the soft pink fabric. He followed Mrs. Smead's gaze toward his hands. His left palm was stained with a bloody smear from a cut so fine he hadn't even felt it. A sudden chill began at the top of his head and washed over his body, as if someone had dropped a handful of melting snow on him. He put his hand behind his back.

But Mr. Lyman had already seen.

“I—I'm sorry,” Ethan said. “I'll clean it up.” With his right hand, he pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed at the silk. A gray smudge appeared among the red ones. He dropped the handkerchief and backed away, both hands behind him now. The chill was replaced by a wave of heat that scalded his face and made his collar and cuffs feel suddenly tight.

“Let me see,” Mr. Lyman said, his voice gentle.

Ethan shook his head, backing away until he bumped into the shelves behind him.

Clarissa's eyes narrowed behind her long lashes. “I hope that boy didn't spoil my silk.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no,” Mr. Bingham assured her. “It's already wrapped. I wrapped it myself . . . wrapped it myself.”

“Come here, boy,” Mr. Lyman said. “Show me your hand.”

Ethan threw a pleading glance toward Mr. Bingham. The clerk nodded. Ethan bit his lip, stepped forward, and held out his hand, palm down. He was surprised that it didn't shake. His trembling was all inside, the tendons and ligaments vibrating like the strings inside Zeloda's pianoforte. At least the counter still separated him from his master.

Mr. Lyman grasped Ethan's wrist, his fingers tightening like a snare. Ethan's pulse hammered against Mr. Lyman's thumb. The storekeeper uncurled Ethan's fingers. A smear of blood ran along his thumb and across his palm. Mr. Lyman pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the blood,
bending Ethan's thumb backward as he did. Ethan bit his lip and lowered his eyes.

“My, my. What have you done to yourself, boy?” Mr. Lyman squeezed Ethan's thumb. A thin line of red welled up from the tip down to the fleshy pad of his hand. Even as his heart plummeted, Ethan couldn't help admiring how the knife had been so keen that he hadn't felt the smart of it until the salt from Mr. Lyman's hand pressed into the cut.

“I—it's nothing, sir.” He glanced toward Mr. Bingham and Mrs. Smead, who bent over him with serious, sympathetic faces.

“Now, how did you do that?” Mr. Lyman's grip tightened, pulling Ethan forward, pressing him up against the counter. The drawer knobs dug into his belly and the front of his legs. Mr. Lyman's glare scorched him, trying to burn the answer out of him.

“I didn't mean to—” Ethan tore his glance away, searching for something safe to focus on. His eyes flickered over the case where the knife sat askew in the row, a fresh red thumbprint marring its glossy ivory handle.

Mr. Lyman made a satisfied humming noise in his throat.

Mrs. Smead put her hand under Ethan's chin and tipped his head up. She smiled reassuringly down at him. “There, now, Ethan, no need to look as if you're going to be eaten, is there?”

He tried to say “No, ma'am,” but his throat thickened around the words. He swallowed and blinked hard.

“Boys must be brave as well as handsome, mustn't they?” Ethan's cheeks burned. “Oh, yes, you are a handsome boy.” Mrs. Smead prattled on as though she could distract him with silly compliments. She patted his cheek. “Such long eyelashes, just like your mother. Any girl would love to have them. But isn't that just the way? Remember when your Silas was little, Mr. Lyman? All those lovely golden curls, just like your poor Delia had. Such a waste on a boy, when they'd only be cut off. . . .”

The color seeped from the storekeeper's face. His eyes drifted away to a place that seemed even darker and more distant than the secret place inside Daniel. His hand knotted around Ethan's and squeezed, as if he were wringing out a damp rag. A tendril of blood crept along Mr. Lyman's wrist and darkened his cuff.

The door slammed, and in walked Mr. Cowles, a heavy-set, middle-aged farmer who always spoke a little too loud and carried with him a vague odor of pigs, even when he was cleaned up for the Sabbath. Mrs. Smead and Clarissa stepped back as the farmer headed toward them, his boots clomping heavily against the floorboards. “Are you paying a good price for butter today, George?” Plates and glassware whispered and shivered as Mr. Cowles's voice boomed through the store.

The storekeeper's hand opened, and Ethan's flopped onto the counter like a dead thing, Mr. Lyman's handkerchief stained and crumpled in Ethan's palm.

Mr. Lyman turned toward the new customer, his lips working to recapture his best storekeeper smile. “As good a price as you'll get.”

Ethan crept away from the counter, rubbing his hand back to life.

Mr. Lyman froze him with a glare. “Lucius, see to the boy, will you, please? We don't want any more silk ruined today.” Although his tone was casual, his stern eyebrows gathered. “And Ethan and I will have a little talk later about carelessness, won't we?” His voice oozed patience and fatherly concern, but his eyes promised something entirely different.

Ethan curled himself into a ball, the sheet pulled over his head. He was almost asleep when he heard the rattle of the bolt in the door at the bottom of the stairs. He huddled
motionless under the sheet as Daniel's bare feet padded like cats' paws up the stairs and across the attic floor.

“He wouldn't let me come up,” Daniel said softly. “Not 'til all of 'em were ready for bed.”

Ethan opened his eyes, gritty and sticky with the afternoon's tears. He winced away from Daniel's hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, lad. Let's have a look,” Daniel said.

Ethan squeezed himself tighter, like one of those prickly winter caterpillars that would roll into a ball when he poked it. “It wasn't my fault,” he said.

“You don't have to be telling me that.” Daniel tugged at the sheet. “So are you going to let me have a look, or are you going to be a lump?”

Ethan uncoiled himself and turned over. He could just make out Daniel's silhouette, lighter gray against the black roof boards. “It's too dark.”

“There's a bit of a moon. Come over to the window.”

Ethan joined Daniel by the eastern fan window, where the rising moon drew a half-circle of pale blue on the floor. Daniel put his hands on Ethan's shoulders and tried to settle him on a big pumpkin, the last one left in the attic. Ethan shook his head.

“Oh. Switched you, did he?” Daniel tilted Ethan's head into the light. He touched Ethan's cheekbone with his fingertips, letting out a low whistle when Ethan winced and pulled away. “Didn't I tell you to watch yourself?”

“It wasn't my fault. I didn't spoil his stupid silk on purpose.”

“No such thing as an accident, far as Lyman sees.” Daniel stepped into the shadows and returned with a bag, a handful of rags, and a pitcher. “Off with your shirt, lad.” He dampened a rag in the pitcher, then pulled some feathery greens
out of the bag and wrapped them in the rag. “Put that on your face.”

The leaves smelled peppery, but they cooled Ethan's throbbing face. “What is it?”

“Wormwood. Me ma used it for bruises and such.” Daniel pressed something smooth into Ethan's free hand. “Here. Saved you a rusk from tea.”

Ethan stared at the biscuit, shiny like a stone in the moonlight.

Daniel tugged at Ethan's shirt. “C'mon, lad. I can't be fixing you up if I can't see what he done.”

The shirt came off, and Ethan stood naked and shivering in the moonlight. He held the pungent rag to his face and gnawed at the rusk.

Daniel said something in Gaelic that sounded rude. “He must'a been in a fine temper to'a done all that. Go lie on your belly and I'll do you up proper.”

Ethan settled on the bed, propping his chin on one hand and pressing the rag to the sorest part of his face. He shifted a bite of rusk from one side of his mouth to the other, trying to find a spot where it wouldn't hurt to chew. He heard Daniel open and close the trunk and make sloshing noises with pitcher and basin. Daniel's footsteps drew near, and a delicious coolness covered Ethan's back.