A Northern Light (12 page)

The lecture would have gone on, but there was a sudden smell of smoke. It had my aunt up and out of her chair in no time, waddling off to the kitchen to check on the pie she had baking. For an invalid, she moves faster than a water snake when she has a mind to.

I remained on the ladder, looking at the figurine in my hand.
You're wrong, Aunt Josie,
I thought.
It's not pride I'm feeling. It's another sin.
Worse than all the other ones, which are immediate, violent, and hot. This one sits inside you quietly and eats you from the inside out like the trichina worms the pigs get. It's the Eighth Deadly Sin. The one God left out.

Hope.

Mrs. Loomis's kitchen was so orderly and clean that it scared me. Kind of like Mrs. Loomis herself did. Her apron was always bright white and she darned her dishrags. I was standing in her kitchen, along with Lou and Beth, apologizing for Daisy, our cow. She and her calf had smashed through the fence that divides our land from Frank Loomis's. I could see them out of the kitchen window, wallowing in the cow pond.

"I'm sorry about the fence, Mrs. Loomis," I said. "Pa's fixing it. Ought to have it done in an hour or two."

Her pale blue eyes darted up from the potato she was peeling. "That's the second time this month, Mattie."

"I know it, ma'am. I don't know why she does it. We have a perfectly good cow pond ourselves," I said, twisting the rope noose I'd brought with me to fetch Daisy back.

"Your pa feeding alfalfa?"

"No, ma'am."

"Must be she's headstrong, then. Tie her in her stall for a few days and cut her feed. That'll fix her."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, knowing I would do no such thing to Daisy. "Well, I guess I'll go and get her now. Come on, Lou, Beth."

Mrs. Loomis had taken a tray of molasses cookies out of the oven just as we'd arrived. They were cooling on the counter, scenting the air with ginger and clove. My sisters couldn't take their eyes off them. Mrs. Loomis saw them looking. Her thin lips got even thinner. She gave the girls one to split. She didn't give one to me. I saw Mr. Loomis take some eggs to Emmie Hubbard yesterday. I thought it was very kind of him and wondered how he put up with such a mean and stingy wife.

Xerophilous,
my word of the day, means able to withstand drought, or adapted to a dry region. Standing in Mrs. Loomis's spotless kitchen, where there were no incontinent dogs or flea-bitten Hubbards or yellowed pictures from old calendars curling up on the walls, I wondered if only plants could be xerophilous or if people could be, too.

"Let me see if one of the boys is around to help you," Mrs. Loomis said. "Will! Jim! Royal!" she shouted out of the window.

"It's all right, we can manage," I said, heading for the back door.

I walked past the barn to the cow pond. Lou and Beth trailed behind me, taking tiny nibbles out of their cookie halves, seeing who could make hers last the longest. Daisy was at the farthest end of the pond, near to where the Loomis's pasture started. She was making a terrible noise, bellowing like someone had cut off all four of her legs. Baldwin the calf—named by Beth because he had a long, somber face like Mr. Baldwin the undertaker—was hollering, too.

"Here, boss! Come on, Daisy! Come on, boss," I shouted, rubbing my fingers together like I had a treat for her. "Come on, girl!"

Lou and Beth finished their cookie and started calling to the cow, too. Between the three of us shouting and Daisy and Baldwin bawling, we were making quite a racket.

"Sounds like the Old Forge town band. Just about as loud and just about as bad."

I turned around. It was Royal. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing his muscled arms, already brown from the sun. His color was high from working, his cheeks were streaked with dust. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his sturdy legs rooted to the ground, belonging to this place. As much as the silvery streams belonged, and the great, scudding clouds, and the deer in the woods. He was as beautiful as these things, too. He took my breath away. His eyes were the color of amber. Not hazel, not buckwheat honey like I'd thought, but warm, dark amber. His hair, golden and too long, was curling over his ears and down his neck. His shirt collar was open, and I couldn't take my eyes off the patch of smooth skin showing through it. He saw me looking and I blushed. Furiously.

"Don't none of them books of yours tell you how to get a cow out of a pond?" he asked.

"I don't need a book to tell me how to get a cow out of a pond," I replied, and called to Daisy in a louder voice. When that didn't work, I shook the noose at her and succeeded only in scaring Baldwin. He ran deeper into the pond and his mother followed.

Royal stooped down and picked up a few stones. Then he walked around behind Daisy and aimed at her backside. The first one surprised her and the second one got her moving. She ran right toward us. Lou was able to grab her, and I slipped the noose over her head, scolding her soundly. We didn't need to tie Baldwin. He would follow his mother.

I thanked Royal, though it killed me. "I don't know why she comes here," I said. "She has a fine pond of her own."

Royal laughed. "She don't come 'cause she wants a swim. It's him she's after," he said, pointing past the pond to the pasture behind it. I couldn't see what he was talking about at first, but then I spotted him—standing at the very edge of the field in the shadows of some pines. The bull. He was huge and fearsome and as black as midnight, and he was watching us. I saw his dark eyes blink and his velvet nostrils twitch, and I hoped greatly that the fence around him was stronger than the one Daisy had plowed through.

"Well, thanks again, Royal. We'd best be going," I said, starting off toward the dirt drive that led back home.

"I'll walk you," he said.

"You don't have to."

He shrugged. "Taint nothing."

"I want to lead her, Matt," Beth said. I let her. She started singing another one of Pas lumberjack songs. Lou walked next to her, her cropped hair swinging free, the cuffs of Lawton's coveralls dragging on the ground.

Royal talked about farming as we walked. About the corn he and Dan were going to plant and how his father was thinking about buying some sheep. He talked steadily, never giving me a chance to speak. After a while, though, he took a breath, and just to say something, I told him I was going to college. I told him that I had been accepted to Barnard and that if I could only come up with some money, I would go.

He stopped dead in his tracks. "What on earth you want to do that for?" he asked, frowning.

"To learn, Royal. To read books and see if maybe I can write one myself someday."

"Don't know why you'd want to do that."

"Because I do," I said, annoyed by his reaction. "And anyways, what do you care?"

He shrugged again. "Guess I don't. Don't understand it, that's all. Don't see why your brother left. Don't see why you would. Your pa know you're planning this?"

"No, and don't you tell him, either," I said.

We had fallen behind my sisters and the cows, and it was no surprise when, halfway to the Uncas Road, they disappeared over a hill.

What was a surprise, though, was when Royal stopped suddenly and kissed me. On my mouth. Quick and hard. I didn't protest, I couldn't—I was speechless. All I could think was that kisses from boys like Royal Loomis were for girls like Martha Miller, not me. He took a step back and looked at me. He had an odd expression on his face, the kind of look Lou gets when she's tasted something I've cooked and is trying to decide if she can stomach it.

And then he did it again, pulling me to him, pressing his body against mine. The feel of him, and smell of him, and taste of him, made me warm and dizzy. His hands were on my back, pressing me tighter against him. And then on my waist. And then one moved higher and before I knew what was happening, he was kneading my breast, pushing and pulling on it like he might a cow's teat.

"Stop it, Royal," I said, breaking away, my face flaming.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "You saving them?"

I couldn't look at him.

"For who, Matt?"

And then he laughed and started back home.

"No, no, no, Mattie!
X
is the
unknown
quantity. If it were known, you wouldn't need the
X,
would you? Jeezum, but you're making this hard," Weaver said.

I was standing in the middle of the highway, on the verge of despair, staring at the equation he'd drawn in the dirt.

"Figuring polynomials is just a matter of simplifying a bunch of values to a few. Just like boiling down a lot of sap to a little bit of syrup. It's easy, so stop being such a mule."

"
Hee-haw!Hee-haw!Hee-haw!
"'Jim Loomis shouted, running by us.

"I'm not being a mule. I don't get this, I just don't!" I cried, scraping my foot through the equation. We'd spent all week on polynomials, I still didn't understand them, and we had a test coming at the end of the week, a practice for our Regents exam. "I'm going to fail, Weaver, I know I am!"

"No, you're not. Just calm down."

"But I can't see how—"

"Hold on a minute, will you?" He chewed his lip and stared off down the road, tapping his stick on the ground.

"What are you doing?" I asked, shifting the books I was carrying from one arm to the other.

"Trying to think like a mule. If you want to explain something to a mule, you have to put it so the mule can understand."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

"Look out, Mattie! Ben's coming!" Will Loomis shouted, running toward us.

"What? Ben who?"

"Ben Dover!" he yelled, knocking my books out of my arms.

"For cripes' sake!" I snapped, swatting at him, but he was already past me, hooting and laughing as he watched me stoop down and brush dust off my books.

"Here, Matt, listen," Weaver said. "Let's try a written problem. Maybe putting it in practical terms will help." He opened his copy of Milne's
High School Algebra
and pointed. "This one."

I read it: "A man earned daily for 5 days 3 times as much as he paid for his board, after which he was obliged to be idle 4 days," it said. "Upon counting his money after paying for his board he found that he had 2 ten-dollar bills and 4 dollars. How much did he pay for his board, and what were his wages?"

"All right. Think now," Weaver said. "How would you begin to solve it? What's your X?"

I thought. Very hard. For quite some time. About the man and his meager wages and shabby boardinghouse and lonely life. "Where did he work?" I finally asked.

"
What?
It doesn't matter, Matt. Just assign an
X to—
"

"A mill, I bet," I said, picturing the man's threadbare clothing, his worn shoes. "A woolen mill. Why do you think he was obliged to be idle?"

"I don't know why. Look, just—"

"I bet he got sick," I said, clutching Weaver's arm. "Or maybe business wasn't good, and his boss had no work for him. I wonder if he had a family in the country? It would be a terrible thing, wouldn't it, if he had children to feed and no work? Maybe his wife was poorly, too. And I bet he had..."

"Damn it, Mattie, this is
algebra,
not composition!" Weaver said, glaring at me.

"Sorry," I said, feeling like a hopeless case.

Weaver looked up at the sky. He sighed and shook his head. Then, all of a sudden, he snapped his fingers and smiled. "Remember your word of the day?" he asked me, writing
monochromatic
the dirt.

"Yes," I said. "It means of one color. Or it can describe a person who's color-blind. But what does that have to do with algebra?"

"Say you didn't have a dictionary, but you knew prefixes, suffixes, and roots. Same way you know the value of numbers. How would you get at the meaning of a word?"

"Well, you'd look at the pieces.
Mono,
a prefix for 'single' from the Greek word
monos.
And
chroma,
for 'color,' also from the Greek. The /Vat the end would tell you it's an adjective. Then you'd blend all the pieces into one to get the meaning."

"Exactly! Algebra's the same, Matt. You blend all the pieces into one to get the meaning, which in this case is a number, not a word. You combine your knowns with your unknowns, your numbers with your
Xs
and
Ys,
one by one, until you have all your values. Then you add them or subtract them or whatever the equation tells you to do, and then you have your final value, the
meaning
"

He wrote out another equation, and I began to see what he was talking about. "Solve it," he said, handing me the stick. I stumbled a bit with the first one and he had to help me, but by the time he'd written out three more, I'd gotten the idea well enough so that I wouldn't be completely lost when I sat down to do my lessons that night.

"Just keep at it. You'll get it," he told me. "I know you will."

I shook my head, thinking about Barnard and how badly I wanted to go there. "I don't know why I should," I said. "There's no point."

"Don't say that, Matt. Did you ask your aunt? She give you anything?"

"A lecture."

"Did you tell your pa yet?"

"No."

"Why don't you tell him? Maybe he'd let you go. Maybe he'd even help you."

"Not a chance, Weaver," I said.

"Maybe you can earn the money picking berries over the summer."

I thought of all the buckets of berries I would need to pick and sighed.

We started walking again. We were halfway to Eagle Bay on our way home from school. My sisters were a good ways ahead of us, walking with the Higby girls. The Loomises were a little farther up, playing kick the can with Ralph Simms and Mike Bouchard. The Hubbard kids were behind us. Miss Wilcox kept them after sometimes. "For remedial work," she always said. But Weaver and I often stayed after to study with her, and we knew that she gave them sandwiches. Jim and Will didn't know it, though, since they never stayed after, so that was one less thing they could torment them over.