A Northern Light (27 page)

Mr. Higby owned Higby's camp on the south shore of Big Moose Lake and was the local justice of the peace. He was also Mr. Sperry's brother-in-law, and when he suddenly appeared in the kitchen toward the end of the breakfast service, we all thought that's who he was after.

"Hello, Jim, you eat yet?" Cook asked him. "Mattie, go get Mr. Sperry."

"No need, Mrs. Hennessey," Mr. Higby said. "I'll find him. I've got to see Weaver first, anyway."

"Lord God, what did he do now?" Cook sighed, walking to the cellar door. "Weaver!" she shouted. "Get those plates and get back up here! Mr. Higby wants a word with you!"

Weaver came up and put the new plates down on the drain board, clinking them together loudly. Cook gritted her teeth. "Make my day, Weaver," she said. "Tell me you robbed a bank or held up the train and that Jim's going to take you out of my kitchen right now and put you in jail for the next twenty years."

Weaver did not deign to reply. He simply lifted his chin, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for Mr. Higby to speak.

"Just thought you'd like to know that I found the men who gave you that licking, Weaver. They were raising Cain up at the Summit just as I happened to be picking up some guests from the train station. Broke a stool and a window. I fined them five dollars on the spot for the damages, and when the bartender told me they were the same men who attacked you, I arrested them. They spent the night locked up in the Summit's basement. John Denio's had a look at them and says I've got the right ones. Now I need you to do the same, and then I'm going to give them a short vacation in Herkimer, as guests of the State of New York. They'll get a cozy little room and some new clothes, too. The kind with stripes on 'em."

For the first time in days, Weaver smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Higby. I appreciate you taking the time over it."

"Just doing my job. I've got to find Dwight and talk business for a bit. I'll call for you on my way out."

Mr. Higby went to find Mr. Sperry and Weaver went back to the sink. His head was high. His back was straight. His eyes, so dark with anger for the last four days, were filled with a clear and righteous light.

Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be. Once I saw Beth lift her head at the sound of a coyotes cry at twilight. Her eyes widened—half in wonder, half in fear—and I saw that she would be beautiful some day. Not just pretty, truly beautiful. I saw the restlessness in Lawton long before he left. I saw it when he was only a boy and would toss sticks and leaves into the rushing waters of the Moose River and watch them go where he could not. I have seen Royal stop working to wipe his brow in the bright noon sun and have glimpsed the farmer he will be. Better than his pa, better than mine. The sort who can scent rain coming on a dry day and know the ripeness of his corn by the rustle of its leaves alone.

Just then, I saw what Weaver would be, too. I saw him in a courtroom, thundering at the jury, commanding their eyes and ears, their hearts and souls and minds—on fire with the strength of his convictions, the passion of his words.

Weaver wasn't that man yet, he was only a boy, tall and lanky, scrubbing a greasy roasting pan. But he would be. Scrubbing was only for today for Weaver Smith, not for ever.

Cook watched him as he worked, her eyes all squinty, her lips pursed up tighter than a cat's hind end. She couldn't stand to be wrong. He must have felt her eyes on him, because he glanced up at her from the sink.

"It doesn't change anything. You know that," she said.

"It changes everything," he replied. "That's three men who might think twice before they go around calling people names and beating them up."

"Three out of a million."

"Then I've only got 999,997 left to go, haven't I?"

That was Weaver. Determined to change the world. Three dirty, drunken, no-good trappers at a time. I smiled at him, my heart swelling up like bread dough, knowing full well that the remaining 999,997 didn't have a prayer.

When Tommy Hubbard appeared at the Glenmore's kitchen door at seven o'clock in the morning, I felt in my bones that something was badly wrong. I was busy shaping butter pats for the breakfast tables when I heard him.

"Hello! Is Mattie here? Is she here?" he yelled.

"Who is that? Stop shouting!" Cook shouted.

"Its me, Tommy Hubbard. I need to see Mattie."

"Don't you set foot in my kitchen, Tom!"

"I'm not itching, I swear, I—"

"You stay out there! I'll find her for you."

"I'm right here," I said, opening the screen door. Tears had washed tracks through the dirt on Tom's face. He was panting like a horse played our.

"I ran fast as I could, Mattie ... fast as I could...," he sobbed.

"From where? From
home?
" It was a mile through the woods from Tommy's house to the Big Moose Road, and five more up to the Glenmore.

"You've got to come home," he said, tugging on my hand. "You've got to come
now—
"

"I'm working, Tommy, I can't! Calm down and tell me what's wrong."

"Its your pa and your sisters, Matt. They're powerful sick..."

I dropped the knife I was holding.

"I went over early to see if Lou wanted to go fishing, and I knocked and knocked but no one came. The cows were bellowing, so I went in the barn. Daisy's real bad. She ain't been milked. Ain't none of them have. I didn't know what to do, Matt. I went inside the house ... They're all real bad. I found Lou in the grass by the outhouse, I got her inside, but—"

I didn't hear anything else for I was already running. Down the back steps to the Glenmore's drive and out to the Big Moose Road. Tommy was right behind me. I didn't get more than a hundred yards down the road when I saw a buckboard coming toward me.

I ran to it, shouting and waving my arms. The driver stopped. It was John Denio coming to work from his home in Big Moose Station.

"Please, Mr. Denio, my pa's sick. My whole family ... I've got to get home—"

"Get in," he said, reaching down for my hand and lifting me clear across him. Tommy scrambled into the back. Mr. Denio turned his horses around in the road, then cracked the reins. "Woman at the Lakeview took sick the other day," he said. "Fever and chills. Your pa was delivering his milk there, and the manager asked him if he'd take her down to Dr. Wallace's. She said she'd give him two dollars for the ride. Looks like she give him more besides."

Mr. Denio drove fast, but a coach and four couldn't have gotten me home fast enough. I was more scared than I have ever been in my life. Tommy said the cows were bellowing, that no one had milked them. Pa would never let them go unmilked. Never. My mouth went dry. My blood, my bones, everything inside me turned to sand. Not my pa, I prayed. Please, please, not my pa.

As we turned into my drive, I heard the sound of a second buckboard turn in behind us. It was Royal. "I was delivering to the Waldheim," he shouted. "Saw Mrs. Hennessey on my way back. She told me what happened. Go on inside. I'll see to the cows."

I was out of Mr. Denio's buckboard before it stopped. I could hear Royal yelling at Tommy to tie the horses. I could hear the cows bellowing in pain and the calves answering in fear. They were in the barn, in their stalls, which meant Pa had done a milking ... but when? Yesterday? Two days ago? It only takes a day, sometimes less, before the milk collects and swells the udder and infection sets in.

Were going to lose them,
I thought wildly. Every damn one.

"Pa!" I shouted, running into the shed. "Abby!" There was no answer. I burst through the kitchen door and ran straight into the thick, low stench of sickness. Barney lifted his head when he heard me and thumped his tail weakly. There were dirty pots in the sink, plates of half-eaten food on the table. Flies crawled over them, feasting on the crusted remains.

"Pa!" I yelled. I ran through the kitchen toward the stairs and found a figure crumpled at the bottom of them. "Lou! Oh, Jesus God ... Lou!" I screamed.

She picked her head up and blinked at me. Her eyes were glassy and her lips were cracked. Her coverall bib was crusted with vomit. "Mattie...," she rasped, "...thirsty, Mattie..."

"It's all right, Lou, I'm here; hold on." I lifted her up, draped her arm around my neck, and dragged her up the stairs to our bedroom, the air growing fouler with every step. I opened the door to our room and gagged on the stink. The room was dark, the shades were drawn.

"Beth? Abby?" I whispered. There was no answer. I laid Lou down on our bed, then crossed the room and pulled on the shade. I saw Beth then. She was lying in her and Abby's bed, still and pale. There were flies crawling on her. On her face and hands and feet.

"Beth!" I cried, rushing to her. Her eyes fluttered open and I sobbed with relief. She closed them again and began to weep, and I realized her bowels had let go. I touched her cheeks and forehead. She was on fire.

"Ssshh, Beth, it's all right. I'll get you fixed up, I promise...," I said. But she didn't hear me. I went back to Lou. "Where's Abby?" I asked her.

She licked her lips. "With Pa."

I ran out of our room and down the short hallway to Pa's bedroom. My father was lying rigid in his bed, mumbling and shivering. My sister was slumped over him.

"Abby!" I called to her. "Abby, wake up!"

She raised her head. Her eyes were dark hollows. Her cheekbones were sharp beneath her skin. "He's real bad, Mattie," she said.

"Since how long?"

"Since two days. Fever got worse this morning."

"Go to bed, Ab. I'll look after him now."

"I'll help you, Matt—"

"Get in your bed!" I snapped.

She raised herself up and walked toward the door, her steps as slow and shuffling as an old woman's. I touched my father's face. His skin was dry and hot. "Pa," I called softly. "Pa."

He opened his eyes and looked right through me. His hands scrabbled at the bedding. "Pa, can you hear me?" I said.

"...killed her, I killed her...," he jabbered, "...my fault..."

I put my hands over my eyes then and whimpered with fear. I didn't know what to do. They were all so sick. I was all they had and I couldn't think of the first thing to do.

"Yarrow, Mattie," Abby rasped from the doorway. "Get him to take some yarrow tea. He's got fever and chills and a deep cough. Try onions..."

"...and goose grease and turpentine...," I said, suddenly remembering how Mamma had treated coughs. Abby's voice, gentle even now, calmed me and helped me to think. "And baths. I'll try a cool sponge bath," I said.

"Beth and Lou have the scours. I tried blackberry syrup, but it didn't do any good. Get some roots."

"Roots? What roots?" I almost shouted.

"Blackberry, Matt. Chop up a handful and simmer them until the water's brown. Make them drink it."

Abby's legs shook then and she had to grab the doorjamb to keep from collapsing. I helped her into bed next to Lou. She squeezed my hand and her eyes closed, and I was alone. Utterly alone.

I raced downstairs and ran outside, thinking to get a spade in the barn to dig up some blackberry roots. I stopped halfway. The bushes were way up past the cornfields, a good fifteen minutes' walk. And Lou needed water. And there was the yarrow tea for Pa. And there was Beth, lying in her own filth ... I ran back inside and put the kettle back on the stove to boil. Then I pumped water into a large enameled basin, ran back upstairs, and stripped Beth's clothes off. I pulled her out of the bed onto the bare floor and washed her.

She shivered under my hands and moaned for me to stop. "It's cold, Mattie, it hurts," she whimpered, trying to pull away from me, her thin limbs shuddering.

"Hush, Beth, I know," I soothed. "Hold still, hold still." I tried to think of my word of the day,
aby,
to take the fear from my mind. I recalled that it meant to endure, to atone, and found I didn't care.

When Beth was clean, I put a fresh nightgown on her and tucked her in with Abby and Lou. Her own bed was rank, but it would have to wait. Then I took Lou's dirty coveralls off her and drew the quilt up over all three of them. Abby was sweating now. Her underthings were damp and her hair was plastered to her head. I would give her a sponge bath. Just as soon as I started some soup. I remembered that Mamma always made chicken soup when someone was poorly. I dreaded killing one of our hens, but there was no way round it.

I ran downstairs, pumped clean water into a jug, snatched a glass, and ran back up again. I gave everyone a good, tall drink, holding their heads up so they could swallow. It was a struggle getting Beth to take any water, but Lou, Abby, and Pa drank greedily. The dirty things stank powerfully and I knew that breathing tainted air wasn't good, so I bundled all the clothing, Beth's soiled bedding and her straw tick, and took it all outside. While I was in the yard, I looked up toward the barn. Three calves had been put in the pasture. Another was heading for the drive. Two more were in the cornfield, trampling the fragile plants. My heart lurched. We needed every ear, every stalk, for winter feed. A movement caught my eye. It was Tommy. He was near the beehives, trying to push another calf—Baldwin—toward the pasture, but Baldwin didn't want to go. He stopped dead, lifted his head, and bawled piteously. Manure gushed from his backside and splashed all over Tommy. Tommy cursed and punched the calf in the face. Again and again and again. The animal's bawling turned into shrill, terrified bleats. His front legs crumpled.

"Stop it, Tommy!" I screamed, running to them.

Tommy looked at me and shrank back, shame flushing his cheeks. His eyes were red and watery. A livid welt bloomed under one. "I was afraid," he sobbed. "I didn't mean for them to all get out ... they ran at me—"

"Tommy, who hit you..." I started to say, reaching for him. But he ducked me and took off after the calf in the drive. Baldwin's bleats were soft little moans now. He was bleeding under his eye. "Come on, Baldwin. Come on, now," I said to him, gently lifting him back onto his feet. I gave him my fingers to suck, which soothed him, then managed to lead him to the pasture one step at a time. Once he was in, I went after the two calves in the corn. They were standing together, their heads above the young stalks. "Come on, Bertie. Come on, Allie," I called. They were twins and I knew if I could get one to come to me, the other would follow. But as soon as they heard me, they split apart and trotted off, cutting more channels through the precious corn.