Bittersweet (20 page)

“Back home in Crooked Leg, we had old Cletus Bantley. He shore did love to spin a fine yarn. Bet him and yore Jesus woulda had themselves a fine old time together.”

Galen smiled. “I’m sure they would.”

“Too bad Sis ain’t here. Nobody savors a tale more’n Ivy.”

“What about Thursday? Are Ivy and your father coming for Thanksgiving?”

“Pa says it’s a Yankee holiday.” Ishmael rubbed his nose with the ball of his thumb.

“You can tell your father California started celebrating Thanksgiving ten years ago, so it’s not just a Yankee celebration.” Galen chuckled. “As a matter of fact, Laney and Ruth are stalwart supporters of Sarah Josepha Hale. She’s the editor of
Godey’s
Lady’s Book
and writes passionately about making Thanksgiving a national holiday.”

“Pa ain’t so sure we’re gonna stay one nation. Truth be tole, Lincoln gettin’ hisself elected has Pa mad as a gypped whore.”

Galen cocked a brow.

“Whoops. Sorry, Boss. ’Tis jist a sayin’.”

“Not one I want to hear.”

Ishmael nodded sheepishly. “Niver thunk much ’bout them kind of sayin’s. I’m tryin’ to mind my mouth.”

“I appreciate that.”

Ishmael scuffed his boot in the dirt. “Ain’t niver spent time or money on one of them gals, neither. Even if I had the money, don’t reckon I would. Don’t seem right somehow.”

“It isn’t,” Galen agreed.

“If Pa comes to supper for Thanksgivin’, he’s liable to spout off some stuff that ain’t polite. And he’ll have plenty to say ’bout how the election was shady.”

“Feelings are running high about the results. We can turn the conversation onto a different topic.”

“Pa ain’t easy to sway when he sets his mind on something.”

“He’s never tasted my mother’s cooking.”

Ishmael chuckled and shook his finger at Galen. “Whoa-ho. That’s whar yore wrong. Three times now, yore mama sent Ivy home a-carryin’ a supper plate to Pa. Onc’t I remember Pa on that, he’ll be champin’ on the bit to come.”

“I’ll tell Ma to count on him coming.”

“Ivy, too. I reckon you could recite that story Jesus tole ’bout neighbors. I’ll tell Ivy yore fixin’ to spin a tale. ’Twill give her sommat to look forward to.”

“You do that.”

“Boss? You know Ivy’s come over twice to sew.” Ishmael grimaced and stared down at his feet. “If Pa knowed she was jist comin’ here to get herself a dress, he wouldn’ta let her. It shames me to admit it, but he’s dreadful hard on her. We let Pa think them jars we toted back was pay for her holp two of them times. T’other time, you sneaked a gunnysack of vittles by that tree. Ivy done tole me you done that three times now, but you didn’t want Pa to know, so we ain’t tole him.”

“Ivy wasn’t supposed to see me that first time.”

“Then how was she a-gonna know them vittles was thar?”

Galen grinned. “My plan was to set the bag somewhere she was sure to find it. The Bible tells us to give quietly—so subtly that the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is giving.”

“Yore Bible-book shore has some fanciful notions. But the last time you put a sackful of vittles thar, I strung ’em up from a tree. That next day, when we was a-walkin’ back home, I got it down so’s Pa would reckon lettin’ Ivy go away for a day now and then was a right smart plan.”

“I see.”

“Don’t think you do.” Ishmael sighed. “Pa got hisself a rare bad temper. Ivy and me, we learnt early not to rile him. We didn’t ’zactly lie to him. We jist let him draw his own conclusions when Ivy brung home stuff.”

“I won’t lie, and I won’t ask Ma to lie, either.” Galen frowned. “Is Ivy safe?”

“Safe as she’s ever been.” Ishmael finally looked back up. “And happier, too. Yore ma and neighbors—they’ve been real nice to Sis. Pa don’t thank Ivy’s worth much, her bein’ a gal. But that worked in her favor this time. He didn’t ’spect she oughtta earn much, so her comin’ home with vittles for later and a plate of meat—well, that more’n satisfied him.”

Lord, how do I handle this? Give me wisdom
. Galen looked off in the distance. The boys were starting off to school, and Ma made sure she hugged and kissed all three of them.
How would I feel if
Ma only loved some of us and was mean to the others? What would I do to
protect them?

“Mayhap ’tis best that we jist not come.”

Galen made a show of folding his arms across his chest. “You think your father is difficult? Just you try tellin’ Ma you’re not accepting her hospitality.” He shook his head. “You’re a braver man than I am. I’d rather walk through a swarm of angry bees than disappoint Ma. I’ll have a talk with her, and we’ll be careful with what’s said so Ivy is safe.”

The sadness fled Ishmael’s eyes, only to be replaced with a mischievous gleam. He poked his tongue out into his cheek and ran it back and forth for a long count, then nodded. “I’ll take yore word for it, Boss. If anybody’s a-gonna be riled, best it not be the cook!”

Ivy pinched the edges of the pie closed and carefully lowered it into the Dutch oven. Ishy had snared her two fat squirrels.With the flour and lard the O’Sullivans had given them, Ivy had turned those squirrels into a masterpiece. She could hardly wait till tomorrow. From all the chatter about Thanksgiving while she’d been sewing over at the O’Sullivans, she knew there’d be plenty of food. Pride led her to make something to take, too.

Folks always told her she baked the best squirrel pie they ever ate. She looked forward to putting on her beautiful green dress and carrying that pie into the O’Sullivan place. Oh, it would be a fine moment.

A shadow fell over her. Ivy looked up and tried not to let her fear show. “Pa’s back ’hind the lean-to,” she told the black-haired man.

“I figured as much.” Pa’s partner waved toward the right. “I brought more corn.”

Ivy nodded. One or the other of the partners managed to come by with corn or sugar or both a couple of times a week. Every other time, they’d come with a wagon to tote away the jugs—but never on a schedule, so she couldn’t guess when one of them would show up.

Mr. Whatever-his-name-was-today hunkered down close beside her. She flinched as he ran a finger down her cheek. “You’re filling out. Looks nice on you. Real nice.”

Trying to be subtle, Ivy felt for the knife she kept in her belt sheath.

“Hey, thar!” Pa came around the lean-to.

The man slowly rose. “I brought more corn. From the looks of your field, you’re ready to harvest now.”

“Yup. Gal, I tole you to start round the edges whar the sun ripens the field. Got enough sunlight to pick a bunch.”

Glad to have an excuse, Ivy scrambled away.

The stranger led his heavily-laden horse around the lean-to. Pa was urging him to continue bringing more corn and sugar, blaming Ivy’s poor farming and complaining that the late start on the crop made for a low yield.

Pa cain lay blame whare’er he wants, so long as he and that feller keep
outta my hair
. She walked the first row of corn and harvested the ripest ears. Some still needed a few days. Before turning the corner to do the next edge, Ivy tiptoed over and checked on her squirrel pie. She rotated the Dutch oven and replaced the coals on top of it.

Judging the time, Ivy decided she’d best set supper to cooking. The most recent gunnysack of vittles that nice Mr. O’Sullivan had left still had food in it. She kept track and tried to stretch each bit so’s they’d have enough to fill ’em and still last awhile. She measured out some black-eyed peas and rice into the only other pot she owned. Ishy liked hoppin’ John, so he’d be happy when he got home from work.

The sounds of Pa and his partner drifted toward her every once in awhile. Ivy wished that man would go. About half the time, he’d lollygag round and join Pa in sampling the corn whiskey. He didn’t get mean drunk like Pa, but he’d knock back enough to be tipsy. Ivy wished his brother or cousin—whichever he was—had come instead. He just got down to business and left.

After adding more ears of corn to the heap she’d started, Ivy checked on the squirrel pie. It was close to being done, so she thought to take it away from the fire and just let the heat the Dutch oven held finish the job. A hasty glance at the lean-to left her giddy with relief. She popped to her feet and started to sneak away with it.

“Gal!” Pa’s voice made her freeze. “Whar d’ya thank yore goin’?”

CHAPTER SEVEN TEEN

H
ere. Let me help.” Laney hated getting up from the Thanksgiving table. Ever since the day she’d come to make pear butter, Galen had made it a point to have her sit beside him. Today he’d done the same thing. She would gladly stay next to him much longer, but she couldn’t allow her hostess to do all of the work. “Please excuse me,” she murmured.

Galen rose and moved so she could get to the other side of the bench. “Ladies, everything tasted wonderful.”

“Shore did.” Ivy started rolling up the sleeves of her new green dress. “’Tis a wonderment the table didn’t start beggin’ for mercy onc’t we started piling all them heavy plates and bowls on it.”

“Hilda, why don’t you and Mrs. O’Sullivan go rest?” Ruth put her arm around Laney. “We’ll clear the table and clean up.”

“Really?” Sean asked excitedly.

“Boy-o, don’t you be gettin’ too excited.” Galen gave his little brother a stern look. “Ma told you and Colin that you’re to wash the dishes.”

Laney tried not to look amused at Sean’s crestfallen expression. Galen managed his brothers well.
I ought to praise him about that.
It can’t be easy trying to be both brother and father to them
.

“It’s pure nonsense, me not helping clean up.” Mrs. O’Sullivan’s forehead wrinkled as she looked at the table.

“We insist,” Laney said.

“Yup. We shore do.” Ivy pulled one of Mrs. O’Sullivan’s 161 aprons on over her dress.

“At least let me take the rest of the milk and cheese out to the springhouse.”

“One trip,” Ruth allowed.

Mr. Grubb stayed at the table, and Laney didn’t reach for any of the bowls or platters near him. Everyone else had eaten plenty and enjoyed lively conversation. Mr. Grubb had made a few terse comments, but he’d mostly just sat there and continued to eat. And eat. And eat.

After having seen Ishmael and Ivy, Laney had expected Mr. Grubb to be mere skin and bones, but he wasn’t. Though lean of limb, he boasted a fairly generous belly. Witnessing how he ate, Laney suspected he took his fill of whatever meager meals Ivy cooked before his children got much.

It seemed rude to be clearing the table, but he hadn’t shown a single sign of stopping any time soon. Josh, Ishmael, and Galen stayed at the table to be companionable, but they’d long since given up their plates.

Hilda didn’t bat an eye. She set a hand on Josh’s shoulder, then leaned over and dragged the turkey platter toward herself. Mr. Grubb glowered at her, and she glowered right back.

Twice more, Hilda and Mr. Grubb went through a silent battle. Hilda won those, too. Laney, Ivy, and Ruth all stood off to the side, gaping at the war. Mr. Grubb’s bushy eyebrows beetled, and the left side of his unkempt mustache raised in a soundless snarl as Hilda hooked her thumb inside the rim of the bowl of mashed sweet potatoes.

Then Hilda surprised them all. She pushed the bowl straight in front of him, bumping his sopped-clean plate to the side. “Seeing as how you’re appreciating those, you go on ahead and eat your fill.” She gave him a toothy smile. “Would you like a little more brown sugar on them?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” As Hilda added brown sugar, he motioned for her to keep spooning in more and more.

My gracious! There have to be almost two cups of sweet potatoes there,
and he’s going to eat them all straight from the serving bowl!

A moment later, Hilda stood back and rested her hands on her hips. “Does my heart good, seeing a man who’s unafraid to eat.”

Mr. Grubb shot a dark look at Ivy. “Ain’t often I getta et anything decent. The gal ain’t got a scrap of talent for cookin’. Made squirrel pie yesternoon that set like an anvil in my belly.”

He has that big tummy from eating her food. How can he complain? He’s
dreadfully mean
. Laney reverted to what Mama and Miss Genevieve taught her to do when her expression would transmit her opinion: she dipped her head and lowered her eyes.