The Seary Line (12 page)

“Go on, girl.” Mrs. Hickey nudged Stella. “Feels real good to give it a beating. Knock a bit of sense into those old eggs.”

When Stella stirred vigorously, membrane slopped out onto the countertop. Mrs. Hickey tsk-tsked, then leaned in around her, and with practiced fingers, scooped up the egg white, tossed it back into the bowl. Licking sugar and slime from her thumb, she mumbled, “Bit of raw egg never hurt no one.”

Reaching around for the stale bread, Mrs. Hickey brushed Stella with her full-larder-of-a-chest. She grabbed Stella by the shoulders, said, “Not much meat on you, girl. You'll fill out though, once you gets a bit older. You bet. Sure, take a gander at me.” She pinched her rolls, smiled. “I was no thicker than a piece of shoestring when I was your age. 'Tis love that makes you fat. I believes that, I do,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the Reverend. “True love makes you pack on the suet.” Dark soggy laugh.

“All in Christ shall be made alive,” the Reverend mumbled through his rust-coloured mustache.

Though Stella wasn't paying attention to his recitations, she could not help but stare at the Reverend from time to time. Judging solely by the top of his head, a mourner might take comfort in the purity of his downy white hair. But when the Reverend showed his face, that comfort would surely transform into uneasiness. His skin seemed to dislike the
very bone beneath it, had fallen significantly, hung on either side of his jaw in fleshy dimpled jowls. Acne scars, a reminder of what once must have blighted his cheeks, had slid off his face, now colonizing his neck. His flesh reminded her of cold chicken broth, and it quivered when he spoke. Stella speculated on how he might have looked as a young man. Even with the pulling and tightening, the sunshine and bright hair her mind offered him, she determined that face still would have been mighty unpleasant.

Glancing up, he caught her staring, said, “That was Corinthians. If you wasn't sure.”

“No,” she replied after a moment. “I wasn't.”

There was something in his expression when he looked at her, as though he were steeling himself against her tacit criticism. It made her believe he knew what she was thinking, and he knew there were others who had thought the same thing before. Blushing, Stella turned back to the eggs, focused on Mrs. Hickey's elbows, appearing and disappearing as she sawed through the bread.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Hickey replied, as she continued slicing. “Now a cup or so of cream or milk, then soak your old bread. Handful of raisins if you got them. Pay it no mind if you don't. A grating of nutmeg, if it suits your fancy, or your daddy's fancy.” The bread was tough. Mrs. Hickey began to sweat as her arm worked the knife, but she did not grow winded.

“'Tis hard work, but we mustn't be wasteful. Only heathens is wasteful, if you asks me. Going 'round with the Reverend like we does, I sees all kinds of good food heaved out for the animals. Pigs never had it so good. Stuff folks could eat themselves, I allows. Back when I was girl, we was a might more sparing. No shame in being frugal, you knows. A lesson you should learn young, and I guarantees it'll
serve you well your whole entire life.” She talked nonstop as her pudgy fingers pressed the bread beneath the cream, drowning each piece.

“Yes, Mrs. Hickey.”

“And that's all there is in the making of it. Bread pudding. After that, you puts it into a Bane Mary and cooks it.”

“What's a Bane Mary?”

“Nothing as highbrow as it sounds, girl. 'Tis French for a custard bath or a water bath or something. You puts the pan with your pudding into a thing of hot water. That way it don't come out all lumpy.”

“How long do you bake it?”

“That's the same silly thing I used to ask when I was your age. My mama, God rest her soul, always used to say, you keeps it in ‘til 'tis cooked, girl, and not a minute more. And I says that's sage counsel.”

“All right.”

“You're the woman of the house now,” Mrs. Hickey said as she leaned over, placed the pudding in the oven. “Though I reckons you've been that way for a while now, considering the state of your poor mother.”

“For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable and he shall be charged. I means we shall be changed. Changed. That's Corinthians too.”

“Right, my darling. You knows just what to say.” Mrs. Hickey wiped her hands in her apron, smoothed her faded frizzy hair. “We best be getting along, Reverend. Still got to stop in and see to the Vokeys.” Then to Stella, “Next time, if you likes, I'll show you how to make a grunt. But you'll need to pick some berries.”

Stella leaned against the counter, arms folded across her narrow chest. She was beginning to reconsider. Maybe this wasn't so horrible, Mrs. Hickey here, taking up space. Her
commanding presence masked the gloom, and for a few hours, that colossal woman managed to push out the emptiness. Especially this room, for the kitchen was Stella's mother's room. This is where she had lived out most of her adult life.

Not that her mother had enjoyed it, Stella had long ago decided. And as the years went by, her mother made even less effort to hide her general displeasure. Even when she was asleep, the room snored with contention. There were rare occurrences when the conflict was playful, moments when Stella could imagine what life had once been like between her parents. But most often, she was tetchy, complaining about sunlight, the bland meal before her, the stain of squashberry jelly. Who had dared let it drip on her daybed quilt?

But since that Saturday morning when her mother had left to clean the church, the complaining had stopped. Shortly after, her mother had moved into the front room, placed in a temporary box, curtains tightly drawn. And while neighbours came, sat with Amos and Percy, Stella would not enter the room. “Disrespectful,” Stella had heard her father say, but he did not force the issue.

When it came time to go to the funeral, her father pinned a black armband over the sleeve of her dress, and told her to lace up her shoes. He began to fold his black-bordered handkerchief, and while his back was turned, she had run from the house. At the back of the shed, she dragged out just enough flat stones piled against its base, and shimmied underneath. Tucked among cobwebs and scuttling mice, she watched her father's feet, stomping past her, his curse words drifting down, scalding her. She had never seen him so angry, and he had not spoken to her since.

No matter the consequences, she could not bear it. If Stella were to see her mother like that, in a state of
perpetual stillness, she would be forced to accept that her mother was not coming back. Instead, she tricked herself into believing that her mother was still at the church, piling prayer books, dusting pews, poking at the intricate woodwork of the altar with a damp cloth over her finger.

But the kitchen, the very room, threatened to end the deception. When Stella walked from corner to corner, she confirmed that the proportions were identical, the furniture and cabinetry untouched. But something had changed. She sensed that the room was suffering. From absence. And if Stella acknowledged it, allowed the awareness to seep in around her young heart, she would surely suffer too.

“Yes, Mrs. Hickey,” she murmured. “A grunt. That would be right nice.”

Grief rolled up with waves of boundless energy. As soon as Delia was in the earth, Percy's muscles twitched relentlessly, and he started work on the hardest task he could fathom: clearing his land. Every twig, tree, and bush was severed, hacked into bits and stacked behind the shed. Roots were ripped away, and he followed their tangled paths, barely blinked as flecks of soil flew into his face, collected in the moist corners of his eyes. The remainder was gathered in a pile, burned, leaves and needles, sawdust, red boughs cackling as they melted into ash. By late summer, his land was transformed from a fairytale forest into a stark patch of dirt and stubble. Standing on the back stoop of his home, he surveyed his work, ignored the empty sense of conclusion clinging to the pit of his stomach.

She would be happy now, he thought, sunlight touching every plank of wood on their home. His home now. He sat
down, looked around his clean yard, then rubbed his raw palms over his face. There was no work left to do, none of his precious trees left to destroy, and he feared what was coming next. The questions, no doubt, they arrived at lightening speed. What was happening to Delia? Did she miss them? Was she cold? Should he have put her wool sweater on over her dress? Was the coffin strong enough to keep out those nasty critters that wanted to consume her? If only he could have her back, just for a short while, he would tell her things. Lots of things. He couldn't think just now. But he would have taken better care of her. Such better care.

Percy went to the kitchen and sat in Delia's rocker. Stella was there, as she often was now, making something out of the flour and sugar from Fuller's General Store. Eggs from Miss Allan's, milk from Charlie Carrigan's cow. Nothing any of them would eat, and he resented the fact that the house smelled differently. Sweeter. More like a home. And that shouldn't be the case. Not when his wife had just died.

Stop it
, he thought.
Quit your cooking. Your messing around
. But Stella didn't hear him, or else she ignored him, he couldn't be sure.

Sometimes he wondered about the girl's mother, what was she like? There was betrayal there, he knew, considering Miriam Seary in that fashion, but he couldn't help it. Delia's ailment had been too consuming for her to nurture a child. He should have recognized that, never proposed to take in the dense woman's baby. In hindsight, desperation drove him. He so badly wanted to be a good husband, to pacify her, soothe her itchy spirit. But instead of succeeding, instead of enriching her life, he likely greased the very planks on which his wife was teetering.

“I needs berries for the morning,” Stella said. “But 'tis dusk. Should I go?”

Percy never responded, just stood, plucked the tin pail from a bent nail in the porch and walked out the door. As he made his way up the lane, facing the low sun, lines began to lengthen. He twisted around when he heard two children giggling behind him, shook his fist in the air when he saw that they were taking turns stomping on his shadow head.
Beggars
.

Early evening tossed a blanket of lavender haze over the cove. Percy ambled along. Though it felt aimless, his body knew where it was going. Without thought, he wound his way along the old road, up across the barrens, then off onto the cliffs where partridgeberries grew. Midway to the edge, he lay down atop a soft covering, ran his fingers over the moss and lichens, mountain laurel and Labrador tea. Squashed berries may have stained his clothing, but he gave it no mind. He had heard people complain they were scarce this year, anyway.

So soft in his mountain bed, and he wanted to rest, but the sandman avoided him, would not spare a speck of mysterious dust for his weary eyes. But that sandman hadn't hesitated with Delia. No. Reverend Hickey had explained to him that she was in a state of eternal rest. And who had put her there? The sandman. Dumped a whole load from his satchel in her pretty face. Percy knew the truth. This was not the gentle visitor he had told Stella and Amos about at bedtime when they were children. Not even close. The real sandman was a hunched crippled creature. When Percy was a child, he had no choice but to listen to the taunting of his brothers. In the pitch black of their room, they described a sinister old man who blinded drowsy folks then stole them away. Delia might be with him now, in his distorted nest, her nose transformed into owl's beak, speechless as he plucked out her bloodied eyes.

Percy filled with helpless anger, boxed the night sky with flailing fists. Grinding against the rock, his back and shoulders started to ache, and he melted into the mossy underbrush, breathing heavily. How he yearned to control his mind, impose a penalty for any weaving or wandering, and limit its ability to torture him. Looking up, he watched the dark clouds clumping, handfuls of damp wool sheared from the dirtiest sheep. Something pleasant, please God, he whispered, let me think of something pleasant.

And his prayer was answered. When that little drawer at the base of his brain slid open, the sweet memory of their first meeting emerged. She was a nameless girl then, crouched beside a tin tub in a backyard, rubbing laundry up and down a sudsy washboard. Her arms moved efficiently, water sloshing over her apron, and he wondered if she might catch a chill from the breeze that drifted off the ocean. But she showed no signs of distress as she snapped the clean clothes, tossed each piece over a line stretched between home and shed, fixed them with a jab of a clothespin.

Percy stood under an old dogberry tree, hidden in the shade. This was the first time he had ever spied on a girl, honest, and he wished he were wearing his brown shirt so that he might blend with the trunk of tree. When she nearly finished the laundry, Percy felt nervous, suddenly threatened by the solid walls of the saltbox home beside her. What if she disappeared behind them? Should he emerge, introduce himself? He had no idea if she would smile, turn away, or slap him in the face. Sometimes he wondered if he were actually invisible, and if she might not notice him at all.