The Seary Line (17 page)

She stood. “All right.”

Dropping his bag by the fence, he unbuttoned his left breast pocket and withdrew a scrap of fabric.

“Here.” He handed her a clean white square of cotton, tatted border in a mix of navy and baby blue.

“That's real pretty. A handkerchief.”

“My mother made it.”

“Your real mother?”

“Yup. 'Twas in with the stuff I came with. That old trunk. I stole it, hid it away for myself, before everything was gotten rid of. Given to other families.”

Stella unfolded it, laid it open on her mitten. “Oh. 'Tis lovely, Amos. Best put it back.”

But as she reached her arm out to give it back, a bitter wind tore down the laneway, swiped the flimsy fabric from her open hand, and made away with it. Amos and Stella jumped to catch it, banging their chests together, but the wind lifted it higher and higher, forcing it to weave and dance as though it were enjoying itself. Towards rooftops, past smoldering chimneys, until it vanished against the cloudy sky.

“Oh God, Amos.” Tears shot out from Stella's eyes, and she collapsed beside the fence. “I's so sorry. I hates myself, I do. How could you have someone so stupid for a sister? Now you don't got nothing left.”

Amos crouched beside her, swallowed hard. “Don't cry, maid. That's not true at all. I got plenty left, don't you think no different. I got a ton of stuff in here.” He thumped his chest, right at the unbuttoned pocket.

Stella wailed and wailed, buried her face in cold crisp folds of her skirt.

“Plenty of stuff. Who knows, I might have made it all up, but it still feels right real to me, and that's all that counts, right? Whatever feels real.”

Rubbing her back, he whispered, “Say it, Stell.”

He stayed beside her, holding her, waiting for the shaking to subside. But when he noticed a handful of shadowy figures skulking down the lane and out onto the road that led to the docks, he had to leave her, even though she was still shaking. He stood, unlatched the gate.

“Be good,” he said, and let his fist fall gently on her head. “I'll be back before you knows it. Keep my supper warm.”

Stella did not stand and turn towards her brother, could not watch him walking away. She listened though, and heard what she thought was the saddest sound. A pair of heavy tired feet, leaving home.

In the months to follow, she received several letters from Amos, but the one she treasured most was the following:

Dear Stella
,

I am listening to the rain, and it seems to fall much more softly here. Without guts, almost like it's scared to make too much of a noise. That sound makes me think of home, and the raucous rains that we gets. I miss that – rain with lots to say. And you, of course. You, with lots to say
.

Someday, after the war, I'd like to bring you here. The countryside is grand, and I bet you would like it. Parts are similar to home, like the fields, and the smell of bread when you walk by a farmhouse, herds of goats, but it's different too. You know that the loveliness is a bit of a trick. I won't try to describe it, I'm no good at that sort of thing. You will see, one day, when the horizon is more honest
.

Even though I knows you might be, don't worry yourself about me, Stell. My spirits is good, and my legs is strong. Thanks to your knitting, my feet is wonderful warm. I could've sold my fine wool socks a dozen times over, but I never gave it a single thought. There is decent food and plenty of it. Too much, in fact. I'm not the same skinny feller that left you. Today, me and the men shared a jar of strawberry jam, and it tasted like heaven
.

When I'm waiting, sometimes I dredges up the talk we had that night in God's Mouth. The patch is more precious than the hole. Do you remember? And I want you to know that I don't got neither hole to think of. Never did and never will, maid. That's the pure and utter truth. I listens to some of the other blokes' stories, and I knows I been blessed beyond. If you can do me a favour, when the time presents itself, please tell that to our father
.

Remember me, until you see my old mug again
.

Love, your brother
,

Amos

P.S. Is you still keeping my supper warm?

Two weeks after this last letter, Stella and her father received word that Amos Abbott, aged 18, had been killed in the line of duty. With great honour, he died on the frontlines, shot by a near-mirror-image of himself. Stella did not weep, collapsed inside.
You lied
, she thought.
You lied to me
. She imagined his body, bloody, stuck face down in the icy muck of a trench. His last breath would smell like a rusty iron pan, and the air would emerge not through his mouth, but the holes in his torso. A riddle of holes. She could see them clearly. But knew no kind of patch in this cruel world would fix them.

Leander Edgecombe climbed the rickety ladder leaning against the side of the Abbott household. He had made this ladder especially for himself, the rungs very close together. That way, he could hop up with one good foot, rather than step with two.

He held tightly with his right hand, and hoisted a chair with his left. This chair was made from knotty pine, and the joints were seamless, edges smooth, spindles a lively mix of beads and grooves. With seafoam coloured paint, he had given the chair three thick coats. The legs were uneven, back shorter than front, as he wanted it to sit flat on the sloping roof that overhung the porch.

As he positioned the chair, Stella came out to watch him.

“If you asks me,” she said, “'tis a waste of a lovely piece of furniture. All that colour will burn up, peel off like old skin.”

“I don't heed one word you says,” he replied, and smirked down at her. “Anyone who passes by'll know that a furniture maker lives here.”

“Everyone knows now anyways, they don't need no
chair to tell them. But, suit yourself. Long as you sweeps up the flakes.”

He laughed, pulled nails from his pocket and held them between pinched lips. Chair in place, he asked Stella to hand him up the hammer. He then nailed each leg firmly to the roof, shook the chair to ensure it couldn't budge. Satisfied, he clambered back down, stood back several feet to admire his handiwork.

“Come,” he said, and Stella stood beside him. He wrapped his arm around her waist, squeezed her. “What do you think now?”

She smacked his chest. “I thinks the same as I did before, of course.”

Leander looked at his wife, pressed his face into her hair, dampened by the heavy mist. They had been married two full years now, and Leander would say these years had been the easiest of his life. Getting there was a struggle though. He had asked her a dozen times to marry him, and she had always refused. But from very early on, he knew she was the girl for him, and he would never say this aloud, but his foot told him so.

Ever since he was born, his bad foot ached. A constant dull throbbing, as though blood were trying to push its way into hardened places, plump up withered flesh. Only when he was searching for someone or something did the ache lessen. And he was good at that, finding things. As he neared the misplaced item, his foot actually felt normal – not normal enough to walk on, but normal in that he might forget the discomfort.

By chance, he discovered that whenever he was close to Stella, he forgot about his foot. As though she was perpetually lost and wandering, and he was the one capable of finding her. And when he was with her and the pain
disappeared, there was room for other emotions, room for laughing, love, singing a jaunty tune.

Even though he knew they were meant for each other, he was beginning to believe that convincing Stella was an impossible task. That changed though, one afternoon, almost nine years ago, when he saw her in her vegetable garden. She was crouched down among the cabbage leaves, still wet from morning dew. The plants were young and tender, and had yet to form a substantial head. Baby slugs were nibbling away, leaving telltale holes and tracks of slime. Stella was lifting and examining each leaf, picking off the freeloaders, dropping them in an enamel bucket.

“Dirty work,” Leander said as he neared her. “Yes, 'tis. And I idn't afraid of it.” She looked up, squinted with the early sunlight, one eye closed.

Leander moved to block the rays, said, “I got something for you.”

“Whatever you got, I don't want no part of it.”

But he dropped it in her lap anyway, and he never could have anticipated her response. She stared at it for a moment, mouth agape, as though it had been a snake he'd tossed. Then, she snatched it up, pressed it over her face, and began to moan.

He stepped back, sunlight flooding her face again. “What is it, maid? Did I do something wrong?”

“Where did you get this?” Her voice was thin and face drawn. He could not decide whether she was angry or miserable or both.

“To be honest, I found it,” he replied. “Few winters back. On the path out to the woodpile. I gave it to Mother, and she washed it and ironed it. Says the tatting is real fine work. Don't you like it?”

Stella never responded, jammed the clean white handkerchief
with the baby blue lace edging into the pocket of her apron and strutted past him. The screen door of her house creaked open and slapped shut. Leander stood in the garden, confused beyond, then looked in the bucket, grimaced when he saw the seething bodies. Bucket in hand, he went to the shed, poked around until he found a wooden box of coarse salt, sprinkled a handful over the slugs. After an initial frenzy of curling and flipping, they began to burn. Leander laid the bucket on the step to the shed, walked away.

Four months passed before he mustered the courage to ask again. Christmas time, and he was mummering at the Abbott household. Sheer fabric over his face, woman's hat and dress, festive spirits coursing through his veins. He hauled Stella up from her chair, hopped around trying to dance, leaned hard on her shoulders.

“Well?” he whispered in her ear. “What do you say?”

“To what?”

“You knows, getting married.”

She stepped back, eyed him with a sideways glance. “Now how can you expect a girl to marry a stranger? And one dressed like a woman at that.”

He tore the veil from his face, knocking off the hat. “'Tis only me, maid.”

When she smirked knowingly, he blushed, the heat making him wish for the veil again. But she teased no longer, nodded her head and had offered the few spoken sparks that exploded the revelry. “Yes, I believes I will, Leander Edgecombe. I believes I will.”

“You best get in,” he said as he looked at the churning sky just above his newly fixed chair. “Storm's a coming.”

“You too,” she said.

“Nah. I got stuff to do in the shed.”

What was once Percy's miniature red shed was now a grand workshop. Leander and his two younger brothers had taken off the back, extended the structure up over the rocks, so that inside he had two work areas on different platforms. With beach stones and mortar, they had constructed a fireplace where Leander burned leftover scraps of wood, shavings and sawdust.