Together Apart (15 page)

"Being the star in a working girls' play is like being the smartest dunce."

"That's not true. It's a good play. My friend Hannah wrote it."

"And I suppose the next thing you're going to tell me is that that thieving, harmonica-playing stable boy composed the score."

My stomach knotted.

"What ... what do mean?" Dru asked.

"I mean I know Eliza Moore has been hiding a criminal here all summer. I paid your fathers handyman a dollar to come here last night, and he told me he heard harmonica music. It wasn't until a short time ago that I remembered the sheriff was searching for a boy who played the harmonica. If the sheriff weren't over in the next county on some kind of business, that boy would be locked up by now, Eliza Moore right along with him, and the abomination you call the resting room would be shut down. As for you, young lady, I've already sent a telegram of inquiry to Miss Pritchard's Finishing School in Boston."

For a moment, the only voice I heard was the one screaming in my head.
Convince her that she's wrong, that Isaac isn't a thief, that the resting room does only good. Do it now, Dru, before it's too late. Now, Dru!

"Please, Mother, if I come with you, promise never to set foot in here again, will you promise not to send me away? Please, I'm begging you." Dru's voice was as small and childlike as Megan's.

I turned and walked toward the sounds of Mr. Tinka's fiddle. Eliza close behind, I passed through the kitchen, the laundry, and onto the stage. On seeing me, Mr. Tinka lowered his bow and Rosa stepped aside. I looked up to the transom and said, "We the peasants of this flat-as-a-flapjack prairie land have no more to fear from Wild Wind tonight. In coming together, joining with Fair Wind in her dance, we have stolen the wind from her sails, silenced her › roar.

I turned to the cast then and, skipping ahead two pages in the script, said, "Let the celebration begin."

Relief blossomed on the working girls' faces and from the strings of Mr. Tinka's fiddle. The dancing began—this time in pairs, a rollicking two-step. Mary danced with her fiancé, Clarice, with Doc Goodman (until Eliza cut in), and the working girls each took Rusty for a grinning spin.

***

Soon, and as planned, the music slowed and hushed—the cue for Clarice to escort the peasant guests, one by one, to the door. She bid each the same farewell. "Go, make your roofs strong, plant many trees, and always keep a candle burning at each of your windows so the lost might find their way home."

I was the last to leave, closing the door behind me. I turned down the wick on the gaslight to the right of the stage, Eliza, the one to the left, and the working girls were thrown into near darkness. Forming a half circle behind Clarice, the girls drew candles from their apron pockets. Clarice struck a match, touched it to her candle's wick, then said, "We dedicate this play to those who did not find shelter from Wild Wind in the blizzard of January twelve, Eighteen Hundred and Eighty Eight. We'd like especially to honor those who were lost here in Prairie County."

The room grew deathly quiet as Clarice lit Inga's candle from her own. Inga stepped forward. "Katie Cathcart, age six, the daughter of Guy and Elizabeth Cathcart, lost at Harmony School."

Inga stepped back, lit Mary's candle, and then Mary stepped forward. "Jon Barnett, age eight, the son of Joseph and lone Barnett, lost at Harmony School."

And then Sadie. "Jacob Barnett, age ten, the son of Joseph and lone Barnett, lost at Harmony School."

My brothers' names, spoken clear and loud, was the one selfish thing I carried over from the first play to the second. It was my gift to them, my way of taking them out of hiding. Since the funeral, their names had been spoken only in whispers. Whispers tell secrets, dole out shame. Jon and Jacob had done nothing shameful. They deserved to have their names shouted from the rooftops, not hidden away in some cold, dark, sad place in our thoughts and hearts.

***

"When next the wind blows strong out of the north, light a candle in remembrance," Clarice said when the last name had been spoken.

Eliza closed the curtain.

One person began to clap, and then another and another until growing into a thunder of applause. I turned the gaslight to full wick and then rejoined the cast on stage. We arranged ourselves into a row and held one another's hands as if dolls cut from folded paper. Eliza waited for the applause to taper off, then tugged on the curtain ropes one last time. One of the pulleys tore loose from the ceiling, the rope coiled and snaked, and the curtain came down. Eliza, in full view of the audience then, waved. We bowed as a group, and the applause erupted anew. I let go of Clarice and Rosa's hands and motioned for Mr. Tinka to stand. He stood, turned to the audience, and, with a flair equal to the music he'd made, bowed deeply.

When the applause wound down, I stepped forward, almost tripping on a fold in the fallen curtain, and said, "We, the members of the Working Girls Social Club, thank you all for coming. And, thanks to the generosity of the Resting Room Advisory Council and the graciousness of our hostess, Eliza Moore, refreshments will be served in the main house directly." Ohs and ahs replaced the applause that had filled the air.

I looked to the back, where Mama was just rising from the velvet settee. I looked to the transom. If I could have split myself in two, half going one way, half the other, I would have.

Mama's eyes were watery, though, much to my relief, not stricken. "That was beautiful, Hannah, the way they lit the candles."

I hugged Mama then, and she whispered, "Too bad your papas so stubborn. He missed out on something special."

"I'm just glad you were here, Mama."

Megan and Joey ran up to us then. Joey's face and hands were smeared with icing. "I told him to use a fork, but he wouldn't listen," Megan said, her hands on her hips.

Mama began mopping Joey with her handkerchief.

"Whatever it is Joey took a bath in looks mighty good," Jake said.

Joey squirmed away from Mama. "They got teacakes. And lemonade, too."

Mama turned to me. "Would those be Flossy Zeller's secret recipe teacakes?"

"None other."

"Let's get on in there, then," Mama said. "But we mustn't dawdle. Your papa's likely itching to start for home."

"You all go on ahead. I'll join you shortly."

***

The print shop lights burned bright. Isaac's long face and the slump of his shoulders told me that Eliza had already shared the bad news.

Isaac came to stand close in front of me and held me with his eyes. "Guess I shouldn't have played that Hannah music last night."

"I needed to hear your music, Isaac, and you needed to play it. Sharing something that beautiful can never be wrong." I leaned forward and kissed his cheek then, right there in front of God and Eliza and Mrs. Richards.

***

I stayed with Isaac for as long as I dared, then, promising that I'd return once I'd seen my family off, I backed toward the door. The grin that had broken out on Isaac's face when I'd kissed him began to fade. Just before I turned to open the door, the corners of his mouth had sagged to forlorn, as did mine when I closed the door behind me.

Mama and the others were just coming into the resting room. "What's wrong, Hannah?" Mama said as she drew near. "You look like you've just lost your best friend."

How right she was, but I didn't tell her that, not then. My disappointment in Dru and my worry over what would come next for Isaac were still too raw and new.

***

Papa was standing beside the wagon. "Hannah, I'll be needing a private word with you." In the spare light of his lantern, I couldn't read his face, though his voice was stern.

I followed Papa down the drive, stopped when he stopped, braced myself against whatever he was about to say. He held the lantern so the light shone on my face. "I had a little business down at Shipmans, and Shipman asked if wasn't I a neighbor of Mr. Richards. I said I was, and he told me that Richards had been there earlier today and demanded to know where he could find a place called the Ladies Room. Said he'd heard that his wife was hiding out there. Is that true, Hannah? Is she here?"

My knees went weak. Too weak to hold up a lie. "Yes, Papa, she's here. Mr. Richards hurt her, and she needed a safe place to stay. Did Mr. Shipman tell Mr. Richards where to find the resting room?"

"Shipman steered him toward the public privy around back of the courthouse, but it's only a matter of time before someone sets him straight. Richards won't do you any harm, knows I'd string him up if he did, but if he does come around, you'd best stay out of his way."

"I'll be careful, Papa."

***

When my family had gone on the their way, I hurried back to Isaac. My voice broke several times when I told him of Papa's awful news.

T
HE NIGHT OF THE PLAY WAS THE LAST NIGHT
I
SPENT IN ELIZA'S
house, but I didn't spend it sleeping.

Hannah didn't sleep, either. She spent that last night with me. After Ma and Eliza had gone up to bed, Hannah helped me roll my boat into the yard. I gave her a foot up, and then she lighted and set candles fore and aft. The sky showed a star here and there. We sat side by side, our arms touching.

I cleared my throat. "I've always known I'd leave here one day and take Ma with me. I just didn't know it would happen like this, happen so quick. Thought I'd have more time, thought we would have more time, and now I'm afraid I'll never see you again."

Hannah turned to me then and said, "We will see one another again, Isaac. We will be together again."

I didn't know what Hannah meant by that, but I sure wasn't going to let it drop. "Are you saying that maybe ... someday?" Hannah smiled. The six-footed rabbit woke up and started in thumping hope against my ribs. I didn't try to tame it, just threw my arms around Hannah and pulled her against my chest. Her heart thumped back, and she pressed her cheek to mine. Her skin was as soft as the down on a baby chick. "I love you, Hannah Barnett," I whispered into her sweet-smelling hair.

I got a little worried that I'd spoken too soon when Hannah didn't say she loved me, too. Then I felt why. Her shoulders shuddered and pretty soon her tears wetted my cheek. My Hannah was crying!

We sat that way for a good long while, then Hannah wiggled an arm free so she could reach for the hanky she always kept tucked up her sleeve. "Why not come with me now, today?" I asked.

"I'd love nothing more, Isaac, but I can't leave here just yet. I don't want clouds shading the rest of our lives. I want my papa's blessing."

The rabbit in my chest rolled over and died. "That'll be never, Hannah."

"My papa just needs more time. If I ran off with you now, I'd lose him. Lose Mama. If I wait, try to mend things, maybe I won't have to give up one kind of love for another."

"What if your pa doesn't come around, Hannah? What if he never gives us his blessing?"

Hannah answered my question with a kiss, and my lips answered hers back. And that kiss was the most beautiful thing on God's earth or in his heavens. The tallest mountain—the brightest shooting star!

***

I woke Ma just before dawn. When she rubbed her eyes open, she said she'd been dreaming she was riding on a train. That'd been the way I'd always dreamed we'd pull out of Prairie Hill, too. The conductor calling, "All aboard!" Folks waving from the platform. But that was before finding the boat. The boat that had kept me company every Sunday. The boat I'd told all my troubles to. I was leaving one of my girls behind; I wasn't about to leave them both.

By sunup, Mr. Tinka had helped me hitch her to the back of his wagon. Hannah was helping me load my gear, which was growing with every trip Eliza was making into and out of the house. She'd nearly emptied her pantry of foodstuffs and the Judge's closet of trousers and shirts. I had everything pretty well arranged—a canvas tent, which the Judge had used for fishing trips and which Eliza had also insisted I take, Ma's things, and my tools—when Eliza came running out, a paint pail swinging from one hand, a brush fisted in the other, and a bottle of something tucked under her arm. "It's bad luck to launch a boat until she's been christened."

"Paint large letters," Hannah said as I dipped the brush.

And that's what I did. I painted the letters big and bold and barn red. "How's that?" I asked Hannah when I was done.

Hannah's chin quivered, but she managed to say, "That suits me just fine."

Eliza handed me the bottle. "I don't have any champagne, but this bottle of Doctor Marvel's Miracle Medicinal Elixir might do in a pinch. I'm guessing it contains nearly as much alcohol."

I passed the bottle on to Hannah. "I'd like you to do the honors."

Hannah nodded, then two-fisted the bottle's neck and swung back. "I christen thee
Hannah's Fair Wind
" she said before bashing the bottle against the ridge board. Elixir splattered every which way. But the drops on Hannah's cheeks weren't elixir.

Hannah set all the ladies off crying, Ma and Eliza, Rosa and Mrs. Tinka. And one boy. If it hadn't been for Mr. Tinka stepping in and saying we needed to get on the road, we'd probably still be standing there, up to our ankles in eye water.

***

We must have made a sorry sight when we did finally pull away—the Tinka wagon in the lead,
Hannah's Fair Wind
trailing along behind. Ma sat tall and proud, shading herself under the fancy parasol Eliza had given her for a going-away gift. I sat at Ma's side, looking back, my eyes anchored to Hannah's and hers to mine until the distance broke us apart.

I took up my harmonica then and played Hannah music without stop until reaching the banks of the Big Blue River. I bid the Tinkas farewell, launched
Hannah's Fair Wind,
and then dropped the oars into the muddy water. The Big Blue, the Missouri, the Mississippi, and then Ma would be safe and I'd begin my wait.

To Hannah Barnett By Telegraph, from St. Joseph, Missouri

Prairie Hill, Nebraska September 10 1888 Rec'd 11:10 AM

Arrived St. Joe. Hole in hull. Laying over to repair. Both well now. Letter to follow. Hope all well with you. Isaac

***

To Hannah Barnett By Telegraph, from Memphis, Tennessee

Prairie Hill, Nebraska September 28 1888 Rec'd 2:30 PM

Arrived Memphis. Promised letter jumped ship. Doing odd jobs to buy dry supplies. Praying all well with you. Isaac

***

To Hannah Barnett By Telegraph, from New Orleans, Louisiana

Prairie Hill, Nebraska November 18, 1888 Rec'd 12›15 PM

New Orleans. Finally. Warm here. Lively music all around. Letter when settled. Crazy from not knowing how you are. Isaac