A Northern Light (29 page)

Once, Mamma made this treat just for me and her. It was after I'd started my monthlies. She'd sat me down at the kitchen table and covered my hand with her own, and told me that I was a grown woman now, not a girl anymore, and that a woman's virtue was the greatest treasure she possessed and that I must never, ever give mine to any man but the one I married.

"Do you understand me, Mattie?" she'd said.

I thought I did, but I wasn't sure. I knew what
virtue
means—goodness, purity, and excellence—because it had once been my word of the day. But I didn't think men wanted to get ahold of those things because Fran told me all they want to get ahold of is your bosoms.

"Where is it, my virtue?" I finally asked her.

"Up under your skirts," she said, coloring a bit.

I colored, too, for I knew what she meant then. Sort of. At least, I knew where a cow's virtue was, and a chicken's, too, and what they were for.

Then I asked, "How do you know if a man loves you, Mamma?"

"You just do."

"How did you know? Did Pa say 'I love you and give you a nice card or something and then you knew?" Mamma laughed. "Does that sound like your pa?"

"Then how did you
know,
Mamma?"

"I just did."

"How will I know?"

"You just will."

"But
how,
Mamma,
how?
"

She never answered me. She just shook her head and said, "Oh, Mattie, you ask too many questions!"

Grace must have loved Chester very much to give him her virtue before they were married. I can see why she would have. He was very handsome. He had dark hair and full lips and the kind of slow, easy smile that makes your stomach flutter. He dressed nicely and walked with a sauntering, almost lazy, gait, hands in his pockets. I try to remember what his eyes looked like, but I can't. He never looked me full in the face.

I wonder how Grace convinced herself that Chester loved her. And if she kept pretending it right to the end. Men rarely come right out and tell you. Minnie says you have to look for signs from them. Do they wash before they come to call on you? Do they let you climb up in the buckboard yourself, or get out to help you? Do they buy you sweets without your hinting for them?

Royal washes. And he puts on a clean shirt, too. And if he says he will call for me at seven o'clock, he is there at seven o'clock. He does other things, too. I lie back against my pillow and spend a long time silently repeating them to myself, over and over and over again like a litany, but it's no use. Mamma said I would know. And I do. I guess I have all along.

"Poor, sad, stupid Grace," I whisper to the darkness. "Poor, sad, stupid Matt."

"Mattie, you get the package that came for you?" Mrs. Morrison asked me. She was standing behind the front desk, sorting through the mail. It was three o'clock. Dinner was over and the dining room was closed until supper, which began at six. We were never idle, though, and I was just on my way upstairs to restock the second-floor linen closet with a pile of freshly ironed sheets.

"No, ma'am. What package?"

"A package from the teacher. She left it about an hour ago. I looked for you, but I couldn't find you. I had Ada bring it upstairs."

I thanked her and ran to the attic as fast as I could, dumping off the sheets on my way. I was powerfully curious. No one had ever sent me a package before. When I got upstairs, I saw that it was a heavy parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. There was an envelope tucked under the twine, too; it was Glenmore stationery. I opened the package first, eager to see what was inside of it. There were three books:
Sister Carrie,
by Theodore Dreiser;
The Jungle,
by Upton Sinclair; and
Threnody,
a volume of poetry by Emily Baxter. Miss Wilcox had written another book even though her husband told her not to! I was so excited, I hugged the little volume to me. I didn't know the meaning of
threnody,
so I pulled my dictionary out from under my bed and looked it up. It was defined as a song of lamentation, a funeral dirge. I smiled at that, pleased to know that I was not the only one in these parts given to things morbid and dispiriting. Next I opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet of paper inside, and caught my breath as a five-dollar bill fluttered out. I picked it up. There was a letter, too.

Dear Mattie,

I thought you might like these books. (Do take care to hide the Dreiser.) I hope, particularly, that you enjoy the volume of poetry, as I wish to leave you something by which to remember me. I am departing Eagle Bay tomorrow. I won't be teaching next year. I had hoped to tell you this in person, but Mrs. Morrison was unable to locate you. I am including Annabelle's, my sister's, address in this note. I've told her all about you and she's very eager to have you as a boarder. The enclosed will help get you to her house...

There was more, but I didn't read it. "You can't go!" I said aloud. "You can't!" I ran out of the room and was downstairs in the kitchen in no time flat. Weaver was sitting at the table, eating ice cream. The trappers' handiwork was still visible on his face. His eye hadn't healed completely and his mouth was still tender. Cook and Mr. Sperry had the top of the stove off and were frowning down into it.

"Can I please take the trap, Mr. Sperry?" I asked, panting. "I've got to go to Inlet. I've got to."

"Have you lost your mind? Supper's only a few hours away. And besides, you can't handle Demon by yourself," Cook said.

"I'll be back in time, I swear it," I said. "And I can manage Demon. I know I can. Please, ma'am..."

"No. And that's the end of it," Cook said.

"I'll walk, then."

"You'll do no such thing."

"Mattie, what's this about?" Mr. Sperry asked.

"It's a friend of mine. She's ... she's in trouble and I've got to go to her."

"You can't go alone. Mrs. Hennessey's right, Demon's a handful. I'd take you if I could, but I've got to get this stove working before supper."

"But I've got to," I sobbed. "I've got to."

Mr. Sperry, Cook, and Weaver all looked at me. The other girls are always crying for some reason or another—homesickness, moods, a spat—but I have never cried here. Not once.

Weaver put his spoon down. "I'll go with her," he said.

Mr. Sperry looked from me to Weaver and back again. He shook his head. "Go on, then. But be back here ready to serve supper by six sharp. Or else."

I hitched up Demon, Mr. Sperry's own horse, and drove hell-for-leather all the way down Big Moose Road to the highway and on into Inlet. I told Weaver about the package on the way and who Miss Wilcox really was.

When we arrived at Dr. Foster's camp, Weaver took the reins and told me to go in. "I'll wait outside," he said. "I can't stand a lot of female drama."

I knew that was just his way of giving me time alone with Miss Wilcox, and I appreciated it. I ran up the back steps, past the boxes and crates piled up on the porch, and banged on the door.

"Mattie, is that you?" Miss Wilcox said, opening the door. "How did you get here?"

"Miss Wilcox, why are you leaving? Please, please don't go!" I said.

"Oh, Mattie!" she said, hugging me. "Come in. Come in and sit down."

She led me into the library. I sat down next to her on the settee and looked around. The books were gone. Every last one of them. The desk was bare. The fine paper, pens, and pencils were all packed away.

I heard a match flare, smelled the sulfur. Miss Wilcox was smoking. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked me.

"Why are you leaving, Miss Wilcox?" I asked, fighting back my tears. "You can't go. You're all I have."

I heard her bracelets tinkle, felt her hand on my arm. "Oh, Mattie, that's not true. You have your family and Weaver and all your other friends."

"They aren't what you are!" I shouted angrily. "All these weeks, Miss Wilcox, when I tried to get the money to go to Barnard from my aunt Josie and my uncle Fifty, and you came to speak to Pa and he said no, just knowing you were here in this room reading your books and writing your poems made me feel good and brave. Why are you leaving?
Why?
"

"My husband made good on his threat. He's furious about the new book. He's cut off my funds. And he's made sure I can't earn my own living. At least not here. He's written the school trustees and told them who I am. I've had to step down."

"But you're a good teacher! The best one we ever had!"

"Unfortunately, Mattie, the trustees don't agree with you. They say I am a pernicious influence on young minds."

"But they wanted to keep you on. They wrote you a letter in May. You told me they did."

"They wanted Emily Wilcox, not Emily Baxter."

"Can't you stay, anyway? You could give readings at the Glenmore. They have literary evenings. Or you could—"

"My husband is on his way, Mattie. My sister wired that he's a day away at most. If I'm still here when he arrives, the next stop for me is a doctor's office. And then a sanatorium and so many drugs pushed down my throat, I won't be able to remember my own name, much less write."

"He can't do that."

"He can. He's a powerful man with powerful friends."

"Where will you go?" I asked, afraid for her.

She sat back against the settee and blew out a long plume of smoke. "My grandmother left me a little bit of money. It's in a trust and my husband can't touch it. It's not much, but it's something. Plus I have my car and a few pieces of jewelry. I'm going to hock them and go to Paris. I won't miss the jewelry so much, but I'll sure miss that car." She took another drag on her cigarette, then stubbed it out in a plate on the table.

"I'm driving it back to the city tomorrow. I'll go as far as McKeever on the main road and then take the Moose River Road to Port Leyden. I can take back roads from there to Rome, then head straight for New York. I don't want to risk running into Teddy The car's big enough to hold my clothes and a few boxes of books. That's all I need for now. I'm having the rest of my things sent to my sister's. I'm going to hide out at her house while I sell the car. And once I'm in France, I'm going to do my best to get a divorce. Teddy's dead set against it, but I'm hoping I can make him so angry that he'll change his mind. A few more volumes of poetry should do the trick." Miss Wilcox smiled as she said that, but I saw the cigarette tremble between her fingers.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"For shouting at you. I was selfish."

She squeezed my hand and said, "You are many, many things, Mathilda Gokey, but selfish isn't one of them."

We sat together in silence for a few minutes, Miss Wilcox smoking and holding my hand. I didn't ever want to leave this room. Or my teacher. But I knew the longer I stayed, the longer I kept her from packing. And come morning, she had to be gone.

"I have to go," I finally said. "Weavers waiting for me outside. We have to be back by six or we're going to be in trouble."

"Well, we can't have that, Mattie. You need your wages. Maybe you can visit me in Paris someday. Or maybe, if all goes well, I can come home sooner rather than later. And then we can have lunch on the Barnard campus."

"I don't think so, Miss Wilcox," I said, my eyes on the floor.

"But why not?"

"I'm not going to Barnard. I'm staying here."

"My god, Mattie, why?" she asked, releasing my hand.

I couldn't answer her for a few seconds. "Royal Loomis asked me to marry him," I finally said. "And I told him yes."

Miss Wilcox looked like someone had drained all the sap from her. "I see," she said. She was about to say more, but I cut her off.

"Here's your five dollars back," I said, pulling the bill out of my skirt pocket. "Thank you, Miss Wilcox, it was very generous, but I won't be needing it."

"No, Mattie, you keep that," she said. "Money can be tight when you're first married. You keep that for yourself. Use it for paper and pens."

"Thank you," I said, knowing that was what she wanted me to say. Knowing, too, that it would likely be spent on seed corn or chickens, never on paper or pens.

"You take care of yourself, Mattie," my teacher said, walking me to the door.

"You, too, Miss Wilcox."

She said good-bye to Weaver as I climbed into the trap. She gave him a hug and told him to study hard at Columbia. She told him she was going to spend some time in Paris and that he should come visit her there. I looked back as we drove off and saw her silhouetted in the doorway. She looked small to me. Small and fragile and defenseless. She had not looked that way when I'd arrived.

"Giddyap!" I told Demon, snapping the reins. He broke into a trot.

"You all right?" Weaver asked.

"I'm fine," I said, driving down the middle of the street. Past the saloon. Past O'Hara's and Payne's stores, past the barber's and the post office and the school.

As soon as I made it out of the village, I pulled up on the reins until Demon stopped, then leaned my head into my hands.

"Aw, Matt," Weaver said, thumping my back. "She didn't die; you'll see her again."

"She may as well have. I won't see her again. I know I won't."

"You will so. She won't stay in France forever. She'll be back in New York one day."

"But I won't be," I said quietly.

"What?"

I didn't want to tell him, but I had to. I'd kept it from him for weeks, but I couldn't keep it from him forever. "Weaver ... I'm not going. I'm not going to New York City," I said.

"Not going?
Why?
"

"Royal and I ... we're sparking. I'm going to ... he's ... I'm staying here. We're going to be married."

"To
Royal'.
Royal Loomis?"

"You know another Royal?"

"Jeezum, Mattie! I don't believe this! I've seen him call for you, seen you out riding together, but I didn't think it was serious. Why don't you marry Demon? Or Barney? Or that big rock over there?"

"Weaver, stop it."

"But he's nowhere near good enough for you! Does he write? Can he write a story like you can? Does he read? Does he even know how?"