Miss Emily (26 page)

The spring sun bakes my hair, making me feel better in myself, so I grab the yard broom and sweep all around. I stand for a few minutes and let the sunshine heat me front and back. It is glorious to feel warm, and I say a small prayer thanking God for the sun. I check on the hens once more, and their fusty smell assaults my nose when I open the coop. They all sit like returned queens, each waiting for her subjects. I ruffle under them, but not an egg do I find.

“The Squire will not be pleased,” I tell them, “and you can stay in there until you mend your ways.”

I slam the door and hear them fuss their feathers, but I resolve to feel no pity. I might take one hen for the pot tomorrow, and that will shake the rest of them. Mammy always said that fowl follow their mistress's mood, and she would coddle and mind her hens as much as she minded us, her daughters. I realize I have been too distracted lately to pound up bones for them; that sort of pulverizing is a great boon to the energies. And if I mix bone with oats instead of corn, it will have them laying again in no time.

I soften toward the hens and decide to change the sops; maybe they are sodden and uncomfortable. I go to the barn for straw and a fork and am relieved to find that there is no one there. I use the
yard broom to sweep out the henhouse, then scatter some gravelly earth to keep the lice away. The hens are settled in their nests and refuse to move while I clean.

“You are the most contrary lot I ever met,” I say.
Sweep, sweep, scatter, scatter.
“I would be much obliged if you would lay.”
Sweep, sweep, scatter, scatter.
I think of my mood and sing a little, to jolly them.
Sweep, sweep, scatter, scatter.
The hens struggle and squawk when I lift them to scoop out the old straw and put in the new bedding. Under Agatha, the bossiest hen, I find a small egg, and I congratulate her. I grab it and slip it into the pocket of my apron. I lift her high to look at her claws to check for bumblefoot, which lately had her tripping over herself, but she has healed nicely since I drained the sores. I put her back in her nest, say, “Good girl, Agatha,” and close the door.

In the kitchen I take down the smallest pot. As there is only one egg, I will have it for myself, an early Easter treat. I lift the egg from my pocket and am surprised to find that it is soft. I look at it closely—it has no shell. I place it carefully in my palm. The egg is honey-colored, and when I hold it to the light, I can see the yolk hanging inside, a perfect golden blob. Whenever Granny Dunn got a shell-less egg from one of her birds, she would say, “That may be the last egg she'll ever lay.” She called them witch eggs and wouldn't eat them in case of bad luck. Granny also liked to say if you didn't crush the shells after eating a boiled egg, a witch would make a boat of the broken bits and raise storms at sea. I suppose she was trying to frighten me; Mammy always smiled at these stories and told Granny to leave off.

I smell my witch egg; it smells of nothing but the usual— straw and hen dirt. I roll it like a ball on my hand, being careful to contain it so that it doesn't fall. It seems a waste to throw it out. Surely it will do no harm to eat it? An egg is an egg.

I take the sharpest knife; the skin is tough, and I have to pierce it, then pull it away. The innards slither out into the pot like something alive, but all looks well—the glair is unclouded. I beat the egg with a little milk and butter and place the pot on the stove; when it has gathered together, I fork it into my mouth straight from the pot. Witch egg or no witch egg, it tastes delicious.

Mrs. Dickinson calls out to me as I go to leave the dining room. I cannot think what she wants, for I have everything served and done. She rises at her place at the table, and I step nearer.

“This meal is unseemly,” she says, waving her hand at her plate.

I look at the dinner: boiled chicken, mashed potato and roast sunchoke. I cannot see what it is she disapproves of; I raise my eyes to hers.

“I apologize, ma'am,” I say.

“It is a badly put-together meal, by any measure. Where are the greens? Could you not have made a little gravy?”

I glance again at her dinner; the plate holds nothing but three pale mounds. It does not look appetizing, because everything in the meal is the same color. “I could shell some peas and steam them quickly.”

“It is too late for that, Ada.” Mrs. Dickinson sits and takes up her cutlery. “You are growing careless, Miss Concannon, and I will not tolerate it. Consider turning over a new leaf, or we shall have to see.”

She forks some chicken into her mouth, and I go to the door. As I pass her, Miss Emily half smiles, and I know it is meant as encouragement, but I do not feel encouraged at all. My witch egg curdles in my stomach; I fear there will be ructions before long.

Mr. Dickinson's medical book lies open on the library table. I drag my feather duster over the picture rails, fiddle with the green curtains, then dally by the table to look at it. The book is open at a well-used page, the one of concern to Mrs. Dickinson these days—rheumatic diseases. I put down my duster and rag and make sure that no one is coming. I drag the book nearer to me and search for the clap. Nothing. I turn to the “G” pages and finger my way over the thin paper to find gonorrhea and locate it at last.

There are pictures, lots of ugly pictures of lumpen bodies decorated in welts. I wince but run my finger over them. There is a girl with her back to the viewer, naked from crown to rump. Her long hair is tied with a ribbon, which makes me think she must be very young; she is slender, too—she doesn't have a woman's hips. Her whole skin is dappled with sores, like the knobbles on a raspberry, and her neck in particular is heavily spotted. I thank Mary in heaven that my rash was never that bad and that it has receded to almost nothing. I want to put my arms into the picture and hold the girl; I want to turn her and see her face. I want to know if she is frightened.

I read the words underneath the pictures. It says that gonorrhea is acute and infectious and that men and women are affected differently. It says the treatment is mercury, in the form of calomel, and that side effects might include tooth loss. Tooth loss? I put my hand to my mouth and try to wiggle my teeth. They are all in place, rooted. It also says that gonorrhea can affect a woman's ability to have children if left untreated. For one moment I feel I have been clapperclawed. The doctor in Boston mentioned no such thing. He said between the sarsaparilla and the calomel I would be right as right. He did say that, I am sure of it. I read more. But
no, I must not get upset. I take a deep breath and thank God for my treatments. They are working, I will be all right. Daly's Sarsaparilla and Nerve Tonic, after all,
permanently
cures gonorrhea; it's written on the bottle! I read on and see that the book says that sufferers should avoid oral and intimate contact with other people. No contact. No kisses. The page swoons in front of my eyes, and I slap shut the book. I know now that it is time I went to speak with Daniel Byrne.

Miss Emily Confronts Mr. Austin

I
HAUL MY BASKET UP ON ITS KNOTTY ROPE AND PEER INSIDE
. The children have, of course, devoured the gingerbread. In its place one of the little dears has left a sprig of apple blossom for me. I hold its delicate petals to my face and inhale its springness.

Out on the street, there is the slow rumble of cart wheels and the pacier clip of hooves. I leave down my basket and lean out the window. The air is so clean it makes me determined to take a turn around the garden later to breathe lungfuls of it. As I turn away from the window, I see Ada march up the street. I go to call and wave, but then I see that Patrick Crohan is behind her, talking determinedly, his head dipping forward, the better to be heard. She ignores him and stomps ahead. He catches up to her at the steps and pulls her arm; it is a violent yank, and I raise my hand as if I might stop him. Ada reels around and pushes him away. She runs up and comes inside the gate, closes it against him and storms up the path. He stands staring after her, a fierce and impatient set to his face. He looks as if he might jump the fence or shout after her, but his gaze travels upward and finds me at the window. A normal man would doff his cap, but he spits on the ground and walks quickly away. He is a brazen jackanapes, that fellow, and no mistake.

I run down the stairs and wait for Ada in the kitchen, but she does not appear. Pulling my shawl tight, I slip out into the yard, past the barn and its animal stench, on down through the garden to the orchard. The man whom Mother employs to tend the plants is staking and tying delphiniums, and he stops as I approach, takes off his cap and stands.

“Has Miss Concannon passed this way?” I ask. He nods and points. I skip by a bed of bearded irises, which also seem to nod, chanting,
Yes, yes, yes, this is the way she came.

I find Ada standing in a puddle of blossom, looking out into space like a sailor surveying the sea. Her hands are bunched into the sleeves of her coat, and she does not turn to look at me. I wait for her to speak, pulling my shawl ever closer, for there is a cut to the wind. It seems Ada does not mean to say a thing. I venture closer, and a pair of jaybirds scatter from the branches above us, their blue bodies flashing like sapphires.

“Did he do more than hurt you?” I say.

Ada's eyes meet mine. “What do you mean, miss?”

“Patrick Crohan. Did he attack you in a profounder way than you have told me, Ada?”

“He about broke me, miss,” she says, and tears rush down her cheeks. She swipes at them with the back of her hand.

“Come with me around the orchard, Ada, and tell me what happened. All of it.”

“I need to make lye for soap, miss. I have spuds to peel.” Her voice is flat. Dogs raise a cacophony of barks nearby, making us both jump.

“Walk with me. Your work can wait a little.”

“Your mother said I need to turn over a new leaf.”

“Vinnie and I call that ‘the foliage rebuke.' Mother throws it around a lot. Do not dwell on it.” I link her and lead her to the
orchard pathway and off it, in amongst the trees. “I saw Crohan follow you. I saw him grab your arm.”

“He is a bad man, miss,” Ada says. “The things he says are shocking. The things he does are worse. I hate him. God forgive me, but I do. I hate Patrick Crohan.”

“He need not ever come here again. Let me tell Father now. He can have him prosecuted for trespassing. He would be very unhappy if he knew Crohan had come into our house uninvited. That he slapped you.”

Ada snorts. “He's done worse than that.” She stops and looks up at me. “But leave it be, Miss Emily. There is no good to be gained in going after him. It will only make things worse.”

“What happened that night? Did he injure you in deeper ways than I know?”

Ada sucks air into her mouth and sighs; she holds her face up toward the canopy of branches above us. She looks at me as if testing me.

“He took my virtue, miss.”