September Wind (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

Emily

             1949

Emily tiptoed down the steps, up the hallway, and into the kitchen, scooting past the table to the door. Her hand was on the knob when Grandfather looked in from the hallway, shirtless, and barefoot.

             
“
Where’re you off to?”

             
“
Just checking the veranda, seein’ if the dogs are out, that’s all.”

             
He grunted, pulled a bath towel from a shelf, and turned up the hallway.

             
She went to fire up the wood stove, made coffee, and then sped off to the barn, to the far corner, where no one bothered to investigate. She looked down at the baby kittens snuggled against their mamma. They looked so content it was heartwarming. But it wasn’t going to last. This perfect little scene would never play out the way nature intended. Not with Claude around it wouldn’t.

             
She squatted and gave the new mamma a good rubbing. Kidders was barely an adult herself, although she purred and yawned, obviously content with her new role.

             
“
Sorry,” Emily said, scratching the area around her whiskers. “I wish they could stay. But it’s for their own good.”

             
These kittens would be safe, but there’d be more, always more. Her heart ached because of things she had witnessed, things she would die to never see again. She shivered, squeezing her eyes in an effort to lose the vision.

Familiar footsteps came up alongside the building, and she held her breath as Claude’s shadow passed over cracks in the wall. When he was gone, she set out water for Kidders, and then went to put on breakfast before the men started fussing.

              She was grateful Steven had agreed to take the kittens to town later that morning on his way to the market. At times like this, she thought there was something decent about that man. Although she couldn’t understand why he went along with the others, catering to Claude as if he was something
special
. Could be the men were all part blind. Or maybe they just didn’t want to see the truth. Not that she knew the truth herself except that something warned her to keep her guard up as long as she was anywhere near him.

             
After breakfast, she cleaned up, and then took a bowl of peas out on the porch, sat on the step and began preparing them for soup.

             
As she stripped the peas from the pods and dumped them into a bowl, she watched Grandfather and Timothy fiddle with the trucks while Claude cranked up the tractor. When they left for the fields, she kept an eye out for Steven to load up the eggs and vegetables.

             
He was already in the pickup when she brought the kittens over. Every muscle in her body tightened when he looked at her as if he’d forgotten his promise to take them into town. Finally, he reached for the basket, set it in the seat next to him and drove off.

             
She watched him disappear up the road, and then returned to the front steps to finish shucking peas. It took some persuasions, a week’s worth, but she was proud of herself for pulling this off, felt content, and happy, grownup. She
was
almost nine, after all.

             
On top of everything else that had happened these last few days, it was a treat not having to deal with the usual braids that had pulled at her scalp for so many years.

Before today, there was only a short period in her life, right after her grandmother died, when her dark hair wasn’t wet down and tamed into braids. For weeks, in a state of shock and grief, she had walked around with her hair in such disarray that Aunt Francine had finally decided to cut it off.

              “
This length should do just fine,” she said, flicking her own hair with the back of her hand. “We’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.” Aunt Francine left for home then while Emily sat on the front porch watching the dogs romp around the yard. She wondered why both Grandfather and her aunt’s favorite solution to everything was to throw it out, burn it, pretend it wasn’t there, or cut it off.

             
She knew that nothing would keep her aunt from chopping off her hair come morning, except maybe a visitor; and that didn’t happen too often. Francine’s house, as well as her own, sat a good distance off the main road that led to Watseka, the nearest town some fifty miles away. Their long driveway ducked into a grove of trees and was so secluded that unless someone knew them, they didn’t exist.

             
At nearly five, Emily had been horrified at the prospect of having hair like her aunt’s cut off like a broom right below her ears. That night she went upstairs right after chores to practice putting in braids. Her grandmother taught her how to braid her doll’s hair, but still, it took half the night to put in a decent pair on her own head. Sometime after midnight, she stood at the dresser holding a hand mirror. The braids were far from perfect, but nothing that a little more practice wouldn’t fix.

             
The next morning Aunt Francine walked in and headed straight for the sewing basket. She had already picked up the scissors before it struck her that Emily’s hair was done up in braids. She didn't say anything, just cocked her head in wonder, and then dropped the scissors back into the basket.

             
That all happened over three years ago. Since then, she’d grown nearly four inches. Her workload had grown too, more than any nine year-old should be saddled with, she reckoned. And the little control she had over her life was something she already treasured.

             
She knew her complexion, dark hair and curls came from her grandmother’s Italian side of the family. She would have preferred her mother’s golden locks, coming from her grandfather’s French side. Although, it was the mass of wild hair she and her uncle Timothy inherited that was such a nuisance. The worst part for her was to keep it in braids.

             
The day before, she had talked Steven into getting store-bought shampoo and conditioner so she could try out a trick she saw in a newspaper advertisement. Upon rising, she worked the solution through her hair and tamed it into some real nice curls. Her aunt didn’t complain when she showed up to help with the canning, just stopped in the doorway for a moment gawking, and then went about her business. Not that she even had a say in it any longer. Emily was the one taking care of the house now, taking care of the men as well, except for the few times her aunt dropped by to help with the canning, although that was likely to end too.

             
Emily popped a crisp pod into
 
her mouth and watched a black car come up the driveway and stop between the barn and the house. The engine knocked several times before it died, and then a woman in a calf-length red-and-white print dress stepped out. Her blonde hair was back off her face with barrettes and loose curls hanging around her shoulders. Emily couldn’t take her eyes off the woman she thought might just as well be her mother.

             
It was no secret Grandfather was so pained over his daughter’s death he’d done everything he could to block her out of his mind. He wouldn’t allow the mere mention of her name in an attempt to erase her memory. Yet, Emily didn’t see any harm in imagining.

             
Aunt Francine came around from the back yard with a pail of tomatoes they would can and store in the basement.

             
“
I’m Miss O’Reilly from the school board,” the woman called as she made her way toward the house.

             
Aunt Francine stopped next to the wooden arbor shielding her eyes with a free hand. “You’re who?”

             
“
Miss O’Reilly. Miss Mary Jane O’Reilly. From the school board.”

             
Emily stuck another pod into her mouth, wondering what the school board, whatever that was, wanted with them.

             
“
We’re told there’s a young girl here that should be in school.”

             
“
That would be Emily, my great niece,” Aunt Francine said, tipping her head.

             
“
And... how old is Emily?”

             
“
She’ll be nine this September.”

             
“
You realize school is mandatory?”

             
Aunt Francine rolled her eyes, and headed through the arbor and up the sidewalk. “Might as well save your breath. I told my brother long ago that Emily should be in school.” She stopped next to Emily, glancing back. “I’ll tell ’em you came by. But that's not saying it'll do any good,” she added before marching up the steps.

             
“
Tell your brother I’ll be back on Tuesday,” Miss O’Reilly called after her.

             
She waited until the door slammed, and then walked over to Emily. “Would you like to go to school?”

             
“
Yes, I would, very much.”

             
“
So, uhm. Do you know why your grandfather keeps you home?”

             
“
Too much work to do.”

             
“
Too much work?”

             
“
Yep.” Emily raised the bowl. “Want one?”

             
Miss O’Reilly reached for a pea. “Thanks.” She took a bite, and then another. “Mmm, sure is good.”

             
“
My aunt taught me to read, you know.”

             
“
Oh, well, that’ll help once you start school.”

             
“
I can write as well... a little.”

             
Emily continued to strip peas as she talked on about her grandmother. “She even taught me to make cookies when I was three.”

             
“
I’ll bet they’re delicious, too.”

             
“
No one complains until they’re gone.” She placed the bowl down by her feet. “You wanna sit?”

             
Miss O’Reilly took a seat and reached for another pea.

             
“
Sometimes Grandmother and I would sit right here with a bowl of porridge and watch the sunrise. Oh, and see that tree over yonder? That’s a sycamore.” She pointed toward the west end of the property. “At night we’d take a blanket and lean up against the trunk and watch the sunset.”

Emily looked up at Miss O’Reilly, thinking how nice it was to have someone listen to her again. “I still watch the sunset. Only now, I watch from one of the branches. You can’t see them from here, but I nailed pieces of wood up the trunk for steps.”

              “
It’s good that you’re so creative, and have such nice memories.” Miss O’Reilly looked off toward the sycamore. “Sunsets are so romantic, don't you think…? Well... you’re kind of young for that.” She laughed and ruffled Emily’s hair. “Anyway... uhm… What about your mother?”

             
“
Oh, she died back when I was born. I keep a picture of her hid up in my room.”

             
“
Now why’s that? Why would you hide it?”

             
“
Grandfather wants to forget about her. It makes him very angry when someone reminds him.”

             
“
That’s too bad.”

             
Emily reached into a pocket, pulled out an acorn, and tossed it into a tin can on the lawn. “My grandmother told me all about her.”

             
“
I’m sure that was to keep her memory alive, and maybe give you something to hold onto when you’re alone.”

             
“
I do. I hold onto all kinds of memories.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, nodding toward the side of the house. “If you look out back you’ll see some oak trees. My mother planted them.”

             
“
Oh really... and now you’re doing the same?”

             
“
I’ve tried. But they’re a little stubborn sometimes. My grandmother said the squirrels were probably eating them before they got a chance to grow.”

             
“
You might try different areas, or seasons, maybe that’ll help.” Miss O’Reilly watched her for a moment, and then stood.

             
“
Say, Emily, why don’t you walk me out to my car? I have a book I’d like to give you. It’s called
 
Down Our Street
. It has some lovely stories I think you’ll enjoy.”