The Hearth and Eagle (17 page)

Her uncle saw the sudden brightening of her face and was naturally annoyed.

“Me pains’re far worser now than after the God-domned shark bit me leg
off,” he
said peevishly, scowling at her.

“It’s a mortal shame—Peg—Uncle Noah. Have you tried the goose grease?,” She was in a fever to be off on the rest of her errand, and dismayed to see her aunt come bustling through the door into the yard.

“Who’re ye a gabbin’ with, Noah—Oh, I see, ’tis Hessie. How be ye child, an’ how’s your ma and pa ? He’s real grouty wi’t’ rheumatics—” she jerked her double chins in the direction of her husband. “Oi’m cookin’ him up a garney stew. Me father-r useter say there was naught like tongues and sounds and fins well seethed in a bit o’ broth fur strengthenin’ the belly. D’ye ’member me pa, Hessie? Master o’ the
Rebecca
he was.” The insistent babbling voice paused an instant—

“Oh, yes, Aunt Mattie I do—” cried Hesper with complete untruth. “I must be—”

“Nay, to be sure ye don’t—” went on her aunt, whose pauses were always for breath and not for response. “Ye wasn’t barn yet when he died, an’ speakin’ o’ dyin’—does yore ma know Puff-Ball Thompson expoired yester e’en? Oi was there, an’ ’twas the drink did her in, wi’out doubt, fur she stank loike a dram-shop, but maybe we’ve no cause to blame her fur drownin’ her troubles, when ye think there’s her brat Cassie, eight months gone by Rob Nichols and him China bound out o’ Salem, an’ not loike to wed her even—”

“Mattie!” Peg-Leg opened his eyes. “Ye forget yore hearer.” His wife was no way discomfited. “Well, Oi should hope Hessie’s old enough to take warnin’ from the sins o’ others, an’ Cassie’s not the only one either, Oi have grave doubts about—” The acrid odor of scorching fish swirled out the kitchen door. Mattie sniffed reluctantly and said “Crimmy—there’s me garney a-cautchin’ itself—wait, Hes—Oi’ll be back directly,” but Hesper did not wait.

As she climbed the narrow sharp lane up Gingerbread Hill she briefly considered Aunt Mattie’s last remarks. What had Cassie and Rob Nichols done exactly, that Cassie should be “eight months gone?” That it was something shameful and to do with a baby, Hesper understood. But people had babies after they were married, not before. Sows and bitches could be “eight
weeks
gone,” not months, there was perhaps some connection, but for Hesper not a convincing one. She couldn’t ask Ma who’d slapped her once for mentioning the old sow’s tits. The girls at school were always whispering and giggling in corners; they might know, but she had no intimate friend she cared to ask. Her interest lagged and reverted to Johnnie, and the adventure tonight.

She reached the top of the hill by Black Joe’s Pond, and hesitated in the lane between the two rival taverns. The Widow Bowen, “Ma’am Sociable,” lived in one, and “Aunt ’Crese” lived in the other. They both ran cent shops, and sold election cakes, gingerbread, and Gibraltars as well as grog. Both women were shrewd and easy-going, both held frolics and jigs and reels and penny-pitching contests, in an endeavor to lure customers away from each other’s establishments. “Ma’am Sociable” was a spry little elf of a woman with faded flaxen hair. “Aunt ’Crese” was fat and dark as soot, the widow of “Black Joe” who had been a free Negro and fought in the Revolution. Marbleheaders in search of gaiety patronized them quite impartially.

At Hesper’s approach the flock of white geese on the pond set up a raucous cackling and honking. The Widow Bowen fled out the door and down her stone steps. “Come in, come in, dearie. Your ma send ye fur my rosewater ? I’ve got a bottle or so left—” over Hesper’s auburn head she saw Aunt ’Crese waddle through her own doorway, and she raised her voice to a high wheedle, “I’ve got fresh gingerbread nuts, or some mighty pretty ribbons, you’ve pennies with you, haven’t you?”

“Only two—” said Hesper fumbling in her pinafore pocket. Maybe a red ribbon tied into a bow at the neck of her best dress for tonight—

Aunt ’Crese reached the lane and her thick molasses voice flowed over them—“Mornin’, young lady—ah got some tasty nice pep’mint drops today, some purty pitcher cyards too, they’se got li’l pink hearts on ’em an’ li’l gol’ doves. Sho’ you want to see ’em.” She ignored her rival and bestowed on the girl a dazzling smile.

Hesper, flanked by the small insistent white woman in a sunbonnet and the large determined black one in a yellow turban, suddenly giggled. “I didn’t really come to buy. Ma wants to know, will you send her a fiddler for tonight?”

Both women stopped looking persuasive, and drew together in a momentary bond of caution against outside competition.

“What’s Mrs. Honeywood want a fiddler for?” snapped Widow Bowen. “She never has jamborees at her Inn.”

“Well, she’s holding a farewell for the men on the
Diana
and the
Ceres;
thought they’d like maybe to dance a bit,” said Hesper pacifically.

“I’m holdin’ a frolic myself,” snapped Widow Bowen, who had just thought of it, “I’ll need Pipin’ Willy here.”

“Yo’ kin have Ambrose—” said Aunt ’Crese, referring to one of her grandsons. “Ah expecs yo’ ma’ll pay well? Ev’body know Ambrose es the bes’ fiddler in Essex County.”

The Widow Bowen sniffed, shrugged her shoulders, and retreated. Those Honeywoods, uppity they were, hardly give you the time o’ day—let ’em just try to liven up their stuffy old inn, that moony ink-stained Roger, and Susan Dolliber glum as a haddock—they’d not get far. She slammed her front door.

“Thanks, Aunt ’Crese,” said Hesper. “Could Ambrose be there at seven?”

The old Negress nodded, her yellowed veiny eyeballs rolled and focused keenly on the girl’s face. “Yo’ got su’thin’ on yo’ min’, chile. I can see it plain.”

“Oh, no I haven’t,” said Hesper quickly, but the old woman put two fat black hands on her shoulders and held fast. “Wait, chile, I can read a powerful lot in yo’ face. Yo’re goin’ to go through a heap o’ livin’.”

Hesper tried to back away; all morning people had been detaining her, and the old woman’s breath was fetid.

Aunt ’Crese’s gaze rolled inward—her purplish lips stuck out. “Le’me tell yo’ fortune chile. Yo’ got coppers, ain’t yo’?” Hesper nodded, “But—”

One black hand slid down to her arm, and Aunt ’Crese pulled Hesper into her little tavern. It was dark inside; from the smoke-blackened rafters there dangled hams, bunches of dried herbs, and strings of corn ears. Next to the rum keg there was a glass case containing rusty pins, a spool of thread, faded picture cards, and a cracked dish of miscellaneous taffy balls, peppermint drops, and Gibraltars all filmed with dust. This was the cent shop. One of the grandsons, a lanky bulletheaded young Negro, sprawled on a pile of corn husks near the fire, snoring fitfully. His grandmother stepped over his legs and Hesper followed. Her unwillingness had given place to interest. She’d heard that Aunt ’Crese told fortunes when the fit struck her, but Charity Trevercombe and Nellie Higgins had sneaked out here once after dark, and Aunt ’Crese’ hadn’t told them any fortune at all, she’d made them spend all their coppers on moldy candy they didn’t want.

“Set down,” ordered Aunt ’Crese, pointing at a sticky bench spotted with candle grease. Hesper did so gingerly, and the old woman pulled a lean pack of dirty playing cards from a niche under the tavern trestle.

“Cut with yo’ left hand.” Hester imitated the other’s gesture, staring at the cards and suffused by an agreeable feeling of excitement and guilt. She’d never seen playing cards before. Ma wouldn’t allow the devil’s playthings in the house.

“Make a wish—” Instantly, Hesper thought “Johnnie,” and as instantly suppressed it; she ought to wish for something noble and unselfish—like the success of the venture tonight.

Aunt ’Crese shuffled and slapped the cards on the table. Outside on the pond the geese quacked incessantly. The young Negro snored by the hearth. These were comforting noises, nor was there anything eerie about the old Negress in her grimy yellow turban, even when she began to speak and her voice had gone high and thin, drifting through her pendulous lips and scarcely moving them. “Yo’ goin’ ter see a heap o’ trouble, chile—Heartbreak. Heartbreak. Yo’ll think it won’t mend, but life’s got a hull lot up her sleeve for you. It’ll mend an’ yo’ll fin’ out how many ways a woman’s heart can break.”

Hesper drew in her breath. “I don’t want to hear things like that. I don’t believe you anyway.”

The thin singsong continued unheeding. “Yo’ll know three kin’s o’ lovin’. They’s three men here in yore life.”

“Three?” cried Hesper, relaxing again. This was the sort of thing a fortune should tell. “Will I get—get married?”

But Aunt ’Crese stared at the cluttered cards and heeded nothing else. “There’s fire aroun’ yo’, fire in yore hair, fire in yore heart, fire that makes a beautyness, an’ real fire fearsome in the night. An’ there’s water too. The ocean salt’s in yore blood. Yo’ cain’t live without it.”

What rubbish, thought Hesper, and she looked around the tavern for a clock, but she could not see one.

The old woman stooped closer over the cards. “Ah see yo’ scribblin’ away, pen on paper, puttin’ down words ... puttin’ down words.”

Hesper brightened. That was her secret ambition, poetry like Pa. Like Mrs. Hemans or Mrs. Sigourney. She had a pansy album half filled with little verses.

“All them words won’t do yo’ no good—” said Aunt ’Crese with contempt. “No good at all. Yo’ want things too hard. Always hankerin’ an’ a-ravenin’ after su’thin’. Yo’ can’t holp it, Ah reckon, but yo’ should listen to the house.”

The girl sighed. “I can’t listen to a house,” she said crossly.

“It’s yore home—an’ it’s powerful wise effen yo’ll listen to it, yo’ kin hear the Words o’ God through it.”

“I don’t see how—” cried Hesper, shocked at this blasphemy. “Listen, I’ve got to go, Aunt ’Crese, and you haven’t even told me about my wish.”

The old woman waggled her head, she poked at a red spotted card. Her voice dropped from the high whine. “Yo’ll get yore love-wish, chile, but someplace there’s heartbreak. Heartbreak,” she repeated with solemn unction. She spattered the cards into a circle, heaved herself to her feet staring at Hesper with a blend of malice and pity. “That’s yo’ fortune. Gi’ me the coppers.”

“But, you didn’t tell me anything, really.” Hesper’s hot hand clutched the two coppers in her pocket. One was for the Sabbath collection, and the other was her weekly allowance. She felt cheated and disgruntled. Heartbreak. Fire and water. Listen to the house. Three men, when all she wanted was Johnnie. Get your wish—but—

“Ah tole yo’ plenty,” said Aunt ’Crese, “Ah tole yo’ de truf.” She drew herself up sharply until she towered over Hesper, and the shiny face went hard like black marble. “Yo’ think Ah cain’t see things others cain’t? Yo’ think Ah don’t know what’s hidden in the secret heart?” The fat good-natured Aunt ’Crese had become an outraged priestess—“Yo’ think Ah don’t know what yore up to tonight? Why yo’ want Ambrose an’ his fiddlin’?”

Hesper’s mouth dropped open. What’ll I say? Does she really know? Can she read my thoughts? Or is she part of the Underground too?

Aunt ’Crese watched her through slitted eyes and gave a throaty chuckle. She held out her pinkish palm, and Hesper slowly dropped the coppers into it. Aunt ’Crese tucked them in her turban where they jingled with other coins on the grizzled wool. “Run along, chile, Ah don’t meddle with nobody, an’ nobody meddles with me. Run along.”

Hesper nodded uncertainly and obeyed. As she walked down Gingerbread Lane, she felt a little like crying. Her two coppers were gone, and there’d be a scene with Ma about the one for the collection. The fortune had been horrid, queer and vague, and Aunt ’Crese had been horrid, queer and vague, too. How did one learn to take people, not to feel lost and inadequate when they suddenly acted different from what one expected? Like Peg-Leg this morning, too. She’d never known he could be so cross. Hesper had always lived in a childish world of certainties, o£ black and white, and she felt rebellion and resultant helplessness at the first dim, adult perception that many things must be endured without certainty. Take Aunt ’Crese, was she good or bad, did she guess or know about the Underground, or were her words just a lucky hit? Serves me right for dawdling and listening to that silly fortune.

She ran down Orne Street, as distant church bells clanged twelve times. Lord, dinner’d be on, and Ma frantic to know the result of the errands. Hesper cut left between the houses and scrambled down to the Little Harbor Beach. Above highwater mark on the shingle and in the adjacent field, fishermen tended the semicircle of fish flakes, the slated wooden frames on which the cod splits, glittering with salt crystals, dried in the April sun. Hesper looked for Johnnie’s green dory amongst the dozen boats drawn up on the beach but it was not there. She hurried off the beach, across a lane and into the Honeywood lot, in back of the Inn. Here there were four apple trees, remnant of Moses Honeywood’s fine orchard. Here too were Susan’s herb patch and vegetable garden where old “Looney” Hodge was hoeing, his vacant half-witted face drooping over the stony soil with mournful patience. Since Roger never lent a hand, Susan hired Looney to help with the rougher chores. He slept in the barn above the pigsty and the empty stable where the rare Inn guests who did not come on foot from the depot, or by water, might shelter a horse and buggy.

To Hesper’s great relief she found her father alone in the kitchen. He sat at the scarred oak table, with his dinner of salt pork and pickled beets still untouched on the pewter plate before him, and a book propped up against the mug of coffee. He looked up smiling as the girl flew into the kitchen, throwing her cape on the entry hook, patting her ruffled hair and casting a quick glance around for her mother.

“Hail, radiant daughter of an April Morn—” Roger said with the affectionate playfulness he never showed to anyone else. “Sit down, my dear—I want to read you some magnificent lines.” He indicated the book before him. “One of Horace’s Odes—translated by Dryden. It well expresses what I—what I’m trying to instill into my own poem.”

She heard the uncertainty and yet the pride in his voice, and she put her hand on his thin alpaca-covered shoulder. “Not now, Pa—” she said. “Where’s Ma?”