The Twelfth Child (11 page)

Maybe it was the fact that Judith Troy’s voice sounded so much like her mother’s or maybe it was because the crows had stopped cawing in her ears; whatever the reason, Abigail opened up and told Miss Troy how she’d agreed to marry Henry Keller after she turned sixteen.

“Marriage is a serious thing,” Miss Troy said. “Do you love the boy?”

“No. I like him real well, but –”

“If you’re not sure you love him, Abigail Anne, you shouldn’t be marrying him.”

“I’m not going to.”

“But, you said…”

“I’m gonna leave the farm before my birthday.”

“Leave?  To go where?”

“The city. I’m going to Roanoke and get a job in one of those factories.”

“Oh, Abigail Anne,” Miss Troy said and hugged the girl to her chest. “You don’t want to do such a thing, honey. That’s a hard life; a real hard life.” 

“I’ve heard tell that the rooming houses in Roanoke have electricity and water spigots inside the house.”

“Maybe so, but you work long days and come home exhausted. You’re a smart girl; you can do better than that.”

“Better? Marrying Henry Keller and getting stuck on his papa’s farm for the rest of my life, that’s better? I’d sooner jump off the top of Thunderhill Mountain.”

“There are things besides marrying Henry.”

“Not for me.”

“Yes, there is, Abigail Anne. I don’t know what, just yet, but you give me a bit of time and I’ll think up another way to handle this situation.”

“Don’t come out to our place, Miss Troy! I swear, Papa will shoot you dead!”

Judith Troy assured the girl that she wouldn’t come near the Lannigan farm, but when they left the storage room the teacher was wearing that same far away look as Abigail Anne. She told the class it was time for a recess and then she took a piece of paper from her desk and started to write. After she’d penned three pages, she signed her name, folded the letter and placed it inside an envelope. The envelope was addressed to Miss Ida Jean Meredith, 10 Jefferson Square, Richmond, Virginia.

A
fter that, things went along pretty much the way they had been. Henry came to supper most every night and ate so much that his gauntness began to disappear.  His face grew rosy and round, so much so that even his mother noticed. “That girl’s having a mighty fine effect on you,” she told her the lad.

As Henry blossomed, Abigail faded. Her eyes developed dark circles and lost their sparkle; ridges furrowed her brow and her face took on the hollow-cheeked look of misery. Most nights she’d lie awake for hours—counting and re-counting the number of days she had before her sixteenth birthday. When the numbers became too painful to count, she listened to the cawing of crows that had taken up residence in the maple tree right outside her window. As the number of days grew shorter and her troubles became more intense, the crows squawked louder and louder—until she finally began to believe the birds were trying to warn her of something. Although crows were troublesome birds that most people would have shooed away, Abigail took to leaving seed at the base of the tree. Every time she’d pass that maple she’d look up and find seven or eight black crows with beady eyes staring back at her. “What are you trying to tell me?” she’d ask—but the crows just sat there like a line of black-robed hangmen. 

Her father occasionally took notice and would make mention of her peaked look; but such comments were short-lived because minutes later he’d be talking to Henry about breeding cows or planting crops.

Not much was said about the upcoming marriage; but everyone certainly assumed that such a thing would happen. Henry left no doubt about it, because he was forever reminding William of the advantages he planned to provide for Abigail. “We’ve got a brand-new ice cream maker and a water pump inside the house,” he’d say, “She’s gonna love that!” He’d gobble down a few more bites of pie and then add something about a flower bed alongside the porch steps.

As Henry told of the luxuries that awaited Abigail, her father sat there smiling and nodding his approval. Long before there was even a trace of spring in the air, William came home from Buena Vista with a bolt of white organdy tucked beneath his arm. He handed it to Abigail Anne and said, “This here is for your wedding dress.”

“But, Papa…” she gasped.

“No buts about it; Will can take of your chores for a few days. Now, you get inside and start sewing. Make something real pretty; something like your mama would make,” he said. He gave Abigail a kiss on the cheek and smiled like a man who was truly proud of himself. 

For almost three days Will fixed the supper, fed the chickens, and slopped the dirty clothes up and down the washboard while Abigail hunched over the sewing machine.  She pumped the foot pedal back and forth just as Livonia had done; carefully easing yard after yard of organdy along the guide line. She fashioned the dress with balloon puff sleeves and a wide ruffle along the hem; both things she’d never before done. When the dress was nearly completed, she stitched buttons down the back of the dress as carefully as any prospective bride might do. Once the last button was fastened in place, she hung the dress in her closet.

“Let’s see what you’ve done,” William said; and when he saw the dress he smiled. “That’s a real nice piece of work,” he told her. “Real nice. Henry Keller’s gonna get himself one fine, beautiful wife.”

 “Thank you, Papa,” Abigail answered then she went right back to doing her daily chores. Night after night she’d set supper on the table, food that she’d prepared as carefully as she’d sewn the organdy dress, but she herself hardly ate a thing. She’d nibble on a biscuit or little wedge of potato, then push back her plate as if she couldn’t stand to swallow another mouthful. By the time winter began to make way for spring, Abigail had grown so thin her collarbone circled her neck like the yoke of a harness. 

O
n a Monday morning shortly before school was to close for the summer, Miss Troy tapped Abigail on the shoulder and motioned her into the storage room. “I’ve good news,” the teacher said.

“Good news?” Abigail asked.

“Yes.  I’ve written to someone about your situation; a woman who was once my teacher. Her name is Miss Ida Jean Meredith; she’s a fine woman, intelligent and kind. She no longer teaches because she’s retired; but, she still writes poetry. Anyway, I told her of your abilities and explained the problem. I asked if she could see her way clear to possibly employ the services of a remarkable young lady such as you.”

“Employ?” Abigail repeated her eyes big as squirrel holes in a hollow oak.

“Yes. I suggested you would make a most suitable companion and assistant. I was direct about the fact that you had not yet learned to use a typewriting machine but assured her that you were a quick learner and would certainly be able to master such a task in no time.”

Abigail’s heart was pounding so vigorously you could see the movement beneath the bosom of her dress. She let out a whoosh of air and left her mouth hanging open.

“For a while I was concerned that I had received no answer; but, yesterday this letter came.” Judith Troy reached into her pocket and took out a pale pink envelope. She handed the letter to Abigail, “Why don’t you read it,” she suggested.

Abigail took the letter in her trembling hands and with her first look at the looping slant of Ida Jean Meredith’s handwriting, she knew that this woman must be the finest on the face of the earth. She read the words, Miss Meredith had written:

Dear Judith,

I would be most delighted to take on your young student. This offer comes at a most opportune time for I am currently working on my fourth volume of poetry and have been seriously contemplating the need for an assistant. 

These days, my step has slowed a bit, so I would also welcome a youthful companion to accompany me around town. Rest assured, the girl will be well cared for and most comfortable as I have readied the small bedroom overlooking the rose garden. Hopefully your young protégé will enjoy theatre and the ballet as you once did. 

I am enclosing a train ticket for the girl’s travel from Lynchburg to Richmond.  Please advise when she will be arriving and I will have Frederick meet her at the station.  

As always, I remain your devoted friend.

Ida Jean Meredith

There were tears in Abigail’s eyes but she was smiling. “Does this mean—?”

“Yes,” Judith Troy answered before the girl had completed the question. “This means that you have been invited to Richmond to work with Miss Meredith.”

“You won’t tell Papa?”

“It’s not my business to tell. If you have anyone you want to tell, then you’re free to do so.” Miss Troy smiled, almost exactly the same way Livonia did when she was up to some sort of mischief. “But, if I were you, I wouldn’t say a word to your father.”

That night Abigail slept as she had not slept in years. There was no sound of crows, just songbirds chirping away like it was the middle of summer.

O
n the final day of the school year, when almost anyone in Blackburn Country would have sworn that Abigail Anne and her brother would be sitting at their desks, Will hitched the wagon to Whisper and rode off in the direction of Lynchburg. Abigail Anne was sitting beside him and two suitcases rattled around in the back of the wagon.

“You sure you want to do this?” the boy asked his sister.

She nodded. 

“You’re gonna keep in touch with
me
, right?”

“Of course, I am,” she said. “Just don’t tell Pa, where I’ve gone. He’s so crazy to have me marry Henry Keller, he might decide to come down to Richmond and shoot poor Miss Meredith in the heart.”

“I’m not gonna say a thing,” Will answered, “But, when you write be sure to send the letter to Rebecca; she’ll see that I get it.”

“I will.”

“You got your train ticket and the money?”

Abigail tugged open the drawstring and took another look inside her purse. “It’s right here,” she said and held up a pink envelope. The smile on her face faded as she took out a second envelope, a plain white one. “This here’s a letter for Henry,” she handed the envelope to Will. “Please make sure he gets it.”

“Okay,” Will said and slipped the envelope into his pocket.

When they arrived at the Lynchburg Station, Will took both suitcases from the wagon and carried them to the platform; his face was as pinched up as a prune. “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said, “A woman alone in Richmond…”

“I won’t be alone; I’ll be living with Miss Meredith.” Abigail had taken on the glow of a woman in love. “Judging by the letter, I just know, she’s a
wonderful
person. She’s planning to take me to the theatre and the ballet; imagine me at the ballet!” Abigail twirled around and her cotton skirt billowed in the breeze.

“There’s still a lot to be wary of in the city,” Will said, shaking his head. “Trouble comes out of nowhere—things such as you never even dreamt of.”

“Sure, like turning on all those electric lights or making your way to a toilet that’s
inside
the house,” she teased.

Will was about to tell her of how folks who got out of work sometimes had to sleep in the streets and of how evil intentioned men could lead innocent girls astray; but just then the train pulled into the station. All he had enough time to say was, “Goodbye, Abigail Anne; remember, I love you.” A moment later she was gone and he was left standing there with a single tear rolling down his cheek. “Be careful,” he whispered; then he turned and walked away.

T
hat evening when William came in from the field and found Will putting supper on the table, he asked, “Where’s your sister?”

Will shrugged.

“Didn’t she come home from school with you?”

“She didn’t go to school today,” Will said.

“Hell’s fire!” William growled. “She’s probably got herself in a twit because of that blasted teacher. Soon as school lets out, Abigail Anne thinks she can start acting up again. Well, this time she ain’t gonna get away with it!”

Will tried to avoid looking his father in the face and when William said, “It’s mighty strange that
you
don’t know where she’s gone to!” the boy fixed his eyes on the pot of stew as if he expected to find his sister in among the carrots. After supper Will didn’t complain about doing Abigail’s chores, but it made little difference—William went right on ranting and raving about how such a rebellious girl ought to be locked up in the state reformatory. When William got tired of stomping around the house, he took a hickory switch in his hand and sat on the front porch to wait for Abigail Anne.

He sat there all night.

W
hen dawn rolled across ThunderhillMountain, William saddled Malvania and rode into town looking for Miss Judith Troy.

Her tiny white house was at the far end of Belmont Street. William walked up to the door and began to pound on it with both fists. “Open this door, you troublemaker!” he shouted. “I want to talk to Abigail Anne!” By the time Judith Troy opened the door, the neighbors on both sides of her house and the deputy who lived directly across the street were all looking out their windows to see what the ruckus was about. 

“Mister Lannigan, lower your voice!” Judith Troy said.

“You tell me where my girl’s gone, then I’ll lower my voice!” he screamed louder than ever. “You tell me right now!” He grabbed hold of Judith Troy’s shoulders and started shaking her like a rag doll; that’s when Deputy Greer came flying across the street and walloped William to the ground.

“We don’t allow folks to beat up on women!” the deputy said and twisted William’s arm back so far you could almost hear it crack. “If you want to ask Miss Judith something, you ask her nice and polite—understand?”

“She’s got my girl to run off,” William told the deputy.