Bittersweet

Darrel pushed himself to his feet, staggering back several paces. “Whore!” he cried, “You goddamn bitch. I ain’t lettin’ you off easy this time. You ain’t fit to live with decent folk. You can’t run so far but I’ll find you and warn God-fearin’ folk against you.” He stumbled in the rutted street and fell to his knees, cursing savagely. Crying out like a wounded animal, he pressed his palms to his ears. “My baby sister’s dead.” He groped about in the dirt and, taking up a stone, hurled it at the dark house.

The week after Mary Beth’s funeral, the Utterbacks took Imogene back to the train station. Surrounded by the crates of mended books, Imogene took her leave of them, and as the train puffed into view she pulled out her purse and snapped it open.

“Could you give this to Kevin Ramsey for the baby?” She pressed a five-dollar bill into Mrs. Utterback’s hand. “And please…don’t tell him who it’s from. I’ll send more when I can.”

“I think he should know. He’ll want the address to write and thank thee. He’s a good man-it’s just that he’s so taken in by Mr. Aiken.”

“You must never tell him my address!” She startled Mrs. Utterback with her urgency. Racketing wheels poured a flood of noise over the platform, washing away all other sounds. Mrs. Utterback kissed her again and William took her hand.

“Thee must come again soon,” he shouted.

“I will,” she promised, and boarded the train.

9

MAM LOOKED UP FROM HER BREAD DOUGH, HER FACE FLUSHED AND hot. She pushed her hair back with her forearm. “Gracie, that your pa?” Gracie was sitting on the front porch with Lizbeth, peeling potatoes. The wagon Margaret had heard came around the barn and into view.

“It’s Pa,” Gracie hollered back. She threw a half-peeled potato into her sister’s sack and ran out, banging the door against the porch post as the wagon creaked into the yard.

“Finish the ’taters,” Margaret shouted too late. Wiping her hands on her apron, she came onto the porch to hold the door open for her husband. “Never seen the flies so bad,” she commented. Lizbeth slipped under her arm to follow Gracie into the field and away from the chores.

“Pretty thick already,” Emmanuel said as he squeezed by her. “Heat, I guess.” He set a box of groceries down on the kitchen table. “That ought to hold you for a while.”

Sarah came in, carrying a freshly killed and plucked chicken by the feet. Her hair was pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck and she wore an apron dotted brown with old blood. Mrs. Tolstonadge took the bird and examined it thoroughly. “Good job, Sare. Hardly a pinfeather left.” She laid it on the table and started to unpack the groceries.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, Pa?”

“Sam’s going in to town this afternoon, asked me to tell you he’d be willing to come by and fetch you if you’ve any trifles you’re needing.”

“I’m okay, Pa. Mam’s got chores for me.”

Emmanuel pumped water into a mug and drank deeply. “Saw Miss Grelznik-she’d just got back from Philadelphia. Had more boxes than a dog has fleas.”

“Miss Grelznik’s back?” Sarah turned eager eyes on her mother. “Can I go into town, Mam? I can get everything done before bed if I get back early. Please? I haven’t seen her since graduation.”

Mam shoved her balled fists into the dough she’d left to rise. “Ask your pa.”

Emmanuel looked at his daughter, her eyes bright, the color rising in her cheeks. “I thought you were too busy to go anywhere this afternoon.” Sarah clasped her hands tight behind her and held her breath. Emmanuel pumped himself another cup of water and drank it. “Sam’ll be by around noon. You’ll ride with him if you’re goin’.”

Sarah ran into the back room and shut the door behind her.

“You leave that open,” Emmanuel snapped. “Heat’s bad enough without you closing out the breeze.”

“I’m dressing, Pa,” came the muffled reply.

He started for the door, but Mam laid a hand on his arm. “Let her primp up, Ma

“Primping for that schoolteacher.” Emmanuel went to the bedroom and set the door ajar. “You can fuss with the door part open. There’s nobody here wants to look at you.”

Mrs. Tolstonadge shaped the dough into loaves. “Things’ll come right. They always do.” When Emmanuel snorted, she said, “You got a bee in your bo

“Maybe I do.” He jammed his hat on and left the house.

Imogene’s door was open to catch the afternoon breeze. She stood with her back to it, unpacking a crate. Boxes and piles of books were strewn about the room. She lifted out a stack of McGuffey’s Readers and counted them. Their bindings were battered and covered with ink marks but she handled them as if they were fine china. Despite the summer heat she wore a heavy black dress with the suggestion of a train that swept the floor when she moved. Against the dark cloth her face showed pale, and gray shadows smudged her eyes.

Sarah stopped halfway up the path, her shadow thrown before her. She was bareheaded and the sun had burned color into her unprotected cheeks. Smoothing her hair back nervously, she pushed in the pins that had worked loose, and watched Miss Grelznik through the open door.

Imogene stopped and turned suddenly, as though she had heard someone call her name. “Sarah?” She came to the top of the steps, her eyes narrowed against the light. “Is it you?” Imogene swiftly descended the steps and, bending down, hugged her, kissing her warm cheek. Sarah rested against her shoulder for a brief moment before Imogene held her away. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Miss Grelznik! I never said good-bye.”

“It seems like a long time, doesn’t it?” Imogene hugged her again. “How you’ve changed in these eight weeks!” She turned Sarah a little one way and then the other. “You’ve done your hair into a bun and your mother gave you a dress that goes long to the ground. You have become such a young lady in such a little time.” Imogene’s voice broke and she covered her eyes with her hand.

“Miss Grelznik, you all right?” Sarah reached up and took away the hand; it was shaking. “You look awful poorly. Maybe you oughtn’t to be in the sun.”

“I’m a little tired is all. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Your hand is so cold.” Sarah chafed it gently between hers.

Imogene managed a smile. “You ca

Sarah followed her inside. “Miss Grelznik, I got something to tell you, too.”

Imogene held her hands out to the girl. “Imogene.”

Sarah smiled, pleased. “Imogene.”

“Thank you. Now what have you got to tell me?”

“I’m going to be married!”

The schoolteacher’s hands clenched on hers and the girl cried out, her face going pale under her sunburn.

Imogene dropped Sarah’s hands, pressing her fingertips hard against her temples. “I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?”

“No, Miss Grelznik.” Sarah sat on her stool beside the rocker as Imogene sank into it. She looked at her hands, working the fingers open and closed. “See. They’re fine. It didn’t really hurt. You looked so strange, I was afraid for you a little.”

“And I was afraid for you.” Imogene rocked slowly, the murmuring of the summer day and the creaking of the chair on the floor keeping the silence company.

At length the schoolteacher forced a smile. “We must celebrate. You are to be married.” Imogene pulled Sarah to her feet. “It is too nice a day to be inside, rummaging through old books. I shall take you to the dry goods and buy you something frivolous-ribbons and candy. And I haven’t asked you any of the proper questions. Who is the groom? You didn’t seem sweet on any of the boys.”