Bittersweet

“You know I can’t show it to you. You heard your pa.” Sarah said nothing. Sam took a match and struck it against the sole of his boot. The breeze had died with the sun, and the flame burned steadily. He looked past the match at Sarah, her eyes pleading, catching the reflected fire, her lips parted. She scarcely seemed to breathe. Sam lit the corner of the paper and she cried out as though he had put the match to her skin. “Your brother’s okay,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you that.” The paper flamed and he dropped it to the ground. Sarah took his rough hand between hers, pressing it to her cheek.

“Thank you, Mr. Ebbitt.”

Sam looked at the small pale head bent over his fingers. He raised his free hand toward her hair; it faltered and froze midway. “Now, now,” he said gruffly, “quit your crying, it’s time we were going.”

Sarah smiled up at him and squeezed his hand before releasing it.

The hay was alive with young people when the wagon pulled away from the church. A harvest moon, full and fertile, hung on the horizon. Frost covered the ground with translucent silver, and the sound of the horses’ shod hooves striking the frozen earth echoed through the babble and laughter. Sarah and Karen were snuggled down in the straw near the rear of the wagon bed. Sarah waved to Mrs. Beard and Mam Tolstonadge. The women called their farewells from the steps of the church. Behind them, the windows were ablaze with light, and strains of accordion music sounded, muted, from within. “You girls stay warm,” Mam hollered. Sarah waved again.

Karen didn’t. “Your ma thinks we’re babies.”

At the end of the main street, where the road started down toward the railroad tracks, Sam turned the wagon into a wide, treelined lane. A shadow slipped from behind one of the last buildings and vaulted over the side of the slow-moving vehicle. A girl squealed and her young man laughed. “You come and go like the devil himself, Earl,” the boy said. Karen’s head popped up at the sound of Earl’s name, and Sarah’s mouth went tight with a

“Hello, Mr. Sneaky B.” The girl had recovered from her start. Earl made a place for himself in the hay and the two boys fell into conversation. Earl struck a match, the flare shadowing his lean, handsome face. Karen rustled in the straw.

“Let’s pay him no mind,” Sarah whispered. “He’s just showing off.”

“I don’t care a fig for Earl Beard,” Karen said in a voice meant to carry. It caught Earl’s attention.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” Sarah hissed. “He’s coming over.”

“We’ll just pretend he ain’t here.” Karen threw a pert glance over her shoulder and turned her back resolutely on the approaching figure. Earl sat down, leaning back against the planks.

“Fine evening, Miss Cogswell.”

“ Lot you know.” Karen wriggled in the hay, a plump shoulder and rump pushed up.

Sarah settled back into the straw, staring resignedly out over the tailgate. The moon climbed until it was no bigger than a thumbnail, and the stars shone brighter. The wagon had grown quiet as the horses plodded their steady way, circumnavigating the town. Sarah leaned back into the corner, watching the stars flow through the dark skeletons of trees overhead, Karen and Earl a single lump of shadow several feet away. Karen sucked in her breath sharply, making a tiny sound in her throat, and Sarah looked over at them. Karen’s cloak had fallen back, and the bodice of her dress was unbuttoned. Earl worked his hand under her clothes, his fingers closing over her breast. Sarah jerked involuntarily, her elbow striking the wood. Earl looked up and saw her staring.

“Well, Little Miss Hot Eyes,” he said softly, “why don’t you run along and play?”

Karen grabbed her shirtsleeve. “Don’t you tell,” she hissed.

“You oughtn’t to do what you don’t want told,” Sarah said, and levered herself up until she was sitting on the top plank. She swung her legs over and jumped to the ground. Her knees buckled and she fell, she had been sitting still too long. Scrambling to her feet, she ran alongside the wagon.

“Mr. Ebbitt? Can I ride up here with you?”

Sam looked startled, then pleased. “I’ve been wanting some company,” he said, then reined in and extended an arm to her.

“Here, put this over you. Nights are getting cold.” Sarah pulled the proffered robe over her lap, moving closer so she wouldn’t pull it off his knees. Her skirts brushed over his boot tops, and his beard bristled into a fan as he smiled.

6

SATURDAY NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS, THE STREET OUTSIDE THE schoolhouse was alive with people. To celebrate the season and the new windows the town had provided for the school, Imogene had held a spelling bee and potluck. The whole town had turned out, even those without school-aged children. Mrs. Tolstonadge and several of the women had stayed to clean up, by way of thanks, they said, insisting that Imogene go home.

Men seeing to teams and wagons, and women holding toddlers and skirts up out of the snow, made their way down the street. People shouted “Merry Christmas!” and held lanterns high, lighting neighbors and townsfolk into wagons and over icy spots.

Lugging a basket, Sarah picked her way through the cut in the snow to the schoolmistress’s house. “Sare, you riding back with me?” Sarah looked up to see Sam Ebbitt smiling down from the seat of his carryall. “Your pa said it’d be okay.”

“I got to see Miss Grelznik,” Sarah excused herself.

“Suit yourself,” he said shortly, then shook the reins and drove out past Joseph Cogswell’s shay, where it was pulled up near the school. Karen stood nearby, adjusting her fur-lined hood.

Sarah saw her and started to call out, but the “Merry Christmas!” died on her tongue as Earl Beard materialized from the shadows. He held Karen’s waist as, simpering, she clambered heavily into her father’s shay.

“Karen! You come away from there,” Joseph Cogswell hollered from the school steps. His daughter gave him a stare of such contempt that he finished lamely, “Sarah Mary’s wanting to talk to you.”

Earl sauntered off in the direction of the town.

As her beau deserted her, Karen shot Sarah a mean look. “What do I care? Sarah Mary’s such a child.”

Sarah looked away, pretending not to have heard, and hurried to Miss Grelznik’s door.

The little house at last looked like a home. Imogene’s furniture had arrived from Philadelphia intact; the dining table and the chest of drawers bore scars from the journey, but nothing had been lost or destroyed. The high-backed mahogany rocking chair from which her mother had ruled the house sat in its place before the fire; heavy oak trunks stood guard on either side of the fireplace, collecting knickknacks; a squat rolltop desk in the corner under the window harbored writing supplies; the rickety table and broken ladder-back chairs had been replaced with a cherrywood table and two graceful chairs with thin, curved arms. The cot was gone from the bedroom, and the old, well-oiled furniture Imogene had had since childhood crowded the small space. There were two pictures: over the bed, a portrait in an oval frame of her mother as a girl, and on the chimney above the mantel, a painting of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Imogene lit the lamps and put the kettle on. As she settled down with her tea, there was a timid knock at the door; Sarah Tolstonadge stood on the front step, holding in both hands the same basket she and her mother had brought Imogene the first morning.

“Sarah. Come in where it’s warm.” Sarah stepped over the doorsill and tripped on the hem of her dress. She would have dumped the contents of the basket onto the floor if it hadn’t had a new lid, a homemade wooden flap hinged in the middle and fastened on both ends. Sarah righted herself and the basket and stood tonguetied. Imogene reached out to help her but she clutched the handle tightly, her eyes fixed on her hands, and didn’t see the gesture. “Would you like to set the basket down? It looks pretty heavy,” Imogene suggested.