Together Apart Page 12
***
"When next the wind blows strong out of the north, light a candle in remembrance," Clarice said when the last name had been spoken.
Eliza closed the curtain.
One person began to clap, and then another and another until growing into a thunder of applause. I turned the gaslight to full wick and then rejoined the cast on stage. We arranged ourselves into a row and held one another's hands as if dolls cut from folded paper. Eliza waited for the applause to taper off, then tugged on the curtain ropes one last time. One of the pulleys tore loose from the ceiling, the rope coiled and snaked, and the curtain came down. Eliza, in full view of the audience then, waved. We bowed as a group, and the applause erupted anew. I let go of Clarice and Rosa's hands and motioned for Mr. Tinka to stand. He stood, turned to the audience, and, with a flair equal to the music he'd made, bowed deeply.
When the applause wound down, I stepped forward, almost tripping on a fold in the fallen curtain, and said, "We, the members of the Working Girls Social Club, thank you all for coming. And, thanks to the generosity of the Resting Room Advisory Council and the graciousness of our hostess, Eliza Moore, refreshments will be served in the main house directly." Ohs and ahs replaced the applause that had filled the air.
I looked to the back, where Mama was just rising from the velvet settee. I looked to the transom. If I could have split myself in two, half going one way, half the other, I would have.
Mama's eyes were watery, though, much to my relief, not stricken. "That was beautiful, Hannah, the way they lit the candles."
I hugged Mama then, and she whispered, "Too bad your papas so stubborn. He missed out on something special."
"I'm just glad you were here, Mama."
Megan and Joey ran up to us then. Joey's face and hands were smeared with icing. "I told him to use a fork, but he wouldn't listen," Megan said, her hands on her hips.
Mama began mopping Joey with her handkerchief.
"Whatever it is Joey took a bath in looks mighty good," Jake said.
Joey squirmed away from Mama. "They got teacakes. And lemonade, too."
Mama turned to me. "Would those be Flossy Zeller's secret recipe teacakes?"
"None other."
"Let's get on in there, then," Mama said. "But we mustn't dawdle. Your papa's likely itching to start for home."
"You all go on ahead. I'll join you shortly."
***
The print shop lights burned bright. Isaac's long face and the slump of his shoulders told me that Eliza had already shared the bad news.
Isaac came to stand close in front of me and held me with his eyes. "Guess I shouldn't have played that Hannah music last night."
"I needed to hear your music, Isaac, and you needed to play it. Sharing something that beautiful can never be wrong." I leaned forward and kissed his cheek then, right there in front of God and Eliza and Mrs. Richards.
***
I stayed with Isaac for as long as I dared, then, promising that I'd return once I'd seen my family off, I backed toward the door. The grin that had broken out on Isaac's face when I'd kissed him began to fade. Just before I turned to open the door, the corners of his mouth had sagged to forlorn, as did mine when I closed the door behind me.
Mama and the others were just coming into the resting room. "What's wrong, Hannah?" Mama said as she drew near. "You look like you've just lost your best friend."
How right she was, but I didn't tell her that, not then. My disappointment in Dru and my worry over what would come next for Isaac were still too raw and new.
***
Papa was standing beside the wagon. "Hannah, I'll be needing a private word with you." In the spare light of his lantern, I couldn't read his face, though his voice was stern.
I followed Papa down the drive, stopped when he stopped, braced myself against whatever he was about to say. He held the lantern so the light shone on my face. "I had a little business down at Shipmans, and Shipman asked if wasn't I a neighbor of Mr. Richards. I said I was, and he told me that Richards had been there earlier today and demanded to know where he could find a place called the Ladies Room. Said he'd heard that his wife was hiding out there. Is that true, Hannah? Is she here?"
My knees went weak. Too weak to hold up a lie. "Yes, Papa, she's here. Mr. Richards hurt her, and she needed a safe place to stay. Did Mr. Shipman tell Mr. Richards where to find the resting room?"
"Shipman steered him toward the public privy around back of the courthouse, but it's only a matter of time before someone sets him straight. Richards won't do you any harm, knows I'd string him up if he did, but if he does come around, you'd best stay out of his way."
"I'll be careful, Papa."
***
When my family had gone on the their way, I hurried back to Isaac. My voice broke several times when I told him of Papa's awful news.
Issac
THE NIGHT OF THE PLAY WAS THE LAST NIGHT I SPENT IN ELIZA'S house, but I didn't spend it sleeping.
Hannah didn't sleep, either. She spent that last night with me. After Ma and Eliza had gone up to bed, Hannah helped me roll my boat into the yard. I gave her a foot up, and then she lighted and set candles fore and aft. The sky showed a star here and there. We sat side by side, our arms touching.
I cleared my throat. "I've always known I'd leave here one day and take Ma with me. I just didn't know it would happen like this, happen so quick. Thought I'd have more time, thought we would have more time, and now I'm afraid I'll never see you again."
Hannah turned to me then and said, "We will see one another again, Isaac. We will be together again."
I didn't know what Hannah meant by that, but I sure wasn't going to let it drop. "Are you saying that maybe ... someday?" Hannah smiled. The six-footed rabbit woke up and started in thumping hope against my ribs. I didn't try to tame it, just threw my arms around Hannah and pulled her against my chest. Her heart thumped back, and she pressed her cheek to mine. Her skin was as soft as the down on a baby chick. "I love you, Hannah Barnett," I whispered into her sweet-smelling hair.
I got a little worried that I'd spoken too soon when Hannah didn't say she loved me, too. Then I felt why. Her shoulders shuddered and pretty soon her tears wetted my cheek. My Hannah was crying!
We sat that way for a good long while, then Hannah wiggled an arm free so she could reach for the hanky she always kept tucked up her sleeve. "Why not come with me now, today?" I asked.
"I'd love nothing more, Isaac, but I can't leave here just yet. I don't want clouds shading the rest of our lives. I want my papa's blessing."
The rabbit in my chest rolled over and died. "That'll be never, Hannah."
"My papa just needs more time. If I ran off with you now, I'd lose him. Lose Mama. If I wait, try to mend things, maybe I won't have to give up one kind of love for another."
"What if your pa doesn't come around, Hannah? What if he never gives us his blessing?"
Hannah answered my question with a kiss, and my lips answered hers back. And that kiss was the most beautiful thing on God's earth or in his heavens. The tallest mountain—the brightest shooting star!
***
I woke Ma just before dawn. When she rubbed her eyes open, she said she'd been dreaming she was riding on a train. That'd been the way I'd always dreamed we'd pull out of Prairie Hill, too. The conductor calling, "All aboard!" Folks waving from the platform. But that was before finding the boat. The boat that had kept me company every Sunday. The boat I'd told all my troubles to. I was leaving one of my girls behind; I wasn't about to leave them both.
By sunup, Mr. Tinka had helped me hitch her to the back of his wagon. Hannah was helping me load my gear, which was growing with every trip Eliza was making into and out of the house. She'd nearly emptied her pantry of foodstuffs and the Judge's closet of trousers and shirts. I had everything pretty well arranged—a canvas tent, which the Judge had used for fishing trips and which Eliza had also insisted I take, Ma's things, and my tools—when Eliza came runni
ng out, a paint pail swinging from one hand, a brush fisted in the other, and a bottle of something tucked under her arm. "It's bad luck to launch a boat until she's been christened."
"Paint large letters," Hannah said as I dipped the brush.
And that's what I did. I painted the letters big and bold and barn red. "How's that?" I asked Hannah when I was done.
Hannah's chin quivered, but she managed to say, "That suits me just fine."
Eliza handed me the bottle. "I don't have any champagne, but this bottle of Doctor Marvel's Miracle Medicinal Elixir might do in a pinch. I'm guessing it contains nearly as much alcohol."
I passed the bottle on to Hannah. "I'd like you to do the honors."
Hannah nodded, then two-fisted the bottle's neck and swung back. "I christen thee Hannah's Fair Wind" she said before bashing the bottle against the ridge board. Elixir splattered every which way. But the drops on Hannah's cheeks weren't elixir.
Hannah set all the ladies off crying, Ma and Eliza, Rosa and Mrs. Tinka. And one boy. If it hadn't been for Mr. Tinka stepping in and saying we needed to get on the road, we'd probably still be standing there, up to our ankles in eye water.
***
We must have made a sorry sight when we did finally pull away—the Tinka wagon in the lead, Hannah's Fair Wind trailing along behind. Ma sat tall and proud, shading herself under the fancy parasol Eliza had given her for a going-away gift. I sat at Ma's side, looking back, my eyes anchored to Hannah's and hers to mine until the distance broke us apart.
I took up my harmonica then and played Hannah music without stop until reaching the banks of the Big Blue River. I bid the Tinkas farewell, launched Hannah's Fair Wind, and then dropped the oars into the muddy water. The Big Blue, the Missouri, the Mississippi, and then Ma would be safe and I'd begin my wait.
PART IV
Fall 1888
Issac
To Hannah Barnett By Telegraph, from St. Joseph, Missouri
Prairie Hill, Nebraska September 10 1888 Rec'd 11:10 AM
Arrived St. Joe. Hole in hull. Laying over to repair. Both well now. Letter to follow. Hope all well with you. Isaac
***
To Hannah Barnett By Telegraph, from Memphis, Tennessee
Prairie Hill, Nebraska September 28 1888 Rec'd 2:30 PM
Arrived Memphis. Promised letter jumped ship. Doing odd jobs to buy dry supplies. Praying all well with you. Isaac
***
To Hannah Barnett By Telegraph, from New Orleans, Louisiana
Prairie Hill, Nebraska November 18, 1888 Rec'd 12›15 PM
New Orleans. Finally. Warm here. Lively music all around. Letter when settled. Crazy from not knowing how you are. Isaac
***
November 23, 1888
My Dearest Hannah,
I'll start this by saying that there hasn't been a day, an hour, or a minute since I left that I haven't thought of you. I was ready to turn around, hightail it back to you at least a hundred times, and I would have if it weren't for my ma. Ma hasn't been this happy since before Pa died. She says I should tell you that her face hurts from smiling so much.
The other thing you need to know right off is that this isn't the first letter I wrote. The first one is probably being read by a school of fish in the Gulf of Mexico about now. Had a little problem near St. Louis. Also had a little problem near Baton Rouge. Campfire got out of control, but I don't want to waste paper writing about all that.
And please, Hannah, don't let the sun set without writing me back. I'm going mad from needing to know that you are okay. Did Mr. Richards come around? If he made any threats against you or Eliza, then you've got to tell it to me straight, and I'll be on the next train headed north. What about the sheriff? Did he arrest Eliza for hiding me? Dru's ma, did she make good on her threat to close down the resting room? Dru, what's happened to her? And your pa, Hannah. Are things still going in the right direction with him? The working girls? Harmony School? That red-headed clod, Rusty Farley? I've got to know everything. Otherwise I'll imagine the worst like I've been doing ever since I left.
Here's the good news. I found work yesterday, as a boat builder's apprentice. Mr. Gluck, the owner of the boat works, took one look at Hannah's Fair Wind, patched hull and all, and hired me on the spot. I'll be making good pay, Hannah. When you're ready to tell your pa about me, make sure you tell him that, too.
Have also found a nice place for me and Ma to live—two furnished rooms above a bakery shop. Smells almost as good as when Mrs. Tinka was baking her bread in Eliza's kitchen. And there are big, sunny windows that aren't covered over with paper!
The weather is fine here. It's as warm today as Nebraska in May, and folks I've talked to say it hardly ever snows. Imagine that, Hannah. No more blizzards!
Everything's lush here. Moss-covered trees everywhere. Water everywhere, though a fellow told me to steer clear of the swamps—because of the alligators! Sure wouldn't mind getting a peek at one of those chompers. I've been to the Gulf of Mexico, Hannah, waded in waist-deep, just like you told me I should. You'd like the ocean, Hannah. It reminds me of the prairie, the way it goes on and on. Like the prairie, but without the plows.
Some of the folks here speak French and some speak English and some speak what sounds like a mixing of the two. And oh the music, Hannah. Jazz. Started hearing it when me and Ma was still coming down the river, drifting out of hallows along the banks and in the wake of grandly lit riverboats that were churning upstream. Its music that reaches right inside you and touches your soul.
I miss you so much it hurts. Ma says that I need to be patient, that being apart will make our hearts grow even fonder. If my heart loved you any more than it already does, it would explode.
Forever yours,
Isaac
Hannah
November 8, 1888
My Dearest Isaac,
Your wonderful letter arrived a short while ago, and I have wasted only the minutes it took to read through it a dozen times before beginning this letter back to you.
New Orleans—the sights and sounds! I've always dreamed of such a place and now you are living there. I'm so glad for you and so relieved to know that you and your mother are safely settled. The telegrams you sent are worn thin and crumpled now, from carrying them in my pockets day after day. Without them I would surely have worried my apron hem to shreds. There is some fraying, I must admit, from imagining the trials of your journey.
I am missing you, terribly, but otherwise I am fine, truly I am. I fill my days with work. Nighttime is another story. Sometimes I'll forget, rush into the print shop expecting to find you there, or I'll hear a muffled sound in the night and think it is you stirring in your sleep. These are the most difficult moments. Nights are also my most cherished times because I now sleep with your pillow tucked under my head, and this had made for some lovely dreams.
Eliza has just come into the print shop (that is where I am writing this letter), and she has told me to tell you that she sends her best.
Being the clever fellow that you are, you have guessed from this that Eliza is not in jail. Sheriff Tulley did come looking for you, not two hours after you left. Not finding you on the property, and having no evidence, other than hearsay, that Eliza had harbored a thief, the sheriff, winking, told Eliza that he supposed he wouldn't need to march her off to the jail. Mrs. Callahan's threat to close down the resting room was not successful, either. She tried, but the city attorney found no law forbidding a private property owner from inviting guests into her home. Eliza was required to obtain a permit for the market because money is exchanged for goods. This, too, went smoothly. The city attorney's wife is one of our best customers! A few members of the Betterment Society did stay away from the market in the first weeks, though most have since returned. There has been some whining, though, due to the absence of Mrs. Tinka's breads.
There was one threat Mrs. Callahan did manage to carry out. Dru is in Boston. I've received several letters from her. As always, she is making the b
est of her situation. She has befriended the young man who is the groundskeeper at the school and volunteers her free time teaching English to immigrant women at a settlement house. She plans to return to Prairie Hill for the Christmas holidays and has promised to stop by for a visit, "no matter what it takes." Any disappointment I might have felt the night of the play has long since faded, and I am so looking forward to seeing her again. Losing my best friend and my best (and only) beau at the same time was doubly heartbreaking.
My family is well. Harmony School has been rebuilt, a new teacher has been hired, so the younger children are back at their studies. Mama comes to town with the Zellers as often as she can, and we've had some wonderful visits.
Which brings me to my papa. The Sunday after you left, just as he was finishing his meal, I asked if I might have a private word with him. He nodded, then left the table and headed for the barn. I followed. Once there, I steadied myself, then told Papa all about you, Isaac. I told him about how you spent the summer at Eliza's and that you chose to hide rather than leave without your mother. I told him that you are not a thief, that the tools had belonged to your real father and not Mr. Richards. I told him that you are not at all like Mr. Richards and his boys, that you possess a fine character and a loving heart. I told him what a hard worker you are and about how you taught yourself boat-building by reading a book. I told him again that you had not shamed me the night of the blizzard, only kept me warm and alive. I told Papa that I was sorry I had deceived him with half-truths, sorry that I had disappointed him, and that I would try my best to again earn his trust. I finished by saying words I'd never said out loud to Papa before. I told Papa that I loved him. Papa listened, though he said nothing back, only turned and walked away. I expected just that. But I know he listened and that is a start.