Mercurial

Chapter Four

Over supper, news of the shooting is all anyone can talk about.

"A real-life gunfight!" Tommy exclaims, his mouth full of blackberry jam-smothered biscuit. "What kind of gun did Mr. Davis use, Pa?"

"I'm sure I don't know, son."

Lizzie eyes Tommy with disgust; quite the one-eighty from how she was acting about it this morning. "Why do you suppose he did it?"

"My bet's on money," Pa's dark brown eyes blaze brightly the way they do when one of us is in trouble.

Tommy's face, on the other hand, becomes that of pure delight as he wiggles around in his seat. "I'll bet Mr. Davis is a hero. Maybe he's even like Robin Hood! Do you think that could be it, Pa?"

"I don't think so."

Emma clutches the ribbon pinned to her chest made special by Ms. Kasha for passing the spelling test. "What if he kills someone else?"

Momma places her hand on Emma's shoulder, "Until that man is locked away, I don't want any of you straying too far from home, you hear me? Emma and Tommy, you are to go straight to school each day, and then straight home afterward. As a matter of fact, I don't think they should be out there alone at all when there's a murderer on the loose. What if you walked with them to school tomorrow, Frank?"

Pa lets out a deep, annoyed breath. "If Davis knows what's good for him, he's long gone by now. I never knew the man personally, but I would jump to assume he's got enough brains to know better than to stick around town after this. As it is, they'll have search parties out lookin', and his place'll be guarded day and night."

Momma shifts uncomfortably at the mention of Mr. Davis' lodging arrangements, and I hide my smile with my hand.

"The kids will be in no more danger tomorrow than they was two days ago. This isn't anything to fuss about. It happens in the country every day."

"Is that supposed to reassure me?" I notice Momma's knuckles turning white around her napkin. "I would feel easier if you would just walk with them."

Pa pushes back his chair and stands, "Look, Maggie, I got a lot of work to get done tomorrow. I ain't got time to be playing nursemaid. The kids are old enough to be able to walk to school without someone holding their hands, but if all you've got to do tomorrow is sit around twiddling your thumbs and worrying about it, then you can go with them yourself."

We all stare as Pa stalks out of the room.

Once the table is cleared and the dishes washed, the rest of us head upstairs. I plan to sharpen my two pencils with the knife I keep tucked away in my skirt pocket, but by the time my nightgown is on and my teeth brushed, all I can do is fall into bed.

The next morning, I wake feeling even more tired than when I went to bed. I didn't sleep very soundly, and if her relentless tossing and turning all night long was any indicator, neither did Lizzie.

The morning starts off all wrong. Emma and Tommy get in a squabble, and it takes everything in me to stay calm and send them off to school peacefully. I cross my fingers that Pa will come heroically striding out of the fields to take them to school for Momma, but of course, it's not to be. I didn't suppose it would.

I catch Momma staring out the window as they walk down the drive, and I half expect her to follow Pa's suggestion and go with them. Just as I'm opening my mouth to ask if I should fetch her bonnet, Momma moves away from the window and gets back to her chores, the pair disappearing behind a hill.

Lizzie's still young enough to be in school, but ever since we started doing the laundry, she's been staying home. She was all but failing every subject except for composition, and I think because of this, Momma and Pa decided she's ultimately more productive at home. Lizzie's a smart girl, I know it as surely as the sky is blue. She didn't care to put in the time and effort, which is a shame. At fourteen, she was just one year away from completing her studies, and I'm sorry that she didn't for her sake, as well as my own.

I head back to the kitchen to get started on my laundry duties. The two irons go in the fireplace, and I relish the moment of quiet stillness I have to myself while they heat up. The fire crackles, the floorboards overhead creak softly, birds sing outside. And then the front door slams and Lizzie bursts in. "Yesterday I did more than my fair share at the washboard, and then I had to hang all the clothes and sheets on the line by myself. My arms still hurt! It's not fair that I have to take them all down by myself too. It should be someone else's turn."

"That's because Ma and I were fixing supper," I argue. "I would much rather take them down than do the ironing, but you know that Ma doesn't want you handling the hot irons. It'll only take two minutes."

"My arms are too sore," she groans. "Can't I just have one day off from this? Penny doesn't have to do half the work that I do."

"I'm sorry you weren't born as Penny. Now, the irons are almost ready. Hurry up and bring me the first load."

"It's not fair. I hate this stupid laundry business. I don't want to do it anymore."

"Do you think I want to be doing this either?" I hiss.

"Girls! Work it out," Momma calls from upstairs.

Lizzie stomps her foot hard on the floor before dragging the big woven basket outside.

Every day has started in a similar fashion, and I'm sick of it. If she's not complaining about one thing, it's the other.

When I hear Lizzie come back inside, I carefully pick out one of the hot irons from the fire. It's still early. Maybe if I work extra fast, I'll be able to slip outside for a few minutes to sketch. I've been wanting-

Something heavy slams into the side of my foot, and my muscles tense up and spasm. All at once, my hand feels like it's on fire, and my eyes sting from tears. The pain gets more and more intense. My whole hand feels like it's baking in the fire, getting hotter and hotter. And then nothing.

"Look at what you made me do!" I yell while kicking over the full basket of laundry at my feet. Lizzie stands frozen across the room from where she flung the basket; her blue eyes tripled in size. I resist the urge to wring her neck and instead run outside to pump cool water over my hand.

The skin on half my thumb and a section of my palm, already sore and chapped from the washboard, feels hotter than skin should be allowed to feel, and I press my mouth into my shoulder to keep from crying out.

Momma dashes outside and Lizzie follows tentatively behind. "Oh, Norah, let me see." I stop pumping water and hold out my dripping hand. Gingerly, she takes it and inspects the damage, "It's already starting to swell, and I would count on a few blisters popping up. It will hurt for a while, but it could have been worse. You keep running water over it for a little while longer. Lizzie and I will finish up; I think you've had enough ironing for the day." With a squeeze on the shoulder, she and Lizzie go back inside.

I pump water until some of the pain from my hand transfers to my shoulder. The sky says it's around nine o'clock. Supper won't need to be fixed for several hours yet. Sometimes blessings come in disguise.