Providence Bound

PROVIDENCE. sometime in late July.

There’s a stagecoach coming round the bend, limping up with a wheel that wobbles something awful. You see it from the porch, all fine and red and glossy and driven by pretty dark bay horses, and when it begins slowing down, the dogs rise to their paws and start barking at it.

Angus whistles real loud and sharp, and the dogs quit yapping, but their ears are pricked, and their eyes are pinned to the stagecoach. You follow their gazes, stare curiously out at the fine, sleek stagecoach and all its pretty fixings, and the sight’s so intriguing that the sound of Eugenia’s voice makes you start. Your sister’s standing in the doorway, and she’s got the baby on her hip and a frown on her lips.

“Who’s that?” she asks, and she gestures with her chin to the stagecoach, but Angus is frowning, and Thomas is still busy whittling himself a new recorder instead of helping shuck corn.

“Hell if I know,” says Angus. He’s moved his chew over to one side of his mouth, and he turns his head and spits off into the bushes. Your brother sniffs, and then, as he starts turning back around, his eyes shift first to Eugenia and then to you. “One o’ y’all find a fancy admirer?”

Eugenia frowns real ugly, and she puts her hand over the baby’s ears, but the little tyke’s looking over at you, so you make a funny face, and she starts giggling.

“You shouldn’t cuss,” Eugenia chastises. She narrows her eyes at Angus, and her tone’s almost as firm as Mama’s. “It ain’t Christian.”

“And havin’ some feller’s baby outta wedlock ain’t Christian, neither,” quips Angus all low and cool, “but ain’t nobody say shit about that.”

All the muscles in Eugenia’s face pull real, real tight for a moment, and her eyes get so shiny they gleam, but she breathes real slow, and she says, in a voice that’s awfully tight and thick, “Why don’t you go see who that is, huh? ‘Stead of sittin’ over here, wastin’ space.”

Then she turns on her heel and stalks back into the house with the baby. She slams the door behind her, but only you jump at it, and though your head’s angled down, your eyes start shifting up to Angus, who’s now glaring daggers at the ears of corn what he shucks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Angus glowers. He glances over at you, and you meet his gaze without balking, but he’s not glaring hard. Nobody ever glares hard at you.

The stagecoach’s driver is getting off, and he glances up at the house, shakes his head, and then moves to the coach’s door. He starts talking to someone what sits inside, but the curtain’s been pulled down over the window, and you’re much too far away, anyhow, to try and steal a peek of the passenger.

“You gonna go see who that is?” Thomas pipes up. He blows away the little curled shavings of wood what linger on his handiwork, and then he gives it a little test play, frowns at the note, and makes the hole he’d carved a little wider.

“Your legs work too, don’t they?” asks Angus.

“No better ’n yours,” says Thomas. He blows on the flute again, and the note is nice and sweet, so he puts his knife away and then side-eyes Angus. “‘Sides, I ain’t the one what might not be gettin’ fed tonight.”

Angus furrows his brow, and his glower’s ugly, but he mutters something under his breath, throws the ear of corn he’d been shucking back into the bucket, and then stands and starts stomping down to the stagecoach. The dogs follow after him, and one starts wagging her tail, but the other two are still eyeing the driver like he might pull out a gun.

Thomas plays a couple notes on his little flute, and he likes them enough that he manages a whole little tune. When he’s done, he looks at you, and there’s a grin pulling at his lips.

“How’d you like that one, Picky-Poppy?” he asks.

A frown pulls at the line of your mouth, and your gaze is shifting to the front door.

“Little short,” you say, and Thomas frowns.

“Well, it ain’t a whole song,” says Thomas, and he wets his lips and plays off a couple more notes. “It’s just a tune. Tune’s ain’t long.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” replies Thomas, and he’s talking awful matter-of-factly. He starts leaning back against the step above the one he’s sitting on, and he brings his recorder up to his mouth and takes a breath like he might start off a whole ballad.

“Why don’t you stop playin’ and finish shuckin’ the corn?” you say, and then you toss an ear into his lap and stand. “I’mma go help Eugenia.”

Thomas frowns, but he puts down his flute and grabs the ear of corn, and you dust off your skirt and head into the house. Grampa’s snoring lightly in his rocking chair, and the cat’s curled up all nice and content atop his gut, but there’s movement in the kitchen, and you pad on in real careful and quiet-like.

Eugenia’s set the baby on the counter, and she’s chewing on a strawberry, but most of it’s getting on her face. Your sister’s chopping up a chicken breast, but she’s being a bit firmer than she needs to, and the line of her shoulders is all tense and rigid.

“You want some help?” you ask gently, and Eugenia brings the knife down hard.

The baby sees, looks down at one of the strawberries what sits next to her, and then tries to smash it with her hand. Juice and bits of strawberry splatter the counter and the baby, and she giggles at her little mess and starts bouncing.

Eugenia doesn’t turn.

“You can chop the carrots,” she says, and her voice is still awfully tight, so you do.

The baby watches, and she makes a grabby hand for one of the pieces, so you cut it up small and give it to her. She tastes it, frowns, and babbles about something, and you nod.

“I don’t like them much, either,” you agree. “Tastes better in cake, if’n you ask me, but your mama’s the boss.”

The baby babbles again, but in the corner of your eye, you see Eugenia still, and she turns her head ever so slightly. There’s a frown pulling at her lips, and you see her wipe her eyes on her sleeve, and then she brings the knife down hard again and lets it sit there.

“Somebody’s gotta stand up ’n take charge around here,” Eugenia says. “Why’ve I gotta be the villain for it?” She chokes on the words some, and you hear her sniffle, but she’s not crying yet. Eugenia wails awful when she cries. “We still gotta eat. We still gotta have clean clothes and a clean house and beds and water. All them needs don’t just go away.”

You put down the knife, and then you step quiet on over to your sister and place your hand atop hers. Her eyes are all glassy and foggy, and she’s staring hard down at the poor chicken what she’s massacred.

“You ain’t a villain for it, Eugenia,” you murmur real soft, and you set your other hand on her back, start rubbing comforting circles like Mama and Papa used to. “Angus shouldn’t’ve said what he did.”

“Why’s he gotta take his anger out on me, huh?” Eugenia whimpers. A shudder’s running down her spine, now, and the tears in her eyes are spilling out onto her cheeks, so you wrap your arms around her and pull her into a tender hug. “It ain’t my fault what happened.”

“Nobody thinks it is,” you say, and the heaviness on your chest squeezes your heart some. “You know how Angus gets. He’s hurtin’, so he’s lashin’ out—that’s all. Don’t make it right, and don’t make it true.”

Eugenia cries into your shoulder, but eventually, her sobs start dying down, and now you can hear the baby, babbling for her mama. Slowly, Eugenia pulls away from you, wipes her eyes, and then goes to grab her baby, and a moment later, Thomas, all lanky and long, comes in with a bucket of shucked corncobs. It’s emptier than it should be, but that’s no fault of Thomas’s; harvest was awful scarce this year.

“Y’all gotta come outside and see this,” Thomas says, and he’s talking awful fast. He’s moving quick, and there’s an eagerness that gleams so bright in his eyes it’s almost blinding. His flute’s in his breast-pocket, and he sets the bucket down on the floor near the sink, notices Grampa, and continues, in a whisper so loud it’s not much of a whisper at all, “There’s a real fancy ass lady what got outta that stagecoach. She’s gotta be wearin’ at least a hunnerd pearls.”

“Thomas, language,” says Eugenia, but her chastisement goes in one ear and right out the other, and Thomas starts shepherding you and Eugenia back out the door.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the young man urges. “Quit draggin’ your feet. You gotta see.”

Suddenly, you’re outside, and sure enough, standing by the stagecoach with the driver and Angus is a woman what looks to be in her late forties. She’s wearing a cream-colored hat what’s got pretty red roses and long, puffy blue feathers tucked into a smooth-looking, white ribbon, and the high-collared dress she wears is a pretty navy blue, but her jacket’s a nice tan color what matches her hat. She’s got pearls, too—lots of them, in her hat and around her neck, and prettying up her ears, too—but there’s a frown pulling at her mouth, and she looks at the house and the farm, and the pigs and the dogs, and her nose starts scrunching up like she’s smelled something foul.

“What’d I tell you?” whispers Thomas. His face is right by yours, and he leans down a little more to peer over your shoulder and across to the stagecoach. “A whole clan o’ clams must’ve died to give her all them pearls.”

“You jealous?” you inquire quietly. Thomas’s hair is growing long, and its curls tickle your cheek.

“Ain’t you?” says Thomas, and he grins like a fox. “Shoot, if I had the money to buy one o’ them pearls? Well, I wouldn’t be here, tell you what.”

“Everythin’ alright over there?” Eugenia calls. Her eyes are red and her face is puffy, but she stares hard out at the stagecoach and its passenger, and she passes the baby off to you and then starts making her way down the porch steps.

Baby girl latches on to your blouse, but she turns to watch her mama leave. Strawberry juice and seeds stick to her fat cheeks, and you take a corner of her bib and a bit of spit and wipe her face clean.

“You so silly,” you coo, and the little girl wrinkles her nose and frowns. “Lil’ itty-bitty silly billy.” Guess she liked being sticky. “We don’t wear strawberries, baby girl; we eat ’em.”

Eugenia’s standing over with Angus, now, and the lady frowns at her and starts saying something that don’t look all too much like a hello. Angus is still glowering, still scowling like someone shoved a whole lemon into his mouth, and then he looks back at you and Thomas and hollers, “One o’ y’all go ’n make yerself useful ’n wake up Gramps!”

Thomas remains standing right where he is, so you nudge him gently with your elbow.

“Think he’s talkin’ to you,” you comment, but Thomas’s tongue is awful quick, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and stays leaning over your shoulder.

“He said one of us,” Thomas points out awful confidently.

But you’re not daunted, and you inquire, lightly, “And which one’ve us’s got their hands full?”

Thomas blinks, but he pouts and concedes, with a sigh, saying, “Alright—fine.” He makes an exaggerated turn and trudges on back into the house to rouse the dead, and you look again to Eugenia and Angus, and the stagecoach driver and the fancy older lady.

What kinda business might a well-to-do woman have with your Grampa?

The sun’s still burning bright, but the wind carries with it the smell of rain, and its fingers tug at your sleeves and skirt and mess with the feathers in the genteel lady’s nice hat. Baby girl turns to you and starts trying to say something, and her breath is sweet with the smell of strawberries, but her brow’s all scrunched up, and her little mouth is frowning.

“What’s the matter, huh?” you ask, and the baby babbles a word what sounds almost like Mama, so you hike her up some and then nod with your head in the direction of Eugenia. “Your mama’s right over there, see?”

Grampa limps out of the house; you hear him before you see him, cussing low and long under his breath. He’s leaning heavy on his crutch and frowning firm, and he closes one eye and squints hard with the other over at the stagecoach and then to the people standing outside of it.

“Y’all woke me up for this horseshit?” he grunts, and his voice is rough from a mix of tobacco and sleep. He talks outta one side of his mouth, and he leans over and spits out the other. “Ain’t nothin’ but another one o’ them Bible freaks.”

You step a little to the side to give the old man more room, and then you comment, gently, “I’m thinkin’ the lady might’ve asked to speak with you, Pop-pop.”

Grampa’s good eye turns to you, and beneath his white-as-snow beard, his frown remains firm, but he starts rolling up his sleeves and fixing his suspenders.

“Should’a lied and told her I was dead,” he snorts. He sniffs and wipes his nose with his thumb, and then he opens up his other eye, grins a little with one side of his mouth, and winks at you. “Start a count for me, wouldja? I’mma tell her we’re Catholic.”

You smile back at him and move baby girl so that she’s resting on your right side, and then you nod and say, “Can do.”

Grampa breathes in deep, and then he sets the bottom of his crutch down atop one of the porch steps and starts making his way over to the stagecoach. He moves awful quick, but he don’t wanna be wasting no more of his precious napping hours than he has to. He gets over to Eugenia and Angus and places one hand on your brother’s back, and then he introduces himself real easy and smooth like he hadn’t just been cussing out the lady and all the people what led her to be. The lady’s frown softens some at his charms, but she still doesn’t look all too happy to be here, and when Grampa gestures up to the house a little bit of something in her withers.

A few minutes later, Gramps is limping back up to you, and the lady and the driver, and Angus and Eugenia follow. Gramps looks up when he gets close, and then he pauses, puts an arm around your shoulders, and looks at the lady and says, “And this here’s my youngest granddaughter, [Name], but we took to callin’ her Poppy on account of Tommy, who’s the baby.

“Or was, ‘fore this lil’ ankle-biter popped out,” Gramps continues, and he points a finger at Eugenia’s baby and taps her on the nose.

The lady’s face is awful pale, and there’s already blood rushing to her cheeks, but she’s pretty. Elegant, what in that way that genteel people are, with a straight, sloping nose and round face and dark hair. Her eyes are on you, and now that she’s near, you can spy their color. They’re a pale, grayish-blue, like a sky what’s just short of overcast, or a lake churned by a thunderstorm, and they press at your face, prod and pick and then peel back some of the pieces to peer just a touch closer. You frown at their press and squirm some, but there’s a smile pulling at the lady’s small mouth, and a light that’s awful pleased brightens her pupils.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. [Name],” says the lady. Her voice is smooth and low, and she talks real nice—too nice.

“How—how do you do, ma’am?” you ask. Eugenia moves to take her baby from you, and though you don’t stop her, you hesitate some.

“You may call me Madam Bellamy, dear girl,” the lady smiles, but the grin doesn’t reach her eyes, and she gives you a look-over that feels awful similar to the appraisals Grampa gives the pigs before they’re butchered. “My, aren’t you a pretty thing? Why, you mustn’t be a day over sixteen.”

“She’s eighteen, actually,” corrects Angus. He’s stopped on the steps, but he’s got one foot up on the porch and his right arm resting against one of the pillars, and his eyes are narrowed at the lady.

“Really?” says Madam Bellamy, and surprise dusts her face, but her lips are still pulled up in a delighted smile. “But you look so young.” She grins at you and clasps her hands together, and then she inquires, smoothly, “Might you turn around for me, dear? I must see something.”

Grampa brings his arm back, and befuddlement is pulling at his lips, but he looks at you, and what would it hurt, anyhow? You stomach the prickling unease what’s starting to rise in your gut, and you make a shuffling, uncertain little spin, but the madam is grinning, and when you’re turned back around, she gives you a delighted little clap.

“Yes! Wonderful—how wonderful. Thank you.” Madam Bellamy looks you in the eye, and the corners of her smile press into the apples of her cheeks. “Tell me, do you enjoy dancing, my dear? Singing?”

Her stare is so intense, and her eyes so sharp your tongue stumbles and your voice cowers in the back of your throat, but Eugenia speaks for you.

“Poppy don’t never stop singin’,” says Eugenia real sweet, and then she rolls her eyes. “And what girl don’t dance?”

“Well, it never hurts to ask,” muses Madam Bellamy.

“And why do you ask?” inquires Grampa. He smiles with the side of his mouth and then jokes, “You thinkin’a stealin’ our Poppy, ma’am?”

“Not at all,” Madam Bellamy replies, but she’s not done speaking, and she stands up very straight and smooths her jacket and says, “But I would like to offer her a job.” Madam Bellamy smiles very sweet at you, but her mouth is closed, and you weren’t paying much attention to the shape of her teeth. “How do you like the sound of that, my dear girl?”

You blink, and surprise startles your voice right out of your throat.

“A job?” you echo.

A job? You? Working where?

“Doin’ what?” asks Angus, and he’s still frowning hard at the Madam, but the lady doesn’t seem much daunted by his stare.

“Singing and dancing, mostly,” replies Madam Bellamy, and she sounds awful honest, but those eyes of hers—they’re much too piercing. “I happen to be the owner of an incredibly profitable and well-to-do dance hall.” Madam Bellamy opens her clutch and rifles about in it for a moment, and then she pulls out a piece of cardstock and hands it to Grampa. “Here—my card.”

Grampa takes the piece of cardstock, squints at the front, and then glances over at you and Angus and Eugenia and asks, “Which one o’ y’all reads again?”

“Oh, let me see it.” Eugenia balances the baby against her hip and then takes the card from Grampa, and she looks over it, flips it to the back and then again to the front, and then reads aloud, “‘Lady Constance Bellamy, proprietor and manager of Bella Donna Dance Hall.’”

Angus looks back to the Madam when Eugenia’s done, and he glowers.

“I ain’t never heard’a that place,” says Angus, and now he’s folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the Madam.

“It’s in Whitetusk, my dear,” the lady replies, and she smiles at Angus, but the line of her mouth is tight. “I am, as I told you earlier, on my way back there,” Madam Bellamy continues, and now she looks to your grandfather, “I could bring your granddaughter with me, should she wish to come.”

Grampa’s eyes are wide, and when he speaks, incredulity steals into his tone.

“That’s, uh, that’s a bit soon.” He leans on his crutch and rubs his mouth, and then he looks at everybody what stands around, glances at the door, and then motions them in. “Let’s talk more inside, huh?”

Madam Bellamy smiles and says, awful light, “Of course.”

She heads in, and Eugenia and Angus, and the stagecoach driver follow after, but Grampa waits outside with you, and as you’re moving to cross the threshold, he grabs your arm. He’s looking at you, and he’s got his bad eye closed again, but he don’t squint none.

“You been awful quiet, [Name],” he says. He’s whispering, and his voice is low and somber. “Whatcha thinkin’, girl?”

You look at Grampa, stare into his good eye, and then you glance over at Madam Bellamy. A job would be a great thing. Bartering works fine, but ain’t no one what disputes a Union dollar.

“I dunno.” Your gaze shifts back to Grampa, and you frown. “It’d be...good.”

“It could be,” says Grampa.

“We could use the money,” you add.

“We could,” Grampa agrees, and he chuckles, but it’s a harsh sound, and it ends in a cough. “S’cuse me,” he continues, and he sniffs again and turns and spits off the side of the porch. Then he looks back at you, and stares hard with his good eye, but a moment passes, and he sighs and opens the other eye. “It’d be a real good thing, [Name]. It really would be.”

You stare at him, and unease is walking on spider legs up your spine, but your frown’s soft.

“I ain’t gotta leave today, do I?” you ask real soft.

Grampa smiles with his whole mouth.

“I reckon we should go ahead and see about that, don’t you?” he says, and you move to hold the door open for him.

In the distance, thunder rumbles, and as the scent of rain washes over the world, the cows start lying down.