Galore by Michael Crummey Page A

Nigger Ralph’s Pond with stories of what Mr. Gallery would do if he got hold of you.
    —I should get back, Mrs. Gallery said. —You thank your mother for me.
    It was gone to noon by the time they reached Jabez Trim’s house. Jabez ushered them inside and sat them near the fire where they could open their clothes to the heat. He seemed thrilled to have company, calling into a back room to his wife. The Trims had no children, which everyone agreed was a trial for them, though Jabez let it be known the absence wasn’t due to a lack of trying. Olive Trim made her way out to greet them on her fists, her emaciated legs swinging lifelessly beneath her. Mary Tryphena was always surprised by the dexterity and grace she incorporated into such an awkward posture and motion. Olive lifted herself into a chair beside Mary Tryphena and took the pudding she unwrapped from the pouch while Jabez served up bowls of fish and potato stew.
    It was Judah’s first time inside a house since his move to the little shed and the smell of him was making Jabez’s and Olive’s eyes water, but they soldiered through with good humor. Judah removed his brin boots and hung them at the lip of the fireplace to dry, stretching his filthy, blackened feet as close to the flames as he could stand. Jabez asked after the health of everyone in the Gut and Mary Tryphena, who was still following Devine’s Widow on her rounds, had plenty of news to offer. But all the while she was preoccupied by her letter. She had pictured a cloistered conversation, just she and Jabez in near darkness, speaking in whispers, but there was no hope of such a thing. Soon enough Olive was urging them to leave, to make certain they’d be home before dark. —Your mother will be worried half to death you aren’t back before supper, she said. Jabez was out of his seat with Judah, the two of them tying strings and arranging clothes at the door, when Olive said, Jabez. She was watching Mary Tryphena who hadn’t budged from her seat and Jabez came over to stand beside her.
    —What is it, maid? he asked.
    There was nothing for it then but to bring out the letter and offer it to him. Jabez untied the string and opened the paper.
    —Behold, thou art fair, my love, he read, behold, thou art fair; thine eyes are as doves. He stopped there, too embarrassed to go on. He passed the paper across to Olive and she glanced through it, shaking her head. —Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my bride, she read.
    Mary Tryphena had never heard anything like those words. They made her feel exposed and ashamed of herself, she regretted showing it to a living soul.
    —Do you know who this is from? Olive asked.
    Mary Tryphena couldn’t bring herself to speak Absalom’s name aloud. She leaned into Olive’s ear to whisper it and they stared at one another, Olive looking to see if it could possibly be true. —Do you love him? she asked.
    Mary Tryphena was taken back by the bluntness of the question. —I don’t know, she said.
    —Could you love him do you think?
    Mary Tryphena barely heard the question over the buzz in her ears. She couldn’t hold Olive’s eye any longer and turned away, caught sight of Judah at the door. She’d forgotten he was in the room and was mortified to see she had an audience. Jude seemed no happier to be overhearing the exchange, his fish eyes bulging in his head. —No, she said. She pointed at him and shouted No a second time, and Jabez went across the room to usher Judah outside.
    Mary Tryphena slumped into her chair and did her best not to bawl. —Why would he send me this letter and not say a word to my face?
    —Who are we talking about here? Jabez asked.
    Olive gave him a quick look and then smiled across at the girl. —You know Absalom has a stutter, Mary Tryphena.
    —Jesus loves the little children, Jabez said. —Do your parents know about this?
    Mary Tryphena grabbed Olive’s wrist. —You won’t tell anyone, she pleaded.
    —Not a soul, Olive said.