from side to side. Sometimes all three of us held hands and spun in wild circles till we were too dizzy to stand.
Margaret was calling out the steps of a new dance one morning, and so focused was I on my feet that I didn't realize she'd stopped singing. I looked up and caught my breath. Papa stood in the doorway, holding his fiddle.
He lifted it to his chin and played “Lovely Leitrim” as if he'd practiced it for years. Margaret looked like she was going to burst into tears. Then Papa played “Aura Lee” and “Barbara Allen” and “Lorena,” all sad tunes, and his fiddle spoke of such heartbreak and longing that I was sure Mama must be crying in heaven.
Papa finished and looked at our faces.
“If Marion were here, she'd say, ‘Goodness, Franklin, play something cheerful!' Isn't that right, Quila?” And I nodded. That did sound like Mama.
“We need a dance tune,” Papa said, and lit into “Highland Laddie.” I grabbed Celia's hands and we hopped and skipped and slid across the floor, Celia shrieking with laughter. Papa played “The Fairy Dance” and “Blue Bonnets over the Border” till Celia and I collapsed.
Margaret put her hands on her hips and gave a nod to Papa. He played “Lark in the Morning” and “Paddy's Leather Breeches” while she jigged round the kitchen, the click of her feet sounding like stones washing against the shore, faster and faster, until the door flew open and she fell into Mr. Callahan's arms.
Papa's fiddle stopped in mid-tune, and the music and laughter died away. All my preparations for this day, the way I'd steeled myself against losing Celia, disappeared, too.
For weeks, the question of when Margaret would leave had been like an elephant in the parlor: it was on everyone's mind, even if no one mentioned it. But we hadn't been expecting Mr. Callahan for months yet, thought we had lots more time. Now the elephant had trumpeted its way into our living room, for Mr. Callahan had arrived early.
“You must be the lovely lass Mr. Richardson told me about. I understand I'm to transport you down to Boston,” Mr. Callahan said.
All this time I thought I'd been preparing myself for Margaret to leave, too, had thought I'd be glad to see her go, and I found I wasn't prepared at all. I couldno more imagine a day without seeing Margaret than I could a life without Celia.
Margaret looked at Papa as if she expected him to say something. He was looking at her as if he expected her to say something.
I was watching them both. I could see Papa's jaw muscles working; he was turning over something in his mind, but there wasn't any sound coming out of his mouth.
All he had to say was “I hope you'll stay awhile longer.” But he didn't.
I looked at Margaret. All she had to say was “No, thank you, Mr. Callahan. I've decided I won't be leaving just yet.” But she didn't.
Looking back, I can recognize that they were two wounded souls who were afraid to love again. But I was too young to understand it then.
Papa was the first to drop his eyes, so perhaps I'm the only one who noticed Margaret's shoulders droop, or how her voice came out flat and listless when she spoke.
“Thank you, Mr. Callahan, that would be most kind of you. I'll pack my things after supper, and be ready to go first thing in the morning.”
Margaret put apples to soak and mixed piecrust while I pared potatoes and stirred up biscuits. While we ate, Mr. Callahan told Margaret the story of Abby Burgess, and told me that the Lighthouse Board (and Abby, too) was quite enthusiastic about my idea of a lighthouse library, but I hardly heard him. Mr. Callahan was here, and Margaret would be leaving with him in the morning, taking Celia with her.
Mr. Callahan tried to entertain us at supper, but when he saw no one was listening, he stopped talking and just ate. It was so quiet we could hear him chewing. As for the rest of us, our food sat untouched on our plates. Celia didn't understand what was going on, but she knew
Margaret was calling out the steps of a new dance one morning, and so focused was I on my feet that I didn't realize she'd stopped singing. I looked up and caught my breath. Papa stood in the doorway, holding his fiddle.
He lifted it to his chin and played “Lovely Leitrim” as if he'd practiced it for years. Margaret looked like she was going to burst into tears. Then Papa played “Aura Lee” and “Barbara Allen” and “Lorena,” all sad tunes, and his fiddle spoke of such heartbreak and longing that I was sure Mama must be crying in heaven.
Papa finished and looked at our faces.
“If Marion were here, she'd say, ‘Goodness, Franklin, play something cheerful!' Isn't that right, Quila?” And I nodded. That did sound like Mama.
“We need a dance tune,” Papa said, and lit into “Highland Laddie.” I grabbed Celia's hands and we hopped and skipped and slid across the floor, Celia shrieking with laughter. Papa played “The Fairy Dance” and “Blue Bonnets over the Border” till Celia and I collapsed.
Margaret put her hands on her hips and gave a nod to Papa. He played “Lark in the Morning” and “Paddy's Leather Breeches” while she jigged round the kitchen, the click of her feet sounding like stones washing against the shore, faster and faster, until the door flew open and she fell into Mr. Callahan's arms.
Papa's fiddle stopped in mid-tune, and the music and laughter died away. All my preparations for this day, the way I'd steeled myself against losing Celia, disappeared, too.
For weeks, the question of when Margaret would leave had been like an elephant in the parlor: it was on everyone's mind, even if no one mentioned it. But we hadn't been expecting Mr. Callahan for months yet, thought we had lots more time. Now the elephant had trumpeted its way into our living room, for Mr. Callahan had arrived early.
“You must be the lovely lass Mr. Richardson told me about. I understand I'm to transport you down to Boston,” Mr. Callahan said.
All this time I thought I'd been preparing myself for Margaret to leave, too, had thought I'd be glad to see her go, and I found I wasn't prepared at all. I couldno more imagine a day without seeing Margaret than I could a life without Celia.
Margaret looked at Papa as if she expected him to say something. He was looking at her as if he expected her to say something.
I was watching them both. I could see Papa's jaw muscles working; he was turning over something in his mind, but there wasn't any sound coming out of his mouth.
All he had to say was “I hope you'll stay awhile longer.” But he didn't.
I looked at Margaret. All she had to say was “No, thank you, Mr. Callahan. I've decided I won't be leaving just yet.” But she didn't.
Looking back, I can recognize that they were two wounded souls who were afraid to love again. But I was too young to understand it then.
Papa was the first to drop his eyes, so perhaps I'm the only one who noticed Margaret's shoulders droop, or how her voice came out flat and listless when she spoke.
“Thank you, Mr. Callahan, that would be most kind of you. I'll pack my things after supper, and be ready to go first thing in the morning.”
Margaret put apples to soak and mixed piecrust while I pared potatoes and stirred up biscuits. While we ate, Mr. Callahan told Margaret the story of Abby Burgess, and told me that the Lighthouse Board (and Abby, too) was quite enthusiastic about my idea of a lighthouse library, but I hardly heard him. Mr. Callahan was here, and Margaret would be leaving with him in the morning, taking Celia with her.
Mr. Callahan tried to entertain us at supper, but when he saw no one was listening, he stopped talking and just ate. It was so quiet we could hear him chewing. As for the rest of us, our food sat untouched on our plates. Celia didn't understand what was going on, but she knew
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