Cannice grabbed me in an embrace and called me her lamb. Cicero jumped up and licked my face.
Mayor Hanley held a paper in his hand. I curtsied to him.
"Where is she?" Pa boomed. "Where is the woman who kidnapped my daughter?" He started to advance toward Mother menacingly, but Mayor Hanley held out a restraining arm.
"Let me handle this, Hunter."
But Pa saw the riding crop in Mother's hand. "Did you hit her again?" he demanded. He looked at me. "Well, did she?"
For a minute they all looked at me. Even Cicero, who sat expectantly, waiting. I felt a darkness pass over us, like when there is an eclipse of the sun.
She was about to,
I could say. But then, sure as God made eight-foot alligators, Pa would head outside to fetch his rifle and, no matter what Mayor Hanley said, come back in and shoot Mother dead.
Then he'd be sent to jail, maybe hanged. I couldn't let that happen to Pa, to us. So I stood there and said, "No, she never hit me, Pa. She never even hinted at it."
Pa nodded and settled himself. I saw Viola and the others sigh in relief, saw Cicero wag his tail. Mayor Hanley officially presented Mother with the paper Teddy had left in his care, saying that Viola was in charge of me. "It's been notarized, Mrs. Conners," he told her. "I'm afraid you'll have to give the child up."
Mother was trembling. In the twisted disorder of her mind she was already planning something.
"He's never officially been named her guardian."
"But he's been responsible for her for how long now? Since before he went to college, Viola told me, which puts her at about three or four. And while away at college. Viola showed me letters from him, with directives from there. And when he wasn't around, Louis was responsible. And her father, until he took sick. You left the family, Mrs. Conners. Everybody knows that. You abandoned your child."
The air went out of Mother. She seemed to diminish in size.
"Come now, let's be on our way," the mayor said. "Get your things, child."
"Where did you get that horrible dress?" Viola asked. "Where is your other one?"
"Upstairs in my room."
We both looked at the mayor, who nodded his permission, and I took Viola upstairs, where she went white in the face as she looked about the room. She said not a thing. Just scooped up the dress and petticoats. I grabbed the pink sash and we went back downstairs. The others had gone out to the carriage. Only the mayor waited with Mother in the hallway.
"Goodbye, ma'am," the mayor bade her.
We said not a word to Mother, nor she to us, as we went out.
***
"Which puts her at about three or four," the mayor had told Mother.
I was four when it happened.
And I remember the why and the how of it like it was yesterday, only nobody, not even Teddy, knows I remember.
It stands out in my mind like a painting, like the one we have in the hall of the Dutch girl with the pearl earring by Vermeer.
Sometimes I think only Teddy and I know about it. But then sometimes I think that, as close as he is to Louis, he must have told him about it. They share everything.
What I know is that Teddy carries the burden around with him. Blames himself for the whole untidiness of it, the breakup of our parents' marriage. And that is why he is so moody sometimes, so strict with me and Viola.
He does not want us to turn out like Mother.
So there I was, four. And Teddy was sixteen. And Mother was still living at home and we were, on the surface at least, still one normal family living happily ever after. Then one day this man named Nicholas Waters comes along, this very rich man from Sweetwater Creek, thirty miles away, who owned the Sweetwater Factory, a textile mill much like ours.
Apparently Mr. Waters needed to meet with Pa about some mill business, so he stayed in Roswell at the home of a Mr. Angus Brumby, whom he knew and who was away at the time.
Somehow, Mother and Mr. Waters "had something going" as Teddy would say. And she made arrangements to meet with him at Angus Brumby's
Mayor Hanley held a paper in his hand. I curtsied to him.
"Where is she?" Pa boomed. "Where is the woman who kidnapped my daughter?" He started to advance toward Mother menacingly, but Mayor Hanley held out a restraining arm.
"Let me handle this, Hunter."
But Pa saw the riding crop in Mother's hand. "Did you hit her again?" he demanded. He looked at me. "Well, did she?"
For a minute they all looked at me. Even Cicero, who sat expectantly, waiting. I felt a darkness pass over us, like when there is an eclipse of the sun.
She was about to,
I could say. But then, sure as God made eight-foot alligators, Pa would head outside to fetch his rifle and, no matter what Mayor Hanley said, come back in and shoot Mother dead.
Then he'd be sent to jail, maybe hanged. I couldn't let that happen to Pa, to us. So I stood there and said, "No, she never hit me, Pa. She never even hinted at it."
Pa nodded and settled himself. I saw Viola and the others sigh in relief, saw Cicero wag his tail. Mayor Hanley officially presented Mother with the paper Teddy had left in his care, saying that Viola was in charge of me. "It's been notarized, Mrs. Conners," he told her. "I'm afraid you'll have to give the child up."
Mother was trembling. In the twisted disorder of her mind she was already planning something.
"He's never officially been named her guardian."
"But he's been responsible for her for how long now? Since before he went to college, Viola told me, which puts her at about three or four. And while away at college. Viola showed me letters from him, with directives from there. And when he wasn't around, Louis was responsible. And her father, until he took sick. You left the family, Mrs. Conners. Everybody knows that. You abandoned your child."
The air went out of Mother. She seemed to diminish in size.
"Come now, let's be on our way," the mayor said. "Get your things, child."
"Where did you get that horrible dress?" Viola asked. "Where is your other one?"
"Upstairs in my room."
We both looked at the mayor, who nodded his permission, and I took Viola upstairs, where she went white in the face as she looked about the room. She said not a thing. Just scooped up the dress and petticoats. I grabbed the pink sash and we went back downstairs. The others had gone out to the carriage. Only the mayor waited with Mother in the hallway.
"Goodbye, ma'am," the mayor bade her.
We said not a word to Mother, nor she to us, as we went out.
***
"Which puts her at about three or four," the mayor had told Mother.
I was four when it happened.
And I remember the why and the how of it like it was yesterday, only nobody, not even Teddy, knows I remember.
It stands out in my mind like a painting, like the one we have in the hall of the Dutch girl with the pearl earring by Vermeer.
Sometimes I think only Teddy and I know about it. But then sometimes I think that, as close as he is to Louis, he must have told him about it. They share everything.
What I know is that Teddy carries the burden around with him. Blames himself for the whole untidiness of it, the breakup of our parents' marriage. And that is why he is so moody sometimes, so strict with me and Viola.
He does not want us to turn out like Mother.
So there I was, four. And Teddy was sixteen. And Mother was still living at home and we were, on the surface at least, still one normal family living happily ever after. Then one day this man named Nicholas Waters comes along, this very rich man from Sweetwater Creek, thirty miles away, who owned the Sweetwater Factory, a textile mill much like ours.
Apparently Mr. Waters needed to meet with Pa about some mill business, so he stayed in Roswell at the home of a Mr. Angus Brumby, whom he knew and who was away at the time.
Somehow, Mother and Mr. Waters "had something going" as Teddy would say. And she made arrangements to meet with him at Angus Brumby's
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