said Maggie, but Sarah was already out the door. Maggie turned to me. “You really are a prize idiot, you know!”
There was no point in arguing. She was right.
So I burst into tears.
“Stop bawling,” said Maggie, “it’s not your style.”
She was right again. But nothing like this had
ever
happened in Liberty. It was an extraordinary circumstance.
I bawled. Mama came into my room, sat down on the bed beside me, and stroked my hair.
“You’ve really done it now, girl,” she said. “Papa went to the cellar and then upstairs. He’s locked himself in his study.”
That meant Papa had taken a gallon of whisky from the cellar. If we were lucky, he’d drink himself speechless. If not, he’d have all too much to say. This was his easy solution to everything, from a toothache to family problems to metaphysical questions, if and when any occurred to him. When my little brother ran away from home and we got a letter from Santiago, where he’d dropped anchor with the whalers, Papa made the trip to the cellar and back up to his study and that settled the matter, as far as he was concerned.
“Go ahead, get those tears out,” said Mama. There was no reproach in her voice. Perhaps she was feeling sorry for herself. She could have done what I’d just done, twenty years ago, except in those days Papa hadn’t yet taken to retreating into his private alcoholic haze. Or if he had, Mama didn’t know about it.
She stroked my hair a little longer and then left.
“If I did something that cuckoo, my folks would tear meapart,” Maggie said. “Be thankful for the parents you’ve got, you dimwit.”
By then I wasn’t sobbing so hard. I knew I deserved this. Then Sarah rushed in, all out of breath, and said that Ambrose was gone by the time she got to the church. The moment he’d come to his senses, they said, he was out of there like a shot. So good old Sarah rushed over to the Burnsides’, but Bob wouldn’t even let her in. The lieutenant had just stopped by for his valise, and then left for the station.
I looked at the clock on the dressing table. It was almost three. The train to Connersville would leave at a quarter past. Ambrose would have to wait an hour in Connersville for his connection.
I could catch him there.
I had no idea what I would say.
3
The truth is, it wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ready to marry Ambrose. But that’s how life is: not exactly fair.
Ambrose had gone off to West Point before he turned eighteen. He was a thin lad, a tailor, and his shop, which wasn’t even on Main Street, wasn’t what you’d call elegant. Business was only fair, and his hairline was already receding. Not that any of this bothered me at the time. I was twelve and considered a tomboy. Girls didn’t interest me, boys did, because they would take me fishing and let me play soldiers and Indians. But when one of those Huck Finns suggested I play an abducted beauty that the American cavalry would rescue from the clutches of the Shoshones, I got mad and said I was no beauty and just let anyone try to abduct me. I said they should ask Becky Thatcher. She was the beautiful one, and she readher older sister Jocelyn’s romance novels. So they did, and of course Becky said yes and dressed up in her Sunday best for it. I was Chief Flat Feet of the Shoshones, and I abducted Becky in order to slay her. I was well brought up, I knew the only reason beauties were abducted was to be slain.
Or, if the abductors were Indians, to be tortured to death at the stake.
What actually happened to abducted beauties was something I didn’t learn until my mother noticed that it was time to tell me the facts of life. Still, I remained a tomboy until I was almost seventeen and started reading articles by Margaret Fuller. Instead of flirting with young men, which I was now inclining towards, I decided to fight for the rights of women. I also decided never to marry, so that nothing would distract me from the struggle. This decision wasn’t
There was no point in arguing. She was right.
So I burst into tears.
“Stop bawling,” said Maggie, “it’s not your style.”
She was right again. But nothing like this had
ever
happened in Liberty. It was an extraordinary circumstance.
I bawled. Mama came into my room, sat down on the bed beside me, and stroked my hair.
“You’ve really done it now, girl,” she said. “Papa went to the cellar and then upstairs. He’s locked himself in his study.”
That meant Papa had taken a gallon of whisky from the cellar. If we were lucky, he’d drink himself speechless. If not, he’d have all too much to say. This was his easy solution to everything, from a toothache to family problems to metaphysical questions, if and when any occurred to him. When my little brother ran away from home and we got a letter from Santiago, where he’d dropped anchor with the whalers, Papa made the trip to the cellar and back up to his study and that settled the matter, as far as he was concerned.
“Go ahead, get those tears out,” said Mama. There was no reproach in her voice. Perhaps she was feeling sorry for herself. She could have done what I’d just done, twenty years ago, except in those days Papa hadn’t yet taken to retreating into his private alcoholic haze. Or if he had, Mama didn’t know about it.
She stroked my hair a little longer and then left.
“If I did something that cuckoo, my folks would tear meapart,” Maggie said. “Be thankful for the parents you’ve got, you dimwit.”
By then I wasn’t sobbing so hard. I knew I deserved this. Then Sarah rushed in, all out of breath, and said that Ambrose was gone by the time she got to the church. The moment he’d come to his senses, they said, he was out of there like a shot. So good old Sarah rushed over to the Burnsides’, but Bob wouldn’t even let her in. The lieutenant had just stopped by for his valise, and then left for the station.
I looked at the clock on the dressing table. It was almost three. The train to Connersville would leave at a quarter past. Ambrose would have to wait an hour in Connersville for his connection.
I could catch him there.
I had no idea what I would say.
3
The truth is, it wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ready to marry Ambrose. But that’s how life is: not exactly fair.
Ambrose had gone off to West Point before he turned eighteen. He was a thin lad, a tailor, and his shop, which wasn’t even on Main Street, wasn’t what you’d call elegant. Business was only fair, and his hairline was already receding. Not that any of this bothered me at the time. I was twelve and considered a tomboy. Girls didn’t interest me, boys did, because they would take me fishing and let me play soldiers and Indians. But when one of those Huck Finns suggested I play an abducted beauty that the American cavalry would rescue from the clutches of the Shoshones, I got mad and said I was no beauty and just let anyone try to abduct me. I said they should ask Becky Thatcher. She was the beautiful one, and she readher older sister Jocelyn’s romance novels. So they did, and of course Becky said yes and dressed up in her Sunday best for it. I was Chief Flat Feet of the Shoshones, and I abducted Becky in order to slay her. I was well brought up, I knew the only reason beauties were abducted was to be slain.
Or, if the abductors were Indians, to be tortured to death at the stake.
What actually happened to abducted beauties was something I didn’t learn until my mother noticed that it was time to tell me the facts of life. Still, I remained a tomboy until I was almost seventeen and started reading articles by Margaret Fuller. Instead of flirting with young men, which I was now inclining towards, I decided to fight for the rights of women. I also decided never to marry, so that nothing would distract me from the struggle. This decision wasn’t
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