my hands busy while you talk on, duck,” I said, “by which I mean you seem set to linger a great deal longer than I had calculated.”
“What will it become?”
I inspected the yarn, peeved by the colours. I have ever disliked aniline dyes, what with their false and lurid brightness (much like the electric bright of the night streets). The brown wool looked near to red, the red near to orange, and the yellow flat-out sulphurous. Years past I dyed my own wool with ox-gall and fustic. My son often helped me, as was his wont, and without a solitary complaint. When he was six I promised I would knit an article for his birthday (which fell on March the 5th), and that I would do so no matter his age or location. Mittens. Socks. Sweater-alls. He liked clay reds, earth browns, the blues of sea or sky. I should add that he was my only child.
“Mrs. Mellon? Mrs. Mellon!”
“Yes, I have ears. Do I look a statue?”
“Somewhat. And you didn’t answer my question: what will it become?”
“I don’t know. I merely follow its shape. Womanly arts require simple thoughts. Ruminations … ponderings … they only beget tangles and messes and … rat’s nests.”
“Well, yes.”
I began with a cast-up stitch. The needles clacked in the garret’s silence. “Shall we just get on with Rochester, duck,” I said, and with my kindest manner to atone for my abruptness.
“Surely,” she said, and described how Leah packed her new bible box in her battered old valise, then packed her young sisters off to Rochester. My patient owned that she did not know it at the time, but neither Hydesville nor Arcadia would ever be her home again.
I N R OCHESTER , Leah disembarks at Canal Street, her young sisters one step behind her. She tells a boat porter her address on Mechanics Square, raising her voice above the racket of tin horns, the calls of peanut vendors, the clatter of horses and commerce. The porter loads their luggage on a handcart, doffs his cap. No one else pays the three sisters much attention. Nor had they been noticed on the canal boat. A fine day for the glide, the mule and his hoggee plodding along the towpath, the sun aglint. “Astonishing,” Leah said to her sisters. “How a lone mule can pull along a boatful of oblivious mortals.”
Her sisters agreed and smiled and then pasted themselves on either side of her. The ghostly rappings began then, but were mistaken for the general workings of the boat. “And so the ghost
does
follow you, but for what reason?” Leah mused. “Surely he has a purpose. Everyone requires purpose.”
“Come, lambs,” Leah says now. “Lizzie will be awaiting us at home.”
“Can we call on Amy and Isaac? At their apothecary?” Katie asks. “They’re sure to give me a horehound, mayhap two of ’em.”
“Of
them
, dear, and the Posts are still in Seneca at some women’s suffrage conference.”
“Well, I miss them. I really, really do,” Katie says.
“Of that I have no doubt,” Leah replies. Amy and Isaac Post are fast friends to the Foxes and have given shelter to the family during various financial crises. But then such is the way of Hicksite Quakers. They partonize good causes and treat all and sundry as equals, even children, hence Maggie’s and Katie’s affection.
“Thee. Thouest. Thine,” Katie chants now, in mimicry of the Posts’ antiquated Quaker speech. “It’s such a cozy way to talk. Why can’t we talk like that?”
“Because it would draw unwarranted attention, Katherina, and sound ridiculous.”
Maggie asks, “Do you reckon Amy and Isaac will, I dunno, fancy our ghost, believe in him, that is?”
“They believe that women can achieve suffrage and that, Margaretta, is an equally fantastical notion.”
“I recollect you saying women suffer all the time,” Katie says, then scratches her nose, puzzled, when Leah laughs so hard she must cover her mouth with her gloved hands.
“Ah, but you are an amusing little thing. A
“What will it become?”
I inspected the yarn, peeved by the colours. I have ever disliked aniline dyes, what with their false and lurid brightness (much like the electric bright of the night streets). The brown wool looked near to red, the red near to orange, and the yellow flat-out sulphurous. Years past I dyed my own wool with ox-gall and fustic. My son often helped me, as was his wont, and without a solitary complaint. When he was six I promised I would knit an article for his birthday (which fell on March the 5th), and that I would do so no matter his age or location. Mittens. Socks. Sweater-alls. He liked clay reds, earth browns, the blues of sea or sky. I should add that he was my only child.
“Mrs. Mellon? Mrs. Mellon!”
“Yes, I have ears. Do I look a statue?”
“Somewhat. And you didn’t answer my question: what will it become?”
“I don’t know. I merely follow its shape. Womanly arts require simple thoughts. Ruminations … ponderings … they only beget tangles and messes and … rat’s nests.”
“Well, yes.”
I began with a cast-up stitch. The needles clacked in the garret’s silence. “Shall we just get on with Rochester, duck,” I said, and with my kindest manner to atone for my abruptness.
“Surely,” she said, and described how Leah packed her new bible box in her battered old valise, then packed her young sisters off to Rochester. My patient owned that she did not know it at the time, but neither Hydesville nor Arcadia would ever be her home again.
I N R OCHESTER , Leah disembarks at Canal Street, her young sisters one step behind her. She tells a boat porter her address on Mechanics Square, raising her voice above the racket of tin horns, the calls of peanut vendors, the clatter of horses and commerce. The porter loads their luggage on a handcart, doffs his cap. No one else pays the three sisters much attention. Nor had they been noticed on the canal boat. A fine day for the glide, the mule and his hoggee plodding along the towpath, the sun aglint. “Astonishing,” Leah said to her sisters. “How a lone mule can pull along a boatful of oblivious mortals.”
Her sisters agreed and smiled and then pasted themselves on either side of her. The ghostly rappings began then, but were mistaken for the general workings of the boat. “And so the ghost
does
follow you, but for what reason?” Leah mused. “Surely he has a purpose. Everyone requires purpose.”
“Come, lambs,” Leah says now. “Lizzie will be awaiting us at home.”
“Can we call on Amy and Isaac? At their apothecary?” Katie asks. “They’re sure to give me a horehound, mayhap two of ’em.”
“Of
them
, dear, and the Posts are still in Seneca at some women’s suffrage conference.”
“Well, I miss them. I really, really do,” Katie says.
“Of that I have no doubt,” Leah replies. Amy and Isaac Post are fast friends to the Foxes and have given shelter to the family during various financial crises. But then such is the way of Hicksite Quakers. They partonize good causes and treat all and sundry as equals, even children, hence Maggie’s and Katie’s affection.
“Thee. Thouest. Thine,” Katie chants now, in mimicry of the Posts’ antiquated Quaker speech. “It’s such a cozy way to talk. Why can’t we talk like that?”
“Because it would draw unwarranted attention, Katherina, and sound ridiculous.”
Maggie asks, “Do you reckon Amy and Isaac will, I dunno, fancy our ghost, believe in him, that is?”
“They believe that women can achieve suffrage and that, Margaretta, is an equally fantastical notion.”
“I recollect you saying women suffer all the time,” Katie says, then scratches her nose, puzzled, when Leah laughs so hard she must cover her mouth with her gloved hands.
“Ah, but you are an amusing little thing. A
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