The widow's war by Sally Gunning Page A

Lyddie’s children. Lyddie wasn’t sure she liked the idea; she was quite sure she didn’t like the other woman’s efforts to match their sorrows.

9

    By the next week Rebecca Cowett’s length of ground appeared refreshed and readied for planting. Lyddie walked by it on her way to the landing but caught no sight of the Indian. On her return she found the woman just entering her house, and Lyddie called out a greeting. Rebecca Cowett answered back, and then, with some hesitation, she added, “Will you stop for tea?”
    Lyddie found in herself a curiosity to see the inside of the Indian’s house. She stepped up, and when Rebecca Cowett opened the door Lyddie saw nothing inside but what she might have taken pride in herself: a well-made table and chairs, a neatly banked fire, several gleaming copper utensils, freshly whitewashed walls, and sanded floor.
    “I’ve just finished the spring clean,” Rebecca Cowett said. “I could enjoy a cup of tea myself. Please, Widow Berry, sit.”
    But somewhere between the last minute and that minute a heaviness overtook Lyddie; it felt wrong to be there. “No,” she said. “I’m not able to stay. I just wished to say—” What? “I heard Seth Cobb is back from the south and I wondered if he had news of your son?”
    “He had none.”
    “I’m sorry, then. I’m very sorry. Good morning, Mrs. Cowett.” She hurried out and away from the Indian’s house, struggling against the heavy feeling, unable to put a name to it, in her struggle not thinking where she was going and finding herself on the path to her old door. But once she realized her location she continued forward, pushing open her door, and there it all came clear.
    In the ordinary course of events this was the time of year in which Lyddie would have done what Rebecca Cowett had just done: reordered her house after the winter’s abuse. Instead, she now stood facing sooted walls, salt-filmed glass, dirty hearth, dusty webs, and piles of seed husk and mouse droppings in all corners. She thought of Deacon Smalley looking on such a sight and Lyddie’s face burned with shame.

     

    That night Lyddie approached her son as he left his supper table. “What news of Deacon Smalley?” she asked.
    “The devil take Smalley. I’m on to Ned Crowe now. He means to marry in a month. He comes to view on Friday.”
    “I saw the house today. It stands badly neglected. If you would allow me—”
    Nathan turned on his wife. “What the devil is this? Have you not looked to the house?”
    “Please,” Lyddie said. “Allow me to tend it. If I took Jane we’d be done in a morning.”
    “Jane?” Mehitable cut in. “You would take Jane, and tomorrow my day to bake?”
    “Well, then, perhaps Bethiah.”
    The younger girl’s face lifted.
    “Yes, yes,” Nathan said. “Let her cough somewhere else for half a day, thank you. Just see that it’s done by Friday.”

     

    They packed a chicken pie and set out with the sun. The girl spoke little until they approached the house and Lyddie saw the tall form of the Indian ahead of them, making his way toward the shore; something must have triggered his awareness of their presence because he stopped and turned. Bethiah drew back. Lyddie fought her own instinct and kept her feet square in the road, even lifted a hand in greeting, but if it was returned she couldn’t tell. He moved off.
    “Oh, my!” Bethiah said. “What a fearsome thing he is! Mama says to keep away from him. But he’s so close to your house, Grandmama! Dare we go down?”
    “He’s well past. He won’t hurt you. Move along, now.”
    The girl skipped to catch up, her tongue at last shaken loose. “Nate says that the Indian’s the best whale man in Satucket. He says he’s so strong that he pulls the whales instead of the whales pulling him. He says Papa doesn’t like him. I asked Nate why Papa didn’t like him and he said it’s because he does as he pleases. I should like to do as I please. Mama says no one