at the kitchen table, drawing up lesson plans. Hilly had descended the stairs, promising not to wander off. “I’ll play by the pump,” he told his mother.
On one side of the vacant lot behind Rabel’s, a three-hole outhouse squatted; on the other sat one of the village pumps where, winter and summer, Nell and Elvira drew water.
The vacant lot was now drifted with leaves. Hilly ran through them, bending to toss them into the air, gathering them into piles and throwing himself down on them.
Someone moved into the space between the boy and the sun. Shielding his eyes, Hilly looked up. “Gussy,” he said, struggling to sit up.
“Not ‘Gussy,’ dummkopf. ‘Gus.’”
“What’s ‘dummkopf’?”
“You. A dummy. Somebody who doesn’t know nothin’.”
“Elvira’s gonna teach me. Like kindy garden.”
“I’m in first grade, dummkopf. I know lots mor’n you.” Young Gus Rabel kicked leaves into Hilly’s face. “Dummkopf.”
Hilly flung his arms in front of his face. “Please don’t, Gussy.”
“I told you, my name is Gus. Now you’re gonna get it, dummkopf.”
The bigger boy fell upon Hilly, knocking him backward and rubbing leaves into the boy’s face.
“Please, Gussy . . . Gus. Please don’t.” Hilly struggled to roll away, but Gus’s knees dug into his ribs, pinning him. “Hurts.”
“Ooooo, poor little dummkopf. Little baby dummkopf.” Gus’s face was so close, Hilly could smell the pickled pig’s feet on his breath. “Does it hurt, baby?”
“Yes.” Hilly had begun to whimper, as Gus bounced his weight on top of the smaller boy’s ribs.
“Here! What you think you doing?” Butcher Gus Rabel, wearing a broad white apron over his work clothes, grabbed his son roughly by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “What kinda dummkopf are you?” He smacked the boy hard on his backside. “I am ashamed. You should learn from this little fellow how to be a man! A gentleman.” He shoved young Gus out of the way.
“I am sorry,” he said, helping Hilly to his feet. “You come. I give you oyster crackers. You like oyster crackers? We get you a little bag of oyster crackers.”
Hilly took the butcher’s hand and followed him through the back door of the meat market. Never before had he been in the big room where Gus butchered meat. How important he felt, being let into the mysterious place behind the meat counter.
It was dim and smelled of a number of things: blood and sawdust and pickling spices and smoke. It was a homey, familiar smell since these odors rose up through the big hot-air register into the Stillman living room.
When Gus had filled a little bag with oyster crackers, handing it to Hilly, he said, “You always be a good boy, won’t you? Everybody love a good boy.”
chapter fifteenchapter fifteen
ELVIRA HANDED CORA A CUP of holiday punch and drew a chair close. “Every year you’re more elegant,” she said, admiring the simplicity of Cora’s pale-gray gown. Near them, dancers swept across Laurence and Juliet’s parlor floor to the insistent pulse of “Under the Bamboo Tree.”
“Thank you.” Cora set the cup aside and took one of Elvira’s hands. “And every year you’re kinder.”
“Baloney, sez I.”
“I’m going to ask a favor again,” Cora said.
Elvira laughed. “‘Dance with George?’”
“He needs to dance,” Cora said, her gaze so unwavering Elvira had to look away. “He’s growing old.” Eyeing her husband from across the room, immersed in store talk with Howard Schroeder, Cora continued, “It’s because of me—don’t say a word. Not a word.
“If I could . . . dance, everything would be different. If I could do so many things.” Her voice grew sardonic. “I’m becoming a matron, Elvira.”
Never had Cora spoken so plainly, never had she and Elvira been so close. For Elvira this closeness was both flattering and disturbing, involving as it did responsibilities only half understood.
There was no question that she loved Cora, and Cora’s need made Elvira love her all the more. And George? Well, of course, no dearer man lived. She had recognised that fact the night, long ago—it was long ago, wasn’t it?—when he’d taught the little crowd at the Harvester Arms the new dance steps. No airs about him; only goodwill and generosity and an unconscious charm, charm that got under your skin because it was without guile.
“You’re fond of him, I know you’re fond of him,” Cora went on. “And he’s still young. He needs the warmth of a young woman, Elvira, so please make him feel young. Make him feel warm.” She squeezed Elvira’s hand until the young woman winced. “For me.”
Elvira glanced around the room of dancers, a room that ought to feel familiar. But in this strange moment, the room and the world in which it existed were suddenly unknown, utterly new. A thrill—or was it a terror—ran through her.
“Elvira! Just the person I’ve been looking for,” George’s mother broke in. “Let’s find a quiet corner. I have a proposition.” She led the way to a sunroom at the back of the house, away from the music.
Dazed, disoriented, Elvira followed. Another proposition?
They took seats on a settee before a small hearth. “Now then, Elvira, Mr. Lundeen and I have been discussing you. And we’re agreed that you’re too bright for the store.”
Elvira tried to focus. “I . . . love the store.”
“But you don’t want to spend your whole life there.”
How difficult it was, finding her way back into known territory. “No?” Cora’s words did not want to give way to Juliet’s. “For me,” Cora had said.
Juliet went on, “Now, what I suggest is only a proposal. And you’re free to tell me to mind my own business. But Laurence and I think you should go to college. Maybe the Normal School in Mankato. From what we’ve seen, you’re a born teacher.”
The older woman settled back and stared into the fire. “We’re very fond of you. You know that. When we were younger, we hoped to have a daughter. And, well, we do have a wonderful daughter in Cora—but we think of you that way, too.”
Elvira was silent, still dazed by the earlier conversation.
“Have I upset you?”
Catching hold of Juliet’s question, at last, Elvira shook her head, slowly, from
