In the living room, Hilly crawled to the wooden chair and pulled himself to his feet. Toddling into the kitchen, he grabbed his mother’s apron and looked up at her in the demanding way that infants do. Still moving in a daze, Nell took him on her lap. At length she ran a fingernail under the envelope flap and extracted five twenty-dollar bills and a slip of fine vellum on which Juliet Lundeen had written, Nell—A small recognition of your loss. Use as needed. J. L.
One hundred dollars. As much as Bert had made in three months at the Dray and Livery. Then she wept loudly, and the child bawled to see her tears.
“AUNT MARTHA!” NELL CALLED THE NEXT DAY, as Bernard helped his wife down from their new buggy. “Glad I caught you.”
What fresh incommodity was this, Martha appeared to wonder, fanning herself with a handkerchief. “I’m in an awful hurry,” she said.
“I won’t keep you. I know the heat is bothering you.” Nell shifted Hilly on her hip. “I’m going to be teaching this fall, and I’ll need someone to look after Hillyard. I hoped you might know of a girl.”
“Teaching? Where?”
“The school board has offered me a contract for third grade.” Nell brushed Hilly’s hair off his damp brow. “It’s a godsend. I didn’t know which way to turn.”
“But you’ve only just begun your mourning. What will people think if you rush out to work?”
“I can’t care. Do you know of a girl?”
“Well . . .” Martha began, “Herbert’s cousin Roland has a daughter—Elvira. Left school after eighth grade to help at home. But her younger sister’s twelve now and old enough to take hold, so Elvira will be looking for a place. I’ll talk to the mother.”
“You’re so kind,” Nell said, holding Hilly close. “So kind.”
When the baby was down for the night, Nell stood in the semidark at the west-facing window of his bedroom. Below, voices rang out, mostly farm families starting late for home, wagons creaking, horses nickering, the dusk of nine o’clock lighting their way to country roads. One by one, they emptied Main Street.
On this, her third night of widowhood, Nell listened to men going in and out through the propped-open door of Reagan’s Saloon and Billiards, a strident piano accompanying them. And from a two-block distance came the hushed tinkling of the piano at the Harvester Arms Hotel, these reaching her like memories of country dances.
She had let down her hair and braided it into a single plait. Now she thrust it over her shoulder. Inside her cotton nightdress, perspiration trickled down the flume of her spine, and she reached back to wick it with the gown.
Soundlessly she fetched two kitchen chairs and placed them against the low bedside to prevent Hilly from rolling out. Despite the heat, he slept as if drugged. She wished that she could take him in her arms, absorbing his untroubled serenity like a sleeping powder.
Back at the open window, she fell to her knees weeping, but weeping for what? At length, a wisp of night breeze, what her mother called a “fairy kiss,” lifted the damp strands of hair clinging to Nell’s nape and temples. She breathed deeply and rose, staring down at Hilly’s blurred form against the sheet.
Life’s purpose grew as clear, then, as a drop of pure water. This child must grow up gentle—and happy, of course. And I must see to it.
“I’m Elvira.” The girl at the door spoke softly, shifting an ancient carpetbag from one hand to the other.
Nell had expected a girl with thick ankles and thicker wits. But the young woman on the landing was tiny and well formed, with intelligent dark eyes set in a perfect oval of pale skin.
“Come in, come in.” Nell held the door. “You’ll share Hilly’s room,” she said, leading the way. Nell had purchased a twin bed and bureau from the newly opened Bender’s Second Hand. A new kerosene lamp stood on the bureau.
Since the baby was asleep, Nell whispered, “This will be your bed and this”—she pointed—“is your bureau. Mrs. Rabel gave me lavender from her garden to scent the drawers. I hope you like lavender.”
The girl nodded a blank face.
“The Rabels are good to us. To me. I still forget that Herbert’s gone.” Odd the way she’d begun thinking of him as “Herbert,” not “Bert,” as if in death she’d put him at a little distance. As if he were both strange to her now and, at the same time, finally coming clear. “Well, I’ll let you put your things away. Would you like a glass of cool tea when you’re ready?”
Turning back, Nell said, “There’s a commode in the bathroom. I’m afraid emptying the pot will be your job.”
Again the girl nodded.
Shy or anxious, Nell thought, setting out ginger cookies on a plate and pouring tea into two glasses.
“The baby’s handsome,” Elvira said, pulling out a kitchen chair from the table.
Nell smiled. Handsome. “Thank you. He looks like Herbert.” Did he? She was no longer quite sure. She sat down. “Think you’ll like town life?”
“Oh, yes!” the girl said. “So many things going on.” She hugged herself. “Exciting.”
“I forgot to ask. Are you Catholic?”
“Yes. I’ve brought my missal and rosary.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, but this way we can go together.” Nell held the cool glass to her temple. If the heat continued, the classroom would be hot, the children restless.
“Do they have parish dances here, Cousin Nell?” the girl asked.
“No, but there are dances at the hotel every Saturday night. Herbert and I used to go before we had Hilly. But—please—just call me Nell.”
The girl took a bite of cookie and chewed. Then, “Do you have to have a beau to go to the dances?”
“Heavens, no. All the girls go. Town girls and country girls.”
“Are the town girls stuck up?”
“I don’t think so. You’ll have to see for yourself.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I went to a dance?”
“Goodness, no. Maybe you’ll find a beau. How old are you?”
“Sixteen. Ma says I oughta be married.”
“What do you say?”
“I want to find out about town life first.” She paused. “Maybe find a town beau.” She peered up from beneath black lashes to see if Nell was shocked.
“Why’s
