Authors: Pamela Morsi
Garters.htm
Color
Text Size
10
--
11
--
12
--
13
--
14
--
15
--
16
--
17
--
18
--
19
--
20
--
21
--
22
--
23
--
24
by
Pamela Morsi
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
GARTERS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / August 1992
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1992 by Pamela Morsi.
ISBN: 0-513-10895-2
A JOVE BOOK
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
JOVE and the "J" design are
trademarks belonging to Jove Publications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
GARTERS
DEDICATION
In memory
of Howell Robert Sylvester,
a one-time resident
of the original Voder, Tennessee
February 26, 1888
Mr. M. Cleavis Rhy
Vader, Tennessee
Mr. Rhy:
It is with a good deal of excitement that I take up my pen for this correspondence. I have just Thursday past received of my good friend from my days at Yale, Benjamin H. Westbroolc, now employed with Dr. Phythe in Washington, the exciting news of your work with pisciculture. I believe your efforts may prove a genuine boon to my research here.
I concede difficulty in believing that in such a desolate highland place as I have heard Tennessee to be you would be blessed with such riches as three different species of Salmonidae. Surely, your little spring-fed mountain creek must be the southernmost home of the Appalachian Brook Trout.
I sincerely hope that I am not too forward in suggesting that I would very much love to visit your valley and see for myself that work that you have accomplished there. I write this very day to Dr. Westbrook suggesting same.
With greatest sincerity,
Theodatus G. Simmons
Springfield, Massachusetts
Tennessee, 1888
Winter was still enough of a memory to whip a distinct chill into the morning breeze, and the smoky-gray haze had not been burned off by the sun. Yet on this inhospitable morning Esme Crabb made her way down the mountain, her threadbare coat pulled tightly about her. Her thoughts, however, were not on the weather.
In the valley below her, through the dark barren trees of winter, she spied her destination, Vader. The tiny little crossroads on the Nolichucky River was the nearest thing to a town that Esme had ever known. Four houses, a church, a livery stable, and the tiny "graded school" that Esme had attended only a half-dozen times were in sight. As was the building that was her destination.
A false front made the building appear two stories high, but from Esme's
perspective it was clearly only one floor, built long and narrow. Though she was
still too far away to see it, she knew the sign emblazoned on the front read: "M.Cleavis Rhy, Jr. General Merchandise.''
When she reached the foot of the mountain, Esme made a quick stop to right herself. Hiking up her skirt, she pulled at the much-mended black wool stockings that now clung precariously at her knee. After first carefully smoothing the material up her thigh, she rolled it down about two inches. Grabbing one edge of the roll, she twisted it until the material tightened, painfully digging into her flesh. The near-knotted twist was carefully tucked underneath the roll. It was a makeshift solution, not as good as garters, but such trifling matters didn't concern Esme.
Stockings straight and skirt brushed, Esme raised her chin, proud. She was wearing her Sunday best and bravely assured herself that if she did as good as she looked, she'd do all right. With a determined stride she headed for the store.
Her sisters had really gotten her into this, she supposed. The twins were now seventeen and, to Esme's thinking, the prettiest girls in the county. Most considered them to be identical—even Pa couldn't tell them apart—but Esme found that difficult to understand. To her they were as different
and distinct as any two persons, and they sure to graces had the same shortcomings!
Presently, both of them were calf-eyed and mooning over Armon Hightower, and a more worthless piece of Tennessee manhood never existed, except maybe for Esme's own pa.
Ma had been just like the twins, all starry-eyed over a handsome face and broad shoulders. Well, Ma had won her handsome face and broad shoulders, and then she'd worked herself to death for them. Esme was determined that her sisters wouldn't meet the same fate. That's why she was here.
"Mornin', Mr. Tyree, Mr. Denny," Esme said as she stepped onto the porch of the store. The two men sat on the long bench in front of the store swapping stories and spitting tobacco.
"Who are ya?" Tyree asked, squinting at her as his jaw continued to work its tasty wad.
"Esme Crabb," she answered simply.
"What she say?"
"She said, 'Esme Crabb,"' Denny hollered to Tyree. "You know, she's one of Yo's daughters."
"She one of the pretty ones?" Tyree asked, squinting again.
"Nay," was the definitive reply.
Esme felt herself flushing as she stepped through the door. Being compared unfavorably to her sisters was as common as slugs in springtime, but this morning she needed a bit more of what God had granted the twins so liberally.
The tiny bell over the door tinkled loudly in the quiet of the store when she stepped inside.
He
was standing behind the north counter, papers and ledgers strewn before him. He raised his head and glanced politely at her.
"Good morning, miss. Have yourself a look around. Let me know if you see anything you like."
His attention immediately went back to his papers, and Esme began to wander as casually as possible around the store. Two long narrow counters ran the length of both sides. On the walls behind them were shelves of tobacco jars, kitchen wares, and canned goods. Near the front there were cupboards full of cloth and ready-mades and drawers with notions and hair tonic, suspenders and Fishhooks. Above her, dangling from rafter hooks, were harnesses and baskets, washtubs and chamber pots. In the far corner was a latticework of cubbyholes and a counter with different plates of ink and rows of carved wooden stamps that represented the official U.S. Post Office of Vader, Tennessee.