The Mapmaker's Children (26 page)

“Water dressings,” Sarah announced and stood, swiping the corners
of her eyes dry. “We must keep the infected area clean at all times. Siby.” She turned. “Will you bring us new water—boiled first? And clean rags.”

“Yessum,” Siby replied and left the room to fetch the items.

Sarah pulled off the cumbersome nun's tunic, leaving the black serge frock beneath, and rolled her sleeves to the elbow.

“Ruthie, Miss Priscilla—we need to undress his wound, wash it out with soap and water, apply antiseptic, and redress it.”

Priscilla pulled away the sheet to expose Freddy's injured leg. Old bed linens had been shredded to make bandages. Sarah recognized the printed buds from the blanket she'd used in the barn on her first visit. The bindings were soaked through with chartreuse pus but no blood.

“Was the bullet removed?”

“Yes,” said Ruthie. She clasped her hands tight, her knuckles white. “At the field hospital.”

“Good. That's good,” Sarah said consolingly. “It means we're battling the infection alone.”

Alice entered with a tray: lemonade in a pitcher, one glass already poured, and a posy of forget-me-nots tied beside it. Seeing Freddy exposed and the women in motion, she put the tray on the trunk and stood against the wall.

Siby returned with a kettle and poured a steaming stream into the washbasin. Sarah soaked the new bandages, though the water scalded her hands. Freddy had fallen back under the fever, grimacing as they moved his body but otherwise unresponsive. Sarah hesitated. For as much bravado as she put forth, she'd never nursed a bullet wound and had never seen the naked flesh of a man.

Growing up, she'd cared for her siblings through croup, dysentery, fevers, chest colds, wandering pains, and everything in between, but the maladies of the women and men were always segregated. The division did not yield from biblical edict. The Sisters of Mercy did not discriminate and had no doubt seen a fair share of bare humanity, regardless of sex.

Sarah gleaned courage from the borrowed nun's dress she wore.
You can do this
, she told herself.
Freddy needs you
. Across from her, Ruthie watched her husband and wrung her hands.

Sarah unwrapped the soiled bindings. Each one spongy damp and reeking of pork gone sour in a summer smokehouse. Her throat seized, and she had to turn her face away.

“When was the last time these were changed?”

“At dawn,” replied Ruthie.

The Saratoga nurses had made it clear: clean, water-soaked dressings needed to be reapplied hourly until the wound stopped seeping discoloration. Infection bound up in infection would encourage gangrene, which could spread into the whole body. Sarah prayed it hadn't reached that point. If so, there was little they could do. Dr. Nash had told her to look to the colors of the eyes: the truest indicator of a patient's prognosis. If the whites were yellow and streaked, the infection was already in the blood. Despite the dark shadows and his shifting lucidity, Freddy's had been clear.

With the bandages removed, she examined his flesh closely. The skin encircling the bullet wound was rotted to the bone, but the entire limb was not necrotic. A small maggot writhed and fell to the side of Freddy's inner thigh.

“God help us,” said Priscilla.

Ruthie gagged audibly.

Siby reached to kill it, but Sarah stopped her. The nurses had prepared her for this, too.

“The maggot will eat the dead, infected flesh and leave the living. It's good.”

“Bugs eating under your skin be a good thing?” Siby asked in horror.

Sarah nodded. “The hospitals are using maggots on soldiers. It works.”

Priscilla brought a lace handkerchief to her mouth, stifling her cries.

Ruthie's cheeks were flushed, her upper lip lightly glistening. “I trust Sarah.” She nodded reverently to her. “Tell us what to do.”

Sarah dropped the dirty bandages to the floor. Gypsy sniffed the pile, then lurched away, circling around to the other side of the room.

Carefully and contrary to her natural proclivity, Sarah lifted the maggot between her thumb and forefinger. “We need to collect these to put back in the wound after washing.”

Siby dumped the lemonade Alice had poured for Sarah back into the pitcher and held the glass out for Sarah to drop the grub into. It sucked at the syrupy residue.

At the sight, Alice began to wail, “Worms' meat! They have made worms' meat of me! I have it, and soundly too. Your houses!”

Ruthie's hands shook, and she covered her ears.

“Worms' meat! Worms' meat!” screeched Alice.

Priscilla went to her daughter, but Alice threw her off, accidentally pushing her into the brick wall, which scraped her chin to bleeding.

Siby put both arms around Alice with firm care. “Hush now, baby girl. Them's good worms, like the kinds we find in the garden helping the flowers grow strong.” She rocked, and Alice quieted.

“A plague. A plague,” she whispered without taking her eyes off Freddy.

“You okay, Miss Prissy?” Siby asked.

Priscilla dabbed the blood with a handkerchief. “I'm fine.” She smoothed her skirt and came to Alice, still bound in Siby's embrace. “It's too much. I should've known better.” She kissed her daughter's forehead.

Alice's words had become a mumble, and she swayed to the recitation's rhythm.

“She plumb wore herself out. Best I put her to bed, then fetch more water and clean rags?” Siby started out with Alice nearly catatonic in her arms.

“What was she saying?” Ruthie asked, still shaking.

“Romeo and Juliet.”
said Sarah. “It's one of Shakespeare's tragedies.”

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

T
here lingered a dense valley fog on the Saturday morning of the Dog Days End Festival. A passing cold front traveling with the Potomac River had been trapped between the bluffs and caused the air over New Charlestown to curdle cool with condensation.

Normally, Eden would not have been up and out so early as to see the ole buttermilk sky, but it was no ordinary day.

“I couldn't sleep a wink!” Cleo had said at the kitchen door. The muddled morning light spun her hair to soft gold, while her eyes retained the indigo of night.

Eden hadn't been able to sleep, either. In the restless, lonesome hours her mind had wandered to Jack's fidelity during the past many years of weekly business travels and, moreover, her father's infidelity while doing the same. Both betrayals wounded so deeply that she howled into her pillow while holding herself like a cross-stitch to keep her heart from spilling out of her chest.

Her muscles had twitched and itched so intensely after the purge that she'd changed the bedsheets at midnight, convinced some colony of mites or itsy-bitsy spider had taken nest between the layers. Still unable to calm her body or mind, she'd busied herself with a mental checklist for the festival day ahead: a gingham tablecloth; a cash box and receipt paper; change of ones and fives; the big box of Original Pumpkin CricKet BisKets; the smaller batch of Apple Hills; the logo banner with a prominently featured cartoon caricature of Cricket; and Cricket, of course. She went over the details while keeping the name on the tip of her tongue to the back of her mind:
Jack
.

He'd rung Denny to plead his case. Smart man, he knew just how to get to her. When Denny got home, she'd listened to him tell the same story Jack had in the bedroom.
Old friend. Fallen on hard times. Daughter. Just coffee and cake balls. Americans and their flippant overfamiliarity
. It could be true. So much of her wanted to believe it was.

“Think about it, sis,” Denny had said before leaving for Philadelphia. He was going back for Jessica's first ob-gyn appointment. Until he heard about the job interviews, he'd resigned himself to playing sets at Mother Mayhem's again. A jar of tips was better than nothing, he figured; plus, he wanted to show Jessica he was serious. He was there for her.

“Don't make any hasty decisions. If Jack was having an affair, you probably wouldn't know about it. He's British. They got two-timing down to a science—look at Henry the Eighth, Prince Charles, James Bond, Alfie.”

“That's your list of successful womanizers? Nice, Den. Real nice. Not helpful.”

“My
point
is that he'd do a much better job covering it up.”

Like our father
, she thought, understanding it to be true. But it was just that which grated on her: the concealment all these months, harmless or not. It wasn't like he'd met Pauline once on a whim. The text had read: “…this trip. Sounds like you had a busy week. Are you back Monday?”

Eden wished she'd taken his phone, called the number, and told Pauline to keep her pick-a-pecking, divorcée thumbs to herself. Damn it, Jack was her husband! The vision of him warm and smiling in her bed made her chest seize up. It was a betrayal of the most intimate nature: secrecy.

Not able to keep her mind from him, she'd gotten up and spent her energies on the tedious National Register application. Another night of insomnia. She was getting good at not sleeping. At dawn, she'd gone down to the kitchen. Cricket had followed from his pillow bed, then sprawled belly to the ground while she placed logo stickers and tied ribbons on CriKet BisKets.

Eden had never seen a dog sleep so much and in so many odd positions. She'd read in a Baby 101 book that in deepest rest, infants sleep in cramped positions mirroring their gestation in the womb. So a crooked
arm, tucked leg, twisted torso, or limbs akimbo was simply the unconscious body remolding to old comforts. She imagined Cricket deep inside his mother, arms and legs stretched out like a furry star. It made her smile and chased away the sadness for a time.

She'd perked a pot of thick coffee. Yearning for the something she didn't want to put her finger on, she'd poured a mug and sat on the kitchen mat with Cricket like a rag doll against her. The strength of the drink and his feverish form made her head and body tingle. She cuddled both closer to ward off the chill.

Like an ever-present sentinel on the windowsill was the doll. Its eyes—one black, one green—unblinking. She'd promised to bring it to Ms. Silverdash at the festival today. They'd collected strong facts, but the full story of a thing was not to be found in records. Only people could give her that.

She'd raised her cup. “To a gal with a good head minus the shoulders.” She'd tried to laugh at her own joke but found it more pathetic than witty. She could hear the playground gossip now: “Threw her husband out stark naked, lives alone in that haunted house, chatting to dogs and toys and making magic biscuits that are probably laced with hemp—that's marijuana, you know. Because she's into that organic hippie mojo. I've seen a voodoo doll's head through her kitchen window.”

A one-way ticket to being that crazy old lady. Every neighborhood had one. The saddest part was that she couldn't fully deny the assertions.

It was then that Cleo had knocked on the back door. Crazy or not, they had biscuits to sell.

On their drive to Main, the car cut the fog like a knife through cookie dough, parting it sluggishly.

“It's
Brigadoon
,” Eden said, flapping her windshield wipers at nothing and leaning forward into the steering wheel. “Where's Gene Kelly tap-dancing?”

“Briga-what?” asked Cleo, buckled in beside her.

“It's an old movie. Ask your grandpa. It's about a town that appears from the mist every hundred years.”

“Oh,” said Cleo. “Well, there's no tap dancing around here. Just flatfooting.
We get this all the time. In September, the fog's so bad kids get grace-period passes 'cause the school bus drives right by without seeing them.” She blew a patch of condensation onto the window and traced a dog bone: two hearts with their tails bridged together. “Dog Days End. It's the last of summer,” she explained. “I start fifth grade on Wednesday.”

Eden had completely forgotten: school. The smell of damp, fallen leaves, lunch boxes, chalk, and breakfast orange juice on children's lips. It made her nostalgic and sad that Cleo would be gone for a majority of the days now. From the backseat, Cricket gave a cluck as they turned onto Main. At least she'd still have him to keep her company.

The street was blocked off on both ends and busy with morning vendors preparing their booths. Eden parked in the Milton's Market lot and carried their wares to the storefront fairway. Ms. Silverdash and Mr. Morris had set up the CricKet BisKet tent in front of the bookstore and café.

Two silver-haired women in heels and pearls cornered Mr. Morris, holding pies like swaddled newborns.

“All the farmers say the best fruit of the season was lemon,” explained one.

“Hogwash, Myra, peaches took the prize this year,” countered the other.

“Peaches! Heavens, no. My Bill found a worm in his just yesterday.”

Mr. Morris
tick-tocked
between the two. “Ladies, ladies, the pie entry table is in front of the bank. Same as every year.”

“Well, I would greatly appreciate your escort, Mr. Morris.” Myra stiffened her shoulders. “Make sure no thumbs are stuck in the frontrunner's submission.”

The other woman raised an eyebrow high, but before a retort was given, Mr. Morris led them forward. “Step this way.” Passing Eden and Cleo, he mumbled, “
Dog
Days, they got a word for this sort.”

Eden laughed.

Cleo gave her a mischievous look. “I know what word.”

Paying no mind to the fruit dispute, Ms. Silverdash greeted them: “Eden, Cleo, and our fur man of the day!”

Cricket trailed listlessly on the lead.

“We've made him eat too many trial biscuits. He's nearly as puffed up as old Barracuda,” said Cleo.

Ms. Silverdash swept Cricket up into her arms. “Well, I declare!” She ran her hand beneath his full belly. “These must be good eating.”

“Thanks to
The Holistic Hound
.”

“Speaking of…” Ms. Silverdash set Cricket in the cushion she'd brought out for him. “I placed a special order.”

On a card table perpendicular to the head booth was a display of books: copies of
The Holistic Hound, How to Train Your Puppy
, and the complete Detective Spot Mystery series. Atop a raised pedestal in the epicenter was the Fur Fairy, the guardian angel of the bookstore and a most appropriate guest in their Dog Days End booth.

“Surprise!” cheered Ms. Silverdash.

Cleo clapped her hands. “It's like we have our own store!”

“You do.” Ms. Silverdash fingered the promotional packaging with the animated logo. “You two have done a marvelous thing here. Just marvelous.”

Eden beamed at the compliment. She had to admit, she was proud of all they'd accomplished together.

Ms. Silverdash and Cleo whipped the gingham tablecloth high in the air, and as it fell over the table in smooth checkers, the fog went skittering. Within a minute, the sun cut clear and true through the atmosphere. Ms. Silverdash shielded her eyes with a palm and looked to the sky.

“True to form—going to be a bluebird day. Always is on Dog Days End. No matter what threatens.” She winked and patted Eden's arm.

Mr. Morris returned with Vee by his side.

“Doctor says my dad's pelvis looks pretty good. If we're lucky, he'll feel well enough to leave the house in the next couple of weeks. He and our dogs, McIntosh and Nutmeg, were sorry to miss the festival. He's heard so much about the new Anderson folks.” She grinned at Cleo, then turned to Eden. “Dad is mighty keen on meeting you and your Cricket.”

“Maybe I'll get the chance to introduce myself to him sooner,” said Eden. “I finished my house application last night. I could swing it over to you.”

Vee smiled. “That would work perfect. I didn't want to get my hopes up if it didn't pan out, but Emma and I've been working on that street for years. It'll be nice to have another home block-checked.”

“Are we talking about Apple Hill Lane?” Ms. Silverdash was finishing arranging a bouquet of blue forget-me-nots in a vase.

“Between Dad and the store, I haven't had a minute to tell you. Eden is submitting an application for the National Register of Historical Places.”

At that, Ms. Silverdash's eyes twinkled brightly. “Splendid news! That house definitely belongs. It's special, no question.”

“Did she tell you what else they found?”

“The case of the Apple Hill doll's head.” Ms. Silverdash winked again. “Cleo's been leading our investigation.”

“Yes, the head, but what I thought more interesting was what was inside of it.”

Eden hadn't had a chance to discuss the key or the button with Ms. Silverdash yet. So much kept happening at once, and her brain had turned to pudding from sleeplessness.

“Miss A! Vee, Ms. Silverdash!” Cleo called. “Come quick, look at this!” She held up the bookstore's Fur Fairy, pointing at its back, where the dress was fastened with two copper buttons of a braided wheat pattern.

Eden's heart flapped like a bird. They brought the Fur Fairy to the box where Eden had stashed the relics from her house. Cleo held the rusty button up to the others. A match. She squealed, and Eden hugged her to her waist before either could exercise restraint.

“What is it?” asked Ms. Silverdash.

Eden lifted the porcelain doll's head and the key. Ms. Silverdash gasped.

“We—the Andersons—found the doll and this button in their root cellar!” gushed Cleo. “This is what's called a
breakthrough
!”

Ms. Silverdash's mouth remained open. She put a hand out to touch the face, then curled her fingers back into her fist.

Mr. Morris returned and, seeing her expression, grew concerned. “What is it, Emma?”

“The Fur Fairy…” Cleo treaded lightly, troubled by Ms. Silverdash's
lack of articulation. “It has the same buttons, and look—” She gently pulled down the embroidered smocking around the stuffed dog's collar to reveal a ring of tight, antique stitches. “Somebody's sewn the dog's head on, but it's got a person's body—like it was once a baby doll. Given the matching button…” She scratched her nose and nodded to herself. “I deduct from the clues that we have located the Fur Fairy's original noggin.” She rapped her knuckles on the table like a gavel.

Eden held the Fur Fairy beside the china head; the proportions were spot-on. “It does appear they belong to each other—but how?”

“The Fur Fairy was my great-grandmother's,” whispered Ms. Silverdash. “Mrs. Hannah Fisher Hill.” She fingered one of the dog's cloth ears. “Hannah and her family lived in New Charlestown over a century ago. My family's past has always been a mystery. It's why I'm such a history buff. I want to know what everybody else saw fit to forget.”

She looked toward Mr. Morris, who cupped her hand in his. Then she turned back with her chin raised.

“My great-grandma Hannah and her twin brother, Clyde, were sent west during the Civil War, then came back a decade later. I've spent years researching and tried to make it my college thesis, but the evidence was so sparse. All I had was a theory—that they were on the Underground Railroad—based on a handful of badly weathered tintypes and coded letters between her father-in-law, my great-great-grandfather Freddy, and a woman named Sarah. And this—the Fur Fairy.” She straightened the collar so it looked like the petals of a pressed flower. “I knew it was a thing of treasure. When everything else was buried or burned, it was passed on. My Grandpa Silverdash said that during the war, his grandfather worked the Underground Railroad around these parts and dolls like these were used to smuggle messages, maps, and various contraband across battle lines.” She gingerly lifted the dog's skirt to reveal the railroad of stitches extended down the torso.