The Haweaters Page 9

  Mercy, there’s her mind galloping forth again. Eleanor glances down at Arthur, who looks well and truly like he’s been slapped by his momma’s rough words. His head hangs low and his labour continues in the quiet way that tells his momma he’s afraid to say one word further for fear of reprimand.

  Eleanor looks to the door next to which the strap hangs on a nail as an unnecessary reminder of what does happen when the rules are not given their due respect. Arthur has been subjected to that strap a mess of times, as have all the boys, and, to a soul, it was rarely obvious which rule fell short of being observed. The last use of the strap was to set Charlie straight on account of his beating on that useless Amer boy. The beating was not itself the problem. Anyone who sets loose their livestock in a neighbour’s field deserves to be on the wrong end of a beating, if not worse. No, it was the fact that the boy was indiscreet in the doing of it that caused his poppa to yank down the strap and beat Charlie hollow.

  Eleanor just now rejects that memory in favour of a more palatable one. “My dear parents fled Iowa because options there were few. Times then were harder than your young mind can hardly imagine. Crops failed too many times to count and even in those stray years when the wheat was bountiful, not a living soul could afford its purchase so it was left in the fields to rot. Then my poppa learned of land available in the Canadas for all those willing to labour and that was a powerful carrot. On our trek north we passed many Easterners heading to the place we just left and beyond, some claiming to be journeying forth to California. I could not help feeling sorrow for them due to me knowing there was naught waiting for them there but hardship. Telling them so would have been a fool’s errand, mind you. You never can tell people dark truths when they’ve got their minds set to dreaming. I’ve often wondered how many of those poor souls made it. Not many, I should think. These many years since I’ve heard tales of suffering the likes of which only the devil himself could’ve designed. So when that brother of yours tries to fill your head with stories of grand adventure, don’t you go putting no stock in. Lots of people acted on tales such as those and many of them are no longer with us.”

  Eleanor hears bluster coming from the far side of the cabin’s walls and pulls herself stiff. Creaks fall to clanks before the door swings open and slaps the wall hard, bouncing back. Eleanor laments, not for the first time, having no way out of this cabin save for the door through which peril enters. She wishes she had to hand an axe or a gun or even a rabid dog, but she has not one of those useful things. She does, however, by God’s mercy, have a knife and boiling water and a temper that would put a raging creek to shame.

  There’s no need for any of it owing to it not being her husband’s arrival home from Sloan’s she’s hearing but rather Charlie finding his way back from the creek with a bucket in each of his hands. The boy slogs over to the water barrel and dumps his load of water before making haste for the waiting cart where he grabs hold of two more buckets. Back and forth he trudges until the barrel is full and his momma’s soul finds the notes to Hallelujah.

  Charlie gestures at the meagre stack of wood awaiting service at the foot of the stove. “Behind on my chores thanks to those good-for-nothing villains down at the mill. Won’t have nearly the time to chop more wood before nightfall, Momma, but I’m thinking you won’t be needing it neither. Will get to it in the morning before stumping unless Poppa says different.”

  Eleanor nods. It’s so dreadfully hot in the cabin she’d bet the devil her finest apron she could find success cooking the whole of the evening meal without benefit of the stove. With God as her witness, she knows better than to ever say such filth within earshot of another human. If Bill heard such words as those springing from her lips, he’d hand her stove to the first beggar to pass, then blame her for the loss. But Bill isn’t gracing her presence just now, Charlie is, and he looks exhausted by labours that were once his to share with his elder brothers until first Bill, Jr. found his purpose in Sandfield, followed soon after by Abel, who earns his keep as a farmhand up in Bidwell. That leaves Charlie to shoulder burdens once spread amongst the three. “Did the boys down at the mill think to give you any trouble?”

  Charlie shrugs. “Boys down at the mill always give me trouble, but I straightened them out pretty good.”

  Eleanor doesn’t like hearing words such as that. “May I ask what needed straightening?”

  “Seemed to think our credit had run dry. Showed me ledgers. I showed them fists. Matter settled in my favour.”

  Eleanor had the sense of it being something like that. “This something your poppa’s going to be hearing about from Boyd then?”

  Amusement flutters across Charlie’s face. “My guess is not one of them wants it known they took a beating from the likes of me.”

  “That being as it may, those boys aren’t the ones who concern me most.”

  Charlie’s expression takes a serious turn. “Lyon won’t do nothing against his own interests, Momma. And it’s in his interest to sweep his refuse into bags for us to eat so that when he needs his roads built this winter, we got no choice but to labour.”

  Eleanor sighs. Although she may fear that book reading will bring nothing but misery to her son, she must truthfully admit that Charlie has a firmer grasp on the way of things than many around here.

  Her son dekes outside, returning with a raisin pie that’s been losing heat on a rock by the door. He thumps it on the table before turning his feet towards the waiting cart. His momma stops him cold. “Any chance of you doing me the kindness of slopping the hogs on your way past their pen?”

  Charlie eyes the bucket his momma is tapping with her foot. She’s been using it to collect bones, vegetable scrapings, fish skin, and pheasant guts and the bucket is just now dancing with any army of flies. Charlie barks like a wounded dog. “Don’t do no woman’s work, Momma. Not now. Not ever. Insult for you to even ask.”

  Oh, really. Eleanor’s fists find her ample hips. “And yet I’ve harvested a far sight more rocks from these here fields than you and your poppa combined. I’ve chopped more than my fair share of firewood, too, if we’re saying the truth. And don’t you even get me started on all the times I hauled water from the creek when the harvest saw you both run short on time. My memory even goes so far as to remind me that I worked the plough when the both of you again fell behind this spring past. Since when, I ask you, my high and mighty son, are those things woman’s work?”

  Charlie looks at his momma square. “Since they needed to be. But it don’t work the other way around. Since when do you not know that?”

  Since never. “Maybe that’s the way of things in this household since your brothers absconded, but that’s not how it’s always been, so don’t you go making like it is. And I’ll see you further informed that it’s not the way of things in other households neither. I’ve fixed eyes on Laban out slopping pigs plenty and not once have I heard tales of his whining for the doing of it.”

  Charlie’s smile is sly. “At that servant’s request, not his momma’s.”

  Eleanor is awash with confusion. “Now just what are those wily words supposed to mean?”

  Charlie’s smile is now a smirk. “Laban’s got an eye for that chubby little island girl who does all his momma’s chores. Always making a fool of himself over her. She asks, he does. The pig slopping is proof enough of that.”

  Eleanor doubts that what Charlie is saying is factual, owing largely to her inability to imagine Laban or anyone else thinking fancy thoughts about a rough girl like Ellen. She’s not the sort to attract a man’s interest, not even one as daft as Laban Amer. The poor girl is likely to end up matched to some ne’er-do-well cousin or maybe a preacher or, more likely, to no one at all. That’s how Eleanor’s got it figured and she doubts Charlie has any deeper insight into the matter, seeing as how he has not yet worked out that silly little Amer Miss has designs on him. That’s plain enough to the eyes. If there were any sense i
n that little girl’s head, she’d swish her skirt in some other boy’s direction. But then, look who her momma is.

  Eleanor returns to shucking. “I didn’t ask you for your thoughts on the matter. I asked only for a little consideration, which your momma surely has the right to.”

  “And you got it, Momma. Said I’d help you with the firewood first thing tomorrow and I will. But not with the women’s work. That’s for you.” Charlie’s eyes land on his little brother. “And him. No reason I can see why Art can’t add pig slopping to his list of chores.”

  Eleanor has had enough of Charlie this hot afternoon and takes to demonstrating it by whipping a pea pod at his fool head. It lands like a dead mantis on the dirt floor between them. She and Charlie together stare at the pod until Eleanor finds the wherewithal to break the trance. “Arthur is grinding oats for tomorrow’s bread as you would surely see if you took the time to suss things out before opening your ignorant trap.”

  “And he’s doing a fine job of it. Just as he did a fine job scything brush earlier today.” Charlie pauses, then continues on in a noticeably darker tone. “Won’t be doing any of those things much longer. This time next year, Art will be out in the fields with us doing the work of men. Best you don’t go believing otherwise, Momma.”

  The nerve of that boy thinking he can address his momma like he’s her better. If that heathen were to live a hundred lifetimes, he’ll never be that, not with his temper. The mere thought of Arthur spending his days at the mercy of her miscreant son and her drunkard of a husband sends a chill clear down Eleanor’s spine. She can allow no such calamity to transpire. This boy she’ll save. She’s already taken steps to ensure that happens and daily thanks the Lord that so far she’s been able to keep those steps secret from the tormentor she married and the one she birthed, who is just now tapping on his younger brother’s shoulder. “What do you say tomorrow you come out to the fields with me and we’ll see who can build the biggest rock pile. I’m betting it’s you, but there’s only one way we can find out for sure.”

  Arthur looks up excitedly, as is the child’s nature, but his mood soon dulls when he catches sight of the fury in his momma’s eyes. His sweet gaze drops to the floor and his head gives a solemn shake. Charlie ruffles the boy’s hair. “C’mon, cowboy. You can’t do women’s work forever. Poppa will see to that if I don’t.”

  “Poppa will see to what?”

  There’s an audible uptake of air as Eleanor, Arthur, and Charlie all turn to face Bill, who is breaching the doorway looking for all the world like an enraged bull. That he’s been drinking is beyond dispute, owing to the red of his eyes and the rage pulsing through each one of his aging muscles. To Eleanor’s mind, the only question worth a cent is whether the drunkard has swilled enough whiskey to pass out or merely enough to go on a vile tirade. Eleanor prays to the Lord it’s the former since she relishes not the thought of spending yet another night hiding her person in the bush while her whiskey-infused husband goes off on one of his bitter tirades, the subject of which will doubtlessly be the famine and the English and the travesties that brought him to this country, this island, and this low point in his life, as if there’s a soul left on this island who could possibly believe that at some point in the dark distant past Bill’s life had ever had a high point.

  It’s Charlie who bursts forth with an answer. “You’ll see to it that the last of the corn gets in the ground by the end of the week, Poppa. On track for it. If the skies stay clear, we’ll have no trouble getting it done.”

  Bill sways like a tree that’s been cut most of the way through and although Eleanor is sure he will eventually topple, it’s a fair guess he hasn’t reached that point just yet. “Shouldn’t think it’ll take that long. Move.”

  Bill shoves Arthur off the crate the sweet boy has been kneeling upon to help his momma with the flour. Setting it rough against the wall, Bill sits down hard and sends his eyes around the room in search of something to land on. Whatever that unfortunate object should be, Bill will surely use it as a weapon against one or all of them.

  “Don’t know why any son of mine would think he had a talent for a thing like that.”

  So it’s the fiddle propped against the far wall that’s to be the drunkard’s target. So be it. Beats Charlie taking another crack at playing “Whiskey in the Jar,” such as he did on the evening since past. Now to be fair, Eleanor has never once heard a version of that song that set her mind to joy, so her son’s attempt, such as it was, was no more offensive to her than most. Still, it baffles her soul to ponder what in God’s name possessed Charlie to bring a musical instrument into a cabin so cramped as this. They’re not a musical family so far as she’s aware. They are not even a happy one.

  “Not aspiring to talent, Poppa. Just thought a little music in the evenings might be more enjoyable than listening to the crickets chirp.”

  Bill snorts. “Not the way you play it.”

  Charlie snorts back. “Can’t play like the ancestors without hitting a few wrong notes first.”

  “Not heard you hit one right yet. Still got that gun?”

  Charlie stalls. He clears his throat. “You know I don’t.”

  “Boyd seems to think you do.”

  Charlie wears the appearance of concern, then anger, then upon his dear momma’s soul, defiance. “How can I have the gun if that’s what I traded away to get the fiddle, Poppa? You see bags of money lying around here? Got the knobs for the oxen like you asked, then bargained hard for the fiddle to be included in the deal. Told you as much already. Is the gun what Boyd came to see you about?”

  That’s not a question Eleanor would have counselled the boy to ask, so she can hardly claim surprise when Bill pulls his spine straight, bringing the appearance of pain to his face but also a deeply wrought rage. “Don’t you even think of raising your voice to me, boy. What Boyd came to see me about is no concern of yours. I’m not even sure I can say for certain why he turned up. You know that Gaelic bastard doesn’t never speak a word straight. All I really know is whatever Boyd’s reason for coming, it’s most assuredly for the benefit of Amer.”

  “And did Boyd get what Amer wanted him to?”

  Bill suppresses a belch. “Does he ever?”

  Yes, all of the time and in all manner of things. Charlie knows this, as does Eleanor, but neither sees advantage in saying as much to Bill, not while his eyes continue to harass the fiddle in such as way as to suggest it has somehow insulted him. Eleanor is taken with the notion that at any moment he’ll snatch it from its resting place and smash it against the wall or the floor or Charlie’s powerful back. Instead the miscreant finds a new target. “Get that money Amer owes you?”

  Charlie’s face darkens and his voice calls to mind thunder. “If I did I’d have said so, Poppa. No concern of yours one way or the other. It’s mine to get and I’ll get it. That’s fact enough. If that scoundrel thinks he can cheat me of the two dollars he still owes me on the lease of the back pasture, he’s wrong. Law’s with me on that.”

  Bill laughs in the manner of someone who has just now been told a fairy tale so absurd not even a child would be taken in by it. “But is Boyd? Seems to me he is the law out this way and if Amer has a claim on him, well, then Amer can do whatsoever he pleases. Not once have I seen Boyd decide a thing against him, not even when everybody agrees Amer is at fault. Not thinking that day will ever arrive. So listen carefully: If you’re owed money by a man like Amer, you got to find a way of getting it that he can’t use against you later.”

  Charlie’s eyes fix themselves on the strap hanging by the door and he wears not the look of fear that had taken hold of sweet Arthur’s face. No, Charlie’s face shines with a contempt that his momma takes to mean he’s lately grown to realize that such a weapon as that would fit his own hand near as well as it fits his poppa’s. Lord help them all if he ever gets up the nerve to make good on this realization.

 
“Said I’d get it, Poppa, and I will.”

  Eleanor prays to the Lord that Charlie has wisdom enough to halt right there, but sure as mice scamper in the pasture, the fool boy goes and proves his brain is made of folly. “Amer says the money isn’t owing due to his paying my fine for beating his worthless son. But the one has nothing to do with the other. Wants to pay my fine, so be it. His fault there ever was one. But the price for the field is the price for the field. Wanted credit for the fine, should’ve said so up front and I would’ve considered it before naming my price. But he didn’t. And he can’t rightly change a deal once it’s been set.”

  Charlie is likely speaking God’s truth, but any suggestion, no matter how small, that Amer may be getting the upper hand on their family will provoke just one response from Bill. “Amer thinks he owns the rules. Like they’re a horse or a plough or a woman. More than happy to teach him what’s what, but you’ve got to be straight with me. Did Amer pay you what’s owed on that field without you passing it on to me? Makes a difference to how I go at him.”

  Lord, let it rest there. But no, Charlie has contempt on his mind and it lends an edge to his voice that his momma adjudges unwise. “That what this is about, Poppa? You think I bought the fiddle with the field money and kept the gun without saying a word about it? For what purpose?”

  Eleanor can most assuredly think of one. She eyes the hunting knife she’s lately been using to cut and chop and slice. She would not be speaking true if she said that here now marks the first time the thought of plunging it into her husband’s chest has ever touched her mind. Charlie has surely thought likewise. She can’t imagine his having that gun on his person and never once letting his mind contemplate the using of it against his very own poppa.