Moira looked up from where she sat beneath the tree. “Goose?” she said. “I don’t smell goose.”
“Well, I know goose smell when I smell it!” insisted Uncle Wrisby firmly.
There was a silence. Moira and Arthur stared at each other.
“Oh, no,” said Arthur, breathlessly.
“It’s Yoyo’s chicken,” cried Moira. “I forgot all about it!”
“That’s no chicken!” boomed Uncle Wrisby. He followed his nose around the tree until he stood over Yoyo’s tipped-over kettle, Bernadette’s nose pushing the lid into the grass.
“Goose,” announced Uncle Wrisby positively. “Greasy goose, too.” Uncle Wrisby slowly folded his arms and looked down at Arthur and Moira. “No made-up stories,” he said sternly.
“We thought it was Pauline,” blurted Moira.
“Pauline!”
Arthur nodded. “Yoyo said he’d eat Pauline if she didn’t stop chasing him. Remember?” he implored.
“We went to his house,” said Moira. “There was a pot boiling.” She pointed. “That pot. Mouse here wanted a proper funeral.”
“Arthur,” whispered Arthur automatically.
Uncle Wrisby, arms still folded, walked off a bit and stared up the road while Moira and Arthur waited uneasily. Then Uncle Wrisby swung around. He stooped beside them, his long arms gathering them in.
“Now,” he whispered. “Here is what we’ll do.”
Thursday, July 8: It has been a long day. Uncle Wrisby went to bed early. To sleep off his day of crime, he says. Aunt Elda kept saying PRAISE BE when we told her what we’d done and what we had to do. She was mad because she’d been cooking a chicken all day long, and what we did meant hot dogs for supper (only Aunt Elda calls them franks). Uncle Wrisby must be the most brilliant person alive, and we told him so. It made him happy, but it made Aunt Elda say PRAISE BE three times in a row. We couldn’t put the goose back because Bernadette had nosed it into the dirt. So we took Aunt Elda’s chicken, put it into Yoyo’s pot and carried it back to Yoyo’s house. It was as simple as that. Maybe not that simple. We put the pot on Yoyo’s stove and turned on the burner. Then we left. Then I remembered that I had to go back and set the table again. Then we left. Then, all of a sudden, Uncle Wrisby felt his nose and said, OMIGOD I LEFT MY EYEGLASSES AT YOYO’S. This time it wasn’t so easy. Just as we got there Yoyo’s cart came up the road. We hid behind a stone wall wishing we knew what to do when Uncle Wrisby stood right up and pulled us after him. He ran up to Yoyo and said, I WAS JUST WALKING BY YOUR HOUSE WHEN I SAW BIG AS LIFE A FURRY THING PUSH OPEN YOUR SCREEN DOOR AND WALK INTO YOUR HOUSE. LOOKED LIKE A WEASEL. Mrs. Yoyo screeched lots of real long screeches, and Yoyo galloped old Jack up to the barn, I’LL GO IN FIRST, yelled Uncle Wrisby, and he ran into the kitchen while Yoyo ran to the barn for his rifle. Mrs. Yoyo stood up in the cart and kept yelling and lifting up her skirt and jumping from one foot to the other as if she expected the weasel to run out, reach up and steal her patent leather shoes right off her feet. Pretty soon Uncle Wrisby came out and shrugged his shoulders. CAN’T SEE THE CRITTER, he called to Mrs. Yoyo, BUT SUPPER SURE SMELLS GOOD! He grinned at us, pulled out his glasses and put them on his nose, and we walked home. We had a supper of hot dogs (franks), and then we had a funeral for Yoyo’s goose. We buried it in the back field and put flowers from Aunt Elda’s front garden on its grave. No one could think of much to say except for Uncle Wrisby. He said, THANK GOD YOU WEREN’T PAULINE. Aunt Elda said, PRAISE BE.
The Prism
Summer days grew too hot for play, so Arthur and Moira worked on Bernadette’s pen in the mornings. In the afternoons they stayed close to Uncle Wrisby’s cool barn, Arthur lying in the hay, stroking Pauline, watching her closely for signs of distrust.
“Does she know?” he asked Aunt Elda one day. “Does she know it was my fault?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” replied Aunt Elda promptly. “But it’s no matter.” She turned to look at him. “She’s forgiving.”
Was it his imagination or did Aunt Elda mean that he was not? He thought of his parents’ letters upstairs in the drawer under his journal.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured to Pauline. “I’m sorry,” he said again, startling himself, wondering why he’d said it so loud.
Pauline tilted her head from one side to the other looking back at him.
Does she see differently out of each eye? How do I look to her?
He took out his small notebook and read the note he had written there:
Look one way, look the other.
He thought a moment, then took his pencil and wrote one sentence.
How do my parents see me?
Arthur stared at the sentence a long time, so long that his eyes began to water and the letters blurred. Then he closed the notebook and held it tightly as if he had to keep the words from escaping.
“Viens, Pauline,” he called. And he picked up Pauline and went out into the sunlight to work on his pen.
On Sunday morning, early, when the daylight was still behind the trees, Arthur and Moira finished the pen. They sat back under the big tree and grinned at each other, sweat and dirt streaking their faces. The pen was large and shiny, with a gate and heavy gate latch that Uncle Wrisby had silently helped them attach.
Aunt Elda and Uncle Wrisby came out of the kitchen door with juice and hot biscuits for them. Uncle Wrisby was half dressed for church, black pants and black suspenders over a clean white shirt. And bare feet. He went to get Bernadette while Aunt Elda admired the pen.
Uncle Wrisby opened the pen door and tapped Bernadette gently. Bernadette stared at the lush green grass and the shady place at the end. Then she backed away and turned to root in the main paddock.
“Come on,” Uncle Wrisby called to Moira and Arthur. “You’ll have to help get her inside. She’s shy about new things.”
Arthur and Moira leaned on Bernadette’s backside and muttered to each other through clenched teeth.
“Push!” grunted Moira fiercely.
“I am pushing,” hissed Arthur.
But Bernadette would not move.
Uncle Wrisby knelt in the far corner and crooned “Come All Ye Fair and Tender Maidens,” beckoning. But Bernadette eyed him suspiciously and stood still. Finally, he sang her very favorite song, “Plaisir d’Amour,” his voice sounding strong in the soft morning light.
“Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment,
Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie. . . .”
Pauline clucked on the fence, but Bernadette stood, solidly, resisting their tugs, pushes and songs.
Aunt Elda brought her most odoriferous slop, and Arthur dug up a shady part of the pen, pouring buckets of water to make cool, oozing mud. But Bernadette was not interested in slop or mud. She was not interested in the new pen. She regarded Arthur through placid eyes, and backed slowly into the main paddock.
Arthur was inconsolable.
“I finally did something,” he said mournfully, “and it didn’t make any difference at all. She hates the pen.”
Uncle Wrisby put his arm around Arthur.
“Give her time, Arthur. Give her time to get used to the pen.”
“She hasn’t got time!” lamented Arthur.
Uncle Wrisby turned Arthur around to face him. “It’s a fine pen, Arthur,” he said firmly. “A very fine pen.”
“A fine pen,” Arthur insisted, shaking off Uncle Wrisby’s arm, “is not an empty pen.” And he walked off, leaving Moira, Aunt Elda and Uncle Wrisby looking after him.
They stood silently until Aunt Elda, with a small sigh and a lifting of her shoulders, walked quickly and caught Arthur at the back door.
“Arthur,” she said softly.
Arthur stood by the stone step, but didn’t look up.
“Maybe you ought to think about why you built the pen.”
“Why?!” Arthur turned around. “I know why.”
“Because,” persisted Aunt Elda, “if you built it for Bernadette you have to be content
with what Bernadette decides. And give her time to decide. Maybe, Arthur, you didn’t really build it for Bernadette after all.”
Arthur stared at Aunt Elda.
“You know,” said Aunt Elda, putting her arm around Arthur and walking inside with him, “Aunt Mag used to say that the reasons we do things are sometimes not what we think they are. And”—She held up her hand as Arthur tried to protest—“everything we do makes a difference. Some kind of difference.”
Aunt Elda opened the polished mahogany doors of the downstairs parlor and took Arthur to the fireplace. She pointed to an old picture in a gilt frame on the mantel.
“Aunt Mag,” she said. “You would have loved her. We all did. The children first. The grown-ups didn’t know how much they loved her until later.”
“But—” Arthur began.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Aunt Elda firmly. She gave the picture to Arthur and sat down in an overstuffed chair.
“When Father Caleb’s wife, Violet, died giving birth to her youngest, he was left with two older children and a small, weak newborn baby.”
“What did she die of, Aunt Elda?” asked Arthur, aware that he was interrupting.
“Of childbirth, Arthur. Many woman died in those days having their babies. Caleb grieved for many days. Violet had been a delicate and soft-haired woman—a child herself—too weak for having another child. Caleb ran off for several weeks, living in the woods, suffering and drinking while the family cared for his children. The aunts and uncles had their own families, of course, and their own farms to keep, so they were hard put to do all the caring for Caleb. So one of his brothers found Caleb in the woods and brought him back to his problems.”
“How old were Caleb’s other children?” asked Arthur.
“Oh, Tris was twelve, I guess, and Mandy ten. Your age, Arthur. They had their schooling and their friends, so they had some things to comfort them. But the burden of caring for the baby fell to them. After school and chores—and they had many chores—they would have to feed the baby. And to love it. The loving part must have been hard, because that same baby was the very thing that had killed their mother. But they raised it and loved it. When the baby was about four years old, Caleb saw that he couldn’t burden them with the housework, the child and all the chores any longer. So he wrote a newspaper ad for help.”
“For a housekeeper?” asked Arthur.
Aunt Elda shook her head. “No,” she said. “For a wife.”
“A wife!” exclaimed Arthur. He looked at the picture and saw a strong-faced woman with steady eyes.
“That’s when Aunt Mag came,” said Elda. “She traveled from far away, a sailing town on the coast of Maine. There were many mail-order wives in those days, Arthur.”
“And the children liked her?” urged Arthur, smiling.
“From the very moment she walked up the front steps of the house, raw-boned and tall. She was taller than Caleb, even. She looked at Tris, I remember. He was the oldest, and so frightened. ‘You’re going to be very tall,’ she said gruffly. ‘Like me.’ That pleased him. Then she reached into her black satchel and took out a rose-colored ribbon. Satin it was. She wound it around Mandy’s long hair. ‘Rose is your color,’ she said. ‘We will sew you a rose dress.’”
Aunt Elda smiled, remembering.
“And then she took the youngest one on her lap. From her handkerchief she took a piece of glass. A prism. She held it up to the light, and it sent colors everywhere in that drab room. ‘You won’t remember your mother,’ she said, ‘but you will learn that her life touches yours. All of us touch each other. Just like the colors of the prism. Don’t you forget that.’”
Aunt Elda took the picture of Aunt Mag. “And I never did,” she said.
Arthur looked quickly at Aunt Elda. “You! You were the baby?!”
Aunt Elda nodded. “Then she washed our ears and made us scrub our knuckles until they were red. We loved it! And she read to us every night and showed us how to make dyes from wild flowers and taught us about music. She told us stories about the sea and where she came from; and about birds and how some of them migrated—hundreds of miles sometimes—and how some of them never left home.”
“Like the mockingbird?” Arthur asked softly.
“Yes, Arthur, like the mockingbird. Her hair was coarse and thick, and a wonderful cloud-gray color. She used to leave it out for the birds. She left yarn pieces outside, too. How we loved to find a nest with the yarn wound about. The older family scoffed at her at first, Arthur. Her ways were different, you know, and her way of speaking.” Aunt Elda leaned forward, her eyes bright. “But you know one day I found Caleb behind the shed with his knife, cutting pieces of his hair for the birds! And Aunt Mag showed Caleb how to make dandelion wine in an old crock.” She put her hands on her cheeks. “Oh, the smell of that wine, with cut-up lemons and oranges in it! All the aunts and uncles came over to taste it one afternoon. It tasted so good that they drank it all day and into the evening.” She leaned over close to Arthur. “They all had to stay over for two nights, they got so tipsy and ill! And Aunt Mag took care of everyone, never scolding. From then on, even Caleb grew softer with her. And when he got sick, Aunt Mag plowed the fields. She’d hook up the horses and harness and plow. Never complaining.”
“I wish I had known her,” said Arthur softly.
Aunt Elda looked at Arthur. “Well, if what Aunt Mag said was true, then you do know her, Arthur. She touched me.” Aunt Elda reached out her hand and put it on Arthur’s arm. “I touch you.”
Aunt Elda got up and put the picture of Aunt Mag back on the mantel.
“Aunt Elda,” said Arthur slowly. “Do you think that Aunt Mag would think . . . That is”—Arthur took a deep breath—“do you think that I built that pen for myself?”
Aunt Elda smiled at Arthur. “She might have thought just that, Arthur. What do you think?”
Arthur looked at the picture of Aunt Mag. “I think,” he said, “that maybe Uncle Wrisby was right. Moira and I built a fine pen.”
Aunt Elda’s smile widened. “Well now,” she said. She walked over to an old bureau and dug down into a drawer. “Here’s something—a gift—to always remind you of what Aunt Mag said. And what you know.”
She handed the cloth-covered object to Arthur.
“From Aunt Mag to you,” she said.
She walked to the door and turned. “Tell the old man to get ready for church,” she said, and she walked out of the room and up the stairs.
Arthur unwrapped the cloth carefully so as not to break what he knew was inside. He held the prism up as he walked to the window, watching as sudden colors spiked across the ceiling and around the room.
He thought about Aunt Mag and Aunt Elda cutting their hair for the mockingbird.
I always look the same, Aunt Elda had told him.
Arthur thought about the bird carefully weaving the hair in his nest.
We were both wrong, he thought. Aunt Elda doesn’t look the same at all anymore. Nothing looks the same at all anymore.
And when Arthur slept that night, his head was filled with many thoughts—of babies, a mockingbird, a nest with long yellow-white hair and short gray hair, a motherless child, a tall woman from Maine and dandelion wine. His thoughts fused together and crisscrossed, lighting up his dreams.
Like a prism.
Doing
“I’m going shopping in town!” called Aunt Elda. “Want to come?”
Arthur looked up from the breakfast table as Uncle Wrisby walked into the kitchen carrying Pauline.
“Don’t you think Pauline looks pale and peaked?” he asked.
“How can a chicken be pale and peaked?” scoffed Aunt Elda. But she looked Pauline in the eye. “Qu’y a-t-il?” she asked.
“Maybe Moreover had better take a look at her,” said Uncle Wrisby. “Viens, Pauline. Va dormir.” Pauline jumped from his arms and ran to her cradle, pulling the bit of flannel over her.
It made them all smile, the familiar comfort of it.
>
“I’ll stay with her while you go to town,” said Arthur eagerly. “I’d like to take care of her. Please?” he begged. “Moira will stay too. And we’ll keep an eye on the pigs.”
“Well,” said Uncle Wrisby. “That does make sense.”
“Everything about Wrisby’s pigs makes sense,” said Aunt Elda, putting on her hat. She smiled at Arthur. “All right, Arthur, but we’ll be away for lunch.”
“We’ll fix our own lunch,” said Arthur. “And I’ll take good care of Pauline this time. I promise.”
“Of course you will,” said Uncle Wrisby. “Here come Moreover and Moira now.”
Later, Arthur and Moira watched Moreover’s car waver off down the road, small puffs of smoke leaving a trail behind it.
“Now,” said Arthur decisively, turning to Moira. “Do you think Pauline looks pale and peaked?”
Moira shrugged. “She’s not pale. What does peaked mean?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Arthur. “Maybe she’s tired. How much sleep does a chicken need?”
“Moreover says a sick animal may need a tonic,” said Moira. “Can I eat a cucumber?”
“Sure. What’s a tonic?”
“I think it means medicine,” said Moira. She peeled a whole cucumber in the sink and sat down to eat it.
“Wait,” said Arthur, suddenly remembering the medicine sitting by the sink. Uncle Wrisby’s medicine. He picked it up, pointing to the label.
“Tonic,” he said happily. “It says tonic.”
“Then give her some,” said Moira, licking her fingers.
“I don’t know,” said Arthur, hesitating. “I’d better taste it first.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Moira. “Can I have another cucumber?”
“Well, I don’t want to give her anything that won’t be good for her,” reasoned Arthur. He tilted the bottle and sipped some tonic. He made a face.
“It’s terrible!”
“Let me try,” said Moira. She drank some. “It’s not bad. Tastes like fruit.”
“Let me try again,” said Arthur. “You’re right,” he said after drinking. “It does taste better now.”