The Heart of the Thicket

2. Like Bears and Coyotes

CHAPTER TWO

LIKE BEARS AND COYOTES

By the time I started the fire, cooked dinner, and got Anne—who was excited and tired at once from our day in town and the strange ride home—into bed, I was exhausted.

That was hours ago.

For half the night I ran the sickle through the wheat I planted at the end of summer. I tied them into sheathes, towered the sheathes into shocks, and draped them with cloth to keep the birds at bay. Every night for a week I have stayed up for hours after Anne has gone to sleep to complete more work by the light of a lantern. She helps all day but has no idea just how much work will go into keeping us from starving this winter, and that is for the best. I do not want her to know how close we are to that misery.

The winters in Tennessee are not so harsh as those I faced growing up in New York, but the land will be still, and the wind will be biting.

I didn’t rely on the land growing up. We had two cooks who went to the markets and purchased from those who worried over hunger. I never gave a thought to my own, I never had to. There was no concern over it when we had Henry. We sowed the land twice over the course of the warmer months each year. Things grew with such abundance that we kept enough for us and sold or traded the rest.

Now, with only myself to keep Anne and I warm and fed, winter, and how unending it can seem, has been ever present in my mind since the first robin returned with spring.Despite months of working sunrise to sunset and well into the night, it is still only enough for the two of us plus a little buffer. There will be nothing to sell to pay for the barest of essentials.

All spring and summer I tilled small fields myself, planted corn and wheat. Tomatoes and carrots. String beans and lima beans. The scents of vinegar, dill, and onion are embedded in my skin from the foods, both foraged and farmed, that I have spent so much time preserving. No amount of scrubbing with the most heavily scented soaps can clear it from my skin. Each day I give thanks to Henry for his patience with me while I learned it all. He found me in a faraway city, swept me off my feet, and taught me how to be a farmer’s wife in Tennessee. What he didn’t know, he made introductions with those who did.

They are the same women who gossip about me now.

A more bitter woman might bemoan the fact that Henry then vanished and left me to it alone, but I cannot regret him no matter how hard this is. Gratitude that he imparted what I would need to know before leaving is far more sustainable than choosing to hold a grudge that would eat away at my strength and character. My heart holds nothing but certainty that he would be here if he could. He would never just leave us.

With my back near breaking from hunching over to collect wheat, I fall into the crunchy grass by the front stoop. The crickets, which had been singing, fall silent at my sudden interruption.Out of breath, I fear my panting would wake Anne if I were to enter before I calm. It is close enough to sunrise now that, if woken, Anne would be awake for the whole day. The idea of facing motherhood and all it entails right now weighs my limbs with dread. I need a few hours to sleep. She is understanding of my desire for rest, but I fear what trouble she could get up to if my eyes are closed while she is awake. It is enough to keep sleep at bay regardless of my fatigue. When I do sleep, nightmares of her being suddenly gone, just as Henry was suddenly gone, keep me from true rest . Even beyond that, all mothers fear the hearth and how it can burn small fingers, the barn and the sharp tools kept inside, and the woodpile where venomous snakes often slither. There are the woods, too. They are all too easy to wander into and become lost in. I never feared them before, but Henry knew them well and they still turned him from us. She is still of an age where any moment of distraction or sleep on my part could be the end of her.

The lights Anne claimed to see in the woodsyesterday come to mind and my guts twist into terrible knots. They have been added to my long list of potential dangers to protect her from.

Stacking my needs upon one another, I remove my tattered boots, force myself back to my feet, and leave them outside before opening the door to our cabin with such care that it does not make a sound.

Finding Anne sound asleep in our bed, my first need is met. She is here, safe.

With that knowledge, how dry my mouth and throat have grown and how my empty stomach gnaws at my insides strikes me with force. Thank goodness I planned ahead for that. Grabbing the roll I left on the table before Anne went to sleep, I drive my teeth into it,not caring that it is thick, a little stale, and almost too dry to swallow. If our cottage had more space, I would warm it over the coals with the butter I made yesterday, but I do not dare risk the sound.

Washing the unappetizing bread down with the water in my cup, there is only one necessity left. Sleep.

Turning back to the bed where Anne sprawls from one end to the other, there is no way to climb into it without moving her. Grabbing the spare wool blanket from the foot of the bed, I patter to the hearth, poke the darkened embers until the glow rises back, and curl up on the soot-covered rug in front of it. My hips, unaccustomed to long rides on Dolly, are sore from riding to and from town. They find a new level on the floor as my back settles after the grueling work of cutting wheat. My spine pops in a few new ways that bring pain and relief, startling a gasp from my depths.

Next year, I will not plant wheat at all. Instead, I will plant more corn, and we will make our bread from that meal until we forget what sourdough tastes like.

Except next year, this will not be my life anymore. Not if I make the right choices for Anne.

If Henry were here, I would be better. Since he went away?—

Since Henry died , so much I never thought I would have to face has fallen onto me.

Plowing fields on my own with a child tied to my side is the least of it. Mostly it has been moments like this. Lying on the floor to best keep her sleeping. It has been moments like yesterday when I bought shoes for her rather than some for myself. A life of scarcity has never been mine. I was raised in finery that I sacrificed for happiness with Henry. Without him this home feels cold, and I am spread too thin in all my attempts to keep it warm. It turns out that, just as I was able to give up a life of comfort and ease for Henry, I am able to give up everything to keep her as content as I can.

And it is still not enough.

I could spend every waking hour in the fields trying to build a life for us and it might put food on the table and shoes on her feet, but it would not give her a mother. Maybe someone stronger than me could do it all. Tonight, exhausted and worn, knowing I have to get up and do it all again with a smile firmly in place for her in so few hours, I do not have enough in me.

The fact that with Henry I was enough and now I am not stings. Some days, I fear Anne has lost mother and father both.

Covering my mouth to stifle the sob that escapes me, I try to force my mind away from Henry and how much I miss him. As I do almost every night, I fail. If he were here, all of our problems would not be solved, but they would be more bearable. He would never allow me to feel like I will soon rip in two by the weight of everything as I do now.

So much of my time is spent working hard to be everything Anne and I need that it’s rare for me to get the chance to miss him with purpose. I miss him all the time by accident. My bones ache to know that he is almost certainly dead. There can be no other reason. He did not swear oaths lightly and he never broke promises.

Every swing of my scythe tonight set my blood screaming for a savior, but my only savior hasbeen Henry.He saved me from my overbearing mother and the sea of unfit suitors that would never have brought me any joy. There was a time when life was an ominous thing that stretched terrifying and long before me. He made me eager to walk such a path because he would be beside me.

A love like ours is uncommon, something found in fairytales and books meant to be read by women in private. Not many people find it.

To have had it and lost it is so unfair.

To maintain a life without it would be impossible, save for Anne, who needs me. Nothing is allowed to be impossible. My resentment over that fact is almost as useless as every other complaint I have.

It is pointless to lament if only he were here . Such thoughts do not feed Anne, do not keep the roof from leaking, and do not harvest anything.

They do comfort me in small ways, though. If he were here, he would come lie on the floor beside me to keep my back warm, hold me close, and kiss my hair. He would wrap me in his love in the same way he had since the day we met. I would wrap him in mine. We would be enough.

I wonder if I will still seek comfort in the arms of the dead when I lie in Mr. Cavender’s bed.

Waking with the sun risen above the treetops, my thoughts fly to Anne, who is always awake just before dawn. Memories of the lights in the woods stir.

Flying upright from the rug that sits before the dead fire, I scan the house and the bed. Anne is gone.

With my body feeling hollow and feverish, my foot catches on my boots by the door, pitching me forward down the wood steps. My ankle rolls as I catch myself. Pain flares behind my blind panic, but I save it for later as I find my footing in the cool dirt in front of the house.

“Anne!”

No answer.

Hurtling over the wheat I piled last night, I rush behind our cabin to where we stack firewood and bellow again, “Anne!”

My girl does not answer but every chicken in the yard jumps to attention, clattering and squawking their displeasure at being startled.

“Mama!” At last, Anne pops her head out of the coop.

She possesses a grand impersonation of my fervor and, when she giggles over it, fear and adrenaline drain from my body, leaving me panting, my voice pitched high. “What are you doing out here alone, Anne? You gave me a horrible fright! How often must I tell you to remain inside until I wake?”

Realizing that I am cross with her, not just pretending to be, her smile drops. “I am sorry, Mama. I came to collect eggs. I was surprising you.” She lifts her little padded basket filled with a few eggs and awaits praise.

Sighing the anger out of my body, I find a seat on the chilly autumn ground. “You go on then, good girl. Collect the eggs. I am sorry for shouting.”

Smile growing once more, she pops back into the chicken coop, leaving me to ponder how I am going to spend the day. It should be spent threshing the wheat with Anne by my side, but the wheat is not going anywhere and the walnuts in the woods will fall and fill with worms if we wait too long. It will make Anne so happy to go foraging for them, too. If not for that, my fear over what happened in the woods yesterday would keep me in place.

I try to reason that it is silliness on my part, believing in such a frightful thing as wicked beings in the Tennessee woods bent on luring Anne away, but it had felt so true yesterday. The only cure for useless fear is to face it.

When Anne emerges with her basket of eggs, I usher her to my side. “How about we make some breakfast with these and then we go find some of those walnuts I promised?”

Just as I suspected, her eyes alight. “Yes!” She releases a high-pitched squeal of delight, unable to keep her joy contained in her little body .

Grabbing my hand, she tries to pull me off the ground and I budge slowly, giving the illusion that she’s able to lift me. “You’re so strong, Anne!”

Forgetting herself, she releases my hand and I plop right back to the earth while she rolls up her sleeve to flex her twiggy arm like a strongman on a circus poster. It is also how Henry taught her to do it and proves yet again that she has a greater memory than would be good for her.

Standing, I take her heavy basket on my arm and follow her into the house where she drops to her knees in front of the fire and stokes it to life with some dry pine needles from the basket kept beside it.

“Mama?” She waits for me to make an affirmative hum and to look at her before she will continue. “What will we make with walnuts?”

Cracking eggs into a pan, I whisk them together with a little salt. All the things I can think of are beyond our reach. We are almost out of sugar, so no sweets, but we do have some honey. “Maybe we could bake them into honey cornbread.”

“Yes, that! Like cake!” Being four is a wonder. Anne does not consider any of the things we have made with walnuts in the past. She is only interested in the new idea I have given instead. I do not think she will even mind the lack of sugar I typically sprinkle on top. We will make it work.

“Done.” Sitting at the small table beside her, I put the pan on a cloth between us. “Careful. Do not touch the pan. It’s hot.”

I marvel at Anne as she picks up a fork, lifts her wrist to keep it off the cast iron, and stabs a bit of scrambled eggs for herself. She has grown so much in such little time. She has had to. In the months since Henry disappe—died, she has had to become independent in so many manners of work and play. If we moved to town, she would have other children to play with. My time would be freed up some.The thought brings me no joy and guilt presses on me. I should be happy for her chance at a normal childhood after all we have endured, but eating eggs from the pan with her in this little house built by Henry would become a thing of the past. We would likely never step foot inside it again.

The moment the last bite of egg is gone between us, Anne stands from her seat and stomps across the house in her new winter boots to grab my shoes from the porch. It does not occur to her that they are falling apart, but the wish to hide them, even from her, wells up in me. Henry provided so well for us, and I do not want anyone—not even Anne—to think we are lacking even when we so clearly are.

I fiddle with the bronze ring on my left hand, a sinking feeling that howls I do not deserve to wear it knotting in my guts. Perhaps, if it is time to remarry, it is time to take it off.

Pulling on my shoes, I stand, pocket my ring in my apron before I can think better of it, and follow Anne as she bounds toward the woods on the edge of the property. Since I have rarely taken it off in all the years I have had it, beneath where my ring sat on my finger is a green line of skin from where the tarnish has worn off on me. I never liked the word tarnish for the wear and tear of my wedding ring, but I do not know a better one. Maybe it is weathered like I am.

“Do you think we will see those lights again, Mama?”

Part of me wishes I had thought to bring Dolly. She is a brave and wise old mare and might sense something amiss before I do. “Let us hope not, Anne. Remember, they are like?—”

“Bears and coyotes.” She finishes my warning for me and huffs. “They are much prettier than bears and coyotes.”

It occurs to me that such lights, if they exist, are meant to draw us in. It makes me think that whatever it is that Anne saw yesterday is much more dangerous than a bear, who has the size and claws to warn us to remain at a distance.

I am glad that the first walnut tree we come to is on the edge of the woods and we need not venture in. Anne wastes no time running for the trunk of the tree and making her best attempts to climb up the side of it. Picking her up under her arms, I place her in the lowest branches.

“Mind where you put your hands and feet. Try not to tear your dress.”

We cannot afford fabric for a new one.

“Alright, Mama. Watch!” She scrambles into the tree and starts dropping walnuts for me to collect in the same basket that bore eggs an hour ago. They are perfect this time of year, and the trees on our property produce more than we could ever eat alone. Maybe we could sell them in town and buy ourselves some time before I need to accept a proposal I do not want. If nothing so lofty as that, we might trade some for sugar.

A walnut falls on my head and Anne cackles from above me in the boughs of the tree, unseen behind a curtain of colorful autumn leaves. “Sorry!”

“You are not!” She drops another and, this time, I am able to dodge it. The game of cat and mouse continues as I dodge and collect until she comes to the end of her branch and turns back toward the trunk to try again. Picking a new limb, she crawls along the tree into the woods rather than toward me and the house.

“Let’s stay on this side of the trees, Anne.”

“But there’s big ones.” She continues to inch along the branch. “Lots of them!”

My stomach plummets when she shuffles farther into the woods. There is an oddness about the trees. They are menacing, dark and, just like yesterday when Anne saw the lights, the urge to leave them is all encompassing.

Not following her, though, puts her in the woods alone. I cross the line of trees. “Come back right now.”

“Daddy said there was nothing to fear in the woods.”

Hearing the word daddy on her lips makes my blood run cold, and not just for how we have avoided speaking of Henry since he was lost to us. In a way I have never felt before yesterday, an icy spread in my bones tells me that never seeing him again has everything to do with these woods he faced each day.It was the lights. I know it in my marrow.

Ducking beneath low hanging branches, nothing is amiss save my pounding heart. A walnut drops onto my shoulder and Anne giggles above me. Some of my fear fades from my tight limbs. Maybe I am jumpy over nothing, a symptom of exhaustion.

Over the course of several minutes, my heart stops its race. Every rustle of leaves keeps me on edge, but I also feel more ridiculous over it. Movement in the woods alights my nerves like a trumpet blast more than once, only for me to turn and spot a grey squirrel hopping through the brush. We have lived beside these woods for years and have not seen anything more dangerous than a doe.

The more walnuts I pluck from the earth, the more I try to remember why I love the woods. Strange lights or not, they are peaceful. Even in autumn, the woods are alive and growing. The wind moves the trees, which wakes the insects into song. The birds are chirping, and squirrels are hiding acorns away.

Above my head, Anne sings a song to herself and tosses another walnut down atop me. Then her song halts mid note.

“Mama?” Her voice quivers around the word, reminding me what I should fear.

“What is it, Anne?” I scan the woods for lights or bears and see nothing amiss. The birdsongs have stopped, though. In fact, everything has stopped.