Fire Along the Sky
Page 178
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“I will read my Bible,” said Mr. Stiles.
“Aloud.”
“It has a fine sound to it, read in a sure voice. I assure you.”
Lily had to bite back a smile. “Sir, no matter what you may have heard about my family, I am not unfamiliar with the Bible.”
Mr. Stiles had a disquieting smile; it drew his lower lip down into a corner and made a bow out of the small red mouth. “You will take the commission?”
She let out a laugh, short and sharp. “You are persistent, Mr. Stiles.”
“I am much blessed,” he agreed.
“You don't really want your likeness taken, do you? This is just a way to get me to listen to your preaching.”
The older man leaned forward so far that Lily caught sight of a perfect pink circle at the crown of his head, the first clear sign that he was struggling with his temper. When he straightened again he said, “You are refusing my custom?”
Lily thought in silence for a moment. She said, “I propose a compromise. I will take your nephew's likeness first. If you are satisfied with my work, and we can come to agreement on how to proceed, I will take yours when his is finished.”
It was a fine piece of reasoning, Lily thought, as she watched him think it through. A wily old man, her mother called him, not without some measure of appreciation.
He bowed again. “Very well. I will send Justus to you.”
Lily watched Mr. Stiles walk away through the village, his pace deliberate. He left her with the uneasy feeling that she had somehow managed to give him what he wanted without ever revealing to her what that might be, exactly.
In spite of the visitors who came by at the oddest times, Lily liked her spot in the middle of the village; she liked the movement and noise and most of all she liked sitting on a stool in the doorway and putting what she saw down on paper. This morning it was old Mr. Hindle, Jock's father, who sat on a stump plying the blade of his scythe with a whetstone. A dry stump of an old man, with a face carved out of leather under a straw hat. He had tucked a bunch of heartsease into the wide leather belt that held the whetstone pouch, wilting now but the colors still bright: yellow and a deep purple just the color of the old man's eyes. What delighted Lily most was the fact that he had the biggest ears she had ever seen on a human being, great boats stuck to his head with lobes like limp griddle cakes.
She was still occupied with those ears when a shadow fell across her lap and she started out of that place where she went while she worked.
The morning was half gone, and the world was full of noise: from the sawyer's pit by the new school building came the rough voice of metal cutting into wood; a child was weeping piteously—one of the Ratz girls, she saw now, who had spilled an apron full of eggs into the rutted lane and flapped her hands at a riot of puppies who were determined to take advantage of her poor fortune. Mr. Stiles in loud voice, reading from Corinthians from an upended box in the lane in front of the trading post. From the mountain came the echoing bellow of a moose in rut.
Manny Freeman was standing beside her.
“Didn't mean to startle you.”
The first needlelike pain of a headache darted behind Lily's eyes, but she smiled. “I need to get out of the sun anyway.”
He followed her into the shade of the meetinghouse, where a botfly bounced and buzzed against the walls.
“Blackfly coming on now,” Manny said in a conversational tone. “Won't be no peace until frost.”
That was a fact of the north woods, one so obvious to anyone who had grown up here—as both of them had—that Lily found it odd to have it raised as a topic of discussion. For the rest of the season she would start her day by rubbing Curiosity's pennyroyal ointment into her skin and looking at the world through a beating, shimmering haze of gnats and no-see-ums and blackflies. Horses and mules and oxen would have the worst of it, twitching and switching and sometimes running mad when the flies got the better of them.
“Oh,” Lily said. “You've been thinking about Polly.”
Manny stood at the window, looking down the lane to the point where it disappeared into the woods. “The team run away with them, did I understand that right?”
“Yes.” Lily came up beside him. “Just there. It happened very fast, I think. The team took off and the wagon turned over. They didn't suffer, either of them.”
“Good,” Manny said. He glanced at her, and Lily saw the sweat beading on his upper lip. He said, “Might I have a look at your drawings?”
Lily hardly remembered Manny, who had already moved away to Manhattan when she was a little girl. Maybe, she reasoned to herself, that was why he seemed comfortable with her.
“Of course,” she said, taking care to keep her voice even. There were tears on his face now, but she turned away as if that were as commonplace as the buzz of flies. She went to her worktable and let him be, and in a quarter hour he cleared his throat, as if to tell her that he had got hold of himself.
“It's like walking back in time,” he said. He had switched to Kahnyen'kehàka, but Lily had the sense that he didn't even realize it. Kahnyen'kehàka was her second language and she answered him in kind.
She said, “If you would like to take some you're welcome to them. There are quite a few of your father and your sister. And here.”
She walked to the far wall and searched for a moment. “Here's one of your son. He was just walking when I drew this. When he was little Polly sent him here to spend the summer with your folks.”
“Aloud.”
“It has a fine sound to it, read in a sure voice. I assure you.”
Lily had to bite back a smile. “Sir, no matter what you may have heard about my family, I am not unfamiliar with the Bible.”
Mr. Stiles had a disquieting smile; it drew his lower lip down into a corner and made a bow out of the small red mouth. “You will take the commission?”
She let out a laugh, short and sharp. “You are persistent, Mr. Stiles.”
“I am much blessed,” he agreed.
“You don't really want your likeness taken, do you? This is just a way to get me to listen to your preaching.”
The older man leaned forward so far that Lily caught sight of a perfect pink circle at the crown of his head, the first clear sign that he was struggling with his temper. When he straightened again he said, “You are refusing my custom?”
Lily thought in silence for a moment. She said, “I propose a compromise. I will take your nephew's likeness first. If you are satisfied with my work, and we can come to agreement on how to proceed, I will take yours when his is finished.”
It was a fine piece of reasoning, Lily thought, as she watched him think it through. A wily old man, her mother called him, not without some measure of appreciation.
He bowed again. “Very well. I will send Justus to you.”
Lily watched Mr. Stiles walk away through the village, his pace deliberate. He left her with the uneasy feeling that she had somehow managed to give him what he wanted without ever revealing to her what that might be, exactly.
In spite of the visitors who came by at the oddest times, Lily liked her spot in the middle of the village; she liked the movement and noise and most of all she liked sitting on a stool in the doorway and putting what she saw down on paper. This morning it was old Mr. Hindle, Jock's father, who sat on a stump plying the blade of his scythe with a whetstone. A dry stump of an old man, with a face carved out of leather under a straw hat. He had tucked a bunch of heartsease into the wide leather belt that held the whetstone pouch, wilting now but the colors still bright: yellow and a deep purple just the color of the old man's eyes. What delighted Lily most was the fact that he had the biggest ears she had ever seen on a human being, great boats stuck to his head with lobes like limp griddle cakes.
She was still occupied with those ears when a shadow fell across her lap and she started out of that place where she went while she worked.
The morning was half gone, and the world was full of noise: from the sawyer's pit by the new school building came the rough voice of metal cutting into wood; a child was weeping piteously—one of the Ratz girls, she saw now, who had spilled an apron full of eggs into the rutted lane and flapped her hands at a riot of puppies who were determined to take advantage of her poor fortune. Mr. Stiles in loud voice, reading from Corinthians from an upended box in the lane in front of the trading post. From the mountain came the echoing bellow of a moose in rut.
Manny Freeman was standing beside her.
“Didn't mean to startle you.”
The first needlelike pain of a headache darted behind Lily's eyes, but she smiled. “I need to get out of the sun anyway.”
He followed her into the shade of the meetinghouse, where a botfly bounced and buzzed against the walls.
“Blackfly coming on now,” Manny said in a conversational tone. “Won't be no peace until frost.”
That was a fact of the north woods, one so obvious to anyone who had grown up here—as both of them had—that Lily found it odd to have it raised as a topic of discussion. For the rest of the season she would start her day by rubbing Curiosity's pennyroyal ointment into her skin and looking at the world through a beating, shimmering haze of gnats and no-see-ums and blackflies. Horses and mules and oxen would have the worst of it, twitching and switching and sometimes running mad when the flies got the better of them.
“Oh,” Lily said. “You've been thinking about Polly.”
Manny stood at the window, looking down the lane to the point where it disappeared into the woods. “The team run away with them, did I understand that right?”
“Yes.” Lily came up beside him. “Just there. It happened very fast, I think. The team took off and the wagon turned over. They didn't suffer, either of them.”
“Good,” Manny said. He glanced at her, and Lily saw the sweat beading on his upper lip. He said, “Might I have a look at your drawings?”
Lily hardly remembered Manny, who had already moved away to Manhattan when she was a little girl. Maybe, she reasoned to herself, that was why he seemed comfortable with her.
“Of course,” she said, taking care to keep her voice even. There were tears on his face now, but she turned away as if that were as commonplace as the buzz of flies. She went to her worktable and let him be, and in a quarter hour he cleared his throat, as if to tell her that he had got hold of himself.
“It's like walking back in time,” he said. He had switched to Kahnyen'kehàka, but Lily had the sense that he didn't even realize it. Kahnyen'kehàka was her second language and she answered him in kind.
She said, “If you would like to take some you're welcome to them. There are quite a few of your father and your sister. And here.”
She walked to the far wall and searched for a moment. “Here's one of your son. He was just walking when I drew this. When he was little Polly sent him here to spend the summer with your folks.”
