Angels Make Their Hope Here (3 page)

“Aw, Hattie, hush. Give the little girl a piece of your cake,”
Duncan said. Hattie’s cake was the most delectable thing he’d ever tasted. In fact, Hattie could well be considered the finest cook for miles around. Duncan laughed to himself that he might never marry as long as he could eat at Hattie’s table. He wanted to fuss at her, but instead he asked for more cake.

“The girl can come with me—for good lookout,” Hat said as she stood up to take leave. She twisted up her loose hair and pushed it under her cap, which had fallen lopsided when she took off her apron. Tidying up her loosened hair was her favorite and well-known habit. She gathered it and twisted it, then undid it in the next gesture. The final was that she pushed it under her cap.

“Mind your business, Hattie,” Duncan countered. His tone had a warning, though it was still sweet.

“Do what is… proper, Duncan,” Hat insisted. She wanted to stamp her foot at him to drive her point but hesitated. Duncan might toss her onto the kitchen floor with a slap if she did that. He might. She calmed herself. Let it remain just a tiff. Hat backed away from Duncan and crossed to the door. At the last moment before leaving, she marched back toward Dossie and reached for her wrist.

“Come with me, girl.”

“No, ma’am,” Dossie asserted and drew back. She then added in a small, clear voice, “I will stay here with Mr. Duncan, ma’am. I can be a good chicken girl. There is things to do.”

Hat cut her eyes at her brother, then turned to Dossie with a pleasanter face. “You need some things then,” she said and handed over the bundle she’d gone to fetch.

Later while Dossie scraped ashes from the fireplace, and Mr. Duncan Smoot salted down some fish, he said, “Yonder bed is for you to lie in.” Dossie dropped her eyes to the floor
before his feet. Duncan was perplexed. He’d expected a naïve smile. He hoped he hadn’t frightened or shamed her. Ah, Dossie had not been raised here, where children laugh and frolic! It wasn’t in her nature to be carefree or to be saucy or to ask for what she wanted.

“Thanks, sir,” Dossie mumbled.

She’d made a choice for herself. It made her scared. But recollecting how Mr. Duncan had spoken of her earlier made her thrill.

Miz Hat’s bundled gift was an apron wrapped around a calico dress and a white chemise that had been pounded and wrung to softness. There was also a pair of slipper shoes, two head scarves, and some soft, ragged strips.

Though Dossie was uncertain of herself in the things that Miz Hat brought, she made a good fit in the new clothes. The dress was big on her but had ties. The apron fit exactly to her size in all points. The waist seemed just her own, and the strings tied came to a pretty, jaunty bow. There was a decorated edge along the bodice of the apron, though it had lost its bright color. She had never worn a thing so prettily decorated. Ah, has Miz Hat got a daughter who has given up her things?

“Ha! Pippy’s apron,” Mr. Duncan said. He chuckled when he saw Dossie in the new clothes. He smiled full at her for the first time. The radiance of it bedazzled her.

Dossie took up the job of chicken gal, fetching gal, cook, and cleaner. She did not ask questions of Mr. Duncan because he anticipated her needs and directed her to this, that, or the other. He told her when to do certain things and made it plain when his expectations had not quite been met. She continued to be quiet and self-effacing in his presence.

On many an early morning in the highlands, misty rings that look like distant cook fires appear in the mountains. With the advance of the sun, mist burns off, and the colors blend with full sunrise. Jan Smoot, a younger version of his uncle, strode up just after sunrise on such a morning and ever after caused Dossie to think that he was called Son for that reason. But he was occasionally called Son by his uncle to mark the baby title he was given at his birth. Dossie looked out from her peeking perch when she heard their voices. The two had an exchange in the clearing. The young one, head-bowed-humble and paying Duncan Smoot a requisite obeisance, listened, then departed. When he returned hours later, he unhooked a large dead bird from his saddle’s pommel and came in the house.

He, too, was comfortable in the house. On entering the kitchen, he crossed directly to the table and slapped the bird down. Dossie jumped with a start. The large gaudy-colored thing seemed more a tithe or a toll than a meal.

“Uncle, there are five other ducks,” Jan said. He stood erect and kept his eyes on the floor in a slightly insincere manner of deference.

“Leave another here, take two to Noelle and two to Hattie,” Duncan said sternly.

“He won’t harm you, little girl. He’s for the dinner pot,” Jan added and smiled full out at Dossie.

“This is my sister’s boy, Jan.” The sound he gave the name was a short, crisp sound that was half of “John”—a thud, a thump.

“How do, sir,” Dossie answered timidly.

“He ain’t no—”

“I ain’t no ‘sir.’ How do,” Jan said pleasantly. “What is your name? Are we to call you girl and nothin’ else?”

“Shut up, boy,” Duncan barked. “Her name is Dossie.” Duncan felt a tick of embarrassment for his lack of proper manners. Jan had come to be very much like his mother. Cissy would notice if someone’s bread was not buttered or if some timid voice could not be heard in the hurly-burly.

“Yes, sir,” Dossie said. “I always been called Dossie. I can take your duck’s feathers off. I ain’t scared of a duck. He is got a pretty head.” Dossie took up the bird, trilled happily, and began pulling tail feathers. It might have been the presence of Jan that brought out her liveliness, but by the time her pot of water was heated to bubbling, Dossie was humming, meticulously creating piles for the different types of feathers she’d pulled from the bird, and so completely involved in her pursuit that she did not pay much attention to Duncan or Jan. She sang snatches of the wood duck’s calls softly as if in dialogue with it but handled the evisceration expertly, dispassionately—cracking the wings and breastbone with the heel of her bare hand.

“Sir, is there meal to make a hoecake?” Dossie asked Duncan, who looked at her with surprise, noting flecks of the duck’s flesh on her apron. When had she come with a question, a request? The duck had emboldened her. It was peculiar.

Duncan kicked the sole of his nephew’s foot and commanded, “Fetch up the meal, boy.”

Jan sprang up to do Duncan’s bidding, and his chair scraped on the floor planks. He’d torn his coat with his uncle and was anxious to regain Duncan’s affection. Jan had been put out of Duncan’s house for the mischief he’d caused, and he felt adrift. If he had it to do again, he probably wouldn’t feed soap to a
stray dog and, when its vomit came forth in white foam, would not have chased it through the village yelling that it was a mad dog. Maybe then Old Miz Ninevah would not have fainted in the panic and needed teas and cakes to revive her.

“I hope your mama ain’t mad at me,” Dossie spoke up to Jan when he returned to the cook room.

He snorted gently as if answering a horse rather than her. “She don’t get mad,” Jan said, paused, then continued, “My mama is dead. You met An’ Hat. My mama was the old man’s other sister. She was called Cissy. My papa killed her when I was still little. The old man run him off and kept me. An’ Hat’s got a boy, too, called Pet. He’s got a papa, but me and him both still b’long to Duncan. It’s the ol’ People’s way. Uncle got a right to claim us, to teach us, to punish us. Our mamas are part of the Smoots so it matters less who our papa is.” Jan finished speaking and cut open the sack of meal.

“Who is Pippy? Is she Miz Hat’s little girl?”

“Naw, she’s An’ Hat herself. Is what the old man calls An’ Hat for her sweet name.”

“Oh,” Dossie said.

“I los’ my sweet name, I guess. Give me a mug of ale, girl.” Jan spoke as if he were suddenly greatly annoyed with her.

Dossie brought him an ale and said, “Sir.”

“I told you I ain’t no ‘sir.’ I’m Jan. And, Miss Dossie, you can give us our duck anytime,” Jan said and smiled. There was something in that radiant smile that was an antidote to his uncle’s anger. The three of them had a pleasant duck feast.

“Make a pallet on the floor, boy,” Duncan said when the three had eaten.

“I’m not no dog, Uncle. I got a bed,” Jan replied, saucily aware that whiskey had made the older man drowsy. Duncan’s
stomach was full of the duck, and he was content. He had softened and would confer absolution. Duncan’s invitation to stay was proof that Jan was forgiven, and no more need be said about the prank or the punishment.

When Jan left the house, he had planned to head up onto the next ridge to Noelle’s place. Her house was his house, too. Instead he headed down.

The descent was quiet and dark. Jan’s feet were sure of the way—were always confident in buckskin. Their bottoms were intimate with this ground, and all that could be known could be felt through the balls of his feet. The people of Russell’s Knob were clever in their twisting and turning. On their circuitous pathways they never risked slipping off or being caught on spirit paths or being discovered by outsiders. In this precinct, Jan Smoot could keep his head in darkness or in light of day.

When he was in smelling distance, two figures burst through rustling understory to meet him and nuzzle his hands. Portzl and Friedl, his cousin’s mastiffs, came to accompany Jan to the porch. They were waiting for him. Doubtless they had heard him make up his mind to come and had listened for his footfalls.

Pet slept on his back with his mouth open and gassed the place with ale breath. Jan pushed him toward the wall with his foot and came beneath the covers beside him. Pet had warmed the bed but not yet soaked it with sweating. Jan was comfortable at once. Pet moved about in adjusting to Jan’s presence, but he never woke.

Pet woke before sun up, moved close to Jan, put his hand on Jan’s member, and stroked it.

“Leave off, Pet,” Jan whispered and shifted himself.

“Is a wonder you didn’t stay to watch the old man with his new gal,” Pet said and giggled.

“She’s a little girl. He ain’t doing it,” Jan said.

“How you know if you ain’t stay to watch,” Pet asked.

Jan punched him in the side and laughed.

“What she look like, Jan?” Pet asked.

“A pretty little dark plum. Ah, but she’s skinny and ain’t got no tits. She’s a little girl.”

“Uncle likes ’em grown. He likes ’em big.” Pet snickered and drew his hands to illustrate bulbous breasts.

“The old man ain’t gettin’ so much pussy lately. He’s living like a papist since Noelle got mad at him. She’s the only one that’ll take my part, Pet,” Jan said.

“Jan… I,” Pet stammered.

“Oh, shut it, Pet. No point you gettin’ a beatin’, too. An’ Hat could have took my part with Uncle, but she ain’t ever going to do that. He’s thrown me out. The little girl is sleeping in my bed, Pet,” Jan said in a plucky voice tinged with hurt.

Two happy, chattering voices burst out of the surround when Dossie came from the chicken house the next day with a basket of eggs. As the two chatterers approached, Dossie saw an oddly dressed woman accompanying Jan. She was clothed in a tunic of softened deerskin and a skirt of the same and skin boots decorated with quills and feathers.

The woman’s face was trained on Jan’s. He carried her baskets and pouches and tried to hold her around the waist as well.

“Hey, little nanny goat!” Duncan burst from the house and startled Dossie, calling out from the porch in a voice and manner that she had not yet ever heard. “Hey! Where you been
wanderin’?” Duncan yelled. He hurried toward the woman, swept her up, swung her around, and squeezed her waist. He set her back on her feet and swatted her backside. Jan stepped away to allow his uncle this prerogative, but he didn’t completely give up the woman. He raised his hand to her cheek, and she held it while she looked at Duncan. For one blessed moment Jan was exhilarated.

Dossie stopped and stared openly at the three. Oh! At last the woman of Duncan Smoot’s house had come back. But it was clear when she walked onto the porch and entered that this was not her house. She was comfortable but exuded no air of ownership. Her bundles and baskets were left on the porch, and both Jan and Duncan treated her as a guest. She nodded her head toward Dossie.

“Girl, bring me some of tha’ coffee I smell,” she said. Dossie continued to stare, taking in the woman’s striking countenance. For it was her altogether rather than some piercing, pretty eyes or one lovely nose or spongy soft, smooth skin or her thick braided hair singly.

Duncan, who’d been wholly engaged by the woman’s arrival, came back to himself. “Dossie, this here is Noelle. Miz Noelle Beaulieu,” he said with a charming and humorous emphasis that made the woman smile broadly and show all of her teeth.

“Noelle, this here is Dossie. Boy, take off Noelle’s boots,” Duncan ordered Jan. Dossie realized she’d never seen Jan so happy as he now seemed. His face was split wide across with smiling. He sat before the woman in the cross-legged fashion and pulled away her boots. When Dossie brought the coffee, Jan took the cup from her and gave it to Noelle.

Duncan looked like an embarrassed hound dog in Noelle Beaulieu’s presence. He drank in the woman throughout supper.
She traded looks and smiles with him so that Jan knew she had forgiven Duncan and was as itchy for him as he was for her.

Jan knew them best after all. After supper, he gathered up Noelle’s things from the porch and took them to her place. He knew she’d stay the night with Uncle.

Jan considered his relations with the two of them. Noelle would have made a perfect wife for his uncle. But she would not—could not—be obedient to him. You can’t tie a Spirit Woman up in the kitchen and expect her to cook and clean and tend to young’uns. She has got to be out and about her healing. She can’t be expected to let herself be told what to do and not do by a man.

She would have made a good mother for him, though. Jan’s mama had been Noelle’s dearest friend. Her death had only taken her body away from them is what Noelle always told him. As much as his mama loved him, she was surely still watching and guiding, Noelle explained, and so they must keep a place for her. Jan reflected that his fervent little prayers had simply never been answered. Nobody’s god listened to him! He’d wanted his mama’s body, and he couldn’t have it. He wanted them—Uncle, Noelle, and him—to stay together around a hearth, under one roof. He could not have that either.