Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (21 page)

“Mrs. Prescott?”

At the sound of Mr. Underhill’s voice, Jane started.

“I’m sorry, but Miss Dawson said I should maybe talk to you about something. There’s a problem up here on the third floor, and I’ve got a solution, but Miss Dawson doesn’t want to be bothered. She said if I could get one of you ladies to take it over, she wouldn’t object. Said she’d clear it with the warden.” As he was babbling, Underhill was reaching into a bag he’d carried in with him. Jane had assumed it was sewing supplies, but then the bag moved… and mewed. Underhill thrust his hand in. When he withdrew it, his hand encircled the midsection of a calico kitten. It hung in midair, all four legs hanging limp. When Underhill turned his other hand palm up and deposited the kitten in it, the little creature flopped onto its back. Jane could have sworn it had a smile on its face.

“Niice,” Selleck called from the other side of the parlor, then feigned a
meow
and leered at Jane while he pretended to lick the back of his hand.

Underhill glowered at him. “If you’re sure all those machines work,” he said, “you can head back downstairs. There’s no need for you to come back this way at all.” Selleck left, and Underhill returned to the topic of the kitten.

“I raised her with an eyedropper, and I don’t mind telling you I’m attached.”

“Well, she clearly feels the same way,” Jane said and ventured a pat to the furry skull. At her touch, the kitten nosed her finger and gave it a lick.

“She likes you,” Underhill said. He paused. Frowned. “The thing is, Mrs. Prescott, there’s a problem up here over on the empty side. I’ve set lots of traps, but there’s still too many mice. So I told Ma—Miss Dawson—what she needs is a good mouser. And Patch here, she’s little, but she’s a champion at it. The thing is, if she doesn’t feel welcome up here… you know cats. She’ll take off. I can’t keep her in the dormitory, and I’m not home enough, even if I wanted her. But if she’s up here on third—what with me helping out up this way, I’ll get to see her, and you ladies won’t have to spend the winter with traps everywhere you look. She’ll take care of the problem. I know she will.” Without warning, he held his hand out, clearly expecting Jane to take the cat in hand.

She didn’t want to tend a cat, but neither did she want to disappoint Martin Underhill. She liked the idea of his staying close by as much as possible. At least for as long as Adam Selleck worked here. So she took the cat. It sprawled across her forearm, nestled its head against her, and began to purr. She smiled in spite of herself.

“Miss Dawson says I can give her a bit of cream in the mornings just like I been doing, only I’ll set it over there by the first sewing machine. That’ll encourage her to feel right at home. I’ll bring the box she sleeps in up when I come on post tonight, and it won’t be long and there won’t be a mouse in the house. I’m obliged to you, Mrs. Prescott.” He reached out and, with one forefinger, stroked the white patch just above the cat’s right eye. It nuzzled his finger and purred louder.

“You really think she’ll stay up here?”

“She likes you. I can tell. She’ll stay.”

“Patch,” she said. “Good name.”

“There’s something happens when another living soul takes an interest in you,” Underhill said. “Even when it’s just a cat.” He smiled. “Kinda patches things up sometimes. Patch’s been doing that for me since I started feeding her.” He smiled at Jane. “Thank you for taking her on. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll think of something else. I just hate to let her go.”

As promised, Mr. Underhill delivered the box he said Patch had been sleeping in later that evening. There was a spirited discussion about where that box should be placed. As it turned out, it didn’t matter. Jane had just drifted off to sleep when her nose began to itch, almost as if someone had tickled it. She scratched her nose. Patch wiggled her way up beneath her chin. Jane put her back on the floor. She jumped back up onto Jane’s cot. Purring.

The box was never used again… at least not for the cat.

J
ane grasped a clod of earth and crushed it. Closing her eyes, she bent to inhale the aroma of prairie soil, reveling in the warmth of the sun across her shoulders, the morning breeze, the sight of the beetle crawling along the underside of a blade of grass curled at the edge of what was soon to be a flower bed. She smiled over at Patch, who had scampered after the women as they left the dormitory. When Miss Dawson saw how intent the creature was on keeping up with Jane, she’d given permission to bring her outside with them. Now, the kitten sat like a sphinx, intent on something in the grass, ready to pounce. When the grasshopper she’d been stalking jumped, Patch launched a successful attack but then didn’t seem to know what do with her catch.

“Isn’t that just the way?” Jane said to Agnes. “She doesn’t know what to do with the mice, either.”

“Sure she does. She brings ’em to you.”

“The least she could do is kill them first.”

“She wants you to watch and be impressed.” Agnes nodded at the cat mincing toward them through the tall grass, a grasshopper dangling from its mouth. “See?” She took a pinch of dirt between forefinger and thumb and took a taste. “Smells good, tastes better.” When Jane shuddered, Agnes nudged her. “Don’t criticize what you ain’t tried. Tastes like freedom.” Rocking back on her heels, Agnes stared off toward Lincoln.

Jane chucked Patch under the chin, praised her hunting trophy, and went back to work without comment. Now that Agnes could read and do sums, she seemed to be thinking more and more about her release date next year. But Jane didn’t want to think about freedom today. Today, she wanted to plant flowers.

It was nice to
want
to do something within reach, nice not to be the object of Miss Dawson’s worried glances and Sergeant Underhill’s concerned gazes. And amazing to realize how Patch’s affection seemed to have helped her find her way through the dark clouds of depression. When Patch curled up next to her at night and began to purr, it made her smile. When presented with a catch, Jane supplied the expected praise. And at some point in the recent past, things had begun looking less bleak.

She glanced up at the sky and closed her eyes. Fresh air, sunshine, a purring kitten, and flowers to plant. Jane smiled as she realized she was following Miss Dawson’s example. Listing
thankfuls.

She and Agnes worked together, breaking up all the earth in their section of the flower bed. Miss Dawson had divided the women into teams and assigned each team to a section. They planted bachelor buttons and zinnias, dahlias, asters, and stock.

Mrs. McKenna and Georgia were here, too. Mrs. McKenna’s wide-brimmed straw hat shading her flawless skin from the sun, even as she wielded a hoe. Georgia wore a calico bonnet—as did they all—products of the new sewing industry. It occurred to Jane that if it weren’t for the guard towers and the knowledge that men with rifles were up there keeping watch, they could be a group of women working on some municipal beautification project.

Jane had just bent to dig up a particularly stubborn weed when a shadow fell over the earth. She recognized the tip of the boot planted right where she was weeding. Adam Selleck had come outside under the guise of taking a smoke a few minutes ago. Jane had heard him compliment Miss Dawson on how nice things were going to look once the flower beds she’d designed were in full bloom. He’d lingered, standing just beneath the arched doorway, watching the women work, drawing on his cigarette, and blowing smoke in a lazy fashion. Now, he seemed about to crouch down beside Jane. She nearly shied away, but before she moved, Agnes grabbed her hand and, without ceremony, practically dragged her toward the other side of the stairs where Miss Dawson stood, holding baby Grace and talking to Mrs. McKenna.

“We got our seeds planted and the weeds pulled,” Agnes said abruptly.

Selleck called out another compliment to Miss Dawson, then flicked his cigarette onto the stairs and stomped it out. As he ambled back up the stairs, he began to whistle. The sound sent a chill up Jane’s spine.

As the days passed and spring gave way to summer, the cocoon Jane had attempted to pull back around herself after Max’s last visit opened again.

By mid-May, in addition to tutoring some of the women, she was reading aloud for an hour every evening. She suspected some of the women actually lost sleep wondering what poor Oliver would do to escape Fagin’s clutches. One evening, Susan Horst surprised everyone by offering to take a turn. She did an excellent job and later pulled Jane aside. “Nobody ever thought I had the brains for letters.” She paused. “I never would have tried if I wasn’t stuck in here.” She forced a laugh. “So. Thanks.”

What Patch and reading could not do for Jane was accomplished the first part of July when Sergeant Underhill led a parade of guards bearing several bushel baskets of remnants into the parlor. As the guards set the baskets by the sewing machines, Underhill explained. “Mrs. Reverend Irwin of the First Presbyterian Church in Lincoln organized this. She gathered things up from several women’s groups.” He held up a stack of new Bibles. “And they wanted you each to have your own Bible.”

Agnes Sweeney was not impressed. Setting the Bibles aside, she grabbed a fistful of strips from one of the baskets and growled, “What’s this good for?”

Susan Horst had a more positive reaction. She reached for a Bible and ran her hand over its cover before making a suggestion. “We could tear strips and crochet them into rugs.” She looked to Miss Dawson for approval. “It’d be nice to have rugs by our cots this winter.”

Agnes made a face. “As if they’d let us
keep
what we make.” She sounded disgusted. “How many bouquets of flowers do you expect we’ll get up here when our flowers start to bloom? You’ve seen the gazebo the trustees are building out front. You think we’ll ever be allowed to so much as step up inside it? None of it’s for us. It’s all to impress the visitors about what a wonderful job the new warden’s doing.” She dropped the fabric back into the basket. “And whatever we make outta this stuff, you can bet it won’t be for us.”

“Actually,” Miss Dawson said, “you
can
keep a rug if you like. Or you can sell one. Or do both. The committee I told you about has developed a business plan—for anyone interested.” When the room grew quiet, she continued. “Anyone who works is to be paid by the piece. We’ll keep track, and when you’re released, your earnings will be waiting. The idea is to give you the opportunity to earn money toward a fresh start.”

“I get out in a few weeks,” Susan Horst said.

Miss Dawson smiled. “We’re starting slow, with an order for rag rugs for the children at the Home for the Friendless. We don’t have a loom, so obviously we’ll be using your idea and crocheting strips. Mrs. Irwin suggested braiding strips and sewing them together.”

“How many do you have orders for?” Susan asked. “And how big are they supposed to be?”

Miss Dawson looked down at the paper in her hand and read aloud, “Forty-two personal-size rugs for bedsides. Dimensions may vary.” She looked up. “The Ladies Aid Society in charge of the Home has agreed to pay fifteen cents for each one. Either crocheted or braided will most certainly do.”

“We’ll need crochet hooks,” Ivy said. “My vision’s bad, but I can crochet. I could braid, too.”

And so the industry began. Jane did her share of cutting and tearing strips, but as they sorted through the bushel baskets of remnants, she asked Miss Dawson’s permission to pull some of the reds and blues out, along with some browns and tans. When she told Miss Dawson why, the matron smiled and nodded. She even let Jane stay up late some nights, seated in the parlor just beside the outer door where she could hand over her scissors to the guard on post before she retired. It wasn’t long before Jane had enough strips cut to make blocks for a sizable quilt top.

Over the next couple of weeks, Susan and Agnes came alongside and helped her stitch. Harry Butler in the kitchen had begun to send flour sacks their way. Laundered and cut into squares, the sacks became the foundation for the blocks Jane called courthouse steps.

When some of the other women expressed an interest in piecing quilts, too, Miss Dawson approved. Even Agnes Sweeney stopped grumbling as she noted one day that having work helped the time go by. “I thought it was only Tuesday, but here it is Friday.” She paused and glanced out the window. “I’ll be out of here in no time.”

As Jane’s patchwork began to take form, her own spirits rose. Every block began with a red square stitched to the center of the foundation piece. Next she stitched rectangles radiating out from the center square so that two sides were blue and two sides tan. She didn’t tell anyone, but to her the colors had meaning. She hoped they would for Rose, too. Hoped they would remind her of the wild rose and the bachelor’s buttons growing in the earth at home. Hoped Rose would remember how Jane had always told her that no matter what Pa said, flowers weren’t useless. Beauty was important. God could have made an earth that would only grow food, but He didn’t. He sprouted flowers in the Garden of Eden alongside everything else. He painted sunsets and hung stars in ways that inspired ancient storytellers.