Lavender-Green Magic

1

Dimsdale

Rain beat against the windows of the bus so hard one could barely see out. The wind was so strong that sometimes the whole of the big coach shivered when a blast caught it head on.

Inside, those same windows were all steamed. And it smelled. It smelled of the banana the little boy in the seat ahead of Holly had been eating, of wet clothes belonging to the people who had gotten on at the last two stops. It smelled just of people.

Holly wanted to be sick but she was not going to let herself. Only babies got travel-sick. She held her mouth tight shut, swallowing and swallowing. As she pressed her hands forcibly against her middle, she scowled fiercely at the world.

It was easy to scowl, everything was so hateful. Not only the storm outside but the bus, why they were on it, everything in the world—that world which had come to pieces all around them so that there was nothing safe or happy or as it should be any more. She swallowed again. No, she was not going to be sick, and she was not going to cry as Judy had been doing off and on for what seemed like days now, weeks, months—

Crock, Crockett Wade, had been trying to see through the steamed window, wiping impatiently to clear a pane which almost immediately fogged over again. Now he thumped back in his seat, turned his head to regard his sister Holly.

What’s the matter with you? he demanded.

She dug her elbow into his ribs, banging her arm on the seat divider between them in the process.

Nothing! She gestured warningly at the two seats behind, where Mom and Judy sat. Nothing at all.

He stared at her and then appeared to get the message. Sure, he said in a lower voice, Sussex stop can’t be much farther now.

Holly did not know whether he was trying to raise his own spirits by that hope, or hers. At that moment she did not care. All that mattered was that she was not going to be sick! Not Holly Wade, who was no baby.

Then she heard Mom’s voice from behind, though she would not turn to look, for fear Mom would guess how she felt. Mom had enough on her mind without having to worry about a girl who was already in the sixth grade and surely old enough to look after her ownself.

Next stop, Holly, Crock. I wish this rain would let up a little.

Suddenly Holly did not want it to be the next stop, in spite of how she felt; she wanted to ride on and on because when they got off, why, they would be there. Not at home any more—but among strangers in a place where they would have to stay whether they liked it or not.

Ever since that telegram had come—

Holly squinted her eyelids together, hard. Just as she was not going to be sick, she was not going to cry, either. Only she could not push away the memory of the telegram. Mom—Mom had sat down so quick with it in her hands, as if she were afraid to open it. And when she had—no, Holly would not remember how Mom had looked when she read it.

Staff Sergeant Joel Wade missing in action—that’s how it had read. Mom seemed to shrink down in her chair just as if she had the miseries inside her, as old Auntie Ada was always saying. Then she straightened up again, and there were calls to the Red Cross, and to other people who just might know something. Only nobody did.

Finally Mom told them they would have to make plans. She was going to be a nurse again and she had a place in the Pine Mount Rest Home. That was not in Boston, where they had been living ever since Daddy had gone to Vietnam, but in the country farther upstate.

Judy was the one who had asked the question which had been in all their minds after Mom had told them that: Do—do we go to live there too, Mom?

Mom had been smiling, as if she wanted them all to know that her getting the job was a good thing, one to be glad about. Nor did she stop smiling when she shook her head and told them of the rest of the hateful, hateful plan.

No. It is a place for older people, Bunny. (Bunny was a joke name Daddy had given Judy because she was born on Easter, and he said the Bunny must have forgotten his basket of eggs and brought her instead.)

"Then—then where are we going?" Crockett wanted to know. Holly just stood there, an awful coldness inside her making her feel as if she were out in the winter winds without any clothes on.

You are going to live with Grandpa and Grandma Wade in Sussex. It is close enough to Pine Mount so I can come and see you when I have my time off.

No! Holly had exploded then and she did not care. No—

Mom was no longer smiling when she looked at Holly, she was very quiet-faced as she always looked when one of them was a big disappointment. But Holly, with that strange cold all through her now, did not even care about that. She—Mom must be there, with them! If she went away—she might be missing too!

Yes, Holly, Mom had continued. It’s the best plan for us. I shall have a good job, they find it difficult to get nurses at the Mount. The place is too quiet for most of the younger girls who want time off where there is something amusing to do. So the pay is better than I would get here in town. I know that you will have a very good home with Grandpa and Grandma. They are so pleased to think you are coming.

Holly wanted to shout out No again, but she did not quite dare. So she swallowed that No, just as she was swallowing and swallowing right now. Everything had moved so quickly, renting the house to the Elands (the Wades did not even take their furniture, only their clothes, and some things like Crock’s stamp collection, Judy’s box of cloth pieces, and her own best-loved books). Now they were on their way—almost there—to a hateful place, with the rain crying and the wind howling. Just as Holly wanted so desperately to howl and cry her ownself.

She could not even remember now what Grandpa and Grandma looked like. Until Daddy had gone to Vietnam, the Wades had lived in places near the army camps, and those had been too far away from Sussex for any visiting. Grandpa and Grandma were not used to traveling, Daddy had told them. He had wanted to take the family back to Sussex himself this past summer. Then he had been sent overseas and they never went. All Holly could remember now of her grandparents was a picture Daddy had shown them—a picture of two strangers.

They never had letters from Grandpa. But Grandma had always written once a week. Big writing on one sheet of paper which had lines on it like a school tablet. She never said much, mostly about how she was piecing a quilt, or canning food to eat, or things like that.

At Christmastime they had always sent a box with things in it which were strange, too. Such as that set of doll dishes for Judy all made of wood, and a tiny, tiny basket that Mom said had been carved out of a nut. For Crock there were some soldiers and a dog made of wood. And she had had a tote bag last year made all of bright pieces of patchwork. She had thought it was rather silly and tried to hide it. But Mom made her carry it to school. Then all the girls in her class wanted to know where she got it, and it turned out to be quite an exciting present, after all. Mom had gotten a lot of little bottles, all filled with dried leaves and flower petals. She used some of them when she cooked, and some to make closets smell nice.

But all had been different kinds of presents than those Holly had seen in the stores in Boston. She was sure that Sussex was a very different kind of place to live. A place where she was not going to want to live!

Now the bus was slowing down. Holly wished with all her might this stop was not theirs. But wishing got you nowhere, not when the world had come apart around you. She had pulled on her raincoat when Mom had warned them; now she buttoned it and drew her plastic rain hat over her hair, tying it as firmly as she could under her chin.

The blast which hit them as they climbed down was so fierce it left them gasping. They ran as fast as they could for the door of the store before which the bus had come to a stop, and hurried in. Luckily they did not have to drag any luggage with them (Mom had sent that all on ahead), but Holly felt as if someone had poured a teacup of water down her back, another down her front, and that both were now dripping into her boots.

Come in, folks. A lady had opened the door of the store when she saw them coming and now stood there shaking her head, while white hair fluffed up so wildly around her face it seemed just like a growth of dandelion seeds all ready to blow away.

She was a lot shorter than Mom, and she wore a sweater about her shoulders. But that was not buttoned over the big white apron which covered most of her front. She had slammed the door shut as soon as they were all through it, and now shook her head so that her fine white hair looked more flyaway than ever as she peered into the street where the bus was growling off on its way again.

This is a day like to drown ducks, she announced as she turned back to stare at them as if they were the ducks. My, now, you have got yourselves wet, an’ just on that littly bitty run, too.… No, ma’am—she spoke to Mom, who was staying as near as she could to the door and motioning Judy and Crock back to stand nearer to her—don’t you never mind ’bout a little drippin’. On a day like this enough comes in that door every time it opens to make a real wave or two. The few sprinkles you brought don’t make a mite of difference.

The lady reached behind a pillar on which hung some long-handled brushes tied in a bunch, two strings of dried onions, and a calendar, and she pulled out a mop. This she applied vigorously to the floor, where the storm had indeed driven some runnels of water under the door itself.

Now then—she talked as she worked—what can I do for you folks? Someone coming to meet you here? Or you thinking of getting Jim Backus to taxi you? Don’t think that’ll work. Jim, he gets a lotta calls—see there?

The lady loosed the mop with one hand and waved toward a wall phone. Beside that was thumbtacked a strip of paper almost covered with scrawled words and numbers. Them, all of them, mind you, have been asking for Jim an’ he ain’t called in for nigh on to an hour now. So he won’t be back in any hurry.

Holly had been looking around the store. This cluttered room was quite unlike the supermarket where she did errands for Mom at home. Yet there were even more things stacked, hung, piled around so you could not tell whether it was a grocery store—as the shelves lined with canned goods and packages, the small glass-fronted meat and cheese case, the bin of potatoes, suggested—or something quite different. Because, on the other side, there was a rack of dresses hanging limply from their hangers as if they felt sorry to find themselves there; a table on which thick flannelly looking shirts were piled; a row of boots (not smartly smooth fitting ones like her own, which had been her birthday gift last month, but big rubber ones into which she, or at least Judy, could fit both feet and legs at once). The shelves on that side had bolts of cloth on them. There was a small case holding braid, and zippers, like in a sewing shop.

There were smells aplenty, too. Ones Holly could recognize, such as coffee, and cheese. While at the back was a kind of cage with a sign over a square window: U.S. Post Office!

The big room was warm after the chill of the rain, but not stuffy, smelly warm as it had been on the bus. Now the lady gave a last slip-slap of her mop, pushed it back into hiding, and repeated, You wanting Jim, ma’am?

I believe my father-in-law will meet us. Mr. Wade, Mr. Luther Wade— Mom was smiling her polite company smile, but Holly sensed something was not quite right. Mom looked her usual self. She had on the red rain-and-shine coat Daddy had bought her (he said to be cheerful for gray days) and red boots like Holly’s. Now she had taken off her rain bonnet, so her crisp black hair looked pretty again. Mom was pretty, her smooth brown skin and her hair all combed up like that. The beauty-shop lady had called Mom’s hair set a modified Afro. Holly sighed. It would probably be years before she could wear hers that way.

No, Mom looked just right. And Crock, he had on his good slacks and his trench coat. And Judy—Judy, who had a dimple in her cheek and her hair all carefully braided—wore her brown coat and her own boots. Holly had on her yellow raincoat and her hair was neat, too. They all made what Dad would say was a right smart appearance.

Well now, the store lady was saying, so you’re old Lute’s kinfolks! We were all mighty sick an’ sorry to hear ’bout his son being lost thataway. There—I ain’t introduced myself at all, have I? I’m Martha Pigot, Mrs. Martha Pigot. Jethro, he was my late, he took over this emporium (that’s what they been a-calling this store for ’most fifty years now) from his dad. Then when Jethro up an’ died, well, it was just up to me to carry it on. Though it’s enough to fluster a body a mite now and then.

And I’m Pearl Wade. Mother’s smile was more like it had always been, warm and friendly. This is Holly, who’s our eldest.

Holly somehow smiled, knowing Mom wanted good manners now. She summoned up a voice from somewhere to say How do you do? Just as Mom always wanted her to.

Crockett—Mom nodded to Crock and he followed Holly’s example—and Judy, they’re twins.

She always had to point that out to people, Holly believed, because they did not look alike at all. Crock was tall, taller than Holly by a whole inch now, something which he liked to keep reminding her about because she was a year older. But Judy was small and plump, looking younger than she was. However, she knew her manners, and though Holly could see she was shy, she spoke right up to Mrs. Pigot.

Now this is what I call a right nice family. Mrs. Pigot beamed back at them all. "Nary chick nor child we had. But somehow we never missed them. The neighbor kids, they kinda make this a meeting place, so I see maybe more of ’em at times than their own kin do. Now you all just come back here—I got the heater turned on. This pesky weather is enough to chill you clean down to your bare bones.

I’ve got me a pot of coffee a-perking away an’ there’s a good plate of Mame Symmes’s gingerbread as she brought over this morning ’fore the clouds burst like to drown us. Mame, she prides herself on her gingerbread, she does. Always comes in with a big sheet pan of it when there’s a church supper or the firehouse has their benefit fair.

So moments later, the Wades found themselves three on a bench, Mom on a chair, in a smaller room off the big cluttered store, each with a large piece of moist rich gingerbread in one hand, a mug in the other. Mom had coffee, but Mrs. Pigot had poured milk into the mugs the children held.

Crockett nudged Holly in the ribs. This is not bad, he mumbled through a too-full mouth.

But Holly remained wary. Sure, Mrs. Pigot was friendly and made them feel welcome. But—what about this town? In Boston there had been others like themselves, they had never felt conspicuous because they were of another race. Here—it might be a different matter. And Mrs. Pigot had called Grandpa old Lute, not Mr. Wade. Somehow that disturbed her to remember. And—Mom had been different there at the very first, almost as if she expected Mrs. Pigot to be unfriendly. Holly wished Grandpa would hurry and come and they could get—no, no, she would not think of it as home! Now the gingerbread had no taste at all as she had to swallow it past a big lump in her throat.

Quite a ride in from the old Dimsdale place. Mrs. Pigot did not sit down with them, but leaned against the side of the door and chattered on. In this weather Lute might find himself having to take it slow. That old truck of his has to be humored a mite, I wouldn’t wonder. You gonna stay at the junkyard long?

Junkyard? Holly stopped chewing to stare at Mrs. Pigot. Old Lute and a junkyard!

I’m going to be on the staff at Pine Mount, Mom was saying cheerfully. The children will stay with their grandparents.

Mrs. Pigot nodded. "They’ll find that a lot of young’uns in this town will envy ’em. Why, I don’t know a boy hereabouts as doesn’t like to go grubbing out there whenever he can get a chance. Treasures for young’uns, some of that trash is, or at least that’s their way of seeing it. Was like that myself when I was their age. ’Course then it was just getting started, the dump. Lute and Mercy, they was just a young couple. Old Miss Elvery Dimsdale, she up an’ died the second year they was working for her. Then it came about that there was a big tangle—legal that was—over who was to inherit, though there sure weren’t much left.

"The big house, it burned down right before Miss Elvery died. She got touched in the head an’ used to go wandering about at night. Never had no ’lectricity put in, so she’d take a lamp or a candle to see by. Well, she had a fall, an’ Lute, he got her out. But the lamp she was carrying spilled out and the whole place—it was more’n two hundred years old—just went up in smoke! Folks started talking about the Dimsdale curse again, what with Miss Elvery getting so bad hurt that she died ’bout four months later an’ the house going that way. She was the last of the Dimsdales, as far as the lawyers could make out, ’cept for a cousin off in California or some such place.

Then they couldn’t sell ’cause there was a flaw in the title, and the town didn’t have no use for the land, ’cept as a dump. That’s how the junkyard started—

What curse? Crockett broke in, as Mrs. Pigot paused for breath.

The witch curse, sonny, as was laid on all Dimsdales for almost as many years back as that old house stood. Story’s so old now nobody can tell you the right of it, ’less Miss Sarah over at the library. She makes a hobby of looking up old town history an’ might have found out something. There used to be witches hereabouts. Though they didn’t have the hangings like they had over to Salem. But anyway there was a witch that the Dimsdales got across somehow, an’ she laid a curse on them. Seems like they were a family mighty prone to ill luck in every direction. But some families are like that. Anyway they’re all gone now, just like that house of theirs. An’ Lute, he’s a good man—an’ Mercy, she’s a good woman. They ain’t been troubled none by something which was ended long ’fore any of us roundabouts was even born.

A witch—with a gingerbread house? Judy looked down at the small piece she still held in her hand as if it might have been broken off that dread dwelling, a picture of which was in her favorite fairy-tale book.

Just a story, Holly said quickly, to show that she knew very well that witches and magic were only that. People believed like that a long time ago, they don’t anymore.

Mrs. Pigot was nodding again. That’s the truth—tongues will wagwag over nothing at all. They used to take a spite at some poor old soul as lived alone an’ maybe had a cat to talk to. Then they’d call her witch an’ make a mite of nasty trouble for her. Don’t you fret none, honey, there ain’t no witches at Dimsdale, only a lot of interestin’ things, an’ you’re gonna like it right fine—

As if her last words were a summons, the door of the store opened. Once more wind and rain came in with such force they seemed to propel with them a small man wearing a water-slicked raincoat and boots such as those which stood on the other side of the store.

He had a big yellow sou’wester hat, like those Holly knew fishermen wore, tied down on his head with a piece of cloth as if it were far too big and would be otherwise ripped away by the wind. And he fumbled with the knotting of this until he could pull it off and face them.

Father Wade! Mom was up, moving to meet him.

Daddy was a big, tall man, but Grandpa was hardly Mom’s height. He was smiling, showing gaps in his teeth, but his voice was very deep as he answered, Pearl, now ain’t you jus’ as pretty as yore name. Mercy has yore picture right up on the wall, but you is twice as pretty!

He seemed surprised when Mom kissed his cheek. Then he caught her arms near her shoulders and brought her closer to him in a kind of half hug, as if he were afraid he might hurt her if he squeezed her too tight.

An’ th’ young’uns. He swung about to see them, still keeping hold of Mom as if he were afraid she might disappear. Does my eyes good to see you, it certainly do!

Grandpa! Judy had made up her mind at once. She ran toward him as she would have greeted Dad, her arms outstretched, and he caught her in a big hug. But he shook hands with Crockett, as if he knew very well that hugging was for girls and women, and with men it was different. Holly approached more reluctantly.

This small man, wearing a patched sweater and overalls under his old coat, he—well, she could not greet him as wholeheartedly as Judy did. He was still a stranger. But she kissed his cheek as Mom had done, and when he hugged her she did not resist. Though her nose wrinkled at the queer smell of his coat, and she felt more apart than ever from what had always been warm and secure.

There was a small truck waiting outside. Mom and Judy could crowd into its cab with Grandpa. But Holly and Crockett had to go in the back, pulling a piece of stained canvas over them. Holly looked out gloomily at the window lights of the store as they bumped away from what now seemed like the last outpost of civilization.

Where do you suppose we’ll live? she asked Crock. Mrs. Pigot said the house burned down—

There must have been another one, her brother returned carelessly. Or else Grandpa built a new one. He’s been living there, and Grandma. Dad was born there—

In a junkyard! Holly exploded. We’re going to live in an old, dirty junkyard. Crock, I don’t believe it! Mom couldn’t have known about that—she won’t let us—she won’t let us stay—not there!

Wait until you see it. Crockett apparently was not as concerned, but then boys didn’t seem to worry so much about such things.

We’ll have to go to school here, she reminded him. You want people knowing you live in a junkyard?

But Mrs. Pigot says the town kids like to come out to Dimsdale. They think it’s fun.

Maybe it would be, though Holly had doubts concerning that also, if you didn’t have to live in the middle of it. Mom just has to take us out of here—she’s got to— Her voice was raised. But she stopped short as Crock caught her wrist in a grip so tight it hurt.

He was looking straight at her and his eyes were fierce. Holly Wade, you leave Mom alone. Don’t you dare go whining at her now—you hear me!

All the troubles which had ridden her for so long, ever since that hateful telegram had come,