Consorting with the Townsfolk

Consorting with the Townsfolk

Bobby and Kitty drove the cart into town late in September. They’d held out for as long as they could without risking it, but there were supplies that they would need to make it through the winter.

Widow Grady in the store didn’t recognise them to begin with. Bobby was fourteen now and had changed a lot in the year since she’d seen him. She hadn’t seen Kitty in even longer, twelve now and dressed in her best clothes. Pa had been certain for years that town was a den of depravity and degradation. Kitty was to be protected from it. Bobby would as soon as left her at home, but she had begged and pleaded and promised to be good.

Once she figured who they were, the widow’s face got sharp and suspicious. She looked around them more than at them, peering left and right at the street outside her windows.

“Where’s your pa?” she said, without so much as a good morning or a how do you do.

“He ain’t here,” said Bobby. “He says that he swore after the last time that he weren’t never coming back to town again, and that a good Christian man ought not to break an oath he made in the Lord’s name. Furthermore, he says that he’d rather take his chances and starve through the winter than consort with a mob of godless apostates and fallen sinners.”

“Ha!” barked the widow, looking more relaxed. “He ain’t changed none then!”

“Well you should be grateful for that favour!” said Bobby. “For surely, if my Pa were to change, I figure that might indicate the end of days was upon us. The godless apostates and fallen sinners round here might not welcome that.”

The widow’s expression looked briefly insulted, but amusement won out

“Truth to tell,” said Bobby, dropping his voice into a more conspiratorial tone, “his leg was ailing him something awful this morning. I think he might have been here and consorting with you but for that.”

“Well, you tell him I’m sorry to hear that,” said the widow. “He won’t believe that, probably, but that’s his affair. I wouldn’t wish an injury on a farmer, even one as foul-tempered as he is.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Bobby. “Um… whatever happened to the road outside? Are those bricks?”

“They call them cobblestones,” she said. “Apparently they’re going to stop it turning into mud out there when the rains come.”

“Well, they sure are strange to drive a cart over,” he said. “King Billy stopped dead at the start of the main street, and I needed to drag him forcibly onto the road.”

“All the bigger towns are doing it, apparently,” she said. “Doesn’t do to let ourselves get left behind. The horses get used to it after a time. It always perturbs new people coming from the west, and never them coming from the east, so I guess it must be progress.”

Bobby and Kitty exchanged looks. The widow talked about “progress” as if that meant a good thing. That was peculiar.

“Anyway,” she said, with an air of getting down to business, “what are you here for today?”

“Well,” said Bobby, “we need to pick up salt. We did have quite a store but we’ve almost worked through it, and we need to get on with readying for the winter. Pa said to also stock up on pickled fruits. We also have some flour and beer on the cart, since we have surplus to our needs. We were hoping to use that to offset the existing tab, since I know we’re in your debt.”

“And the blankets,” said Kitty quietly.

“Yes, and buckskin blankets,” he added. “Good ones too. Come out and take a look.”

She followed them out to the cart and examined it all.

“I can take the flour, for certain,” she said, “though it’s cheap right now. I’m glad you have a surplus, but the good summer that gave it you was generous to other people too. Your pa’s beer was always strong and smooth, and I’ll give you good value for it. As for the buckskin…”

She hefted a blanket out from the middle of the pile, sniffed it carefully, rubbed at it with the heel of her hand, then examined the stitching.

“Well, you’re a man of your word,” she admitted. “These are fine work on every level.”

“Pa helped,” said Kitty, “but the stitching’s mostly me. Ma showed me how to do it ‘fore she passed.”

“Oh that is sad news,” said the widow. “May the Good Lord accept her and hold her safe.”

“She never made it through last winter,” said Bobby. “She’d been weakened for the last few years, and we tended her as best we could, but it carried her away.”

“Sorry I am to hear that,” said the widow. She paused, then, and Bobby wondered if she might say something more. He watched as she chose not to.

Bobby knew that her husband was one of the men who drove his mother from this town, and would have maybe killed her. He was dead now, though, and his wife may have agreed with what he done, or maybe not. There was no way for Bobby to divine that, and he wasn’t here today for vengeance either way. She kept her peace and so did he.

She counted the blankets in the pile, tested the weight of the flour sacks with her practised arms, and took a taste of the beer.

“Well, yes,” she said. “I’m more’n happy to take all of these away from you, and they will balance off your tab and more besides.”

The three of them worked together to heft it all through to the stockroom in back of the store, and then Bobby made a pile of bags of salt and jars of pickled fruits. Kitty stayed shy and quiet, but her eyes were wide as she gazed round at all the range of treasures that a town store had to offer.

“Ma’am,” said Bobby, “I would like to ask for your advice. Where in this town should I look to, if’n I want to discuss the purchase of a horse. King Billy struggles sometimes with the plough, the last few years. We were thinking, after a generous season, that one way to invest that for the future was to get him some help.”

The widow frowned, looked over his pile of produce, and marked off some figures in a ledger with a stubby pencil.

“Well, you’re still in credit,” she admitted, “although not by quite enough to buy a horse, I figure. Here’s what I can do for you. My nephew owns the stables up the road aways. I’ll write you out some scrip for what I owe you, and I’ll be generous, just this once, mind, on account of your dear mother. You take that up to him and see what he can give you for it. Won’t be no heavy carthorse, but you tell him that I sent you and that I said to play fair by you, on account of you being good christian residents of this proud county and no mere passers through, and also ‘cause it’s your pa will come a knockin’ if he gulls you.”

She took some sheafs of printed paper, signed each one, and passed them to Bobby. He examined them suspiciously.

“Pa doesn’t hold with paper money,” he said.

“Well, he need never see it,” said the widow. “I assure you, generous as I am, I’d not expect no change back if you want to spend that on a horse.”

Bobby considered that, looking her in the eye while he did so. Finally he nodded, folded the papers up and put them safe into a belt pouch.

“I thank you for your kindness,” he said to the widow, and they took their leave of her.

They left the salt and fruit jars in the cart, and walked together up main street.

“Is it safe,” asked Kitty, “to leave our things just piled up there for anyone to see?”

“The widow can see them through her window,” Bobby said. “Besides, there’s near a dozen people walking up and down here. You shouldn’t take Pa’s ravings so to heart. Most folks in town are decent, really.”

“Was the widow really generous? Or was that just in show?”

“I think so, yes, but don’t go feeling kindly t’wards her over it. This is guilt money, is my take. She stood by and let them near to hang a woman, and now she wants to pay that woman’s children so she can sit in church on Sunday and feel better ‘bout herself.”

Kitty considered that for a long minute as they walked.

“If twas a sin for her to give that money,” she asked finally, “was it not a sin to take it?”

Bobby considered this thought.

“I don’t reckon so,” he said, “but you are right to think of it. We should pray on it together when we’re back at home, but we should buy the horse regardless.”

By this time they could see the stables on their left, and Kitty went shy again while Bobby haggled with the Widow’s nephew. The first horse he offered them was too old. It was heavy set and steady, both larger and stronger than King Billy, but Bobby had spent all year coaxing work out of an old horse and didn’t want another. There were only two other animals that their money might afford, said the man, loathe though he was to part with either of them for such a paltry sum. One was a young colt, not yet grown into itself and barely strong enough to pull their plough through the rough ground. The other was stronger, grown, and seemed at first glance to be the better animal, but there was something about it that pulled Bobby up short. It felt… wrong, to him, in ways that he couldn’t put in words. Maybe the horse was just from out east, but it shied when it ought have been calm, yet was calm when it ought have shied. 

Bobby felt the powerful burden of this choice, knowing he would have to justify it when he got back home. But no, he trusted himself. He chose the colt.

The man looked slightly disappointed, which Bobby felt was a good sign. He handed over the scrip, spat in his hand and they shook to seal the deal. He took the horse by the reins and led it further up the road.

“You didn’t spit for the widow,” said Kitty.

“I certainly did not,” said Bobby, and didn’t admit that he’d considered it, and decided not to based more on a hunch than any certainty. He needed these people to treat him like a man, and acting like a man meant acting sure of yourself, as best he’d ever figured it, even when you weren’t.

They walked up the whole length of main street, to the painted white church at the far end, and tied the horse outside. The door stood open and they went inside, pausing in the aisle as their eyes adjusted to the shadows. 

Kitty’s eyes went wide again. Bobby felt the same, but kept it off his face. He’d never seen a room this big before. So wide and tall, he could only think the roof was held up just by God alone. He’d never really understood why folks in town might need a church to worship in, when each of them had perfectly good parlours, but he saw it now. Just standing here made him feel small, feel humble.

The preacher came out of a back room and saw them standing there. He looked older than Bobby had expected. He’d ridden out to the farm a few times, over the years, although he’d never been made welcome. Bobby had never seen him this up close before.

They told him who they were, and reassured him that their Pa was safe at home. He told them they were always welcome here, and he was glad that they had wanted to come in.

“I’m here with purpose, Father,” said Bobby seriously. “I need to get myself a bible. I’ve had my mother’s, since she passed, but Pa says I should pass that down to Kitty now she knows her letters. I can make do without, of course, but I’m accustomed now to having one to call my own. We spent our money on supplies, but I have a silver ring that I could trade you for one.”

The preacher's face lit up quite joyfully at hearing this.

“Nonsense, my boy,” he beamed. “They send us the new pocket bibles to be given free to anyone in need of one.”

He fetched a dark red book from his office and thrust it into Bobby’s hand. It was a thick book, but far too small to be a bible. Bobby opened it suspiciously, only to find that the paper of each page was impossibly thin, like the wing of an insect almost, and each letter of the printed type was only a third as high as he was used to. He checked that it began at Genesis and ended at the Revelation, and it was true. All there, yet light and portable. It was a marvel.

He closed the book and held it close, and saw from the preacher’s face that his awestruck look was not so unusual a reaction to the gift.

“I thank you,” he said, and meant it, and then moved on to the true and secret reason for their visit.

“I’m certain that my Pa will hold this modern wonder here in great distrust,” he said, “but do believe that I at least am grateful for it.”

“Your father is a stern man,” said the preacher, “but remember to respect him. He is owed your obedience, even when he does not have your understanding. It would be a terrible sin, for you to speak back against his wisdom.”

“You don’t need to worry, Father,” said Bobby, “and you don’t need to talk yourself in circles. We both of us know what it was our Mama did, and how wicked it was, however mean her folks had been. She repented of it all of her days, and died praying that the good Lord might take pity and allow her into paradise. She never meant for it, she said, and I believed her. She meant to set the fire, but not that it should kill them, but she knew the sin was hers, and knew how great the sin, against her father and against her God. She raised us right, to be obedient.”

The preacher took a moment to digest that, and to swallow his surprise. He was not perhaps a man accustomed to directness. Maybe talking himself in circles was a happier place for him to be, but he rallied with some valour.

“That’s good. That’s good,” he said. “It makes me glad to know that, even so cut off from us, you’re being properly brought up.”

“I hope you’ll understand, if I don’t repeat that to my Pa,” said Bobby. “I think he’d feel that your opinion on his parenting was quite unwelcome. But for myself, I’m glad to reassure you that we’re in good, firm hands.”

“Nevertheless,” said the preacher, “I feel that it’s been far too long since I rode out to speak with him. I am certain that the passing years will have mellowed him sufficiently to be more open to the company of a fellow christian like myself.”

“Well,” said Bobby, “you must certainly do what you feel you must. I would never presume to offer guidance to a man of the Lord, and you may visit just as often as your conscience might demand it. I would say, though, that I do not myself believe that he has mellowed, nor that he has that in him. Also, it is my opinion that he shot above your head on purpose, last time, not by accident, and I’m sure that I recall him telling you that he would not do so again. His aim, I can assure you, is as unwavering as his faith. I say these things selfishly, you understand. If I ever had to bury you, I’d want to do so knowing in my heart that I carried no stain upon my conscience. It’s only on account of that that I speak bluntly.”

The preacher paled visibly, much to Bobby’s satisfaction, and he thanked him again for the bible and they took their leave.

They walked the colt back down to their cart and tied it on behind, said their goodbyes to the widow and rode out of town. It wasn’t until they had good dirt road beneath their wheels that either of them spoke.

“You did very well,” he said to Kitty. “Your face stayed very stern. It was important that you didn’t giggle at the preacher. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“But he was so silly!” she said with real feeling.

“Yes, but sometimes we need to not show people the truth of us. As long as they believe that Pa will kill them dead for stepping on our land, then things can carry on just as they are. They’ve seen us now, and even helped us, and they can go back to leaving us alone with a glad heart and all feel good about themselves. That’s what this visit was about.”

“And we do need to salt the meat for winter,” she said, looking relaxed now and her usual happy self.

“Yes, we do,” he agreed, “and they did like your buckskins.”

She beamed at him, and they rode happily back to the farm and to their Ma.