strange.”
Simus sucked in his breath, hung his head, and said, “I prays.” Or perhaps he said, “I praise.”
Ruth said, “I was on the watertop and I don’t know how to swim and I was held up.” She saw that the boy was attentive to that, his look showing a new regard for her that allowed her to think, as she set out across the meadow, which had earlier been a bog and which was now covered in wild flowers, yellow and white and pink, that she had been visited by some unearthly form of grace. And it must have been for a reason, she thought. It must have been a message, she said to herself as she took up the churn without feeling its weight. Then she stopped in her tracks, listening to the boy’s hobbling gait behind her. The sun was lowering in the sky and she dropped the churn and walked ahead while he stopped, picked up the churn, and followed her with his limp.
“We’re to have nails,” she said over her shoulder. “You get to makin shingles with Mister Jones’s knife now.” A slave was lower than an orphan, and this one limped behind her and when she got to the half-built house he put the churn down and waited while she sent Isaac to the box in the wagon to find the borrowed shingle knife. “Tonight you sleep out here longside your pa,” she said to Isaac. “I need more space in the bed.” She found the milking pail and went to Tick as she did every day atthis time. She saw again in her mind the vision in the tree, dancing, jittery, and sat down on the milking stool with the thought of it in her head. She had been to church with her husband, met the pastor’s wife, acquired a stool and a churn, and been visited by a presence that had spoken a message in words.
Speak out
. She laid her river-washed face against the cow’s flank while her hands pulled at the teats and the teats released warm, yellow milk. The world was rearranged, dusted, and shined.
Standing against the wall of the lean-to, Simus said, “I to put all cream in the holy water before butter makin.”
Ruth stared at him and saw that he was right, although she did not like his watching or his interference. She did not like his skin, which was night-coloured and unsavoury. She had never known a black man of any kind. She had known Luveen for a time, but that was different. She saw that this slave boy was drawn to participate in something that was hers alone, yet she acknowledged his reverence. Without his tears in the timber lot, she might not have understood the importance of the angel’s words. Angel, it must have been. Finished with the cow she got up, pointed to the pail, then walked away while into a pitcher Simus poured enough milk for supper, then covered the pail with a cloth and took it away to cool. Tomorrow he would skim the milk and put the cream in the old Pennsylvania crock. The crock would be set between river rocks to make holy the cream inside.
R uth was ready with five pounds of butter by the end of the week and there was still milk for the family. Would Daniel drive her to the pastor’s? Daniel hitched Mulberry to the wagon and found an errand to do in town. “I was visited by an angel the other day,” Ruth told the pastor’s wife.
Missus Dougherty raised an eyebrow.
“At our creek, ma’am. And this here butter got cooled in the waters right under her wings. She was high up a tree, just restin for a bit.” Ruth was surprisingly composed at this moment. Her unruly hair was shoved under a cap, and while her apron was somewhat stained, her face was without a single doubt.
Missus Dougherty put a finger in the butter and then in her mouth. “Well, it’s tasty, I’ll say that. But do not go boasting to the pastor of your angel, Miss Dickinson. It will get him riled up.”
Ruth said, “
Missus
Dickinson, ma’am.”
Missus Dougherty glanced at Ruth’s waistline.
“I be married from a church and unspoiled to this day,” Ruth assured her.
Missus Dougherty was to have a social gathering the next day, and
Simus sucked in his breath, hung his head, and said, “I prays.” Or perhaps he said, “I praise.”
Ruth said, “I was on the watertop and I don’t know how to swim and I was held up.” She saw that the boy was attentive to that, his look showing a new regard for her that allowed her to think, as she set out across the meadow, which had earlier been a bog and which was now covered in wild flowers, yellow and white and pink, that she had been visited by some unearthly form of grace. And it must have been for a reason, she thought. It must have been a message, she said to herself as she took up the churn without feeling its weight. Then she stopped in her tracks, listening to the boy’s hobbling gait behind her. The sun was lowering in the sky and she dropped the churn and walked ahead while he stopped, picked up the churn, and followed her with his limp.
“We’re to have nails,” she said over her shoulder. “You get to makin shingles with Mister Jones’s knife now.” A slave was lower than an orphan, and this one limped behind her and when she got to the half-built house he put the churn down and waited while she sent Isaac to the box in the wagon to find the borrowed shingle knife. “Tonight you sleep out here longside your pa,” she said to Isaac. “I need more space in the bed.” She found the milking pail and went to Tick as she did every day atthis time. She saw again in her mind the vision in the tree, dancing, jittery, and sat down on the milking stool with the thought of it in her head. She had been to church with her husband, met the pastor’s wife, acquired a stool and a churn, and been visited by a presence that had spoken a message in words.
Speak out
. She laid her river-washed face against the cow’s flank while her hands pulled at the teats and the teats released warm, yellow milk. The world was rearranged, dusted, and shined.
Standing against the wall of the lean-to, Simus said, “I to put all cream in the holy water before butter makin.”
Ruth stared at him and saw that he was right, although she did not like his watching or his interference. She did not like his skin, which was night-coloured and unsavoury. She had never known a black man of any kind. She had known Luveen for a time, but that was different. She saw that this slave boy was drawn to participate in something that was hers alone, yet she acknowledged his reverence. Without his tears in the timber lot, she might not have understood the importance of the angel’s words. Angel, it must have been. Finished with the cow she got up, pointed to the pail, then walked away while into a pitcher Simus poured enough milk for supper, then covered the pail with a cloth and took it away to cool. Tomorrow he would skim the milk and put the cream in the old Pennsylvania crock. The crock would be set between river rocks to make holy the cream inside.
R uth was ready with five pounds of butter by the end of the week and there was still milk for the family. Would Daniel drive her to the pastor’s? Daniel hitched Mulberry to the wagon and found an errand to do in town. “I was visited by an angel the other day,” Ruth told the pastor’s wife.
Missus Dougherty raised an eyebrow.
“At our creek, ma’am. And this here butter got cooled in the waters right under her wings. She was high up a tree, just restin for a bit.” Ruth was surprisingly composed at this moment. Her unruly hair was shoved under a cap, and while her apron was somewhat stained, her face was without a single doubt.
Missus Dougherty put a finger in the butter and then in her mouth. “Well, it’s tasty, I’ll say that. But do not go boasting to the pastor of your angel, Miss Dickinson. It will get him riled up.”
Ruth said, “
Missus
Dickinson, ma’am.”
Missus Dougherty glanced at Ruth’s waistline.
“I be married from a church and unspoiled to this day,” Ruth assured her.
Missus Dougherty was to have a social gathering the next day, and
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