The Vanishing Point by Mary Sharratt Page B

served at the Gardiner Plantation. This was the finest food, made sweet by her hunger and her loss, made sweetest of all by the one who had cooked it for her. She stole glances at him when she thought he wouldn't notice. May's widower was the only family she had left. She sensed the cloud of sadness hanging over him. His grief locked into hers like a twin spoon.
    At least I do not mourn alone,
she thought, cleaning her plate with cornbread.
    After the meal, Gabriel went out to feed the dogs. He returned with a bucket of water and one of sand. She watched him gather the trenchers, spoons and knives, skillet, and iron pot.
    "Let me do that." Hannah went to the table, where Gabriel poured the water into a wooden bowl. It seemed ages since she had last washed crockery and pans. Taking the rag from him, she went to work. First the trenchers, then the spoons and knives, then the skillet, which she scoured with sand to remove the last traces of grease. She filled the cooking pot with water and hung it over the flames again until the water was lukewarm. Then she tossed in the sand and scrubbed away. At home, Joan used to scour the pots with rushes.
    She worked by firelight. Gabriel didn't light any candles. They must be precious out here in the wilderness. Perhaps Gabriel hadn't mastered the art of candlemaking. That would have been May's job. Hannah bit her lip to keep herself from crying as she wrung out the rag one last time and wiped down the trestle table.
    He took the bowl from her and dumped the water outside. Frosty night air flooded in through the open doorway. Her eyes dropped to the pile of pelts on the far side of the hearth. Bearskins, with deerskins on top. For a moment she thought of the living animals, then of a sharpened knife skinning the hide off the flesh.
    Gabriel returned with a fresh bucket of water. "If you need to wash or drink," he said, "here is a dipper." He headed across the room to the wall opposite the hearth and pulled back the curtains on one of the two beds. "You can sleep here." He dragged her trunk across the floor to the bed.
    Outside, it was quite dark. Stars shone in the window.
    "Anon I go to bed," Gabriel told her. "I rise and retire with the sun."
    In the firelight she caught his eye, then looked away in embarrassment. He wanted to undress, she thought. "Where's the privy?" she asked.
    He found a candle stub in a brass holder, then opened the door and pointed. "The dogs sleep. I hope they will leave you in peace. But fear them not. They are friendly."
    ***
    When she returned to the house, candle in hand, she found the fire already banked. Scooping water from the bucket with the dipper, she drank. It was so cold, it hurt her teeth, but it tasted pure. After pouring water into the wooden bowl, she plunged her kerchief in and washed her face and hands. Gabriel had already turned in for the night—not to the other bed but to the pile of animal skins on the floor. The firelight caught his long black hair. He lay with his back to her, his face to the wall, his buckskin shirt still on him. Judging from the way his flank rose and fell with steady breathing, he was already asleep.
    Taking the candle, she crossed the room to her bed, kicked off her shoes, drew back the bedclothes, hoisted herself on the high mattress, and drew the curtains shut. She stripped down to her shift, then whispered her sister's name and lay herself down.
    ***
    Hours after darkness had fallen, Hannah lay rigid and awake. The night was too loud for sleep. Outside, the owls made as much racket as tavern revelers at home. She buried her head in the musty pillow and listened to her brother-in-law toss in his bed of fur, the floorboards groaning beneath him.
    Why did he have to sleep in those skins? Hannah decided that the other bed must have been his marriage bed, where May had borne their child who had not lived, where May herself had drawn her last breath. That meant that the bed where she lay must have belonged to Gabriel's