The widow's war by Sally Gunning Page B

herring?”
    “Herring! Think you to live like the Indians? Or do you shock me with such a thing in hope of getting me to stock your pantry? And me with Shubael off in Canada, conserving daily against his delay or demise, living in constant state of penury? This is not to say I wouldn’t be glad to take you in if you could make your keep, but I can’t afford to feed you for nothing. Perhaps if you were to ask your son—”
    “I don’t ask you to feed me or to house me. I came here because I wished to be here. I’ll make my way.”
    “How?”
    As Lyddie had no answer to that she said nothing.
    “Oh, I see how you are, Cousin. I know you better than some others. They have in the past disagreed with me, but I’ve long recognized a stubborn side to your nature. And pride. Pride is a luxury no woman can afford; you must go to your son and ask forgiveness for your intractable behavior. Tell him you will stay with me. In truth, my brother comes so seldom now, and with Shubael away, I’d be gladof the company. I’m quite sure if you asked your son he would provide for you at my home the same as he would have provided for you had you stayed under his roof. My brother puts down fifty pounds a year for Aunt Goss—”
    “My son wouldn’t pay you fifty shillings.”
    “Fifty shillings! I can’t feed a pig for fifty shillings! What do you think I’m made of?”
    “I don’t think you’re made of anything, Cousin Betsey. You may rest easy. Thank you for coming. And please tell my daughter I’m not ailing.”
    “Shall we pray before I go? As you missed meeting?”
    “I’ll tend to my prayers in the usual way. Good-bye, Cousin.”
    The puffy eyes widened, no doubt in suspicion of Lyddie’s usual way of tending to her prayers, but in truth, once Betsey had gone, Lyddie was stabbed with some compunction as she considered the degree of her own neglect. She dropped to her knees and tried to send up an apology for ignoring the Lord’s Day, but as she struggled for the proper humble words she was stabbed by something stronger than compunction, which gripped her first in the stomach and then rolled outward through her body until it had melted all the strength from her limbs.
    Lyddie was hungry.
    She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet and went to the pantry. She unwrapped the cloth that had contained the herring and found one remaining. She picked it up and chewed without pleasure, but after a few minutes the sensation in her stomach eased. She unwrapped the remaining bread and considered. If she baked two loaves once a week…She rewrapped the bread. Her cousin was, of course, right. She had little choice but to go to her son and ask forgiveness and hope it would go better than her recent effort with God. Lyddie looked down at the remains of the leathery herring with distaste. How was it, she wondered, that the darker peoples so enjoyed this food? Or did they enjoy it? What choice did the slave have? And as to the Indians, they no doubt went after the fish because it was plentiful and accessible. Because they would rather eat than starve. As Lyddie would rather eat than starve. As she would rather eat herring than beg forgiveness.

     

    Lyddie crossed the road and cut through the thick brush to a lonely stretch of the mill creek. It was not as dark with fish as the upper, more congested part of the stream, but as she waited they came, three or four dusty shadows at a time. Lyddie tucked up her skirt, and gripping the tow sack in one hand, knelt down above one of the calm pockets at the edge of the stream. The first pass netted nothing but weeds, as did the second and third and onward until she stopped counting. She sat back to rest and watched the stream. In the protected pool where she’d wildly plunged her sack the herring circled and zigzagged continuously, but directly in the middle of the current the downstream push was so strong that the fish were brought to a temporary standstill. Lyddie edged onto a rock that