The Little Giant of Aberdeen County by Tiffany Baker
“My God,” he wheezed, “it’s Tabitha’s shadow book! After all these years, I’ve found it. It’s real!” He leaned his head back against his pillows momentarily and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and evenly, the balance of his life’s convictions wavering inside of him.
What could I say? I picked up his teacup and added hot water, and as I did, Robert Morgan rasped and pointed. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was indicating, but it was nothing. The air had filled with steam. That was all. I nodded to show that I could see it, too—a weightless alphabet, the language of the soul. Silently, we watched it rise heavenward in loops and curls.
The doctor spent the better part of the next two hours muttering over the quilt, studying each stitched sign and determining its meaning. He lingered on the wings, as puzzled as I’d been by them, but his knowledge of medical botany was better than mine, and he quickly figured out the relationship between the wings and the clutch of deadly herbs that they covered. His eyes narrowed, and he slapped his hand on the mattress. He couldn’t shout anymore, but he could still smack up a ruckus, and just now he looked as mean as he used to when he was teasing me in the schoolroom all those years ago.
“Priscilla Sparrow,” he spat. “How did you do it?”
Hoping to distract him, I went over the various emblems on the quilt with him: the hand, the bone, the little set of lips. And finally the wings, spread like broken hearts across the tangle of plants on the border. He wasn’t dissuaded.
“How?” he insisted, so I gave in and told him about the drink and how I’d walked it over to Prissy’s in the cool of the early morning and laid it on her doorstep in a basket as if I were depositing the baby Moses. I didn’t say anything about the extra liquid I’d stored in the pantry, though. That was my secret. Nor did I bring up the various concoctions I’d snuck into his food over the past few months. I saw him eyeing me cautiously, however, and I could tell he was calculating up all those odd-tasting meals on his own.
I think I knew at that moment that he was going to ask me to make the drink for him. I could see the idea spinning all crooked in his eyes like the sails going round on the Dyerson windmill. Not sure they wanted to, but doing it anyway. “Truly,” he gasped, “promise me you’ll listen carefully, and do exactly as I say, no matter what.”
I had more than a hundred reasons not to. Prissy had been a sick woman, for starters, to whom no one had paid much attention. The risk of anyone being suspicious of her dying had been slim. Plus, she’d been careful. She’d thrown away the note and then the jar before succumbing. The doctor was a different story, however. He was ill, it was true, but he was also a force to be reckoned with. Anyone who knew him knew how much he was fighting his demise. No one would expect his death to be short and quick.
And why should a man who’d spent his whole life scorning Tabitha’s cures reap the benefits of them now? I wondered. He’d chosen to mock and disbelieve her during his life, and it seemed only fitting that he should die with those beliefs intact. “Please,” the doctor repeated, folding his hand into mine as if he were conceding a losing set of cards.
I tried to refuse, but my tongue wouldn’t listen. The image of the old blades on the Dyerson windmill kept running through my mind. They kept turning, coming back to the same place they’d started. Not sure they wanted to but doing it anyway. Just like me.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I would make the doctor’s drink different from Priscilla’s—I knew that right away. It would be harsher. More acidic. I wasn’t planning to include even a drop of sweetness. At first, I picked only the plants that were on the border of the quilt. I collected sprigs of nightshade and delicate devil’s trumpet. I dug up daffodil bulbs and laid them gently in my basket. Soon, however, my hand started straying, collecting sprigs of rosemary and cellulose strands of chive. Everywhere I reached, it seemed, my hand knew where to pluck bitterness.
I made a circuit of the town green, remembering the year when Serena Jane was May Queen, then I ambled down State Street, until, before I knew it, I found myself at the gate of the cemetery. I hesitated, then passed through the gate and rambled inside. The older tombstones tilted and leaned, but the more recent ones were still resolute in the ground, not ready to give up yet on the world of the living. I knew where to find Serena Jane’s grave, but I didn’t want to visit it. Instead, I wished to linger in the more distant past, so I wandered among Aberdeen’s older stones, idly reading names and noting how few of them had changed in town over the years. And soon, I reflected, Robert Morgan would rest among them.
I was adding more nightshade leaves to my basket when I heard rustling in the long grass behind me and a throat clearing. My heart hammering, I turned around and saw Marcus. I stood up, brushing weeds from my thighs, trying to hide how stiff my joints were from the unaccustomed exercise. “Marcus. Hello.”
“Hello back.” He tipped his chin down. He was wearing his familiar wide-brimmed hat, and because I was so much taller than him, I had trouble seeing his entire face. I wondered if he knew that. I could feel the blood creeping up my neck.
“It’s been a little while,” he said.
“Yes.” My voice came out squeaking.
“You’ve been taking care of the doctor.”
I shifted the basket onto my other arm and sighed. “It’s almost at the end now.”
Marcus nodded, then looked up at me. His eyes were nearly the same color as the sky. He glanced at the basket slung over my wrist. “What’s all this?”
I stuck my hand into the plants to try to rearrange them and felt the stinging graze of nettles along my thumb. “Nothing. Just collecting some things for Robert Morgan.”
Marcus scowled and peered closer at the basket, making a quick inventory of all the plants I had collected. “Nasty bunch of weeds you’ve got yourself there. Real nasty.” His scowl deepened into a frown as he studied the basket further.
I put down the basket and stuck the edge of my thumb in my mouth. Welts from the nettle were beginning to sprout on it like wasp bites. I didn’t want Marcus studying the leaves too closely.
His face darkened. “You sure have been a stranger. You haven’t even been out here once to check on Bobbie. And Amelia says you hardly even speak to her anymore.”
I bit down on my thumb. “Since when are you and Amelia so close?” I thought of Amelia’s glossy braid and of how well her petite fingers would fit with Marcus’s, and I felt my stomach lurch.
Marcus’s cheeks reddened, whether from anger or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell. But then he spoke, as if reading my mind. “Oh, Truly, is that what you think? Is that what you really believe? You’ve known us our whole lives. I thought you knew us better than that. Or at least me.”
“I don’t know what to think.” I closed my eyes. Let what he’s saying be true, I thought. Let Marcus really still feel the same. I opened my eyes. “The past season has been rough. I miss seeing you.”
Marcus stepped a little closer. “I miss you, too, Truly.”
My heart pounded. Once we had been so close, it seemed, to working everything out, but now it felt as though we were back at square one. Marcus picked up my basket, and I felt a brief pang of guilt, wondering if he had any idea what kinds of plants I was collecting and why. I knew deep in my bones that he wouldn’t approve. It doesn’t matter, though, I told myself. Soon the doctor will be at peace, and then I’ll be free.
Marcus stepped even closer, until I could see the familiar gold flecks dancing in his eyes. “Truly, bend down a little.” He pulled me near to him, and finally kissed me, shocking me with the tart, lemony taste of his tongue. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said, smiling, and I beamed back.
“Yes, I do.” It was ridiculous, I thought. On the face of things, we were hopelessly mismatched, but somehow we fit together perfectly. I inched my leg back. How could it be, I wondered, that I was standing in a cemetery, gathering the means for the doctor’s death, but at the same time felt so aliv
I wanted him to reach for me again and to argue his case, but he didn’t, and maybe that was the right thing. After all, I chastised myself, we had lived too long in our small town for any kind of easy romance to bloom. There were so many people between Marcus and me, for starters. The doctor. Amelia. Bobbie. I took another step back and straightened my dress, one of my hands still clasped in Marcus’s. “What did you tell Bobbie about his father? How much does he know?”
Marcus scuffed a boot on the ground. “He knows he’s dying. He knows it’s bad, but he doesn’t know how little time he has left.” I blushed and cleared my throat uneasily. Marcus peered at me more closely. “Truly, do you know how little time he has?”
I looked away, thinking not of the doctor’s remaining days on earth, but of my own. Did I owe it to Marcus to confess my condition? I wondered. After everything he’d seen and been through during the war, would he really want to go through the trauma of illness with me? And what if he found out about what I’d done for Prissy and what I was about to do for the doctor? Telling him could ruin the one chance I had with Marcus, I knew, but at the same time, I didn’t know how I could keep a secret of that magnitude. Marcus’s fingers were tempting and warm around mine, however. They promised that they could forgive anything. They almost made me loosen my tongue, but at the last second, fear tied it up again. More than anything, I didn’t want him to let go of my hand.
“Of course not,” I finally answered. “How would I know a thing like that?”
Marcus seemed easier. “I don’t know. It was just a thought. But you should go see Bobbie. He’s in the cottage now. He doesn’t work until later in the afternoon. I’ll just be down that hill, doing some weeding. The door’s unlocked.” He squeezed my hand and let it drop. We stepped apart, and Marcus handed me my basket. “Watch out for those nettles,” he said, running his thumb along the welts on my skin. “They’re nasty things, Truly. They’ll flay you alive.”
My veins crackled with heat. “Thanks,” I whispered, drawing back my hand, “I’ll try to be careful.” I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to say that his touch could cure the rash, could cure everything about me, but there was nothing to do now but wait, I knew. I’d been bitten by a witch’s mouth, and I was going to have to let nature run its idle course.
A short walk brought me to the cottage, and as Marcus had promised, I found it unlocked. I’d never been inside it before, and I expected it to be spare, but it was surprisingly warm and comfortable. The main room had a small kitchen in the back corner, an oversized sofa, a rocking chair, and a fireplace stocked with well-seasoned wood.
“Hello?” I called, sticking my head in the door.
“Aunt Truly!” Bobbie bounded across the room. “Finally! I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to come out here. I’ve missed you so much.”
I staggered a little as he threw his arms around me. I couldn’t bear to tell him how much I’d missed him, so I patted his shoulders instead. It was amazing what a difference a few short months had made in his appearance. The lanky, sulking Bobbie that I remembered had been replaced by a glowing young man with light in his eyes. “I wanted to give you time,” I lied. “But I’ve been thinking about you every minute of every day.” I didn’t want to tell him about his father threatening me or about my troubles with Marcus. In some ways, I still thought of Bobbie as a child. Looking at him now, I wondered if it was time to give that up.
Bobbie sniffled and squeezed me once again. “Come on in.” He detached himself and waved a muscled arm, beckoning me forward.
“Okay.” I ducked my head going through the door. The ceiling was low, making me feel even bigger and more awkward than I usually did. I moved slowly, worried I would knock over one of Marcus’s stacks of gardening catalogs or sideswipe the cracked pitcher stuffed with cattails and reeds.
“Come and sit down,” Bobbie insisted, patting the sofa cushions and giving me an opportunity to study him more closely. He looked older, I thought. His hair had grown long enough for him to pull it into a small ponytail, and it gave his face new and interesting angles. I sat down gingerly, waiting to see how much the cushions would sag. Surprisingly, they held me well.
“You look good,” I said.
Bobbie blushed. “Thanks. I guess you know I’ve been working at a bar over in Hansen. Garth’s, it’s called.” He shifted and twiddled his thumbs. There was a beat of silence. “I guess you’ve also heard what kind of bar it is.”
It was my turn to blush. “Bobbie, honey,” I said, “it’s fine with me. However things are, they’re fine.”
“I guess you heard about Salvatore, too, then.” Bobbie stared down at his hands and blushed.
I didn’t know quite what to say. It seemed so strange to be discussing love with a boy who was still eight in my heart. I cleared my throat. “Well, the way I see it, honey, love’s love, whatever shape it comes in.”
Bobbie half smiled, relieved. “Does Dad know?”
I nodded. “Yes.” He sat back against the cushions, solemn. I couldn’t tell if the expression on his face was relief or regret. Maybe a little of both, I thought. I cleared my throat. “He surprised me, you know. He was more okay with it than I thought he would be. He wanted to know if Salvatore was good to you.”
Amazement swam into Bobbie’s eyes. “And what did you tell him?”
“I said he was.” I was silent for a moment and then leaned forward, hoping what I’d just told Bobbie would influence him. “Listen, your dad’s real sick now. I think you should come by and see him. He’s—well, he’s not going to be here much longer.” I didn’t go into how I knew that with such certainty.
Bobbie shook his head. Stubbornness reclaimed his face. “I’m sorry.”
“Just come by and hold his hand. You don’t have to explain anything to him.”
Bobbie pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Aunt Truly. I don’t think I could go back. Besides, it’s not like he made any effort to come and see me.”
“You know what that would take out of him. And lately, he hasn’t even been able.”
“Still.”
I turned so I was facing Bobbie square. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Your father’s dying. You understand that, don’t you? You won’t ever be able to ask him anything or tell him anything after this. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Bobbie’s eyes glistened. “Maybe.” He turned his face away from me and mumbled, “I just want it to be over.”
“It will be. Soon. But you’ll be alone then. Are you ready for that?”
Bobbie put his arms around me again and laid his head on my shoulder. He still smelled the way he had in boyhood, like Ivory soap and grass. “I won’t be totally alone. I have Marcus. And Salvatore, and you. I’ll always have you, right?”
I smoothed the yellow strands of his hair, so like his mother’s. It’s about time, I thought, that we start to hold on to one another better in this family. I was tired of losing people. I squeezed Bobbie back, hard. “Of course. You’ll always have me.” But that was a lie. In spite of everything the doctor had tried, I was still getting bigger. I wondered which part of me would bust first. My heart, as Robert Morgan had predicted? Or my stomach? Or would everything go together? I pulled back from Bobbie and examined him again, pleased to see that his father’s glare was gone from his eyes. In the end, his mother’s spirit seemed to be winning.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him, patting his hand. “No matter what happens, I’ll always be around you somehow.”
I didn’t tell Robert Morgan about my visit with Bobbie, but it wasn’t out of any sympathy or innate goodness on my part. I just figured there’s no point in snapping kindling that’s already cut. Over the next few weeks, I m
“So if it doesn’t kill you, it will make you stronger?” I said.
He wiped a trail of saliva from his chin. “Maybe.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
He grimaced. “I guess we will.”
Robert Morgan didn’t go as easily as Priscilla Sparrow. He clearly wanted to stick around and give orders. It was as if after years of bossing and tormenting me, he couldn’t just give it up. He lost his voice completely, but he took to constantly ringing the bell I’d left by his bedside. I’d no sooner fetch him a fresh glass of water than he’d want a mint to suck on, and when he had that, he’d want me to give him the newspaper, trying to pretend that the print wasn’t swimming and bobbing before his eyes.
“Robert Morgan, you should just rest. Let me handle this,” I told him, but he wasn’t having any of that. He made me sit on the quilt next to him while he pointed at all the different plants, double-checking what I put in the drink.
Finally, on the last night of July, I helped him to one of the lawn chairs in the garden and covered him with Tabitha’s quilt. He’d chosen nighttime, I knew, because he wanted the stars to be the last thing he looked at. “Ready?” I asked. In my hands, the jar of green liquid sloshed and rippled like a dangerous emerald sea. I uncapped it and released the mossy aroma. The doctor was so weak that he could almost not lift his own arms. He merely nodded and gazed at me with sunken eyes. I took one of his stringy hands and wrapped his fingers tight around the jar. “Hold on,” I told him. “You don’t want to spill any. Here—” I pulled out a napkin. “For under your chin.”
It was a perfect twilight—the kind that tickles you with the promise of autumn lurking right around the corner, when the crickets are alive and yakking and the day’s heat lingers in the flowers and trees, scenting the air. It could have been an evening for almost anything—eloping, birthing a child, a simple, good rest—but instead, here I was killing a man, and not just any man, either, but Robert Morgan, who’d housed me for the past ten years, doctored me, riled me, and who, nevertheless, I’d strangely come to love a little bit lately.