Garters
Pamela Morsi
February 26, 1888
Mr. M. Cleavis Rhy
Vader, Tennessee
Mr. Rhy:
It is with a good deal of excitement that I take up my pen for this correspondence. I have just Thursday past received of my good friend from my days at Yale, Benjamin H. Westbrook, now employed with Dr. Phythe in Washington, the exciting news of your work with pisciculture. I believe your efforts may prove a genuine boon to my research here.
I concede difficulty in believing that, in such a desolate highland place as I have heard Tennessee to be, you would be blessed with such riches as three different species of Salmonidae. Surely, your little spring-fed mountain creek must be the southernmost home of the Appalachian Brook Trout.
I sincerely hope that I am not too forward in suggesting that I would very much love to visit your valley and see for myself that work that you have accomplished there. I write this very day to Dr. Westbrook suggesting same.
With greatest sincerity,
Theodatus G. Simmons
Springfield, Massachusetts
Chapter One
Tennessee, 1888
Winter was still enough of a memory to whip a distinct chill into the morning breeze, and the smoky-gray haze had not been burned off by the sun. Yet on this inhospitable morning Esme Crabb made her way down the mountain, her threadbare coat pulled tightly about her. Her thoughts, however, were not on the weather.
In the valley below her, through the dark barren trees of winter, she spied her destination, Vader. The tiny little crossroads on the Nolichucky River was the nearest thing to a town that Esme had ever known. Four houses, a church, a livery stable, and the tiny "graded school" that Esme had attended only a half-dozen times were in sight, as was the building that was her destination.
A false front made it appear two stories high, but from Esme's perspective it was clearly only one floor, built long and narrow. Though she was still too far away to see it, she knew the sign emblazoned on the front read: "M. Cleavis Rhy, Jr. General Merchandise."
When she reached the foot of the mountain, Esme made a quick stop to right herself. Hiking up her skirt, she pulled at the much-mended black wool stockings that now clung precariously at her knee. After first carefully smoothing the material up her thigh, she rolled it down about two inches. Grabbing one edge of the roll, she twisted it until the material tightened, painfully digging into her flesh. The near-knotted twist was carefully tucked underneath the roll. It was a makeshift solution, not as good as garters, but such trifling matters didn't concern Esme.
Stockings straight and skirt brushed, Esme raised her chin, proud. She was wearing her Sunday best and bravely assured herself that if she did as good as she looked, she'd do all right. With a determined stride she headed for the store.
Her sisters had really gotten her into this, she supposed. The twins were now seventeen and, to Esme's thinking, the prettiest girls in the county. Most considered them to be identical—even Pa couldn't tell them apart—but Esme found that difficult to understand. To her they were as different and distinct as any two persons, though they sure to graces had the same shortcomings!
Presently, both of them were calf-eyed and mooning over Armon Hightower, and a more worthless piece of Tennessee manhood never existed, except maybe for Esme's own pa.
Ma had been just like the twins, all starry-eyed over a handsome face and broad shoulders. Well, Ma had won her handsome face and broad shoulders, and then she'd worked herself to death for them. Esme was determined that her sisters wouldn't meet the same fate. That's why she was here.
"Mornin', Mr. Tyree, Mr. Denny," Esme said as she stepped onto the porch of the store. The two men sat on the long bench in front of the store swapping stories and spitting tobacco.
"Who are ya?" Tyree asked, squinting at her as his jaw continued to work its tasty wad.
"Esme Crabb," she answered simply.
"What she say?"
"She said, 'Esme Crabb,'" Denny hollered to Tyree. "You know, she's one of Yo's daughters."
"She one of the pretty ones?" Tyree asked, squinting again.
"Nay," was the definitive reply.
Esme felt herself flushing as she stepped through the door. Being compared unfavorably to her sisters was as common as slugs in springtime, but this morning she needed a bit more of what God had granted the twins so liberally.
