“I’ll just be out in the hall,” I told her, backing away.
I slipped out of the room and closed the bedroom door. Then I held my breath and waited. I picked at the skin around my fingernails, squeezing out tiny drops of blood.
I remembered all the times little Gertie and I had played hide-and-seek around the house and yard. How I would wait like this, eyes clamped shut while I counted out loud to twenty, then called out, “Ready or not, here I come!”
And when I’d find her, I’d take her in my arms and she’d laugh, say, “Aren’t I the best hider ever, Mama?”
“Yes, darling. The best ever.”
Sometimes the game would start without warning, even when we were in town. We’d be shopping at the general store, and I’d turn, sure she’d just been right behind me, to find her gone. I’d wander the narrow aisles, the wooden floor creaking beneath my feet, searching. I’d look among the shelves of flour, salt, cornmeal, and baking powder. I might find her hiding amid bolts of fabric, behind the barrel of molasses over by the counter, or in the corner near the coal stove, where the old men gathered to warm their hands and talk. I’d search the store, calling Gertie’s name, and the other patrons would chuckle—the farmers in their bib overalls, the women who’d stopped in for buttons and thread or a box of soap powder—they were all in on the game, sometimes helping me look, sometimes keeping her hiding place secret by standing rightin front of it. Abe Cushing once let her hide behind the counter, under the cash register. He fed her candy from the jars he kept on the counter—bits of licorice, toffee, rock candy—while she waited to be discovered.
But this was a new game we were playing. And I was not yet sure of the rules.
The minutes passed by. I stayed still as a stone, listening.
At last, I heard the squeak of hinges as the closet door opened, the sound of the plate being dragged into the closet. It took all of my will not to open the door and try to catch a glimpse of her. How I longed to set eyes on her again, to prove to myself that she was real!
There was silence for a moment. This was soon followed by the sound of glass smashing. I hurried back into the room just in time to see the closet door slam. The plate had been thrown, its contents strewn across the floor. The glass of milk was shattered.
“I’m so sorry, Gertie,” I said, my hand pressed against the door. “But we can try again. We’ll find something you like. I’ll bake molasses cookies. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
One weak knock.
I sat back down on the floor amid the collection of rejected food. Spilled milk soaked my dress.
“I’m just so happy you’re here. You are here, aren’t you?”
One knock.
I laid my hand against the closet door, stroking the wood.
“And you’ll stay? You’ll stay as long as you can?”
One knock.
I knew what Martin would say if I told him—what anyone in his right mind would say—but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if I was going mad, or if all of this was a figment of my imagination.
My Gertie was back. Nothing else mattered.
Martin
January 25, 1908
After finishing his chores in the barn, Martin spent the morning hunting in the woods, following the large tracks that seemed to go in circles, taunting him. The hoofprints were a good four inches long—it was a big animal. He never caught sight of the buck. He could almost smell him, though—a deep musky scent carried in the wind. Still, the buck remained out of reach. The whole time he was in the woods, he worried over Sara, and her new belief that Gertie was hiding in the closet. Midday, he went back to the barn to saddle the horse. He glanced at the house, his eyes settling on their bedroom window. He considered checking on Sara, but no, surely she was sleeping. He mustn’t disturb her. He mounted the horse and rode into town to see Lucius.
It was nearly three miles to town, but the day was pleasant, and the snow on the roads had been rolled and packed down, making it easy going for the horse. The road was narrow, with woods on either side, chickadees and squirrels calling out from within the branches. A carriage passed, the driver waving. Martin waved back, unsure who the man was—he was wrapped up in a hat and scarf, and Martin didn’t recognize him. He passed the Turners’ place, the Flints’, Lester Jewett’s blacksmith shop. He came to the town green, where the gazebo was piled high with snow. He stayed to the left, continuing down Main Street. On the left, across from the green, was the West Hall Inn, run by Carl Gonyea and his wife, Sally. There was abar downstairs that some of the men in town frequented nightly. It had been a long time since Martin had had the money for that.
Past the inn was Jameson’s Tack and Feed. Beside it, Cora Jameson’s seamstress shop with an old dress dummy in the window, stabbed full of pins.ALTERATIONS, said the sign.CUSTOM TAILORING. There was a velvet dress with lace trim and tiny mother-of-pearl buttons hanging, the armless sleeves seeming to reach for something just out of grasp. Cora’s shop was seldom open, as the poor woman suffered from “ailments.” Everyone knew that her only ailment was her taste for whiskey.
Across from the tack-and-feed shop was the general store. William Fleury came out, with his son Jack behind him. Both men had their arms full: rolls of tarpaper, boxes of nails.
“Afternoon, Martin,” William called. Martin got off the horse.
“Hello, William, Jack. Looks like you’ve got a building project.”
William nodded. “Wind took one of those old oaks down last night, crushed the corner of the barn.”
“Too bad,” Martin said. “I’ll come by later, see if I can lend a hand.”
