Strawberry Moon (2 page)

“I hope the little girls in this house have said their prayers too,” she said as she climbed into bed beside me.

I wasn't a little girl! I was twelve years old, and Papa always said he couldn't imagine how he could get along without me. But he hadn't said that to Grandmother. He hadn't said anything.

I lay stiffly on my side of the bed, filled with misery. I didn't care what Papa said. I would never go back to England with Grandmother. Never!

The light outside the window was pale gray. It was too early to milk Nettie. I curled up in a ball to go back to sleep. Then I remembered that I was in Papa's big bed with Grandmother.

I rolled over and stared at her. Her hair was hidden under an enormous lace nightcap. Her mouth was open, and she was snoring.

I slid out of bed, dressed quickly and eased the bedroom door shut behind me.
Red embers glowed in our huge stone fire-place. There was no sound from the loft.

I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and went outside. The barn looked like a gray smudge in the dim light. Our three big geese, who nested in the bushes beside the vegetable garden, were pale white ghosts. I whistled for Star, but he was probably still asleep in his straw bed in the barn.

I was glad I was the first one up. I walked down to the lake and sat on a stump. Bullfrogs were singing in the reeds at the edge of the water. Papa always said they sounded like they were saying Get out! Get out! Get out! That's what I wanted to say to Grandmother. Get out! Go back to England!

I tried to picture Grandmother's house in England. I remembered dark shadowy hallways and clocks that boomed the hour. I must tell Papa that I refuse to go with Grandmother, I thought. I shivered. He would be angry that I had listened at the door.

I walked back toward the cabin. I was thinking so hard about Grandmother I
nearly didn't see the fox. I stopped walking and held my breath.

The fox stood frozen in the long grass beside the garden. Its bushy tail drooped between its legs. A small breeze off the lake ruffled its thick fur, deep orange on its back and creamy white on its belly and chin. Goose bumps prickled the back of my neck. In my whole life, I had never been that close to a fox. And I had never seen anything so beautiful.

The fox's long ears swiveled. Its nose quivered faintly. In a horrified instant, I knew what it was going to do.

The fox leaped in a smooth silent arc. It landed on the back of a goose, hunched in sleep at the edge of a bush. There was a terrified squawk, a frantic flapping of wings and then silence. White feathers floated in the air like snowflakes.

The fox turned and ran. The white goose hung limply in its mouth. It turned at the edge of the garden and looked back. For a second, its calm golden eyes stared right at me. A tingle ran up my spine. Then the
fox disappeared into the shadows along the creek.

I stood frozen, shocked by what had happened.

Someone called my name. Papa strode across the field. So I wasn't the first up, after all!

“Hello, early bird,” he said as he came closer.

He saw the white feathers scattered on the ground. His smile faded. He picked up a feather and stared into the forest.

“It was a fox!” I said.

The other two geese scuttled into the open, honking anxiously. Papa sighed. “What a shame Star didn't scare it away. It took our best goose!”

“The fox was beautiful,” I whispered. Then I bit my lip. What would Papa say if he knew I had stood there and watched it kill our goose?

“This time of year there's a good chance it has babies,” said Papa. “That's all we need, a family of foxes. It'll be after the chickens next.”

Again, Papa stared into the forest, as if hoping he would see the fox. “I'll take Max out later and hunt for the den.”

I had a pretty good idea where the den might be. I had watched the fox run behind the garden and up the creek bed. But for some reason I didn't tell Papa.

Nettie mooed mournfully from her shed.

“You have a cow to milk,” said Papa. “And then it's time for breakfast. We'll deal with foxes later.”

After breakfast, Papa disappeared outside. A few minutes later he was back, lugging the big wooden crate that Grandmother had brought from England.

“It's heavy enough to be full of books,” he teased, but I think he was half hoping he was right. Papa loved his books!

Max and I crowded around while Papa pried off the top of the crate. Grandmother hovered behind us, her stiff dress rustling. “Watch now. Be careful!” she said sharply.

Max peered in. “It's just an old spinning wheel,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.

Papa lifted the spinning wheel out of the crate and set it in the corner of the room. Max gave the wheel a hard swing.
Whoosh
! Grandmother smacked the seat of his trousers with her cane.

“Ouch!” cried Max.

“This spinning wheel has come a long way to be broken now!” snapped Grandmother.

“It is a beauty,” said Papa, but he looked disappointed too.

I looked at Papa uncertainly. What was it for? I had a small flock of three sheep, but Papa always took my wool to Sally, a widow who lived at the end of the lake, to be spun into yarn. He had helped me wash and shear my sheep a few weeks ago, and the sacks of wool were ready to go.

Grandmother was the only one who seemed pleased. She wiped the spinning wheel carefully with a piece of flannel and stood back to admire it.

“I'm going fox hunting,” said Papa. “Max, you may come with me. But first, Agatha, I will put a chair outside for you in the sun. It's going to be a beautiful day.”

After I had tidied the dishes, I went out to the garden. I bent over the row of tiny green beans, pulling out weeds. Grandmother had finally left the spinning wheel. She watched me from a chair beside our big old oak tree.

Papa came out of the barn, carrying a burlap sack. His gun was slung over his shoulder.

Max chattered beside him, but Papa's face looked sad. He hated killing things, and when he went hunting he never shot an animal that we didn't need.

“Papa found tracks behind the garden, Ellie!” Max called. “They follow the creek.”

I nodded. I knew then that the fox didn't have a chance.

“You'll have to drown the babies,” said Grandmother. “Don't go feeling sorry for them. We had foxes when I was a child. They cleaned out our whole chicken house in one night.”

Papa and Max left. The sun grew warm on my back as I worked up and down the rows.

“Those carrots look ready for thinning,” said Grandmother. “You'll never get good
carrots if you keep them crowded like that.”

I gritted my teeth and kept weeding. When I got to the end of the row, I peeked at Grandmother. Her hands were still folded on her lap, but her head had slumped forward.

I started on a row of turnips. I listened for Papa's rifle, but the only thing I heard was a sapsucker, tapping on a tree beside the garden, and the gentle bleating of my sheep in the pasture.

I yanked weeds furiously. I tried not to think of the fox's golden eyes.

In the afternoon, Grandmother brought out armfuls of stockings, petticoats and nightgowns from her trunk.

Her piercing gray eyes looked at me sharply. “Don't be too vigorous with my washing. This is expensive lace.”

I made a face. I had planned to pick wild strawberries with my friend Kate McDougall. Gloomily I dragged out the washtub and the scrubbing board. I set everything up outside and filled the tub with buckets of warm water from the fireplace.

Why couldn't Grandmother do her own laundry? My mood grew blacker and blacker as I scrubbed a heavy cotton nightgown up and down the board. How could one nightgown have so much material in it?

I dimly remembered Grandmother's maid in England, wheeling in the afternoon tea trolley, and Cook rattling dishes in the kitchen. Grandmother was used to having things done for her. And now she thought she could boss everyone around.

Swish. Swish
. The hard yellow soap turned my hands red. I wondered what the fox was doing. To my relief, Papa and Max had come back empty-handed from their hunting trip. Papa had been whistling, and I think he was almost relieved that they hadn't found the fox. Finally I wrung out the last stocking and dropped it on the heap of wet clothes in the basket. I lugged everything over to my drying racks and started hanging things up.

When I was finished, I grinned at the sight of Grandmother's underwear waving in the breeze. How horrible to have to wear
those odd things with bones in them! Kate said they were called corsets, and all ladies wore them to make their waists skinnier. Another good reason not to go to England. Grandmother would probably make me wear a corset!

I was hot and tired. I ran down to the lake to dip my feet in. On the way back to the cabin, I stopped in horror. Then I burst into a run.

“Star!” I hollered.

Star had hold of the toe of one of Grand-mother's stockings.
Grrrr
. He braced his back legs and yanked.

“No, Star!” I dove for his back end, but he grabbed the stocking harder and it came loose, making the rack wobble. Star spun in a circle. The stocking slapped against his sides. He lunged at the clothes again and snatched the edge of a corset. There was a long ripping sound.

The drying rack crashed to the ground. Grandmother's underwear scattered everywhere. A lacy pink petticoat drifted over Star's head.
Woof
! He took off at a run. He
looked like a pink ghost swooping around the yard. I burst out laughing.

“This is disgraceful!” said a shocked voice. Grandmother stood in the cabin doorway, her face scarlet.

Papa came out of the barn. He tackled Star as he raced past.

“Whatever has come over that dog?” he said later, after he shut Star in the barn and helped me pick up the scattered clothes.

“Grandmother has come over that dog,” I muttered.

I only minded washing the clothes again a little bit. It had been worth it to see the horrified look on Grandmother's face. She had looked like a ... toad, I decided. And I didn't tell her about the long rip in her corset. She could fix that herself.

After supper, Grandmother said, “I want to hear Max and Ellie read.”

Max groaned.

Grandmother gave Max a sharp look and added, “The Bible.”

Max groaned even louder. Papa had
taught both of us how to read. But Max wasn't very fast, and he often complained that the letters jumped around. He said the Bible was the hardest of all because it didn't sound at all like people talk.

Grandmother brought her big black Bible to the table. I went first. I chose one of my favorite psalms.

“I will lift up my eyes unto the mountains,” I boomed. I glanced sideways to see if Grandmother was impressed.

Grandmother frowned. “There is no need to be so vigorous. I cannot abide children who read the Bible like it was a cheap novel.”

Papa sat quietly by the fire, smoking his pipe. What would Grandmother say if she heard Papa read the part where Samson kills a lion with his bare hands? Papa always made the lion roar so loudly that Star would jump up and bark.

I finished the psalm in a sullen voice. It didn't sound nearly as exciting as it could have. Grandmother looked satisfied. She reached into the folds of her black dress
and produced a red-striped peppermint. I sucked on it and watched Max nervously.

He took a long time flipping pages. I knew he was looking for the shortest psalm he could find. Finally he smiled and said, “Psalm 117.”

Psalm 117 was only six lines long. “Praise the Lord, all nations,” Max read confidently. And then his voice faltered. “Laaa ...laaa ...”

He was stuck on the word “laud.” He twisted and squirmed on his seat. A wave of scarlet climbed up his neck.

There was a long silence. Grandmother's foot tapped up and down on the floor. Then Papa said quietly, “Laud him, all peoples, for his loving kindness is great toward all people, and the truth of the Lord is everlasting.”