The Mapmaker's Children (13 page)

NEW CHARLESTOWN POST

North Elba, N.Y., January 14, 1860

Dear Mrs. Priscilla Hill
,

Thank you so kindly for the beautiful Christmas lithograph and greetings! This comes with my mother's note of gratitude, but I wished to send my own as well
.

To Alice, please thank her for the beautiful pressed snowdrops. Nothing could brighten Annie's disposition until they arrived. We are grateful for the cheer and the deeper meaning of their bestowment. Annie plans to place them in a silver frame. I've included a sketching I did: a scene of apple blossoms that reminded me of Alice and warmer days to come. As well, herein is another coil of hair from my brush for whatever purposes it may provide in needlepoint artistry
.

We are all in good health, as Freddy so inquired. Nature walks are excellent practice no matter the climate. They have been medically proven to clear the mind and improve the body's stamina. I hope to engage in more as the season warms
.

Please tell Freddy that I would be glad to loan him my personal signed copy of
Walden
should he care to broaden his education on the subject. Thoreau was a trusted friend of my father's. I could post the book straight off on the promise of noble stewardship. I shall have to send him my new address, however, as Mother has consented for Annie and me to attend Mr. Franklin Sanborn's private school in Concord, Massachusetts
.

Mr. Sanborn visited at Christmastime and, over dinner discussion, insisted that Annie and I continue our scholastic pursuits under his keen tutelage. Father would've insisted, too, he argued, and none could call it untrue. Mr. George Stearns has generously offered to be our patron
.

Annie will stay in North Elba until our widowed sister-in-law, Martha, gives birth to brother Oliver's child. I am to be sent ahead to Massachusetts by enclosed cabriolet. It will be my first time traveling as
a passenger of such modernization. Mr. Sanborn and Mr. Stearns have assured Mother that I will be delivered forthwith with nary a speck of mud on my boots
.

That is all the news from here! Again, our sincerest thanks to you and Mr. Hill for your hospitality. I have yet to taste corn bread or johnnycake as delicious as Siby's. While some might say the northern grains are different, I'm sure it is my cooking that is the obstacle. I haven't the Fisher family secret. Please give Gypsy a good pat on the head for me. She is possibly the most agreeable dog I have ever met. We pray the New Year brings great blessing to the Hill household
.

Sincerely
,

Sarah Brown

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

M
s. Silverdash's store reminded Eden of a book: seemingly skinny through the spine, but open the front door and it was wide and full, and smelling earthy like a midsummer night's forest of paper and glue. In the front window, books of varying sizes and colors had been stacked so that they formed a miniature village replicating New Charlestown's Main Street. Rainbow-swirled trees made of carefully folded atlas pages lined the boulevard; colorful ribbons from shredded maps were strung across buildings of city guidebooks; a red octagon the size of a quarter stood tall on a Popsicle stick with the word
READ
instead of
STOP
.

But Eden
had
stopped to marvel at the meticulous construction. She hadn't initially noticed the display when Cleo had parked her bike under the store's sunshade and taken up the grocery bag. The too-bright glare of midday and a
HELP WANTED
sign taped to the glass obscured the view.

“Ms. Silverdash is an artist,” Cleo explained. “She makes dioramas. Summer's was called
Follow the Reading Road
. Last winter, she used only silver and white book covers and stationeries so it looked like Main in a blizzard. She'll unveil the fall one soon, during the Dog Days End Festival. She's still deciding on a theme, she says.”

Eden was impressed. Bookstore owner, historian, and artist.

“Come on.” Cleo pulled at Eden's elbow. “They're finishing up the Children's Story Hour.”

The air changed as they moved deeper into the store, made rich and hearty by the oak bookshelves and pine floors. Braided ficus trees shaded the checkout desk with an arch of leaves. Philodendrons draped the bookcase like tangled Rapunzel locks.

Cleo slid the book she carried onto the desk:
Ghost Stories of Harpers Ferry
.

“You like scary stories?” asked Eden.

Cleo rolled her eyes. “Ghost stories are nothing but unsolved mysteries. Ms. Silverdash knows a lot about everything, but she knows an
awful
lot about Harpers Ferry and New Charlestown. Like Tom Storm's ghost, for instance. You know about him, right?” She absentmindedly squeezed the fleshy leaves of a jade plant beside the register.

Eden didn't but was sure she was about to find out. “Tom Storm's ghost?” she repeated, and Cleo took it as an invitation.

“His mother was a slave and his father was a white plantation owner in Virginia. He was a freedman, but his wife and kids were still slaves. Their master told Mr. Storm he could have his wife and two daughters if he came up with fifteen hundred dollars. So he worked and saved up to the exact penny, but then the master raised the price on him!” Cleo's voice crescendoed. Remembering herself in the bookstore, she quieted.

“So like any man in a rotten spot like that, he decided to do it his own way. His wife and daughters came up on the UGRR—the Underground Railroad. He met them somewhere in New Charlestown. But the night they were supposed to be forwarded north, an awful hailstorm—just like his name!—hit, and a posse looking for blood came to the station house where his family was hiding. The baby girl started to holler, so to save his family, Storm got the townsmen to chase him through the forest. They'd been drinking and were so riled by the stormy night that instead of capturing him for the bounty, they cut off his head and tore up his body, then dragged the pieces to Harpers Ferry for the hogs to finish.” Her eyes were wide as purple pansies.

“No ghost story can top that! It's historical. To this day, the name of the road from the Bluff down to Harpers Ferry is Storm Street, and some swear a black man with a scar across his throat walks the way at night.” She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “Like I said, I don't believe in all that heebie-jeebie stuff. My Grandpa says it's not Presbyterian, but…” She dipped her head forward and lowered her voice to barely a murmur: “If my kin got ripped up by crazy townsfolk, I'd come
spook, too, so nobody'd forget!” She nodded. “That's my theory on the case of Tom Storm's ghost.”

Eden leaned an elbow on the checkout desk. Rapt. “So the ghost isn't a ghost but one of Storm's relations coming back to remind people?”

Cleo straightened her shoulders, pleased that Eden got her hypothesis. “Exactly.”

One hundred and fifty years was a long time to hold a grudge. But revenge was like a Virginia creeper. Once it took root, you might never get it out of the ground. Maybe Cleo was spot-on.

“Is that what you want to do when you grow up? Figure out history's unsolved mysteries?”

“And be a veterinarian. I decided that this week. I thought I only liked cats and horses, but I
really
like dogs, like Cricket.”

The child could change her mind again tomorrow, but for today, Eden took the aspiration as a personal compliment.

“The only animals I don't like are snakes and spiders,” Cleo went on. “Some people have them as pets but, luckily, nobody in New Charlestown. I checked with Dr. Wyatt. He's our vet. I told him about Cricket, and he said that puppies need a bunch of shots. Has Cricket had his? If not, Dr. Wyatt is the best—and only—in town.”

Eden hadn't thought they'd keep Cricket long enough to need a vet or vaccinations, but now…

“I should probably call him.”

“I'll give you his number when we get home—unless I forget.”

We, home
. Eden liked the way it sounded.

Painted butter yellow and edged in periwinkle, the Reading Room door swung open and out tumbled a set of twins throwing kindergarten punches at each other. Behind them were three women in serious discussion. One of the women held an infant on her hip; another, the hand of a boy who sucked his thumb while simultaneously picking his nose with his forefinger.

The two mothers bantered back and forth while Ms. Silverdash nodded along. She had a chestnut bob that glinted of reddish dye but came off handsomely. She held her shoulders straight like a dancer, giving the
appearance of stature despite her petite height. Her skin was tawny olive, her cheekbones high, with a round nose accenting her face.

“We could have a
Wind in the Willows
party with themed snacks and goody bags,” said one.

“And costumes!” said the other.

“I think that would be a splendid party for one of you to host at your home,” Ms. Silverdash suggested.

The mothers' excitement was snuffed.

“Oh, I assumed…” the one with the boy began, then looked down at the toddlers biting and pulling each other's hair on the ground. “Todd works such long hours. When he's home, he likes it quiet. So…” She turned to the other woman. “Maybe at your house, Laura?”

Laura scoffed audibly. “You
know
my house isn't big enough to have this many kids inside—that's why all of our birthday parties are outdoors!”

They both fidgeted uncomfortably, but Ms. Silverdash took no notice. “Next time we'll begin something new—a fairy-tale anthology. Charles Perrault or Hans Christian Andersen.” Seeing Cleo and Eden, she smiled widely. “Please excuse me, ladies, there's a new face I'm eager to meet.”

Instead of extending a hand to Eden, she wrapped both arms around her. “May I presume you are Mrs. Anderson?”

She smelled like a giant bouquet.

“Welcome! Cleo has spoken so highly of you.”

Cleo's cheeks blushed beneath her freckles, and she busied herself with checking the Harpers Ferry book pages for anything she might've left between them.

“Nice to meet you, too. Please, call me Eden.”

Ms. Silverdash tapped her chin. “Eden,” she repeated. “A beautiful name. Biblical. The Garden, of course.”

Yes and no. “It was my grandmother's.”

“Ah, a legacy name—even better.”

Laura uncoupled her twins. “Doug, Dan, stop it right now or you'll both get the paddle.”

The boys continued to grunt and slap at each other.

“Mama, I tried to stop them,” defended a girl only slightly older, as if she, too, were subject to punishment.

Laura handed the girl the baby and knelt down between the boys. “You are
family
!” she said, implying it to be more than enough reason to behave.

One of them, Doug or Dan, balled his fist and went for the other, missing entirely and thwacking his mother on the chin.

Laura rubbed the rosy spot, then shook her head. “You wait until your father hears about this.” She stood. Her chest was splotched angry pink.

The other mother clucked her tongue and smoothed a hand over her son's head. “Maybe a party isn't such a good idea. All that sugar—gets the kids keyed up.” She checked her wristwatch. “We've got to go. William has tennis lessons next.”

Ms. Silverdash cleared her throat and laced her fingers together, narrowing her gaze at the twins with such authority that both turned and didn't blink the entire time she spoke. “Daniel and Douglas, you may quietly sit on this step until your mother is ready to leave. You know what the Fur Fairy says: ‘Books don't enjoy a fracas. It gives them a spine-ache.' ”

One boy followed the other to the step they'd just tumbled down, and they sat, frowning with crossed arms.

Laura sighed and turned to Eden. “I'm Laura Hunter. Sorry about…” She waved her hand in a little circle, then fingered the raspberry on her chin. “The smart egg is my eldest, Johnny, twelve, in the gifted and talented program at school. Sometimes I wonder if I should've stopped at one.” She chuckled.

The girl by her side readjusted the babe asleep in the nape of her neck. The movement caught Laura's attention.

“I'm kidding, of course.” She ran a hand over her daughter's shoulder.

The girl ignored her mother and looked to some point farther in the store's bookshelf forest.

“It's okay,” said Eden, though she knew it wasn't.

She'd once been that girl, holding baby Denny close, knowing well that their mother wished for a different life—a life that didn't involve them. Seeing it play out in front of her seemed to upheave a river stone
from the mud of her chest. Eden couldn't even create one child, good or bad. Her fingers went numb, and she had to look away to keep the tears at bay.

Thankfully, Cleo changed the subject for all of them. “Speaking of eggs, we can't stay long. Miss A's got Milton's deviled in the bag.”

“A New Charlestown celebration treat. The town is growing so much this summer,” said Ms. Silverdash. “I hope you enjoy Mack's eggs—your dog, Cricket, too. I've read that the yolks are beneficial for a shiny coat. High in omega-3s.”

Eden patted the grocery bag on the checkout desk. “Cricket has you to thank for his meals.
The Holistic Hound
has been incredibly helpful. I've never cooked much before.”

“We made the Canine Casserole,” said Cleo. “It got two paws up.”

“Of course it did!” Ms. Silverdash pulled Cleo to her waist in a hug. “A little love in the recipe makes everything come out right.” It was the kind of adoring embrace Eden could remember her mother bestowing on her only a handful of times.

Baby Hunter caught the hiccups in her sleep and awoke with a wail. Laura pointed to her twins. “You two, let's go. We've got to swing by the market before naptime. Come on, come on,” she urged, ushering them up. “Say good-bye to Ms. Silverdash.”

Instead of speaking, the boys grunted with a wave. Good enough for Laura; she pushed them toward the door. “Nice meeting you, Eden. Cleo, give my best to your grandpa. Bye, Emma.” She led her procession out, her purse spanking her rear end as she went.

Cleo frowned at their exit. “On the Nature Channel, I saw a pack of wolves calmer than those Hunters.”

Ms. Silverdash laughed, the sound like a Christmas bell. Eden caught a giggle from it.

“Oh, we shouldn't be laughing,” said Ms. Silverdash. “Nothing funny about a woman who has more blessings than she recognizes.” She lifted the ghost book. “Did you enjoy this one, Cleo?”

“Very much!”

“I thought so. It's one of Mr. Morris's favorites. Given your latest inspiration
for veterinary practices, I thought this new series might be of interest.” From a nearby shelf she pulled a thin paperback.
“A Diplomatic Dilemma: A Detective Spot Mystery,”
she read.

As Cleo inspected the cover, her enthusiasm dwindled. It featured a cartoon detective dog with a pipe in his mouth. “A kid's book?”

“I read the first chapter and nearly kept it for myself,” Ms. Silverdash assured her. “Spot, the dog, picks up on the clues we humans simply aren't capable of perceiving. He uses his masterful skills to direct his human companion, one Detective O'Hannigan, to the perpetrators. They say there's a dog barking in ninety-nine percent of novels. It's about time one got the opportunity to speak the words on his mind. The Fur Fairy agrees.”

Ms. Silverdash was an excellent saleswoman. By the end of her pitch, Cleo had begun reading and even Eden was curious.

“But you let me know if you think it's too juvenile.”

The girl's eyes ran left to right, left to right; then she shut the cover and slipped the book under her arm. “I'll give it my undivided attention.”

A bowl of starlight peppermints sat beside the register. Cleo took one, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. “So…” She moved it around until it lodged in her cheek. “I was thinking about the Dog Days End Festival. Last year, I was in charge of making sure the pies and cakes and baked things were in the correct contest categories.”

“You did an excellent job.”

“I thought so.” Cleo nodded. “That's why I wondered if this year I might have a little more
responsibility
.” She enunciated the word with the peppermint candy secured in her cheek pocket.