The Twelfth Child Read online

  “Might be she’s too embarrassed,” William said. You come for supper Tuesday evening; by then she’ll be all prettied up and smiling like nothing ever happened.”

  “You suppose she’d make that apple cobbler of hers?”

  “I’d bet on it, boy!”

  Abigail Anne eased her door shut, then crawled into bed and pulled the quilt up around her ears. She turned on her side and let the tears fall into her pillow. “Oh, Mama,” she sobbed, “I miss you so much.” That night a flock of black crows gathered in the maple tree, screeching and cawing like they were angry enough to tear the skin from a grown man. As Abigail lay listening in the darkness, she came to believe the sound she heard was the protest of her mother.

  The following morning Abigail dutifully set breakfast on the table, but before her father had his first sip of coffee, she said, “You’re wrong, Papa.”

  “Wrong?” he replied, like he hadn’t the faintest notion what she might be talking about. Wrong about what?”

  “You as much as told Henry I’d marry him.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m not gonna. I already said, I’m going to school in Buena Vista.”

  “Abigail Anne, I’ve had enough of that nonsense about you being a teacher. Henry Keller is a fine young man and he’s gonna come into his family’s farm one of these days. You ought to be thankful he’s so taken with you!”

  “But, I don’t love him, Papa. I can’t marry a boy I don’t love!”

  “Love!” William shouted. “What in God’s name does a fifteen-year-old girl know about love? Is love gonna put food on the table? Build you a fine house? Take care of your babies?” William reached across the table and took hold of his daughter’s hand. “Abigail Anne, love happens after a woman goes to a man’s bed, after they have babies together and come to know each other. The important thing is for you to marry a good man, someone who’s got his own land and a means to provide for you, a man like Henry can take care of you, make it a bit easier in hard times.”

  “But Papa, if I learn to be a teacher I can take care of myself.”

  “Take care of yourself? Now wouldn’t that be a fine life!”

  “For me it would.”

  “For the love of God, Abigail Anne! It’s high time you start realizing that this ain’t some storybook tale! You might not fancy you’re in love with Henry Keller right now, but that boy cares about you! He’s one who’ll take good care of you and your babies, the way I did your mama.”

  “Mama’s life wasn’t so good.”

  “That’s enough!” William slammed his fist against the table so hard that a plate of eggs flew off and splattered on the floor. “You’ll do as I say!”

  Abigail heard the cawing of a whole flock of black crows ringing in her ears and she snapped back, “I’ll not marry Henry Keller!”

  William smacked her face so hard she fell to the floor. “You’ll do as I say!” he repeated, then stomped out the kitchen door.

  When Abigail arrived at school that morning she still had a large red welt on her cheek. “Why honey,” Miss Troy said, “what has happened to your face?” When the other students turned to look, Abigail Anne burst into tears. Miss Troy, being the kind of woman who could make her intent known with a single glance, gave out a reading assignment then went over and put her arm around Abigail’s shoulder. “Now, now,” she said, “nothing’s that bad.” She pulled a lace handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbed at Abigail’s face. “Come with me, honey,” she whispered, and guided the teary-eyed girl to a side room that was used mostly for storage. “Now tell me what’s troubling you,” Judith Troy said in the same comforting way as Livonia might have.

  After she’d heard the complete story of how William expected Abigail to marry Henry Keller, Miss Troy called Will into the side room with them. “Is such a thing true?” she asked the boy and when he answered that it was, she huffed and puffed like an angry bull. “William Lannigan must be living in the Middle Ages!” she said. “Now-days young ladies are free to marry whomever they choose!”

  “Papa’s mighty difficult to reason with,” Will said, “even when he’s dead wrong.”

  “Oh, is he? Well, we’ll see about that!” Miss Troy waggled her finger and stuck out that pointy little chin of hers, “You just tell your papa that I’ll be out to see him this Saturday! Times have changed and it’s high time he changed with them!”

  “If I was you, I’d bring along Preacher Broody,” Will told her.

  “I’m not one bit afraid of your papa!” Miss Troy snapped.

  “Maybe not,” Will said, “but Papa’s more inclined to listen to the preacher.”

  Abigail’s black crows were cawing louder than ever.

  The following Saturday morning Abigail was so nervous that she burnt the biscuits and brewed coffee so bitter William left a full cup sitting on the kitchen table. Given the irritating nature of these things added to the fact that she’d forgotten to feed the chickens again yesterday, Abigail was earnestly praying Miss Troy would have Preacher Broody in tow. When the surrey pulled up at the house and Judith Troy was alone, Abigail’s heart fell.

  “Morning, Mister Lannigan,” the teacher said.

  “Morning.” William was stacking wood and didn’t bother to stop.

  “I’ve come to talk about Abigail,” Judith Troy said. “Abigail Anne wants to continue her education instead of getting married; and I believe you should respect her wishes…” Miss Troy didn’t get the chance to finish what she had in mind for William turned his back and walked into the barn. “Mister Lannigan,” she called after him but there was no answer.

  Abigail, who had been standing there wanting to take it all in, shrugged as if to indicate she had no idea what her father’s actions meant.

  Judith Troy stepped down from the surrey and started toward the barn.

  “Get back in the buggy and get off my farm!” William said as he came out of the barn with his shotgun leveled at her head.

  “Now, Mister Lannigan, there’s no need…”

  “Get off my farm,” he repeated.

  “Mister Lannigan, the girl needs…”

  “Needs? I’m the one who decides what she needs and don’t need.”

  “But…”

  William fired a shot into the air. “I’m warning you!”

  Abigail went running over to her father, “Stop, Papa! Please stop! Miss Troy don’t mean no harm. She’s just trying to help.”

  “I ain’t in need of any schoolteacher’s help raising my family!” William lowered the barrel of his shotgun just enough to show he was willing to allow Miss Troy to walk safely back to the surrey.

  “Please, Miss Troy,” Abigail pleaded, “…it’s best you go.”

  Now, Judith Troy was willful and stubborn but she wasn’t foolish enough to take on a twenty-two gauge shotgun, so she climbed back into the buggy and left. But after she’d turned the surrey around and had gotten no more than a few feet along the road she looked back and shouted, “You think about it, Mister Lannigan. Think about it!”

  William fired another shot into the air.

  After the confrontation with Judith Troy, William flew into a rage the likes of which Abigail had not seen for three years. He grabbed the girl by the arm, yanked her into the house and pushed her down into a straight-backed kitchen chair. “You sit there,” he shouted, “sit there ‘till I say you can get up!” Then he stomped back and forth across the room ranting on and on about how he would not have some meddlesome busybody telling him what to do with his children. “You’ll not go to that schoolhouse another day!” he told Abigail and that’s when she started to cry. Of course, she could have shed enough tears to fill the RappahannockRiver and it wouldn’t have made a difference to William, for at this point his mind was made up.

  “Papa, please…” Abigail sobbed, but she was told to shut up.

  “I’m not interested in anything you’ve got to say,” he stormed, then kicked at the stove with a vengeance. “You
ought to be ashamed of yourself, blabbing our family business to that know-it-all teacher! What on this earth possessed you?” he asked, but when Abigail started to stammer out an answer, he said, “I told you to shut up!”

  After this had gone on for well over an hour, Abigail whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa. I know I had no right.”

  “You ought to be sorry,” William replied, but this time he wasn’t shouting the way he had been. “I’m your papa, girl. I’m looking out for your welfare. It’s what your mama wanted; and I’m trying to do the best I can.”

  “I know, Papa. I know.”

  “Then why do you fight me, every step of the way?” William stopped pacing and sat down at the table. He took hold of Abigail’s hand. “Why?”

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I won’t fight you anymore. If you let me finish the school year, I’ll marry Henry Keller like you want.”

  “It goes against my grain to let you go back to that schoolhouse,” he said. “That teacher is a bad influence on you.”

  “I won’t tell her another thing about our family business, Papa. I swear I won’t. For certain she’ll never bother you again.”

  “Well, if you’re dead set on finishing, I suppose I can tolerate five more months.”

  “Oh, thank you, Papa. Thank you so much!”

  “Just you make sure that schoolwork don’t get in the way of your chores!”

  “No sir! I’ll make sure of that!”

  That was how William’s tirade finally ended. It didn’t actually end; it just sort of evolved into a peace agreement based on the contingency that Abigail marry Henry Keller.

  Abigail knew she’d made a mistake in promising to marry Henry, but without that promise she’d never again lay eyes on Miss Troy which was something she couldn’t live with. That night, as she lay in bed and listened to the black crows beating their wings against the icy cold air and cawing out a message she was certain came from Livonia, Abigail came up with a plan.

  For three weeks she kept this plan to herself, letting it roll around her head and settle. Twice she made potato pancakes and pork with gravy, a dish that took considerable effort; and Henry, who came for supper more often than not, licked his plate clean. He’d smile across the table at Abigail and she would smile back. William seemed satisfied that the girl had come to her senses, so he also was in exceptionally good humor. With Henry being there evening after evening, Will was free to spend time at the Withers place; which was exactly what he wanted to do now that he’d gotten moony-eyed over Rebecca. To most outsiders it seemed the Lannigan household was downright happy, but there was one person who took notice of the far away look in Abigail Anne’s eyes.

  When Miss Troy asked, “Can you tell me the capitol of Pennsylvania?” Abigail Anne gave the teacher a look that seemed to infer she’d never even heard of Pennsylvania. This alarmed Judith Troy because she knew the girl could recite the capitol city of each and every state, so she’d try again. “How about Maryland?” she’d say but Abigail’s face still didn’t register a thing other than an absent-eyed look of confusion.

  One morning when the rest of the class was working on a study assignment, Miss Troy whispered in Abigail’s ear, “Please, come with me,” and she led her back to the storage room. “Abigail Anne,” she said, “you’re a bright girl, a girl with a lot of ability. I know you know the answer to these questions so what’s causing you to act this way?”

  “Nothing,” Abigail answered looking down at her feet.

  “It’s something or you wouldn’t be acting this way. Has there been more trouble with your father?”

  “Don’t ask me that,” Abigail Anne answered and her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t tell you things about our family cause if I do, I’ll have to stop coming to school.”

  “Nonsense! If your father tries a thing like that I’ll notify the state authorities!”

  “Papa don’t care about the state authorities.”

  “Well, he will care if I go out there with—”

  “Oh, please, Miss Troy, please don’t come! Papa will claim you’re a trespasser and shoot you dead in the heart!”

  “He can’t do anything of the sort; there are laws against that type of behavior.”

  “When Papa gets mad enough, he don’t care a bean about laws.”

  Judith Troy took hold of Abigail’s hand and clasped it tightly as she looked into the girl’s eyes. “Child,” she said, “you’ve got to talk to someone. You can’t keep troubles bottled up inside you. You’ve got to pour them out so that somebody can help.”

  Maybe it was the fact that Judith Troy’s voice sounded so much like her mother’s or maybe it was because the crows had stopped cawing in her ears; whatever the reason, Abigail opened up and told Miss Troy how she’d agreed to marry Henry Keller after she turned sixteen.

  “Marriage is a serious thing,” Miss Troy said. “Do you love the boy?”

  “No. I like him real well, but –”

  “If you’re not sure you love him, Abigail Anne, you shouldn’t be marrying him.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  “But, you said…”

  “I’m gonna leave the farm before my birthday.”

  “Leave? To go where?”

  “The city. I’m going to Roanoke and get a job in one of those factories.”

  “Oh, Abigail Anne,” Miss Troy said and hugged the girl to her chest. “You don’t want to do such a thing, honey. That’s a hard life; a real hard life.”

  “I’ve heard tell that the rooming houses in Roanoke have electricity and water spigots inside the house.”

  “Maybe so, but you work long days and come home exhausted. You’re a smart girl; you can do better than that.”

  “Better? Marrying Henry Keller and getting stuck on his papa’s farm for the rest of my life, that’s better? I’d sooner jump off the top of Thunderhill Mountain.”

  “There are things besides marrying Henry.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Yes, there is, Abigail Anne. I don’t know what, just yet, but you give me a bit of time and I’ll think up another way to handle this situation.”

  “Don’t come out to our place, Miss Troy! I swear, Papa will shoot you dead!”

  Judith Troy assured the girl that she wouldn’t come near the Lannigan farm, but when they left the storage room the teacher was wearing that same far away look as Abigail Anne. She told the class it was time for a recess and then she took a piece of paper from her desk and started to write. After she’d penned three pages, she signed her name, folded the letter and placed it inside an envelope. The envelope was addressed to Miss Ida Jean Meredith, 10 Jefferson Square, Richmond, Virginia.

  After that, things went along pretty much the way they had been. Henry came to supper most every night and ate so much that his gauntness began to disappear. His face grew rosy and round, so much so that even his mother noticed. “That girl’s having a mighty fine effect on you,” she told her the lad.

  As Henry blossomed, Abigail faded. Her eyes developed dark circles and lost their sparkle; ridges furrowed her brow and her face took on the hollow-cheeked look of misery. Most nights she’d lie awake for hours—counting and re-counting the number of days she had before her sixteenth birthday. When the numbers became too painful to count, she listened to the cawing of crows that had taken up residence in the maple tree right outside her window. As the number of days grew shorter and her troubles became more intense, the crows squawked louder and louder—until she finally began to believe the birds were trying to warn her of something. Although crows were troublesome birds that most people would have shooed away, Abigail took to leaving seed at the base of the tree. Every time she’d pass that maple she’d look up and find seven or eight black crows with beady eyes staring back at her. “What are you trying to tell me?” she’d ask—but the crows just sat there like a line of black-robed hangmen.

  Her father occasionally took notice and would make mention of her peaked look; but such comments were short-
lived because minutes later he’d be talking to Henry about breeding cows or planting crops.

  Not much was said about the upcoming marriage; but everyone certainly assumed that such a thing would happen. Henry left no doubt about it, because he was forever reminding William of the advantages he planned to provide for Abigail. “We’ve got a brand-new ice cream maker and a water pump inside the house,” he’d say, “She’s gonna love that!” He’d gobble down a few more bites of pie and then add something about a flower bed alongside the porch steps.

  As Henry told of the luxuries that awaited Abigail, her father sat there smiling and nodding his approval. Long before there was even a trace of spring in the air, William came home from Buena Vista with a bolt of white organdy tucked beneath his arm. He handed it to Abigail Anne and said, “This here is for your wedding dress.”

  “But, Papa…” she gasped.

  “No buts about it; Will can take of your chores for a few days. Now, you get inside and start sewing. Make something real pretty; something like your mama would make,” he said. He gave Abigail a kiss on the cheek and smiled like a man who was truly proud of himself.

  For almost three days Will fixed the supper, fed the chickens, and slopped the dirty clothes up and down the washboard while Abigail hunched over the sewing machine. She pumped the foot pedal back and forth just as Livonia had done; carefully easing yard after yard of organdy along the guide line. She fashioned the dress with balloon puff sleeves and a wide ruffle along the hem; both things she’d never before done. When the dress was nearly completed, she stitched buttons down the back of the dress as carefully as any prospective bride might do. Once the last button was fastened in place, she hung the dress in her closet.

  “Let’s see what you’ve done,” William said; and when he saw the dress he smiled. “That’s a real nice piece of work,” he told her. “Real nice. Henry Keller’s gonna get himself one fine, beautiful wife.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” Abigail answered then she went right back to doing her daily chores. Night after night she’d set supper on the table, food that she’d prepared as carefully as she’d sewn the organdy dress, but she herself hardly ate a thing. She’d nibble on a biscuit or little wedge of potato, then push back her plate as if she couldn’t stand to swallow another mouthful. By the time winter began to make way for spring, Abigail had grown so thin her collarbone circled her neck like the yoke of a harness.