The mention of his late wife wag all it took, though, to bring memory flooding back. Tears came into Arthur Stuart's eyes. Horace at once began to apologize, but Alvin stilled him with a smile and a gesture. “He'll be all right,” he said. “It's coming home, and her not here. Those are good tears and right to shed them.”
Arthur reached out and patted Horace's hand. “I'll be all right, Papa,” he said.
Alvin looked at Horace's face and was relieved to see that instead of annoyance, his eyes showed a kind of rueful gladness at hearing the name of Papa. Maybe he was thinking of the one person who had the true right to call him that, his daughter Peggy, who had come home in disguise and was too soon gone, and who knew if he'd ever see her again. Or maybe he was thinking of the one who taught Arthur Stuart to call him Papa, the dear wife whose body lay in the hilltop plot behind the roadhouse, the woman who was always faithful to him even though he never deserved her goodness, being (as only he in all the world believed) a man of evil.
Soon Horace backed on out of the room and closed the door, and Arthur Stuart quietly cried himself to sleep in Alvin's arms. Alvin lay there, wanting to doze, too, for a little while. It was good to be home, or as near to home as Alvin could figure in these days when he wondered what home even was. Carthage City was where he was bound to end up, eh? Why would he go there to live? Or would he only go there to die? What did this Vilate Franker actually know, anyway? He lay there, sleepless, wondering about her, wondering if she could really be as evil as Horace Guester said. Alvin had met true evil in his life, but he still persisted in thinking it was awful rare, and the word was bandied about too much by those who didn't understand what real badness was.
What he could not let himself think of was the only other woman he had known who fenced herself around with hexes. Rather than remember Miss Larner, who was really little Peggy, he finally drifted into sleep.
What an interesting boy, thought Vilate as she walked away from the roadhouse. Not at all like the shifty little weasel I expected after the things Makepeace Smith has said. But then, nobody trusts shifty little weasels well enough to be betrayed by them-it's strong, fine-looking men as tricks folks into thinking they're as open-hearted as they are open-faced. So maybe every word Makepeace said was true. Maybe Alvin did steal some precious hoard of gold that he found while digging a well. Maybe Alvin did fill up the well where the gold was found and dig another a few yards off, hoping nobody'd notice. Maybe he did shape it like a plow and pretend that he had turned iron into gold so he could run off with Makepeace's treasure trove. What's that to me? thought Vilate. It wasn't my gold, and never could be, as long as Makepeace had it. But if it happens to be a golden plow that Alvin has in that bag he carries over his shoulder, why, then it might end up being anybody's gold.
Anybody strong enough might take it away by brute force, for instance. Anybody cruel enough might kill Alvin and take it from the corpse. Anybody sneaky enough could take it out of Alvin's room as he slept. Anybody rich enough could hire lawyers to prove something against Alvin in court and take it away by force of law. All kinds of ways to get that plow, if you want it bad enough.
But Vilate would never stoop to coercion. She wouldn't even want that golden plow, if it existed, unless Alvin gave it to her of his own free will. As a gift. A love-gift, perhaps. Or… well, she'd settle for a guilt gift, if it came to that. He looked like a man of honor, but the way he was staring at her… well, she knew that look. The man was smitten. The man was hers, if she wanted him.
Play this right, Vilate, she told herself. Set the stage. Make him come after you. Let no one say you set your cap for him.
Her best friend was waiting for her in the kitchen shed back of the post office when she got there. “So what do you think of that Alvin?” she asked, before Vilate evert had time to greet her.
“Trust you to get the news before I can tell you myself.” Vilate set to work stoking up the fine cast-iron stove with a bread oven in it that made her the envy of the women in Hatrack River.
“Five people saw you on the roadhouse porch greeting him, Vilate, and the word reached me before your foot touched the street, I'm sure.”
“Then those are idle people, I'd say, and the devil has them.”
“No doubt you'd know– I'm sure the devil gives you a new list every time he makes another recruit.”
“Of course he does. Why, everyone knows the devil lives right here in my fancy oven.” Vilate cackled with glee.
“So…” said her best friend impatiently. “What do you think of him?”
“I don't think he's that much,” said Vilate. “Workingman's arms, of course, and tanned like any low-class boy. His talk is rather coarse and country-like. I wonder if he can even read.”
“Oh, he can read all right. Teacher lady taught him when he lived here.”
“Oh, yes, the fabled Miss Larner who was so clever she got her prize student to win a spelling bee, which caused the slave finders to get wind of a half-Black boy and ended up killing Horace Guester's wife, Miss Larner's own mother. A most unnatural woman.”
“You do find a way to make the story sound right ugly,” said her friend.
“Is there a pretty version of it?”
“A sweet love story. Teacher tries to transform the life of a half-Black boy and his rough-hewn friend, a prentice smith. She falls in love with the smith boy, and turns the half-Black lad into a champion speller. Then the forces of evil take notice–”
“Or God decides to strike down her pride!”
“I do think you're jealous of her, Vilate. I do think that.”
“Jealous?”
“Because she won the heart of Alvin Smith, and maybe she still owns it.”
“Far as I can tell, his heart's still beating in his own chest.”
“And is the gold still shining in his croker sack?”
“You talk sweet about Miss Larner, but you alway's assume I have the worst motives.” Vilate had the stove going nicely now, and put on a teapot to boil as she began cutting string beans and dropping them in a pan of Water.
“Because I know you so well, Vilate.”
“You think you know me, but I'm full of surprises.”
“Don't you drop your teeth at me, you despicable creature.”
“They dropped by themselves,” said Vilate. “I never do it on purpose.”
“You're such a liar.”
“But I'm a beautiful liar, don't you think?” She flashed her best smile at her friend.
“I don't understand what men see in women anyway,” her friend answered. “Hexes or no hexes, as long as a woman has her clothes on a man can't see what he's interested in anyhow.”
“I don't know about all men,” said Vilate. “I think some men love me for my character.”
“A character of sterling silver, no doubt– never mind a little tarnish, you can wipe that off with a little polish.”
“And some men love me for my wit and charm.”
“Yes, I'm sure they do– if they've been living in a cave for forty years and haven't seen a civilized woman in all that time.”
“You can tease me all you want, but I know you're jealous of me, because Alvin Smith is already falling in love with me, the poor hopeless boy, while he'll never give a look at you, not a single look. Eat your heart out, dear.”
Her best friend just sat there with a grumpy face. Vilate had really hit home with that last one. The teapot sang. As always, Vilate set out two teacups. But, as always, her best friend sniffed the tea but never drank it. Well, so what? Vilate never failed in her courtesy, and that's what mattered.