The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Rose is a very good friend, — said Norris. — I wanted you to meet her. —

— She'll be staying the night? —

— I was hoping she could stay longer. She and the baby are in need of lodgings for a while. She can use the room upstairs. —

— Then the bed'll have to be made up. —

— I can do it, Mr. Marshall, — said Rose. — I'll not be a bother. And I work hard! There's nothing I can't do. —

Isaac gave the baby a long look. Then, with a grudging nod, he turned to go into the house. — I'd best see that we have enough for supper. —

— I'm sorry, Rose. I'm so sorry. —

They sat together in the hayloft with Meggie sound asleep beside them and gazed down in the soft lantern light at the cows feeding below. The pigs, too, had wandered into the barn and were grunting as they competed for prime bedding space among the piles of straw. Tonight, Norris found more comfort here, amid the din of the animals, than in the company of that silent man in that silent house. Isaac had said little during their holiday supper of ham and boiled potatoes and turnips, had asked only a few questions about Norris's studies, and then had seemed indifferent to the answers. The farm alone interested him, and when he did speak, it was about the fence that needed mending, the poor quality of hay this autumn, the laziness of the latest hired hand. Rose had sat right across from Isaac, but she might as well have been invisible, for he'd scarcely looked at her except to pass the food.

And she had been wise enough to keep her silence.

— It's the way he's always been, — said Norris, staring down at the pigs rooting through straw. — I shouldn't have expected anything different. I shouldn't have put you through that. —

— I'm glad I came. —

— It must have been an ordeal for you tonight. —

— You're the one I feel sorry for. — Her face caught the glow of the lantern, and in the gloom of the barn Norris did not see her patched dress or her worn shawl; he saw only that face, gazing so intently at him. — 'Tis a sad house you grew up in, — she said. — Not any sort of home for a child. —

— It wasn't always this way. I don't want you to think I had such a grim boyhood. There were good days. —

— When did it change? Was it after your mother left? —

— Nothing was the same after that. —

— How could it be? It's a terrible thing, to be abandoned. Bad enough when the one you love passes on. But when they choose to leave you… — She stopped. Taking in a deep breath, she looked down at the pen below. — I've always liked the smell of a barn. All of it, the animals, the hay, the stink. It's a good, honest smell, that it is. —

He stared at the shadows, where the pigs had finally ceased rooting and were now huddled together for the night, softly grunting. — Who left you, Rose? — he asked.

— No one. —

— You talked about people leaving you. —

— I'm the one who did it, — she said, and swallowed. — I did the leaving. What a fool I was! After Aurnia left for America, I followed her. Because I couldn't wait to grow up. I couldn't wait to see the world. — She gave a regretful sigh and said, with tears in her voice: — I think I broke my mother's heart. —

He didn't need to ask; he knew, just by the mournful droop of her head, that her mother was no longer alive.

She sat up straight and said firmly, — I'll never abandon anyone again. Ever. —

He reached out to take her hand, so familiar to him now. It felt as if they had always held hands, had always shared secrets in the gloom of this barn.

— I understand why your father is bitter, — she said. — He has a right to be. —

Long after Rose and Meggie had gone to bed, Norris and Isaac sat together at the kitchen table, a lamp burning between them. Though Norris had drunk only sparingly from the jug of apple brandy, his father had been drinking it all evening, more than Norris had ever seen him drink before. Isaac poured himself yet another glass, and his hand was unsteady as he recorked the jug.

— So what is she to you? — said Isaac, gazing bleary-eyed over the rim of his glass.

— I told you, she's a friend. —

— A girl? What are you, a Nancy-boy? You can't find a regular friend, like other men? —

— What do you have against her? The fact she's a girl? The fact she's Irish? —

— Is she knocked up? —

Norris stared at his father in disbelief. It's the brandy talking. He can't mean it.

— Ha. You don't even know, — said Isaac.

— You have no right to say such things about her. You don't even know her. —

— How well do you know her? —

— I haven't touched her, if that's what you're asking. —

— Doesn't mean she isn't knocked up already. And she comes with a baby, too! Take her on, and you take on another man's responsibility. —

— I hoped she'd be welcomed here. I hoped you'd learn to accept her, or maybe even love her. She's a hardworking girl, with the most generous heart I know. She certainly deserves better than the reception you gave her. —

— I'm only thinking of your welfare, boy. Your happiness. You want to raise a child that isn't even your own? —

Abruptly Norris stood. — Good night, Father. — He turned to leave the room.

— I'm trying to spare you the pain I knew. They'll lie to you, Norris. They're full of deceit, and you won't find out till it's too late. —

Norris stopped, and with sudden comprehension, he turned to look at him. — You're talking about Mother. —

— I tried to make her happy. — Isaac gulped down the brandy and set the glass down hard on the table. — I tried my best. —

— Well, I never saw it. —

— Children don't see anything, don't know anything. There's a lot you'll never know about your mother. —

— Why did she leave you? —

— She left you, too. —

Norris could think of no retort for that painful truth. Yes, she did leave me. And I'll never understand it. Suddenly exhausted, he returned to the table and sat down. Watched as his father refilled his glass with brandy.

— What don't I know about Mother? — asked Norris.

— Things I should've known myself. Things I should've wondered. Why a girl like her would ever marry a man like me. Oh, I'm not a fool. I've lived on a farm long enough to know how long it takes for a sow to— — He stopped and lowered his head. — I don't think she ever loved me. —

— Did you love her? —

Isaac lifted his damp gaze to Norris's. — What difference did it make? It wasn't enough to keep her here. You weren't enough to keep her here. —

Those words, both cruel and true, hung in the air between them like spent gunpowder. They sat silent, facing each other across the table.

— The day she left, — said Isaac, — you were sick. You remember? —

— Yes. —

— It was a summer fever. You were so hot, we were afraid we'd lose you. Dr. Hallowell went to Portsmouth that week, so we couldn't call on him. All night, your mother stayed up with you. And all the next day. And still your fever wouldn't break, and we both thought for certain we'd lose you. And what does she do? Do you remember her leaving? —

— She said she loved me. She said she'd be back. —

— That's what she told me. That her son deserved the best, and she was going to see that you got it. She put on her best dress and walked out of the house. And she never came back. Not that night, or the night after. I was here all alone, with a sick boy, and I had no way of knowing where she'd gone. Mrs. Comfort came to watch you while I searched. Every place I could think of, every neighbor she might have visited. Ezra thought he saw her riding south, on the Brighton road. Someone else saw her on the road to Boston. I couldn't think of why she'd go to either of those places. — He paused. — Then a boy turned up at the door one day, with Sophia's horse. And the letter. —