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The Letter
The child woke earlier than usual and got dressed quickly. She crept down the hall to the kitchen. On the counter her mother had set a heavy white bowl: plump blueberries from their own bushes that the child was to take to Miss Lamb and the young woman who lived with her. All week the child had watched the commotion across the small field that separted her new house from Miss Lamb's large white farmhouse. To the front door opening onto a wrap-around porch, trucks came and left, bundles piled in their beds. As one pulled away, a man would guide another in: "Little more, little more, easy," he would say steadily, then a sudden, "whoa!" From the window the child watched, fascinated at the precision achieved by the driver, right arm extended the length of the seatback, looking behind the truckbed, and the man directing, hands up, palms toward his face, fingers curling to coax the truck back, carefukkt watching the hitch. The child begged to be permitted to go and watch the men lift cupboards and clocks and box springs onto the trucks, then drive them away. "No," her parents told her each time. "You would get in the way and Miss Lamb has enoght to worry about." Neither would they answer the child's questions. Where was the old woman going? What about her nurse, would she stay? The child was worried some about the young nurse leaving. They had grown fond of each other. At least the nurse was patient with her. She had moved in with Miss Lamb soon after the old woman had left a pie in the oven to burn. WHen the child's father had seen black smoke roiling frim the back window over looking the river, he'd run over and flung open the door. Inside sat Miss Lamb at her writing desk by the piano, thoughtfuly composing a letter to an acquaintance. After the men in the volunteer fire department had checked the house, and the women had scrubbed the kitche clean and laundered the linens, someone noticed that the kletter Miss Lamb had neatly signed, Love, Eliza, was addressed to Captain Lamb, Miss Lamb's long-dead father. Three days later, a nursing student from the community college moved in. For a year now, she'd been the nearest thing to a play companion the child had. Regarding the heavy bowl, the child looked with ticklish expectation to her task. She imagined the pretty boarder inviting her in, whipping up fluffy blueberry pancakes or even crumbly scones. She envisioned Miss Lamb nibbling at hers, sipping hot tea, smiling down into the little girl's face. She wrapped her bare arms around the lip of the bowl and set out. It was a clear day, the air crisp. The sky was a brilliant blue, showing no clouds. The summer tourists had all gone home and it was silent except for the occasional grating cries of black grackles as they snatched seeds from the fresh tilled field and each other. Nearly to Miss Lamb's house the child tripped, spilling all but a few of the berries onto the dark soil. Struggling against panic, she sat up on her knees and began picking the berries up, one at a time, between her forefinger and thumb, into the bowl, her mind racing ahead to picture a faucet where she could still rinse them and salvage the morning. By her right hand alit a heavy black bird, then another until the child was surrounded. Her terror faded when she saw that for now they were not curious about her, but were greedly pecking at the purple berries. In misery she watched their stillwet eyes as they jutted their heads and beaks down to break the berry skins then jab at the clear sweet filling. All week she had pestered her mother and nagged her father. She had wondered, spied, and fancied where the old woman, and where finally even the pretty nurse were going. The child sat open-mouthed on the purple sotted dirt and wept because now she knew.
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