Read Online The Endearment by Lavyrle Spencer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lavyrle Spencer
Tags: Fiction
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have more to tell me, Anna. Do you want to tell me now?"
She peeked sideways. Sure enough--that jaw bulged out like a rock. "You know already, so why make me tell you?" she asked her lap.
"It is true then? The letters were not written by you?"
With a shake of the head she answered no.
"And you do not know how to read or write?" Again she shook her head negatively.
"Who wrote the letters?" he asked, recalling all the times he had touched them, lingered over them, thinking of his Anna's hands having touched them first.
"James."
"James?" Karl looked across Anna to the boy who stared straight ahead. "You set the boy to writing deliberate lies because you could not write them yourself?"
"I didn't set him to writing them."
"Well, what would you call it, teaching a young boy like him such lessons?"
"We agreed, that's all. We had to get out of Boston and find a way to live. James was the one who found your advertisement in the paper and read it to me. We decided together to try to get you to marry me."
"You decided together to get Karl Lindstrom to marry a twenty-five-year-old woman, a good Catholic girl who could read and write and teach our children to read and write, who could cook and make soap and garden."
The two guilty parties sat silent.
"And who will do that, Anna? Who will teach our children to read and write? Am I supposed to take the time to come in from the fields and teach them?"
His casual reference to their children brought roses to Anna's cheeks, still she answered, hopefully, "James can teach them."
"James, you said, is to be my helper in the woods and in the fields. How can James be in two places at once?"
She had no answer.
"How is it that James learned to read and write, but you did not?" he asked.
"Sometimes, when our mother got a fit of conscience, she'd make him go to school, but she didn't see any girl needing to know her letters, so she left me alone."
"What kind of mother would only send a boy to school now and then, when she had a fit of conscience? Conscience over what?"
This time James saved Anna from lying or revealing the full truth. He burst in. "We didn't have much, even before Barbara got sick and died. We lived with ... with friends of hers most of the time, and I had to go out and try to find work to help. I guess she thought I was kind of young to be out working, and sometimes she'd get ... well, sorry, kind of. That's when I'd have to go to school. I managed to go enough to learn to read and write a little."
Puzzled, Karl asked, "Barbara? Who is Barbara?"
"That was our ma's name."
"You called your mother Barbara?" Karl could not conceive of a child calling his mother by her given name. What kind of mother would allow such a thing? But since neither of them answered, Karl pressed on. "You told me there was no work for you in Boston and that is why you needed to get away."
"Well, there wasn't. I mean ... well –“
"Well, what, boy?" Karl demanded. "Which is the truth? Did you work or not?"
James took a gulp of air and braved it, in a strange falsetto. "Mostly I picked pockets."
Karl was stunned again. He looked at the fledgling's profile, trying to imagine a boy that young doing such a dishonest thing. Then he glanced at Anna, who sat sullenly staring at the narrow road ahead.
"Did your mother know this?" he asked, watching Anna's face carefully for signs of lies. But there was no sign, just a resigned sadness that expressed age far older than her actual years.
"She knew," Anna said. "She wasn't really much of a mother."
Something in her tone of voice melted Karl. The resigned way she said it made him suddenly sorry for both of them, having such a mother. Karl thought of his own mother, of the warm and loving family she had raised, teaching the value of honesty and of all the old beatitudes. Father Pierrot had been right to admonish him that he must be prepared to be their teacher. It seemed he would have to make up to both Anna and the boy all the teachings that
She peeked sideways. Sure enough--that jaw bulged out like a rock. "You know already, so why make me tell you?" she asked her lap.
"It is true then? The letters were not written by you?"
With a shake of the head she answered no.
"And you do not know how to read or write?" Again she shook her head negatively.
"Who wrote the letters?" he asked, recalling all the times he had touched them, lingered over them, thinking of his Anna's hands having touched them first.
"James."
"James?" Karl looked across Anna to the boy who stared straight ahead. "You set the boy to writing deliberate lies because you could not write them yourself?"
"I didn't set him to writing them."
"Well, what would you call it, teaching a young boy like him such lessons?"
"We agreed, that's all. We had to get out of Boston and find a way to live. James was the one who found your advertisement in the paper and read it to me. We decided together to try to get you to marry me."
"You decided together to get Karl Lindstrom to marry a twenty-five-year-old woman, a good Catholic girl who could read and write and teach our children to read and write, who could cook and make soap and garden."
The two guilty parties sat silent.
"And who will do that, Anna? Who will teach our children to read and write? Am I supposed to take the time to come in from the fields and teach them?"
His casual reference to their children brought roses to Anna's cheeks, still she answered, hopefully, "James can teach them."
"James, you said, is to be my helper in the woods and in the fields. How can James be in two places at once?"
She had no answer.
"How is it that James learned to read and write, but you did not?" he asked.
"Sometimes, when our mother got a fit of conscience, she'd make him go to school, but she didn't see any girl needing to know her letters, so she left me alone."
"What kind of mother would only send a boy to school now and then, when she had a fit of conscience? Conscience over what?"
This time James saved Anna from lying or revealing the full truth. He burst in. "We didn't have much, even before Barbara got sick and died. We lived with ... with friends of hers most of the time, and I had to go out and try to find work to help. I guess she thought I was kind of young to be out working, and sometimes she'd get ... well, sorry, kind of. That's when I'd have to go to school. I managed to go enough to learn to read and write a little."
Puzzled, Karl asked, "Barbara? Who is Barbara?"
"That was our ma's name."
"You called your mother Barbara?" Karl could not conceive of a child calling his mother by her given name. What kind of mother would allow such a thing? But since neither of them answered, Karl pressed on. "You told me there was no work for you in Boston and that is why you needed to get away."
"Well, there wasn't. I mean ... well –“
"Well, what, boy?" Karl demanded. "Which is the truth? Did you work or not?"
James took a gulp of air and braved it, in a strange falsetto. "Mostly I picked pockets."
Karl was stunned again. He looked at the fledgling's profile, trying to imagine a boy that young doing such a dishonest thing. Then he glanced at Anna, who sat sullenly staring at the narrow road ahead.
"Did your mother know this?" he asked, watching Anna's face carefully for signs of lies. But there was no sign, just a resigned sadness that expressed age far older than her actual years.
"She knew," Anna said. "She wasn't really much of a mother."
Something in her tone of voice melted Karl. The resigned way she said it made him suddenly sorry for both of them, having such a mother. Karl thought of his own mother, of the warm and loving family she had raised, teaching the value of honesty and of all the old beatitudes. Father Pierrot had been right to admonish him that he must be prepared to be their teacher. It seemed he would have to make up to both Anna and the boy all the teachings that
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