Legrande

 

There he is again. This time exiting the drygoods store at the same time she is. What is he doing here anyhow, she wonders, as he walks away toward the busier downtown of Legrande. Cordelia doesn’t like to feel awkward.

But he does make her feel awkward.

Sunday

Saturday passed uneventfully. The next day she wakes at her usual 5am. She takes her time preparing for the day. It is expected that the schoolteacher will attend church, as do all decent ladies in Legrande, though as far as we know there are only decent ladies here. Therefore, she is preparing to attend the service. It is a warm morning already.

After tea, toast, and an egg, she hears the Methodist bells begin to ring out over the little town. It’s time. She sighs, wraps on a light shawl, picks up her bag and leaves her house. An erratic little wind lifts the leaves on the trees slightly, almost laughing.

It is the only church in town, so all the families and singles out walking are headed in the same direction. She feels impatient with them, all these quiet people walking together.

Six of her young girl students run together and take hands to form a ring. Laughing, they sing and make the circle turn to the left. Cordelia hears the word omen in their song and stops in her tracks. Little blue eyed and brown eyed souls in Sunday dresses make a pretty sight. The children’s dancing ring breaks up and they run to catch up to their parents. She thinks she must be wrong and walks again. If we could see her, we would see the little wrinkle between her eyes because she doubts herself.

Maria Belloni calls out a greeting to her and waves. Cordelia puts her worries behind her and enters the church and finds a seat in a back pew. She sings with the people and looks around to see who is there this morning. She prefers not to have people behind her looking at her! She is a little furtive in thought and rather self-conscious.

In the front pew, during the sermon, she sees a lady that she does not believe is  from Legrande. The lady is beyond her middle years, small and plump in a deep red silk dress, she wears a little lace head covering. For a moment Cordelia sees her own mother. Surely not! She has a momentary urge to run out of the church. But that would be the talk of the town, so she stays seated. It seems a bit too warm and breathless in the room. The sermon goes on in predictable fashion, the pastor extorting on the subject of forgiveness. She begins to be deeply troubled by her own manner of abandoning her home.

After church services everywhere and at all times, people stand and talk for a while before going home. Legrande is no different in this regard. Several mothers greet Cordelia and want to discuss their children’s lessons and progress and behavior. She works to reassure them all that things are going well at school. Mrs. Belloni wants to introduce her to a newcomer in town and calls her over to where she is standing with a man. Mr. Belloni has had some dealings with him. He is the same man she saw on the road. He has bought a ranch west of town and will be raising cattle. His name is John Higgins. He has a friendly manner and a warm handshake. She feels a bit flustered in his presence.

When at last she turns to leave she notices that he has a large black feather in the band of his hat.

* 

She smells roses, the scent of roses is on the breeze as she walks home, heavy, and sweet. Intoxicating. And maybe she didn’t pin up her hair very well. Who can say, but as she walks it falls loose around her shoulders. A veil of dark waves. Her hands fly up, but the damage can’t be repaired here in the street, so she scurries homeward. Just as she is almost in her door, she hears a bicycle bell of all things and turns to face the street.

A young fellow that she has never seen before, in an outrageous green velvet suit with knee length trousers, with tightly curled red hair, has stopped his bicycle right before her door. “Mrs. Higgins!” he calls with an impish grin. “I have a delivery for you!”

The raven on the eaves of her little house watches implacably as she hurries indoors and slams the door. She might have even gone so far as to lock the door! But some things are not so easily kept away.

* 

Three weeks pass. She begins to forget the strange Sunday.

* 

There is no mail delivery in Legrande. One must go to the post office to pick up mail. So, accordingly, Cordelia walks to the dry goods store where the post office is located to get her mail, if any. There is a letter from Spokane, from home. She puts it in her bag, nods goodbye to the desk clerk and walks home with something like dread in her heart.

Sitting at her table, in the kitchen, she cuts it open with a sharp little knife. It is from her father. There is a newspaper clipping inside. It is a notification of her mother’s death, an obituary. There is a dark little photo on the clipping of a small lady in a dark dress with a little lace head covering. Cordelia can hardly take a breath. Amelia, her mother, is gone. A heart attack.

She sets the actual letter aside but knows that she must read it. She picks it up again.

Her father thanks God that she is living, forgives her sudden departure, would like to hear from her again. He mentions that Franklin Lewis is married. Her tears fall for many minutes.

* 

On a Wednesday, upon returning home, she finds a small vase made of green glass on her porch. In it are three red roses and a branch of rosemary, with a black feather also. There is a note.

Miss Monson:

I was delighted to meet you at church.

May I see you again?

Yours, John Higgins

Cordelia has no idea where he might have found roses in Legrande. It is beyond her understanding. At last, she smiles.

* 

Shall we turn the dial back now? You see how this is going. There will be a measured courtship. There will be a wedding. There will be a life lived out so long ago now. These are our great-grandparents’ years. Theirs, not ours. We can only try to imagine the reality they lived.

The dial turns back and the focus changes. The chickens and the black dog fade from our vision. Cordelia and John Higgins become indistinct historical images.

We see the little town as a remote sepia image once more, antique, unknowable, safe from our inquisitive modern eyes.