The Seary Line Read Online Free PDF

Now alone, the care of Miriam fell to a handful of gracious relatives. She started out with Nanny Joyce, then moved to Aunt Alfreda’s, next on to Auntie Margaret’s, and finally, she resided with second cousin twice removed, Fern. Kind people, all of them, but it always came down to the same thing. She wasn’t a bother, really, but simply a distraction within the family. Attracting unwanted attention. A disagreeable disturbance. And after a reasonable amount of time had passed, a time when tongues were less likely to wag, Miriam was helped to find other accommodations.
    During her teenage years, she was lucky enough to be taken in by a blissful, but deeply faithful elderly widow named Verna Hood. Miss Hood was one of the few in her community who owned two cows, and she traded both milk and butter for provisions. At once, she explained to Miriam that her cows were renowned for producing the sweetest milk and the smoothest butter. According to Miss Hood, a few gentle words to her animals and the Lord’s grace were the reasons behind it.
    On her second day there, Miriam learned to perch on the edge of a stool, reach beneath one of the old girls, and slide her pinched fingers down the tough teats. She enjoyed the sound as warm milk splattered off the bottom of the tin, sometimes splashing up onto her cheek. Her curved back made this a perfect task for her as she never had to hunch or lean. Miss Hood told her she was also well suited to floor-scrubbing, weeding, peeling potatoes, dusting, but milking the old girls remained a favourite chore.
    On her third day there, Miss Hood showed Miriam how to churn butter. For several days, Miss Hood collected the cream that floated to the surface of slightly soured milk, and she emptied it into the churn. She directed Miriamtowards a chair, and Miriam sat and nestled the wooden barrel between her solid thighs. Gripping the wooden plunger, she tugged it up, then shoved it down again and again until the plunger felt heavier and Miss Hood nodded, “You’re getting close, maid.”
    Miriam’s bands of muscle were tireless. She churned butter every three days without complaint. Her shoulders grew broader and her hands roughened. She churned the bright yellow butter of summer when the old girls ate grass, and the sallow cream of winter when the old girls survived on hay. Miss Hood showed her how to squeeze the juice from a grated carrot into the churn to brighten up dull winter butter. “My customers likes it better,” she had confided. “Though it tastes just the same.”
    After Miss Hood had worked the butter with a paddle, removed the buttermilk and rinsed the contents with cold water, she produced several tin moulds. Miriam pressed the butter into the moulds. “Work out the air,” said Miss Hood, “or they thinks we’s cheating them.” Removing the false bottoms, Miriam tapped pats of butter in the shape of miniature rosettes onto a plate. Miss Hood would place a pat on every cube of butter she produced, and saved the remainder for herself. So perfect, Miriam thought as she placed a whole pat on her tongue, let the grease melt and coat her insides. “Go ahead, dear,” Miss Hood said as Miriam reached for a second pat. “I believes butter’ll heal whatever ails you.” Then, under her breath, she added, “Well, maybe not everything.” Miriam had been curvy when she arrived at Miss Hood’s, solid hips, hefty breasts, but when she discovered her cavernous fancy for butter, her weight began to balloon.
    Miss Hood might have supposed that Miriam was a hard worker and that was why she churned butter soreligiously. But while Miss Hood would have been partly right, she was mostly wrong. Miriam would never have been able to articulate it, but that gentle motion of churning had awakened something in her. The rhythmic vibration that rippled up through the flesh in her legs had settled somewhere down there, and