pressed her tongue against the bleeding spot in her mouth. If he thought she was nothing, she might as well go ahead and die with Mamma.
“You have me and Billy and Izzie and Euphora. We all love you, Papa. We’ll take care of everything.”
He was silent a moment.
“You are my precious one.”
His voice sounded more like himself. This was much better. She was his precious one, not nothing. He was only saying terrible things because he was missing Mamma. Clara put her head against his shoulder.
“If I sit here, will you sleep some, Papa?”
He didn’t answer, but in a moment, she felt him slide down on the bed, turn his back to her, and rest himself lightly against her stretched-out leg. She reached over and placed a hand delicately on his head. After a few minutes, he became quiet, then began to snore softly. He needed to sleep and forget his pain for as long as he could. She’d stay right there, still as a stone as long as she could so as not to wake him. Papa would feel better in the morning. After a long time, she tilted her head back and drifted off.
Three
IZZIE HAD LEFT THE DOOR to Mrs. Purcell’s library open after the ruckus with Papa and Billy. If anything else happened upstairs, she wanted to hear it right away. Billy hadn’t come back, but she wasn’t worried. Even on a snowy night like this, her little brother could take care of himself. Still, she longed to hear the front door open and his footsteps bounding up the stairs skipping two or three at a time.
Before the yelling, before Billy raced out, Izzie had scarcely started reading the introduction of Andrew Jackson Davis’s book, which was written by a scribe for Davis, a Mr. Fishbough. It discussed the history of the world and humankind and its progress toward unification as well as Mr. Davis himself, “amiable, simple-hearted, truth-loving, and unsophisticated.”
It was going to take a lot more than a single night to grasp Fishbough’s and Davis’s ideas. She rose from Mrs. Purcell’s reading chair and carried the eight hundred page book, one of the heaviest volumes she’d ever hoisted, over to the library shelves. She held her book up near the books lining the wall to compare it to the others. This book’s spine had to be at least three inches wide, perhaps the thickest. Mrs. Purcell’s volumes were bound in red, black, brown, and green, written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, John James Audubon, Mason Weems, Lydia Maria Child, Washington Irving, Noah Webster, Mary Wollstonecraft, Charles Dickens, Frederick Douglass.
Books about ships, history, cooking, philosophy and science filled her landlady’s shelves. While many had belonged to Mrs. Purcell’s late husband, many were Emma Purcell’s personal collection, including the ones about herbal medicines. On many occasions, Izzie had found Mrs. Purcell taking notes at her desk from The English Physician Enlarged, Containing Three Hundred and Sixty-nine Receipts for Medicines Made from Herbs by Nicholas Culpepper. Izzie ran her fingertips over several of the leather bindings. She hoped her family would be at the boardinghouse a long time, long enough to read all the books in the room, every last beautiful one of them. But with Papa acting more desperate, more harsh than usual, she wasn’t sure how long they’d be at Mrs. Purcell’s or even in Geneva.
Sinking back into the chair, she draped Clara’s red woolen shawl over her lap and settled Davis’s The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and a Voice to Mankind over it. She wished Anna hadn’t brought Mamma forth in her trance and hadn’t known about the white horse. How could Anna have known about that? Impossible. She flipped the book over and opened the back cover. Seven hundred and eighty-two pages. The fire spat an ember at the screen. She glanced up at the mantle clock. It was nine. Mr. Andrew Jackson Davis would surely put her to sleep within minutes.
Resting her
“You have me and Billy and Izzie and Euphora. We all love you, Papa. We’ll take care of everything.”
He was silent a moment.
“You are my precious one.”
His voice sounded more like himself. This was much better. She was his precious one, not nothing. He was only saying terrible things because he was missing Mamma. Clara put her head against his shoulder.
“If I sit here, will you sleep some, Papa?”
He didn’t answer, but in a moment, she felt him slide down on the bed, turn his back to her, and rest himself lightly against her stretched-out leg. She reached over and placed a hand delicately on his head. After a few minutes, he became quiet, then began to snore softly. He needed to sleep and forget his pain for as long as he could. She’d stay right there, still as a stone as long as she could so as not to wake him. Papa would feel better in the morning. After a long time, she tilted her head back and drifted off.
Three
IZZIE HAD LEFT THE DOOR to Mrs. Purcell’s library open after the ruckus with Papa and Billy. If anything else happened upstairs, she wanted to hear it right away. Billy hadn’t come back, but she wasn’t worried. Even on a snowy night like this, her little brother could take care of himself. Still, she longed to hear the front door open and his footsteps bounding up the stairs skipping two or three at a time.
Before the yelling, before Billy raced out, Izzie had scarcely started reading the introduction of Andrew Jackson Davis’s book, which was written by a scribe for Davis, a Mr. Fishbough. It discussed the history of the world and humankind and its progress toward unification as well as Mr. Davis himself, “amiable, simple-hearted, truth-loving, and unsophisticated.”
It was going to take a lot more than a single night to grasp Fishbough’s and Davis’s ideas. She rose from Mrs. Purcell’s reading chair and carried the eight hundred page book, one of the heaviest volumes she’d ever hoisted, over to the library shelves. She held her book up near the books lining the wall to compare it to the others. This book’s spine had to be at least three inches wide, perhaps the thickest. Mrs. Purcell’s volumes were bound in red, black, brown, and green, written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, John James Audubon, Mason Weems, Lydia Maria Child, Washington Irving, Noah Webster, Mary Wollstonecraft, Charles Dickens, Frederick Douglass.
Books about ships, history, cooking, philosophy and science filled her landlady’s shelves. While many had belonged to Mrs. Purcell’s late husband, many were Emma Purcell’s personal collection, including the ones about herbal medicines. On many occasions, Izzie had found Mrs. Purcell taking notes at her desk from The English Physician Enlarged, Containing Three Hundred and Sixty-nine Receipts for Medicines Made from Herbs by Nicholas Culpepper. Izzie ran her fingertips over several of the leather bindings. She hoped her family would be at the boardinghouse a long time, long enough to read all the books in the room, every last beautiful one of them. But with Papa acting more desperate, more harsh than usual, she wasn’t sure how long they’d be at Mrs. Purcell’s or even in Geneva.
Sinking back into the chair, she draped Clara’s red woolen shawl over her lap and settled Davis’s The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and a Voice to Mankind over it. She wished Anna hadn’t brought Mamma forth in her trance and hadn’t known about the white horse. How could Anna have known about that? Impossible. She flipped the book over and opened the back cover. Seven hundred and eighty-two pages. The fire spat an ember at the screen. She glanced up at the mantle clock. It was nine. Mr. Andrew Jackson Davis would surely put her to sleep within minutes.
Resting her
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