Emma Field Book I - coming of age in the changing times of the mid-19th century

Chapter VIII - Helping Vera

Emma felt as tight as a quilt on a quilting frame.

"It's not right," said Anna Williams at recess. "I don't care what anyone says; it's not right to hurt a person so. I will speak with Father this evening."

"He won't do anything," said Mary Victoria. "Adults seldom do when a child is at fault. Besides, Vera shouldn't have been using her left hand."

"That is madness, absolute madness! Vera doesn't know that! She uses her left hand for everything else she does – what makes holding a slate pencil so holy? Mr. Brown just didn't want her there. Her using her left hand was just an excuse to get rid of her! I think you should talk to your father, Anna," said Emma.

Emma couldn't concentrate for the rest of the day. Her body was still but her eyes jumped from her slate to the window, to her hands, to the wall. After school she darted restlessly around the cabin, getting two potatoes from storage, peeling them too deeply, chastising herself, getting two more, putting a little water in the pot, adding a little more. She felt as though Mr. Brown's ebony stick could come crashing down upon her at any moment. Every cell of her body wanted to take that stick and smash it down on his head. Finally she could stand it no longer. She flung her shawl over her shoulders and raced down the hill.

The Planks' cabin looked like a lantern in the blue-grey dusk. Emma shivered to think of the cold that must be pouring in through the cracks just as the light poured out. She could hear angry shouts and the whining insistence of a young child.

Her certainty started to evaporate. Her edginess returned.

"...all knows we're dense! Dey all knows we're nothin' and we gots nothin'!" screamed a woman's voice. Emma heard a muffled higher voice, then the woman's again. "I don' care how sore your hand is! He shoulda broke both. Who the hell you think you is – goin' off to keep company wif dem who's high and mighty?" The wailing of the younger child escalated.

Emma clenched her hands inside her mittens. She stepped behind the nearest tree trunk. The woman yelled again and Emma heard flesh hitting flesh. Both higher voices rose. The canvas door yawned with light and a figure stumbled out. Emma could hear her own heart thumping in her chest. She turned sideways to make better use of the shadow cast by the moon. The figure sobbed with the same heaving sobs Emma had heard from Vera that morning. The whining in the cabin rose; there were more angry shouts, then smacks, followed by the shrieks of a child. The sounds propelled Emma toward the sobbing body.

"Vera," she hissed. "Vera, it's me, Emma Field. I'll help you. Stand up and come with me!"

Vera didn't look up. Emma put her hands on Vera's shoulders, choking back the foul odour that assailed her nostrils. "Come with me," she repeated.

The two girls stumbled back along the track toward the creek.

"Under here," commanded Emma as each foot negotiated the pitch dark of the creek bank leading to the ribbon of cold, black water. Emma pulled Vera under the logs of the bridge. The air was still. Emma unknotted her shawl and drew it around Vera, who leaned heavily against her, still sobbing. Emma gasped with the stench, turned her face away, but left her arm around the girl's shoulders. Vera shook with tiny spasms, like a leaf quivering in the winter wind. She heaved under the bigger burden of her pain. "Huh, huh, huh," she panted, "huh, huh." Slowly both the trembling and the sobbing eased.

"Let me see your hand." Vera held it up weakly. It was too dark to see much more than an outline. "Come out here into the moonlight." The girls shifted to where the light of the quarter moon reached the bridge's edge. Vera's hand looked barely human. It was swollen and black, and the smallest fingers hung as though held on only by the swelling.