Excerpt from The Larch, a novel in progress
The wagon creaked and groaned as it rocked from side to side in the deep ruts of the lane. Each sound was magnified as if the jingle of the team's harness and, when they came to the main road, the sharp ring of iron wheels on the hard-packed surface could still Jessamy's mind. As if it could make what she was doing seem good and natural.
She didn't look back as they left the farm. She was afraid of seeing Sarah, knowing her sister would be standing in front of the barn watching. A few minutes earlier Jessamy had run to the house, grabbing a gunny sack that hung beside the stove and, going to the back room, gathered up her second dress, a pair of pantaloons, two pairs of nubby knitted socks, her winter cape, and a gray wool scarf. Sarah was coming across the porch when she walked out the door.
"I'm goin'." Jessamy looked at the little girl, meeting the child's wide brown eyes. "I'm goin'," she repeated, not knowing what else to say. Sarah rushed toward her, flinging her arms around the older girl's waist.
"No, Jess, no, take me with you." Tears made clean tracks down her grimy cheeks. "Don't leave me."
"I can't take you, Sarah. I just can't." She hugged the child close, then pulled the skinny arms down and away, pushing the little girl back against the porch railing. "I can't now. I'll come for you later," she whispered, her eyes never leaving her sister's face. Sarah's tears came fast, her body shaking, then she looked down, snuffling, wiping her nose across the back of her hand. That was when Jessamy ran. Down the steps, around the back of the house and up the hill, only breaking stride when she stumbled on the edge of the trail. She swung the sack into the back of the wagon, beside cast iron pots and bags of sugar. The man was sitting on the seat, his hands playing idly with the reins, his mouth working a chaw of tobacco. Jessamy pulled herself up next to him. He clicked his tongue and the wagon jerked, whipping her back, knocking her off balance.
It was then, when she had righted herself that she looked down on the cornfield. Her mother was halfway up a row, steering the plow as Amaryllis, the old mare, pulled it slowly through the dark soil. Jessamy almost yelled, "Stop", almost grabbed the reins out of his hands. But she didn't. She remained beside him and forced herself to turn and stare straight ahead.
Luana Heikes