They made their way through the church, the tavern, the sawmill, the farm laborer’s cottage, the tiny post office and mercantile, the smokehouse, the doctor’s home office, and the brick farmhouse with its stoneware jugs and quilts, its barn full of farm tools. They looked through display cases with exhibits on local history, full of tea sets and dolls donated by elderly residents, memorabilia from businesses that had once existed in Nicolet. In one, an old photograph of a team of oxen pulling a wagonload of timber through town; in another, a city ordinance prohibiting pigs from running loose within the town limits. They made their way through the gift shop, stocked with souvenir tea sets and crockery, child-sized coonskin caps and bonnets, slates, magnets, wooden nickels, field guides to Illinois trees and wildflowers, postcards, and an old cigar store Indian whose display sign indicated that it was on “indefinite loan” to Heritage Village.
Revolutionary War Days was always Nicolet’s biggest annual event, but this year it had drawn an even larger crowd than usual. During the festival, Heritage Village would be unveiling its newest building — a replica of the Custom House, site of the Boston Massacre. Mayor Callahan was scheduled to give a dedication speech followed by patriotic music by the Nicolet Community Band.
Sarala led Abhijat along the paths, following the hand-painted wooden signs. “We should see Meena and Lily give their tour of the mansion,” she suggested.
The mansion stood a bit off from the rest of the village on a small swell of land, which, against the surrounding flat prairie passed for a hill. It was a tall, two-story home of dark red brick, its imposing entrance at the top of a steep limestone stairway.
Abhijat and Sarala joined a group making their way up the stairway to the front door, where they were met by Meena, in costume. She grinned at her parents. “Welcome to the mansion,” she said, showing the group into the house’s entrance hall. Abhijat was struck by how grown up Meena looked in her long dress, her hair pinned up.
Meena led the group through the dark foyer into the parlor, where she began to tell them about the house and the family who had once lived there, Nicolet’s own founding family.
Abhijat was used to being proud of his daughter, but he felt a new kind of delight descend upon him as he watched Meena, who had not only memorized an impressive number of facts for the tour, but was also, Abhijat noted, skilled at speaking to this group of strangers, at animating her recitation with a quick smile, kneeling down to listen to the question of one of the small children. Abhijat felt like he had, for a moment, caught a fleeting glimpse of the adult Meena.
She led them through the dining room, hung with its ornate chandelier and bright wallpaper, and into the kitchen, where she explained the rigid but invisible class threshold that existed at the doorway between kitchen and dining room. Outside, she pointed out the carriage house, the stable, and the kitchen garden arranged across from the root cellar, where the family’s cook had stored potatoes, turnips, and apples through the winter. From here, she led the group back to the stairs and handed them off to Lily for her tour through the bedrooms, the upstairs parlor, and the dark upstairs hall.
Lily did not have that same easy way with the crowd, Abhijat noted, though he took no pleasure in the realization. She recited the details of the house’s second floor as though eager to have them out of her, closing her eyes a little as she spoke, as though willing her audience out of her sight.
In the doorway of a bedroom, one of the mothers in the group pointed to the bed warmer, which looked to Abhijat like a long-handled skillet. “You put that in your bed,” the mother explained to her children, “while you were sleeping to keep you warm.”
“Actually…” Lily, overhearing this from across the hall, turned to face the mother. “That’s not correct. It’s not like a hot-water bottle,” she continued. “It was filled with red-hot coals. If you left it in your bed all night, you’d burn your feet off. You ran it over the sheets before bed.”
The mother looked at Lily, halfway taken aback, halfway interested — she seemed unable to decide. “Well, thank you, young lady,” she said. Then she gathered her children and herded them down the hall toward the next room.
Once they had seen out the last of the tour groups, Meena and Lily took seats on the limestone steps in front of the mansion to listen to the mayor’s speech and watch the ribbon-cutting ceremony, their skirts spread out over their knees, feet disappearing beneath the deep folds of the fabric. The afternoon sun was bright in contrast to the oppressive, Victorian darkness of the house.
Some of their classmates from the regular classes wandered the grounds carrying large turkey legs or American flags. A pack of teenage boys passed the house and looked up at Lily and Meena. “Hey, old-time lady,” one of them yelled. “You’re hot.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Have you gotten your acceptance letter yet?” she asked Meena. Lily had been on a high since Thursday, when her acceptance letter from the Academy arrived. “I’m sure it’s on its way,” she continued before allowing Meena to respond. “Mr. Delacroix all but guaranteed you’d be accepted. I’ve been thinking about whether we should request to be roommates. On the one hand, we know we get along. But on the other hand, we might meet more people—”
Meena stopped her, turning to face her friend. “Look, Lily,” she began. “I haven’t wanted to tell you this.” She still didn’t, she thought to herself. Meena took a deep breath. “I didn’t apply,” she said, finally.
“What?” Lily asked, her brow wrinkled, eyebrows drawn together over the bridge of her nose.
“I didn’t apply to the Academy.”
“But why not?” Lily asked, incredulous. “It’s a tremendous opportunity.”
“I know it is,” Meena said.
“So you’ve been lying to me about this?” Lily asked. “For months now?”
“Not lying,” Meena corrected her. “I never said I was going to
apply.”
“You never said you weren’t,” Lily argued. “I thought we were both—” Lily thought for a moment, looking out over the paths that divided the grass into neat geometrical shapes. She shook her head. “I just…” She was unable to find her words. “I just… I can’t believe you’re going to throw away an opportunity like this. Do you realize how isolated you’ll be?” she asked. “The most interesting person to talk to for the next three years — until college, Meena — will be Tom Hebert. Have you thought about that?”
Meena looked down at her skirt, draped over the steps of the great house. There was a long, fraught silence.
“I thought we were going together,” Lily said. “Now it’s just me? Just I’m going?” Her voice was small and uncertain.
Meena looked up at Lily, who was now plucking at a loose thread along the hem of her skirt. As she watched her, Meena began, slowly, to realize that this smart and confident friend of hers was afraid. Afraid of doing this alone. Meena took her friend’s hand in hers.
“Lily. You’re going to be fine there on your own. Better than fine. You’re going to be amazing.”
Lily sat in silence for a moment, considering this.