Careful Lacy was riding the back roads; the fire was a cloud. He knew the secret to that. He walked through the whole of his storied past, greeting everyone: Kick Skelton, Eliza Martin, May Cobb. He kissed the pits of her neck. There was Brackett Omensetter, Lucy Pimber, Lemon Hank. And all the dogs. And all the cats and cattle. Hog Bellman with a knife. Swine and sheep. Madame DuPont Neff, from Paris, and her udders. Something French. But best of all May Cobb and the blades of her shoulders. His eyes would open sometimes and Israbestis would climb like a well young man from his bed and walk down the echoing halls. He would go all over the house, in a fever, putting his hands to furniture and geegaws until his hands were black. Sometimes he climbed to the attic and felt the relics. Other times he went to the barn in back or to the basement. But always he would weary at last and drop to the floor on his knees, wherever he was, weeping noisily. It was then that he would have his worst attacks.
Now folks we've got this china here. You all know what Missus Pimber did with paints. A lot of you I know been waiting just for this. It's plenty hot so we'll get right along. We got here a decorated — this a toothbrush holder, Grace? — a hand-painted toothbrush holder my wife says. It's china, and it's signed by Missus Pimber with her name. See there? Now everybody'll want this and so what'll it be, what? All right a dollar, a dollar I have to start, one dollar, so I have one, one, who'll say two, two, I have two over there, right off, and everybody wants it, now do I hear three, that's three thank you now four and who says four, four, and who says fifty then, fifty. I have three and who says fifty, three twenty-five — look, that's not much to ask for a hand-painted toothbrush holder — once more and you're out. Three twenty five? twenty-five? Three, then, it's three to that lady over there thank you. Now we have here a fine china bowl, also hand painted, and it's a dilly. Hold it up there George so the folks can see it. That's a honey, ain't it, hay? What are them, birds? That's signed by Missus Pimber, too, right there. Hold it higher George so the folks can see it. Oh say now what'll it be to begin? See them birds? Ain't they pretty? What am I bid? Lots of mashed potatoes go in that, boys. So, so, so now, let's begin, and what'll you give for this hand-painted bowl?
Longlegs, like a small smooth pebble walking, crossed a brick and stopped on a line of mortar. If he walks another row I'll get him, Israbestis thought, but the spider ran up three and sat, waving a thread-thin leg. Israbestis put the shadow of his hand over the spider. It rubbed its feet together. From the withered end of a marigold another spider swayed on a strip of silk. This one was small and black with yellow spots. Ants milled by the wall, chasing one another back and forth. Israbestis wiped his brow and leaned against the house. He could feel the blood beating in his stomach. Don't talk to dirty old men.
Pardon me. Maybe you can tell me how old that cradle is. The one by the churn there — there by the tree.
The young man's shadow darkened Israbestis' spider. It ran swiftly up two courses and halted in the sun. Israbestis followed the young man's finger and shook his head. I'll have to see, he said, though I most likely know it.
Don't take any trouble. I just thought you might know.
I watched this house go up. First on the street.
Really?
I saw the cellar dug and the first brick laid. As a matter of fact I was in this house the very day Bob Stout, who built her, fell from that steeple over there.
Really?
Quite a builder Bob was. You can see. Look at that brick. All hand made. He fell right on the iron fence that used to go around it. It was Saturday. Between Good Friday and Easter.
The Methodist? My wife and I go there.
Really? Well, that's the one — the one he fell from. Before that the Redeemer's church stood there. Or very near… very nearabouts.
Bending over the cradle was a young woman, plainly pregnant, who pushed at it with a cautious finger, her head swaying slightly as it rocked.
It's awful cute, she said.
Israbestis felt his stomach tumble. Gas, he decided. Israbestis knew the cradle of course, but how had Lucy Pimber got it? He struggled to recover himself.
That — that was Brackett Omensetter's cradle, Israbestis said. Missus Pimber — the woman of this house — never had any children herself.
And Israbestis continued to talk while he wondered. Had it lain in this house all these years? And what could it mean to her? how had she got it?
How old would you say, the young man said.
Pretty old. I guess it's pretty old. I don't know how long it was that Omensetter'd had it when he wagoned over. That was… that was '90. Thereabouts.
But the Reverend Jethro Furber filled Tott's skin and clothing. He stood by the cradle, as dark as a corner, reciting — jingles. Tott's head hurt; there was pressure against the inside of his eyes. The child had died. But the child had survived.
He had a craftsman's hands — Omensetter had. He likely made it. Hands quick as cats. And there were two girls — he had two daughters when he came. Let's see. It must be… The older one was nine. Wasn't she? Nine. Make it 1880 maybe.
Do you remember that?
Not well, Israbestis thought. Not well. Not well. Why? The child had survived and they had gone down river. But if the child had survived, they'd have taken the cradle with them.
I remember Omensetter coming, Israbestis managed. Everybody who lived here then remembers that.
What is it made of — pine?
Yes. Pine.
But the Reverend Jethro Furber fluttered in his clothes. It was hot, now, as winter. The steep sun was snowing. And holding his stomach, Jethro Furber began singing a song for Samantha:
a greedy young spinster
ate, live, a lobster
and now every winter
when she sits dinner
as a kind of remonster
he pinches her inner
This, Israbestis remembered. This, he heard clearly.
It's awful cute.
I don't think it'll go for much. Maybe we can get it. Come on. Hon?
I don't imagine anyone who remembers it will bid, Israbestis said.
Why not? It's sweet.
Too old, he thought. Too dead. Too shocked. Omensetter must have left the cradle behind — left it in the Perkins house — and sometime, closing up or renting out, Lucy Pimber found it there. And never said a word. These years.
It's a long story, Israbestis was saying, a long story. This is Brackett Omensetter's cradle. It's not a name that means anything to you, I imagine, but there are a few of us left, like old leaves, I guess Israbestis cackled desperately — who were here when Omensetter drove his wagon into town. Nothing's ever happened like it. Not here. Nothing ever will,' is my guess. Omensetter, now — he was—
Hon?
Too old, he thought. Too dead. Too shocked. The way he'd told it always, it was luck.
It had been a wet spring, you know, Israbestis continued — well, wetter than most you'd want to call wet — and the road from Windham to Gilean was all mud and running ruts and deep brown holes. There was hardly a day it didn't rain, but the day Brackett Omensetter drove over was as warm and clear as this. He had everything he owned piled up in the wagon with this cradle tied to the top of it, and nothing covered. That was the kind of fellow Brackett Omensetter was. He knew it wasn't going to rain again. He counted on his luck.
Don't mind my teeth, my mouth is—
Sam Peach came suddenly and people spilled around him. Israbestis was pushed from behind. Sam was talking in a loud voice and pointing to the churn. He moved the handle up and down. Israbestis struggled against the crowd. There were strange legs against his. He pushed to the edge, his stomach turning. Sam laughed uproariously. The crowd roared. The laughter fell on him like blows. A tall farmer clapped his hands and howled. Peach was selling the cradle. To perish with the owner, that was wise.