“But if he don't. That's what I'm asking. How do I know about things like that, when Mama says one thing and Papa says another?”
Measure started to answer something easy, but he stopped himself– Alvin could see in his face how he made up his mind to say something serious. Something true, instead of something easy. “Al, I got to tell you, I wisht I knew. Sometimes I figure ain't nobody knows nothing.”
“Papa says you know what you see with your eyes. Mama says you know what you feel in your heart.”
“What do you say?”
“How do I know, Measure? I'm only six.”
“I'm twenty-two, Alvin, I'm a growed man, and I still don't know. I reckon Ma and Pa don't know, neither.”
“Well, if they don't know, how come they get so mad about it?”
“Oh, that's what it means to be married. You fight all the time, but you never fight about what you think you're fighting about.”
“What are they really fighting about?”
Alvin could see just the opposite thing this time. Measure thought of telling the truth, but he changed his mind. Stood up tall and tousled Alvin's hair. That was a sure sip to Alvin Junior that a grown-up was going to lie to him, the way they always lied to children, as if children weren't reliable enough to be trusted with the truth. “Oh, I reckon they just quarrel to hear theirselfs talk.”
Most times Alvin just listened to grown-ups lie and didn't say nothing about it, but this time it was Measure, and he especially didn't like having Measure lie to him.
“How old will I have to be before you tell me straight?” asked Alvin.
Measure's eyes flashed with anger for just a second– nobody likes being called a liar– but then he grinned, and his eyes were sharp with understanding. “Old enough that you already guess the answer for yourself,” he said, “but young enough that it'll still do you some good.”
“When's that?” Alvin demanded. “I want you to tell me the truth now, all the time.”
Measure squatted down again. “I can't always do that, Al, cause sometimes it'd just be too hard. Sometimes I'd have to explain things that I just don't know how to explain. Sometimes there's things that you have to figure out by living long enough.”
Alvin was mad and he knew his face showed it.
“Don't you be so mad at me, little brother. I can't tell you some things because I just don't know myself, and that's not lying. But you can count on this. If I can tell you, I will, and if I can't, I'll just say so, and won't pretend.”
That was the most fair thing a grown-up ever said, and it made Alvin's eyes fill up. “You keep that promise, Measure.”
“I'll keep it or die, you can count on that.”
“I won't forget, you know.” Alvin remembered the vow he had made to the Shining Man last night. “I know how to keep a promise, too.”
Measure laughed and pulled Alvin to him, hugged him right against his shoulder. “You're as bad as Mama,” he said. “You just don't let up.”
“I can't help it,” said Alvin. “If I start believing you, then how'll I know when to stop?”
“Never stop,” said Measure.
Calm rode up on his old mare about then, and Mama came out with the dinner basket, and everybody that was going, went. Papa took Alvin Junior out to the barn and in no time at all Alvin was helping notch the boards, and his pieces fit together just as good as Papa's. Truth to tell they fit even better, cause Al could use his knack for this, couldn't he? This altar was for everybody, so he could make the wood fit so snug that it wouldn't ever come apart, not at the joints or nowhere. Alvin even thought of making Papa's joints fit just as tight, but when he tried, he saw that Papa had something of a knack at this himself. The wood didn't join together to make one continuous piece, like Alvin's did– but it fit good enough, yes sir, so there wasn't no need to fiddle.
Papa didn't say much. Didn't have to. They both knew Alvin Junior had a knack for making things fit right, just like his Papa did. By nightfall the whole altar was put together and stained. They left it to dry, and as they walked into the house Papa's hand was firm on Alvin's shoulder. They walked together just as smooth and easy as if they were both parts of the same body, as if Papa's hand just growed there right out of Alvin's neck. Alvin could feel the pulse in Papa's fingers, and it was beating right in time with the blood pounding in his throat.
Mama was working by the fire when they came in. She turned and looked at them. “How is it?” she asked.
“It's the smoothest box I ever seen,” said Alvin Junior.
“There wasn't a single accident at the church today,” said Mama.
“Everything went real good here, too,” said Papa.
For the life of him Alvin Junior couldn't figure out why Mama's words sounded like “I ain't going nowhere,” and why Papa's words sounded like “Stay with me forever.” But he knew he wasn't crazy to think so, cause right then Measure looked up from where he lay all sprawled out afore the fire and winked so only Alvin Junior could see.
Chapter Eight – Visitor
Reverend Thrower allowed himself few vices, but one was to eat Friday supper with the Weavers. Friday dinner was more accurate, since the Weavers were shopkeepers and manufacturers, and didn't stop work for more than a snack at noon. It wasn't the quantity so much as the quality that brought Thrower back every Friday. It was said that Eleanor Weaver could take an old tree stump and make it taste like sweet rabbit stew. And it wasn't just the food, either, because Armor-of-God Weaver was a churchgoing man who knew his Bible, and conversation was on a higher plane. Not so elevated as conversation with highly educated churchmen, of course, but the best that could be had in this benighted wilderness.
They would eat in the room back of the Weavers' store, which was part kitchen, part workshop, and part library. Eleanor stirred the pot from time to time, and the smell of boiled venison and the day's bread baking mingled with the odors from the soapmaking shed out back and the tallow they used in candlemaking right here. “Oh, we're some of everything,” said Armor, the first time Reverend Thrower visited. “We do things that every farmer hereabouts can do for himself– but we do it better, and when they buy it from us it saves them hours of work, which gives them time to clear and plow and plant more land.”
The store itself, out front, was shelved to the ceiling, and the shelves were filled with dry goods brought in by wagon from points east– cotton cloth from the spinning jennies and steam looms of Irrakwa, pewter dishes and iron pots and stoves from the foundries of Pennsylvania and Suskwahenny, fine pottery and small cabinets and boxes from the carpenters of New England, and even a few precious bags of spices shipped into New Amsterdam from the Orient. Armor Weaver had confessed once that it took all his life savings to buy his stock, and it was no sure bet that he'd prosper out here in this thinly settled land. But Reverend Thrower had noticed the steady stream of wagons coming up from the lower Wobbish and down the TippyCanoe, and even a few from out west in the Noisy River country.
Now, as they waited for Eleanor to announce that the venison stew was ready, Reverend Thrower asked him a question that had bothered him for some time.
“I've seen what they haul away,” said Reverend Thrower, “and I can't begin to guess what they use to pay you. Nobody makes cash money around here, and not much they can trade that'll sell back east.”
“They pay with lard and charcoal, ash and fine lumber, and of course food for Eleanor and me and– whoever else might come.” Only a fool wouldn't notice that Eleanor was thickening enough to be about halfway to a baby. “But mostly,” said Armor, “they pay with credit.”
“Credit! To farmers whose scalps might well be traded for muskets or liquor in Fort Detroit next winter?”
“There's a lot more talk of scalping than there is scalping going on,” said Armor. “The Reds around here aren't stupid. They know about the Irrakwa, and how they have seats in Congress in Philadelphia right along with White men, and how they have muskets, horses, farms, fields, and towns just like they do in Pennsylvania or Suskwahenny or New Orange. They know about the Cherriky people of Appalachee, and how they're farming and fighting right alongside Tom Jefferson's White rebels to keep their country independent from the King and the Cavaliers.”