The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan Page A

Stella grew, Delia started to house a fiber of resentment towards the child. She would admit to just a hint, a wisp. A wispy wisp, at that. When Stella came into their home, the child had captivated Percy, and with each passing season, Delia faded more and more. Stella’s health only made Delia aware of her continual shriveling. When Stella scampered about, boundless energy, overflowing promise, Delia chided her own frailty, her slight slump, curling shoulders. She hated when her husband chirped, “Stella, my star.” But when he spoke to Delia, it was ofteninstructional, “Now then, Del,” voice like dough made with dead yeast.
    She was blessed by Amos, though. Loving him was so comfortable, like dozing in sunshine, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because he was a boy, and by nature, boys were easier to love. Loving Stella hurt, in a way that was different and worse than being sick. And Delia’s body was often so feeble, she needed to keep anguish away from her heart. If she were to survive at all.
    Leaning in towards Stella, Delia smelled the woodsy-scent of her scalp, was reminded of the trees that surrounded them, the fire at the mill. She should check the progress from her bedroom window. But before she left, she touched the base of Stella’s neck, felt moisture, and loosened the quilts that bound the girl, made the thin hair cling to her face. No matter the temperature, Stella had always been a damp child.
    Just as the sun was pushing up behind the water, tipping the waves with pinkish froth, Amos dragged his body through the door. He looked smaller than when he left. Bleary eyes stared out from a soot-coated shell, and he went to his mother who was seated in the rocker. He knelt down, placed his head on her lap. Thinking he might crumble, she touched him gently at first, then snarled her hands in his dirty hair, shook it a little.
Not so easy, is it, my son? To be growed up. Like a man
. Exhausted, he sighed, then closed his eyes.
    Percy arrived shortly thereafter, barreling in, fury and failure riding high on his back. He swiped cool water from the basin over his hands, smeared the soot on his face, and didn’t heed the black water dripping from his elbows. His hands were fists, and they banged into each other as he paced.
    He did not look at her for several minutes.
Destroyed
, was the only word he’d said.
    â€œâ€™Twas the lanterns,” Mrs. Primmer clucked. “That’s what my Bob says. Offering up only a pinch of light, they does. More trouble than they’s worth.”
    â€œYou said it, maid,” Mrs. Wells replied. “Lost my best curtains three years ago. Just ordered them in from the catalog, not hung for a month, but up in flames.”
    â€œWell, now.”
    â€œWould’ve lost the house too. But I hauled them down, bunched them up, flames and all, tossed them right out the back door. Don’t know what come over me.”
    â€œGood Lord was watching over you that evening.”
    â€œI allows.” Mrs. Wells nodded vigorously. “A shame though.”
    â€œA real shame.”
    Delia tried to nod in time with the others. “Did you re-order, Mrs. Wells?” she ventured.
    â€œRe-order?” Snorting. “My dear Mrs. Abbott, it took me half my lifetime to scrape together the few dollars for those. No, ma’am. I did not re-order. Nothing of the sort.”
    â€œOh.” Delia began to swipe the pews with a cloth doused in lemon oil. Dust rose up, tickled her nose, and she sneezed, saw a brilliant burst of colour behind her eyes. She sat down with force, and the sound of her elbows knocking the wood echoed throughout the church.
    â€œSomething wrong, Mrs. Abbott?”
    â€œNo, no.”
    â€œWell, we best carry on then. A lot to do, and I still got to peel all the vegetables for the crowd tomorrow.”
    â€œCan’t work on the Sabbath.”
    â€œI swear, you’d think I hadn’t