Moon Over Manifest

“For some, their rhymes would make them smile; others would cry. But eventually they would all fall asleep.” She seemed to sense I needed one that ended in a smile. “I remember one boy who used to play a sort of peekaboo game. He would cover his face with his hands, just barely peeking out. Of course, his didn’t actually rhyme, because it was half in English and half in his own language. It started with ‘Where is little boy hiding? Where did little boy go?’ Then he’d finish the verse and take his hands away from his face as if he’d been found.”

“That’s a nice story,” I said, afraid to ask if he ever had been found, or taken in by somebody.

“Are you making good use of your summer?” Sister Redempta asked, back to business.

I thought she stole a glance at Miss Sadie’s Divining Parlor, and figured she would have something to say about my going down the Path to Perdition, so I didn’t mention my visits with the diviner. Searching for the Rattler probably wouldn’t go over too well either. I was glad I didn’t run into Sister Redempta very often, as it seemed there wasn’t much to talk about.

“Lettie, Ruthanne, and me went frog hunting,” I said.

“Lettie, Ruthanne, and I went frog hunting.”

The thought of Sister Redempta and anybody going frog hunting was a hoot, but I knew she was just correcting my grammar.

“Well, I’m sure you will have much to write about for your end-of-the-summer assignment,” she said.

I’d almost forgotten about that. “Yes, Sister.” She must have heard the hesitation in my voice.

“You might want to start with a dictionary.”

“A dictionary?” Even I knew that a dictionary didn’t have stories.

“Yes. Start with the word manifest. It’s a verb as well as a noun. Look it up.” Sister Redempta started to take her leave, then called back over her shoulder, “And remember, Abilene Tucker: to write a good story, one must watch and listen.”

Lord-a-mighty, if she didn’t sound like a diviner herself.

I was still wondering where Sister Redempta had come from and what the dictionary might have to say about what manifest meant when I opened Miss Sadie’s gate and plodded up the creaky stairs.

As I walked through the divining parlor, I was hopeful that maybe I’d mostly worked off my debt. My aching back and blistered hands were equally optimistic. But Miss Sadie was sitting out back on her metal patio chair, smoking her corncob pipe, like she hadn’t budged since the day before.

Her intentions of making me work on her garden hadn’t budged either.

“Your rows must be straight. Some plants must be kept apart. Otherwise neither will thrive.”

I didn’t say anything, as I was still pondering my run-in with Sister Redempta. Besides, dry as it was, those seeds were never going to sprout, let alone thrive.

“When you are finished today, I have herbs to be ground into paste for Mrs. Clayton. They go in her tea and will help her milk come in.”

I looked up, surprised that she knew about Mrs. Clayton and the new baby, and wondered if some visitor had given her the news. For someone who didn’t get around much, Miss Sadie never seemed to be short on information. And there were all those people and events in her stories. I’d pretty much put aside the notion of Miss Sadie’s being a fortune-teller, but how did

she know everything?

“We were out near the Clayton place yesterday, Lettie, Ruthanne, and me. I think that new baby had a hard time being born.” This didn’t register any sort of amazement from Miss Sadie. “Sister Redempta looked nearly worn out. We saw her without her veil on and her sleeves all rolled up. She’s almost like a regular woman,” I said.

It occurred to me that maybe Sister Redempta had come by and told Miss Sadie about the baby, but Miss Sadie’s silence gave no clue. I remembered the way Sister Redempta had raised an eyebrow that last day of school when referring to Miss Sadie’s den of iniquity. It seemed there was something between those two, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe these were two women who lived far enough off the beaten path that there was some strange common ground between them.

“Elam bouzshda gramen ze.”

I poked my head up from the dust. “Say again?”

“It is Gypsy. It means the person you encounter is often more than the person you see.”

The last person I’d mentioned was Sister Redempta. Was that who she was talking about? I knew better than to lock her in to only one explanation. Something I was beginning to learn about Miss Sadie was that whatever she said could mean more than one thing at a time. And it usually led straight to the past.

Miss Sadie continued in her Hungarian accent.

“There was much churning in Manifest those many years ago. A war. A quilt. And a curse …”

The Victory Quilt

OCTOBER 27, 1917