Free The Wife Tree by Dorothy Speak

afternoon, had been allowed to nibble here and there, but in all the excitement, I hadn’t been given dinner. I felt certain a plate of food would await me in the kitchen after I’d sung. From downstairs came the thunder of heels on the wood floor, shouts and laughter, a distant mood of incomprehensible happiness.
    Finally, one of my sisters came up to fetch me. After the darkness of my room, the house downstairs, ablaze with candles and lanterns, seemed like a bright ship sailing in the night. When he saw me coming down the stairs, Harper broke away from the crowd.
    “Well, now,” he said, leaning down toward me, “what are you doing up so late?”
    Alarmed by his flushed face, nauseated by his whisky breath, I drew away.
    “I’m going to sing,” I told him shyly.
    “Is that so? And what are you going to sing?”
    “‘The Girl of the Golden West.’”
    “Well, that’s a mighty big song for such a little girl.” He was the county gravedigger, fit, broad-shouldered, with bright blue eyes and a thick head of wavy hair, stiff that night with styling cream.
    The house seemed grand and foreign, with the long lace-covered table and the candlelight flickering against the walls, and flowers, brought in from the garden, sweetening the air. In the parlour, all the furniture had been pushed back, the rug rolled up, the floordusted with cornmeal. From the kitchen, where my sisters were toiling, came the sounds of plate-stacking, the jangle of cutlery, the rattle of cups and saucers. Though the windows had been thrown open to let in the spring breeze, the parlour was steamy with the heat of dancing. The neighbours, sudden strangers in their starched collars, their taffeta and chiffon skirts, grinned at me and backed away in a circle, their swollen bodies forming a soft wall. Yeasty with exercise, breathing heavily, the ladies mopped their throats. The men, jackets stripped off, suspenders stretched taut against their great bellies, faces glistening with sweat, reached up to loosen their ties, thrust their chins forward, freeing their thick necks.
    My father, who neither smoked nor drank spirits, who was content to fade to the back of a throng, invisible, observing and listening, came forward shyly. Guiding me to the middle of the room, he nudged me gently onto an inverted soapbox. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of his tie, broad as his hand and bearing a peacock, its tail exploding like fireworks.
    Wearing the only dress I owned, a hand-me-down in rough brown wool with the bodice gathered unflatteringly at the hip, I stepped up onto the soapbox. Though a question from an adult could leave me shy and stammering, when it came to singing before an audience, I never had trouble finding my voice. Now I opened my mouth and my song floated out. My voice was famous throughout the county and beyond. Every December, I was driven by buckboard from school to school to sing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” and “How Far is it to Bethlehem?” and “In the Bleak Mid-winter.”
    By this time, my hunger had subsided and I longed only for a slice of dessert. During my song, I eyed the long table of glistening pies, tortes, gingerbread. Then, catching sight of my mother in the crowd, I was nearly felled by her radiance. She lookedimpossibly young, her skin flawless as an eggshell, the grey vanished from her hair, which formed a soft pile on her head. Her blue dress shone like the ocean, its hem scalloped like waves. I thought sadly: Why does she hide this beauty from us and bring it out only for strangers? Her cheeks pink from the elderberry wine, she ushered me off the soapbox when I’d finished singing and guided me toward the stairs.
    “Go on up now,” she said with a firm nudge. No word of dessert as a reward for my performance. “Up to bed with you,” she said.
    Alone in my bedroom, I removed my dress, shoes, leotards, and donned my nightgown. But, thinking of the tall cakes, of their tender flesh and