Free More Than You Know by Beth Gutcheon Page A

was breathing. But
    her ways ruled the house both before and after death. In her house they
    did no work on Sundays, could read no books except the Bible and play
    no games of any kind. Solace opposed music, cards, and any form of
    alcoholic drink. Danial seemed distraught at his mother’s death in a way
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    M O R E
    T H A N
    Y O U
    K N O W
    that frightened Claris; it was nothing like his reaction to the deaths of
    her babies. Next, Leonard Haskell left to marry Ellen Gott, who lived
    around the tip of the island, and Claris finally found herself alone with
    her husband.
    The family had chickens, sheep, a pig, a cow, and two horses at
    the time of Leonard’s marriage. Leonard took one of the horses and half
    the sheep, and Danial bought out his share in the pig and the cow. The
    chickens they reckoned were Claris’s, since she had taken on care of them
    when Solace stopped leaving the house. Danial butchered his sheep, froze
    the meat, and in the spring sailed into the main with most of it to trade
    at Abbott’s store. When he came back he brought barrels of flour and
    molasses, some bright new cotton dress goods, and the most extravagant
    present: a whole stem of green bananas brought round the Horn from
    the Sandwich Islands. It seemed, at last, like the real beginning of their
    life together. Claris hung the fruit in the dark cellar to ripen, and it was
    the first and last time in her life that she had all the bananas she wanted.
    When Claris went into labor for the third time in the spring of
    1862, Danial sat alone in the kitchen while the midwife attended her
    upstairs. Twice in this marriage already there had been pain and blood
    and then silence. This time, after only two hours, Danial heard a sur-
    prisingly loud wail, and he took the stairs two at a time. He burst into
    the room to find Mrs. Duffy holding a long purplish baby boy by the
    heels. The baby was roaring, and with each lungful of air he took, his
    color became more human, white and pink. Meanwhile a coiling cord of
    an astonishing gray-purple color stretched from the baby’s middle to be-
    tween his mother’s legs. Claris crouched on the edge of a chair, gripping
    the arms and weeping with relief, and Mrs. Duffy said, “Please, Danial.
    We’re not quite ready for you here.”
    For the first days and nights of the baby’s life, Claris wouldn’t
    sleep; she wouldn’t even lie down. She sat in the chair beaming and held
    him, sang to him, nursed him, while Danial looked on, proud and smiling.
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    B E T H
    G U T C H E O N
    Amos Haskell grew into a healthy and bright-eyed baby, the image of
    Claris’s brother Leander. When he was sure the baby was going to live,
    Danial sailed into Dundee and came back out with Claris’s mother, who
    stayed several weeks with them, sewing diapers, cleaning and baking, gos-
    siping with Claris, and paying a round of calls on the island folk, getting
    to know her daughter’s neighbors. Claris had never done this on her own,
    and some of the neighbors were quite surprised to see the Haskell wagon
    pull into their dooryards. They were happy to see Captain Osgood’s wife,
    though, whom they knew at least by reputation, and glad to get to see
    that Claris was not so standoffish as she appeared.
    Claris and Mrs. Osgood talked for hours over all the news of home
    Claris had missed. Both Simon and Leander had marched off south with
    the Thirteenth Maine, but both were safe so far. Her sister Alice had a
    baby girl, and Mabel was teaching school. Otis was now thirteen and as
    tall as his father, and could play the fiddle even better than Leander.
    Claris liked having her mother all to herself, although even now, from
    time to time, there were strains.
    Claris had regained her health quickly once she felt sure the baby
    would survive. Baby Amos seemed to take on an aura of gleaming per-
    fection for her. He was the coin with which she would be repaid for all
    the griefs, slights, and disappointments she had met in life