Free Sherbrookes: Possession / Sherbrookes / Stillness (American Literature Series) by Nicholas Delbanco

clan. And for the name, to lord it over people with. To eat up his substance with whorishness. Who knows your reasons, lady?
    “I did,”—Maggie joggled her hand, palm out. “I do love Judah Porteous. And his sister therefore is someone I shall come to love—if she’ll permit it. Will you?”
    So they became domestic partners, banding together and bonded. They clucked and bustled in the kitchen like a pair of broody hens. Even then the woman was, Harriet suspicioned, no broody hen but an eagle at rest—and her arms were mighty wingspans and her hands sheathed claws. Yet she had followed Maggie, chattering—from kitchen sink to countertop to stove to chopping block to sink—picking up her droppings, setting things straight. Judah said they’d got a pecking order, and that made him (teasing, kneading Maggie underneath her apron) the roost’s cock. His wife had slapped at his hands. She told him to behave himself, and laughed.
    But this was her wan, private knowledge, and she forgot it for years. She had taken Maggie for an ally—but had been taken in, mistaken. They had bridled Judah with conspiratorial efficiency—making him take off his shoes when on the ballroom carpets, making sure he came on time to meals. He had been docile, gentled, as her sister-in-law had been docile—so Harriet believed for years she was witnessing family love. She had partaken of it also, partaking of their bed and board and knowing there was room enough to spare. It had been a mistake.
    Except Maggie, in those first few years, never made mistakes. She wronged them all repeatedly but seemed to do no wrong. Nothing she ate or drank made any difference to her figure, ever; she could guzzle all night long and gorge herself on cakes and bread but not accumulate a single pound. Her skirts would billow about her like sails in a stiff breeze. Harriet baked cakes, despairing, and then baked rhubarb and pecan pies and fudge brownies and presented them topped off with homemade ice cream and shared it all and felt herself bloat and go greasy while Maggie ate, delighted, licking her fingers in the kitchen and licking the spatula clean. She had the complexion of a Camay model, and it would not mar.
    “How do you do it?” Harriet asked.
    “Do what?”
    They were allies now—but Harriet still baked cakes and cobblers and brownies, letting Judah have a tuck-in on plain New England food.
    “I’ve burned the crust,” she said.
    “Don’t be silly, Hattie. It’s perfection.”
    “You think so?” she’d ask, shy.
    “Yes. Perfect .”—and Maggie’d pare the drippings off the pie pan and swallow and make a perfection sign, curling her index finger to her thumb. She’d raise her other fingers and squint past her hand’s circle, appreciative, nodding.
    “Sugar and spice and everything nice”—Judah smacked his lips. “This ain’t half bad, Hattie. I’ll have another slice.”
    “Tell her ‘if you please,’ ” said Maggie.
    “I do please,” Judah said.
    “You don’t—you unmannerly man.” They were allies in this also in making him say “Please” and keep his elbows off the table and wipe off his mouth when he drank.
    “OK, ladies. Hattie. I’ll have more, please.”
    “Why, certainly,” she said.
    “Why, thank you,” Judah said.
    “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”
    “Pretty please,” he pronounced, “with sugar on top”—and she knew he had bested her and heard Jamie Powers crackling through the underbrush, whistling, laughing, and felt her face flame and threw the cake knife down.
    “Now look”—Maggie scolded him—“look what you’ve done.”
    “I’ll take a second piece.”
    “Not while I’m sitting here,” her ally declared—who would not, would never be bested.
    “Thank you,” Judah said. “It’s been a lovely meal.”
    “ You’ve spoiled it. You’re the one who spoiled it, Jude.”
    “I said pretty please,” he said.
    “You didn’t mean it. You meant something else.”
    “I’ve been