Free The Boys in the Trees by Mary Swan Page A

just slightly tinged with orange.
    She never saw the photographer in town, even when she strolled past his studio, but he always seemed happy to meet her when he came to the place by the river, and sometimes she read, but mostly she listened to his talk. He let her look through to the view he was framing, let her see what he saw, and once he stroked her neck with the back of his hand. She cringes to think of it now, how obvious her infatuation must have been, although at the time she felt so grown up. He asked her once how old she was, laughed and said he’d have to wait for her, and she wrapped the idea around herself like the woolen shawl she wore to the riverbank when the branch was bare, thinking that he might still appear.
    •  •  •
    She could go another way, but Sarah doesn’t believe in giving in, and so she makes herself walk down Norfolk Street. And there is the shop, Mr. Marl’s shop now. He is not a pharmacist, of course; someone else actually runs it. But it is his name above the door, gilt letters on a deep blue ground. He gave them a fairprice, though not the fairest. True, there were debts to pay, but Sarah’s father had planned it well and all Mr. Marl had to do was repaint the sign, turn the key in the door, and start making money. She can’t stop the thought that says how proud her father would be at the shop’s success. It was a part of her life for as long as she can remember, her father teaching her the names of things, the properties, introducing her to each customer.
This is my daughter Sarah
. Resting his hand on her head.
    Later Alice started coming and spoiled it all, but Sarah waited her out. She had always been good with figures, was already helping with the books and checking the stock, learning to mix the simpler preparations. While Alice lived her child’s life, giggling with her friends and mooning over words, just words. No help at all the winter it all ended, sobs from behind her bedroom door, from behind their mother’s. What did they think—that they would survive by magic?
    Sarah didn’t cry, not then, not later. Only once. Sitting with Mr. Heath in the Sunday school, after the children had gone. They had let the stove go out and the room grew quickly cold while they talked about arranging a party for Easter, about the problem of Robert Bride, who memorized a hundred verses every week and always took home the certificate. And then somehow they were talking about Sarah’s mother, and how she couldn’t even decide what vegetable to cook for their dinner. About the way her father went out that winter night, saying he needed a little air.
There there
, William said, patting her shoulder.
There there
. Soon he will burn in Hell, and though she knows it’s wrong, she is glad.
    •  •  •
    Alice coils her hair, looking into the spotted mirror. She touches the high collar, buttoned at her neck. There are things sheshould be doing but the laudanum has made her movements slower, and nothing at all seems urgent. She knows the children will be edgy when they come, unsettled, for they all know what day it is; everyone in Emden knows what day it is. She had thought of making some special cakes, something to distract them, but realized that would seem like a celebration. She holds the banister when she makes her way downstairs, her feet seeming a little distant, not quite part of her body. In the schoolroom she opens the shutters and sunlight reaches for the long table, the chairs, the map tacked up on the wall. Rachel’s father came for her on a day filled with blue sky, said it was just for a moment, and she left her copybook open, her new pencil lying on top. It was the first thing Alice saw when she opened the door the next morning.
    Rachel’s things are now in a tidy pile in Alice’s room; there is no one left to return them to. Page after page of problems copied out and solved, compositions and the carefully drawn maps with their secret signs for mountains and lakes