The Probable Future

Matt was seriously impressed. When he was in ninth grade he was too busy dreaming to think about his future. His idea of a plan had been to walk over to North Arthur to the movie theater on a Sunday afternoon.

“What are you into?” Stella asked.

“You’ve seen what I do. I cut down trees. I also mow lawns. Plow driveways when there’s snow. Try to talk your grandmother into paving her driveway and trimming back some of that laurel.”

“Never,” Elinor said.

“And he studies history,” Jenny added. “He’s an expert on Unity.”

“Oh, really?” Elinor put down her salad fork. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He could tell her that her granddaughter looked nothing like the other Sparrow women, with her gold eyes and hair the color of snow. She looked like the women in the Avery family, however, like Catherine and her sisters and her aunts, although no one among the Averys smelled like water lilies. Instead, he told Elinor that her grandmother, Elisabeth Sparrow, was said to be unable to taste, a lucky trait during the Depression years, since she could make do with next to nothing. This trait was said to be the basis for her excellent cooking.

Elisabeth Sparrow, Matt went on, made a soup out of water lily pads that was surprisingly filling. Some of the other women in town at the time, including Lois Hathaway, had noted that Elisabeth also made a supper of local ingredients, water parsnip, parsley, and a few secret items, that she called nine-frogs stew. Before long, people in town who were out of work lined up on the porch of Cake House, too hungry to be prideful. Eventually, Elisabeth set up a kitchen in what was now the community center, and some people say that over the years she served over twenty thousand meals to those in need, including the men who’d been hired to build the train station. Liza Hull’s grandmother had eaten there nearly every night when she was a girl.

“That’s how Liza managed to get hold of Elisabeth’s recipe for lemon chess pie,” Matt said.

Stella ran to get Elisabeth’s cookbook. “It’s the original,” she told Matt, who was clearly impressed. Stella flipped to the last page and there it was, written down, the recipe for nine-frogs stew. “Ooh. It says to strain the water to get out all the mud and mosquitoes. Yummy. But there are two ingredients I can’t read.”

Matt took a look at the cookbook. “I can’t make out the first one.” The handwriting was slanted, and the lettering was a pale orange, as though the ink had been made from lilies. “The last item on the list looks like sage.”

Jenny applauded Matt’s knowledge of their family. “I told you he knew everything.”

Matt stared at Jenny across the table in a way that made her uncomfortable. “I don’t know everything,” he said. “Not by far.”

“Well, maybe you know why they keep the glass case in the parlor,” Stella said to her uncle. “Maybe you can tell me why no one in this family has ever thought to throw away those horrible things.”

“Should I check on the casserole, or will you?” Elinor asked Jenny.

“I will,” Jenny said, grateful to her mother for changing the subject. “I’m sure it’s done by now.”

Stella turned to Matt. “Do you see what they do?” In the fading light, he could see there was already a frown line across her forehead. He recognized her place in the family, for he’d been there himself: the worrier, the one who sees what others deny, the responsible one left to clean up the messes made by others.

“Would you like to show me the case?” Matt had always been curious. There wasn’t a day that went by when he didn’t wish he hadn’t been left behind to wait for his brother, breathing in the humid air that was so thick and green with pollen.

Stella pushed her chair back.

“We’re in the middle of dinner,” Jenny said. “Stella, please!”

Ignoring her mother, Stella led her uncle to the parlor. It was the center of the base of the wedding cake, a room with a wall of windows; but the glass was old and the light coming through was murky. Argus lay at the threshold to the room, and Matt had to step over the dog. He had been waiting all these years to come back here, he hadn’t had a chance to look around when he came to rescue his brother, and now he wasn’t disappointed. He recognized the beams that crossed the ceiling as cherry, which gave off a mild, fruity scent. He noticed the bookcases had been built out of walnut. Stella brought him to the corner and pulled off the cloth which Matt knew had been embroidered by Sarah Sparrow, Rebecca’s daughter, and her own daughter Rosemary. There was a red heart, broken in half. There was a willow tree weeping black tears. The ground was covered with snowbells; the sky filled with birds. Every stitch had been carefully made; it had taken three winters, and a magnifying glass had been needed to see the thin silk thread. Matt barely breathed as he studied the contents of the case. What the historical society wouldn’t give to place these artifacts on display for a single afternoon. Why Mrs. Gibson would be all but delirious if anyone managed to smuggle a single one of these mementos over to the library. The silver compass alone would be thrilling. The braid of hair almost too much to absorb.