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would have made if
    someone said that she herself was looking pretty. “No, no, but thank
    you.”
    Now she said, “I don’t know what to make of you anymore. You
    look as if you don’t own a comb. You should hear what people say
    about your grooming.” (This was a favorite technique of hers. “Maybe
    you don’t care what I say, but you should hear what people say behind
    your back.” Try it sometime on someone you really dislike.)
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    B E T H
    G U T C H E O N
    There was more. “Your room is a pigpen. Your schoolwork is
    disgraceful. You could go to college if you’d apply yourself . . .”
    “Except that you’re the one who wants to go, not me.” I said it
    to be rude, not because it was true. I liked school; I just couldn’t stand
    the way she bragged when I brought home good grades. I felt erased,
    as if she were the one who had done it. She’d start dropping names
    like Bryn Mawr to the neighbors.
    Edith answered fairly quietly, for the circumstances. She said,
    “I’ll tell you, Hannah. You seem determined to hurt me, if you have
    to hurt yourself to do it. But I’m warning you. Do not try to make
    your father choose between me and you, because you won’t like what
    happens.”
    I only stared at her. Finally she asked, “Do we understand each
    other?”
    I said, “Is that a serious question?”
    Here’s how frightened I was; I was actually sorry when she went
    back to her room. Left alone, I didn’t dare to turn out the light; instead
    I sat in bed and elaborately wrote in my diary everything that had
    happened. I think I was making notes to myself on how not to be a
    mother. I underlined the crack about my father. (What could I have
    made of it?) Even after all these years, I can’t bring myself to soften
    much toward Edith, though I understand much better now what her
    troubles were. There was something hard and selfish in her, and though
    I could later feel for her, I couldn’t respect her. It was as if she saw
    us, my father included, as hand puppets in a play in which she was
    the only real person.
    I waited the long hours for daylight, when I would dare again
    to put my bare feet down on the floor.
    3 6
    1856
    Lateinthefalloftheyear,whenthenightswerecoldandthe
    sun set at four o’clock, there was a day of bright open weather when
    Claris Osgood decided to take some eggs and a bag of her mother’s
    doughnuts up the hill to old Miss Clossy and see if she could help her
    with any of her preparations for winter. Miss Clossy had been the village
    schoolmistress when Claris was small, but her eyesight was weak and she
    had been forced to retire. She lived in a tiny house, hardly more than a
    cabin, in an apple orchard, and survived on what she could grow and on
    what she was given. She had gradually fallen almost completely silent, and
    there began to be rumors about her. People kept her in their prayers, but
    many were so uncomfortable with the silence that surrounded her that it
    was all they could do to stop and sit with her. Claris felt a little that way
    herself, but she was in the midst of an argument with God about the
    goodness of her own character, and she thought she would improve the
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    B E T H
    G U T C H E O N
    day by demonstrating that she was not a “dog in the manger,” as a cousin
    had crossly called her in anger, but as spontaneously lovable and kind as
    her sister Mary.
    The blueberry barrens had turned a deep crimson color as they
    always did in fall, and the trees stood black against the high November
    sky; it was a beautiful day of God’s Creation. Claris enjoyed her walk,
    except for the wind that occasionally tore at her hat. She reached Miss
    Clossy’s gate and went into the apple orchard. It was past picking time,
    but there were still some windfalls, mainly Winesaps and Transparents,
    which Claris particularly loved. She put down her bag and made a basket
    of her apron in order to gather the good ones for the old lady.
    A small apple, quite perfect, fell from a