Betty Levin - Shoddy Cove

I f Clare expected to get out of todays special event, she would have to make a total pain of herself. That was Randalls opinion.

It isnt fair, Clare said for the tenth time. They were leaning against the pickup, waiting for their mother. I wouldnt mind being stuck in that fake village if I did fun stuff like you.

Funerals arent supposed to be fun, Randall said. Anyway, driving the horses over the same road all day gets really old. I only do it because Im paid.

Clare didnt quite believe that. She had caught glimpses of him up front on the buslike wagon that transported visitors around the re-created island village. Sometimes he looked as if he enjoyed pretending to be an early-nineteenth-century carter.

If only Len, her other brother, were here. Len wasnt old enough for a real job like Randall, so hed have known what she was up against. But Len was in Michigan, probably having a blast with Dad, who was out there to help run Grandpas carpentry business while Grandpa was healing from his accident. Dad and Len had even taken Toby with them, leaving Clare dogless as well as practically friendless.

If they paid me Clare started to speak, then stopped in mid-sentence. Just last night she had announced that she wouldnt choose to be a pretend nineteenth-century girl even if they paid her.

Randall grinned, remembering, too. It was after Mom had made the tactical mistake of asserting that plenty of girls would be thrilled to wear a period costume and act out a part. Clare had challenged her to name one, just one who would, especially on a hot day, especially since in olden times girls probably all died of boredom. Mom, tight-lipped, had gone out to shut the chickens in the coop for the night. Clare had retreated to her room.

Tell you what might be your best bet, Randall said now.

The screen door slammed behind Mom.

Clare said, Hurry! Shes coming.

Theres laws against child labor, Randall said. It might be breaking the law. How about that? He sounded impressed with his own resourcefulness. As for today, he added, look at the bright side. At least the funeral will be a break from carding wool.

With forced cheerfulness, their mother apologized for the delay. She tossed a bag inside the capped bed of the pickup.

No one talked during the short drive through the fog, which thickened as they neared the coast. By the time they reached the parking area, even the sign welcoming visitors to Cossit Island Village was blotted out.

It was still a good hour before the public would be allowed to cross the bridge and causeway that spanned the water, but the gate was already open for the staff. They were on the causeway when a voice behind them said, Not to worry. Itll burn off with the sun. The speaker was Alex Nettleton, who was in charge of special events.

Mom stopped to let him catch up. If the sun doesnt make it, will you postpone?

Alex shook his head. We have busloads scheduled to come. Anyway, a little fog or drizzle adds a touch of gloom. Nice ghostly effect for the graveside.

Clare giggled. The trick today would be to keep from laughing out loud in the midst of Alexs scripted reenactment.

Still using the hearse? asked Randall. It had already been removed from the indoor exhibit, the axles greased in readiness. Spare and black, it had a flimsy look to it, as if it had been cut out of cardboard to make a life-size toy.

Oh, yes, Alex told him. Its always a big hit. Jim Spears will be driving. Hes got the long face and the gray hair to go with the costume.

Randall didnt comment. Clare knew he had wanted to try out that rig.

The lights were on inside the Visitors Center, a cluster of buildings that included the museum, rest rooms, offices, library, and food facilities. Everyone passed through the main hall to gain entrance to the village and its outlying mills and farm. On her occasional visits Clare used to enjoy her special status as a staff child. She could wave herself past the ticket counter and take off on any of the roads that branched out from the center.

But that had been before she had no choice about being here.

Most of the time Dad worked at home repairing and restoring antiques. Jobs for Cossit Island Village usually took him here after hours. That meant that when Clare and Len werent in school, they could hang out with him and even have friends over. Most of the time but not now.

While Mom and Alex detoured to check their mailboxes, Randall headed out for the Amos Truffleman farm, where he would ready the team of horses for their days work. Clare watched enviously as he vanished into the fog. Then, slowly, she followed after a group of costumed interpreters setting off for the village center. Like Clares mother, each of them would assume the role of an early-nineteenth-century villager. Yet Clare knew that many of them dropped the act to instruct the public.

Mom fell into step beside her. Just past the meetinghouse they forked left toward the village green. On a clear day the houses rimming the common faced one another in a neat array, but today the farther ones loomed ghostlike across the grass.

Inside the Grimes homestead Mom lit the lamp and two candles. Clare thought it was still too gloomy, but Mom said that most New England villagers seldom had even this much light on a dark day. Who cares? thought Clare. How was she supposed to see?

Then visitors began to arrive, and she settled into the days work.

Once she was carding wool and Mom was spinning and answering the same questions over and over, Clare decided Randall was right. She might as well make the most of the funeral. It beat being cooped up in the Grimes homestead the whole day.

At eleven oclock Clares mother launched the interactive hour. With the spinning wheel safely beyond the reach of careless hands, she demonstrated spinning with a drop spindle and let visitors experiment with the process. Clare passed around an extra pair of cards for people to try using to prepare raw wool for spinning. As usual she had to warn them not to scratch themselves on the wire bristles.

One pushy kid grabbed a double helping from the wool basket.

You dont need that much, Clare told him.

Its for my sister, too, he said. He ducked behind other visitors, pulled a smaller child forward, and stuffed the wool into her hands.

Clare opened her mouth to tell him off. Instead, seeing what he was up to, she shut it again. The kid was a natural. With quick, thin fingers, he pulled a wisp of cloudlike wool from his sisters clutches and twirled it out until it was transformed into a strand that stretched from one outspread hand to the other. When he could reach no farther, he broke it off, wound it around his sisters arm, and started to spin out another fine thread. Admiring onlookers exclaimed.

How old are you? Clare asked softly.

Ten plus. He didnt even glance at her. He was concentrating on his spinning.

So he already knew how to spin. Without benefit of spindle. Big deal. Do you have sheep? she asked.

He shook his head.

His mother was probably one of Moms crafts friends. Just as well, thought Clare, that she hadnt mixed it up with him.

A visitor trying to card got stuck and asked her to demonstrate again. When she turned back to Wonder Boy and his little sister, they were gone.

Didnt that boy spin wool that wasnt carded? asked the person Clare had helped. So why bother carding?

Exactly, Clare felt like answering. But she had heard her mother explain the process so often that she just responded with the short version about how carding made the spinning smoother.

That boy, another woman remarked, examining the lumpy strand that she had just spun with a drop spindle, hes amazing!

The man with her said, We saw him over at the tinsmiths. He got the hang of making a candleholder just from watching, then cut his own piece without a pattern or anything and hammered it into shape just like that.