“. . . True,” I said.
He set down the adze, held out his hand. “Let me see the little treasure,” he said. I stepped off the street into the yard (in truth, there was hardly any difference between the two) and offered it to him. He took it in his large callused paw of a hand and regarded it. “Too small for a firkin,” he murmured to himself.
He looked up at me. There was something slightly charged in his look—this had been true of Goodman Griggs, of the ferryman, and of the printer. Perhaps it was simply how Puritan men always looked at women. Perhaps my fear that they would find me suspicious was causing me to imagine things. “I have no barrel of the right size, but there is a lidded bucket I could alter to suit your need.”
“I thank you,” I said. “If you are sure it will be watertight.”
“You could throw it in the ocean and a hundred years from now there will be no moisture in it,” he said with casual confidence.
“I must probably still pack the book in something to keep it from getting bumped around on the journey,” I said.
“I’ve some felt in the shop for oiling staves. Wrap it in some of that, ’twill suffice.”
“Again, I thank you,” I said, starting to feel slightly unnerved by the intensity of his eyes. He looked at the barrel he’d been working on, considered it, and then seemed to decide it could be left alone for a bit, for he then glanced around the yard until he found a small lidded bucket. He tossed the book into the bucket, with no reverence for either its physical or spiritual worth.
After snatching some felt from the back of his shop, he hunted through the hoops for a small one, and used his cooperish tricks to seal the top as tightly as any cask. I stood waiting, confused by how handsome I found him and wondering how best to negotiate the payment. All I had was the white wampum bead from Goody Fitch. I knew that white wampum was less valuable than purple, but beyond that had no idea how this would rank against, say, the musket shot.
When he finished, he held out the sealed bucket. I smiled gratefully and reached for it, but just before my hand touched it, he raised it out of reach. “Now for the issue of payment,” he said. “What have you for money?”
“Just this, from my master,” I said, pulling the wampum out of my drawstring bag. I offered it to him.
“’Tis a pretty bead,” he said, “and a good start, but it will not cover this.”
“I have nothing else,” I said.
“Of course you do,” he said in a low, meaningful voice. I felt a prickling down my spine.
“I do not know what you mean,” I said.
“I think you do,” he said, staring at me. Before I could move away, he reached toward me with his free hand and clapped it around my rib cage. I reflexively pulled away, but he had me fast. “That’s a body not wearing a corset. I could tell just from how you hold yourself.” I shuddered and tried to pull away; he held on tighter. “Your master sends you out to do his bidding, with insufficient currency, unlaced. Do you think I don’t know what that means?”
“My . . . corset is damaged,” I said, trying to keep my composure. I could not hit him with the shovel, as I wanted to—he had the book! I had to keep him close enough to get the book back!
He laughed at my claim. “And how does a maid’s corset get damaged? Did your master damage it? I trust there was enjoyment in the damaging.”
“You have completely misconstrued—”
“Don’t worry,” he said easily. “I will not report you to Reverend Shepard. But your master has set you up to be generous to me in exchange for my generosity. Luckily, it is an exchange I am happy to indulge in.” He pulled me closer to him and then wrapped his arm around my waist.
I put a hand on his chest to repel him, but he mistook it as a sign of intimacy, and looked pleased. I could not avoid this problem, so instead I would have to use it: “You have hit upon the truth,” I said resignedly. His smile grew much broader.
“Good,” he said.
“However,” I pushed on, trying to keep my voice calm (I knew it would be best to sound suggestive, but I could not quite push myself to that extreme), “I have urgent errands to attend to, and you’ve a barrel not yet finished. Give me the bucket now and I will return here in an hour with the freedom to . . . be generous.”
He looked even more pleased. “After you are generous, I will give you the bucket,” he declared triumphantly.
“My errand requires the bucket,” I said. “But I will leave you with the wampum bead, plus a little taste of what’s to come.” I glanced up and down the street, but nobody was about. Knowing this was foolish—and yet necessary—I reached down and lifted my skirt halfway up my leg. I did not need to point out to him what was missing—no petticoats, no stockings, nothing but a skirt. I doubt he often saw a woman’s ankle, let alone her shin, and I was flashing him up to the knee. Immediately he pulled me against him and I could feel him growing hard. I made myself smile. He no longer looked at all handsome to me. “I shall enjoy being generous with you,” I whispered, and kissed him on the cheek. Blech.
At this he looked so radiant I feared he might fancy himself in love with me. He kissed me back, and released me. “You will return,” he said sternly.
“Upon my soul, I will,” I answered.
He gave me the bucket. I thanked him with a smile, and then hurried down the lane, my heart beating so hard that I could feel it pulsing in my neck.
Reader, I am relieved to inform you that the next leg of my undertaking was without incident, although it was fucking hot and dusty work. I knew I had to take the Watertown Road (the Massachusetts Avenue of later centuries) to a certain bend, where it would intercept the creek that I could follow to the boulder. Easily done. It was peculiar recognizing the boulder in a world that was otherwise so unfamiliar.
The shaft of the shovel gave me a nasty splinter in the web between my thumb and forefinger, and digging the hole took longer than I’d anticipated, perhaps because my body was fatigued by the stress of the day. As I worked, I unearthed a midden—a deposit of oyster and clam shells that had apparently been left there by the natives. I buried the bucket, reburied the shells, and stomped the earth down as firmly as possible. Then, shovel in hand, slightly begrimed on face, hands, boots, and skirts, I returned to the village. Sticking to the western wall (as far from the cooperage as possible), I hurried down to the ferry landing.
Luck was with me again, for the ferry was on this shore. But of course I had nothing to pay for passage with.