The Road North

The morning after I read Brindle’s account, Clara set a stack of paper bread sleeves on the table beside my chair.

“Could you sort these by size?” she asked. “The small ones keep wandering into the large stack.”

I looked at the pile. The sleeves were plain brown paper, folded flat, with a faint floury smell from the table. “I can do that.”

My ankle stayed propped on a cushion while I worked. Doctor Pell had said supported movement, and Clara had been careful to keep the chair close enough to the counter that I could help without putting weight on it. I separated the sleeves into three piles and tried not to count the minutes.

Miller had gone out to ask the nearby farms whether anyone had seen Rusk. He had promised to keep the questions quiet and stay away from Sootbank. I had asked him to tell me what he learned, even if the answer was nothing. The second part seemed easier to say when Miller was there to hear it.

Clara moved around the kitchen, measuring flour by touch and listening to the oven. She did not ask if I was worried. She did ask if I wanted tea. I said yes, and she set the cup within reach without making me take it from her hand.

At the front of the bakery, the bell rang twice. A customer’s voice followed, low and familiar to Clara. She answered with the day’s loaves. I heard the rustle of wrapping paper and the coins set on the counter. The exchange went on without anyone mentioning me.

That was how it usually went. People came for bread and spoke to Clara. Some knew I was in the back. Most did not look for me, and I did not have to decide what to do with their attention.

When the customer had gone, Clara brought a tray of cooled rolls to the table. “Would you put these into the sleeves?”

I had done it before, though slowly. I slid one roll into each small sleeve and folded the top closed. The job gave my hands something to finish. When I reached the end of the tray, I had made one sleeve crooked and dropped a crumb into my lap. I brushed it away.

Miller came in just before noon. His boots left damp marks on the floorboards. He paused in the doorway, then asked, “Can I sit?”

I nodded. He took the chair opposite me, keeping his coat on. Clara set out a cup for him and returned to the oven.

“Two farms had nothing,” he said. “No one had seen Rusk coming back this way. A man at the north road farm did recognize him, though. Said Rusk passed through a few weeks after Sootbank closed.”

The sleeve in my hands bent under my fingers. I eased the crease back out.

“Where was he going?”