#christy is flummoxed by his endless enigmatic looks

[kopykunoichi]

Christy, by Catherine Marshall. Chapter 35 Excerpt (part 2)

Over the doctor’s shoulder I saw that Jeb Spencer had set the fiddle against his chest and was tuning up. Wraight Holt had joined him with a banjo. With twangy chords sliding into a fast jog and Jeb’s bow singing across the strings the music started. As in the past Uncle Bogg was in the middle of things ready to call the figures. I marveled that from all appearances the old man had recovered so quickly from his son’s murder. Or, I wondered, was this just another example of Uncle Bogg’s callousness? “Scrooch them settin’ chairs against the walls, boys. Gonna need a heap of room.” The old squire was clapping his hands. “Gyarner ’em in, folks. In—a—cir-cle. The Tenn’see Wag-on Wheel. Here—we—go!” The tune was the familiar “Skip to My Lou.” The music snaked across the floor, swirled around my ankles, set my toes to tapping. Dr. MacNeill saw. “Come on, Christy. Into the circle we go."

“Cir-cle left!” . . . Cir-cle right! . . . Swing your partner . . . Now . . .” The doctor was surprisingly nimble. I had never done much square dancing, so did not know all the intricate figures. But by whispered instruction and skillful leading, he was steering me with scarcely a step missed by either of us. The rhythm beat and surged around us. The man must have learned this dance in his cradle! “La-dies back . . . Gents to the cen-ter . . .” Close up, some of these men were a little pungent. Out behind the cabin or somewhere the jugs were being tilted. “With a Right Hand Wheel . . . And back the other way . . . With a Left Hand Wheel! . . . Pick up your partner!” The doctor’s strong arms lifted me off the floor as easily as if I had been a child. Whirl and twirl . . . bend and swing . . . round and round. The music was so delicious. It ached behind my eyes and pulled and titillated. “Swing your part-ner!”

I was spun through the air, blood racing with the music, aware of the doctor’s face close to mine, sometimes half-smiling, sometimes laughing, drawing me to him. “Right—left, Right—left . . . Right—left, Right—” “And now, once a-gain, swing your part-ner—Prom-e-nade!” We were making an arch with our raised arms and the couples were coming through. “Bend low! Through the tunnel. Follow the leader . . . Now for the Bas-ket . . . All to the center! . . . Ladies stay in and the gents come back!” This one was really ingenious. Soon I saw how “the basket” was made. Women in the inner circle joined hands raised; men in the outer circle ducking under. We were joining arms at waist level to circle the basket. As complicated and delightful as an old quilt pattern, I was thinking. The American frontier had its dangers and its hard work but it also had a rare talent for making its own fun. “Off the floor . . .” And the Tennessee Wagon Wheel ended.

I half collapsed against the wall. “You aren’t—breathless—a bit—” I chided Dr. MacNeill. “Used to it. Anyway that was only a middlin’ fast tune.” More music . . . Jeb had itchy fingers for his fiddle bow today. But no one was dancing this one, so I took it to be an in-between tune. In a rich baritone the doctor started singing the words:

Cheeks as red as a bloomin’ rose,

Eyes of the deepest brown,

You are the darlin’ of my heart,

Stay till the sun goes down.

All around us, voices picked up the song. Such an enigmatic look on the doctor’s face! What did that look mean?

Shady Grove, my little love,

Shady Grove, my dear,

Shady Grove, my little love,

I’m goin’ to leave you here.

Only a song, but why did he keep his eyes on my face? “I’m thirsty,” I said abruptly—and turned toward the one sawhorse table left pushed against the wall. There were pitchers of spring water and what looked like several kinds of fruit juice. I poured a little of one and gingerly tasted it. Raspberry juice, I thought. It was refreshing. So I poured a full glass.