Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

thankful for this, my best and only option. This place is neat as a pin, though little Ruby’s pinafore is patched and stained. Not her fault, of course. I shall rectify that situation and make her a new one. I hope Aunt doesn’t mind.

I am here on charity, and that’s a fact not to be ignored, though I did hand Uncle a few hundred dollars in crinkled bills for taking me in. His eyes grew wide, his cheeks burned as if I held hot coals over his head. I can say that I felt the same way. Money has a way of burning people through to the soul—an awkward showdown between fear and desire. For a split second, neither of us were certain who would win. It is best to walk away from the choice.

Honestly, I had already spent what I wished and all on myself: Though I had a new wardrobe only last year, I added a few sets of leather gloves and two extra sweaters, next came a load of books I haven’t yet cracked open, and finally a rather large old spice box of sweets that everyone else believes are my keepsakes. I dare not disabuse them of the notion. I locked a variety of peppermint sticks, jelly babies, and clove discs within. Before coming, my gyrating imagination ran toward panic. I envisioned being miles from any decent sort of shop and feared the impact of residing in the constant company of so many sour spirits. I believed these sweets would dispel the malady of my situation. They would provide me both refuge and relief. Certainly, this has been a childish expense, though I can’t say I’m not glad to have them.

Now that I’ve seen the place, I will carry the box down to Aunt to use as she wishes. I might—no, I shall—save just a few for myself...for emergencies.

Poor Uncle. He is missing an ear and limps when he walks. Reminders of the War between the States. I wonder if his leg still bothers him. He has mother’s sharp, dark eyes. Both share the same dimple in the left cheek when smiling. His hair is like pepper in contrast to mother’s dark blonde. When he met me at the train station this afternoon, he wept. When I pushed the money into his hands, he fumed. The dimple disappeared.

I have a little money after settling Father’s accounts, including the bit I salted away. I wanted to share as he was sharing. The two hundred meant that I might now converge my singular household into his, for the benefit of all. He handed it back to me with mumbled words. “No, Dorothy... keep it for your dowry....” and “what a finished girl might require...” I smiled so that he might. The dimple returned. With a gentle arm around my shoulder, forgiveness came quickly.

Aunt seems always busy. She wears a high auburn bun—to give her short stature height, I imagine. I can hear her in the kitchen with my cousins, preparing my first supper here. She is scolding with hushed tones, for my sake, no doubt. I failed to mention sweet, quiet Toliver. His appearance surprised—no, shocked me. Seems Aunt and Uncle have adopted a little brown child of three years. Perhaps they intend to give reconstruction a helping hand and educate him for this nation’s uncertain future. He clung to Aunt’s apron when I was introduced, then hid behind the sheer covering, blinking at me.

My numerous cousins blend together for now—except for the little ones. The older ones are all amiable, or at least I believe them to be. They smiled a great deal, some sheepishly, some rather forced. They spoke little. Time will tell what kind of friendship we shall enjoy...and time will teach me to tell them apart! I am accustomed to only my parents. No siblings for pals or pestering. New experiences for certain...

To placate the whims of the gods, ancient Romans made sure to visit the temple of Janus before starting a new venture or journey. A sacrifice made, a prayer repeated, and one’s fate was left to a glorified, two-faced statue surrounded by columns and empty, hopeless silence. Have I not done the same thing to the One who is before everything and who holds all things together? The unbound God that needs neither statue, nor temple since the world cannot hold Him? I have been dutiful but know I have cheated Him of my truest worship. My grief transmutes to anger as I again confine my thoughts of Him—as if whispering foolishly to an unfeeling stone being that can offer no real help after all.

What a sweet-salty feeling it is to sense hope here. I can even smile at this generous family. But towards God, I have grimaced one time too many. I wonder if my parents have seen me from their great distance, wincing and grimacing at God? I’ve bitten a nail clean-off pondering this.

The dinner bell sounds. I am summoned to play the part of rescued niece with humble smiles. I shall not shirk my duty.

Well, that was interesting. No one said even a single word at the table. Not murmur, a giggle or whisper. Not even Aunt and Uncle broke the silence, though I saw they passed more than one look at each other. The little ones absentmindedly spilled as consequence for staring me down, my older cousins focused on their meal as if they weren’t certain about breakfast the next morning. No matter what I tried, I failed to catch their eye.

I far prefer the little party we enjoyed earlier to this stifling silence. Oh dear. I hope my cousins do not chance upon this journal. How I would blush. Thankfully, some are not yet reading. They must understand that I am used to hearty conversation at supper. Father liked to linger over pie and coffee, read to me from the newspaper and asked my opinions. Mother brought her pencil sketches out and we added details together. I