The Last Days of Dogtown

“I suppose. I sure don’t want to see Ned no more.”

“We’ll have to, well, work for a living when we get there, you know.”

Sally’s face fell again. At least she wasn’t that stupid, thought Molly. “Or maybe we can hire out at a dairy, or maids for some rich lady in a big house?”

Sally’s expression didn’t change much at those

suggestions.

“Well, never mind that now,” said Molly, and set to stuff-ing her extra shift and stockings into a sack. “Fold up the blanket. We got to get moving. The first coach is going to Gloucester, which is as far as I can afford to get us right now.”

Sally slept through the whole bone-rattling journey, her head on Molly’s shoulder. Molly, who had trouble falling asleep in a feather bed, could have pinched her for spite. But

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the last leg of the trip perked her up. The North Shore was nothing like the coastal lands of her childhood: the boulders seemed to lift the whole landscape up into the sky, and a honeyed brightness in the air put a keen edge on every hummock. The April trees were budding in red and gold, and the marsh grasses seemed to be waving at her. She had a good feeling about making a fresh start here. Maybe she and Sally could hire out as housemaids after all. Maybe she could stay clean in this tangy air.

The coach finally stopped at the battered public house on the green. The publican’s wife stepped out of the tavern to greet the travelers and eyed the two girls warily. “Who might you be?”

“Molly Jacobs, ma’am.”

“I’m Sally Jacobs.”

“You two sure don’t look like any sisters.”

“Same pap, different mamas,” Sally fibbed so easily that Molly suddenly wondered if “Phipps” was also a lie.

“Huh,” she said, pegging them as strumpets from the state of their shoes and the color of their skirts. “Well, you two sure as hell ain’t coming in my place. Get yourself down to the harbor or up to Dogtown where you belong. And by the by,” she said to Molly, “your ‘sister’ don’t look so good.”

Sally’s face was pale green. “My down-belows are in a twist,” she said, and doubled over.

“I got to get her somewhere to lie down,” said Molly, suddenly panicked at what she’d done in taking a perfect stranger, pregnant at that, to a place where she knew no one.

“Who needs to lie down?” said John Stanwood, emerg-ing from behind the house, buttoning his pants.

“My,” Molly fumbled, “sister?”

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“You my kind of sister?” He winked and Molly

dropped her eyes. “You come with me. Easter Carter never says no to visitors.” He picked up Molly’s bag.

“Where’s the wagon?” she asked.

“No need. We can manage her,” he said, and put his arm around Sally’s waist and hoisted her to her feet. “Get over on the other side.”

It was slow going as Stanwood and Molly half carried, half dragged Sally up the Dogtown road, stopping every few minutes so she could bend over and retch.

Easter saw them coming and walked out to greet them wearing her usual smile. But when she got close enough to see the state Sally was in, she turned into a mother hen. “Go fetch some water, Johnny,” she said, and got the ailing girl settled inside.