Seven Locks by Christine Wade

Author:Christine Wade
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

Judith Steals a Book

My mother is busy making food for our dinner. I remove my clothing from my cupboard to a bundle which I plan to stuff under the schoolhouse entry, hidden behind the steps. There it will wait for me. Its sequester will be how I know that I can and will make my escape. It is a tangible signal to my independence. Packing up my few possessions from my room, I am not reflective. I will leave my old farm jacket, as it is too tight across my bosom to fasten, and I will soon abandon my old apron and petticoat. I am in them for these last days, but they will not adorn the new Judith. Indeed, they are worn to a fray and I will leave them on the floor, where I step out of them. I carefully wrap the leather-bound book of paper, a present from my mother, that I scroll my secrets in, along with French vocabulary and quotes that I wish to memorize. The volume has a lock on it, and I wear its key around my neck. I have a comb made from the pelvis of a cow. I wrap these and my best clothes, a few stockings and shifts, and a pair of gloves in a shawl and tumble it out the window. I will retrieve it from the shrubbery on my way to the schoolhouse while my schoolmaster spins his stories upon my mother’s ignorance. I go to the hearth to make them tea and then stand up to look out to the empty road and wait a few moments. As they engage each other, I will walk the track with my bundle to the schoolhouse and play my subterfuge.

On the track, I meet no one. My pace is slowed by the package of my belongings, which are surprisingly weighted for one who has such a little life. Arriving at the schoolhouse, I pry away the wood of a step and shove my bundle beneath it and replace it, tapping it together with a stone. I then quickly take the steps and dart within. I find myself squinting against the light pouring through the well-crafted and glazed windows. I place my boots on the hearth of the fireplace where I often had made the many fires that we children had pulled our benches up to read by in the colder months. I run my fingers on the top of Mr. Van Bummel’s table, which we had sometimes pulled our seats around to pen our alphabet with homemade quills and ink. I move between the benches now, laid out as usual in their little rows with an aisle between them, and observe. How miniature they are! How could I have been so small as to sit at them? And, of course, now that my innocence is tarnished by plans of escape, I take a moment to bid my childhood a fond farewell: “Good-bye, little Judith, and Godspeed!”

On the window ledge is a volume that Mr.

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