Most days he would trundle door to door, pulling his shabby cart through alleyways, hawking little bottles of "medicine" in their amber-hued glass. He looked time-worn in the way of gypsies and street peddlers, eyes hidden by the brim of his shapeless hat, hands calloused, his fingertips browned with the dirt of the road. Most days he sold no more than a few dollars' worth, other days he sold nothing at all. His sing-song voice was a counterpoint to the shouts of children and the gossip of house-cleaning wives and spinsters. To some his patter sounded not unlike, "Bring out yer dead," and sent them scattering deep inside their hovels. To others it was comforting in the way the drip from a leaky pipe was comforting, a monotone that lulled them into thinking all was fine and good. We're no poorer now than we were yesterday, and certainly no poorer than him.
A few, the brave, would take pity on him, offer him a glass of water or, if he was especially lucky or if it was a holiday, a mug of ale. When he drank, he'd straighten to his full height, push his hat off his head with one hand and drink with the other, tipping the mug upwards and his chin with it. Then he'd hand back the mug and pull his hand through his matted curls, scratching at his sweaty scalp, and smile his thanks. It was then his spirit would first glint in his eyes, a deep blue-green to anyone who cared to look. His face, etched and scraped as it was, surprised many with its handsomeness.
"Thanks, ma'am. Mighty kind of ye," he'd venture. "May I possibly interest you in some medications for any ailments you might have? Cures for starin' sleepless at the ceiling at night? I got some milder ones here for babes that's colicky. Or ones for warts, or maybe fleas? Dogs are always full of fleas that jump on ya. And I got lotions to rub on yer skin to ward off any insects that may bother."
His voice was deeper than you would expect for a fellow of his frame, a balm to anyone who heard it, especially women. Most folk would shake their heads, "No," and bid him a good day, not waiting to see him off before taking glass or mug back inside, as if they were afraid any more contact with him than that might taint them, rub off his poverty or isolation on them. Once in a fortnight, perhaps, he'd be invited to show his wares for this or that scourge. He'd step around to the back of his cart and rummage underneath the oiled covers held down by worn ropes criss-crossed over the irregularly shaped mounds of bric-a-brac. He'd make a show of digging for what he was looking for, just the right thing for the specific ailment. In truth, nearly all the bottles he handed out held, despite their different shapes and color of the glass, the same exact molasses-thickened fluid diluted with some cheap rye whiskey and made bitter with some herb or other. He'd found making the medicines bitter made them more believable. It didn't do to have them all taste the same, in case two or three were called on for a customer's different needs.
*****
This day was fairly typical.
"Dear lady, this is the best remedy for your discomfort I've ever had the fortune to sell. The best you could get anywhere, even them fancy stores. I got'em right here. Take just a teaspoon with a cup of chamomile tea every night before bedtime. You'll sleep like a swaddled babe, and you'll start feelin' better soon, jus' two or three days in my own experience. My customers swear by it." Once he had their attention it was only a matter of minutes till he made his first sale, and like water running downhill, another a minute or two to his second, and maybe even a third.
"You know," he'd say, "it dawns on me, dear lady, I may have somethin' else that might be of use t' ye, if you tell me about other things that bothers ye..."
"Well..." she demurred, but it was clear as dew on snowbells that the little bottle he held called to the woman.
"Maybe you want to git out of this sun," he suggested. Other times it had been the heat, or mist, or whatever weather might have surrounded them. "I shoulnn't have kept ye so long.... " And, like always, he let just the slightest tinge of wistfulness creep into his voice as he battened down his load slowly, straying a sideways look at the lady customer.
For it was invariably a lady that took his bait. Maddie Spelling was not unlike the others, the ones whose shoulders hunched from their farm labors or bed changing, cooking, and washing floors. Her brown hair was caught up in a sloppy ponytail low at her neck, her clothing soft and shapeless, its colors faded with innumerable washings. Her eyes were a washed-out blue and the lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth dug years into her face.
His wrist just managed to touch her forearm, and the corner of his mouth barely twitched at the near-silent intake of breath, the hairs on the back of her arm standing on end and tickling his own.
"Ah, there," giving a rope one more tug. "One moment more... long day, this," he said, and leaned on his cart, looking exhausted. He had no need to feign that; it had been a long week of long, hot days with few sales, and the cart had gotten heavier and heavier.
"Why don't you come in and sit down for a spell?"
"I don't mean to impose, good lady."
"Oh, no, no you ain't imposin' at all."
"Won't your husband mind?"
"He's in town for the market day," she said, pushing some stray hairs behind her ear. He'd expected something of the sort. He'd never had one retract her invitation, nor had any husband or father or brother ever intruded. He had a well developed nose for unwanted company.
"Cole. Cole Hartmann is my name."
"Madelyn Spelling. Everyone calls me Maddie."
She led the way, her small bottled treasures held tightly in hand, those elixirs that promised relief and escape. In the house, he found the same rude furniture as in most of the houses he'd visited, greyed or brown-black, clustered around a stove or a fireplace. She took him into the kitchen and sat him down at the table.
"I can make you some coffee, if you'd like."
After a bit of rummaging around cupboards and the like, she came back with a cup. The coffee was weak and lukewarm, but he was grateful for it and the chance to sit down. When she'd reached across the table to set the chipped mug down, he'd noticed the long sleeves of her dress, the frayed ribbon circling the cuffs like a worn rope. Although the dress looked like (it was) the only one she owned, it was spotless despite the graying, faded colors - signs of too much washing - that didn't quite hide the brownish spatters. Her sleeve had ridden up and he saw the yellow-green-purplish marks and still-raised welts on the inside of her wrist and forearm. He reached across and placed his hand directly over the marks, raising his eyes to look into her own.
"How long have those been there? I have a salve tha's jus' the thing to he'p those heal."
