by Sara Dahmen
“Well, it doesn’t take much to find someone who might outmatch me in the way of the hearth, be it woman or man.”
Thaddeus finally meets my eyes, the greyness of them cutting me shrewdly, but he does not answer. Al and Tom jump up beside me, taking the edges of the bigger boxes, and waste their power and strength trying to shift them alone before deciding to heave together. I am in the way, so I climb out in the usual clumsy half-jump that never fails to catch the edge of my skirts.
I was hoping I’d do laundry finally, and get out of these grimy, dirt-caked clothes soon after we arrived. Not likely to happen as I’d wished. There is too much to do. Too much to figure. Too many pieces to organize before I can think of laundry.
The three young men quickly create a heave and swing of the big boxes, and their shoulders strain and legs bend with the weight of the tools and the cumbersome burden of the stakes. The smoke of the nearby forge hits me as I pry open the top of one of the crates, and mingles with the smell of the wood in the air. Suppose Father is incorrect and I’m right. Suppose we will need to pay rent to a new landlord—rent we will not be able to afford until, perhaps, the spring. Suppose the barn is too drafty for the winter. What if there is not enough work? I dig into the unpacking of our goods and our livelihood, and apprehension wells inside of me, choking my lungs more than the plumes of smoke ever could.
CHAPTER NINE
20 August 1865
Bess, Clara, and Grete. And Sadie.
I try to remember the names of the young women who have come to call. They’re all in their early teens, though Clara’s calmness and styled hair twists more like a woman’s, and her dress stretches with a pregnancy just starting to show. She tells me she is married to a farmer, and Grete giggles whenever she speaks of a Lawrence Fawcett. I’d like to flatter myself that it is me they wish to befriend, but likely it is the news that two new young bachelors have arrived in town.
“We’d heard that you’d be coming for months,” says the brassy blonde called Sadie. “And we thought we’d stop by on a Sunday and see how you’re getting along. Mother sent some pie. Figured you weren’t up to making much as you’re not completely set up.” She cradles bakery in her arms.
“Tell your mother I’m grateful.” I glance around us, where old boards are patched vertically with new against the weather, and the partitions of one long wall along the back of the space boasts half-erected bones of what will soon be actual, real, private quarters. It’s taken us far longer than it should to organize ourselves, between building, setting up shop, and handling orders pouring in.
“Will you be a-joining vun of the churches, you know, a one of dem?” Bess asks through a thick Germanic accent, craning her neck to get a look at my brothers. She must catch one of their eyes, for she blushes and glances down quickly but not before readjusting the fit of her chemise bodice.
“Bess Martin! You’re supposed to be sweet on Franklin!” Sadie says briskly, though her eyes rove over my brothers as she speaks.
“Vat? So he is still my sveeetie, but I can be a-looking, no?”
“I should tell Franklin he’s got competition—”
“It is a-nothing serious to be a-looking—”
“So, church?” Clara interrupts, raising her eyes at me, and slapping Grete, who has been batting her eyes at Tom as he walks by with another board.
“The church?” I hesitate. “I suppose we’d join the Catholic one.”
“Of course. St. Aloysius. We go there as it’s the only one,” Clara tells me. “They’re building a Lutheran one, finally, so we can attend our own services.”
“Perhaps, then.” I have no idea how strict Father will be. It was Mother who had been religious. We’ve been in Flats Town a few weeks, but it feels like far less.
“Oh, but church is the best place to be social all week,” protests Sadie, who still is holding the food to her chest. I wonder if she will forget to hand it to me for all she is making eyes over my shoulder at the boys. Irritation bubbles in me. So it will be like Chicago after all? Church, niceties, girls chasing my brothers? Does that mean I’ll still have no beaus too? Will I still struggle to have friends?
“We …” I pause, and squint against the late afternoon sunset streaming through the open door. Clara watches me straight, but the other three gaze at the pulling muscles of the young men whacking hammers and patching the walls and framing the door for the entry into our private area, where we will put the rough-hewn beds and the kitchen. Pressing my lips together, I speak loudly.
“We’ll come to church, I’m sure. And when Tom’s woman gets here, there will be a wedding as well.”
Sadie deflates a bit, and Grete steps back, though Bess still props her bosom over the scratchy new work countertop and smiles amiably at me.
“I vill be a-looking for you and your family at the church, then.”
“And welcome, truly,” Clara adds, grinning. “You’ll have to speak to Lara O’Donnell about joining church groups. She’ll be glad to get more hands for making bakery goods for the socials.”
“Maybe. That would be—”
“Hey Marie! There’s another big box or two that we haven’t got to unpacking, but Father says he wants it done now.” Al’s rescue comes a bit late, and he nods absently at the four girls. Sadie remembers to hand over the pie as an afterthought, her eyes following Al.
“What about that brother? Is he taken?” she asks pointedly. Busk stays crackle as Bess and Grete whip their necks to stare at Al again.
“No. But he’s very young.”
“He doesn’t look too young,” Sadie says and Grete nods vigorously.
I shift the pie on the board and smile tightly.
“Thank you. And your mother,” I say. “It’ll help with the meal today for sure.”
Their backs trickle through our overlarge doorway with a few last suggestions about Mass and insistent welcomes. If there are so many men around in the west, why are these girls coming to make eyes at my brothers? They should stay away.
Once they’re gone, I turn around and poke Al reproachfully. “You might have told me I was needed sooner to help unpack.”
“You have to talk to some girls,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to actually work to make friends here, they won’t come with Mother’s prodding.”
“What makes you so wise?” I say off-handedly, stinging with the truth of his words and his measure of my character.
He grins and shrugs. “I’m not. I just know what you’re bad at: cooking, baking, having friends, getting a man to notice you—”
I hit him on the arm hard, and he winces slightly.
“You’re being a pierdoła asshole.”
“Well, Father does want the last big crates opened.”
“I’ll run this into the kitchen in the big house first.” I jerk my chin toward the back of the home that serves as both living quarters and forge for the trio of blacksmiths. “Jimmy will be glad for something to help with feeding us all tonight.”
“Pah! Especially since you don’t really help him much,” Tom mentions, as he walks by with another plank over a meaty shoulder.
“I know!” I grit my teeth against rising to the barb. It doesn’t help that it’s true. I’ve found more to keep me busy since arriving to put off the role of the hearth, and so far, I’ve been successful. August is hot and dusty, and we’ve had no time to breathe against orders we’ve yet to fill in a shop not yet made, on top of trying to set up the workroom to everyone’s particularities. My head swirls with the repetition of what must be done.
I’m thankful we still eat with the blacksmiths in their more organized kitchen. Jimmy is quite accomplished at making foodstuffs as well, which puts me to shame when I try to help, and there’s no shortage of teasing, ribbing, and heckling.
Soon I’ll be stuck doing nothing but food: planting, cooking, preparing, storing. My life will be consumed by the push and pull of mealtime. Walter’s stove is already hooked together in our shop
with the crimped black tin stovepipe, and our smaller potbelly in the back. Father says if we stay more than one winter in the building, he will build a fireplace so I might cook larger meals easily. Tom says a fireplace won’t make my cooking better and doesn’t want to haul the rock for it. Al just shakes his head.
I wonder why we’d consider moving out of the building in the spring. We’ve taken a huge loan from the bank just to buy lumber to repair the damp walls. With all the money we’ve poured into this wide space, I have no idea why we’d ever leave unless we had to!
Walking through the crunchy grass toward the smithy, the ring of hammers strikes true and loud around the air. Sliding in, I watch Thaddeus and Jimmy pull the metal from the depths of the red fire. The hot, burnt, orange glows on the edge of the thick band of iron. Nearby, Walter moves iron into vats of water. On the wall, a few swords cling to nails, curved and crafted beautifully. I suppose they carry some of Walter’s pride.
I wait, knowing the ire that can come from work interrupted when the metal is hot and ready. Walter straightens when he sees me, but does not speak. The clang and bang of the smiths fills my ears. Thaddeus moves with a heavy power combined with fluid strength, while Jimmy’s body strains with the weight of the hammer and the control needed to set a solid blow. It does not help that he is a bit shorter than his masters, but he takes it in stride with a determination and drive that I admire.
As they finish with the iron, they turn as one. Thaddeus submerges the metal quickly in the vat of water nearby, and the steam rises and billows around us. When it clears, he and Jimmy both notice me. The bigger blacksmith glances at me slightly, then turns back to the fire. Jimmy’s smile blazes through the dirt.
“You baked a pie, Marie?”
I want to hug him for saying so without sarcasm or surprise. I settle for a full smile in return.
“No, no. One of the town girls brought it over. I thought to leave it here to keep the sawdust out of it.”
“It won’t keep much cleaner here,” Jimmy gestures to the soot around us. “But cover it up with a cloth and set it by the hearth and we’ll cut it up with dinner.”
I move through the forge and balance the pie as I open the door beyond the bellows, where their living quarters tuck behind the forge. Stepping through and closing the fat pine slab door to block the drift of coal dust, I adjust my eyes, and take in the now familiar space. There is one large unmade bed along the far corner and another opposite it that is neat and orderly. The loft is for food storage and Jimmy’s cot, which peeks over the edge in a messy array of sheets and quilts. The kitchen is nothing more than a big hearth with a banked fire, a long narrow trestle, and a large wooden worktable where I set the pie.
On the other side of the door, the rumble of Thaddeus’ voice mixes with Jimmy’s lighter one as instruction on creating the exterior of a wheel continues. Flats Town does not yet have a wheelwright. I pause, listening to the careful and simple explanation. I miss my discussions with Al about tinware, and the passion I felt, briefly, about creating something with raw skill.
I should apply that same passion into making food. Maybe I’d get better at it.
Walking out the back door so I can reach our so-called barn without bothering the blacksmiths again, I pause, and take in the small farm the Salomons run. The fences are tidy and the animals seem fed and content. It’s the chickens running wild across the grasses, looking for seed and fall bugs that I hate, and one attempts to peck at my boot while I stand unmoving. “Odpieprz się! Fuck off!” I growl at the bird, who doesn’t seem to care I’m a moment from kicking it in the head. Shaking off the shiver of dislike shimmying down my spine, I keep going along the yard. Father’s boxes are waiting.
Beyond the meandering stream and the matted yard is the prairie, flat and dry, and the trees building up from the horizon where the old buffalo jump reaches for the sky. The trees inch close to the north of our rented property. I wonder what it will all look like in spring, as I am determined to put out flowers around the edge of our new house-and-shop. It doesn’t matter that it’s not really ours. It will feel like a good Polish home, then.
Heading toward the extra-wide door, I realize the hammering and shuffling and tinny pounds have stopped. Perhaps it is closer to the day’s end than I had figured.
As I round the corner and go inside, I stop short. Both of my brothers huddle over the last of the large boxes with Father in the center. There is a contained, quiet, reverence to the vision, as if they are barely breathing.
“What is it?” I ask lowly, and Tom shifts so I might get a view.
My heart stops when I see what the box contains.
Buried in oiled padding and tucked around wadded fabric are several machines!
I think back to the burring machine I obsessed over, secretly touched, and then broke. It sits in its own box yet, unopened. Everyone knows it’s broken and they will not speak to me about it at all. Their silence is worse than their tease.
And now … now to know there are more!
Here I thought the burring machine is the most precious thing we own. It’s not. Not at all. It simply must not have fit in this box. Amazement pounds through my body, and I can’t take a full breath. My stomach gurgles with shock.
It is a fortune.
“Where … how?” I find my voice first amid my brothers’ incredulous stares. Father looks up at us all, his eyes sparkling and proud.
“It was a good decision to be buying these, I am thinking.”
“How did you pay for this, Father?” Tom asks, urgency peeling into his tone, layered with the shock. “What did you do?”
Father’s eyes go dark at once. “Do you be saying I am coming by this dishonestly?”
“No!” Tom backtracks immediately. “Pfft. That’s not what I meant, you know that. I mean … do we have a large debt to pay? How did you afford this? We didn’t even have money for lumber to fix up this place, and have that heavy loan from Percy Davies at the bank to show for our poverty, and now to know we had … these?! Pah!”
“It seems very expensive,” I add, counting the money up in my head as best I can.
Father does not answer anyone at first. Instead he unwraps each piece reverently. There is a beautiful new beading machine, with several different beads for multiple designs to change on the knobs. A very long, flat, wide, grooving machine is buried under a wiring machine and a used turning machine.
I had pored over the broadsheets that boasted of these items back in Chicago, thinking on how rich and lovely it would be to own such fantastic inventions. I knew it would help my brothers, and save Father much time with a hammer. They were novelties, and unaffordable. My brothers had dreamed of using them, but we had all believed our scrupulous parents would never buy such luxuries when there are so many boys to help with the trade.
The contraptions glimmer with a deep black shine, and I reach to touch the one nearest to me: a tight, compact, wiring machine.
“Don’t touch it, Marie!” Tom barks sharply. “We all know what happened the last time!”
My fingers shrink back and curl into my palms at once. “I have apologized more times than I can say.”
“But it’s broken, damnit. Father has already said he’d sent for another.”
“What?” I swing to stare at Father. “How? With what money?”
“There is being no complete shop without a burring machine, my daughter,” Father says quietly, his eyes burning into the pure black of the oiled machines in the box. “I must be having one no matter the debts I am getting for it.”
“But—”
“But you won’t get to do much with it when it arrives,” Tom says sharply. “We can’t trust you.”
I push my lips together and rest my hand on the wiring machine, cupping the body of the iron in my wide palm, and glare up at Tom. He grinds his teeth and turns away. But touch is all I dare to do. I don’t trust myself, either. More debt! So much more debt, all because of me!
“Father. It’s so
many!” I say slowly, reaching to caress unconnected beads. Father slowly pulls out the turning machine, with its wide circular front wheels curving back toward the gearbox. Tom’s eyes finally start to glow, too. He’s probably thinking how quickly and easily he will be able to grow his own specialty with such tools.
Al bounces between us all, the excitement of such riches enough to send his youthful passion into a tizzy.
I’m beyond envious. They’ll get to use these inventions … while I cook.
“Father must have found an old cache and we’ve run away with it to the west so we aren’t discovered!” Al suddenly crows. Father shoots him an annoyed glance.
“It is certainly not being so, Al. No,” he finally admits. “No, it was your mother.”
The mention of Mother makes us pause. Father’s eyes go misty, but he smiles at all of us with a mixture of defiance and pride.
“Your mother was having some money tucked away.”
“Surely Mother hadn’t wanted to haul all of this out west?” Tom says, astonished.
“Your mother had some craving for adventure, tak. And … I am having my reasons. It is true we did be having a thought to be moving west with all of you, and your bride.” Father glances at Tom, who looks away. “I thought to being together—as a family—and being something different, where we are all sharing the tools, and be working in a so big tinshop. Not like in the city where so many old ways are sticking or dying. Here, we could be being together.”
“You mean … never have our own shops? Never be a master?” Tom gapes at Father.
“No, no.” Father raises his hands and pushes against the air between him and us. “You would be becoming masters, so. We are dividing the specialty work, but with such tools and machines, we are having many very good smiths under one roof and be being so much productive than ever before. It is a new idea, yes, but it is saving … well … then again, my Jozefa was never being ordinary.”
He looks away from us, and then down at the machines. I squat down low, and gently run a finger along the hard edge of the grooving machine. It is a powerful thing, and large. I can imagine Mother and Father planning this elaborate future, thinking the journey and the tempting tools would serve as enough to keep us together as a family. Perhaps they had even hoped I would marry another smith to stay within the circle of artisans. Mother had many large dreams to go with her large laugh.