by Sara Dahmen
Thank you, Jimmy. I say the blessing over and over. Thank you.
And what of Thaddeus? His kindness overwhelms me, even as he only means it in the way a brother might care for a sister in need. If I were to spill my yearning to him, would that make it all easy between us? Surely not. Besides, what will I say? That I find his friendship to be everything I want in a husband? That I wish his hand would crush me and the heat of his body cover mine? But it’s not for me to chase. I have chosen to be the town tinsmith, to deny Danny marriage, and with that comes other consequences. Such desperate thoughts, I tell myself, such lonely ones. It is just my tired sadness that aches for something—someone, anyone—to fix it. Time will make it fade, and it would be foolish to speak. In the meantime, I must cover my fingertips with tin and finish what is started.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
1 November 1867
“You should go, truly, Marie,” Berit urges. She ladles a hearty fall soup onto my deep dish. It smells wonderful. Sometimes I try to remember the spices and herbs and garden pieces she adds, so I might recall how to cook it for myself when I ask for her empty house.
“I’m not sure I should,” I say, stabbing at the carrots in the mix.
“Didn’t Danny ask you?” Thaddeus asks around a mouthful.
“He did.” I fill my own mouth so I am not required to elaborate.
No one seems to know I have refused Danny, and for some reason I have no inclination to tell them. Perhaps because it seems as though it never really happened. I had imagined his proposal for so long that it was otherworldly when it occurred.
Or maybe it is because I do not want to expose yet another area of life where I have failed.
“Well, I can walk you,” Thaddeus offers. “I’ll go, too. The Brinkley boys will be there. One of the new cowboys is all citified and supposed to have quite a horse, and I want to get a good look at him.”
“The horse or the cowboy?” Berit quips.
“Both,” he says. “See if I have another fat Easterner who will need a lot of orders.”
“I thank you for your offer, Thaddeus,” I say. “But I should really stay home and work.”
“There’s plenty of time for working,” Berit determines. “You go. We’re all going, in fact, as I’ve promised to take over some foodstuffs.”
“We are?” Walter looks at her, surprise written across his raised brow. She nods at him, eyes bright and matching his, as though they have a secret language only they can hear.
“Yes, min kjære. Just a short time. It’s nice to see everyone, and the family, too. Anette and Jacob will be there, as well as a few of the others you know, Marie,” she cajoles.
“I am apparently going to go to the harvest dance,” I sigh. “And will see the Army.” I shudder. Will Percy be there as well? All my tormenters in one place?
“Why don’t you go home and finish up? Then you’ll have time to prepare for tonight,” Berit says, pulling my empty plate toward her on the table. “Go on then.”
I go, and I spend the rest of the afternoon fretting about the dance. I don’t want to see Captain Bush or Lieutenant Balsam or any of the Army officers for that matter. I’m worried Danny will be there, and I’m concerned about doing the square dances instead of the traditional polkas I know well.
But nevertheless, I’m ready when Thaddeus shows up at the door of the shop, looking partially organized himself with a fresh shirt and an attempt to tame his dark beard and hair. He perhaps will always look like a backwoodsman who happens to have a trade, but he is my friend, and I am glad to have him walk me along with Berit and Walter.
As we all stroll along the main road toward the overlarge part of street in front of the general, others detach from their homes with lanterns held high. Many I recognize as ones I have made or repaired. It oddly boosts my confidence.
“Do you dance?” Thaddeus asks, drawing me out of my reverie.
“No. That is to say, not well. Nor much,” I tell him truthfully.
“You’ll be asked by some of the Army men. They’re starved for women’s company at the Fort,” he warns.
“They’ll find my company lacking. I’m no good at small talk, or political chatter.”
“You’re female. That’s probably enough.”
We arrive at the steep steps of the general, and I look around apprehensively. The dusk is deepening, but the lanterns and torches make for oily puddles of light, so it does not seem nearly as late as it is. There’s the air of the festival combined with the relief in getting the harvest in, paired with the coming settle of winter. The sky is smoky and fluffy with clouds, and the wind is slight but cool. I’m glad for my woolen layers.
In the corners of the gloom, two young lovebirds indulge in a full kiss, and I’m reminded of my embraces. First with Jimmy, and then with Danny. Was I a fool to send him away? The young woman melts into her beau in a way I never did.
Trusty Willy starts his fiddle, bendy Ivar Henderssen twangs his jaw harp, and Doc Gunnarsen himself takes up the banjo, and they all start in with an old song.
I go into the fray, and the commotion overwhelms me. Army uniforms dominate the visual, and skirts whirl to the beat immediately.
Come all girls, pay attention to my voice
Don’t you fall in love with the Kansas boys.
For if you do your fortune it will be
Hoe-cake, hominy and sassafras tea!
Berit delivers her foodstuffs and is captured by the chatter of the townspeople. Anette waves vigorously from the table sagging with refreshments where she serves her children sweetened water. Young Mitch Brinkley, gangly at nine, bounces out onto the dance floor with a sweet, plump girl, and I realize it is Alice Winters, Matthew’s youngest. Sadie hovers smugly next to Tom Fawcett, and Doug and Nancy Ofsberger fling sweat as they take over the middle of the dance floor with a complicated two-step.
But it’s the Army officers and militia causing the most commotion. Those allowed into town from Fort Randall tonight are taking their hours off seriously, and there is beer and liquor flowing as well as a vigorous amount of food digested.
“Eat up, then! And be telling everyone back at your fancy Fort I’m the best you’ve tasted,” Toot orders each young man as he passes by and fills his plate.
“You are, are you?” Horeb hoots. “Are you delicious, Toot?”
“Ain’t so.” Gilroy Greenman twists Horeb’s ear hard and ambles away, but it’s enough for Horeb to switch victims.
“Ooo, so it’s you who wants a taste, is it Gil?”
“Ain’t.”
“Been to Fortuna’s lately, then?”
“Ain’t.”
The argument is swallowed by more swarming bodies flowing on and off the roped-off square made for dancing, the stomping of boots, the joyful howling with the music, and the shouts of greeting.
One young man approaches Berit, and she glances at Walter briefly before taking the Army officer’s arm. Walter’s shaking hands and age likely leave him in no mood to spin around the floor, but he is smiling lightly as he watches his new wife spryly step to the singing tune of Trusty Willy’s fiddle.
“So, then, Marya, I suppose I should take you around,” Thaddeus says grudgingly, his taciturn mood soured by the fact that he’s even at the festivities, let alone following some sort of beholden offer to dance with me.
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want,” I say, just as tightly.
“Well, let’s do it and be done,” he determines, glancing at his father, who does not seem to notice we are even talking.
I wonder if Walter has said he must make me feel at ease. The idea makes me even more disgruntled.
“Very well,” I resign myself to the inevitable, and allow him to take me out to the floor. The tune jostles and shifts, becoming a spinning, familiar ditty, and the couples line up accordingly. Thaddeus sets me up with the women, and takes his place across from me, his bunchy muscles resisting the pull of the melody though everyone else is clapping in prepar
ation. The song picks up and fills feet with the beat, feeding us lines and calls as we go to the old refrain.
As you walk, my dearest dear,
and you lend to me your hand,
We will travel on afar till we reach the better lands.
Till we reach the better lands,
till we reach the better lands,
We’ll travel on afar till we reach the better lands.
We’ll shoot the buffalo, oh we’ll shoot the buffalo,
We’ll rally round the cane brake and shoot the buffalo.
The boys will plow and hoe
and the girls will knit and sew,
And we’ll all work together wherever we may go,
Wherever we may go, wherever we may go,
We’ll all work together wherever we may go.
I concentrate on remembering the steps, and watch the girls around me for cues. I take Thaddeus’s hands belatedly and completely fail to master the turns, tripping along stupidly behind the others in my inability to feel the beat to the music.
“Stop fretting. You’re making it more difficult than it has to be,” he commands, yanking me along as we spin and separate again. The other men are less kind, and toss me around haphazardly as I miss their arms and grasping hands half of the time.
I feel completely out of my element, and long to leave. When Thaddeus is my partner again, there is comfort in his thick hands and his arms around my waist, tucking me tightly next to his own body so our sides and hips bump in passing. It is a strange feeling to be so near him for all he is his usual stoic self. The song finishes, with the last verse teasing all the couples:
And the girls will sew and spin,
and the boys will laugh and grin,
And will hug and kiss each other,
and will run away again,
And will run away again, and will run away again,
Will hug and kiss each other and run away again.
The spins at the end are always full of flourish, but Thaddeus is not so flowery. Instead, he holds me near in the last movement of the square dance without dipping or giving a last whirl. I’m grateful. I might trip over my feet doing something so fancy. But instead of feeling my heart slow, I am in no hurry to have him release me. Perhaps it is the comforting smell of charcoal and fire hanging around him. Perhaps it is because I miss having casual, familiar touch. I think I want to push into him, to press my bosom to his chest, and tighten our embrace. His hand lingers—doesn’t it? I ask myself the question just as he drops his arms and looks over the sea of heads. He is tall enough that he can see over the masses, and his face changes slightly.
“I see Danny. He’ll likely want to dance with you now. Come on. We’ll go catch up with him.”
“No!”
I don’t need to catch his sleeve to stop him. The force of my refusal pulls him up fast.
“Why not?”
“I don’t think he’ll wish to see me,” I admit, finally freeing the secret. Thaddeus continues to look befuddled, and my embarrassment grows when I realize Walter is standing next to us, listening in unabashedly.
“What’s happened?” Thaddeus presses.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t understand women,” he huffs, then pushes around the throng, grabbing two cups of ale as he goes, making a direct line to where I must assume Danny is talking on the far side of the group.
I am miserable. I wish to go back to the shop and lose myself in the simplicity of work and of gleaming metal. Walter stares at me, inscrutable and calm as usual.
“Have you and Danny Svendsen had a lovers’ quarrel, Marya?” he asks kindly, trying to be fatherly and understanding all at once, which only serves to dismantle my defenses further.
“No, not like that.” I shake my head. “We’ve never been lovers.”
“I don’t mean of the flesh,” Walter says, waving a hand. “Have you had a disagreement?”
“You might say that,” I sigh, then decide to finish the story, so I might be done with the conversation. “I refused him. That’s all.”
Walter’s eyebrows go up, and he looks genuinely shocked. “Refused to marry him?”
“What’s going on?” Berit arrives, breathless and rosy-cheeked, and I see Walter check at her appearance, made lovely somehow by the glow of the lanterns and leftover laughter.
“Marie was just explaining how she’s decided not to wed Danny,” Walter says for me, and I’m thankful I don’t need to start over. Berit’s response is what I expect. She looks both amazed and appalled. Her reaction doesn’t help my confidence.
Damn it! Why should I have to marry him? Debt? Should I wed for such a practical reason, and damn my own misgivings? I have no one to ask. No one left to offer advice.
“You’ve told him you won’t?” Berit asks, disbelief creating a higher pitch to her voice. “Or just that you don’t wish to marry him soon?”
“I told him I won’t. I want to be a smith, not a goodwife,” I admit, and look at my scuffed shoes and the worn dress with the holes still gaping from the summer’s acid burns.
It’s too hard to handle any more of Berit’s questions, especially when anyone’s ears can overhear. I excuse myself tersely, and head toward the refreshment table. I hope Anette is still there, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Instead there are only Percy Davies and Doctor Gunnarsen, speaking earnestly about government politics, it sounds. I ignore them and help myself to a bit of new hard cider, but Percy notices me eventually.
“Miss Marie,” he says into my quiet, sliding up like a shadow as Doc disappears into the crowd. His vest is velvet tonight, the buckles of his suspenders peeking out a brushed bronze.
“Good evening,” I say, nodding at him, and the dark Indian at his side. She swells with her second child, though her size is hidden with the deer hides she’s thrown over her calico dress. Her daughter, eleven, dark-eyed and straight, stands next to her.
The sight of Esther Flies-With-Hawks only reminds me of what her people did to my brothers. I am so often torn by her appearance, ripped by some strange guilt and sorrow at the same time. It is much to pretend to ignore, and leaves me oddly tongue-tied.
“Are you enjoyin’ your evenin’?” the banker presses. “You’ve been doin’ alright, alone? I’m sorry I haven’t had a moment to stop by lately.” He gestures to Esther’s belly. “It’s been busy all around.”
“It’s a fine night,” I say neutrally. “And I’m doing the best I can.”
How I wish I could swallow pride and stubbornness and fall to my knees in front of this man, grip those suspenders and beg. Please, forgive my family’s debts! Cancel my loans! Help me pay for tin for this winter, so I might have enough to make goods in order to pay off those loans! Let me get away from the Svendsens, away from your little scheme, away from the politics! Find me someone from the Army who will give me what I am owed! The blood money of my brothers’ service and their deaths. What I will offer you is not enough. Help me!
If I could even say such things, he likely wouldn’t give me my requests. Swallowing hard and pressing my mouth tightly together briefly, I smile instead and latch onto gossip I’ve heard trickling through my shop. “I thought I heard a whisper, Percy, about the rail being postponed?”
He pulls on his necktie and tugs on the bottom of his vest. “A rumor, and bad gossip at that.”
“But is it true?”
“Hard to tell.”
“But if it’s true, then—”
“Then you’ll still owe me for the rent loan, Marie.”
“Of course,” I snap. “But if there’s any inkling old Oddvar isn’t going to get a sale anyway from the railroad, I want to get out.”
“Out?”
“Out from under his house, his land.”
“You have nothin’ to use to get out from your debt. You know that,” Percy’s voice goes hard around the edges.
“I have things.”
“You mean assets?”
I grab wildly at the terminology
, feeling flustered as always in his oddly charismatic presence. “Yes. Those. If I must … I’ll … I’ll sell my machines!” I don’t mean this at all, but feel I must say something.
Percy’s face softens ever so slightly at what must be my obvious desperation. “I have heard whispers of my own. Is it true you and Danny won’t wed? It would solve many of your problems, Marie, if you married him.”
Good heaven! How does he know our courtship is over? Even Thaddeus and Walter didn’t know!
I clear my throat. “He would have married my debt to you.”
“But no more rent. He could pay off your loan easily. I know, I see his accounts.”
“If there’s no rail, and there’s no reason to keep me on his land for your own purpose, then—”
“I was thinkin’ we’d re-name the town,” Percy interrupts. “Flats Junction. When the train comes through.”
Esther murmurs something to him, her hand on her rolling, curving stomach; I cannot tell if it is English or her own tongue, and he rounds back to me. “Excuse me, please.”
Thankfully, they disappear into the deep dusk. My palms are slick with sweat and old grime. Wiping them on my skirts, I breathe deeply. I’ll have to face Percy soon enough. He cannot make me stay on the Svendsen ranch, especially if we go over the numbers and he can see that I will never pay off my debt as it is, now that I’m alone. I’ll only dig deeper into it. If I’m not going to end it all with a sword, I can at least put my stubbornness to good use. I’ll carve my own way. As I have been doing all along, it seems.
As I gaze around, I notice Danny and Thaddeus, somberly buried in beer. What if Danny is airing his grievances about me to Thaddeus? I find myself wishing I could silence it. I cannot, of course, and instead watch with self-conscious interest as they continue speaking. Danny talks fast and low, gesturing fluidly, the liquid in his mug splashing onto his wrist.
Suddenly, they both look my way, their gazes locking with mine. I am stuck, pinned, and must wait until they look away again before I can breathe. Danny gulps down his beer with a single, angry slurp and slinks away.