All She Left Behind

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  February came with rain and spits of snow and wind. They’d set March as moving month, but the roof still needed repairs. Charles had worked on it, at least that was where he said he’d been. They lay in the bedroom curled beneath the down comforter. Charles whispered, the lantern flickering with the draft.

  “I’ve found someone to give me a stake.” His blue eyes looked black in the lamplight.

  “Who?”

  “It came to me. Like a bolt of lightning. On Christmas Day. I’ll ask the Reverend.”

  Her mind tangled. “Reverend?”

  “Reverend Parrish, your father’s friend. He gave land for the Willamette University and he’s helping fund it. And a few days ago, the Weekly Enterprise reported that his wife donated ten acres to the Oregon Children’s Aid Society, and last week that she gave another ten acres to the future orphan home. They are land-rich people, those Parrishes. And generous.”

  “I doubt poor pastors and part-time Indian agents have much to call their own. My father certainly doesn’t.”

  “You say. Parrish’s wife does, then. Did, until she gave away twenty acres like that.” He snapped his fingers. “They had to have been here in 1850 when they could claim 320 acres, both husband and wife, and the woman got to keep the land in her name.” Jennie and Charles had married too late to take advantage of Oregon’s allowing women to receive government property in their own name. Her mother owned private land, but that didn’t mean she had cash on hand to loan to someone else.

  “They may not have cash.”

  “Look, Jennie.” He got up on one elbow. “Parrish has to have money he needs to invest. And I’m the perfect investment.” Charles kissed her nose as punctuation, laid back down.

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Not yet. I figured you should come along. He must be a bit of a bleeding heart, pastoring and all, plus working with Indians like he does. I’ve heard he’s a natural diplomat with those heathens.”

  Jennie frowned at the word he’d chosen to refer to the bands of people displaced by all the settlers.

  “And his wife giving away land for children’s causes, they’re both generous souls.” He folded his hands over his chest. “You can play on his emotional side. A young wife and mother, wanting to help her husband get a good start in life, move out from the malaise of doing public work in a prison, a man who wants to make it on his own. You’re living in a small house hardly habitable. But working through it for your husband. And your boy. Grieving the loss of a baby.” Jennie winced. “And her husband wants to make good for her too. I think it’s a stalwart plan.”

  “You say.”

  “But don’t wear your pearls.”

  “It breaks my heart.” Lucinda put all her weight into the hot irons that smoothed the sheets, then folded them over her arm.

  “Mine too.” Jennie took the linens and with quilts and other bedding, put them into the trunk Charles hauled down from the attic. They’d told the Sloans of their plans after the evening meal. Her nieces took it the best, asking if they could come and visit soon.

  “Then why go if your heart is broken? Haven’t you been happy here? I apologize for being demanding at times.”

  “You aren’t.” Jennie stopped and sat beside her. “I think it’s time we did things on our own, with Charles and I forming a family life outside of his work. Imagine what it would be like to have a supervisor all day and then come home and live in his house. I mean, if he did have a disagreement at the prison, he’d have to evaluate whether Joseph would be upset there and at home.”

  “Joseph is very fair.”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t. But—”

  “Things have been so good here. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

  Jennie held her tongue, didn’t share her pangs of worry over how their presence might have kept Lucinda’s own family pot from boiling over. “I won’t be that far away. We can still butcher hogs together and stitch and I’ll share my oils. You know that.”

  Lucinda cried now, soft shakes of her shoulders.

  Jennie put her arms around her and held her. “I’ll always be there for you and for the girls. I will. We will. It’s just that—”

  “I’ve looked after you, Jennie. We’ve lived together our whole lives.”

  “I guess we have.”

  “You needed me.”

  “I did. And now I need you in a new way. To wish me well as I take this next step for my family.”

  “Who will discipline Dougie?”

  Jennie kept her voice light. “I’ll have to, won’t I? And I will. That boy means the world to me and I wouldn’t do anything I thought would harm him. You’ve been a good teacher.”

  “Will you be . . . safe with Charles?”

  “Charles has apologized. And I should have been watching Dougie that day. I was distracted with the distillery. I’m as much to blame as Charles.”

  Lucinda wiped at her eyes with the edge of her apron.

  Jennie’s glasses had steamed up too with tears. “Let’s not go backward. We’re looking forward. It’s going to be all right. You and Joseph will be fine.”

  “I’m not worried about us.” She stiffened, then stood. “Let me clean your eyeglass lenses. They’re cloudy as pea soup.”

  They were settled in their new home by the first of March, the promise of spring like a fresh breeze pushed aside the web they’d been under for so long. Charles said their move would be good evidence for when they approached Reverend Parrish. He hadn’t let go of that plan. His attitude was one of energy. He built the drying shed and the Sloans helped move the distillery into it one day in April. Charles helped clear a plot for Jennie’s plants, shored up the lean-to, and led home a cow. He didn’t seem to mind walking to work. She’d never seen him this . . . engaged is the word she called it. She didn’t begrudge him an occasional time after work with Joseph, as he never came home with the scent of brew on his breath. It was the calmest period of their lives, an interlude reminding her of Divine gifts of uplifted spirits promising strength to draw on when the turmoil returns.

  “I’ll care for him, Mama.”

  “I’m not sure a porcupine baby is a good playmate, Dougie.”

  He held the helpless thing in his tiny palm. Dougie had already named the little animal “Quilton,” a blend of quilt and quills, the latter soft as lamb, arched over Quilton’s small back. Jennie didn’t think Charles would approve, but he surprised her.

  “He needs a pal. Sloans kept that dog of theirs, but it rarely got off the chain and never could be trusted to run with a boy. This’ll be good for Douglas.”

  The day proved eventful for Jennie too.

  “Today,” Charles said, “I’ve arranged for us to meet with Reverend Parrish.”

  “But I’ve made soap and I’ve got to get a cage of some sort ready for the porcupine.” The May day wore flouncy clouds and waved warm air through the clothes she’d hung on the line. Square molds of soap covered the table in the drying shed, the scent of lavender strong.

  Charles laughed and swung her around. “Put that little porcupine in a crate, comb Dougie’s hair, and plant a hat on your head and you’ll be fine. You don’t want to look too perfect. We’re appealing to his good nature, remember. And his wife’s.” He swatted at her behind. “Hurry up now.”

  She did as bid, exchanged her drab wrapper for more festive hoops and skirts, dabbed rose water on her neck, then called to Dougie from the back porch. Charles held out clean pants for Dougie to put on.

  “No. I want to stay here with Quilton.”

  “We’ll get a sweet later. Come on for now. Papa says.”

  “I learned today that his wife isn’t feeling well.” Charles said it as though he reported on the weather.

  “Mrs. Parrish?” Jennie stopped dabbing a wet cloth on a stain on her skirt as Charles adjusted his son’s galluses over his small shoulders. “We shouldn’t intrude then, Charles. This isn’t a good time.”

  “Best time is when p
eople are vulnerable. We can’t delay. We need to dance while the music plays. More people are coming west and they’ll need land. I’m the one to sell it to them, but I have to own it first. Hurry along. They’re waiting for us.”

  She didn’t like his comment about vulnerability, felt more uneasy about asking for money. She went out of obedience to her husband.

  9

  Charming

  The Parrishes are expecting you?” It was a question, not a statement. A young woman—the maid, Jennie supposed—had opened the door. Behind her was a portrait-lined hall. Jennie gripped Dougie’s hand tighter as she spied glass vases with roses gracing side tables they’d have to walk beside. An open door at the end of a long hallway allowed a breeze to flow in and provided a view of an expansive formal garden where stone birdbaths dotted the green like lily pads on a pond. There was also a pond. Charles was right: this man might have been a poor pastor once and an Indian agent who was not regularly paid (according to the newspaper), but he did have resources. Or his wife did.

  Jennie answered the maid. “Yes. My husband has an appointment and—”

  “Not specifically today, no. But the Reverend said for us to stop by sometime.” Charles poured out his charm.

  Jennie glared. No appointment? They were intruders on a Saturday morning. If the Reverend was preaching somewhere the next day he’d be busy working on his sermon. That was how it was for Jennie’s father, and visiting at such a time was disrespectful.

  “We can come later,” Jennie said. She held Douglas’s hand and started to turn, careful to keep her hoopskirt from knocking against the sculpture of a draped Greek woman holding a bowl in which a rose floated. The flower was the size of her own hair comb but much more beautiful. First roses of the season often are. Someone here loved flowers.

  “Why don’t you let him know that Jennie Lichtenthaler Pickett is here with her family to see the Reverend. Go ahead.” Charles urged the maid away with his hat he’d removed.

  The maid left to do what Charles suggested.

  “Let’s leave,” Jennie said.

  “No.”

  “We’ve intruded, Charles, we should—”

  “Welcome, Picketts.” The big man had moved on cat’s paws, entering the hall without a sound as they’d argued. His hair was dark and thick, trimmed around his ears, and his beard was a silvery white. He had blue eyes, the color of sky right after a summer storm. Kind eyes. To Dougie he said, “You must be Mr. Pickett. I don’t believe we’ve met.” He knelt down and reached out his hand.

  Dougie sought permission and Jennie nodded. She’d never seen a grown man squat down to shake a child’s hand.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Pickett.”

  Dougie laughed and kept pumping Mr. Parrish’s hand.

  “Minnie, let’s see if Chen can rustle up some cookies for this young man. Is it all right if he goes with her? Our cook’s quite gifted when it comes to cookies.”

  “Of course,” Charles answered, though the question had been posed to Jennie.

  Mr. Parrish transferred his gaze back to Dougie. He stood without pressing his palms against his thighs and smiled, passed Dougie’s hand onto Minnie’s, who walked with him to the kitchen. Mr. Parrish motioned for them to enter the parlor on the right. Her heart beat a little faster, hoping Douglas would be on his best behavior. Cookies increased that likelihood.

  “Now then, what can I do for you? It’s been years—maybe since your wedding—that I’ve had the pleasure.” He shook Charles’s hand, directed them to sit on a red velvet settee.

  Charles rubbed his hand across the fine material, and Mr. Parrish told the story of having it sent around the Horn. “Quite an undertaking for a settee, but it belonged to the Winns, Mrs. Parrish’s family, and when her father died, it was left to her. Of course she longed for it. I could bring it here, and so I did. It’s what one does for family.” He raised his palms together, as if to say “I had no choice.”

  “We’re here because of family,” Charles began. “We have a proposition for you. An investment you might make. Go ahead, Jennie, tell him.”

  Oh, she knew he’d want her to speak, as she had some sort of relationship with Mr. Parrish as a preacher like her father, but still, to talk of money before first finding out how his wife faired, that was rude. “I wonder, first, about the health of Mrs. Parrish. We hear she suffers.”

  He nodded and the after-storm blue eyes clouded over. “She does. No one seems to have any way to stop the deterioration. So we keep her comfortable. I was gone for five months. I came back as soon as she took a turn.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jennie said. “Unexplained illness is the most difficult. It’s like living through a flood and then having the water never recede. Everything has a new level of vulnerability around it.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what it’s like.” He looked at Jennie, who saw respect or perhaps surprise in his eyes. He bowed his head, clasped his hands together as though in prayer.

  Charles frowned, used his hands to urge Jennie forward. She shook her head.

  Minnie entered then with tea and cookies.

  “Shall I pour?” Jennie offered as Minnie set the tray down on the table.

  Mr. Parrish accepted Jennie’s offer. The scent of mint lifted from the porcelain pot. It mingled with the roses in the cut-glass vases set around the room. A slight breeze moved the ribbons hanging from her straw hat and tickled her neck. The three sipped in silence. Then, “I wonder if Mrs. Parrish might like a brief visit. I’d be pleased to thank her in person for the lovely honey she sent us after the wedding.”

  Mr. Parrish hesitated, then said, “I think she’d like that. Let me see if she’s up to it.”

  He left the room.

  “Just talk about the loan. I didn’t bring you along to dally.”

  “I’m not. It’s disrespectful not to pay attention to the lives of people we’re hoping to have a commercial relationship with.”

  Charles sat up straight. “Oh, you’re playing them. I get it. Softening them up for—”

  “She says she’d love to have you come in, Mrs. Pickett.” Mr. Parrish had returned on those cat-paw feet. She hoped he hadn’t heard what Charles had said or even her comments about the loan. Jennie didn’t look at Charles but stood and allowed herself to be taken to a room that might have been a dining room at one time, as it was across from the kitchen. It was now a large bedroom. Perhaps so that Mrs. Parrish didn’t need to climb the stairs. Another settee, not red velvet but green, owned the wall opposite the windows that reached from ceiling to the floor. Sunlight poured into the room and landed like the end of a rainbow on a figure so small she looked childlike among the comforters and quilts.

  “Mrs. Pickett.” She reached out her hand as she spoke Jennie’s name with effort-filled breath.

  “Jennie. Please call me Jennie.” She reminded Jennie of her sister Rebecca, who had died of typhus, that terrible disease. Mrs. Parrish’s eyes remained clear, and she motioned for Jennie to sit next to her. Mr. Parrish faded away. It was only this ailing woman who drew Jennie’s attention. “You’ve had a time of it.”

  “Oh yes. That’s a good way to say it. ‘A time of it.’ One can imagine what the time was like.”

  Jennie smiled, and nodded agreement.

  “My time has been good, filled with such joys. A loving family. A kind and faithful husband. We’ve been blessed. And you? I’ve not seen you since the wedding. You’re well? Your parents are well?”

  The woman’s gentle resignation of what awaited her, carrying the weight of it without resentment nor evidence of fear, took Jennie’s thoughts to her child. Jennie considered telling her about Baby Ariyah and her great loss, but she answered her question instead. “My parents are well. And I am. We are. We have a child now. Douglas. He’s in scamping cookies from your cook.”

  She smiled, coughed. Jennie stood to hand her the glass beside the bed and helped her drink. She wore a flounced cap that framed her oval face, and Jennie�
��s fingers against her neck felt like she gentled a newborn’s.

  “Chen makes the best cookies. I’ve had little hunger for such of late.”

  “Your doctor has given you aromatics and herbs?”

  “Oh, all that’s available has been done.”

  Her lips looked dry and cracked, so Jennie didn’t think everything was being done. “I have some glycerin. It might help your dry lips feel better.” I’ll bring her my blend of cinnamon, garlic, cloves, and eucalyptus for her cough.

  “That would be lovely.”

  Jennie reached inside her reticule and brought out the tin. “Let me wash my hands before I put it on.” The rose-decorated bowl and pitcher on the washstand held fresh water. The mirror above revealed Jennie’s hat askew. She straightened it, then rewashed her hands. In the mirror, she saw Mrs. Parrish close her eyes. “Here we are.” Jennie brought her fingers to the paste and spread it on the ailing woman’s lips. Her eyes watered at the touch. So did Jennie’s, so grateful to bring comfort.

  “Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “It does feel better.” She sighed, coughed. “I don’t know why every little thing seems to make me want to cry. I’m really in little pain and Josiah is so good to me. Minnie as well. And my boys, all grown now, so I’ve not to worry over them. I think Charles Winn is about your age.” She patted Jennie’s hand. “Endings were always beginnings for me, but this ending . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “My sister Rebecca shed many tears with her typhus. Tears must be a way to chink the cracks in our hearts with liquid love.”

  “Liquid love. I like that.” Her eyes fluttered. She was tired.

  “Thank you for letting me visit with you. I need to check on Douglas. I’ll leave the glycerin. Perhaps Minnie can put it on for you.”