“I don’t need to change the world of men,” Jennie said, aware of an Einsicht, an insight, as she stared at this woman. “I need to change myself.”
15
Momentum
The senior Lichtenthalers lived in Marion County, but several miles from Salem. Her father paid the wagon driver, helped unload the trunk, then held Jennie while she told her story through tear-filled eyes. The humiliation was like a heavy cloak that scratched and weighed her spirits down. But humiliation lives next door to vulnerability, and in that neighborhood, one can find new direction. Years later she would come to believe that new beginnings can only grow out of the confusion of uncertainties and how life can spin one around like a top. Trusting she wasn’t alone in those turning places became a strength she learned to draw on.
“You did the right thing in coming here,” her mother said. She patted the cap over her tight gray curls. “We’ve been worried sick not hearing from you. It’s easier to start over when you have family beside you.”
Starting over. Her mother had started over when they’d left Pennsylvania, traveling by covered wagons to Illinois, and then began again when Jennie was almost ten and they headed west to Oregon. She’d faced an empty cradle, as had Jennie, and grieved lost hopes, outliving two other children she had come to know as adults. Miss Priscilla was wrong that women had no power; they did. Women could clarify their hopes and dreams and have the courage to act on those, trusting that they weren’t alone in the trials. And they could ask new questions and increase their compassion for each other and for themselves.
“There’s time to think of what next. Rest now.” Her mother smiled. “Come along, Douglas. Introduce me to Quilton. What does that little rodent eat?”
She watched her mother lead her son away, and for the first time since Charles had left, Jennie felt that Douglas was truly safe. And so was she. Why did I wait so long?
“We’ll go to the fair this week,” her father said over a supper of ham and bean soup flavored with carrots pulled from the earth. “You’ll come with us.”
“No. I think Mama’s right. I need rest.”
Her father nodded. “We’ll take Dougie and give you the day.”
Her parents never plopped blame at her feet and they didn’t demean Charles. Perhaps they understood that any bad words about Douglas’s father would somehow get tangled inside Douglas’s views about himself.
Jennie meandered through their harvested garden, tugging at old pumpkin vines, letting the scents and feel of earthy things bring her nurture. She prayed and even wrote in a small book Lucinda had given her, telling her that writing could heal. Jennie had blushed, remembering how hard it was for her to write. “When reading and writing are filled with effort, I suspect repair is going on,” Lucinda had said. Alone with birdsong and Quilton’s chewing, words did bring her comfort. I will seek sunshine, let the shadows disappear. Maybe they will not do so on their own, but I will one day write a new ending to this story of missteps and betrayal.
But what next? Would a doctor have her as a nurse? Should she have George build her another distillery? One thing was certain, she must give up the dream, the possibility that one day she could be a trained physician. If she couldn’t heal those she loved, she had no right to seek the pleasures of possibilities.
“Reverend Parrish spoke at the fair.” Her parents returned, filling her in on who won awards for their swine and their goats, who had made pioneering speeches.
“He was urged to say a few words as one of the oldest residents on the prairie,” her father continued. “He extolled the virtues of the settlers, always granting credit to others as he is wont to do.”
“I didn’t realize he’d been in the region for twenty-seven years,” her mother said. She stirred the stew Jennie had started, nodded her approval.
“A stalwart soul, that Parrish,” her father said to no one in particular as he chewed on his pipe stem. He rarely put tobacco in the bowl.
They ate a good supper. Douglas chattered of all he’d seen, while Jennie washed the dishes and put them away.
“He’s a nice man,” Jennie said with a nudge of guilt about how she’d ever pay him back. She’d still not told her parents of that outstanding debt.
“He asked after you, and Charles.”
“Did he?”
“Said he hadn’t seen Charles at the prison of late.”
“He—why would Mr. Parrish be at the prison?”
“He’s preached to the inmates there for years. Didn’t you know that? Chides a few of the rest of us pastors to do likewise. It is a gratifying ministry, I have to say, bringing the Word to such men who think they’re nothing more than slugs.”
Jennie thought she knew how they felt, at least a bit.
“And since each pastor has one or two from our own congregations who are imprisoned now and again, it eases them back into the community and the pew once they get out. Parrish started the ministry, from what I heard, in ’54 when the prison moved to Salem.”
Her father droned on about prisons while she tried to grasp all Mr. Parrish must have known about them before they ever came to ask for the loan. Would he have been aware of Charles’s quitting? No, he made the loan before Charles surprised her with his news. Charles had already been buying and using up the funds by then. Mr. Parrish had not asked for a dime from her yet, unlike the carriage owners who had asked for their payments and the other creditors who wanted their horses, settees, or land investments back.
“He is a good man,” Jennie said.
Jennie’s father stood and called after Douglas, who had disappeared outside, but she didn’t go after him. Her son was four years old, and in the few days they’d been with her father, he’d told Jennie that if she didn’t quit hovering over Douglas, he’d end up a “b’hoy”—a boy lacking common sense. “No one needs a ruffian created by being over-mama-ed.” Dougie’s birthday hadn’t been much of a celebration with his father absent and their sparsely furnished home. She’d tried to let him go unattended more, but she also worried over him, indulged him. It was good to have her father as a buffer, even if it sometimes felt like criticism.
“He asked after your health.”
“Who?” Her mind had wandered. “Oh, Reverend Parrish did?”
“I told him you were doing well, considering.”
Her stomach lurched. “You didn’t tell him—does he know that Charles and I are—” She couldn’t say the word.
“He read it in the paper, Janie. I hadn’t seen it, but Parrish quoted the reporter’s added-on comment at the posting: ‘Charley couldn’t give up the run.’ R-u-n.”
“It was a typeface error,” her mother piped in. “Should have said ‘rum,’ of course.”
Jennie laughed. They both looked at her as though she was daft. But what else could she do? One more humiliation now posted in the press with commentary added on. Words that took their place beside her own stumbling as she’d done for years. She’d worked so hard to overcome how those letters came together on a page. “Yes, my husband couldn’t give up the run. More truth than error in that as he’s run off and I might never find out where.”
The leaves were dribbling off the oaks and aspen, the chilly rains succumbing to the possibility of a clear, warm October day. Jennie watched the rider approach and recognized Mr. Parrish. He sat a horse well. For weeks she’d put off calling on him about the loan. Now he was coming to see her. She hadn’t made any more payments, had not yet found an income.
Mr. Parrish settled onto the porch with Jennie. Her mother hummed in the house, saying she’d bring out tea.
“Years ago I lived here on French Prairie ministering to the Indians, learning from them more than anything. Remarkable people with the same ups and downs as our race.” Parrish’s eyebrows were thick, white frames over deep blue eyes. Gray threads whispered through his dark hair. His silver beard and mustache were trimmed. His broad smile filled the lower portion of his long face. A handsome face, especially for one as old
as Jennie assumed he was.
“I haven’t had much contact with natives,” Jennie said. She watched Douglas help her father put winnowed wheat into a bag they’d take to the mill for grinding. Douglas seemed eager to assist. The bag, made from the canvas that once covered their cross-country family wagon, was nearly as tall as Douglas.
“When the French Canadians retired from Hudson’s Bay Company, many brought their wives here from other tribes, and they stayed on this fine prairie, mixing languages and customs. Madame Marie Dorion was one. Have you ever heard of her?”
Jennie shook her head.
“Came with the Astor Expedition. Settled here with her third husband after surviving horrendous tragedy—and keeping her two rambunctious sons alive.”
Jennie wondered if he wanted to speak with her of territorial history or if this was a subject he warmed to and simply wanted to share.
“She was a remarkable woman. Buried beneath the altar in the Catholic church. Even the priests are buried in the cemetery, so that was quite a coup.” He smiled and so did Jennie, understanding his humor better than she did Charles’s. There seemed no malice in it. He didn’t make fun at others’ expense.
A raven cawed and a whirlwind of cool air lifted the napkin covering the wicker tea table. There wouldn’t be many more days for sitting on a porch, and even in late October, one usually didn’t remain outside past sunset when the coolness seeped into one’s bones or rains dropped from the burdened skies.
“I guess you know about my . . . situation,” Jennie said, taking the lead. “I will make good on our loan. I don’t know how yet, but I will.”
Jennie stood to take the tea tray from her mother. What had she heard? Jennie really wanted to get the conversation of her debt over with without her mother knowing it even existed.
Mr. Parrish stood, giving her mother his seat and pulling her father’s rocking chair toward the gathering. “I feel a bit guilty sitting here drinking tea while Jacob works the fields,” he said, lowering himself into the cushion. His knees pushed out like elbows akimbo, and he reached for the teapot and began to pour. He had long legs. She’d noticed when he arrived that he moved like a mountain lion to dismount, with sureness and grace. His tea-pouring hands were steady.
“Oh, Jacob loves being out there,” her mother said, responding to Mr. Parrish’s comments about her father working the fields. “It’s his respite from the courthouse goings-on. And we’ve so enjoyed Douglas being here, and our Jane.” She leaned in to pat Jennie’s hand.
“My parents have spoiled us both.”
“That’s what healing takes,” Mr. Parrish said. “Much gentle giving, like holding a baby over a baptismal bowl, a place of perfect peace, and future hope.”
“You sound like my friend Ariyah. Everything is ‘perfect’ with her,” Jennie said. “I’m so happy for her and her Peleg.”
“‘Perfect love casts out all fear.’ Perfect doesn’t mean without mistakes, it means ‘complete.’”
“Does it?” her mother asked. “How very interesting. We love words, don’t we, Jennie?”
“We do, much as they can escape my management of most of them.”
“But you do manage herbs and oils well.” Mr. Parrish had removed his hat and it lay, crown down, beside him on the porch floor. He’d finished his tea and leaned back into the chair, his long arms brushing the top of his hat.
“I do, though my distillery isn’t . . . available right now.”
Jennie sipped the tea and brushed the crumbs from the cakes her mother served. She heard Douglas laugh from the field and saw that they approached. Before they reached the porch, Mr. Parrish spoke.
“Mrs. Parrish has taken on the ague again.”
“So many people here suffer from that,” her mother commented.
“The cooler nights aren’t helping?” October was to Jennie the ideal weather, with the warming days, cool evenings, and rain skulking the mountaintops looking for ways to unload their burden. “Does she cough?”
“Some, yes. But mostly she has labored breathing. Clearing her lungs is difficult.”
“You have a good doctor, I’m sure.” Jennie leaned into the conversation.
“Yes. But I’d like someone more attuned to her, someone familiar with homeopathic care. I’ve even asked a few of my native healers to bring in their scents and potions. Could you work with both medical and native healers?”
Work with them? “Both have merit, but I don’t know what you mean, really, by ‘working with them.’”
“I’d like to hire you for Elizabeth’s care. I can pay you or in lieu of—”
“Mother, I wonder if you could get another cup for Daddy and a glass for Douglas? They’re on their way.”
“Oh, certainly.” She rose and rushed out.
“My parents don’t know that I owe you a substantial amount of money, Mr. Parrish. That’s why I interrupted you. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
He bowed his head. “It was my error. I should have waited to speak to you in private. What I meant to propose was that you might work toward the loan payment, or perhaps not, using the money as you see fit now that you are . . . alone . . . to reestablish yourself. I’m truly sorry about the divorce. No marriage ever intends to end in dissolution. It’s always painful to see dreams put out to sea.”
“Adrift. Yes, that’s how I’ve felt. And ashamed for my husband’s actions and my own, that I didn’t see him changing. Well, I did, but I thought if we lived alone, if we had our own little family, that he’d, well, that he would find his direction. I hoped the loan would help, but I didn’t know he’d taken so much out so quickly.” She rushed her words. “So much I didn’t know.” She thought of Miss Priscilla. “Please forgive my rambling.”
“Nothing to forgive.” He sat without speaking, the silence welcome. Then, “Please consider our offer of employment, Elizabeth’s and mine.”
“I’m honored.”
Mr. Parrish suggested she bring Douglas with her.
“I might not want to do that, at least at first. I’d want to give Mrs. Parrish—Elizabeth—all my attention.” He nodded. “Douglas has had so many shocks and changes. It might be good for him to remain here. I’ll speak to my parents about it.”
“About what will you speak to us?” Jennie’s father stepped up onto the peeled logs of the porch landing, swinging Douglas up with one hand. Mr. Parrish stood, and as though they’d practiced, grabbed Douglas from the air as her father released him, setting Douglas on the far side of the rocking chair.
“I’m flying like a bird, Mama. See?”
“Yes, I do see. Now that your feet touch ground, go wash your hands and join us for cakes.”
“Need to feed Quilton first.” He scampered off.
“I’ve asked to employ Mrs. Pickett as a nurse,” Mr. Parrish told her father. “And suggested that she bring Douglas with her.”
Jennie said, “I thought giving Douglas more time with you might be better than bringing him with me, at first.”
“He can stay right here, Jennie. Besides, the Parrishes might not like a porcupine in their household, and I doubt Douglas would go too far without Quilton.”
“We can accommodate the rodent,” Mr. Parrish said. “Whatever Mrs. Pickett thinks will work best.”
Every time he said “Mrs. Pickett,” her skin prickled. She wasn’t Mrs. Pickett anymore. Her husband had rejected her, sent her packing, as they say, or rather, he’d packed. He left her destitute, dependent on family and friends, weighted down with debt and maybe an illness, though she’d seen no signs as yet. She didn’t think she needed to bear his name forever, but it was part of Douglas’s name too. She couldn’t really shed it.
“Mrs. Pickett would be my mother-in-law, if I had one. I think having my employer call me ‘Jennie’ would be a good place to start, Mr. Parrish.” She nodded her head to him.
“Josiah,” he corrected. “And Elizabeth has already directed you to call her by her Christian name. We can discuss the terms
of your employment, if you’d care to walk.” He didn’t pick up his hat, but he stood, all six feet of him.
Douglas came out onto the porch with Quilton in his arms.
“We’re going for a walk. Do you want to join us, Douglas?”
“No.”
“No, what?” her mother prodded him.
“No, thank you, Mama.” He stroked the animal and sat with his back against the wall, feeding Quilton one of her mother’s cakes the animal held in his human-like hands. She was grateful her son had a friend of sorts, even though it was a rodent. Douglas looked up at her and smiled.
Mr. Parrish—Josiah—motioned with his hand for her to precede him down the steps. And in that pause of an October afternoon, Jennie began to see the possibilities of her new life.
16
It Happens
The weather changed, turned rainy and cold with skiffs of snow melting on the mosses that blanketed shake roofs. Thanksgiving gave them pumpkins and squash from rich black earth. Her employment had begun the week after Mr. Parrish visited. Jennie stayed at the Parrishes’ through the week, visiting Douglas on the weekends while Mr. Parrish—Josiah—took over Elizabeth’s care. Douglas thrived. Perhaps his rash behaviors had been a consequence of the strain of his parents’ rash behaviors.
Several children from the orphanage that Elizabeth had helped found came by and sang to her in December. Jennie had bundled her up with a hot stone at her feet and quilts warmed at the fire while she sat in the parlor on her beloved settee. Members of the Ladies Christian Commission for Marion County visited. Elizabeth had been chairman of the organization for five years before her health began to fail. Their efforts at getting passage of the liquor reform bill continued on without her. They rallied to protect children working in dangerous places or women enslaved to long hours in poor ventilation, leaving children untended and given no rest periods in the factories; rules that put women’s health at risk. Elizabeth and Jennie had spoken often of such issues, when her strength allowed it. Jennie could tell that her passion for these causes brought meaning to her life, even as it seemed her life was slipping away.
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