All She Left Behind

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “This is the most wonderful day of my life,” she said. “After getting married. Maybe even more. Yes, more perfect than that.” At last she fell asleep, her baby on her breast where he’d suckled. Jennie stroked Alexandro’s dark hair. He had his mother’s ivory skin. His life had such promise with two parents who loved him so dearly and doting grandparents who had looked on in awe.

  Ariyah’s clock struck the quarter hour. Peleg was taking a long time, and Jennie wished now he had simply sent the driver to take the doctor home. Like Ariyah, Jennie dozed and awoke with a start to the front door opening. Sunrise spilled across the room as cool air came in, followed by the doctor and then by sorrow.

  Jennie sent word immediately to Josiah, who kept his arm around her narrow shoulders as she told him of Peleg’s death. “The doctor had been dropped off, and before Peleg could step back into the carriage, he said he was ‘dizzy’ and then collapsed. ‘Dead before he hit the ground,’ the doctor said. He was so young! And a doctor right there beside him within seconds but nothing he could do. Nothing. He told them Peleg likely felt ‘no pain.’ Oh, Josiah. Life is so short, death an untimely visitor no matter when it comes.”

  He swept Jennie into his arms and held her while she cried. She had not done so yet, being strong for Ariyah, who sat dazed, the loss so very great at any time but especially for one so young. “Alexandro will never know his father now. It’s so . . . unfair,” Jennie said.

  “Unfair indeed. Life is. But we trust, Jennie, that Peleg has entered into peace away from this calamitous world.”

  “I think he would have liked to live with calamity for a while longer,” Jennie said. He squeezed her shoulder. She dabbed at her eyes.

  “How is Ariyah?”

  “Terrible. She has to be strong for her boy and her parents, but she’s still in shock. I’m so glad they didn’t move to their new home before this, so glad. Timing is everything.”

  He nodded.

  “Which is why once the funeral is over—she wants you to say the words over Peleg—I think we should marry. I want a life with you. And children with you. And truly, I might die tomorrow or you might. We ought to live as fully as we can today.”

  With Ariyah’s blessing, they set their wedding date for April 14, 1870, a week after Peleg’s interment. Only later did they realize it was the fifth anniversary of the day President Lincoln was shot. But perhaps that was a perfect day to commemorate, not with mourning, but with new beginnings. DW, Jennie’s brother, was on the Republican ticket for prosecuting attorney and the election was the next day, so they didn’t expect him to attend. But as Josiah said, they would proceed. Ariyah being still in mourning, planned not to hear the vows.

  “Peleg and I—we had a great love for a short time. Don’t risk it, waiting, Jennie. Marry now.”

  Ariyah ordered a dress be made for Jennie, who protested, but Ariyah said it gave her pleasure, something to think about besides the large, empty hole inside her heart.

  The dressmaker burned the midnight oil making the taffeta gown. The skirt was a half bell, moving the fullness to the back into the bustle. Smooth and flatter in the front, the beige material flowed over Jennie’s narrow hips and emphasized her smallish waist. She made a separate jacket of the same material and wound green embroidered roses at the cuffs, up the arms, and down the V-shaped neckline. It looked like ivy and, as Ariyah knew it would, drew out the color of Jennie’s eyes. Her generosity in such a time of sorrow astonished.

  “I’ve found, my friend”—she told Jennie while she twirled in the dress—“that giving to others helps relieve a grief.”

  Jennie hugged her and the friends cried together yet again.

  “Oh, I’ll stain your dress,” Ariyah said, stepping away.

  “No. Those are angel tears.”

  Jennie had so looked forward to the four of them with their children growing old together, and truth be told, she imagined Ariyah would be helping Jennie mourn the loss of her older husband long before Jennie was called upon to comfort her. But this was the way of life. Jennie was coming to see that. On that carriage road, there were hills and valleys, sunshine and rain, and the best one could hope for was to share the trail with someone you loved—and pass on the lessons learned along the way.

  They married at the large home of JC Thompson in Marion County, formerly of the 12th Regiment, Illinois Cavalry. He also served as witness. His brother, HY Thompson (she never did know what the initials stood for), Salem’s esteemed schoolteacher and lawyer and Josiah’s friend, was the other witness. Charles Stratton officiated, a Methodist minister and graduate of Willamette University. The Strattons came down from Portland where he pastored and worked on building the Taylor Street Methodist Church. His wife, Julia, looked on with a smiling face, as did Lucinda, Joseph, Jennie’s brothers William and DW (Fergus was busy in the Idaho mines, and George, traveling), their wives and parents.

  Her father seemed relieved when told that Reverend Stratton would do the official duties, but they attended. Lucinda helped Jennie dress and clasped the jade cross around her neck that Josiah had given her as a wedding gift. Lucinda looked tired, lines like a half-bell skirt marked either side of her pursed lips, but Jennie didn’t comment, instead promising herself that she’d call on her soon after the wedding.

  “Charles lives in Forest Grove now.” Lucinda spoke, removing pins from her mouth, putting the final touches on the fitting.

  “Is he . . .”

  “Sober?” She shook her head no, adding, “But Joseph says if that town founded by dozens of missionaries and preachers can’t cure him, nothing will.”

  Jennie allowed herself to feel hopeful that he would go on to have a good life in Forest Grove, no longer begrudging him that he might build it on shared sorrow. Jennie was leaving sadness behind this day, or so she thought.

  Before she left the upstairs bedroom where she’d dressed, Jennie gave Nellie and Mary, her nieces, flowers from her bouquet to press. As they descended the steps, Douglas saw they each had a stem and he grabbed at Nellie’s.

  “Douglas. Here.” She handed him his own tulip. “I can help you press it later.”

  But he trotted off to stand beside his grandmother and gave it to her. She held his hand. A twinge of envy but also of shame passed through Jennie. She ought to have thought of giving her mother a flower. Lucinda too.

  Josiah’s children attended, and a few of her parents’ friends. She supposed there were thoughts expressed beyond her hearing about them—the age difference, the speed with which Josiah was remarrying after Elizabeth’s death. But Jennie understood: Elizabeth loved Josiah dearly and she knew that his life was fullest when he loved someone back. She felt so blessed to be that someone.

  They spoke the vows, this time before a pastor rather than a judge, and Jennie blinked back tears with the traditional words. “Jane Lichtenthaler, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will.”

  Josiah’s baritone voice rang out strong as he repeated the vows, and people laughed at his enthusiasm when he announced, “I most certainly will!”

  He kissed her on each cheek, and then before they could turn around to face the happy faces of their families, Josiah’s best man—his son Norman—placed a Hudson’s Bay blanket with its red, yellow, and black stripes around the couple in the tradition of the Paiute people. “This is our part”—he swung his hand to include the congregation—“in keeping newlyweds wrapped together.”

  People applauded as the couple swung toward them, the blanket around their shoulders. Douglas ran over then and nestled into the blanket between them, facing the gathered guests. Everyone laughed and Josiah whispered to him, “Welcome, Mr. Pickett. Glad to see you’re with us.”

  24

  Ocean Discoveries

  Small fluffy clouds like di
stant sheep bounced across a blue sky, while robins pulled at earthworms on the edges of the Thompson garden. The happy couple spoke their vows under a canopy of vines. The trio of Josiah, Jennie, and Douglas (accompanied by Van) left the following day for their honeymoon to the Oregon coastal town of Astoria where Josiah had once served as missionary to the Clatsop and Chinook.

  They traveled up the Willamette by ship. Josiah had many friends in the Clatsop region, and the Indians came out to greet them at the old fort when they visited there one day. Lewis and Clark had wintered at that site. How the Indians knew of their arrival was a mystery to Jennie, but there were gifts of cedar baskets and dried salmon and a necklace of shells for both Douglas and Jennie. Josiah spoke to them in their languages as Jennie watched, their round faces attentive. One man looked at her and grinned, then spoke words that made Josiah’s cheeks turn red. Men talk.

  Clatsop women had carried the gifts, and now they fingered the ribbon on Jennie’s hat, pointed at the light blue linen skirt, the belt that lined her narrow waist, giggling as Jennie turned to let them see her bustle. They wore calico dresses and were rounder people than Jennie. A soft pair of moccasins arrived in her hand, but she couldn’t see by whom. Jennie smelled the smoked leather, held them to her heart, and thanked them all. She loved the scent of wood smoke carried on the hide and the smiles, oh the welcoming smiles.

  Other friends of Josiah’s feted them, spoiled them with gifts, and Jennie thought that some of the things of Elizabeth’s they’d winnowed might well have come from the generous hearts of people like these. The Owens family, who had named a son after Josiah, asked them to their homestead nestled beside cleared ground where ocean winds had toppled trees, and Jennie was glad she had a wool cape to ward off the bursts of cold. Over steamed sturgeon and an early salmon, spring greens, potatoes, and a berry pie, Mrs. Owens spoke of their daughter Bethina living in southern Oregon.

  “She always wanted to be a doctor, but she owns a hat shop in Roseburg. She had to find a way to support her boy.”

  Jennie waited until their ride back to their boardinghouse for more details from Josiah.

  “Bethina’s marriage ended in divorce,” Josiah said. Douglas slept between them in the livery carriage they’d rented. “She was married at fourteen. Too young.” He shook his head. “Married her father’s farmhand. Her father picked him. As a family friend and their pastor, I tried to dissuade it. Bethina had a natural talent in the healing arts, not unlike yours, Jennie. And she always wanted to be a doctor.”

  “It must have been difficult to divorce when her husband had been handpicked by her father.”

  “It took courage.” Jennie hadn’t thought of a divorced woman as demonstrating courage. Maybe Charles had done her a favor divorcing her, not making Jennie and Douglas live through his downfall. Any claim less than adultery would not have granted a divorce to her, and even then, there’d have been the humiliation of testifying in court about his lapses. She caressed Douglas’s sleepy head, felt the ring beneath her gloved hands. Custody would have gone to Charles. Bethina’s having custody meant there must have been very hard times with her husband.

  People did have to give up dreams. Bethina made hats now. Jennie had a husband and child to take care of, threads of a new life to weave.

  Douglas found the ocean beach a great place of joy. He threw rocks, made a fort out of driftwood. Josiah and “Mr. Pickett,” as Douglas wanted to be called, got on well enough. Jennie hoped he’d one day let himself be called Douglas by Josiah, maybe even one day “son.” They were at the place where the Columbia River met the Pacific. Jennie had Van on a leash and wished she could put Douglas on one too, as Josiah said there were “sneaker waves” at the coast that could rush in so quickly and pull out so fiercely that if one lost their balance they could be taken out to sea.

  “Grown men,” he said. “If it ever happens, swim parallel to the shore until you’re past the pull, then head inland but do so quickly. The water’s very cold.”

  “We’d best stay far away then. Neither Douglas nor I can swim.”

  “I can, Mama. Paw-Paw taught me.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.” What must Josiah think of a mother who knows so little of her son?

  They started back from the water, their feet leaving wet imprints in the sand. Jennie had pulled her skirt up into the waistband and carried her shoes. Josiah had his arm around her middle and reached to take her burden. He leaned to kiss her and she blushed even though they were the only three on this section of the shore.

  Jennie called for Douglas, who instead of hurrying toward them ran in the opposite direction. Van barked at him. “Van wants to run with you.” The wind pushed back against Jennie’s words.

  Douglas stopped, held his arms out as though to call the dog, and Jennie let him loose to run to Douglas, which he did, dragging the leash behind him. But instead of picking the spaniel up, Douglas kicked him. The little dog yelped and flew toward an incoming wave.

  “Douglas!” Jennie shouted.

  Josiah left her side and fast-walked toward Douglas, his rolled-up britches revealing his white ankles. He splashed on the way to pluck the drenched dog tumbled forward by an incoming wave. Van’s wet tail snuck between his legs and Jennie couldn’t hear if he whimpered.

  Josiah reached Douglas, who had moved inland, head bowed. Josiah squatted down, and she saw Douglas wince in anticipation of a blow, the way he had when they’d lived with the Sloans, when his father had lived with them. None came.

  “The dog did you no harm, Mr. Pickett,” Josiah said as Jennie approached, his voice strong but calm. “He means to be your friend. If you’re upset, you can speak of it to me or to your mother. But never harm Van again or any sentient being.” She wondered if Douglas would remember the fox and when they’d first discussed that “sentient” word.

  Without apparent anger, Josiah handed the shivering dog to Jennie. Douglas was fortunate Josiah had reached him before Jennie did. “Nor harm anyone else,” Josiah continued. “Not yourself either, and you do harm to yourself when you hurt another.”

  Douglas lowered his eyes.

  “I know you are capable of kindness. That is what I wish to see. Maybe you’re cold. We’ve been on the beach so long. But words are the way to make a change. And look, Van squirms to be with you even when you’ve hurt him. He forgives.”

  “What do you have to say for yourself, young man? What you did was—” Jennie tried to think of anything that might have triggered her son’s cruel behavior. She couldn’t. “You say you’re sorry.” He reached for Van, but Jennie didn’t release him.

  “Let him think about it,” Josiah said, standing. He touched Jennie’s arm and Jennie wondered if that sort of easy manner and calm wisdom had been what the Indians had come to love about this man she’d married. “Let’s build a driftwood fire. We’ll warm up and I think there might be clams we can dig. Have you ever done that, Mr. Pickett?”

  Douglas shook his head.

  “I suspect your mother hasn’t either. Let’s find ourselves a shovel—after we get that fire going.” He put his hand out and Douglas took it.

  Van wiggled down and Jennie held his leash. The dog trotted ahead, uninjured and once again jumped up against the back of Douglas’s legs, then scampered back to Jennie. So forgiving, that dog.

  Later that evening they ate the steamed clams the boardinghouse cook prepared. The clamming had gone well and Jennie had heard Douglas squeal with laughter as the tiny hole in the sand gave way to dinner. He’d worn rubber boots to do the digging, and Jennie watched him run along the beach leaving tracks with Van close behind him. A boy and his dog. Yes, that was what he had needed. Now, Van lay beneath the serving table and Douglas leaned over, patted the spaniel. “I’m sorry.”

  Relief she didn’t know she longed for washed over her.

  25

  Threads of Love

  They wove their lives with threads of love, their days a wondrous fabric. They traveled back from their honeymoon
on the ship Moses Taylor, oblivious to the looks of passengers grinning at their devotion to each other. Back in Salem, Jennie read to Josiah the notice in the newspaper of “the marriage between Miss Jennie Lichtenthaler and Josiah Parrish.” The reporter added, “It was an old man and a young woman, but the ill-matched couple were fairly happy.” They acknowledged Douglas’s presence with an added editorial comment: “Mrs. Parrish gave her whole love to that boy.” That wasn’t quite true: she gave much to Josiah too.

  They formed a family with fits and starts, but isn’t that the way of all blending? Josiah returned to business interests, went to meetings. He served as a trustee at Willamette University, which now had a small medical department among others. One evening over one of Chen’s rice-infused suppers, Josiah suggested she enroll. “There are fourteen students in the medical program this year.”

  “I see. Though I understand they did not graduate your first woman student, Mary Sawtelle.”

  “She failed anatomy.”

  “Was that it? I heard rumors it had to do with conflict with the faculty, that she ‘didn’t know her place.’”

  “You wouldn’t have that problem.” They sat beside each other on Elizabeth’s red-velvet settee, he with his arms behind his head, elbows out, long legs crossed at the ankle in front of him; Jennie with knitting needles and yarn, working on a cape for Henrietta and Norman’s baby, born a week before their wedding.

  “Because I’d know my place or because of your influence over the faculty?”

  “Neither. You’d work hard and make it on your own, without my influence. And you’d pass anatomy, I have no doubt.”

  “Your confidence warms me, Husband.” Anatomy would be a difficult course and Jennie would have to memorize much. “Do you think I could receive the list of books used?” Even if she never did anything more with it, never went to college, the knowledge would be a gift.