I didn’t say those words to him because he wasn’t ready to hear. Instead I patted and smoothed the soil of his grave between the relics I’d brought to amuse him, between the leaves and stems of the plants he nourished. There was no use trying to convince some folks of anything. They only accepted the truth when the truth caught up with them, and the truth was coming for Substance, inexorable as the roots of the cottonwoods. He wouldn’t evade the weaver’s hand much longer.
None of us could. The loom was ready, the shuttle already moving. I saw the pattern forming itself the next morning—a colorless dawn, still smelling of the rain that had scoured our two farms overnight. A morning sharp with cold and too still for my liking. I waited for Clyde to cross the pasture and join me in my work, but nothing stirred at the sod house except a thin line of smoke rising from the chimney, gray against a gray sky. It was only then I realized the barn door was open and the wagon was gone. And so was Tiger, our only horse. And so was my ma.
NETTIE MAE
Gray against gray, the hours had passed featureless and unchanging. But morning had come at last, and in its weak and hesitant light, Nettie Mae had found her resolve. She kissed Clyde’s brow, praying it wouldn’t be the last time in this life. But he was hot, and his hair was damp with sweat; his eyelids, thin and tinged with blue, scarcely flickered at the touch. Certainly, he did not wake.
Nettie Mae turned her back on her child and descended the stairs, clinging to the railing, for her legs trembled with weariness. She hadn’t slept a wink the whole night through. Fear shook her, too, but deep in her belly, low down below her heart. She ignored the fear. She had always ignored it, even when it howled its loudest, when storms of grief had battered her, and God had tested the mettle of her spirit with one unbearable loss after another. If Clyde could be saved, it would be by Nettie Mae’s strength alone. She would only give in to fear and weep and tear at her hair and shake her powerless fists at the blank gray Heavens if Clyde were lost. Then they all would be lost, every child she had borne, every person she had loved. Only then—when no one was left to rely on her cold and stoic presence—would Nettie Mae surrender to fear.
She wrapped herself well in two shawls, pulling the corner of one up over her head, for a light, misty drizzle was still falling. It hadn’t abated the whole morning through, but at least the rains no longer pounded as they had done the previous day. She caught Clyde’s favorite horse, the buckskin gelding, and heaved a saddle up onto its back. Then she fussed with its placement on the horse’s withers, lurching the saddle forward and back, trying to recall exactly where it ought to rest. She had been an enthusiastic rider in her youth, but those years lay far behind her now. She hadn’t tacked up a horse since she’d been a young bride—long before Clyde was born. But at last she reached below the horse’s belly and caught the dangling cinch. The animal’s hide rippled and twitched, which caused Nettie Mae to step back, wary. When she felt reasonably certain the horse wouldn’t snake its neck around to bite, she tightened the band around its ribs, then coaxed the bit between its teeth and clambered up into the saddle.
The seat wasn’t meant for a woman; there were no leaping heads to steady her posture and cradle her legs in comfort. The saddle was built for a man—astride and clad in trousers. Nettie Mae was obliged to sling her right leg over the pommel, crooking her knee around the leather-capped horn. The horse shifted, flicking its ears in confusion, reconciling itself to the unexpected distribution of weight, and as it stepped to the side, the world lurched and swam around Nettie Mae. Gravity dragged at her skirt, her body. She glanced down only once; the earth seemed impossibly far below and hard, and studded with stones.
You’ve ridden countless times before, she told herself. There’s nothing to fear. The feel of it will come back to you. Soon it will seem as natural as walking. She prayed it was true.
Nettie Mae turned the horse toward the Bemis farm and set off over the pasture, stiff and awkward with the sway of its gait. The light rain had begun to chill her cheeks and nose, and her knee already felt cramped and strained, caught up as it was over the horn of the saddle. Twenty miles would make for a long ride in the rain. The sooner she took to the road, the better off she and Clyde would both be. But she couldn’t leave the farm without first calling on her neighbor.
The Bemis house was surrounded by a four-foot split-rail fence—goodness knew why, for it did nothing to keep deer or other wild animals away. Someone had left the gate open, for which Nettie Mae was grateful. The prospect of dismounting to open it and then climbing up into the saddle again was enough to make her quail. She pressed on toward the house and thought to raise her voice, to call out for that Bemis woman to come and speak with her. But the girl Beulah appeared on the porch before Nettie Mae could open her mouth.
“Good morning, Mrs. Webber.” The girl didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find Nettie Mae mounted—perched in a graceless sidesaddle—in the front yard. She just watched Nettie Mae with those strange, heavy-lidded eyes. Nettie Mae never could make up her mind whether the girl’s eyes were dull with stupidity or turned so far inward, gazing at a vista she alone could see, that they had lost the spark and brilliance of an ordinary child. There were times when Nettie Mae was half-convinced the girl saw more clearly than any mortal had a right to see.
“I must speak with your mother,” Nettie Mae said. Her voice failed her then, but only for a heartbeat. There was no time for delay, no time for pride or anger. She forced out the next words. “I must ask a favor, and I’m afraid it’s urgent. Go and fetch her for me.”
“I would, Mrs. Webber, but my ma is gone.”
“Gone?” A wave of dizziness struck Nettie Mae; she twined her fingers in the horse’s mane, fearful she might drop from the saddle.
“Yes, ma’am. I got up this morning to feed the hens, and our horse and wagon had vanished.”
“She has driven to town, then.”
Something hard and hot struck Nettie Mae in her chest—her heart, giving one desperate and futile beat. If she had known the Bemis woman had intended to drive to Paintrock, Nettie Mae might have ridden with her. The journey would have been strained and bitter—nigh on unbearable. But the doctor might already have been speeding on his way to Clyde’s bedside, too. Nettie Mae would endure any torment, even the company of the Bemis woman for twenty long miles, if her son’s life could be saved.
“I don’t think she went to town, Mrs. Webber.” The girl came to the porch rail and leaned her forearms against it, peering down into the grass with those veiled eyes. Her limp hair fell down over her face. Nettie Mae could have slapped the girl for such casual unconcern. “I think she drove up into the foothills to look for firewood.”
“Firewood? What a foolish errand. A woman can’t cut firewood on her own.”
Beulah shrugged. “I would have said as much to my ma, if she’d asked me, but she never did. She just up and left.”
A wave of despair filled Nettie Mae’s gut. A sour taste rose to the back of her throat even as her breath came short and hard—an onslaught of weeping she struggled to master. The girl looked up sharply then, at precisely the right moment to catch Nettie Mae in her fleeting weakness. The heaviness was gone from the child’s eyes, vanished like a pebble dropped down a well. Beulah fixed her with a stare so direct, so suddenly piercing and clear, a current of superstitious dread rushed along Nettie Mae’s spine.
“What’s the matter?” Beulah said. “Something is wrong. What’s gone wrong? Why did you ride over to speak with my ma?”
“I . . . I must ride to town.” Nettie Mae floundered among her weary thoughts, her useless words. There was nothing to be done but tell the girl everything. “Clyde has fallen ill. He’s in a terrible state. Fever—delirium—I must bring the doctor at once.”
“Oh.” The girl relaxed again, staring into the grass, watching beads of rain travel down the long green stems. “Clyde will be all right, Mrs. Webber. There’s no cause for fretting.”
The girl’s la
ck of concern sickened Nettie Mae as much as it infuriated her. There was no doubt now: Beulah was as close to witless as any child Nettie Mae had ever seen. It was a wonder Cora had driven off and left her younger children in the care of this vacuous creature—but then, the Bemis woman had scarcely more sense than her lazy, dull-eyed daughter.
Breathless with outrage, Nettie Mae struggled for a rebuke. Beulah spoke again before she could marshal her words. “Clyde will be well, but I can tell you’re just about in a fit with worry. If you like, I can go over and tend to him while you’re away.”
Nettie Mae pressed her lips together. Her hand clenched the horse’s mane.
“It would be better,” Beulah said, “if you would stay here, Mrs. Webber. There’s no need to rush off after the doctor. But I can see there’s nothing a girl like me can say to convince you to stay. So I’ll go on over and tend to Clyde, and you can put your mind at ease till you get back.”
“Your manners are very shoddy.” Nettie Mae’s voice sounded small, insignificant, even to herself.
Beulah ignored the admonishment. “But I must care for my brothers and my sister today, as well. I’ll have to take them over to your place.”
“Do what you must,” Nettie Mae said. “Only don’t allow the children to disturb Clyde’s rest.”
“No, ma’am, I won’t. I guess you’d better get going now. It’s an awful long ride to Paintrock.”
The road was as endless as the night had seemed. An hour into her desperate ride, Nettie Mae’s hands had lost all feeling, thanks to the cold and damp, though a certain slowness and stiffness persisted, a reminder of the winter yet to come. Her back and legs ached and burned with a devilish fire. She had no way of knowing how far she had traveled and how many miles she had yet to ride. Rarely did she visit Paintrock—and she had always made the journey by wagon in the past, with Substance or Clyde driving and some small bit of needlework to occupy her hands and while away the empty hours. The road was unfamiliar to Nettie Mae. Landmarks held no meaning; all she could do was fix her eyes to the northern horizon and strain for that first sight of Paintrock in the distance.
She had tried all night to convince herself that there was no real cause for alarm. People took fevers all the time. Clyde had been working hard of late, toiling on their own land as well as the Bemis farm. He had spread himself too thin; the sudden change of weather had overcome him, weary as he was. The chill of autumn had come, and Clyde had scarcely stepped inside to warm himself. But he was a strong boy. Young and strong. He would soon turn the corner and be right as rain once more.
But when Clyde’s breathing had begun to rattle just before sunrise, Nettie Mae could no longer convince herself that this was a routine fever. As she rode north, hunched against the chill, she remembered that morning—the dawn of bleak fear.
Morning light had come gently through the window, filtered through layers of cloud, through the cutwork curtains that hung limp and unstirring in the close air of Clyde’s bedroom. Nettie Mae had stitched those curtains years ago, sitting exactly as she’d sat that morning, on a comfortless chair that was hard enough to keep her alert through days of exhaustion and hopeless, endless prayer. But it had been Alta’s bedside then, not Clyde’s.
Alta hadn’t been the first child Nettie Mae had lost, but she had been the first to die beyond her infancy. The girl had been but three years old when she had slipped away from Nettie Mae and fallen into the creek. Substance had found Alta quickly and pulled her out of the water, thank God, but though the child didn’t drown, the water still did its worst. Nettie Mae never slept in the two days she spent at her daughter’s bedside. She had remained awake, praying all the while, never ceasing, even while she took up her needlework. Endlessly, Nettie Mae had begged the Lord to spare her daughter’s life. When her eyes grew heavy with weariness and her shoulders began to slump, she drove the needle into her finger or wrist until she gasped with pain and sat upright again, wide eyed, resuming her prayers, sucking a drop of blood from her skin. God would hear her plea. God would answer, Nettie Mae knew, if she only prayed enough, if her faith remained unshaken.
Indeed, God had answered, in His time. Two days after Alta had been pulled coughing and screaming from the water, she was laid to silent rest beneath the earth. By the time the girl drew her final breath, it almost came as a relief to Nettie Mae. At last, she no longer had to listen to her daughter’s struggle for life—listen, unable to help, unable to save the precious life she had so cherished. But the memory of Alta’s tortured breath stayed with Nettie Mae. The sound had never left her in peace. The long rattle of each desperate inhalation, the slight pause before she breathed out again, the crackle in her lungs. How large that sound was, filling the room, yet Alta had been so small. The hole Substance had dug to bury the girl was scarcely wide enough to hold a yearling lamb. They had laid their child to rest beneath a lilac tree. Nettie Mae had chosen the place, thinking how Alta would like to smell the blossoms in the spring, if only she could. And then, the following summer, the Webbers had moved away, and Nettie Mae had never seen those lilacs bloom again.
Four graves behind her. Four graves at four different farms, faded marks on the map of her life, tracing the route of her forced march out into this bleak wilderness. From Wisconsin to Minnesota to Nebraska, then to the eastern plains of Wyoming and finally here, under the merciless eye of the Bighorns. One Webber grave lay here already—the fifth monument to Nettie Mae’s losses. She had never deigned to visit Substance’s final resting place, but she could feel its nearness.
Let there not be another grave, Lord. If You take my son, I will have nothing left.
She dared not pray for much beyond that humble request. God in His power, in His infinite and bewildering caprice, might take Clyde all the faster if Nettie Mae drew too much divine attention. That had been her mistake at Alta’s bedside; Nettie Mae was sure of it.
The wind shifted and came down from the north, bearing the smell of ochre and mud with a faint, far-off musk of rain-soaked animals. Nettie Mae breathed deeply, trying to capture the scent, hoping to discern through some instinct long disused whether Paintrock lay just ahead. She had been riding for hours now, surely, though it was impossible to track the sun through a density of cloud. If it was a ranch she had smelled—a herd of cattle—then the worst leg of her journey might be nearing its end. She prayed it was so. Clyde’s horse was gentle and sure footed, but the monotony of its gait had long since sent a biting pain into Nettie Mae’s lower back. Her knee had gone numb from the pressure of the saddle horn, and her seat bones throbbed with a terrible, tingling agony each time the horse set a hoof upon the road.
The pain doesn’t matter, she told herself, resolute, clutching her shawls tighter with one hand. Nothing matters but Clyde. I can’t lose him—I won’t. Not my last son, my only child.
There on the road, with no one to witness her weakness, Nettie Mae gave in to the pain of her body, the weariness of her soul. Tears blurred her vision, then spilled over to mingle with the rain on her cheeks. Weeping brought a curious release—an immediate clarity, a peace she hadn’t thought to find. How long had it been since she had wept over anything? She hadn’t even shed a tear for Substance; there had been no time, in the wake of his death, for the harvest was upon them with winter just ahead.
Substance. If you were here now, you could have ridden for Paintrock and left me at our son’s bed. If you were here now, Clyde wouldn’t be forced to work like a whipped mule. He never would have taken this fever.
Merely thinking those words sent a shudder through Nettie Mae. One did not speak harshly to Substance Webber. One did not accuse him of any wrongdoing; one did not even imply. The man was dead, yet still Nettie Mae felt a tremor. She turned in the saddle, wincing at the pain, half-convinced she would find her husband’s shade striding up the road behind her, fist clenched and face set in the flat, hard stare that meant his ire had been raised.
Their lives hadn’t always been that way—she small and qui
et, cringing to avoid Substance’s rage. Nettie Mae had loved her husband, once. Long ago, back in the rosy sweetness of Wisconsin, where she recalled every day as a lingering summer sunset, flushed and warm. She had been a girl of seventeen, smitten at the midsummer dance. Substance had looked so fine in his waistcoat and John Bull hat—and how he had danced! Never had Nettie Mae imagined a fellow as tall and broad as Substance Webber could move with such grace. When he took her hand for the reel, he had grinned down at her, and she had liked the mischief glinting in his eyes.
They were married six months later, and Nettie Mae had never dreamed of such bliss—the simple, comforting ease they found in one another’s company, the pleasure of keeping house for a good, appreciative man. Substance had always made her laugh. He was a great one for humor and clever little jokes, and because he was so jolly, he and Nettie Mae were invited to every party in the county. Never could she have believed, in those blushing, summery days, the turn her marriage would take.
The change in Substance had come slowly, as the change had come slowly in herself, Nettie Mae supposed. It was Alta—the second child taken cruelly by a callous God—who broke something open in Substance. He had pulled Alta from the water, but he couldn’t save her life. Nor had he the power to lift Nettie Mae from the eddies of her grief. What did Substance’s strength matter if he couldn’t save his daughter’s life or spare his wife from suffering? What use were broad shoulders and capable hands in the face of death?
We might have found our joy again. The road unspooled beneath Nettie Mae, mile after painful mile. We might have found some comfort in one another if we had been granted a few years of respite, a few years to grieve.
But God had withheld His mercy. Nettie Mae bore one child after another, praying each one would grow and thrive, and mend the holes in her tattered heart and in her threadbare marriage. As each babe was lowered into another tiny grave, she had sunk further into the depths of her pain until the current of grief caught her and swept her far beyond her husband’s reach. By the time they left Nebraska, headed for eastern Wyoming, Nettie Mae’s girlish warmth was all washed away. The bones of her spirit lay exposed, and those bones were hard as granite, cold and immovable.
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel Page 8