If God was merciful, Ernest would forgive Cora, and once he’d been set free, he would follow her to the city, where they could resume their lives as husband and wife. They could put everything—Substance and the prairie—far behind them. Cora had no earthly reason to believe Ernest would return. But for now, she knew, the possibility that he might forgive her someday must serve as fortification. There was precious little hope elsewhere to steel her spine.
She turned on her chair, eyeing the president’s china. It was still stacked on her kitchen table, for Cora hadn’t yet determined where she might keep the fragile cups and saucers in safety. They were beautiful, those gleaming plates and serving dishes with their gilded, finial lids. It had been a chore to keep the children away from the china these past few days, when the rain beat down so hard Cora felt certain God had decided to flood the earth again, and she had confined her brood to the house for fear they might be swept away or catch pneumonia. The dishes looked so refined, so elegant. They wanted no part of prairie life. It was little wonder Cora had found no suitable location to store them; the president’s china set couldn’t live comfortably in this dismal landscape, with its scouring wind and Biblical rains.
It was well I never broke up that shipping crate for firewood, Cora thought. I’ll need it, if I’m to carry those dishes up to Paintrock.
Surely Cora would find a buyer in town. Paintrock was in no way a wealthy place, but enough cattle ranchers surrounded the community that Cora could hope to raise the money she needed. If she was lucky, she would find an eager buyer—someone willing to pay enough that Cora could give the Webber boy a few dollars, too, in gratitude for his help. The load of firewood he had donated to the Bemis farm might be all that stood between Cora’s children and the deadly cold of winter. That alone was a priceless gift, and it was to say nothing of the countless hours Clyde had labored in Cora’s garden and fields, driving her cattle, harvesting her corn, and keeping her barn and sheds in good repair.
For a moment, she considered leaving the land and the house to Clyde. She would have no use for them once she had gone. Perhaps the acres of farm and pasture would make some small restitution for the Webber boy’s fatherless state. But this land belonged to Ernest, and though Cora nursed a shrinking hope that her husband might still love her, she knew only God could say whether Ernest would take her back after the shocking way she had wronged him.
I must send Ernest a letter, Cora decided, taking up her needle again. I will tell him the truth: that I’ve returned to the city in disgrace, and he is free to come and find me—or not, as he chooses—once his sentence has been served.
If Ernest refused to join her in Saint Louis, then Cora knew she must live as a widow lived, humbled, forever on the verge of penury, raising her children on the charity of churches and ladies’ aid societies. It was well that her grandfather was long since in his grave. How his heart would have broken to see Cora now. Grandfather had sacrificed everything—his reputation, his business—so that she might marry a wealthy blue blood and be kept securely, a proper wife, a proper woman.
I failed you, Grandfather. Can you ever forgive me?
But even as she thought those words, Cora’s newfound determination steadied her heart. The decision was made; she would go as soon as the china was sold and throw herself and her children on the mercy of city folk. Living in poverty within a city could scarcely be harder than scraping out a miserable, mean existence on the prairie.
Outside in the garden, Charles called, “Hullo, Beulah!”
Cora looked up from her stitches. Beulah was returning from the Webber place—she had gone over earlier that morning to offer Clyde some help with his morning chores—but the girl was not alone. Nettie Mae accompanied her, striding through brush and stands of tall grass like a bull charging a matador. Her arms were folded, tight and impenetrable, just below her flat bosom. Nettie Mae and Beulah hadn’t reached the garden fence, yet already Cora could read the marble of her neighbor’s face: hard, cold, deeply etched by hate.
Blood rushed in Cora’s ears. She stuck her needle into a fold of fabric, put the dress in her sewing basket, and lurched up from her chair, smoothing her skirt and patting her coiled braid with frantic hands. Standing so quickly rendered her dizzy, and she clutched the back of her chair, heart fluttering, wondering if she was on the verge of a faint.
She heard Beulah and Nettie Mae ascend the porch steps, and a moment later, the door swung open. Cora had only enough time to swallow some of her fear—not nearly enough of it. She stepped away from the chair on which she had been leaning. The last thing Cora wanted was for Nettie Mae to see her propped up like some corpse posed for a photographer. She hoped she didn’t tremble visibly as her daughter and the neighbor came into the sitting room.
“I’ve brought Mrs. Webber over to speak with you, Ma,” Beulah said brightly.
“You . . . you ought to call me ‘Mother,’ not ‘Ma,’ Beulah.” What must Nettie Mae think of Cora’s children, unschooled, unrefined?
Beulah did not acknowledge the correction, but that was no startlement to Cora. The girl was not malicious; neither was she slow. Beulah simply paid more heed to her own thoughts than to Cora’s scolding and cajoling. The same had held true for most of Beulah’s life, since she had been a tiny girl of five years. From the first day the Bemis family had set out for the Bighorn Basin—leaving the town of Carbon and its train station behind, rolling out into the endless grass in their newly purchased wagon—Beulah had been her own child, governed by a secret heart, following a compass only she could see.
Well did Cora remember the moment when that peculiar change had come over her daughter. Cora had been perched on the driver’s seat, close beside her husband, with Beulah in her lap, held securely in her arms. Benjamin, only a few months old, slept swaddled in a basket at Cora’s feet. As Carbon had dwindled behind them and the steady vibration of the wagon’s wheels had settled into their bones, Beulah had gone silent and still. Her daughter’s face had been hidden by the starched brim of a bonnet, but Cora had felt a shiver of awe rack the girl’s frame. Beulah had stared straight ahead for hours, unspeaking, watching the place near the northern horizon where two dark ruts of the wagon track vanished in a glare of sunlight. Beulah’s silence had frightened Cora, whipping to new heights the anxiety she had already carried for weeks while she and Ernest made their plans and set their affairs in order, preparing to venture out into the unmarked blankness of the prairie.
Cora had wondered whether Beulah might have taken ill, and if so, what in the Lord’s name she could do about it, so far from help and home. But that afternoon, when they paused beside a stream to water their animals and have a bite to eat, Beulah had gazed up at Cora speechless with happiness, wide eyed and shining of face. Cora lifted her daughter down from the wagon seat, admonishing Beulah not to venture out of sight. The grass was so tall, waving high above the girl’s head—a jungle teeming with hidden ferocities, its countless cryptic eyes alert and watching. But Beulah seemed unafraid. She had plucked a stem of grass and run its bristling seed head across her lips. Cora had never forgotten the way her daughter’s eyes had closed at the feel of it, as if she had found the bliss of Heaven.
“Go on,” Beulah said to Nettie Mae, encouraging, “you can speak to her, you know. She’s a real friendly sort.”
Nettie Mae’s mouth tightened. Her thin, pale cheeks turned whiter still until her complexion seemed almost blue. “I know how friendly she is,” Nettie Mae muttered. Then she shut her eyes briefly, and Cora had the impression that Nettie Mae was steeling herself for an especially odious task. When she opened her eyes again, Nettie Mae’s words came rapid and hard, like the hailstones of winter. “My son took ill a week ago. On the day you drove up into the hills, in fact.”
“Yes,” Cora said rather faintly. “Beulah told me Clyde had sickened. He seems much stronger now.”
“Thank God, he survived. The next time, he may not be so lucky. Clyde simply worked himself into a dangerou
s exhaustion. That’s what Dr. Cooper said. Things can’t go on as they have done, Mrs. Bemis.”
“Please, call me Cora.”
Nettie Mae’s shoulders twitched, as if the prospect of familiarity made her skin crawl. “I can’t dissuade Clyde from working on your farm—he is the man of the house now, and it’s right that he should make up his own mind. But I fear the extra work will kill him. The next time he works himself to exhaustion and takes to his bed, he might never leave it again.”
Cora clutched the back of her chair again. “The poor dear boy. I certainly wouldn’t like to be the cause of any harm to you or to Clyde, Mrs. Webber.” Her own words struck her then, and Cora lowered her face, blushing with shame at her own foolish tongue.
“Helpless as you are,” Nettie Mae said, “Clyde surely will work himself to death, looking after your affairs and your children, though I can’t think why he ought to care.”
Cora risked a timid glance at her neighbor. Nettie Mae did not acknowledge Beulah, who stood half smiling, unconcerned, to the woman’s right. But the right side of Nettie Mae’s mouth twitched—once—and Cora had the impression that the woman restrained herself from glaring at the girl only by force of her considerable will.
“We are all so grateful for everything the young Mr. Webber has done for us,” Cora said. “I feel simply terrible, to know that we have caused him to suffer. Please, Mrs. Webber—tell me what my family may do to help.”
Nettie Mae sniffed sharply but said nothing. She stared into a corner of the sitting room, her flat cheek pulsing with a furious rhythm. Cora realized the woman was clenching and releasing her jaw.
Beulah looked from the neighbor to Cora and back again. Then she said, “I’ve had a talk with Mrs. Webber over at her place. You remember what you suggested once, Ma, a few weeks ago: that we all should work together and run our two farms as one. Well, Mrs. Webber has agreed. It’s for the best; she sees that now.”
Cora spoke before she could think better of her words. “Do you?” The surprise was evident in her voice, and it pleased Nettie Mae none too well.
“I don’t,” she said. “Sharing my days with you, Cora Bemis, is nearly the last item on my list of desires. There is only one eventuality I would find less agreeable, and that is losing my son. For Clyde’s sake, I will do it. Only for him. Don’t make the foolish mistake of believing your sins are forgiven.”
Cora folded her hands and lowered them meekly to the pocket of her apron. She lowered her face again, too, hoping she looked as contrite as she felt. Nettie Mae was the last person Cora would have chosen as a helpmeet, but God had granted the aid she needed—another grown woman to help manage the unmanageable, to keep the wilderness at bay. Cora was often reckless, to her eternal sorrow, but this time she was determined to be more sensible. She needed Nettie Mae. Very probably, neither she nor her children could survive the coming winter without Nettie Mae’s assistance. From where else in this vast, cold wilderness was salvation to come?
I need only soldier through what’s left of the autumn and one winter ahead, Cora told herself. By spring, the weather will be mild enough that I can take the china to Paintrock and find a buyer. And from there, I will set out for Saint Louis.
What were a few months at Nettie Mae’s side? Cora had already survived eight years on the prairie. Saint Louis was but two seasons away. Her long trial was almost at its end. She could muddle through until spring.
“Very well,” Cora said softly. “I will be glad to help you in any way I can, Mrs. Webber, and will be most grateful for your help in return.”
“I don’t know whether you’ll be of any use, particularly,” Nettie Mae said, “but this girl of yours is strong, even if she doesn’t look it. She’s lazy, and probably rather stupid, but strong enough to share in the chores.”
Beulah laughed brightly, as if Nettie Mae had told a clever joke rather than insulting her.
Nettie Mae narrowed her eyes at Beulah. When the girl had mastered her laughter, Nettie Mae continued. “I have one condition, though, Cora Bemis.”
“Of course. I will agree to anything you say.”
“We will live together under my roof, and on my land. All of us—your brood of squalling brats, your cows, the rest of your animals. No more of this scuttling back and forth between two plots. It’s too much strain for Clyde to bear.”
Cora kept her gaze fixed to the floor. She nodded acceptance.
“Under my roof—and by my rules. My household is a well-ordered one; I won’t have you and yours interfering with my ways.”
“Of course,” Cora said. “It’s a generous offer, Mrs. Webber. We are all grateful for your charity.”
“My charity.” Nettie Mae’s murmur was dark, tinged with amusement. But she said nothing more, only turned her back on Cora and strode toward the door.
“I will need some time,” Cora said timidly, “to make the children ready and to pack up our belongings.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Nettie Mae answered. “But you, girl—Beulah. You’ll come over tonight, straight away. I’ll need your help, if I’m to spare Clyde the extra work before the autumn lambs arrive.”
Nettie Mae saw herself out and shut the door rather firmly behind her. The fact of her departure hung silent and heavy in the Bemis house. Only when Cora was certain Nettie Mae had truly departed did she lift her face and meet her daughter’s eye.
Beulah grinned back at her, and Cora could almost see the bristle of a grass head passing across the girl’s lips.
6
YOU CAN’T DO A THING TO CHANGE IT
My ma and my brothers and baby sister followed me back over to the Webber place the next day. It was clear to all of us—even little Miranda, I think—that Nettie Mae had no great liking for our presence in her house. But Clyde’s illness had frightened her enough to open her door, if not her heart. She was tougher than my ma by far, but there was a limit even to Nettie Mae’s great stoicism. Clyde’s fever had burned hot enough to melt the coldness of her will. For his sake, she was ready to endure the Bemis invasion, at least till winter had passed.
Nettie Mae cleared her sewing and spinning out of one of the upstairs rooms, and I helped Ma carry her bed, piece by piece, over the pasture and up the stairs to our new accommodations. Ma and I would sleep together in that bed, with Miranda on the trundle below us. Nettie Mae had planned to set up a couple of cots in the kitchen near the hearth, where it was always warm, and there Benjamin and Charles would bunk each night like hunters in a cabin. Instead, Clyde gave up his room to the little fellas, as he called them, by reason that they might be frightened in a strange new house and miss the nearness of their big sister and their mother. He took a cot in the kitchen for himself, and never objected when Nettie Mae loaded his arms with quilts and coverlets, admonishing him to stay warm lest the fever return with all its force and fury. Nettie Mae kept to her own devices each night behind the pointedly closed door of her own bedroom. My ma warned all her children, even me, to stay quiet as mice in the evening and do nothing to disturb the peace of Nettie Mae’s home.
Ma was as humble as a servant whenever Nettie Mae entered a room. She kept her eyes lowered and spoke softly, but only if Nettie Mae addressed her first. She was obedient and helpful, always first to rise from the supper table and start the washing up and first out of bed each morning to begin kneading dough for our daily bread. Any weight she could take to lessen the burden on Nettie Mae’s shoulders, my ma picked up and bore without complaint. She had never been so industrious on our own farm. But then, on our farm, my mother had never felt obliged to prove her worth to anyone.
Despite Ma’s hard work and amiable temper, the air fairly crackled around Nettie Mae whenever she laid eyes upon my ma. Spite surrounded her in a thick cloud, buzzing minutely in a harsh tin voice like the deerflies that descend in summer’s heat to bite and drink your blood. So hard was her scowl, so frigid her voice, that even Miranda reasoned it was better to be seen than heard when Nettie Mae loomed nearby. I ta
ught my little sister how to hold an embroidery hoop and how to thread a needle, though she was far too young to make good fancywork and tangled her thread in a dreadful mess more often than not. But stitching—or trying to stitch—kept her occupied and distracted in some far corner of the house, where she couldn’t inadvertently stray into Nettie Mae’s path and be frightened by our benefactress’s stare.
Discord, scarcely controlled, pervaded the Webber household. But beyond the sod-brick walls, among the pastures and barns our families now shared, Clyde and I worked in agreeable harmony. He still hadn’t regained all his strength after the fever’s ravaging, but nevertheless, each morning after we’d filled up on my mother’s porridge and a few slices of smoked ham, Clyde led me out to the sheepfold or the long shed or the paddock where Tiger, my pa’s last remaining horse, switched his tail alongside Joe Buck, the bay fillies, and the other horses Clyde had taken in for training. With hardly a word exchanged between us, we would set to work mending fences, tending the sheep, bringing my milk cows across the field and installing them in the newly repaired pen alongside the Webber barn. I could sense Clyde’s weakness—the shaking of his exhausted legs and the feeble grip of his pale hands. I took the brunt of the physical work, for I always have been stronger than a body would guess just to look at me. Clyde guided and directed my work and made what decisions needed making. There was no tension between us. Like the river and its bank, we flowed as one.
I guess that’s the privilege of the young. Age roots a person, grounds a body to its habits. Our mothers had each learned to hate or fear the other, depending on which woman you asked. More than that, they were powerful set in their ways. Nettie Mae wanted her household to run as it always had; she expected to despise the Bemis woman and her children for their inconvenient presence even more than she despised us for the wrongs my family had done. My mother expected her life to be difficult, bordering on unbearable, and so it was. Each had learned their own sort of stubbornness. Each had taken up the truths they had trained themselves to see, drinking anger and hate or loneliness and despair as eagerly as the summer-parched prairie drank the rain. I ain’t fool enough to think I’m wise, exactly, but I have learned one scrap of wisdom, at least: whatever a body expects their life to be, that’s what they’ll make of it in the end.
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel Page 17