A Sweetness to the Soul

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “I’ll replace the string.”

  Benito’s eyes grew large above the rim of the dipper he drank from. He looked first at Joseph. Then at me.

  “Replace it?” I said. “You don’t owe him that!”

  “It’s not what I owe him, but what I owe myself—what I can live with.”

  “Can we afford such generosity?” I said, though my voice held an opinion more than a question.

  “Can’t afford not to,” he said. “Sold my reputation for success along with that string. My reputation for giving people good advice. Heppner took my words on as his dream. He trusted my judgment as much as anything. Don’t want my name bandied about in any way other than respectable.”

  “But six thousand dollars!” I said. “We can’t manage that, what with the cattle, the ranch, and all.”

  “You didn’t make the money,” he said, “or my reputation.”

  “Maybe if you’d let me participate in both I’d see it differently,” I snapped back. I swallowed to keep the tears from stinging my eyes. Bandit appeared from nowhere, sat primly at my feet.

  My outburst startled my husband, I think, told him he had more to contend with than just his reputation. He took it one step at a time.

  “We’ll stop for the day,” he said to Benito. “Time for you to head back into town, ask Heppner to come by his earliest convenience. Tell him I’d like to talk.”

  To me he said, “Change—if you’d like. We’ll ride to Tygh Valley, discuss this money thing. Maybe stop by your father’s.”

  He knew both offers would please me. I wanted to know more about his financial affairs, wished to be a full partner in this life we were carving.

  And it had been several weeks since we’d seen Ella. We’d stopped frequently at first. But our visits were frosted by the cool presence of my mother. It was time to bring up the subject of Ella’s move with us again, now that a bed and dresser awaited her; time to face my confusion about truly wanting her or not.

  He began putting his tools, the adz, a saw or two, into his tool box. I noticed an odd-looking saw, one with a handle and very thin blade. He liked teaching me, and I thought it would tenderize our feud if he told me what it was.

  “Coping saw,” he said.

  “What’s it used for?” I asked.

  “Fitting things into tight places, like a cabinet into a corner.” He turned the small saw over in his paw-like hands.

  “What’s so different about it?” I asked. “Why do they say it ‘copes’?”

  He looked at me, saw I was serious. “It has both strength and flexibility,” he said. “Blade is very strong, good, hard steel. But it bends. If it was too strong, things you’re trying to fit would splinter. But if it was too flexible, bent too much, then you’d leave big gaps in what you’re trying to bring together.”

  “Kind of like trying to cope with Mama and this thing with Ella,” I noted.

  He nodded. “And with Heppner. And even with building this place, buying land at the falls, trying to make our way here. Even with the two of us, making this marriage a fit.” He lifted my chin with his hand, held my gaze. “Coping takes the whole saw, both its toughness and its suppleness. That’s how we’re building, coping, before things start to splinter or split. Let’s both try to remember that,” he said, and pulled me close and kissed my forehead.

  AFTER THE STORM

  School will begin soon,” Mama said. “Why not wait until spring. You’ll be more settled in your house.” She pulled at the weeds in the garden plot, Ella kneeling at her side.

  “You said once we were in the house, Mama,” I told her, sitting, hugging my knees.

  “Yes. Well. Ella’s become such a good help to me, especially when your Papa’s gone. And she’ll be gone herself from me soon enough. To St. Mary’s. You wouldn’t want to deprive her of that, would you?”

  “She’s young for boarding school,” Joseph said. “Needs to know where home is before she leaves it again.”

  “The Sisters understand young ladies. They’re prepared for some sickness for home. Teach in spite of it,” she added. “And children learn.”

  I watched Ella quietly working in the morning cool beside my mother. Even in a few short weeks, her plumpness was easing into her height. She was growing up before our eyes. Ella watched me out of slate blue. I thought I recognized longing. I was twice her age as Joseph was twice mine. Once she was in school, we’d see so little of her, her childishness would disappear before we even knew it.

  Joseph wanted her. That much I knew from the way he talked of the child. He’d even begun the adoption proceedings, gathered the required papers. Mama knew, even encouraged it, which I suppose added to our false hope.

  I wondered if perhaps Joseph’s attachment to Ella was a connection to Francis. And yes, I recognized the ebb and flow of my feelings about taking on this child. But for Joseph’s sake, I pleaded for her, made myself supple for the fit.

  I tried to imagine what argument would appeal to my mother. For the child’s sake? For Francis? Surely not for mine. None held water with her.

  “You said when the house was finished Ella could live with us,” I reminded her, petulant.

  “I said we’d discuss it, to be more accurate,” she said. “And so we are.” She wiped her hands on her long apron, stretching out her power. “Where is that Baby George?” she asked idly. Ella pointed toward the paddock where the youngster made mudpies from the horse-trough leaks. “Yes. Such a help you are, Ella,” Mama said. Then to Joseph and me: “She goes to St. Mary’s in the fall.” She left no argument. Then she smiled a sticky sweetness. “We can discuss again her living with you in the spring, when school is out. Yes. It will be better to think of a move then.”

  She stood. “Shall we take some tea the sun has readied? Inside. It’s cooler there.” She breezed her face with the imaginary fan of her hand, flushed with victory. “Come, George,” she called to my brother. “Ella? Fetch him, dear.” She turned to walk inside as Ella slipped past us to the paddock without a second glance.

  We had lost. But in the conversation, I knew I wanted Ella for more than to just please Joseph or to thwart my mother. I wanted her for her, to be there for her as I once had been for Rachel, Loyal, and Pauline. To share her childhood before it slipped away.

  Over sun tea, my mother did consent to Ella’s joining us on the day ride. “As far as Tygh Valley and back,” she said sipping tea at the table. “But be careful. Watch her.” She pinched my guilt.

  Papa came out of the barn to talk with Joseph and me, help Ella onto her horse. His face looked thinner and he walked with tired steps, not saying much, less the politician and more a sad but busy statesman. “Mama has tea,” I told him. He smiled and turned back to the barn instead of walking to the house or watching us ride away. I was conscious that this was no longer my home.

  On her own horse, Ella rode like an egg with legs, gingerly, her stubby limbs sticking straight out over the wide back of the nag. The three of us talked quietly in the morning heat, cantering occasionally, our voices mixed with the creak of leather and the jangle of the horse’s bits. Ella seemed a somber child. “Not the way I remember her,” Joseph whispered to me as we rode.

  The day of no demands must have offered safety, for as we crested the last rise before Tygh Valley town, Ella began asking questions about where we lived, what things there were to do there. She squealed in delight when her tentative call to Bandit resulted in a lap full of wiggly dog. It was the first time I’d seen excitement lift Ella’s blond curls from her cheeks.

  “I bet there are more things to do at your house than you could do in one day with one dog,” she said.

  “Good bet,” I said, winking over her head at Joseph.

  “Mrs. Herbert doesn’t like me to ride much,” she volunteered. She urged her horse to keep abreast as she rode between our mounts. “Says sitting with my legs split isn’t lady-like. My legs aren’t split,” she said, chastising foolish adults. “They’re all tied together w
ith skin, see?” She pulled her pantaloons up toward her knee to show me. I thought her old for little girl’s pantaloons.

  “You’re right,” I said, smiling. “Smooth as an alder branch.”

  “And I told her, ‘I bet Mrs. Sherar rides that way.’ ” She looked at me and said, “And you’re a lady.” She kicked the horse again to keep her moving.

  “Bet she loved hearing that,” Joseph said.

  “One of your better bets,” I quipped.

  “She did like me saying you were a lady,” Ella insisted. “She told me all kinds of things you do as a lady. ‘Shoot a Kentucky, steal your papa’s heart, change your mind.’ When I asked to do those, she got upset. Sent me out to pull weeds. Do ladies do those too?” Ella asked, her dimples resting in question.

  “Ladies do what they have to,” I told her, “even when they’d rather not.”

  We reached Tygh Valley. While Joseph completed his business with Mr. Staley, Ella and I located a shady place in the shadow of the rimrocks that arched part way around the grassy flat forming the town site. The smaller end of the Tygh Creek bubbled out beside the rocks. “Watch for snakes,” I warned Ella as we found a place to sit. “They like the cool this time of year too.”

  “I never step on snakes,” she said. “I talk to them.”

  “Me too!” I said, amazed.

  Ella threw small rocks into the river, stepping closer to the grassy bank.

  “Careful,” I called out. I felt the familiar anxiety associated with small children beside water. “Careful, Ella,” I said again, sitting up straighter, better to see. “Don’t get too close.” I’d said those words before, too, and for a fleeting moment I imagined what I’d say if something happened to her, how I’d explain. I shook my head of the thought.

  Tygh Creek ran full here, but it wasn’t flooding, wasn’t pushing past its banks. Still, memories prickled unbidden to my mind.

  Joseph walked up behind me and gently touched my shoulder, startling me. “Don’t do that!” I snapped.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He sat beside me, removed his hat. “Thought you heard me coming. What’s the matter?” he asked, looking at my jaw set, eyes staring toward the river. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” He turned to watch Ella remove her shoes. “Something with Ella? What’s wrong?”

  I had never told him of what had happened with my brother and sisters, never shared with him how quickly guilt arrived disguised as fear or grief. It never seemed the time to tell him. I never really wanted him to know of my poor judgment, how things I loved just left.

  But that day, as we sat beside the water watching a child we hoped might come into our lives, I shared my soul. Perhaps I wished to rescue my own reputation as someone who could be counted on to care for another. “Integrity,” I told him. “Maybe that’s why I want to care for Ella and a dozen other children. Maybe to prove to myself—and my mother—that I am able to keep a child safe, love her into being grown.”

  Joseph sat quietly as I talked, swallowing tears. His fingers parted and sorted a soft patch of grass. When I finished, he reached for me, wiped my puffy, crying eyes, held me. I began truly loving my husband that day for he heard my story and did not judge me harshly. With Joseph, I watched, again, a child at play beside rushing water.

  “Perhaps God will keep children from me,” I voiced my deepest fear, “to punish me.”

  “You did not cause it, Janie,” he said as my body sank into his safety.

  “I must have! I let them get wet. I didn’t want to spoil their fun, have them be upset with me. Then I let them get beyond me, out of my control!”

  He shook his head. “It was not your fault. They could have fallen into that creek, been drenched and cold to the bone, and their deaths would not have been your fault.”

  “I was careless,” I said, sobbing. “Mama said so.”

  “Your mama is wrong in this.” He rocked me, safe in his arms. “Diphtheria … it isn’t caused by water or colds, but by something that goes between people, quickly. No one knows what or why some people suffer and others don’t. But it isn’t from them slipping into the water, that much I’m sure.”

  I so wanted to believe him.

  We held each other, still watching Ella.

  “Best you come back,” I finally called to her, wiping my eyes, aware that the day slipped away.

  She looked at me, pretended not to hear and kept on walking. I felt some irritation.

  “I don’t believe the Lord works that way,” Joseph said. “By withholding children. There’s time yet for babies of our own.” He squeezed me. “Yours is a young life to be faced with losing so much,” he said. “But like the song from Derry, some must go, and some must stay. Those of us who live bear the greatest pain.”

  The refrain from that mournful song settled in my head as I sank into the comfort of his confidence. I did not know then that he, too, spoke from experience. I was simply grateful that he did not faint from touching a person who may have caused the death of someone else.

  Ella chose the afternoon to demonstrate the disobedience of an almost seven-year-old and we ended up staying longer than anticipated beside the river, chiding her to put her shoes on, settle down, get back on the horse. She didn’t accept my fumbled explanation for my red eyes, kept prodding, curious. I wondered fleetingly if I had the energy to deal with a defiant child, then decided if Mama could do it, so could I.

  We arrived back at Fifteen Mile Crossing as the sun set and after the wind rose but well before darkness and the impending storm. This fact escaped my mother who stood on the porch agitated enough to chew up farrier nails.

  Her anger seemed well beyond the infraction we’d apparently committed by coming back later than we’d thought. Mama said: “I see once again you cannot be trusted.”

  “It’s early yet,” Joseph answered, surprised at her vehemence. He did not sound apologetic. “Just supper time. Not even dark.” He stood off his horse, helping Ella to the ground.

  “I decide what’s early or not,” Mama countered. “Been lightning over the ridge for the past hour. Not safe at all for a child to be out in it.” Soft lights from the kerosene lamps glowed through the house windows, looked inviting. I saw movement inside, Papa and Baby George coming out to stand on the porch.

  “Come, Ella,” Papa said, “there’s some supper waiting on you.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Ella told him in a petulant voice.

  “Did you have a nice time, child?” he asked.

  “It was all right,” she said, stomping up on the porch.

  “That’s good,” Papa told her softly, his voice betraying his wish to get her away from the storm he too felt brewing. “Take Baby George inside. There’s cold milk on the table for you in the kitchen, some sliced venison and cheese. Then off to bed.”

  Ella started her stomp into the house, punishing us I guessed for making her leave the river, ride back, do what needed to be done. But then with a child’s ability to forgive and forget, she turned, ran back to hug me as I stood beside my horse. I squatted down to her height, felt the warmth of unfettered caring that only a child’s arms can give. I held her, buried my face in her curls, my fingers remembering the touch of lean little backs through thin calicos.

  “G’night,” she whispered.

  I held her a bit longer, until I felt Joseph’s hand on my shoulder. Ella reached for him as he bent down to pick her up, brushed her face with his beard.

  “Sleep well,” he said. “We’ll see you again soon.”

  A flash of lightning lit the night sky somewhere in the distance. “Stay,” she pleaded. “The storm.”

  “They need to hurry home,” Mama answered for us. “Got lots to do there, I’m sure.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I assured Ella. “The storm is far away, see, on that ridge? We’ll ride the other way, where the moon is full. It will light our way home.”

  Ella seemed skeptical as Papa walked out to take her from Joseph’s arms. “You’re welcome to
stay,” he said for our ears only. Joseph shook his head, helped me mount up.

  Papa and Ella headed back into the soft lights of the house. Mama started to follow them in, carrying her skirt up the stairs with her fingertips. Then she hesitated, turned back. She said: “Your presence disrupts the girl’s life. I’ve had time to think, waiting.” Her tightly clasped hands now formed a fist together in front of her as she faced us full. “She goes to St. Mary’s in the fall. Until then, I’ll thank you not to be stopping by, filling her head with thoughts of what her life might be like living with you. If you care for her—as you say you do—then leave her be. She’s had enough loss and change and needs no more from you.” My heart pounded in my ears and seemed to understand her words before my head did. I stalled for time, to change her meaning. I said: “But we didn’t do anything wrong! Only spent some time with her. Why take that away from either of us?”

  “Why not?” my mother said. She shrugged her shoulders as though I’d asked her to explain why she served carrot cake instead of angel. Her lightness infuriated me, as though we spoke of meaningless things instead of someone’s love and life. Her power over the outcome made it all the more intolerable.

  “The adoption papers are ready,” Joseph said. I heard both alarm and anger in his voice. “Let’s just finish what Archibald wanted, stop this dallying. We’ll pick her up in the morning.”

  Mama glared at him from behind a thin smile. “I’ll not say my daughter is the cause,” she told him, not looking at me. “But I have only one child under my roof that is of my own birthing. The rest are gone. Dead.” Her eyes matched the word.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Mama!” I cried.

  “Whose then?” She turned on me. “Three babies. Dead within three days.” Then she hissed the words I’d imagined her saying, dreaded ever hearing: “And you live.”

  “That’s not fair!” Hot tears poured down my cheeks. My breath stuck in my chest, choked out my words.