Under a Painted Sky

by Stacey Lee

  I wipe my palms on my trousers and try to stop breathing so loudly. Slowly, Annamae opens the door.

  After dropping the key into the laundry chute in the hallway, Annamae leads the way to the back of the hotel. Shadows thrown by sconces along the burgundy walls give the illusion that the hallway’s on fire. I stick close to Annamae and try not to think about Father in the Whistle.

  We tiptoe downstairs and through another burning corridor leading to the back entryway. A rack of antlers yields an assortment of hats and coats. Annamae slips into a wool frock coat, while I cram my hair into the plainest hat I can find, appalled at the ease with which I’ve gone from law-abiding citizen to wanton criminal. Father, you raised me better, but I’m out of choices right now.

  I reach for a coat, but the shhh, tap of a scraping cane freezes my hand. Annamae grabs my wrist and pulls me to the door. She yanks it open. As soon as we both clear the doorway, she pauses for a heart-stopping moment to ease it shut without making a sound. Then we dash away toward St. Francis Street.

  After half a block, my legs shake like a newborn foal’s. Annamae is not even breathing hard. The fabric of her frock coat swishes rhythmically as she pumps her arms up and down. She has slipped into her disguise as easily as if she’s been wearing men’s clothes all her life, her shoulders forming solid bumps even under the many layers.

  By contrast, my garments feel like they’re wearing me, not the other way around. “I can’t,” I wheeze, pausing to catch my breath.

  She grabs a fistful of my shirt and hauls me forward. “Oh yes you can.”

  The uneven roadway and my oversized trousers vie for who can trip me first, but I manage to make it to the street corner.

  Annamae glances back toward La Belle Hotel. No one is following us.

  On St. Francis Street, a line of covered wagons stretches as far as I can see, and then all the way back to St. Louis, three hundred miles away. People from as far away as Maine journey to St. Joe, the step-off point into the Wild West, which lies on the other side of the Missouri. Teams of four to twenty oxen or mules fidget and snort, rocking their “prairie schooners,” as they are called. We hurry by men hunched over their cigarettes or sleeping on their wagon benches as they wait for their turn on the ferry.

  We also pass men on horseback, most between the ages of fifteen and forty. Like the Greek heroes who quested after the golden fleece, these “Argonauts” seek gold, following the Oregon Trail until it diverges south to California. They aim not to homestead, but to strike it rich before the gold runs out. Plenty of them stopped by the Whistle, on the hunt for last-minute necessities like rolling paper for their tobacco. Argonauts are not women.

  Moving silently as fog, we reach the wagon closest to the water and duck behind a pile of sandbags, out of view. My breath comes in gulps, and I collapse into an ungainly heap on the ground. I know the distance between La Belle Hotel and the riverfront to be less than half a mile, but it feels as if I have run clear back to New York.

  Annamae hauls me up with one hand. “Look.” She points over the sandbags. To our right, the first wagon jostles about, its team skittish and alert. On our left, the wagon second in line seems to have shut down for the night, its driver slumped back in his seat, and his oxen still.

  The shoreline lies ahead of the first wagon by ten yards. There, several men warm their hands around a bonfire, including the ferry master, a man in a naval cap. The flames burn bright enough to light the adjacent ferry building, which is little more than a shack with a counter and a clock.

  The ferry’s last run is at ten thirty. I hiss in my breath when I note the time: a whisker past ten.

  “We need to be on the next ferry,” I whisper, just as a bell clangs to signal the ferry’s return journey. River current drives the ferry, which is really just a wooden platform, held on course by a cable running from one shore to the other. I’ve only seen it carry one wagon at a time.

  “We better pray no one’s inside,” says Annamae, nodding to the first wagon. “I’ll go see.”

  The bonfire crackles and spews out a few embers.

  “Wait, hand me the powder horn,” I say. “If we’re going to stow away, we’ll need a distraction.”

  Annamae rummages through her saddlebag, while I pull a handkerchief from my violin case. She leaves me the horn, then sneaks off. With her dark coat and black hat, the night swallows her in moments. I sprinkle gunpowder into my handkerchief, then knot it into a bundle.

  Annamae hurries back to me. “Something blocking the back, so I couldn’t see much. But I didn’t hear no sounds.”

  I grimace. “It’s either that one or wait until morning.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Meet you at the back of the wagon in a few seconds,” I say. Then I inhale some courage and walk toward the bonfire. All present peer out at the oncoming ferry, whose oil lanterns illuminate its inky path. Every inch of me wants to flee. I force my feet to a stroll, like I have not a care in the world.

  When I get to the bonfire, a few of the ten or so men turn their heads but none of their gazes linger on me. I fake interest in the oncoming ferry, hoping the dark obscures my features. When no one’s looking, I drop the bundle at the fire’s edge.

  Then I head back toward Annamae, taking long strides. After a few seconds, the packet explodes.

  I sprint. Men grab their hats and hit the ground. Animals scream, rearing up and trying to break out of their yokes. Whips and curses fly as their owners scramble to bring their teams back under control.

  I reach our wagon, still heaving as its oxen try to flee. Annamae jams our gear through the back opening, then hauls herself in after it, squeezing by a large wooden object. I suck in my stomach and wedge in after her. Please, God, let us be the only ones aboard.

  I spy farm equipment and feed, but nothing with a pulse. The wooden object that blocks the back opening is a clock as tall as the canvas ceiling. I exhale in sweet relief.

  Our ruse seems to work. Annamae and I stretch out on top of feed sacks as the driver calms his team. His stout form shows through the front arch of the canvas that opens to the wagon seat.

  “Settle down, boys and girls, settle down,” our driver calls to his oxen. “Our turn’s next.”

  My heart pounds like a tom-tom. Surely the beat will give us away. I slip my clammy hand into Annamae’s warm one and feel her squeeze.

  “Mr. Calloway, is it? You’re up,” the ferry master bellows. “Bring ’em down easy. Jackson will lead your team. Once you’re on the other side, wait ’til the line’s secure before you lead ’em off. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir,” responds Mr. Calloway, before barking, “Giddap!”

  Oxen bellow and the wagon rolls forward. A sharp farming tool falls painfully against my thigh, but I don’t dare push it off. A lever squeaks, followed by the rush of water.

  As the ferry lifts us up and over each wave toward freedom, the contents of the wagon shift and settle. My stomach turns at the motion. The water chills the air around us and I hug my feed-sack cushion to keep from shivering. I smell alfalfa.

  “Jackson, did a green wagon pass by recently?” asks Mr. Calloway.

  Green? That’s new. Most people don’t waste paint on a wagon.

  “Driver had a red beard? Train of twelve to follow, suh?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Saw ’em two nights ago. Hard not to see ’em. You trying to catch ’em, suh?”

  “Family’s with them. We had twin calves born the same night, so I sent my wife and girls ahead.”

  “I see. If you travel day and night, you should catch ’em just after the Little Blue.”

  The Little Blue is the first river we’ll hit, two or three days from here. I remember that much from our pioneer customers.

  “That’s fine. Thank you,” says Mr. Calloway. He tips Jackson, I gather, from Jackso
n’s grateful murmur.

  The wait to get to the other side seems to go on for days, years. I count watermelons in my head—Father taught me this trick to stave off the imps of tedium that drive one mad. One watermelon. Two watermelons. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Three watermelons . . .

  When I reach seven hundred and one watermelons, the ferry finally bumps against the shore, and after more leverings and jolts, our chariot heaves forward. We slide back a few inches as the oxen lug us up a bumpy incline. After several head-banging minutes, the road levels out, only jolting us now and then when we hit a pothole.

  I begin to pull myself up, when a thought occurs to me. Mr. Calloway intends to travel through the night. We might save our feet some trouble. If he does stop, it’s dark enough that we could slip away, unnoticed. “Let’s stay awhile,” I whisper in Annamae’s ear.

  We cover ourselves with canvas sheets, and I find comfort in the rocking of the wagon.

  Father, can you hear me? I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have argued with you. I should have shown you the respect you deserved, and listened to your plans.

  The burlap sack of alfalfa catches my tears.

  5

  ANNAMAE SHAKES MY SHOULDER. MY EYES SNAP open to the gray light of morning. The lines on one side of Annamae’s face tell me she also fell into the sleep trap.

  I poke my head up. The rumbling of the wagon as we roll along the gravelly path is giving me a headache. Mr. Calloway is no longer in his seat. I peer through the gap between the wagon’s bonnet and the sideboards, and stifle a gasp. His red-checkered shirt walks alongside us, to the left of the wagon, not three feet away.

  We better leave before he stops his team for breakfast and finds us.

  “Let’s go,” I whisper.

  But the sudden clatter of horse hoofbeats freezes us in place. I dive back under the canvas sheet and peek through the crack again. A man on a spotted horse slows to walk beside us.

  “Mr. Calloway?” he barks, causing his droopy mustache to flap.

  Mr. Calloway doesn’t break his pace. “Morning. Do I know you?”

  “Deputy Granger.” He tips his hat. Its domed shape is the only round part of him. Sharp elbows, hooked nose, and an Adam’s apple that could rip holes in his bandanna. “I understand you took the quarter-past-ten passage aboard the Whitsand last night?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. There a problem?”

  “Seen any girls pass this way?”

  I bite my tongue so hard I draw blood. The image of a noose dangles before my eyes.

  “Girls? No. Why?” Mr. Calloway removes his straw hat and wipes his bald spot with his arm. An angry sunburn stains his cheeks and nose.

  “A Chinese girl bashed in a man’s head last night and ran off.You seen her?”

  I cringe. Annamae blinks her hooked eyelashes once at me and grabs my hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s enough to keep me from fleeing in a hot panic.

  “No, sir. The only Chinese person I’ve seen since Virginia was that fellow who owns the Whistle. Bought my canvas from him yesterday.”

  “She’s his offspring. The whole place burned down last night, the Chinaman with it. People like that are careless.” The deputy’s voice drips with scorn.

  Mr. Calloway pauses before answering. “Didn’t seem careless to me, Deputy. Mr. Young was his name? He spotted a crack in one of my wheels and helped me fix it. Seems more a tragedy than anything.” He replaces his hat and shifts his gaze to the front wagon wheel.

  “Well, we ain’t talking about the father, we’re talking about his girl taking out one of St. Joe’s finest. And what I say is, a body don’t run unless the body is guilty.” His black eyes seem to zero in on me, and I stop breathing. Then they roam the rest of the wagon.

  “A slave girl ran away last night, too,” the deputy continues. “Don’t know if they’re in league.”

  Mr. Calloway shakes his head. “Well, I haven’t seen anyone, Deputy. Anyway, I can’t see girls running in this direction. This is rough country. Without a mule, supplies, they wouldn’t last three days. You’re better off searching St. Louis.”

  “They sent out a group this morning. Believe me, I have better things to do than comb the weeds for a snake.”

  “Good day, then,” says Mr. Calloway, reverting his attention to his grunting oxen.

  I pray the man will leave now, and when he falls back, I unhook my fingernails from my palms. Then, the wagon hits a rock, and the clock belches out a chime.

  Annamae hisses in her breath, then clamps a hand over her mouth.

  The spotted pony brings Deputy Granger and his probing eyes even with us again.

  “I’m going to need to search you. You’re the only wagon on which they coulda hid. Might as well be thorough before I go home.”

  Mr. Calloway’s shoulders slump, like he might be sighing. Then he calls, “Whoa, boys and girls, whoa now!”

  I cast about for an escape, fear wringing my insides into a wet knot. The slivered openings on either side of the wagon reveal nothing but wide-open prairie.

  I lean over and speak into Annamae’s ear, so low that I cannot even hear myself. “I will turn myself in. Pull the sheet over you and hide.” I squeeze her palm.

  Our chariot, now our prison, staggers to a halt. Annamae pulls me back down as I start to rise, pointing to the crack on her side of the wagon. A weeping willow, one of spring’s first bloomers, drips down its branches not ten feet away.

  The deputy’s boots thud on the grass as he dismounts.

  “Going to take a moment to move my clock,” says Mr. Calloway.

  We don’t hesitate. While Mr. Calloway pushes aside the heavy timepiece we scoot to the front of the wagon box.

  “I’ll go around to the head,” says the deputy.

  I nearly push Annamae out of the wagon in my haste.

  “No need, sir. Here we are,” says Mr. Calloway.

  I drop from the driver’s seat right after Annamae. In five tiptoes, we cover the distance to the shaggy green haystack. Its verdant curtain swallows us up.

  Neither of us dares to breathe as we listen.

  “Just doing my job, sir, thank you. Good luck to you,” says the deputy.

  “And you,” says Mr. Calloway. “Giddap, boys and girls, giddap!”

  His oxen moo in reply. The wagon groans as it pitches forward. Deputy Granger’s horse snorts, then pounds away, easily bypassing Mr. Calloway. Only then do I resume breathing.

  After a few minutes, we peek through the branches. The trail is empty now. Beyond the trees, a rolling carpet of knee-high grass spreads out before us, but neither Annamae nor I want to venture into the open yet.

  “May that be the last we see of the deputy,” I say.

  “Amen.” Annamae stares up at the dome of green. The leaves rattle shhh as the wind stirs them. “God planted this tree right here for us.”

  “Maybe it’s better to think of it as fate.”

  She jerks back, as if I sneezed on her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sometimes I wonder why God would grant a favor if trouble’s just waiting around the corner? It feels disingenuous. If it’s fate, then it’s written in the stars, and we can’t do much to avoid it.”

  Her lips split apart, and I can see her opinion of me begin to plummet.

  “I don’t mean any offense. I just mean, if God is benevolent—”

  “God is benevolent, and it ain’t Christian to believe in fate, because He’s in charge of the stars, too.” She raises her eyes to the canopy and mutters, “Be merciful on the poor wretch’s soul. She’s going through a rough spell.” With that, she rummages through her saddlebag.

  I drop the matter, for I don’t want her to think I’m a heathen. Though Father’s knowledge of Chinese beliefs was limited—he was brought to the states when he was only thirteen—he was just as ad
amant about passing them on to me as his Christian ideology, which he got from Pépère, my French grandfather. If they were important to Father, they were important to me, too, despite their inconsistencies.

  Annamae offers me a canteen from her saddlebag, which I gratefully accept, though I refuse half a leftover sandwich. My stomach is still too wrung out to accept food. “You got a chamber pot in there? Because I could use one.”

  She frowns. Here I thought her opinion of me could go no lower. Tilting her head to one side, she taps a worn fingernail against her chin. Whatever she’s going to say, I pray she says it soon since the river threatens to burst the dam soon.

  Her frown fades into resignation. “I’ll show you a trick that’s cleaner than squatting. Pull down you’s trousers.”

  I do it.

  “Now, take my hands, and make like you’s gonna sit.” She pulls back, counterbalancing me, and in this position, I relieve myself without sloshing my boots.

  “My turn,” she says.

  When done, we find another spot under the willow and hunker down. Christening the ground seems to diffuse some of her annoyance at me, and her manner becomes easy again.

  “It’s nice here. I been in St. Joe four years and never gone more than two miles.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Barely knew ’em.” She speaks without emotion. “Only got two brothers. Tommy, the baby, he died when he was seven.” She shakes her head and glares at a shriveled leaf. “I tried to drown myself in the horse trough after that, but kept bobbing back up.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She nods.

  “What about your second brother?”

  “That’s Isaac. Ain’t seen him in near five years, since I was eleven. He swore he’d get free before he turned twenty. That was”—she counts on her fingers—“five weeks ago. I gave up hope on seeing him, but then Ginny told me he’d meet me at Harp Falls.”

  I remember that Ginny was Yorkshire’s Negress. My eyes pinch together. “How did she know that?”