Under a Painted Sky

by Stacey Lee

  But I lost it anyway. The same day I lost him.

  I cradle the Lady Tin-Yin to me, her warm wood as comforting as the touch of an old friend. Then I pick out Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Father loved any instrument he could strum—banjo of course, guitar, harp, even washboard if that was the only thing available. Lady Tin-Yin understands my sorrow like no one else, singing my pain through mournful triplets, filling my speck of the world with a poem of aching sound.

  A tear breaks through my resolve, then another, and soon I’m crying hard enough to set off hiccups. I swipe my face with my sleeves and try to calm down.

  Well, at least now I have nothing left to lose. I should have been a boy. A son would have been more dutiful and less of a watering pot—though maybe that’s just the Snake in me. I wouldn’t be such a mess under these stolen clothes. And you, Father, would still be alive.

  Smoothing my hand over the water’s surface, I rub out my reflection. Something rustles behind me, but when I look, there is nothing but wind in the rushes. With a last glance at the disappearing moon, I head back to the others.

  When I get there, I find West’s old shearling coat laid across my bedroll.

  21

  I WAKE TO THE LOWING OF OXEN. IN FRONT OF ME, West breathes softly, one arm tucked under his head. His shearling perfectly cocoons me.

  I roll over slowly. Mist spreads out in fingers above us, like a drawer full of white gloves. Andy warms my other side. She grimaces, and then her face releases. Her hooked eyelashes tremble, and though she’s not awake, her hand clutches at the hem of her coat, like it’s a baby’s blanket. She is old enough to be a wife, a mother, yet a remnant of her innocence clings to her.

  I was wrong to think I had nothing more to lose. If anything ever happened to her, I would feel responsible.

  Her eyes flutter open. Making fists, she stretches out her arms, then smiles sleepily at me. Silently, we go for our morning rituals. A handful of pioneers are already washing by the river, which is so cold, it hurts to touch.

  We dip rags into the water and wring them out. After we wipe our teeth, I yank up some wild mint growing by the stream and hand Andy a springy leaf to chew on. “What if you came with me to find Mr. Trask? And after that, we’ll search for your brother.”

  “Isaac’s the only family I got. I can’t leave him waiting.”

  “But Mr. Trask might give us proper supplies, another mule.”

  “Actually,” she says slowly, “Peety said Princesa belongs to me.”

  “He did?” I say once I recover my voice.

  “Yeah. I didn’t ask for her, either,” she says. “Last night, after they told us we could we go with them, he said she and I were made for each other. Said he can tell by the way we carry ourselves—something like that. And then he said, she’s mine, as long as I promise to take care of her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m telling you right now.” She squeezes my wrist. “Listen, Sammy, you got you’s path to follow, and I got mine. Even if I went with you, you think Mr. Trask gonna let you leave with me, a runaway, to find another runaway? Especially with the law already chasing you?”

  “He’s a good man. He’d help us.”

  “He may be good, but he ain’t stupid.” She frowns at the water. Fish nip at mosquitoes, marring the surface.

  “I still don’t think we should split up. What if you run into more criminals, like those Scots?”

  She doesn’t meet my gaze. “Ain’t afraid of lawbreakers.” Her eyes stick on something in the dirt. “How long you think this bead’s been waiting on me to find it? Bet Tommy will like this one best.”

  She hands me the barrel-shaped bead to inspect. It’s grooved along the sides and is smooth as glass. It looks Indian in origin.

  I hand it back. “The Broken Hand Gang is still on the loose. Aren’t you afraid of them?”

  “They only attack folks who got something to steal. And I won’t have nothing but myself. And now, this bead.”

  “And Princesa.”

  She gives me a stern look but doesn’t reply. I decide not to push further. For now. If I nudge the boulder each day, eventually I’ll get it up the mountain.

  The boys are already up when we get back to camp. When West goes to wash in the river, I secure his coat to its usual place on the back of Franny’s saddle. I pray he didn’t see me bawling. Just in case, I pin a grumpy scowl on my face and gnaw on my bacon with extra gusto.

  • • •

  Soon, we join the endless stream of prairie schooners floating up the trail to Fort Kearny with their white canvas sails. I pull my hat as low as it can go over my head and fidget on my saddle as we crawl along. Dense grass on either side of the path means we can only go as fast as the wagon in front of us.

  I glance back at Andy. Her eyes are unfocused, like she’s lost in thought. I hope that means she’s considering my proposal.

  My attention returns to Cay, who’s memorizing lines he can say to French girls without being slapped.

  “Je peux tu aider?” he says. “That one’s easy to remember. It sounds like ‘sh poo two a day’?”

  “Use vous. You can’t be too familiar. A slap for certain.”

  “Aw, heck, I’m gonna be black-and-blue by the time I catch one.” Cay steers Skinny toward a shallow stream that runs parallel to the main road. A screen of yellow grass grows tall enough to cut the wagons from view, except for their tops. The watery track proves cooler than the trail by a notch, and it’s more private.

  “Why do you want to catch a Frenchie so bad?” I ask.

  “It’s only natural, I’m part French. You gonna get yerself a China girl someday, right?”

  I’d settle for just being a China girl again one day, but I nod.

  “Long way to China,” says Peety from somewhere behind me. “Maybe you can find a nice girl here. Lots of Mexicanas in California.”

  “You can’t joke like that, vaquero.”

  “Not joking. I think Chinito can marry whoever he wants. If Europeans did not marry Aztecs, we would not have Mexicanos.” He thumps his chest, causing his buttons to jingle.

  Andy angles her face toward me, an amused expression bending her eyebrows.

  “Yeah but that happened way back when folks didn’t have choices,” says Cay. “It was either take the señorita or row yourself back to Spain, and no one knew how to get back anyway. I think Chinito might be better off if he stuck to Chinitas.” Cay throws a glance over his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, West?”

  West doesn’t answer, and I guess he’s too far back to hear. But then he says in a quiet voice, “I s’pect.”

  His response cuts a notch off my posture. Of course it’s unrealistic to think he might feel differently.

  “But that’s the problem. There’s no Chinitas here,” Peety tosses back, keeping his tone mild.

  “Well, how’d Sammy’s daddy get a Chinese wife?”

  “He had a matchmaker send him my mother from Guangdong,” I say.

  “Like ordering a barrel of tea?” says Cay. “Is that legal?”

  “No one complained.”

  “’Specially not you. So how much that set him back?”

  “One hundred eighty-eight dollars. Eight is a lucky number because the word for eight, baht, sounds like the word for ‘prosper.’”

  West whistles a thin note that falls off at the end.

  Cay scratches his hat. “Ain’t that a mite risky, not sniffing the bottle before you drink?”

  “Never stopped you,” comes West’s voice from behind me. Peety snickers.

  “It wasn’t risky. The matchmaker used a formula based on time of birth and alignment of the heavens, since we believe our fates are written in the stars.” Cay cocks his head in consternation. I glance around. Andy frowns, probably saying a prayer for the preservation of my
heathen soul. “It worked, too. Father said Mother was as lovely as the empress’s teacup, with a temperament as sweet as autumn pears. He loved her very much. Every night, he placed a cup of her favorite drink, fermented rice wine, on the mantel.”

  “Sounds like he got his money’s worth,” says Peety. “But how was her cooking?”

  “He was buying himself a wife, not a frying pan,” mutters Andy.

  “I don’t know. He never talked about that.”

  Franny’s step increases until West surpasses me, riding slightly ahead. The sound of the collective hoofbeats on the wet pebbles is as comforting as rain. His oolong-smooth voice pours out, “You want my take, there’s nothing wrong with matching people up according to the stars, because at least someone gave a thought to it. Lots of deuces leap the altar ’cause they like getting sacked, and lots of girls agree ’cause they think they got no choice. Ain’t fair to the human race, and that’s the short of it.” He crosses his arms, causing his shoulders to bunch under his flannel.

  I lose my balance and grab the apple of Paloma’s saddle. Still waters may run deep, but trying to understand West is like trying to see through a muddy river.

  Cay nudges his pinto up alongside Franny. “You mean a nice piece of calico sits in your lap and you’re gonna tell her to shoo?”

  “She could sit as long as she wants,” says West in an offhand way that puts a bloom on my cheeks. “But I ain’t making promises I can’t keep.”

  “I never made promises I couldn’t keep,” Cay protests.

  “Don’t recall ever mentioning your name.” West clicks his tongue and Franny surges ahead, blond tail swishing fiercely.

  • • •

  By midday, our lick of stream runs into the Platte River forcing us back to the main trail. The Platte stretches over a mile wide, a coursing waterway cut with islands that give it a braided appearance. Along the banks, a line of tents extends out as far as I can see. Then we spy Old Glory, with her twenty-nine stars on a field of blue, rising out of a collection of timber-and-sod buildings. Fort Kearny.

  Cay’s shoulders slump and he scratches his hat. “That’s not a fort.” He perks up again when a redheaded girl in a polka-dot dress looks over her shoulder at him.

  “We’ll wait for you at the crossing,” I call after Cay, who is already following the girl.

  Peety goes next. “Don’t get lost, chicos.”

  West pauses in front of me. “You sure you don’t want to come? Probably got some good things to eat in there.”

  “I’m sure.” I’m touched by his concern, but even if a barrel of custard tarts waited inside that fort, I would not be tempted.

  He opens his mouth like he’s going to protest further but then closes it. “All right. We’ll try to be there by sundown.” He clicks his tongue and Franny takes him away.

  Andy and I continue down the trail, which meanders along the Platte River. Along the banks, large cottonwoods stand ramrod straight like sentinels among minions of sagebrush.

  “How much farther to the Parting?” asks Andy.

  “Seven hundred miles—about thirty-four days at our present rate.”

  “How long will it take for Mr. Trask to get there?”

  “At least thirty days.” I peek at her, wondering if she’s changed her mind about coming with me. “I just hope we can make up some time crossing the Platte.” Unlike the pioneers, we will not have wagons to encumber us.

  “How do you figure out those numbers so fast?”

  “I could teach you.”

  She flashes me a view of her crooked bottom teeth, holding up its straighter brethren. “I’d like that.”

  We reach the Platte River Crossing when the sun sits low in the sky. Though this crossing is both the shallowest and narrowest point on the river, we still cannot even see the other side.

  Wagons crowd the shoreline, some with their wheels removed. The pioneers must float them across while the animals ford. But no one attempts the crossing this late in the day with the water level so high. Sometimes the shoreline disappears altogether as the brackish waters ooze over into the high grass.

  “Maybe we should go farther up where there’s less folks,” says Andy. “We can come back here later when the sun sets, and we don’t stick out so much.”

  We take our mounts another two miles upriver, then leave them to dip their noses. Saddles in hand, and the Lady Tin-Yin strapped across my back, we settle under the only trees in sight for miles—a group of three cottonwoods set back several yards from the river where the ground is harder.

  Andy plops down under the center tree, then carefully tugs off Peety’s riding gloves, finger by finger.

  “I’d say someone’s taken you under his wing,” I say.

  She twists her mouth to the side. “Peety do have some flake to his biscuit. He understands feelings. You can tell by the way he is with horses. Like he knows little things that bug ’em without them saying so.”

  “Not to mention, he cares about their feet more than his own.”

  She chuckles, then goes quiet, her eyes drifting to a spot on the river. Absently, she begins fanning herself with her gloves. The sun seems to have grown fiercer since we arrived, as if determined to go down in a blaze of glory. I take off my own hat and unbutton my shirts down to my camisole.

  “You really believe all that stuff about choosing a husband by birthdays and stars?”

  “It worked for my parents, though one case is not enough to prove a theory. By the way, Peety was born in the Year of the Rat.”

  One eyebrow hooks up. “How do you know that? He only thought he was twenty-one. He wasn’t sure.”

  “I’m sure. He likes to talk, but doesn’t share much about himself. He’s a perfectionist, a tireless worker, and—this cinches it—he loves elegance.” My eyes drop meaningfully to the lambskin gloves in her lap.

  “Rat for certain, then. I feel like you’s makin’ a point, but I ain’t feeling a prick.”

  “Of the twelve lunar signs, Rats are most well-suited with Dragons.”

  I swear she blushes, though her dark skin makes it hard to tell.

  She slumps back against the tree, causing her hat to lift off her forehead. “A man like Peety wouldn’t be interested in someone like me.”

  “You mean someone good-looking, smart, and an expert cook to boot? No, you’re probably right. You’re his worst nightmare.”

  She lightly slaps my arm with the gloves. “It ain’t as easy as that, and you know it.”

  I lean back on my elbows, wishing I didn’t understand so immediately what she meant. A wasp buzzes near my face, and I blow at it. There may not be laws against interracial marriages in California, but society still frowns upon the practice. It is no easy thing, living under the weight of public scrutiny day after day. Even worse to subject another to it.

  I didn’t know if Mexicans felt the same way about blacks as whites did—surely Peety was different. “Rats live by their own rules. You heard what he said back there about Chinito marrying whoever he wants.”

  He shrugs. “He might already have a sweetheart.”

  He never spoke of a sweetheart, though I recall him mentioning one girl, Esme. When we first got Paloma, he told her that Esme loved mules.

  “Anyway, I been thinking I might not want to get married. Most men want children, but I don’t want to bring a child into a world where he could be sold like a hog.”

  That makes sense to me. “But don’t you want someone to look after you?”

  She leans back against our tree. “I don’t need nobody to take care of me. And you don’t either. Though that first day on the trail, I didn’t hold much hope for either of us. That look on your face when I caught the snake . . . ” Her lips tuck in, as if trying to suppress a smile.

  “Only because I do not like killing my own kind.” I sniff.

 
“Your kind was pretty tasty, though, admit it.” A grin breaks through and soon I’m wearing one, too. “What’s West’s animal?”

  “A rabbit.”

  “As in bunny?” Her mouth hangs open and she looks so dumbfounded, I start to laugh. Soon, we’re both slapping the ground in hilarity. Another wasp swoops by, and her teary gaze drifts toward the tree next to us. Something catches her attention. “So many wasps buzzing over there.” She stretches her neck to get a closer look. “Is that a boot?”

  Something brown sticks out of the earth near a heap of brush. The boot’s only a shade lighter than the dirt.

  She gets up and slaps her hands together. “Maybe this is Peety’s lucky day.”

  I follow her to the boot. “Hope it’s a pair. Chinese people say good things come in pairs because the word for ‘two’ sounds like the word for ‘easy’—”

  “Sammy,” she hisses, stopping short.

  “What?” Something in her voice makes me afraid.

  She’s staring at the brush. Tangled in the base of the plant is a negro man.

  He’s crumpled into a fetal position, facing us. Blood mats his hair, and the wasps are busy laying their eggs in his scalp. His eyes are nearly hollowed-out sockets and his skin is peeling in patches, like paint. Chunks of his arms are missing, maybe eaten by animals.

  My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. I try to pull Andy away, but she’s immobile, staring fixedly at a spot on the tree at eye level, where a cross is carved into the trunk.

  “Come on, let’s go,” I urge, yanking her by the arm.

  We fetch our saddles and run.

  22

  NEITHER OF US SPEAKS UNTIL WE CAN SEE PEOPLE again. This time, the sight of the pioneers comforts me.

  Andy tugs at her collar, wet with sweat. “Someone sure don’t know how to bury a man, or maybe just a negro man.”