A Reckoning

by Linda Spalding

  37

  John’s mare cantered along the road, slowing for the clumps and clefts she knew well enough while John bent his frame under branches though he could not deceive himself; he did not know any longer where he was going. Or why. The woods were his history. He’d been over the county and beyond it for years: He that Listeneth to Me…The furrows and paths were not filled with hostility; there was many a home that would take him in, offer him food and a bed, but the image he held was of his youngest child being handed up into the wagon, being given up by none other than himself. After such an act, how could he reasonably ask for shelter from a Christian family? He had taken old Reuben several miles out of the district, connecting Reuben’s mule to a little cart that would serve as seat and resting place. Get along now, he’d coached the old man. Keep your letter of freedom safe.

  Reuben had looked up at him without a word of thanks, climbed up in the cart, and muttered: Better you not to go lookin for more trouble.

  But John had turned his mare toward Tennessee and now, miles away from that scene, he had a craving to get out of the saddle and sit in the dark and think of how Gina had clung to him. He’d started out with a clear idea of what he was doing and where he was going, Better you not to go lookin, and lost it on the road or in the unreadable woods. Directionless, he unclamped his hands from the mare’s tangled mane and she stood nosing at a clump of green while he slid off her back and onto hard ground. Bitter and still loving all of it, he had left the brick house with the long table at its core where Emly had served a thousand meals, a thousand spicy cakes, her famous rounds of cheese. And perhaps it was his intention to find her in Tennessee, where she would be marketed as a body to be used by drooling men or perhaps he was just afraid of death. First, I will save the woman I didn’t protect. That’s all it was – an act of contrition. But a jab of rage hit him and he rubbed at his chest. He remembered a moment when his mother had grabbed him and then pushed him away and he had run around and around the house. Mama, he whispered now. But he could not remember the hunger he’d felt for his mother, or even the burden of her disinterest. What he remembered was Bry ten years old. They’d been born the same year, but sometimes Bry liked to play with Jemima best. They had a cave that John was not allowed to enter and maybe John ran to Rafe and told him that Bry was ten years old and it was time for him to be working the fields. Ten. Take him back. He groaned now at the memory of challenging Rafe to take Bry away. He’s yours, isn’t he? John had squeaked, running into Rafe on the road. How come you let him just play? And Rafe went to Mary to demand the return of a boy who had never set foot on his land, although he had been conceived there. John’s jealousy had deprived Jemima of her playmate and Bry of his childhood and now he got back on his horse and proceeded southeast, catching the lay of the sun on his path and wishing his mare had wings.

  Late that day, he passed an Indian farm that did not differ noticeably from other frontier farms but he hoped to find comfort among people like himself and kept to his horse until he could no longer make out leaf from leaf. Where was he, by any measure of time and direction? He made a small fire and sat by it. You must go away and grow up, he had said to Patton. Don’t come back until you have done that. He’ll come back to us a better man, John had said to Lavina, and she had said: It will be a shock to find nothing left!

  Dear son, I am a fugitive, bone-weary, saddle-sore, and scared.

  The next morning the ground was unsteady and the throbbing in his head moved down to his stomach and he stumbled to a tree, leaned against it, and was sick. Then he lay down in the road. He watched an ant carry a leaf past his hand. He saw that his hand was open. He invited the ant to partake of the salt on his skin. He tried grabbing at the mare, groping for his empty saddlebag. He could not reach the bag or the saddle and he lay face up, still sick. In some places, there was the cholera and John considered this with sudden terror. Had he contracted the disease? The road stretched on, blocked by dead trees where clearing had been badly done. He was headed south, according to the slant of the sun when he looked into branches that shared the sky. He tried his legs again, pushing up from his knees on a road without signage. He staggered against the mare, who stood waiting without concern because the two of them had spent many a night like this. The trail stretched out with its promise of deliverance as he pulled himself into the saddle and while the mare picked her way between fallen trees, he tried to believe that the promise he’d made to Emly in the barn could still be kept.

  38

  On the third Sabbath, the women ranged themselves along the edge of a rushing creek, each with a pail and a bar of hard soap. One or two were using the rough rocks as washboards but most were soaping things in pails, then rinsing the soaped laundry in the running stream, wringing the water out and putting the clothes back in empty pails, wet and clean. They were laughing at the indignity of this, making jokes about their grandmothers on a washday. They were women who had conveniences at home. Some of them had a household slave left behind, but now this was the only way a baby’s diapers could be washed, or underclothes or menstrual rags.

  Lavina gathered her things in a pail and hauled a kettle of steaming water and soap past the men, who were working on wheels or mending boots and tools. Her pail was heavy and even the handle was hot as she headed along the path where so many women had been up and down the bank that morning and suddenly she slipped on a wet spot and the kettle spilled steaming water onto her skirt and that water seeped through the fabric and burned her thigh and there was pain so intense, so sudden, that she cried out and two men rushed to her side. Lavina felt the sting of embarrassment as well as the sting of burning skin. These were the men who had kept her at the back of the line of wagons due to her uselessness and now she was on the ground squirming in pain but doing her best to make light of it. Pulling steaming fabric from her skin, and sealing her lips, she got back to her feet, dizzy, swaying, hobbling down the gooey bank with what was left of the boiling hot water. The river was foaming and she was in agony, wondering: Where am I? Bending over painfully at the water’s edge, circling the hard soap in the hot water, rubbing it against cloth, rubbing pieces of cloth against each other, seeing spots in the space between people and trees. Reeling. Rubbing and gasping at the fury of her leg, wiping at tears or sweat on her face. Bile in her throat. One does not want to draw attention to oneself or worry the others. The pain so overwhelming that she blinked her eyes to clear them and held back the vomit she could feel in her throat, taking hold of an arm. It was Sister Borden, who noticed Lavina’s white face. Sit down, Sister, you look peaked. Sister Borden was a stout woman of Irish descent who had often maintained that the circles under Gina’s eyes meant a poor circulation. You must not give her the laudanum, Sister Dickinson. It will slow down her blood. She advanced cures for any discomfort. Wahoo root tea for rheumatism. Sulfur and molasses for ague, even scrofula. Polk root, a deadly poison, covered with whiskey for any serious rheumatism. And for burns…oil of lavender and lard or sour milk.

  Lavina said now to no one in particular: I find the syrup consoles her. The thought of Gina’s syrup was a focus of sorts. She pictured the little stoppered bottle, so easily filled from a larger one she kept with the malt vinegar.

  Such a mother, said the stout Sister Borden. Her young son bringing a pet bear! She smiled knowingly at the other women.

  Lavina wiped her face and thought of the morning cream that was sitting cool and remedial in the shade of her wagon. She thought if only she could get into the cool creek water she’d find relief. Then she answered weakly: Martin is too tender, and added: But my eldest boy attended Emory and Henry College. And for a brief second, she forgot her leg; maternal pride consoling every injury. He is waiting for us in Missouri, she said, while the trees around her were dancing untreelike.

  Missouri! Sister Borden’s eyes were wide.

  Lavina slapped Electa’s petticoat on the edge of her pail and a spray of water moistened the air. She was keeping her face out of sight, ha
rd panting.

  It don hardly seem worth the trouble, said Sister Storey, another launderer. Stoppin there.

  A third woman said: You’ll pay dearly for land that could be bought for a dollar an acre on the other side of the river now that K.T. is opening up.

  Lavina held a wet hand to her cheek, looking from one woman to another as if she had never seen them before. Were they seriously meaning to settle in such a heathen place, not even a proper state? She said: Martin was enrolled to attend the same school…but then she thought better of it and did not continue. Abandoned. Penniless. She could not admit to her shame while the burn on her skin was eating her alive.

  Sister Borden repeated the exclamation about Lavina’s brand of mothering and continued to wash her clothes and wring them out and slam them back in the pail. Of course, Mister Borden and I started off just the two of us, whereas you are an entire nestload, she noted, glancing at Lavina with concern.

  The word reeked of vipers but Lavina, faint and nauseous, tried to imagine traveling alone with John. No picture came to her mind. A burn will continue to burn like something living, she thought. It owns what it touches until it is stopped and she held her skirt to one side and pulled herself up, taking hold of her pail of wet clothes. Then she turned, dropped the pail, and went straight to the creek. When she fell in, there were shouts from the bank and Sister Borden leapt into the water to save her, wetting boots and skirt. For Lavina, the cold brought instant relief and she pulled her bloomers away from the seared flesh and floated like a weed in Sister Borden’s arms, letting the world come back into focus. She had not meant to create a scene, but that’s what she’d done. She smiled a little sheepishly and apologized for her clumsiness. Took a little fall, she said. Nothing to fret about.

  On shore, there were hands held out and she let Sister Borden lead her to them dripping, soaked from the neck down, swathed in heavy, wet clothes. She tugged at her skirt and picked up her pail and climbed awkwardly up the bank, making her way step by step between the scattered belongings of the other campers. She was thinking about Clotilde, who would clean the burning wound with her gentle hands and cooling creams except that John had thoughtlessly sent her away. And I am not a person who cleans my linens in a running stream, she said to the person she was passing. I do not empty my bladder on grass or sleep on a mat, she muttered, nodding at the women crouched by their fires and wondering if Clotilde was the only friend she’d ever had.

  Electa had gathered wood. If it rains now, there will be nothing to eat and the laundry? Martin! Son! I need a line. She was able to get up in the wagon, but Martin was off with the bear again and that made Lavina wonder if her son was plain foolish. Maybe Sister Borden was right. Sometimes he stopped to roll in the grass with Cuff. Or he’d find a creek and Cuff would scoop up a trout. One fish, and it was Cuff’s, two and a fire was started, and next thing you know the boy would be singing some invented song: Our bodies are covered with fur and we have eyes ears nose for sense, teeth for trout…Oh dear Jesus. Was she singing? Could she be heard? Worst of sins! The medicine box was equipped for emergencies. There was hartshorn for snakebites, peppermint essence, and a bottle of castor oil. There was turpentine, goldenseal, and tobacco. Gina’s syrup. But Electa was writing feverishly on a piece of white paper. Another letter to her father, no doubt. Ma!

  What happened?

  I wanted a bath. Go wash the beans, Lavina said, wanting the syrup, wanting to scream, wanting to take off her wet clothes and inspect the burn, but waiting until Electa ducked out from under the canvas. Then Lavina reached for the laudanum and unstoppered the bottle, wondering what words her daughter would put in a letter. I find the syrup consoles her…She had recently said those words, but to whom? Some things were nobody’s business, but written words were put down on paper for other eyes. Already Electa had two or three missives tucked into a pocket of the canvas waiting to be mailed. Lavina swallowed a good dose of the syrup while her mind circled the complexities of a daughter too secretive to communicate with a parent who was present and available. In another pocket sewn to the wagon cover, there were rags and she wrapped one carefully around her thigh, but that was intolerable. Limb, her husband would have said. Never would he say leg. It was the old Quaker heritage he had learned from Daniel, that cold, strict way of defining the world. Words. How would she write this pain on a scrap of paper if she had one? I am what I am, not what I say, she thought, while the pain traveled like the blade of a knife down the leg past the knee, past the ankle into the foot, and then all the way back up again to her waist. What did Lecta write? (The syrup was a bottle of the good Lord’s blessing.) Was it another hopeless petition, begging John to follow after them? Or there might be remarks about Lavina, mother of the young correspondent. Such a mother, Sister Borden had said, and not in a kindly way. But writing it down would take all the sarcasm out of the words. No one would read the inflection. It would seem to be just what it was, which it wasn’t. Peeling her wet clothes off, replacing each piece with something more or less clean, Lavina tried to climb down out of the wagon, leaking creek water from her boots, and fainted.

  39

  Dear Papa, We stopped in a tavern to sleep and I wanted my papa to protect me. It was frightfull. Once a guest there was joined by two men and three women who asked for breakfast because it was a cold morning and they had rid all the night, the guest took out his pocket-book which the visitors noticed had gold coins. Then he dicided to travel with those strangers who ate at his expence, and a few days later someone found him dead and the two men and three ladies were put in gaol but the men escaped while the ladies each delivered a baby and when the ladies got out, the two brothers, who were named Big and Little Harpe killed one of those babies by bashing it on a tree. Can you imagine Papa? Kentucky is a very dangerous place for us to be. I hope you will fine us in Louisville we really need you to come right away. Your loving Lecta Please, Papa!

  40

  The women offered tonics, although it was apparent that nothing could be done to relieve the streaks of infection on Lavina’s leg until they reached Louisville, where she would find a doctor and where the train would disband and its various members would go their separate ways. Sister Borden said that her husband could help, but Lavina was not easy with that idea. In Louisville, those who could afford to travel by riverboat would find passage on the Ohio down to the bend of the Mississippi and the upward thrust of the Missouri. Others would go overland. To Missouri, to Kansas, to Nebraska, and to points farther west. The Dickinsons had planned to travel by land but Lavina was at the point of changing her mind. She could not manage the wagon in her condition. First a doctor. Then, when they found Patton, the whole process of deciding between river and land could take place.

  At Bullitt’s Lick, Martin halted the mules and went off to watch the salt workers where the earth was dug into a trough. We’ll lose the train, Lavina moaned from inside the wagon, where she lay in the heat of her fever, but she could not stay awake to complain. She kept drifting, too hot, too exhausted to think about wagons or cows or salt workers, although Electa insisted they must hurry. Martin was in charge now that his mother was ill, which Electa thought was ridiculous. She was so much older! What advantage did he have over her? Martin would obviously be happier playing with his bear and wandering with the other children. He was too curious and fidgety to mind the wagon properly. After the first detour with the salt workers, he stopped a second time at a place where men were making sugar by boiling up maple sap, and there he took time to bargain for a jug of syrup, then Cuff overturned the jug and drank all the contents. Does it ever go free? Lavina asked Martin. She had forgotten Cuff’s history and wondered, in her fever, why a bear was tied to her wagon.

  At Dowdall’s Station they crossed Salt River on a ferry and that provided excitement. Later they camped in a crowd of wagons and tents at the Fishpools, where several springs were clustered along a creek. It was a scenic spot where wagon train travelers could pretend to relax and bathe and let
their children romp in the sun. Martin parked the wagon in a spot of shade.

  Electa said: Mama, you should be careful of that laudanum. You’d do better to get out and walk some. Gina, you come back here with me and I’ll tell you the wolf story. Mama is tired.

  Lavina noticed that sometimes, every so often, strange habitations grew right out of the earth along the creeks with the sod piled up two or three feet above ground. She could discern roofs and chimneys or the occasional rusted stovepipe. It was mysterious. The grass was like water. They were floating on a pale green sea.