“It’s no trouble. I need to gather a few things for Ophelia before you take her away.”
“Well, okay. I’d be honored to eat a slice of your pie—made by those most delicate nubbins.” He picked up one of her hands and admired her fingers as if they were sparkling diamonds. “My, how do you keep these hands so dainty out here on the frontier?”
May Belle shook her head and pulled her hand away again. “Oh! You do go on.” She blushed. “They’re stained with apricot and covered with calluses. Save your charm for the young ladies,” she chided. “I’m an old maid and I intend to stay that way.” She cut a piece of pie, put it on a china plate, and placed it on the table with a fork and a red and white checked napkin. “Now, I regret that I have no cream for your pie.”
“This is fine, ma’am. I do appreciate your hospitality.”
I winced. When I had seen Uncle Luther, my stomach got all knotty and now it was beginning to hurt again. I followed May Belle into another room. She had one of the only brick houses in Grafton. From the kitchen, Uncle Luther groaned with pleasure and shouted his approval of the pie. I wished he’d shut his trap.
She led me to a coach trunk. It was worn and a little tattered from the journey to Zion, but it was made of expensive leather and brass buckles. She knelt in front of it, her smile an invitation. I knelt next to her. She peered and slowly opened it—never taking her eyes from my face.
With anticipation, I looked on. But the trunk was only full of quilts. Quilts? Did Sister May Belle think I’d be excited over quilts? She removed two quilts from the top of the trunk. Underneath, it was full of books. I gasped. She put her finger to her lips.
“This is our secret. I smuggled these books on the wagon. We were forbidden to take anything but necessities. Now that Abraham has passed, these books are my companions.” She stared at me intently and whispered, “There are books the Prophet hasn’t sanctioned.”
Why was she sharing her secret with me? Maybe it was because I was a traitor and she knew I wouldn’t tell on her. She picked up a plain, black book. On the cover embossed in gold was the word, Hymns. She handed it to me. A thin smile of false thanks crossed my lips. I couldn’t imagine I’d ever want to sing again.
“Open it,” she said with a sly smile.
I opened the book and began turning pages. Every page was blank. I didn’t understand and looked up at May Belle.
“I don’t know what the Lord has in store for you. But I don’t think you’re destined to remain here. Write down your thoughts and feelings. Record your first love and all of your adventures. Write things in here you’d never say.” She stared down at the book and a wistful shadow lingered on her face. “There are times in life, child, when the best thing you can say is nothing at all—when you have to hold your tongue even though the words are burning it. The hardest lesson I’ve learned over the years is when to hold my tongue. I see a lot of me in you, and I know you will face the same challenge. This book will help you. Everything you want to say but can’t, you write down here. On the cover it says Hymns because if it said Diary that would invite snooping, now wouldn’t it? Some diaries, they have bitty little locks outside—but that’s just temptation for prying eyes.”
I thanked May Belle and hugged her. Her kindness gave me strength.
“That book is to keep. Go on now and borrow a few more. You can exchange them for others when you’re done. But be sure not to let anyone see them.”
From the kitchen, Uncle Luther hollered. “I’m fuller than a hog at fair time. That was the most delicious pie I ever ate!”
I wanted to tell May Belle about Uncle Luther—tell her not to trust him, that his charm was a big act. But when she heard his voice her cheeks turned a pink color that made her look like a girl no older than me. It was too late. She’d fallen for his false charm.
On the way back to our place, Uncle Luther picked pie from his teeth with a reed he snapped from the river brush. I walked behind him. I cradled the books tight to my chest like a baby, so he wouldn’t see the titles. Uncle Luther didn’t seem to notice or care about those books. He probably didn’t realize how valuable books were in Grafton. He was most likely preoccupied with the whereabouts of the ruby necklace, obtaining whiskey, and his impending high-stakes card game. “Did you learn your lesson, girl?” was all he said.
I made no reply.
SIX
Darkness shadowed the lean-to until I couldn’t read anymore. My feet ached to be free. I wanted so badly to take off my shoes. Every night I slept with them on in case Uncle Luther came for me. He’d call at all hours, “O-phe-ya!” and stumble out of the cabin, all liquored up and obsessing about me and the necklace. I’d run as fast as I could out of the lean-to, down the hill, into a ditch covered by willow grass. All the while Dolly lay on the cot stuffed with the treasure he was seeking. I could hear him from my hiding spot, but he couldn’t see me.
He’d yell into the night, “O-phe-ya, come out now, or I’ll give you a hiding you’ll never forget!”
He didn’t put much effort into looking for me. I’d outwait him and often fall asleep in the brush. By the next morning he’d forget his threats in favor of hot coffee and breakfast. With no one to help, I was now tending all the animals, fixing the meals, and doing all the chores myself. Every few days Uncle Luther would ride over to Jack’s Trading Post for supplies. Besides that he practiced his card tricks and smoked tobacco.
With my head resting on an old feather pillow, I lay on the cot in the lean-to and stared at the ceiling. A final ray of sunset illuminated a spider web. I imagined a different life in a big town where I had money for fancy dresses and sweets. Dolly lay next to me. Her soulless black button eyes hid her secret. It was difficult to hide mine. If Uncle Luther saw hope in my eyes, he’d become suspicious about the necklace again. My pinky toe rubbed the side of my boot where the seam had started to come loose from the sole. When my shoes fell apart, I’d have to hoof it like a poor farm child.
I picked up Dolly and stared into her button eyes. Mother had made Dolly for me when I was just a little girl. I’d carried her on the emigration trail all the way to Zion. When my weary bleeding feet felt like they’d fall off, Dolly helped me carry on. I had not wanted to join the dead children who had been thrown into shallow graves along the route, so I’d hugged Dolly tight and pulled little pieces of cotton from inside her. I had let the cotton melt in my mouth and pretended it was crusty bread. Both Dolly and I lost weight on the trail. When we got settled, Mother stuffed her with scraps and me with food to make us both plump again.
Right before she died, we hid the necklace inside Dolly. Mother had called me to her bedside and sworn me to secrecy. Sparkling rubies had hung from her shriveled hand. They were her secret. Not even Pa knew she possessed them.
She had pulled me to her and with a quivering, weak voice whispered into my ear. “These rubies belonged to your great-grandmother. They are both sacred and cursed. For years, I’ve hidden them. If life ever became unbearable, if your Pa took to beating me, or my children were starving, I figured I’d sell them. I came close on the emigration trail, but I couldn’t imagine what I could trade them for out there. Ophelia, go get me Dolly.”
I fetched Dolly from my bed and handed her to my ma. She tried to undo Dolly’s stitching, but her hands trembled too much, so I helped. We took out some of Dolly’s stuffing, wrapped the rubies in the cotton, and stuffed them back inside. Then I stitched Dolly back up again. With a faint smile of reassurance, Ma watched me from her bed. “Now you have something, Ophelia: insurance against desperate times. But I have to warn you, when my mother gave me these jewels she told me of an old family superstition that there is a curse attached to selling them.” She swallowed, then licked her lips. So much talking had made her weak. There was so much I wanted to ask her, but she was too feeble to speak.
I put Dolly on the chair and brought a dipper of water from the bucket. Since my mother had been sick, Zeke and I separated her bucket and had been careful
not to put anything to our mouths that she’d touched with hers. It was too late for Pa, as he was already showing signs of her disease.
Ma drank gratefully and rested her head back on the pillow. “The rubies may bring you good fortune for a few years, but I can’t say what will happen later. This life has been a trial, but I was too stubborn and scared to sell them. Don’t let your pa or Zeke know that I’ve been hiding these. Especially your pa. He’d be very angry.”
I continued to stare at the spider web and imagined how life would be different if I were a wealthy lady. During the day I’d teach poor children to read. Then at night a gentleman suitor would take me to a ball. He’d be tall with blond hair, blue eyes, and straight teeth. I imagined my suitor might look like Joseph Smith because his picture was the only image of a handsome young man I’d ever seen.
The neighing and clomping of a horse coming up the path startled me out of my fantasy. I grabbed the Henry Repeater, which Zeke left behind, and peered out to see who it was. Bishop Marley saw me. He dismounted, hitched his horse, and strode over to me. I put the Henry down, folded my hands, and looked at the ground. I wanted to get on the good side of the bishop because he could easily decide my fate.
He looked into the lean-to and noticed my makeshift quarters. “What on earth? Ophelia, why are you sleeping out here?”
I took a breath to answer, but he didn’t give me time.
“The Brown homestead was just raided by Indians. Child, you need to go inside where it’s safe. Right now! Where’s your uncle?”
I pushed my hair from my face, tucked it behind my ears, and looked him square in the eyes. “What happened? Are they all right?”
“The women and children are unharmed. Brother Alonso drove them off. But they got away with three steers. Alonso is wounded.”
“Will he live?”
“With the grace of the Almighty, he’ll survive. Go inside now and pray.”
Uncle Luther burst out of the cabin with a shotgun raised. When he saw the bishop and me, he lowered it. “Good evening, Bishop Marley! What brings you to our humble abode at this late hour?” The way he put on that dandy voice every time he talked to the bishop nauseated me. I sighed loudly. The bishop threw a quick vexed glance in my direction.
“Evening. I came to warn you that Black Hawk has made another raid on the settlement. People are gathering in the meeting hall and sticking close together in case he strikes again. You’re welcome to join them. Grafton is not prepared for this right now. Most of our strong fighting men have gone to the high country to set up a sawmill. Black Hawk’s timing is fortuitous. It’s almost as though he knew we would be unprotected.”
The bishop stared at me. A tremor ran through my body. He didn’t trust me. He thought Zeke had something to do with this. I opened my mouth to protest, but Uncle Luther said, “We’ll be just fine here.” He held up the shotgun and shook it. “I was in the front lines at the Battle of Bull Run. Men fell all around me, but I kept up the charge till those Union boys ran all the way back to Washington with their tails between their legs. I will not run from Injuns.”
“Well, then, I had you all wrong. You’re not a greenhorn after all. I expect a man with your battle experience can protect his kin. Make sure the girl is armed. I hear she’s a good shot. You’ll need all the help you can get if they attack again tonight.”
I ran and grabbed the Henry. “Yes, sir,” I said to the bishop as if he were my sergeant. “I’m ready to fight any enemy that comes my way.” I looked square at Uncle Luther. His eyes shifted and rolled before a smirk crossed his face. “Go inside, Ophelia. I won’t let any harm come your way, my dear sweet child.” With the rifle tucked under my arm, I strode past Uncle Luther toward the cabin door. “Lord, help me,” I heard Uncle Luther say to the bishop. “She’s incorrigible.”
The bishop shook his head and looked at the ground. “Each day, I thank the Heavenly Father for not bestowing the curse of a red-headed child upon me.”
My ears and eyes burned with anger. I went into the cabin and slammed the door behind me.
SEVEN
With my rifle draped over my lap, I sat on my old bed and stared at the floor. Uncle Luther sauntered back into the cabin and placed the shotgun on the table. He settled on the bench, folded his jeweled hands under his chin, and studied me. I refused to look at him.
“What could be better than a quiet evening with your dearest uncle, holed up together against an impending Indian attack?” He cocked his head sideways and shook it in mock sympathy. “You won’t be able to hide in the bushes tonight because the red savage might come scalp you.” He made a dramatic gesture with his hands, banged them on the table, and laughed. Had he known where I was hiding all along? The threat of Indians seemed of such little consequence to him. An invasion of red ants was coming, for all he seemed to care.
“Were you really at the Battle of Bull Run?” I finally asked.
“Of course not!” He stood and removed a large burlap sack from a high shelf. With great ceremony he pulled items from it and laid them on the table. Even from across the room, I could smell chocolate, buttery biscuits, and cheese. He set down a green bottle with a long slender neck and uncorked it with a knife. He rose and fetched a cup from the kitchen. He wiped out the cup with a rag, placed it on the table next to the bottle, and settled back down onto the bench. I looked away as soon as he looked at me, but I could see his jeweled hand in the air. His index finger beckoned me to the table.
“Dearest Ophelia, if you must spend an evening with the devil, you might as well drink the nectar of the gods.”
I glanced at the table. It was a mistake. I couldn’t take my eyes off the feast he had laid out. The forbidden bottle had an elegant shape and exuded a wonderful grape aroma, which drew me forward. I stood clutching the rifle, three feet or so from the table, and looked at the sumptuous spread. If I had ever seen or tasted such delicacies, I had no memory of it. My tongue salivated from the rich smells.
“Sit,” said my uncle. “We can at least make this pleasurable.”
I sat on the bench across from him and rested the rifle across my lap. “Where did you get all this?” I asked.
“I have my ways.” He smiled, poured some wine into the cup, and slid it toward me. “Let it linger in your mouth before you swallow it.”
“Saints aren’t supposed to drink spirits.”
“It’s only wine.” He leaned forward and searched my eyes until I felt thoroughly exposed. “Besides, are you really a Saint? Or do you keep secrets from your elders? Do you tell lies and have impure thoughts?”
His questions penetrated and rattled the very core of my being. I’d always assumed I was worthy enough to call myself a Saint. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. I lifted the cup from the table and was about to drink.
He reached out and wrapped his long jeweled fingers around my wrist. “Let it linger on your lips,” he said and steadied the cup. As my lips touched the wine, they tingled and seemed to grow. He took his hand away and nodded. I drank and lowered the cup.
“Now your lips are red, just like a painted lady.” He smiled and reached for a deck of cards.
“Phlltt . . . phlltt . . . phlltt,” the devil whispered as he shuffled.
In the distance, coyotes yipped and howled. For as long as I could remember, all I’d had to drink was water from the Virgin. The wine made my mouth both come alive and melt in the most delicious contradictory sensation. “Aren’t you afraid of the Indians?” I asked Uncle Luther.
A knowing sideways smile crossed his face. “Black Hawk won’t come here,” he said assuredly, as if he knew Black Hawk and his ways.
“How do you know?”
He snorted and slammed down the cards. “I know what I know, and you don’t have to know it, or ask how I know it. I just do!” He blew air through his nose and gestured at the chocolate and cheese. “Go ahead. Help yourself. I know you want some. Don’t be shy. If I didn’t want to share, I wouldn’t offer.”
I
placed the rifle on the floor next to the table, stood up, and chose a small piece of chocolate. I put it in my mouth. It tasted wonderful. I drank a little more wine and ate some cheese. It is hard to describe the rapture of eating those things to someone who has never been hungry or looked upon a simple slice of cheese as the grandest luxury. Partaking of those pleasures filled me with such warmth and good cheer, for a moment I forgot my uncle was a treacherous swine. As I ate, I stared at his fingers laden with heavy sparkling rings and marveled how nimble he was with the cards. I’d never seen such jewels on a man—or a woman, for that matter—and they mesmerized me.
He caught me staring at them. “Do you like jewels? Enough to lie and keep them hidden from a poor relation fallen on hard times who has come so far to see you? I earned these here”—he held up his ringed hands—“gambling on the riverboat, won them from the unlucky hands of babes, babes at the card table. The jewels your mother absconded with are my birthright and believe me, if they are here, I will get them back.” He glared at me and then admired his rings. “I don’t do physical labor anymore. I make it my business to know things. I acquired these rings through skillful application of knowledge.” He spread out his hands and tapped his fingers on the table. “I wear a fortune on my hands because I play my hand with knowledge and skill.” He tapped the deck of cards.
I wanted to know the story of my mother and the scandal that destroyed her family. But I didn’t ask Uncle Luther, because I could see he was a liar and a cheat.
“You mean through trickery,” I said.
“Through knowledge and skill,” he scowled. “Now let’s play a simple game called vingt-et-un. Do you remember what I taught you?”
EIGHT
After we played a few hands of cards, drank more wine, and ate our fill of the delicacies, Uncle Luther started to act funny. “Come on over here,” he babbled. “Come on, sit next to me. Sit on my lap. Let me tell you a story.”
Ophelia's War Page 5