Dollybird

by Anne Lazurko

Her grin was like a warm blanket, her words so sure. She’d set it all straight with two words – bad luck. I laughed at myself.

  “And you helped Moira with the baby. The whole countryside’s talking about that.” Her small face grew big and alive. “Most of the men around here would have run the other way. They’re saying you saved her life. The baby’s too.”

  I was embarrassed she was looking at me like I was something special. “My wife, Taffy, you would have liked her,” I said to change the subject.

  “Yes? I heard she died giving birth. Sorry.” She glanced at Casey. “I think she’d be glad you were able to help Moira.”

  I didn’t set her straight, wanted her to believe my good deed was enough, a kind of redemption. Maybe it was. We both started at the sound of a wagon driving up. She leaned in close, and I could smell something sweet in her hair.

  “I think you’re a good person even if others want to talk.” Her lips were warm and light on my cheek.

  The wagon had stopped. A loud voice rang out. “Carla, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh Lord, it’s my father.”

  Her fear got into me. I told myself this was my home, and we’d done nothing wrong. I opened the door and stepped outside, Carla behind me. Her father stood by the wagon, hands on hips, feet planted like trunks an axe couldn’t budge. She went over to him.

  “Tell Moira I was here then,” Carla said loudly. “It’s too bad I missed her. I wanted to see the baby again, especially now she has a name. Shannon Louise. Isn’t it beautiful, Daddy?”

  He didn’t say a thing, just stood there with his hooded eyes fixed on me.

  “Oh, and tell Moira I’ll come by to help her with the preserves, and we can get that pork salted. She’ll need help, what with the baby and all,” Carla said, her words coming fast and forced.

  Mr. Schmidt tied Carla’s horse to the back of the wagon and heaved his large frame up. I chanced a wink at Carla and she grinned.

  “The crew,” Mr. Schmidt called out. “They’re on their way here.” He clucked to the horses. “You got everything cut and stooked yet?”

  “What? Today?” I wasn’t ready.

  “The foreman says they’ll start your wheat in a couple days.” He was watching me, probably hoping I’d show some sign of panic. I went to work like an idiot then, finished cutting the crop, stooked it into sheaves so they’d be ready for the crew, my heart pounding with the thought of my first harvest.

  i i i

  The huge thresher rolled into the Red Fife two days later as promised. I jumped off Nelly, who was suddenly nervous. Or maybe it was me making her twitchy, excited about the massive machine, the wagons, the fifteen men busy hitching horses, preparing for the day. The crew boss was hollering instructions, and the others were shouting back and forth. The work was familiar, but new too, and the excitement of it churned in my gut. I was a little crazy, worrying that the men on the wagons were pitching the stooks carelessly and leaving the odd one twisted on the ground as though that grain didn’t matter. It mattered to me. And when I ran about picking them up and throwing them into the thresher, the men gave each other a look, like I was a lunatic. Screw them.

  Steam poured from the machine into the clear blue day and mingled with the dust and chaff so there was a sun-drenched haze over the field. My eyes itched and I was sneezing all the time, but I ignored it. My harvest was on.

  The crew was paid by the bushel. A weighing device on the thresher tripped to make every half-bushel bag. I watched for a while, jumping up to check the scale myself, though the men didn’t look too happy at my being there. But I’d heard of tampering, the scale set too low, farmers being cheated. Underweight bags caused trouble at the elevators too, buyers believing it was the farmer’d done the cheating.

  The hours wore on, the bags stacking up on the wagon. When it was loaded, I drove it to the yard and neatly stacked the firm canvas sacks in the small shed I’d built off the corral. I counted them out loud, and Casey recorded each with a nail mark on the wall. I couldn’t get the smile off my face. It was my crop, started as nothing but dirt. I’d seen it through to the end, the results of all the sweat and fear now safely stored. I’d be able to provide. I almost laughed out loud.

  “There it is Casey.” I threw him onto the top bag and spread my arms. “It’s ours. All of it.”

  “Yeah well.” Gabe stood in the door of the shed. “You got lucky.”

  “What are you doing here?” I wanted to take a hammer to the quiver in my voice.

  “Had to get a job.” He held one side of his nose and snorted a stream of snot from the other to the ground. I stepped between him and Casey sitting on the bags. “Seein’s I lost everything in the storm. Need something to live on.”

  I’d heard about Gabe’s crops being ruined and had been quietly glad, recalling the suffering in the girl’s face and the beating he’d given me. I was thankful for God’s good judgment in choosing whom to smite. “Bad luck I guess.”

  “Looks like you’ll do all right,” he said, and laughed a mean little snort. “But good luck runs out too.” He swaggered away.

  Mrs. Miller hollering “lunch” was met with a general roar from the crew at the prospect of roasted chicken, fresh bread, preserves and pies. Moira tried to be pleasant, laughing at jokes I knew she didn’t think were funny, gracious when the men complimented the food. They were respectful. I wondered how they’d treat her if they knew our real situation. Afterward everyone stretched out for a short rest, some talking quiet, some sound asleep on the ground. Gabe was eyeing Moira up and down like an animal sizing up prey. He gave her tits a good long stare – full with milk they were – and smirked. I tried to catch his eye, to warn him off, but the crew boss showed up at my elbow.

  “Thought you should know. We’ll work late as we can tonight and start about ten tomorrow.” Joe rubbed dust out of tired, red eyes.

  I hadn’t trusted him at first, his accent being heavy and gutteral like Gabe’s. But I’d watched him run all day, feeling bad I couldn’t keep up. He was a good boss. A good man.

  “The dew should burn off by then if the sun’s out strong,” he said. “We’ll get breakfast in town seein’ as the missus has the new baby and all.” He nodded at Moira collecting plates and coffee cups.

  I didn’t set him straight. There were at least some things I’d learned. “She’ll be thankful for that small mercy, then.”

  Joe laughed and stomped over to the crew resting in the field. “Let’s get back at it boys,” he hollered. “Soon as we finish here, we gotta move south.”

  Row by row the thresher ate the stooks, the field left looking like a rough-shaven jaw. The end of the day brought a mix of exhaustion and happiness like I’d never known. By sunset the next day, the crop would be in.

  The crew showed up a half-hour late the next morning, some holding their heads and sodding on about how much whiskey they’d drunk. Others were moaning and walking as though their private parts were all but worn off with the heroic effort it took to keep the local whores happy. Moira shook her head, disgusted, while I only hoped their carrying on wouldn’t affect the day’s work.

  “Shut up, you idiots,” Joe hollered. “You’re late and we’ve got plenty to do.”

  The men grumbled, but quickly got to work, climbing on the equipment to grease bearings and set the machines, harnessing horses. Those with the least experience and the biggest hangovers lined up, leaning on their pitchforks, ready to feed the giant thresher. By midmorning I could see we’d be done before dusk. My heart was thumping with the thought of it, though I was about ready to drop.

  Moira served lunch without Mrs. Miller, who’d gone home to prepare for their harvest. She’d laid out the meal on a large rock, and the men stood or sat in small circles eating. With the belching of the steam engine stopped, it was peaceful in the field. The whir and grind of i
t had egged us all on like someone standing behind you ready to kick your ass if you even thought about slacking off. I sat with my back against a wagon, picking my teeth with a sliver of wood, my belly full and eyes heavy.

  Gabe headed up to the rock to help himself to seconds. Moira must have felt his breath on her neck, he was that close. My vision was blurred with the heat and dust and midday stupor, but I saw Gabe’s arm brush across her chest. It took a second to clear my head, but I knew what I saw. Moira flinched and jumped back. Before she could get far enough away, he grabbed her ass. She shrieked, turned real quick and slapped his face. I couldn’t believe she’d go after him and was proud of her, considering my own fear. He raised his arm to fend her off and laughed. The other men looked at me to do something.

  “What are you doing?” an older man called out, and moved slowly toward Gabe.

  “Don’t worry, boys. She don’t mind,” Gabe said, sneering.

  “How dare you,” Moira said, then looked at me. Finally I found my feet and took a quick step.

  “You.” Gabe pointed his stubby finger at me. “What does it matter to you? She’s just a damn dollybird you found at Penny’s whorehouse.”

  Moira gasped and Gabe made a point of looking her up and down. “Although a mighty attractive dollybird, wouldn’t you say?” He reached out and flicked at a strand of her hair. “I was with Annie last night. She says hello.”

  Moira looked at me with wide eyes, asking me to help. The men seemed as shocked as I was to think she’d come from that place. She’d been living in my home, raising my child, but I didn’t know her, hadn’t even thought to ask, just trusting her like an idiot. Some of the men were watching Moira with growing interest, like she was on sale at Obi’s hardware. Others stared at their boots. When I finally looked at Moira she was staring at me, waiting for me to stand up for her. When I didn’t say a thing I saw how angry she was, the red flush creeping up her neck.

  “I am a dollybird.” Her voice was loud and defiant. “And now I am a mother.”

  Gabe snorted.

  “And I have never sold myself to anyone,” she said to me, then turned back to Gabe. “Don’t you ever touch me again.”

  My ears felt hot with shame. There was hurt and disappointment in her eyes. And I knew what I’d done.

  “No difference between a whore and a dollybird.” Gabe stared at me. A challenge. “Maybe you’re screwing her, now the bastard baby’s out of the way. Maybe you’ll share her with the rest of us.”

  “That’s enough, Gabe,” someone muttered and walked away.

  Joe came round from the back of the house. “What’s going on here?” His voice was low with suspicion.

  It broke the spell they’d been fixed under, and one by one the men shuffled past Moira with their heads down. House building, well digging, the tornado; she’d been through it all with me and Casey. She’d said I was a decent human being. My gut did a little leap thinking of how I’d helped bring Shannon into the world. Right then I hated myself more than I ever had. Even more, I hated Gabe for making me a coward. My tongue seemed to thaw then, rage building like a fire in my gut so it felt like flames were searing the back of my throat.

  “Get him off my property.” My voice came out a bark.

  The other men looked back at me, sharp. One or two nodded. With big strides, I went after Gabe. I wanted to feel the crunch of his nose under my fist, hear the scream of pain when I kicked his groin, let Moira see I knew the truth about her: she’d been struggling just as hard as me. But Joe grabbed my arms too fast, held them from behind, saying, “Whoa, Dillan. He’s not worth it.” Joe couldn’t know how wrong he was. He nodded to two men nearby, and before I could shake Joe off, they had hustled Gabe away. And then I stood in front of Moira with nothing to offer, not even Gabe’s crushed nose.

  “I am more sorry than I’ve ever been in my life.” I said it loud.

  She nodded, breathing noisily as though she might finally let herself cry.

  CHAPTER 32

  i i i

  MOIRA

  The harvest dance was in full swing. Silas and I stood watching, a sleeping Shannon in my arms. A grey-haired fiddler scratched out a country tune, while his son strummed a guitar and sang slightly off-key. Young men with scrubbed, shiny faces cautiously crossed the hall to approach even younger women, who stood waiting, shy but hopeful. I’d never been a wallflower, my dance card always full. I swallowed hard at the memory. At how much had changed.

  Silas had heard about the episode with Gabe. “It’s such a small place. How could Dillan not know I lived at Penny’s brothel?” I asked him.

  “Excuse me for saying so, but sometimes Dillan has his head up his ass and can’t see what’s happening right in front of him.”

  I laughed and Shannon stirred in my arms, smiling, rooting for her thumb. I had missed Silas through the long harvest. His straightforward way.

  “Look at how he is with Carla,” Silas continued as Dillan and Carla stumbled by, hands touching, eyes radiant. “She couldn’t make things any more clear. Some things are just so obvious.”

  It didn’t seem all that obvious to me. There was Casey to consider, and Shannon. I needed to live with him until I figured out how to get home. I hadn’t considered it could be Dillan who might help Carla, who might rescue her and give her the choices she deserved.

  “Listen here, Moira. Even though Dillan didn’t know about Penny’s, he should have stepped in.” His face drew tight. He turned suddenly and looked into my eyes, then whisked Shannon away and into the arms of Mrs. Miller, who was standing nearby. “Let’s dance, Moira Burns.”

  My protest went unheeded.

  “Go on girl.” Mrs. Miller gave me a small push, nodding toward Silas as he stood waiting, tapping his foot to the rhythm of the waltz that had just begun. His hand was on my back, guiding me to the middle of the dance floor and into his arms, my right hand clasped lightly in his, his other encircling my waist. One, two, three. One, two, three. We waltzed in sweeping circles, the fiddler’s music filling the room with a plaintive keening, and I succumbed to Silas’s guiding hands. He was gazing down through his thick glasses, a slightly dreamy smile at the corners of his mouth. I grinned back at him and slowly let my arm rest against his.

  The song ended, the fiddler becoming businesslike again as he announced they’d resume playing after a short break, suggesting we enjoy the refreshments laid out near the coatroom. Silas walked me back to Mrs. Miller. Shannon was winding up to cry. I kept my eyes down, but no one was paying the least attention to us. Except for Dillan. He sent me a small wave from across the hall while Carla, standing at his side, beamed up at him. Silas was right; it was obvious. I smiled back. Then Shannon began to wail.

  “I should be taking her home.” It was a disappointing thought.

  Silas nodded and I went to gather our things before making my way over to Dillan. “Are you ready to go then?” I asked, and he looked dismayed. Casey leaned against his knee, tired from a full night of dance and strangers.

  “I’ll take them home,” Silas said from behind me. He helped me with my jacket and picked up Casey, arranging us like a family about to head out.

  Relief spread across Dillan’s face, and I saw the barely contained joy in Carla’s eyes as she pulled him onto the dance floor again. As we headed out the door, I caught sight of Gabe leaning against the wall in the corner, his hat pulled down low. He watched Carla and Dillan spin past him, shaking his head and muttering to himself, his eyes following their every move. I shuddered and rushed out quickly, unsure of what Silas might do if he saw Gabe there.

  The air outside was fresh and autumn crisp. Casey promptly fell asleep on the wagon seat between us while I fed Shannon, a blanket thrown over her head and my shoulder. She, too, was quickly dreaming.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to go by my place first
.” Silas sounded casual, but his voice betrayed there was something on his mind. We were alone but for small babes who would keep all secrets for now. I trusted him and his good-natured way, but I’d begun to doubt my instincts.

  “That’s fine,” I said finally. “How is it I haven’t seen your home? You’re one of the first people I met when I arrived in Saskatchewan.”

  “There’s not much to see, I’m afraid. I don’t spend much time there,” he said.

  “A person’s home says a lot about them, don’t you think?” I spoke quickly, suddenly conscious of my current homelessness, wondering if home still existed for me in my parents’ house. I hadn’t received a single response to my letters and had stopped asking Dillan about the mail, my disappointment harder to hide each time he shook his head. Instead I hoped to be surprised one day by some correspondence from my family, some sign that I was indeed still one of them.

  We were pulling up to an old two-story frame house where beautiful big elms loomed over the verandah, their branches reaching into the shadows, dwarfing the house. At least these giants had survived the storm. He took Casey down from the wagon and helped me with Shannon.

  “I haven’t kept it up,” he said as we mounted steps to the double front door.

  “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

  It was less than wonderful. When Silas opened the door, I was startled by an orange tabby cat shooting out between my feet. The air coming from the house smelled musty. I hesitated to go in, able to see only the outline of furniture until Silas hurriedly laid Casey down on a cot in one corner of the room and lit a lamp. An oak table sat in the middle of the kitchen with four chairs around it, one of them resting precariously on three good legs against the table. Everything was covered with a thick coat of dust except a small area on the kitchen counter, a chair and a clean circle on the table in front of it where Silas obviously had his meals.

  We walked in silence to the sitting room. A davenport and two armchairs were covered in white sheets turned grey with dust. Through an open arched doorway, we emerged into a small adjoining room with varnished floors and what had once been a luxurious area rug. An upright piano stood in one corner. I ran the fingers of my free hand lightly over the keys, their worn sheen. They’d been played a great deal.