by Harold Bakst
Joseph nodded and started back to the awaiting oxen and plow.
“See you later, Joe,” called Karl, holding his hat slightly aloft. Joseph acknowledged him with another quick nod and continued on.
“He’s offered to help around here,” explained Jennifer.
“So I see. He’s quite der gentleman.”
“Shall we go inside?”
“Let’s.”
“Peter, you stay outside with your sister,” said Jennifer, nudging her son from the doorway. “Come in, Mr. Pfeffer.”
Karl Pfeffer stepped inside the dingy, cramped dugout. “A fine little home you haff here, Mrs. Vandermeer.”
“You’re being kind. It’s just a cave.”
“Not to your liking?”
“Hardly. Please, sit.” Karl Pfeffer sat by the table, his pot belly extending over his belt. “May I offer you something? Tea?”
“Don’t go to any bodder. Pleaze take a chair yourzelf.”
Jennifer sat down, and the two faced each other beside the table. Karl Pfeffer furrowed his heavy brow as if in serious thought.
“Is something the matter?” asked Jennifer.
His brow relaxed. Karl Pfeffer looked squarely at Jennifer. “Mrs. Vandermeer, I hope you’ll excuse me if I zeem a little forvard—dat is, blunt.”
“Please, go right ahead.”
“T’ank you. Mrs. Vandermeer, fife years ago I lost my vife, Hilda—God rest her zoul—to a smallpox epidemic. It ravaged der whole countryzide, took many Indians vit it. Anyvay, I’ve zince been living on my farm vit my two daughters and zon, all of dem grown. Dey’re fine company—veil-behaved und respectful—but it can still be lonely vit’out a vife.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I t’ought you might. Now, vomen—dat is, unmarried vomen—are awfully scarse around dese parts. Now, you just lost a husband, und I’m zorry to hear it. But it does create an opportunity fur a man like myzelf, if you know vhat I mean.”
Jennifer felt her cheeks flush. “Actually, I’m not sure I do.”
Karl Pfeffer shifted his bulk uncomfortably in his chair but kept his pale blue eyes locked intently on Jennifer. “Mrs. Vandermeer, I’fe got a goot farm, vood-frame houze, and zome money to spare fur a vife to buy her zome nice t’ings if she had a mind to. I’m a hard vorker, a goot Christian, und I don’t drink…”
“Goodness, Mr. Pfeffer! This sounds like a marriage proposal!”
“Don’t misunderstand. I fully intend to giff proper time to der courting dat a decent lady like yourzelf dezerfs. I just vanted to make sure you vere amenable to der idea. I hope I haffh’t offended you.”
“No, I’m flattered. I think.”
“Now, like I set, my children are all grown, so dey von’t be a burden to you. In fact, dey’d be a help. As fur your own zon and daughter, I’ll raise dem as if dey ver my own.”
“Please, Mr. Pfeffer…”
“Call me Karl.”
“Karl, I really don’t see it …”
“Is it my age? I can assure you, I’m a heal’ty man.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Der’s zomeone elze maybe?”
“Certainly not! Mr. Pfeffer, my husband just died!”
Karl Pfeffer stiffened and fell silent. He took a deep breath and refurrowed his brow. “Veil, if I’m not der callous von,” he grumbled. “You’re right. Forgiff me.”
“That’s quite all right. But under the circumstances you can understand why I couldn’t even begin to consider such an offer.”
“Of course. It vouldn’t be proper. My, you must t’ink me a real oaf.”
Just then, Joseph Caulder returned, standing in the doorway, straw hat in hand.
“Oh, Joseph!” spouted Jennifer.
“Don’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “The fire-break’s done.”
Jennifer rose to her feet. “No, you’re not interrupting. Come in and sit down. Mr. Pfeffer—I mean, Karl, would you like some lunch?”
Karl Pfeffer stood. He eyed Joseph suspiciously. “T’ank you, but I must get back to my place.” He approached the door, and Joseph stepped aside. “It vas a pleazure meeting you.”
“And it was nice to meet you,” said Jennifer.
“Please, if you neet anyt’ing, anyt’ing at all, I hope you’ll ask.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Or if you need vork done around here, my zon und I vould be glad to oblige.”
“Won’t be necessary,” said Joseph curtly.
Karl Pfeffer eyed his neighbor again. “Nice zeeing you too, Joe.”
“Likewise.”
There was a tense silence for a moment. Then Jennifer said, “Well, thank you for stopping by.”
Karl Pfeffer waved his hat. “Ya, veil, don’t be a stranger.”
He mounted his buggy, which tilted on its leather supports, and he settled on the seat. “Good-bye, Peter, Emma!”
Peter and Emma were sitting against the well. Peter only looked up, but Emma quietly returned, “Bye.”
Then Karl Pfeffer flicked his reins and rode back the way he had come. Jennifer watched him a moment, then returned to the dugout. Joseph was still standing inside.
“Won’t you sit down?” asked Jennifer.
Joseph sat stiffly at the table.
Jennifer hurried to the gunnysack Lucy had given her. Then an odd thing happened. Her grieving lightened slightly, as when the sun momentarily pokes through the dark clouds. Suddenly, she found herself smiling. Never before had she been fought over by two men. And she found these two particular competitors amusing in their efforts.
“He seems like a nice man,” said Jennifer as she broke out fried cakes, bacon, and coffee.
“Nice, enough,” said Joseph, his face showing no emotion.
The comers of her mouth flickering into a smirk, Jennifer brought her guest his lunch and sat down at the table with him.
“He’s getting kind of fat,” commented Joseph sullenly.
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.”
“It’s from age. He’s near sixty.”
“I would have put him at around fifty-four or five.”
“I’m forty-four, myself.”
“Are you?”
Joseph bit into the cake and chewed slowly.
Jennifer’s amusement, meanwhile, began to fade. Her eyes glazed over as she remembered her husband and where she was. “Tell me, Joseph, how long have you and your brother lived out here?”
Joseph swallowed. “Eight years.”
“Eight years,” repeated Jennifer thoughtfully. “I wonder, has anyone been around here longer than that?”
“Don’t think so.” Joseph took another bite of the cake.
“Was Four Comers here?”
“Just the grass.” Joseph sipped the coffee.
Jennifer thought of her husband once more, then she watched the grim-faced figure sitting at her table. The man didn’t smile, he didn’t look up, he barely talked. Goodness! thought Jennifer. What a husband he’d make!
“I’ll have to tend to the wagon axle tomorrow,” said Joseph.
“Oh, I can have Peter do it.”
“And I’ll look at the ox stalls.”
“Ox stalls?”
“Roofs falling in.”
“Is it?”
“Yep.”
Jennifer sat there a moment more with barely a sentence exchanged between her and her guest. It seemed to suit Joseph, but she was getting more and more uncomfortable. She kept searching for things to say.
“Warm weather.”
“Yep.”
“Not much rain, either.”
“Nope. Not much.”
“I understand winters can be very cold here.”
“Some years.”
Finally, Jennifer thought to call her chldren in for lunch, too, hoping to inspire some conversation. They came in and sat down, but Peter, away from the Baker children, had become morose again, and Emma, who seemed less melancholic, was nevertheless inhibite
d by the stem-eyed visitor. So now the four of them sat at the table with barely a word passing among them.
When Joseph at last finished his lunch and rose to his feet, Jennifer felt much relief.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said solemnly.
“I hope you’re not neglecting your own farm on my account,” said Jennifer, also standing.
“Isaac’s there.” Joseph went outside, and Jennifer followed. He pulled himself up onto his mule. “Bye, ma’am—Jennifer.” And, with that, he turned his mule about and headed off.
“He’s a mean man,” said Emma from the doorway.
“No, he’s not,” said Jennifer, her eyes following the retreating figure. “He’s a kind man. He’s just quiet.”
“I don’t like him. I like Mr. Pfeffer.”
“Mr. Pfeffer is nice, too.”
“He looks like Grandpoppa.”
“He does, doesn’t he?”
“Is he coming back?”
“Mr. Pfeffer? I imagine so.”
“Mr. Caulder?”
“Him, too.”
Emma frowned. “I wish he wouldn’t.”
“Don’t be that way,” said Jennifer, still watching the small, distant figure riding away.
“Who do you like better?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Jennifer, turning around. “After you and your brother finish lunch, we’ll resume packing.”
The afternoon wore on, and Jennifer and her children spent the warmest part of the day inside the relative coolness of their dugout, packing more of their possessions. Every so often, Emma would pick up an object, like a pewter mug or candlestick, and ask, “Are we taking this?” And Jennifer would answer yes, or no. Peter, meanwhile, went about his work quietly.
Around four o’clock the packing was almost done, and Jennifer only now began to consider the seriousness of what lay ahead of her—returning across the prairie without her husband. She wasn’t sure she could survive such a journey. She pictured her two children alone in the middle of the wild grasses, burying their mother. She nearly wept.
At that moment, someone knocked on the frame of the open doorway, startling her from her reverie. She spun and looked. Standing just outside, with the tawny prairie and blue sky behind them, were two most inopportune visitors.
“Afternoon, Jennifer,” said Lucy, standing just in front of Nancy. Both women were wearing red sunbonnets and clasping several books to their chests. In the crook of Lucy’s arm hung an unlit lantern. “May we come in?”
“Of course,” said Jennifer, gesturing for them to enter, but remembering her resolve to leave Kansas. She decided she would not speak any more than she had to. She would listen to what Lucy had to say, perhaps offer her and Nancy some tea, but then politely ask them to leave. “I must finish my packing,” she would say pointedly.
“You left your lantern at my place,” said Lucy, placing her books and the lantern on die table.
“Thank you,” said Jennifer.
“It’s so very dark in here,” commented Nancy, placing her burden down, too.
“I try not to burn oil during the day,” said Jennifer.
“But you may have to during school hours,” said Lucy, removing her bonnet. “And you will have to clear a space for the children to sit.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jennifer.
“Of course, during days like this, you could always hold class outside, but I think the children, especially the boys, might become too easily distracted. Don’t you agree?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Jennifer.
Lucy turned to Nancy, who had sat herself at the table and was fanning her long, sunburnt face with her hand. “We will have to tell the others to make sure Jennifer has enough oil for classes.”
Nancy nodded.
“But, Lucy,” said Jennifer, “aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself? I haven’t said I’m going to be teaching. In fact…”
“Now, don’t worry, I’ve worked it all out. Parents will pay you what they can though you may have to accept some barter.”
“Please listen, Lucy, this really is impossible. I’ve already decided to go home. I’ve been packing all day.” Jennifer gestured at the various packed bags, sacks, and crates.
Lucy glimpsed them, then stared coldly at Jennifer. “But you can’t,” she said flatly. “Everything here has already been arranged. Look, we’ve brought you some McGuffey readers.” She patted the book stack on the table.
“And most of the children will be able to bring Bibles,” added Nancy from her seat.
“That’s all well and good,” said Jennifer, “but I can’t teach them.”
“Sure you can,” said Nancy, only now removing her bonnet. “And you’ll be very good at it, too. You have education.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t stay.”
“Now see here,” said Lucy, placing her hands on her hips, “we rode all up and down these two prairie paths scraping together readers from people who were not so willing to give them up! You have an obligation, Jennifer Vandermeer, and you should not be so quick to run out on it!”
“I—don’t see that I have an obligation.”
“Don’t you? This will be our first schoolhouse.”
Turning her head away, Jennifer timidly pressed the fingers of one hand against her cheek. She wished to protest further, but she found herself choking up.
“Lucy,” interrupted Nancy, noticing Jennifer’s distress, “perhaps we ought to let Jenny decide this for herself.”
“Please, Nancy,” came back Lucy hotly, “you don’t have children. I do!”
Nancy fell silent.
“Well?” asked Lucy, returning her attention to Jennifer. “What have you got to say?”
Jennifer lowered her head. “I want to return to Ohio.”
Lucy stood fuming. “And how do you expect to cross the prairie?”
“I can try.”
“Try? Tell me, what would you do if you should run into Indians? Who will protect your children?”
“You said they were harmless…”
“Or bandits!”
Jennifer wiped a tear from her eye. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” repeated Lucy sarcastically. Nearly mute with frustration, she fixed her piercing gaze on Jennifer and tried to calm herself. “You realize,” she resumed, “that if you wait, there may soon be a railroad spur right here in Four Corners.”
Jennifer looked up. “A what?”
“That’s the talk,” said Lucy. “At least, it’s something that Bill Wilkes has been fighting for.”
“A railroad? How long before…”
“Within a year. Maybe by next spring.”
Jennifer pictured herself aboard a train, chugging across the prairie away from Four Comers. “I wish it were here already.”
“I’m sure you do. But you must be patient. Listen to me. Stay here at least until the spring. By then we should know better about the spur. In the meantime, you can teach. You might even come to like it.”
“It’s not really the teaching I mind…”
“Yes, I know. Perhaps, then, you’ll become used to Kansas.”
At this, Jennifer finally looked directly into Lucy’s dark grey eyes. “Tell me, are you used to it?”
“I’ve seeded this land with two of my children,” said Lucy, solemnly. “I’ll never leave it.”
There was now silence in the little dugout as each of the three women fell still and reflected upon different thoughts.
“I suppose,” began Jennifer slowly, more to break the silence than anything, “spring will come soon enough.”
Lucy, who had become darkly quiet, brightened slightly.
“That’s right. The months go quickly—and you’ll be able to stay with Seth and me during the winter.”
“Oh no, that I couldn’t do …”
“But I won’t hear otherwise,” said Lucy, feeling strong again. “Winters can be harsh out here and isolate homesteads for wee
ks at a stretch.”
Jennifer contemplated the grim prospect. Isolate homesteads? Even more than now? She shuddered.
“Besides,” continued Lucy, sounding practical now, “our soddy could always use the extra body warmth. So! You’ll stay?”
“Mind you, I’d only be waiting for the railroad…”
“Yes, yes, that’s all understood,” said Lucy. “Then it’s settled. When would you like to begin teaching?”
Settled? thought Jennifer. Just like that? She had only been considering a possibility. She nearly protested, but she said, “Monday?”
“Monday it is! That will allow a few days for word to reach all the homesteads. And the hour?”
“Eight.”
Lucy took a deep breath and began to tie her bonnet back on. “Perhaps Franz can get you a blackboard from somewhere. Come, Nancy, we have other stops to make, and then I must get home.”
Nancy rose from her seat. She silently tied on her own bonnet. She seemed to be harboring some resentment, but she obediently followed Lucy out of the dugout and onto their buckboard. Lucy, apparently not noticing her friend’s darkened mood, took the reins, and soon the two women were off.
Jennifer leaned against the door frame, feeling sapped of all vigor. She watched her neighbors get smaller and smaller as they cut across the grassy sea to some other homestead beyond the horizon. It was only when they were that far away that she whispered, “My God, what did I agree to?”
Chapter Seven
Sick Geraniums
Jennifer remained in the doorway several minutes more; Lucy and Nancy’s buckboard was so far away, and yet it remained in sight. She marvelled at how far one could see out on the prairie.
Overhead, meanwhile, an armada of clouds drifted quickly across the sky, the white edges teased out into tatters by high winds. Soon, the vanguard of these clouds were above the distant buckboard. As they moved still farther off, the clouds met the horizon, so that it soon appeared as if the buckboard were riding right toward them.
The clouds now over Jennifer’s dugout thickened. Perhaps, thought Jennifer, they’ll sail all the way to Ohio. Perhaps Poppa will be reading the Gazette and hear on his window panes the patter of raindrops falling from these very clouds.
“I have a message for him,” she whispered to the floating procession. “Will you take it to him?” At that moment, she realized it was time to write her father.