Jesse clamped her hand between his elbow and his side. Quiet laughter rumbled his rib cage.
“What’s an anteloper?” She scraped her shoes on the edge of the wooden sidewalk.
“Someone who eats antelope—a name obviously given by a city dweller who’s never tried hunting one.” He opened the door and waved her in with a flourish. “Mrs. Mason.”
The grocery and dry goods store was the Roses’ establishment multiplied ten times. Where the Worthington store had one brand of peaches, Mr. Tyler had three, in a variety of sizes. Mrs. Rose offered dried apples. Mr. Tyler had fresh apples and oranges. Bolts of fabric were stacked to the ceiling, in colors from buff to mahogany, lilac to plum. Patterns of plaid, brocade, pinstripes, florals, even florals with stripes. Muslin, grenadine, cambric, poplin, calico, twill. The glass cabinet in front of the shelves displayed a rainbow of ribbons, braids, lace, and buttons. E. S. Tyler stocked not just J. P. Coats thread but Clark’s Spool Cotton and Milward’s needles. Oh, the dresses she’d make!
“May I help you?” A lanky man wiped his hands on his white apron.
“We were told you could cash this for us.” Jesse handed him the transfer paper.
The storekeeper sucked in his upper lip, bristling the hairs of his mustache. He consulted a handwritten list posted over the safe, then turned back to Jesse.
“Afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. This transfer was drawn on one of the banks that closed. It’s no good.”
“No good? The bank closed?”
The edges of Susannah’s vision went dark. Jesse braced her shoulders. “Breathe,” he ordered in an undertone.
“Last September Jay Cooke’s bank in Philadelphia failed. It threw the railroad into receivership, put people out of work, and closed banks across the country. Newspapers are calling it ‘the Panic of ’73.’ Business has been slow ever since.” The storekeeper returned the paper. “If I were you, I’d write Detroit, see if the bank reopened and will issue a new transfer. I’ll be glad to give you credit. Your wife looks like she’d take home my entire yard goods department. And you’re welcome to a cup of coffee, on the house.”
“Thanks, but we’d better find a place to stay the night.”
“Try the Sherman House. Less expensive than Chapin’s—er, the Headquarters Hotel. Ask for a room in the back; they’re a dollar less. Good luck to you.”
The door of the store thudded behind them.
Jesse tightened his grip. “Sorry about your shopping trip.”
The wooden sidewalk tilted like the deck of a boat. “I feel like our feet have been kicked out from under us. All our dreams. Please write to Matt. Maybe he can find out where our money is. It must be somewhere. How can a bank close like that?”
Jesse shoved the envelope into his pocket. “Guess we’ll have to work for our dreams, like we planned.”
“I have the money I brought from Michigan, almost four dollars. Do you think it will be enough for a room?”
“Keep your purse closed. I’ll take care of it.”
They crossed a vacant lot and climbed up on the next section of sidewalk. “Hey, here’s a doctor.”
Could this day get any worse? Susannah planted her feet. “No.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
“We can’t afford this.”
“I can’t afford to lose you.” Jesse tightened his grip and steered her into the empty waiting room. “Hello!” he hollered.
“Out on a call.” Susannah bolted for the door. Jesse blocked her escape.
From the back room came a cough, followed by a cadaverous man with sunken eyes and a sallow complexion. “Homesteaders, I presume.”
“I’m Jesse Mason and this is my wife, Susannah. Are you the doctor?”
“Only one in town. You look healthier than the usual dullards around here. What’s the problem?”
“Susannah had a miscarriage this winter—”
The doctor interrupted. “Lost a lot of blood, almost died. It was her first pregnancy, and you want to know if you’ll ever get any children out of her.” He tipped his head back to peer at her through his spectacles. “Needs to gain weight. Silence!” He pinched her wrist in his clammy fingertips and timed her pulse with his pocket watch. With a grunt he dropped her wrist and addressed her for the first time. “Take a seat, Mrs. Mason. Mr. Mason, come with me.”
The door to the back room shut in her face. Susannah removed her hat and pressed her ear to the wall. The plaster was paper-thin, and she could hear every word.
“Shouldn’t my wife—” Jesse began.
“This isn’t a matter for mixed company. Sit down. Women like your wife are totally unsuited for the homesteading life, Mr. Mason, and certainly too frail to bear children. How many did her mother have? Probably died giving birth. You’d best ship her back where she came from and try again with another woman, this time with bigger bones.”
A chair scraped. “No.”
“Sit down. Don’t get hysterical on me. There are some fine organizations in the States looking for homes for orphans. You may be able to adopt some older children to help around the farm, keep your wife alive.”
A drawer screeched and, after an interval of coughing, he continued. “Now, about your manly needs. I assume you have been abstaining since the incident. You may certainly continue to do so and be nominated for sainthood. But there are other options. There is some objection to dissemination of this information, but since you’re determined to continue this marriage and endanger the life of this woman, I feel an obligation to advise you. This information is confidential. You will not tell anyone where you learned of it.”
He cleared his throat and went on, speaking quickly. “First, spilling the seed, leaving before the gospel. Requires optimal timing and self-control. Some object to this based on an obscure passage in the Old Testament. Second, rhythm. Women are most fertile just before they bleed. You’ll need a calendar. Third, sponge, size of a green walnut. Fourth, douche. You’ve got vinegar out in your hovel. Tell her to use it. Fifth, French letter. You were a soldier, so you’re already familiar with these. Here’s a package to get you started. Stop by whenever you’re in town and I’ll sell you some more. That will be one dollar.”
He coughed again. “None of these methods is entirely reliable. Should an unfortunate accident occur, bring her into town. I’ll do what I can. No guarantees.”
Two chairs scraped the floor. Susannah tiptoed to the window and pretended to study the hotel down the street. The doctor frowned at her. She glared back, hiding her fists in the folds of her skirt.
“That will be all, Mr. Mason.”
Without speaking, Jesse escorted Susannah toward the Sherman House.
When they were out of earshot of the office, he turned to look at her. “You heard?”
“Every word.”
“That’s a relief. I was afraid I’d have to explain it, and I didn’t understand half what he said.”
Susannah bristled. Had she ever been so angry? “How dare he speak to us that way! We should have changed clothes. He thinks we’re ignorant country yokels he can push around. My father treated animals with more dignity. Where did he go to medical school, anyway? Did he have a certificate on the wall? Jesse?”
Jesse appeared to be inspecting the leaves overhead. The last rays of sun outlined his heaving Adam’s apple. “No children. He said we can’t have any children.” He pulled her to his chest, tipping her hat back and wetting the top of her head with his tears.
“What does he know?”
“He knew you were an only child. Maybe your pa slept in his office because—”
“No, my parents just didn’t get along. Mother never mentioned any difficulty giving birth.”
“He knew I’d been a soldier.”
“You and every other man your age. He can make lucky guesses. That doesn’t make him a good doctor. He can’t even cure his own cough. Come on, let’s go have twelve children and outlive the fool by fifty years.”
Jesse
blinked. “Twelve children?”
“Not all at once, of course.” Susannah dried his face with her handkerchief. “Unless you’re going to ship me back.”
“Never!” He tightened his hold.
Her anger boiled dry, bringing other emotions to the surface. “In my head, I know men and women all over the world do it,” she whispered, “but in my heart, what we do together is special, private, even holy. Is it blasphemous to say that? The way that sawbones talked made it seem so vile.”
“He was pretty crude. Probably an army doctor.” Jesse pulled the package from his pocket. “Should we give this a try?”
“Jesse Mason, put that away! If someone saw you, who knows what they’d think!” A furious blush heated her face. She glanced around. The stable yard was empty. “Let’s go to the hotel.”
“What a day.” He started toward the entrance, then turned to her. His palm cupped her cheek, holding her as if she were made of glass. “Tell me again,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
Chapter 22
All right, Lord, as long as Susannah’s
by my side, I don’t mind.
Watch it,” Ivar warned as Jesse shinned from the wagon onto the roof of Fourth Siding’s shed.
“I built it. Guess I know how to stand on it.” He balanced on the peak and squinted off to the north.
“Any sign of life?” Susannah stood, more to relieve her sore backside than from hope of seeing anyone. If Jesse ever did get some money, she hoped he would spend it on a buckboard.
Fourth Siding’s population remained unchanged since her arrival nine months ago, but the early spring prairie grass held a hopefulness, the promise of good to come.
“They’re northeast about half a mile.” Jesse swung back into the wagon and Ivar headed the oxen away from the tracks.
Last Sunday Jesse had read aloud the winter’s accumulation of newspapers. The Fargo Express reported the birth of twins on February 28 to an Irish-American couple at Fourth Siding. At Marta’s insistence, the Volds and Masons were attempting to find the family today. As they bounced over the prairie, the Norwegian woman wrapped one arm around Sara and the other around an iron kettle.
A strip of plowed ground gave the first indication of the homestead. The wagon almost ran over the house, dug into a draw.
“Where’s their dog?” Susannah asked. “And their cow?”
“Hello the house!”
The door opened a crack, revealing an ancient muzzleloader and two dark eyes.
“We’re your neighbors, from the south side of the tracks.” Jesse made introductions. “Saw your good news in the paper. Came to offer congratulations.”
The hollow-eyed man stepped outside. “I’m Colum Duffy.” Dirt-encrusted clothes hung on his skeletal frame. “We’re not expecting visitors.”
“Food.” Marta held up the kettle.
The young man wiped his hand across his scraggly whiskers. “I’ll tell Maureen you’re here.” He disappeared inside. The dugout looked about half the size of Jesse’s. Instead of glass, oiled paper covered its lone window. The empty lean-to on the east side needed mucking.
Colum and his wife shuffled out, each holding an infant wrapped in rags. Mrs. Duffy blinked in the sunlight like an animal emerging from hibernation. A rip in her stained dress showed an undergarment made of flour sacks.
Marta stepped forward, issuing instructions. Behind her, Ivar interpreted. “We have a custom in our country of bringing søt suppe, sweet soup, for the mother.” He paused, listening to his wife. “Ja. We also have a custom of bringing a gift of work to celebrate the new babies. If you will come with us, Mr. Duffy, we’ll go for firewood while our wives visit with Mrs. Duffy.”
Susannah caught Jesse’s eye as he handed Sara to her. The plan had been to share the soup, then hurry home for spring planting. He gave her a surreptitious wink.
Mr. Duffy swayed. His wife took the baby from him. “Go on, Colum. I’ll be all right.”
The men departed for the wooded banks of the Sheyenne. Marta scooted around Mrs. Duffy into the dugout. Susannah peeked at the twins. Tiny pinched faces, no bigger than her palm, slept in the morning sun.
“How old are they now?”
“Five weeks,” the dark-haired woman replied. Veins and arteries laced her face and hands beneath translucent skin. “And yours? She’s so big.”
“No, Sara is Mrs. Vold’s baby. She’s almost a year old.” Sara did look healthy and substantial next to the Duffy infants.
“Dear me!” The young mother hastened inside. “I’ve not done a lick of work since the babies came and not much before.”
Susannah stood in the doorway. If Jesse’s house reminded her of a cave, the Duffys’ seemed more like a pit. Three walls were hacked out of the embankment. The window emitted a weak, dull glow. A twist of cloth sputtering in a saucer of fat produced a feeble puddle of light, revealing the squalid condition of the dugout. It smelled like an outhouse. Marta set the kettle on the tiny two-lid stove, then rolled up her sleeves.
“I’m sorry about the mess.” Mrs. Duffy laid the infants in a canvas hammock slung precariously from the rafters.
Marta motioned for the new mother to sit on the sturdier of the two crates constituting their furniture. She took Sara and sent Susannah for water.
As the washtub of diapers soaked, the women enjoyed their soup, an ambrosia of dried apples, plums, apricots, and raisins. When the babies wanted to nurse, Marta had Mrs. Duffy lie with them on the straw pallet. The exhausted mother looked like a little girl with her dolls, her dark tangle of curls spread over the pillow.
Halfway through the load of threadbare calico, the babies awoke. Marta directed Susannah outside with them. The fussy one turned red and burped wetly on Susannah’s shoulder. Before she could call Marta, his complexion and breathing returned to normal. The other regarded her solemnly. The first opened his mouth and rubbed against her.
“You just ate, silly boy.” Susannah lifted them to her shoulder. They began to whimper, alternating breaths, so one always sounded the alarm.
“Walk,” Marta suggested from the washboard.
Susannah paced up the slope. The hungry infant nuzzled her neck with his mouth, his silken hair tickling her earlobe. Deep inside Susannah, a spark ignited.
A clatter and rumble announced the return of the men. Hearing the babies’ cries, the new father jumped up, almost bolting off the wagon.
“Easy, now.” Ivar pulled him back onto the seat. “Your sons half to try their windpipes.”
Mr. Duffy raised an eyebrow.
“He knows what he’s talking about.” Jesse clamped the lad on his skinny shoulder. “You’ve seen his baby.”
Susannah followed the wagon back to the dugout, past Marta laying out clean diapers in the sun. Mr. Duffy dashed inside to check on his wife while Ivar and Jesse stacked the wood. The babies’ cries waned into sleep.
“Susannah.” Ivar wiped his brow. “You half a way with babies. Jesse should give you some of your own.”
Jesse broke a dry stick over his friend’s head. “As long as they come one at a time.” He turned to Susannah. “Colum says at least one’s awake and crying ever since they were born. Fellow slept all the way to the river.”
“I agree, one at a time.” Susannah shifted the babies in her arms, trying to scratch her nose, finally resorting to scrunching her face. “Holding two means you don’t have a hand free.”
“Well, that could have some advantages.” Pulling Susannah, babies and all, into a big hug, Jesse kissed her.
Ivar thumped Jesse across the back of his knees. “I meant, when you get home, make babies.”
“You’re a regular Simon Legree, Ivar Vold.” Jesse returned to the woodpile. “Didn’t anyone tell you? Slavery’s abolished.”
Inside, Susannah laid the babies in the hammock, tucking the crocheted afghan around their tiny bodies. The inner spark kindled into an unfamiliar flame of yearning.
Mrs. Duffy embraced Susann
ah. The girl’s bones poked through her homespun. “Bless you, all of you.” The brief nap and soup put a little color in her cheeks. At the stove, Colum scooped the last of the fruit into his mouth. He grunted his agreement.
Susannah wished they could do more. “What are their names?” She nudged the hammock to keep it rocking.
“Liam and Seamus. Liam’s a bit larger. Seamus has little red marks between his eyebrows.”
“Too bad you couldn’t think of Irish names for them,” Jesse said. This drew a smile from Maureen Duffy. “It’s time we head for home. Hope you’ll come visit us next time.”
“Bless you, Mr. Mason.”
From the wagon, Susannah turned for a last look at the couple waving from the dugout.
“Fifteen and sixteen,” Jesse said from the wagon seat.
“What?”
“If you thought they’re half our age, you’re right. Fifteen and sixteen.”
“Do their parents know?”
“Their folks know, all right. In fact, they shipped their children to Dakota when they figured out the girl was in the family way.” Jesse thumped Ivar on the arm. “So, how old is this Norwegian custom of cutting wood and washing diapers for new parents?”
Ivar glanced at the sun. “I’d say three, maybe four hours.”
Jesse grinned at Marta. “Good custom.”
Ivar let the Masons off near their claim. They strolled through the cool spring evening, the fragrant prairie flowers blowing away the odor of the Duffys’ squalor.
Jesse squeezed her hand. “Thought I started out with nothing. Colum was so hungry, he ate those raw potatoes Ivar keeps in his grub box. Bit into them like they were Northern Spy apples.”
“Compared to them, we live like royalty.” Susannah nodded. “Are you jealous?”
“Oh yeah.” He swallowed. “Colum and Ivar swapping progeny stories, you bet.”
Susannah slid her hand down his back, inside the waistband of his pants at the triangle of space over his backbone. “Shall we take up Ivar’s suggestion, then?”
Jesse extracted her hand. “No, but we will take up the doctor’s suggestion.”
Spring for Susannah Page 18