Spring for Susannah

by Catherine Richmond

  Any minute now . . .

  No, probably later in the day. The eastbound train arrived late afternoon, and it would take him hours to walk home, unless he borrowed a horse. But if he was detained by Mrs. Rose, then he might—

  Jake pushed his wet nose into her palm. “Yes, I’m at it again, after I promised you I’d stop mooning about.” She gathered an armload of sticks, then paused with her hand on the door latch. Jesse would be sitting at the table, an apology and a smile on his lips. But the door swung into an empty room.

  “Jake, Sunday morning breakfast should be pancakes and coffee.” She poured water into the iron saucepan. “As long as you don’t tell anyone, I’m having toast and tea.”

  Susannah found her shoes in the pile of dirty laundry under the bed. Mixed with the usual smells of perspiration and animal muck was a faint odor of kerosene. “Let’s do laundry tomorrow, before these clothes catch fire. That would make a nice blaze, wouldn’t it? Throw in the bedding, the bed if I can get it apart, the guitar—” Susannah turned in a circle. “Where is Jesse’s guitar? Did he take it with him?”

  Jake leaned against her and she rubbed his ears. “No, burning would be wasteful. Jesse built this house and this furniture. I’ll take good care of it.”

  Boiling water burbled in the pan. She poured it over the tea, adding a pinch of ginger, and slid a slice of bread onto the oven grate.

  What if he took the guitar intending to earn money with his music? What if he went to a saloon and started drinking? He could be passed out in an alley again. What if he saw all the soldiers from the fort and thought he was back in the War?

  She wrenched herself out of the downward spiral and dried her face on her apron.

  “So, Jake, what shall we plan for dinner?” she asked with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. “What do you want? What do I want? Jake, do you realize this is the first time in my whole well-ordered life that I’ve been alone? No parents, no pastor, no husband to tell me what to do? I can do what I want. So, what do I want?”

  Sunrise lit up the bed, fortified with her coat to compensate for the loss of Jesse’s warmth. His pillow sat in the middle, wadded up where Susannah had held it through the night. “Jesse. That’s what I want.”

  She took the toast from the oven, left half on the table, and joined Jake on the sunny threshold. The first bite formed a pasty lump in her throat. She passed the rest to the dog, who swallowed it in one gulp.

  “In stories, the heroine always has some feeling about the hero when he’s away. She knows if he’s in danger, if he’s dead or alive.” Susannah gazed out over the yard, past the creek to the horizon, already shimmering with heat waves from the barren fields. “About Jesse, I feel nothing, absolutely nothing. I have no sense of where he is or how he is, if he’s eaten breakfast or gone hungry. Maybe we haven’t known each other long enough to be connected in that way. Maybe—”

  She sipped the tea; the warm liquid slid past the heavy spot in her throat. “Will I ever know him? I’ve been letting Jesse do the praying for both of us. But he’s gone, so here I am, Lord. Please bring him—”

  Something rustled and scratched behind her—a mouse! She grabbed the broom and swept it out the door with Jake in hot pursuit.

  As Susannah crouched by the shelves to assess the damage to her meager food supplies, she heard a soft plop on the table. She turned and looked straight into a pair of tiny black eyes attached to a long green body.

  Susannah jumped, crashed into the stove, and ran out the door. Then she stopped. If she wanted this snake out, if she didn’t want him slithering into her bed, she had to do it herself. And quickly, or he’d hide and she’d be up all night hunting him.

  “Lord, please give me courage.” She took a couple of deep breaths, then went back into the soddy and stretched out the end of the broom toward the table. The snake obligingly wrapped its two-foot length around the tree branch handle. Its tongue flicked and its head swiveled.

  Susannah backed through the door and tossed the broom and its rider into the grass.

  “I did it!”

  The creak of a wagon carried into the draw, and Jake raced up the ridge. But at the crest, the dog’s tail uncurled, his head drooped. Not Jesse. Susannah’s heart thudded in her chest.

  “Susannah!” Marta, her radiance startling against the bleak landscape, jumped off when Ivar stopped. Susannah hugged her.

  “She worried all week about you.” Ivar climbed down, then retrieved her broom. “Why—” Then he saw the reptile. “Ah! Where is your hoe? I’ll kill it for you.”

  “No. It’s just a garter snake, not poisonous. It was chasing the mouse who chewed through my cornmeal sack. I suppose they’re eating my food since the grasshoppers ate theirs.” Susannah turned toward the soddy. “Come on in. I’ve got hot water for tea.”

  “No coffee?” Ivar asked.

  “All right, I’ll make coffee for you. I’ve been drinking ginger tea. Must have gotten a touch of the grippe.” Susannah emptied ground beans into the pot. “Looks like you’ve all recovered.”

  Ivar settled onto the stool, baby Sara on his knee. “Yes, we’re over it. But you? This all you eat?” He flicked the toast crust with the back of his broad hand. “You don’t look so good.”

  Marta poured water from the ewer into the basin, wet a cloth, and handed it to Susannah.

  “I was going to clean up before meeting you at the river.” She washed, then ran damp hands over her unruly hair. When had she last combed it? If Jesse saw her like this—

  Marta touched the muslin tacked over the window.

  “Empty windows didn’t bother me when Jesse was here.”

  “No eating. No washing. Hanging curtains, against what?”

  Ivar frowned. “Have you done any work this week?”

  “The grasshoppers ate everything. There is no work.”

  “No?” Ivar thumped his fist on the table, making Susannah jump. His face darkened in various shades of scarlet and crimson. He was heading for an attack of apoplexy if this temper kept up. Speaking slowly as if she might have difficulty understanding English, he said, “Susannah, this is why you should not be alone.”

  “All right then, tell me.” Susannah sat on the trunk next to Marta and hid her shaking hands under the table. “What should I be doing?”

  “Have you mucked the stable? You know the cattle’s hooves will rot if you don’t. The potatoes need to be forked up, also any turnips and carrots the hoppers missed.” He shifted his weight. The stool squealed in protest. “This seat needs tightening. Firewood and slough grass must be cut, and there’s back setting, plowing under the stubble. It’s too much.”

  “Of course I cleaned the stable. Soon as I shake this—”

  “It does not matter how you feel. You are a woman. Not strong enough. Heavy work will cripple you. You won’t be able to take care of yourself or the stock. A woman should not homestead alone.”

  “Jesse thought I could.”

  “He left you at our place and expected you to stay.”

  “If I leave, we’ll lose the claim with only a year to go.”

  “The claim? Who cares about the claim? Do you see anyone from the Fargo Land Office out here checking on the claim?” Ivar pounded again, making Susannah wonder if she’d have to add table repair to her list. “If anything should happen to you, you stubborn woman—” He lapsed into Norwegian.

  Stubborn? He was calling her stubborn? Ivar, that high-handed despot, could stand in for Napoleon. Why Jesse ever picked him for a friend—

  Marta grabbed their hands, lowered her head, and spoke in a calm tone.

  Ivar’s deep sigh ruffled his mustache. “She’s praying from Thessalonians, peace among the brethren.”

  Susannah added her silent prayer, then apologized to Ivar. “I appreciate your concern, but I really am all right. What if I sold the calves? Maybe Mr. McFadgen or one of the hotels in Fargo would buy them. If I could pay my way, I wouldn’t feel like such a burden to you.”

/>   Ivar studied her under his eyebrows. “Ja, and I wouldn’t have to add on to our barn and wouldn’t need so much credit for grain. Good.”

  Susannah opened Jesse’s Bible. “Before we start church, do you remember the song Jesse taught us last Sunday? The chorus has been buzzing through my head all week.”

  Ivar frowned. “It was about a lamp.”

  “Psalm one-one-nine,” Marta said. “Foot lights.”

  “Footlights?” Susannah turned to the chapter, one of many with chords written in the margins. “Here it is: ‘Thy word is a lamp unto my feet.’ So the Bible is the script?”

  “Scrip? Like army pay?”

  “No, a script as in a play, acting out a story. The script tells the actors what to say and do.”

  “Ja, the Bible tells us what to say and do. Good lesson, Susannah. Much better than the one I’d planned on grasshopper plagues.” Ivar snapped his Bible shut. “Before we pray, we half a surprise for you.” He set Sara on her feet. She toddled over to Susannah, face glowing, blond tendrils bouncing with each deliberate step.

  “You’re walking!” Susannah swung her into a hug. “Jesse will be so proud of you!”

  “And of you also,” Marta said to Susannah.

  “Susannah!” Ivar roared. The Volds had said their good-byes, then stopped just out of the draw. Ivar stood in the wagon, one foot propped on the seat, his face a pre-apoplectic red. When Susannah ran up, he pointed to a scorched strip twice the width of the wagon and running parallel to the draw for a hundred feet or so. “You burned firebreak by yourself. That’s a job for men, a crew of men. You could half burned the whole territory!”

  “You think I set a fire?” she sputtered. “I would never—We nearly lost everything in that big fire last fall. Don’t you remember Jesse telling—” Choking with fury, Susannah spun away to inspect the line where singed prairie met unburned bluestem.

  “Enough! Come with us. Now!” He flung down the reins and raised his arms, looking every inch a direct descendant of Thor, the god of thunder.

  Thunder? The word stirred an idea in Susannah’s mind, and she marched over to the cottonwood sapling she’d transplanted from the river. It had been stripped of leaves by the grasshoppers and split in two by . . .

  “Lightning.” Ivar traced the charred path down the trunk. “The storm Wednesday.” He tipped his head back, studying the sky. “God give you a firebreak. So. You’re not alone after all. See you next Sunday.”

  Every step took Jesse farther away from Susannah. He hadn’t found any work in Bismarck, so he had no choice but to cross the river to Fort Abraham Lincoln.

  “Where’s the ferry?” Jesse called to a boy fishing upstream.

  The kid stuck his pole into the muddy bank and raced off on bare feet. Jesse sat on a crate and waited. What was Susannah doing today? She’d be all right; she handled lonesome easier than most. And what a farmwife she turned out to be with her animal doctoring. Today was Sunday; she’d be meeting the Volds at the river for church. They were praying for him, he was sure of it. Lord, keep an eye on them, especially my Susannah.

  About the time he’d swatted his weight in mosquitoes, two bandy-legged men tramped down the bluff. They wore knitted caps and flannel shirts in spite of the heat. “Allo, sir. You are in need of the ferry?”

  French, Jesse figured, with a healthy dash of Indian. “I’m heading for the fort.”

  They settled on a price. Their boat turned out to be a buffalo hide stretched across a wicker frame to form a bowl. It looked about as cozy as a coffin and as stable as a pig on ice. The men held the tub for Jesse, then squeezed aboard.

  “Bull boat,” the one in the blue hat explained, as if having a name made it seaworthy.

  Three feet out, the trouble started.

  “Eh, where is the paddle?” Red Hat asked.

  Blue Hat lifted his feet, then looked under Jesse.

  “I’m not sitting on it.”

  These fools didn’t have any way to steer? What had he gotten himself into? This was Jesse’s first experience with the Missouri, and everything he’d heard about it was, unfortunately, true.

  “Out. Go.” Red motioned for Blue to walk the boat back to shore, but the current spun them into midstream.

  “No, the boat will tip,” Blue said. “It was your turn to bring the paddle.”

  “Your squaw used it to stir the laundry.”

  Judging by their stink, the paddle hadn’t helped much. The discussion continued in another language or two complete with wild gestures. The boat bucked like an unbroken horse.

  “Hey, what’s that?” Jesse pointed. The water rippled unevenly around something. And they were headed straight for it.

  “Help! Au secours! A l’aide! ”

  The boat slammed into the stump and flung the men into the air. The river came up to swallow them.

  No stage curtains graced this sunset. The clear sky glowed with a pearly mix of grayed yellow and pink, like the breast of a mourning dove.

  Escorted by Jake, Susannah trudged up the slope and plopped down on a patch of gravel. “So this is Your script.” She held up Jesse’s Bible. “Two thousand years ago, maybe. But today? We’ve got railroads, husbands who leave, grasshoppers—”

  Wait a minute. Ivar had planned a sermon on grasshopper plagues. An old Sunday school lesson rang in her head like a distant church bell. Moses and locusts.

  Susannah lowered her head. “Jesse said You know all my thoughts, Lord. So You know I’m just up here with the Bible hoping to bribe You into bringing Jesse back.” The frayed ribbon marked Psalm 119, so she read the next chapter, tilting the book to let the last rays of sun light the page. “‘In my distress I cried unto the Lord, and he heard me.’ Well, that certainly applies to this week.” She read on. “‘I lift my eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.’”

  She looked up, hoping to see Jesse strolling home along the ridge. Instead, the fading dusk brightened with a shimmering, ethereal light, purer than sunlight. The grasshopper-eaten wasteland vanished, revealing a ripe-for-harvest farmland portioned by a grid of straight gravel roads. Each square contained crops: oats heavy with grain, velvet green wheat, shiny emerald corn, and yellow-orange sunflowers. Columns of trees sheltered well-kept frame houses and barns. A steeple and school bell tower reached toward the sky. Cattle grazed on the slope to the north.

  The scene blurred. Susannah blinked, bringing her world back into focus. She knew what she’d seen. It was Jesse’s vision of the future. God’s vision. And now, Susannah’s vision too.

  Chetan lifted his chin toward the river. “Whites scare away the fish.”

  Misun watched the bull boat move in circles down the river. “No paddles. No brains.”

  “But one has a nice rifle.” His cousin started his horse down the bluff, braids slapping his back.

  Misun clicked to his gray and followed. “Your mother will be mad if you are shot.”

  “Whites without paddles are too busy to shoot.”

  “How will you get the rifle?”

  “I do not know.” The river might be low this time of year, but it was never free of trouble. The boys trailed the boat downstream. They recognized the two with the knit hats, whiskey traders who had been banned from the Standing Rock Agency. The third, with the nice rifle, was unfamiliar.

  “Go.” Chetan urged his horse into the water. But before he could reach them, the boat slammed into a stump. The men flew out, hit the water, then disappeared. A moment later something white bobbed up downstream.

  The boys swam their horses to the floating thing. Chetan grabbed, but the river did not release it. Misun hooked the other side. The stranger hung underneath. Moving in tandem, they hauled him to the riverbank.

  Chetan slid off his horse. “He dropped the rifle.”

  “So would I.” Misun squatted beside the drowned man. The floating thing turned out to be a woven bag. Why did it not sink? Inside, he found a hollow object made of polished wood, about as long as a beaver. Wires
stretched its length; perhaps useful as snares. When Misun tried to pull them off, they made a noise.

  Chetan donned the man’s shoes. Too loose. “Maybe they will fit Father.”

  “Hey.” The wires made sounds, each different. “Maybe our mothers will forget about the fish.”

  “Only food makes me forget hunger.”

  The man gurgled and coughed, spitting river water. He opened his eyes, looked at Misun, and said, “Tatanka.”

  “He speaks.” Misun introduced himself and his cousin, then held up the wood thing. “What is this called? What does it do?”

  But the white’s eyes closed and he was silent.

  “He called you the wrong name.” Chetan rooted through the other bag on the man’s back, finding clothes, a tin cup, and a small knife.

  “Hey.” The boy loosened the string holding the man’s hat to his head. An eagle’s feather had been woven into the hatband. “Maybe his name is Tatanka. Maybe he has done a great deed.”

  “Like shoot some Indians?” Chetan opened a metal bottle and tasted water. Cleaner than using a skin; worth saving.

  “I want to keep him. He can teach me this.” Misun pulled on the wires, making more sounds.

  “Now who has no brains?” In the man’s pocket, Chetan found a few coins. He saved them for the next time a trader came through.

  Misun brought his horse close. The animal snorted, protesting the strange smell of the man.

  “Your horse thinks this is a bad idea too. Leave him here. The whites will bury him according to their customs.”

  Misun shook the white. “Tatanka! Wake up!”

  The man was heavy, but he roused enough to stand. The boys flopped him over Misun’s horse, bringing up more river water from his belly. They climbed the bluff and headed toward their village.

  “If he is not dead now,” Chetan said to the sunset, “he will be when we get home.”