Spring for Susannah

by Catherine Richmond

  A last snip of the scissors. Another dousing with whiskey. “Done.”

  Magnar left his place to look at her work. “Good!”

  Susannah repacked the kit, then tried to stand. Her feet had gone numb, and her legs wobbled. Magnar caught her, took the bag, and half carried her through the silvery dawn.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, but he didn’t understand those words either.

  After the stable, the house smothered her with warmth. The short night, demanding surgery, and even more demanding baby drained her energy. Susannah leaned against the wall. Mrs. Hansen greeted her.

  Susannah turned to Disa, who was busy drawing with a fingertip on the frosty window. “Please tell your mother I cannot take off my coat,” she said. “I did not have time to dress.”

  Magnar lifted the hem of her greatcoat, revealing the edge of her nightgown, chopped to an indecent knee length. He held Susannah’s arm up, pointing out the cut tips of her glove.

  Mrs. Hansen made a clicking noise with her tongue, then guided Susannah into the west alcove, the parents’ bedroom. Pulling the curtain closed behind them, Mrs. Hansen opened a large painted trunk and sorted through folded clothes. Then with motherly care she unbuttoned Susannah’s coat and eased the gloves off.

  Mrs. Hansen shook her head at the bloodstained nightgown and lifted it over Susannah’s head. She paused to touch the curve at Susannah’s waist. “Baby. Good.” She did not make eye contact as she dressed Susannah in a white blouse and blue jumper. They both knew it wasn’t good, a baby on the way with her husband who knows where.

  Mrs. Hansen slipped out and spoke quietly to Magnar. Susannah heard the word “baby,” the same in both languages. But Mor wasn’t telling him anything new; Magnar had known since he’d helped her down the ladder in the early hours of this morning.

  Susannah stepped into the main room. Magnar had his back to them, ladling porridge into red ceramic bowls. He turned. “Ja!” He reached for Susannah and escorted her to the table.

  “Uncle says you look good Norwegian,” Disa reported.

  “Wrong color hair.” She should have taken the time to redo her windblown, sleep-mussed braid. Too tired. She slid onto the bench at the long table, closed her eyes, and held her hands over the bowl. She could fall asleep right now, face-first into the porridge. Magnar’s large hands enfolded hers, massaging the stiffness out with rose water and glycerin.

  Every time he touched her, she missed Jesse more.

  A clock chimed the hour.

  “Thank you. Takk.” She pulled her hands out of the man’s grasp and picked up the spoon. “I’m late.”

  Rolf crawled from under the table and clambered onto her lap. “Uncle wagon to school.”

  Across the table, Magnar devoured his breakfast without taking his eyes from her. What was he staring at? She was straw-dusted, smelled like a horse, and pregnant.

  To avoid looking back at him, Susannah surveyed the room. The house was constructed with milled rafters instead of the peeled logs Jesse had used. The east alcove contained two beds and another brightly painted trunk. Along the west wall sat a bed with a trundle beneath it. It seemed like a lot of furniture until she remembered eight people lived here. Next to the window, Mrs. Hansen uncovered a small black appliance.

  “A sewing machine!” This family was prosperous enough for horses, rafters, and a sewing machine? Susannah thought back to the vanished Irish couple with twins at Fourth Siding. Both houses were made of sod, but there the similarities ended.

  “Mor sew for teacher.” Disa stretched to continue her artwork on the top panes. “You sew horse. Mor sew dress.”

  “All right. After school I’ll bring my fabric when I check on the mare.”

  With a death grip on Jesse’s ear, the sergeant dragged him into the overcast morning. The north wind sliced through his cotton shirt, and the frozen grass pricked his feet like needles.

  “Ever hear of dressing for the weather?” Probably not. Blankets and moccasins seemed to be the only winter wear here.

  The woman hauled him to the grassy slope by the creek. She handed him a burlap sack and pointed her whip at a pile of horse apples. Well, someone had to bring in the fuel, and he did enjoy the fire. “Don’t suppose you thought to bring gloves?” he muttered.

  She might not have understood his words, but she recognized stalling. Another yank on his ear put some hustle in his step. Between pickups, he sneaked a look around. Empty that direction. Same this direction. No sign of life. No sign of the river. Well, the creek probably—

  There was a snap, a sting, and Jesse rubbed at his wrist. The Indian woman twitched her whip. She didn’t smile, but Jesse thought he saw a contemptuous laugh in her beady eyes.

  “I’m working, I’m working,” he said. But not getting paid.

  What was Susannah doing for fuel? She wasn’t strong enough to cut wood, but the oxen generated plenty of cow pies. He grimaced, imagining his wife’s fingers picking up dung. Maybe she could wear work gloves, like she did when she dealt with the grasshoppers.

  He filled the bag, but the job wasn’t done. He had to empty it beside one tepee, then go back for more. At least frozen-solid horse apples didn’t smell.

  In camp, one of the younger women helped a pregnant girl to a tepee set by itself. The sergeant joined them.

  This was his big opportunity. Jesse worked east, pausing now and then to add to the bag in case anyone watched. He inched closer to the river. Closer to Fort Lincoln. Closer to home.

  One chance. If he failed, if he was caught, the tribe would torture and kill him.

  He crested the slope and looked up. A huge ash-gray cloud loomed overhead, rolling toward him, already shooting downdrafts of snow.

  One chance. But no chance at all.

  “Go ahead.” Susannah shooed the Hansen children. “I’ll be along after I check for mail.”

  Sissel took the bundle of Susannah’s fabric and herded her siblings toward home. By the time Susannah escaped from Mrs. Rose’s dire warnings about Indians, grilling on the early morning events, and commentary on Norwegian clothing, the children were specks on the horizon. She trudged after them and glanced at the envelopes as she walked, then shoved them into her pockets. Nothing from Jesse.

  Where was he?

  Dusk sped into dark. The last few degrees on the thermometer vanished with the sun. The northwest wind pelted her with ice balls and fine grains of dirt. In spite of the scarf over her face, each breath ripped the inside of her nose and scraped her lungs. The cold penetrated her boots and two pairs of socks until she couldn’t feel her legs.

  She tried to walk faster, but her muscles were sore from riding the stallion and spasmed in protest. A hot pain clawed her side. Susannah crossed her arms, pressing a fist into her ribs. She slowed, twisting to try to ease the cramp, but the throbbing sliced down to her hip and spread to her other side. She turned her back to the wind and sank down on the frozen ground.

  Please, God, the baby . . .

  “Teacher! Teacher!” Erik dashed up, followed by the other children in the buckboard with their uncle.

  “Teacher hurt?” Sissel held a lantern.

  “No, just tired.” Susannah struggled to stand, but Magnar scooped her off the ground and deposited her on the wagon seat. He tucked a heavy gray blanket around her legs.

  “Uncle says sorry wagon late.” Rolf climbed over the backrest to snuggle against her, nudging her into Magnar. The pain loosened its grip. Susannah sighed, exhaling a white cloud. Thank You, Jesus.

  Magnar halted in front of the house and carried her inside.

  “Put me down! I can walk! Sissel, tell him!”

  The children giggled. They’d be impossible to teach after all this silliness, as naughty as the Rose children. Magnar set her on her feet at the front door. She spun away and headed for the barn.

  “I need to see the horse. Sissel, please bring the lantern.”

  In the stable, Mr. Hansen raised an eyebrow at his snickering offspring.
The mare’s eyes were calm, her stitches dry and cool. Susannah’s meticulous father would have no complaints.

  “Did you find the cat?” Susannah curved her hands into claws and growled. Fresh laughter erupted from the doorway. A hint of a smile crossed the face of the usually stolid Mr. Hansen. He led the group around the soddy, where Jake guarded a tawny carcass. Dark blood matted the fur between the cat’s ears.

  “What are you grinning about?” Susannah asked her panting dog. “You didn’t bring him down.”

  Susannah examined the cougar, the clouded lenses of his eyes, the gray fur sprinkling his muzzle. “He’s half blind, missing three of his four canine teeth. This cat’s hunting days were over. Probably thought Erik was a colt.”

  Mrs. Hansen called them to the table. Like Marta, Mor Hansen carried herself like a queen and ruled over her family with dignified benevolence. A thick braid circled her head in a crown. But beneath her calm exterior ran a sharp mind, manifested in Sissel’s wit, Disa’s elaborate dreams, Erik’s mischievousness. Without a doubt the children inherited equal attributes from their father, although Mr. Hansen’s reserve did not invite social contact. Susannah glanced across the supper table at the quiet head of the household. Did people find her equally difficult to approach?

  After the meal, Disa produced a basket of yarn. “I fix teacher mittens.”

  Susannah reached into her pockets and brought out her gloves and the mail. Good manners dictated that letters be read aloud or saved for when one was alone, but the rule couldn’t possibly apply to this situation. Mrs. Hansen pumped away on the sewing machine. Sissel dried the dishes. The men had left for evening chores. And the next moment Susannah was alone, she’d drop off to sleep. She settled little Rolf on her lap and opened the first envelope.

  It was from Reverend Webb. He had been unable to locate Susannah’s or Betsy’s husband in Jamestown, but would continue to search on his next visit. The village on the James River was populated with approximately two hundred souls, many employed at the fort, and all in need of clerical care. God willing, he would leave for Bismarck in the morning. He promised to inquire about Jesse, and he looked forward to seeing her on his return trip.

  The next was from Ann Arbor. Reverend Mason had received a letter from a minister in the territory, one John W. Webb. Her brother-in-law expressed distress that Susannah had been reduced to teaching school in a shanty to a gang of ruffians, half of whom were heathen foreigners. She carried a gun and kept a wolf. She was in a “delicate condition” and her diet consisted entirely of potatoes. The Mason homestead, little more than an animal den, housed a woman of questionable reputation. Jesse had apparently taken leave of his senses and abandoned her. Correspondence had been initiated with the War Department; military action in the Black Hills was not expected until spring. She must remove herself from these unfavorable conditions at once, by the next train.

  Heathen foreigners? Susannah glanced around the room at the loving Hansen family. Reverend Webb showed a melodramatic bent.

  “Teacher?” Rolf held up three train tickets.

  Susannah spread them on the table. Fourth Siding to St. Paul, St. Paul to Chicago, Chicago to Ann Arbor.

  Magnar and Mr. Hansen returned on a gust of snow flurries. The tickets spun out of Susannah’s reach, twirled around the room, and landed by Magnar’s boots. He picked them up. His face creased into a frown as he looked from the tickets to Susannah.

  “Uncle say you go train?”

  Every eye in the house stared at her. She studied the plane marks on the table. Real doctors and pharmacies, coal heat, gas lights. But what if Jesse came home and she wasn’t here? “I don’t know.”

  Norwegian fireworks erupted with a cacophony of discussion and argument.

  Sissel provided the blow-by-blow interpretation. “Uncle says you are needed here, to teach and doctor horses. Far says you cannot stay. Mor says you have baby and no husband. How? You need husband to make baby. Mor says it is late. You sleep in my bed.”

  Sissel sat next to her. “Teacher, don’t go.” The rest of the children echoed her cry.

  Magnar disappeared into the east alcove, jerking the curtain closed. The sound wasn’t as loud as a slamming door, but the emotion came through. Why was he angry? Susannah kept her head down, careful not to make eye contact with either of the parents.

  Mrs. Hansen swept the children off to bed.

  Susannah pulled her washed and mended nightgown over her long underwear, then climbed in beside Sissel. What was she going to do? But as always, it seemed the decision had been made for her: she would return to civilization, stay with Matt and Ellen until the baby arrived, and hope the army would have some information about Jesse by then. The oxen and chickens were already here at the Hansens. The children adored Jake. Betsy would take the homestead. It was all settled.

  But how could she move farther away from Jesse? It would be like giving up.

  The stove door squeaked. A log thudded onto the coals. Nightshirt flapping around his long johns, Magnar approached the bed and motioned her to the window. “Come.”

  “I’m in my nightgown,” she whispered. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wake his nieces with his unseemly behavior.

  “Come.”

  “Well, all right, you saw it this morning.” She sidestepped around the trundle bed.

  He exhaled on the middle pane and wiped it with his cuff. She didn’t have to look; the glow of the night told the story. The snows had begun.

  “Su-sah-nah stay.” He smiled.

  When Jesse woke, a pair of moccasins sat beside his head with socks tucked inside.

  Misun’s little sister giggled. Jesse winked at her and she giggled some more. He pulled on the socks and thanked God he hadn’t lost a toe or two. Then he opened the flap.

  The draw was knee-deep in snow. Moccasins or no moccasins, he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps for a very long time.

  Chapter 31

  Tell Susannah I love her, and . . . I’m sorry.

  You’re getting the fabric wet,” Betsy observed from the stove where she heated glue.

  “Silly. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Susannah wiped her eyes with Jesse’s red bandanna. Magnar had hitched up his sleigh and returned her to the homestead. She had Betsy for company. And she had the baby.

  There was much to be thankful for, she knew, and yet she was barely hanging on. Constant prayer was the only thing that kept her from falling apart completely.

  “My aunt boo-hooed through all eight of her confinements. I’ll fix you a cup of tea.” Betsy filled the tin coffeepot from the pail of melting snow on the stove. “If it bothers you so much to cut that up—”

  On the table lay Jesse’s disassembled shirt. Using a dress of Sara’s for a pattern, Susannah was sewing a layette from Jesse’s old clothes.

  “No. The fabric’s still good, soft from all the washings. I just feel sorry for the baby.” She stroked her melon-shaped abdomen. “His mother can’t afford new fabric for his clothes. And without a father—”

  “I expect that will change soon.” Betsy filled the tea ball with leaves. The ball and curling iron were the only household implements Betsy had taken from her old home; William didn’t drink tea and his hair curled on its own. “The only question is, who will the lucky bridegroom be? You pick one and I’ll take the other.”

  “Ridiculous thing for two married women to discuss.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.” Using a chicken feather, Betsy applied glue to the mortise and tenon, then pushed the joint back together. “When your husband smashes furniture, you learn to make repairs.”

  Susannah snipped the knot and pulled out the thread holding the sleeve together. “After what you went through, I’m surprised you’re not shy of men.”

  “On the contrary, dear Susannah,” Betsy said with a sweeping gesture. “I’m ready to show the world what an excellent wife I really am. Prove my snake-in-the-grass husband wrong. I’m ready for someone who will cheris
h me, tell me I’m pretty, treat me like a lady. I want someone to look in my eyes and say I’m the best thing that ever happened to him. I’m ready for love, fairy-tale, happily-ever-after love.” She went quiet for a moment, staring off into her dream world.

  Could Betsy find a beloved? Someone like Jesse, who would treat her tenderly, gently, hold her through the night? Another tear made a dark circle on the cotton.

  “Now, who would make the best husband?” Betsy asked. “The Reverend or that Norwegian bachelor?”

  “Can’t imagine.” Susannah didn’t want to imagine anyone other than Jesse walking through the door. “Dear Lord, please bring Jesse home.”

  “Amen.” Betsy poured the tea. “Susannah, you’re a beautiful lady, one of those enviable women who looks radiant when she’s expecting. You’re a survivor, fighting off that banker in Detroit. Hey, I read in the St. Paul paper that some guy posed as an insurance agent to procure young girls. Wonder if it was the same fellow.”

  Telling her story to Betsy last week had drained Susannah, but it was a good fatigue, as if she had tackled some particularly onerous spring-cleaning chore and defeated it.

  Betsy continued. “You’re intelligent. You know everything about the Bible. No wonder Reverend Webb’s interested. Married to you, he’ll never have to open his concordance.”

  Susannah spoke slowly, basting her thoughts together. “If it hadn’t been for Jesse, no man would have looked at me twice. I don’t mean just geography, bringing me out to empty Dakota. His love made me feel free to let other people know me. Because Jesse loves me, even though he knows me, I grew to believe in God’s love for me.” She hid her face in the steam rising from the mug. “I’m sounding moonstruck.”

  “All you talk about is Jesse,” Betsy said. “No living husband can compete with a departed saint.”

  “I wish we’d had our picture taken when we were in Fargo. I’m starting to forget how he looked.”