River People

by Margaret Lukas

  “I promise.”

  “I was tired and the sun hot. Baby Sally toddled around on the porch, then turned and slid down the stairs on her tummy. I thought she was safe on the ground. I saw the washtub on the new stump. Shiny in the sunlight. I saw her reach for it, but the stump was over her head. Being half-asleep, it looked too tall and like she didn’t have the strength to pull herself up. Her being there didn’t worry me. I must have shut my eyes.

  “Ma’s screaming woke me. Her hobbling down the steps past me, holding her big stomach to stop its bouncing. Skeet ran out of the house behind her but faster and reached the tub first. I couldn’t see nothing wrong. Didn’t understand Ma’s screaming. Skeet’s hands plunged into the tub and lifted out Sally. Her body was limp, her head flopped to the side.” She choked and needed a new breath before she could go on. “So much water running off her and dragging out her curls. She was dead. Drowned as a puppy.

  “This here place,” Effie said, “maybe even what Rev. Jackdaw’s done to me. It must be my just desserts. She was mine to watch.”

  Bridget stood and backed away from the bed.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Effie said. “Let me sleep. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Her eyelids were heavy and her mind drifting. They sat in the dark, she in Ma’s lap, the two of them in a straight back chair. She was too big to be there. She’d let Baby Sally die and didn’t deserve Ma’s clutching, kissing, and weeping.

  Effie curled in bed, faced the wall. Cora was gone. She’d come with two twisty loaves of bread, peaches even in that, and told them good-bye. Apologized for leaving at this horrible time. “I’ll be back in August.” And when Bridget asked why, Cora explained about a niece getting married and a trousseau needing purchased and packing and planning and arrangements to be made for guests and how the niece had lost her mother and counted on Cora. “I must go.”

  Effie hadn’t really listened to all of that. Hadn’t asked questions. She’d thought of her own wedding and the contrast between the two. And how Cora was going because she wished to. No mention of how Mr. Graf liked it, or didn’t like it.

  Now the Injun was in the lodge. Chief—he had a name. This time he hammered at the table with Bridget and made sleep impossible. The man angered her, but she no longer feared him. He wasn’t going to kill her—though in the first days, dopey with laudanum and pain, she’d wished it. Instead, he’d saved her hand from gangrene, possibly saved her life. The doctor made a single visit. Chief visited every morning, unwrapping her hand and wielding a small knife. The first time, drugged and delirious, she’d struggled to lift her chin and bare her neck, giving him access to a clean swipe across her throat. Instead, he’d picked at pockets of pus or infected swelling, re-opening those wounds. Then starting on her forearm, he massaged downward until she bled cleanly and her arm throbbed from the work of his bruising hands. The wound was still a rope-thick line of soreness, a red braid across both the top and bottom, but Chief no longer fussed over it. The fear of infection was gone.

  She flinched at the drop of his hammer on the table. With his coming and going, he didn’t realize the hours she spent up, using the commode, rocking in her chair, her eyes on the road. But he wanted her on her feet now, her attention back on the world, supposing she slept too much. How could she face a life where her husband abused her so horribly?

  “Get your nail through the first piece,” Chief told Bridget, teaching her, as if building small boxes mattered a wit. “Then hold that side to the next.”

  Effie sat up slowly; what use in trying to sleep?

  Chief put a piece of wood, half on the seat of a chair and half-extended out. “Downward strokes. The saw angled like this.”

  Effie stepped outside. It was quieter there, though the springtime air chilled her arms. She lowered herself gingerly to the porch floor, letting her legs dangle over the side. How often she’d sat on the porch at Homeplace, looking out at the openness, dreaming.

  Chief ’s horse watched her from the top of the slope, its spotted head high. She wanted to run a hand along its side, absorb some of its surety. Now that she was better, she needed to face facts. Chief and Cora’s visits and aid wouldn’t last forever. Disasters called folks to attention, brought out good works, but that help faded quickly. Chief and Cora had other lives. Praise God! She wasn’t a child, wasn’t a beggar, and didn’t want pity or charity.

  But how would she and Bridget survive without help? All last winter, when she’d charged items at Graf ’s store—nearly dying of shame—she’d believed the bill would eventually be paid. Even Graf must have trusted Rev. Jackdaw somewhat, but that was over. No one trusted him now.

  The door opened behind her. “You work on that,” Chief was talking over his shoulder to Bridget. “I’ll come by again tomorrow.” He looked at Effie cradling her hand. “The pain all right?”

  She ached for a sleeping tonic, but he wouldn’t help her there. “It’s better.”

  He gave a slow nod, delivering some wordless encouragement, and descended the steps. Reaching his horse, he grabbed the saddle horn and was up. Easy. Horse and man started off. Not a soul to say otherwise.

  Watching the simple act was like watching a fog lift. A person could stand up and go. Cora, off to New York for the summer, going whenever she pleased. Effie took a deep breath, her mind racing, weighing. Since no lawman had knocked on Rev. Jackdaw’s door to tell him of her death, he knew she was still alive. There was even the possibility of his having an informant in Bleaksville.

  She had to go. The thought of a weeks-long trek on foot back to New Ulm, with no protection on the road, was terrifying. But even more terrifying was the thought of doing nothing, only waiting for Rev. Jackdaw’s return. Suppose he came that night?

  She stood and went back inside. “Bridget, it’s time. We have to go. He’s coming. Two weeks, two days, two hours. He’ll come for the spoons or because God directed him to kill me. We’ve got to walk home.”

  Bridget’s eyes widened. “He hasn’t come back.”

  “Maybe he’s been waiting to hear if I died. When he finds out I haven’t, he’ll be back.”

  “You aren’t strong enough.” Bridget’s voice cracked. “You don’t know the way.”

  “We’ll find the way.” How many weeks and what sorts of dangers would they face? Injuns, bad men, accidents? But they had no choice. Rev. Jackdaw’s insanity was too deep; there was no hope for him, no possible way of living with him.

  She crossed to the rocker, sank, and slid her good hand along one rough arm and its layer of new paint. She’d have to leave it. Plus Pa never wanted to see the chair again. He’d likely shipped it to her because he imagined Granny’s ghost still rocked there.

  “What about Jake?”

  “We’re not taking the ox. ”Effie ached for one last dose of laudanum. Just moving to the porch and back had awakened pain in her hand. She’d already taken all the painkiller the doctor left. She wouldn’t go and beg for more.

  “I promised Jake I’d never leave him.”

  Effie stood. “You’re almost grown. Old enough to understand we can’t take that animal. He’ll slow us down. We might have to run, sneak into barns. How can we do that with a big ox?” A wave of doubt made her look away. How could she take care of herself and Bridget on the road? But staying and getting herself killed wouldn’t help Bridget either. “Jake isn’t ours. The law don’t care if a wife runs off, but stealing a head of cattle is different. We don’t want the sheriff after us.”

  “Jake’ll be alone. He needs me.”

  “I need you. I can’t do it alone.” Bridget’s eyes were filling. After all that happened, why would the child care about helping her? “I know I’ve hurt you and you don’t trust me, but we can do this. But not with the sheriff riding down on us.”

  Bridget looked back at the box she was building. “I don’t want to leave Jake.”

  “I’m not getting drug back here because of that animal.”

  “I don’t
need you.” Bridget put down the hammer, crossed her arms. “I can take care of myself.”

  “If we stay and that man kills me, what do you think will happen to you? You think he’s going to suddenly turn into the pappy you want? You think he’s going to live here in this crumbling down place and let you keep the ox?”

  “If you go, you’ll get dead.”

  The thought of the trek seemed more daunting with each of Bridget’s refusals. “You’re coming. I need to get you somewhere safe, too. If he kills me, you’ll be next.”

  She went for her dresses. The green, wilted and tired, hung from its peg like a long-dead weed. She spread the skirt out on the bed for a knapsack, pulled her shoes from beneath the bed and put them in the center. She’d save them, worn out as they were, for when the bottoms of her feet blistered. She put the black cloth with her shoes. “The spoons. It’s time you gave them back. We can sell them along the way for food.”

  Bridget still refused to move.

  Exhaustion threatened to sit Effie down again, and pleading with Bridget increased her weariness. “You can go to school in New Ulm.” She stopped and swallowed back her emotion. “We got to go. You know that. If you were a baby, I’d pick you up and carry you.”

  She did her best to roll up the Never Forget quilt and add it to her bundle. Bridget was plain stubborn. She was also stronger and more cunning. Forced to come, she’d let a few days of travel pass and then she’d slip away, returning to Jake. What then? There’d be no use in doubling back for her. No use losing the miles already walked. Bridget would only run off again.

  “Okay, I’ll go alone.”

  Bridget’s breath caught.

  Maybe fear, Effie thought, can do what pleading can’t. “Rev. Jackdaw touches you, he tries to take you to this bed, kill him first. You hear me? Killing him is your only chance. He does that to you, you’ll die inside.”

  Bridget’s eyes lifted. “Are you dead inside?”

  Effie’s hand throbbed as if it would speak for her. “I’m trying to live. I won’t wait here and be murdered because you care more about that ox.”

  “It’s not just Jake.”

  “What then?”

  “Mum and Pappy are West. Mum might be in Omaha.”

  “A prostitute? That again?”

  “There’re no trees at your house. And Jake.”

  “But if you’re dead!” Effie dropped a half-eaten loaf—another of Cora’s loafs remained for Bridget—and the big knife on top of her things. Poor protection, but something. Folding in the skirt fabric to make a bundle, her own tears threatened. “You don’t have a family . . . at least not one that stayed with you. Maybe you can’t understand how I need to go home.” She grabbed up the bundle. “Stay right here if you want.”

  “You’re shaking. You’re not strong, and you don’t even know the way.”

  “I’ll get stronger, and every day I’ll be farther away from him and a day closer to home. That’ll be my strength.”

  “Your pa said don’t come home.”

  Effie lifted her hand with its rope of scars. “This will change his mind.”

  “Go!” Bridget cried. “Just leave me! I’ll bet Rev. Jackdaw is coming right now! You better get out of here.”

  Bridget’s hurting was all the more assurance that given a day or two—even an hour or two—she’d come running to catch up. When that happened, the decision would be hers, and she wouldn’t run back.

  Johnny’s marbles lay on the windowsill. Picking them up, Effie felt their coolness. Johnny waited for her. With her cape and the bundle, she looked back at the lodge where she’d spent months and then to Bridget with her licking and eyes full of tears. Only a young girl wearing a turban of rags and in boy’s clothes. How small she looked. Like some strange, lost doll.

  “I won’t go through town,” Effie said. “Him likely to come from that direction, and Chief likely to see me walking past his house. I’ll go toward Thayer’s. Slow as I can walk, you can catch up. Bring the spoons.”

  She stepped out onto the porch, closed the door, but couldn’t move. Where would she spend the night? She needed Bridget. She reminded herself she’d also been afraid the first day she stepped out alone to shepherd Jake. But she’d done it; she’d found the courage.

  When she was sure Bridget wasn’t going to come running, not yet at least, she made it down the steps, and started up the slope. She forced her face into a stiff smile. She wouldn’t have to go far alone. Bridget would catch up.

  Bridget wouldn’t watch Effie leaving; Effie walking away the same as had Pappy and Mum. E-F-F-I-E. Walking away the same as Grandma Teegan.

  She waited a minute. Ten. An hour.

  The sun set, and as shadows spread like a dark fog to cloak Effie’s rocker and the bed where she slept, Bridget went out and sat on the back landing. This time, she wasn’t the one stealing. Effie’s leaving stole the colors from the sky. It stole the back and forth hoots of the owls. It stole crickets’ songs and the throated honk of bullfrogs. It stole clear back a year and took Grandma Teegan again.

  Where was Effie now that it was getting dark? Huddled in a ditch? Trembling beneath a bridge? She’d needed to go, but how could she? Wasn’t she too sorry over her lye mixture? Too sorry over the blisters on Bridget’s toes? Too sorry about hitting with a plate?

  Jake left off grazing at the edge of the clearing and lumbered over. He licked Bridget’s knees and bumped her hands with his head so she’d pet him. “I emptied the poop bucket,” she told him. “I carried in wood and got food.” She’d done everything to make herself too valuable to be left. But it hadn’t been enough. There was time to catch up with Effie, but she wouldn’t. Effie was going east. Her parents already had too many troubles and didn’t want a half orphan. Not even Effie, with all those brothers would really want her once they arrived. “I’d only remind her of Rev. Jackdaw and the bad months at the lodge.”

  The second day was harder still. Bridget lifted the chairs onto the table and climbed. Dust sifted and made her cough as she brought down Grandma Teegan’s hair. The pages of Rev. Jackdaw’s journal dropped. The words hadn’t interested her, hadn’t interested Effie either. Effie had said to throw them away, but Bridget rolled the sheets tight as a pencil and tied them with strands of her hair.

  With the braid fisted in her hand, she walked Jake along the road, keeping him close to the lodge. Up and down, so that from whichever direction Effie came, she’d see her. When Effie appeared, Bridget would run to her and carry the heavy green bundle. If Effie was tired and needed to lean on her . . . that would be all right.

  The sun still slanted easterly when Chief came on Smoke and reined the horse.

  “You can’t stay,” Bridget said before he could speak. “I’m too busy today.”

  He looked at her for a minute, then out into the quiet morning with Jake grazing just a few yards away. “I see that.” But not leaving. Watching her. “You okay?”

  How to answer?

  “Effie all right?”

  “She’s sleeping.” Had he seen Grandma Teegan’s braid? She moved it casually behind her back. “I’m staying out here with Jake so she can sleep.”

  Smoke watched her and watched Jake. He shook his head and shimmied the shoulder closest to her. A large spot there shifted.

  “You haven’t seen Jackdaw?” Chief asked. “He isn’t in there?”

  “Maybe he’s never coming back.”

  “Maybe I ought to go in and have a look.”

  If he did, he’d see Effie was gone, her dresses no longer hanging on pegs, the Never Forget quilt missing from the bed. He’d see what Bridget never wanted him to see: the shameful truth that she’d been left again.

  “Effie’s much better now.” She squeezed the braid. Nera, Nera. “She doesn’t want you to visit anymore.”

  Beneath the brim of his hat, she caught the squint of his eyes. He didn’t believe her. Then he did. She wanted him to know Effie was gone, but that was only part of what she was feeling. She
couldn’t explain the round hole that formed when you were left. The hole was ten times your size and rolled alongside you. You had to be very careful and not fall into it. Anyway, Effie was coming back.

  “You got something you want to tell me?”

  She shook her head.

  He rode off, Smoke’s tail dancing, Chief lifting and settling with the horse’s trot, his braids swaying. He hadn’t gotten down, put a hand on her shoulder, told her everything would be all right. He didn’t want to be “that man.”

  With each passing hour and no sign of Effie, Bridget’s loneliness increased. That evening, she stood on the ridge and watched the train, its cars rumbling. Families coming and going. Inside the lodge again, she unrolled Rev. Jackdaw’s journal pages, used her palm, and pressed them flat.

  I’m leaving this record lest God forget

  She’d glanced over Rev. Jackdaw’s shoulders, or peeked at the journal left open and drying, enough times to know he began every entry this way.

  I’m leaving this record lest God forget

  Seven years old. Horses pounding into the yard. Four riders, each with a rope around the neck of the same wild stallion. Swearing, they struggled to keep the horse at a safe distance between them.

  I’d seen plenty of wild horses caught and brought in for Mister to break. Never a stallion so magnificent. A wide, deep chest, powerful haunches. Black glass. His head in the clouds. Regal, at least twenty hands high.

  Once in the corral, the stallion circled, pawed the earth, snorted, ran again. His mane streaming in the air. Never tiring, his eyes never leaving the row of us along the split rail fence.

  When the men left, Mister and my two brothers, ten and fourteen, went in to sup. I sat in the dusk, seeing myself riding such a horse. And sick with what I knew was coming.

  I spent most of the night at my bedroom window, looking down on the corral. The stallion still prancing, its head high.

  The moon rose, the wind came up, and I got it in my head the stallion caused both. Mister broke horses across three counties, but none of them had ever ordered the moon and stirred the firmament. The drum of his hoofs circling, moonlight pouring over him like cream. Then he’d stop, turn, and start the stars swirling the other direction.