I am Mrs. Jesse James

by Pat Wahler

  My mouth dropped open. Bob Ford just admitted to a cold-blooded murder planned with the approval of Missouri’s governor. Nausea cramped my stomach, and I covered my mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Please, may I leave?” I whispered to the court official sitting next to me.

  “You may go,” he said, “but you must return in the morning.”

  I nodded and left the courtroom, my legs quaking. Bob and Charlie Ford had posed as Jesse’s friends in nothing more than a ruse to commit murder.

  Outside, the sun peeked between clouds and sparkled on rain puddles. I walked to the buggy where the deputy waited. “Please take me to the telegraph office. There’s something I must do.”

  Even though reporters were sending the news everywhere, I had to personally give the message to Zerelda.

  Jesse has been murdered. Come to St. Joseph at once.

  The deputy drove me to Mrs. Terrel’s house, and when I went inside, she put her hand on my shoulder.

  “Your children are fine. They cried for a while, but I persuaded them to eat a bit of bread and soup.”

  “That’s so kind. Thank you for your help. We have so few friends here.”

  “Please sit down and let me get you something to eat or drink. You are pale as a sheet.”

  “No, thank you. I have no appetite. But there is something you can do that would be a great help.” Tears brimmed again. “If it’s possible, may we stay here tonight? My house is a place of such sorrow, I can’t bear the thought of going back, and I fear what will happen if the children return so soon to the horrors they witnessed.”

  “Of course, you may stay, my dear. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  I smiled wanly and sat down. A prayer rose to my mouth then faded. This time, no matter how many appeals I lifted, Jesse would never return.

  Tim and Mary clung to me throughout the night, and they cried the next morning when it came time for me to go back to the courthouse. I couldn’t leave my children behind again and took them with me into the waiting buggy.

  In front of the courthouse, a crowd milled about on the lawn, but a black bonnet stood half a head taller than anyone else. Zerelda had arrived.

  The lines of her face were etched with sorrow. When she saw us, she hugged Tim and Mary. Then she put her arm around me and sobbed. “I have just come from the undertaker’s, where my poor boy is lying on a cold slab. Those miserable traitors have taken him away from us!”

  Her grief erased my numb acceptance and brought forth anew the horror and sorrow I’d been trying to suppress. The children broke into tears again at this new display of grief. After a few moments, I composed myself enough to take Zerelda’s arm and climb the steep courthouse steps. Tim, my little man, took Mary’s hand and followed us.

  When Zerelda walked inside, the men whispered to each other. Coroner Heddens hooked his thumbs in his pockets and raised a brow. He had a few words with the judge and then he called Jesse’s mother to the stand. Zerelda went to the witness chair and sat down. She raised her stump of an arm, swearing to tell the truth, and answered the coroner’s questions between pauses to dab tears from her eyes.

  “Mrs. Samuel, you say that you have been to the undertaker. Did you recognize the body of your son?”

  “Yes, sir,” she told him.

  “There is no doubt at all in your mind about whether the body you saw is that of your son, Jesse James?”

  “I wish to God there was.”

  “And who is that lady who walked in by your side?”

  “That is my son’s wife and his poor little children. Oh, dear God.” Tears streamed down Zerelda’s face as her gaze raked the courtroom. At once, her cheeks went from pale to crimson. She quivered with emotion and waved what remained of her arm like a vengeful sword. “Dick Liddil! You helped to bring this about. Coward! Traitor! See what you have done. God will have his vengeance!”

  Dick cowered in his seat, speaking over the buzz of spectators, “I didn’t do it. It was Bob Ford.”

  But Zerelda had worked herself into a fury, sputtering epithets at the top of her lungs until three court officers pulled her from the room while the coroner smacked his palms on the table in an attempt to regain control.

  The children and I hurried outside to Zerelda. I murmured soothing words and rubbed her back until the tightness disappeared, and then we climbed into the waiting buggy. Neither of us had energy enough to speak on the ride home, and when we arrived, I blew out a breath of relief. The crowd had disappeared. From the outside, our home looked the same as it always had. But in the parlor, splotches of blood stained the wall, and the dark puddle on the floor had seeped into wooden planks. Pictures were knocked askew, and a chair still lay sideways on the floor.

  Zerelda looked around the room and a steady stream of fiery words came from her mouth. “Traitors. Cowards. Snakes!”

  I left her to say and do what she must and took the children into the sleeping room. My mouth dropped open in disbelief. Drawers were open and boxes had been riffled through as though a tornado had swirled about.

  I called to Zerelda. “Someone has been here. Most of Jesse’s guns are gone. My rings and a few pieces of jewelry are missing, too.”

  “So the vultures have come to pick clean our bones. Find a box. We must pack what’s left before they come back and take everything.”

  We filled a large wooden crate with what was left of our possessions. It was a pitifully small amount to represent the eight years Jesse and I had been married.

  Tim brought out his bag of marbles and bent to pick up something from the floor. It was a pair of blue spectacles that Charlie Ford sometimes put on to disguise himself. “Grandma, look. Cousin Charlie used to wear these.”

  She snatched the glasses from his hand. “Charlie Ford is not your cousin. Don’t ever call him such a name again. He was the traitor who killed your papa.”

  Tim came to me with tears welled in his eyes.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Your grandmother is very upset. You must try to understand.”

  He sniffed, but his face told me somethng else troubled him. “Mama, a man pointed at me today. I heard him say, ‘That’s young Jesse James.’ Why did he call me that?”

  I sighed and went to my knees to hold him. “It’s your real name. Since people who wanted to harm Papa were trying to find him, we couldn’t use our own names.”

  “My real name is Jesse James?”

  “Yes, it is. When you’re older, I hope you can understand why it had to be this way.”

  Tim nodded, but the mist of confusion did not clear from his eyes.

  The next morning, news of Jesse’s death appeared everywhere. Headlines blared the story of Jesse James being murdered in his own home by his friends. A photographer had taken a picture of Jesse’s body lying on a long board while onlookers posed next to him. The sight sickened me and led to a new fear.

  I went to Zerelda. “What if they don’t give us his body?”

  She stood at her full six-foot height. “They wouldn’t dare do such a thing. We are his kin and have the right to his remains. No one better try to keep him from us. We’re going right now to the marshal and let him know we want his body released without further delay.”

  Zerelda’s breath huffed in outrage by the time we arrived at the marshal’s office. Sorrow and bewilderment kept me from adding a word when she shouted in righteous wrath.

  “I demand my son’s body now!”

  The marshal held up a hand to silence her. “Mrs. Samuel, I just received a telegram from Governor Crittenden. He says the body is to be turned over to the family.”

  But Zerelda wasn’t satisfied. “And while we’re here, I demand protection for my family.” Her eyes shot daggers at him. “Scavengers have already rooted through the house. When we try to leave for Kearney, someone may tamper with what little is left or even attempt to steal my son’s body the same way they have his belongings.”

  “In regard to what happened at the house, any stol
en property has been confiscated. We’ll see what we can do, Mrs. Samuel, to prevent any problems when you travel to Kearney.”

  Zerelda shot him another scalding glance before we left to make our way to the undertaker’s office. Once we were there, Undertaker Sidefaden gave me a paper filled with figures for preparing Jesse’s body and purchasing a coffin. For the second time that day, my mouth dropped open.

  “The cost is two hundred sixty dollars? I can’t afford to pay a sum like that.”

  The tall, thin man shook his head in practiced solemnity. “There’s no need for you to worry about it, Mrs. James. The Kansas City police commissioner and Sheriff Timberlake from Clay County have paid the bill in full—with their compliments.”

  35

  Jesse’s final journey would take him home to Kearney, to where he’d grown up, and our departure from St. Joseph could not come soon enough for me. We would take the train first thing in the morning, thanks to tickets bought for us by my sister Nancy. But first we must spend one more night in the place where my husband had breathed his last.

  We left the undertaker and my stomach lurched with each bump of the carriage at the thought of where we were going. When our driver slowed the clopping horse, I inhaled a sharp breath. People had gathered around the house again, as though waiting for the next act of a stage play. The driver helped us down, and I lifted Mary to my hip. She hid her face against my shoulder as Zerelda took Tim’s hand and plowed into the melee. The crowd surged toward us, and shouts carried over the sound of tramping feet.

  “If you tell your story, I’ll see you are well paid.”

  “Your husband must have left you a fortune. I have stock certificates to sell. You can make a pile of money for your children.”

  “Mrs. James, if you’re arrested for your husband’s deeds, I can represent you for only five hundred dollars.”

  Zerelda shoved through to make a path for us much as Moses must have parted the Red Sea. When we pushed our way inside, she slammed the door and muttered.

  “They’re nothing but vultures.”

  But I had more pressing worries. “I don’t know what we’ll do next. I have nothing more than the few dollars Jesse had in his pockets.”

  Zerelda tilted her head. “My circumstances are as dire as yours.”

  I looked at her in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

  “Did he not tell you? With so much trouble at the farm and Reuben more feeble every day, Jesse gave me money whenever he could. Now I don’t know how I’ll keep the farm going.”

  An ache throbbed at my temple. “Papa would say God will provide.”

  Zerelda sat down and rubbed her arm. “Sometimes God can use some help. It might be good for both of us if you and the children move to the farm.”

  My gaze did not meet hers. “That’s a very kind offer. Let me think on it for a few days, please. The marshal said he would keep the house under guard. I’ll sell whatever we have left. Then I’ll make a decision.”

  Zerelda sighed and closed her eyes.

  Nancy had the mercantile deliver a mourning dress and bonnet to me. The next day, when I put on the snug crepe dress and pulled the bonnet’s veil over my face, an unexpected sense of composure sustained me.

  My brother Robert met us at Undertaker Sidenfaden’s office where a new crowd had gathered on word of our departure. We watched as four men labored to pull the heavy polished casket from the cooling room. My head bowed under the shield of my widow’s veil and I boarded the train with a sense of relief, knowing we’d soon be away from the curious stares.

  The train’s steady clacking lulled me to sleep. But when I opened my eyes in Kearney, my heart sank. An even larger crowd of people had gathered at the depot. More faces than I could count.

  We stood in silence as Jesse’s casket was unloaded and carried into the Kearney Hotel. By order of the sheriff, a man pulled open the coffin’s top. Zerelda looked at her son and railed against the world with sobs and shouts.

  The undertaker had dressed him in a white shirt and striped ascot, his dark beard neatly trimmed. He looked as though he’d fallen asleep with only one blemish marking his left temple. I held my children close as they looked upon their father’s face for the final time. Then I lifted my veil long enough to kiss his firm, cold lips.

  The hotel clerk escorted us outside, where a carriage waited. A reporter armed with paper and pencil rushed toward us. “Do you have a statement?”

  Zerelda’s voice thundered over the murmurs of the crowd. “I can tell you this—I’m proud of my boys. Proud to be the mother of Jesse James. I thank God Frank is far away where he cannot be shot in the back by a traitor!”

  I couldn’t bear the sight of people gawking at Jesse, so Robert took over to receive those lined up to file past. He didn’t return to the farm until late in the evening, his shoulders drooping with weariness.

  “There must have been hundreds of people. The sheriff told me even passing trains delayed their journey so the passengers and crew could march by. After so many years, I guess everyone wanted to see Jesse James.”

  I shuddered. “Thank you for sparing us such an ordeal.”

  The next morning, we drove to Mount Olivet Baptist Church, which was filled to bursting. Many more people milled around outside. The front row sat empty, reserved for Jesse’s family. Walking past other mourners toward the coffin in front of the altar blurred my vision. I sat between my children, and they each pressed themselves against me.

  Reverend Martin spoke on the certainty of death and our duty to prepare ourselves for it. He thundered about sin and punishment. Each word pounded into my brain even as Zerelda swayed back and forth moaning, “Oh God, oh God,” in such dramatic fashion I wanted to clap my hand over her mouth.

  When the sermon finally ended, Reverend Martin cast a stern eye before speaking his final words.

  “Before the coffin leaves for its resting place, I bring a request from the family. As John Samuel is sick and very low on account of the shock caused by the death of his brother and as the grave is very near the house, only close friends and family are invited.”

  Zerelda had arranged for Jesse’s burial to take place on the farm, not far from her bedroom window. With my own future uncertain, I had no other suggestion. After all, what did it matter now? No decision to the contrary would bring back my husband.

  As I stood next to the deep hole that would be Jesse’s final resting place, what seemed like a countless number of people surrounded the farm. They’d ignored Reverend Martin’s words to come and watch. The enormity of my loss hit me again. I put a hand on the box and kissed it, tears streaming down my face, and couldn’t help crying aloud. “They took away any chance you had, and I don’t know how I shall bear it.”

  Zerelda sobbed and shouted over me, “My son helped those traitors, but when he turned his back, they murdered him for money. God’s vengeance will come!”

  She continued her wails as I watched the coffin that contained the body of the man I’d loved for most of my life lowered into the ground. Pain sharp as a surgeon’s knife pierced through me. What would I do? A vital part of my soul had been cut away. People always say the pain of those who have loved and lost is numbed over time. That someday, the heavy yoke of sorrow lifts and days are filled with new light. I didn’t know whether to believe such a thing or not, for the oppressiveness of my thoughts kept hope far from my heart. I looked at Zerelda, her feet planted solidly on fertile soil.

  She would survive this blow in the same way she’d gotten through every other pain and adversity. I loved Zerelda but realized we could never live in the same house. Her mercurial ways were too discordant for someone like me. After the burial, I would swallow what remained of my pride and accept the offer made by my sister. She and her husband lived a comfortable life, and I could stay there until I found some way to make ends meet.

  Tim sniffed and rubbed a sleeve over his nose. I looked down at his blond head. Even though the truth had been revealed to my son, he wo
uld always be Tim to me. His shock at discovering the identity of his father had shaken the timbers of his foundation. Life would be different for my boy now, and for Mary, too. Jesse wasn’t alone in paying a high price for the life he led.

  36

  On the morning of the auction, dozens of people stood outside our house in St. Joseph, trampling over the grass until it disappeared beneath their feet. The auctioneer smiled and waved, making a great show of describing the pitifully few things left to sell. One by one, he held each piece of my life high for the crowd to see.

  “Here’s the coffee mill the children played with right before Jesse James was shot.”

  “This is a coal scuttle Jesse used the day before he died.”

  “How about this high chair, folks? Jesse’s little girl sat in it.”

  I flinched over every word, but Tim stood manfully next to me. He had begged to come, and his pleading had melted my resolve to spare him. That he would witness the sale pained me, yet he didn’t speak a word.

  The auctioneer pushed back his derby hat and grinned. He presesnted the coffee mill first, prompting half-hearted bids from several men.

  The mill sold for two dollars.

  Other things went as cheaply. It became clear that most of the spectators were there only to stare at the goods once belonging to Jesse James. Few offered a bid.

  I wrapped my fingers around Jesse’s lucky penny in my pocket and turned away from the greedy faces.

  “Come with me, Tim. Let’s go to the house for a while.”

  We walked to the porch and I pushed open the door.

  Two men were on their knees in the parlor, busily cutting blood-stained splinters from the floor.

  I gasped and goose flesh pimpled my arms. “Get out of here!” I didn’t care if every single person in the whole wide world heard me shout. Tim stood open-mouthed as the men snatched up their grisly trophies before they scrambled past us and out the door. I hugged my son and took a few deep breaths to compose myself before I could face returning to the auction. We went outside in time for the final item. Tim squeezed my hand with all his might.