by Judy Alter
He stopped, surprised and indignant, and when he answered, there was anger in his voice. “That’s entirely unnecessary. And foolish.”
I saw then what I had blinded myself to in all the years of my devotion to him. He was a fair, honest and kind man, but he expected things to be done as he wished. He could not tolerate disagreement. Yet there I sat, having had the nerve to cross him in a major way, perhaps the most major way for both our lives.
“It may be foolish, but it’s very necessary.” I tried to speak calmly. “I have spent the day thinking about it, and it’s the only answer for me.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?” His anger paled as he saw that I was sincere.
“Yes,” I said firmly, and watched as he bowed his head and muttered, “What have I done?”
I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t know how to explain how much I admired and respected him, how he’d become the father I never had and how I couldn’t, wouldn’t change my relationship to him. That tangled web of thoughts was beyond explanation. And the force of his apology made me reluctant to express my anger and indignation. He had hurt himself enough. There was no need for me to hurt him further.
“I’m going to join Will Henry and Mr. Reeves. I’ll write them in the morning.”
“You’ll leave Omaha and the college?”
Looking directly at him this time, I said, “Yes. I feel I have to.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Now his voice thundered, indignant anger returning. “I will not believe that one incident will chase you away from a life you’ve been building. I won’t bear that responsibility.”
“No. It’s not your fault. It’s my decision. It’s what will make me comfortable. I want to build a life out there.”
“In a sod hut? You’re the one who couldn’t bear the thought of living in a house where dirt fell from the roof!” He was sarcastic now, as though he would make me see the utter folly of my decision.
“You remember,” I smiled. “Yes, but I imagine I’ll learn to live in a sod hut and a lot more. I think I’m going to like it.”
He was quiet again, the bravado of the last minute changed to sadness, and I was almost alarmed by these sudden changes in his mood. “Mattie, Sara will miss you. I will miss you. I meant it last night. I love you.”
“You know, I love you, too. But in a different way than you mean, and we would make each other forever uncomfortable, even at the medical school. Besides” —I hesitated, feeling bold to add what I wanted to say next— “I don’t think you love me as much as you think. You’re lonely, and it’s time for you to remarry. I suspect that you’ll be remarried within a year.” As I spoke, I felt composed and in control of the situation. My decision, forced on me, was one I should have made alone much sooner.
He looked anguished when I predicted his remarriage, as though I’d accused him of infidelity. “Never. I love you, Mattie Armstrong.”
No use to tell him that he loved what he thought he had created, but that I couldn’t be Pygmalion for him. The story wouldn’t end that way.
“I’ll tell Sara that I’ve been thinking this over for some time, and that I feel it’s time for me to join my family.”
“You won’t tell her that her father attacked you?” He said it bitterly.
“Please don’t,” I said. “I’d like to forget that last night ever happened. I want to go on feeling that you’re the person I most respect and admire, and I hope you’ll go on feeling proud of me. Maybe you’ll be proud of what I do in Benteen.” I rose and left the room, leaving him standing there.
Sara and I had a tearful talk. I thought I was composed and brave and would not break down, but when I looked at her and saw those huge tears welling up in her brown eyes, I broke down and cried, too. Hugging each other, we cried and talked through the tears.
“Mattie, you never said you missed them. I thought we were your family.”
“You are, dear, you are. But it’s time for me to get to know them. You’re growing up nicely, and you’re well settled here. You’ll do fine without me.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll come to Benteen.”
“Of course you will, someday. I want you to. I’ll miss you very much.”
“When are you going?”
“Oh, I imagine it will take a month for me to make preparations, and I have to give notice at the college.”
Sara cheered a little at that. When you’re thirteen, a month seems forever, and you don’t have to face things until they are right upon you, until the day they happen.
I wrote to Will Henry and Mr. Reeves, telling them of my decision, asking them to arrange living quarters for me (with an ironic comment that I retracted all my horror about soddies) and asking what I should need to purchase to set myself up in housekeeping. At twenty-three, I owned none of the necessities, because I’d always lived with Dr. Dinsmore. Fortunately, because of his generosity, I had been able to save much of my salary at the medical school during the last months, and he had agreed to loan me the balance that I needed to establish myself. My plan was to purchase household furnishings in Omaha and have them shipped west, a plan that Dr. Dinsmore agreed was the only sensible thing to do. In spite of the tension between us, I still relied on his advice.
I spent the next weeks gathering the things I would need. I had my medical supplies—bag, books, some anatomical wall charts for my office to use in demonstration to patients. I was woefully unaware that I would have no office for nearly four years, and an anatomical wall chart would do me precious little good when I had to ride horseback five miles and more, usually more, to see my patients. But I forged ahead, blissful in my ignorance. I gathered a supply of the usual medicine—cathartics and emetics, diuretics and so on, though I intended to use them sparingly.
But it was household goods that caused me more grief. I had been supervising the Dinsmore household long enough now to feel fairly comfortable about pots and pans, linens and bedclothes, but the idea of starting from scratch was appalling. So, I thought, was the money I spent, though today it wouldn’t buy one towel. I decided to equip my house sparingly. After all, people did have supplies sent in to small towns like Benteen, and it would be better to arrive with too little than too much.
Mr. Reeves and Will Henry had written as soon as they received my letter. Rather, Will Henry wrote, and Mr. Reeves asked him to add some words of welcome from him, too. I don’t think Mr. Reeves wrote much, if at all, but that wasn’t uncommon in that day. The only thing I ever knew him to write was the letter telling me of my mother’s death, and I guess he felt he had to do that himself, no matter how hard it was for him.
Will Henry was delighted that I was coming, his letter so full of plans that he never thought to ask why I had changed my mind so abruptly. I was grateful.
He assured me they would have a soddie for me, and said they had already picked out a claim. It was on the river, like theirs, only mine had the only three trees in the whole valley. Horsemen from miles around used it as a landmark, because there was quicksand on either side, but at my trees the crossing was safe. They would, said Will Henry, have a soddie built within a week or two, and when would I arrive?
It was February when I made my decision, and by mid-March, I was ready to set the date. I would take the Union Pacific to Fort Sidney on April 15. I wrote to Will Henry that I would expect him to meet me, with a large wagon, unless I heard otherwise. As the days went by, and I heard nothing from him to cause me to cancel my plans, April 15 became a red-letter day in my mind.
It would be sensible to say that I left Omaha with mixed emotions, but that wasn’t true. Once I had decided to live in the western part of the state, it seemed that there had never been another choice for me. I left Omaha without a doubt, sure that I was sailing into a bright new future.
Sara, of course, did not see it as a good decision, and the closer the actual day came, the droopier she got. I tried to cheer her with tales of sod huts, tales that I made up of whole cloth, I confess, but she remained unco
nvinced that life would be worth anything after I left. Leaving her was a wrench for me, and though I tried hard to sympathize with her point of view, I sometimes wanted to scream at her, “Don’t you realize this is hard on me, too? Can’t you make it easier on me?” I even occasionally had the wicked thought of telling her to ask her father why I was leaving, but I would never have done that.
Dr. Dinsmore was reserved, but he made it clear that he wished I would change my mind, and he frequently sided with Sara in a kind of litany of pleading that suggested I stay. He would pretend it was a joke, that he was simply teasing Sara when he said, “I don’t know why she insists on leaving. Have you been cruel to her, Sara? Of course she should stay here. Things would be much better if she did, but Mattie has to do what she wants, regardless if she breaks our hearts.” I knew there was nothing funny about what he said, in spite of his droll look and his mock posture of defeat.
Finally the day came. Dr. Dinsmore hired a dray to take my luggage to the station. The furniture had been shipped earlier, but still, it seemed I had an inordinate quantity of goods to take with me. Even Sara teased me about it.
“Goodness, Mattie, are you moving into a castle? There’ll be no room for you once you put all this stuff into your soddie. Is that the right word?”
“Yes, dear, that’s the right word. And you may well be right. My supplies may crowd me out of house and home.” I laughed, too loudly, I’m sure, and turned to her father, wanting to reach out and touch him and yet equally afraid he would touch me.
“I don’t know . . .” I began tremulously, starting to extend my hand for a rather formal handshake.
He grasped it in both of his hands. “Mattie, you don’t have to say anything. You’ve been a godsend to both Sara and me, and whatever we’ve been able to do for you is merely a trifle in terms of repayment. I . . . I wish things had turrned out differently.” He stared intently at me, the look I had learned to dread, but now, once again, there was concern, a flash of my old Dr. Dinsmore, in his eyes.
I didn’t want to say I wished things had turned out differently, too, because at that point, I didn’t. I was pleased that his behavior, which he now regretted so much, had given me the impetus to do something that I should probably have done long before. I could only say thank you.
Sara threw herself into my arms, sobbing loudly—she was, remember, thirteen, a most dramatic age—and I tried to comfort her, but I was teary again myself. They had both been my family for so long that it was awful for me to part with them, no matter how much I looked forward to my new life. My excitement about the future was balanced, too, with a fear that occasionally crept up behind me to proclaim that I was an utter fool, throwing my future away on a whim and leading myself into a grim and bitter life.
As the train pulled out of the station, I waved while I could see them and then settled back in the plush seat of the coach section, where Dr. Dinsmore had insisted that I ride. From then on, the wheels sang two songs to me. The first, encouraging, was, “You’re going to a new life, a new life, a new and good life.” But it was countered by, “You’ve been silly, Mattie, silly Mattie, silly, silly, silly.” I slept a little, stared out the window a lot on that trip.
I don’t know what I expected of Fort Sidney, but it wasn’t much of a town. All I really was aware of as Will Henry and Mr. Reeves encompassed me in bear hugs was a wooden railroad station with one dusty street stretching out behind it. I later came to know, of course, that there were stores—a general merchandise store, a saloon, a bank of sorts, and the lawyer’s and doctor’s offices, a dressmaker’s shop and all the signs of struggling civilization. But that first day I was too confused and uncertain to register much of any thought except, “Is this what I left Omaha for?”
I turned from the disappointing town to look at Will Henry and our stepfather. Mr. Reeves hadn’t changed at all. Oh, maybe a touch of gray tinged that curly dark brown hair, but he was still big and kind and gentle, and I still thought he could do anything in the world.
Will Henry, though, he was sixteen by then, and in the three years since I’d seen him, he’d changed from a gangly and awkward kid to a young adult. I stared appraisingly, sensing that one day soon he would also be able to do anything he put his mind to.
“Sight for sore eyes, isn’t she, Will Henry?”
Will Henry swiped at a stray bit of that thick brown hair that had fallen onto his forehead and said, almost shyly, “She looks like Mattie to me.”
I suppose I did look the same, my hair pulled back in a bun that emphasized my large eyes and high cheekbones. What I didn’t know then was that my skin would never again, after exposure to the prairie sun and wind, be as soft again. It would become leathery, like Mr. Reeves’. Even Will Henry’s face looked tough and tanned to me.
Of course, Fort Sidney wasn’t my destination. Benteen, miles away across the prairie, was where I was headed. Will Henry and Mr. Reeves—he insisted right off that I call him Jim, and it made it easier for both of us, although he tried to call me Dr. Mattie, and I had to put a stop to that on the grounds that it wasn’t fair—anyway, they were most efficient about loading my worldly goods, which had been unceremoniously dumped on the station platform. Boxes of books and dishes and medical supplies, clothes and linen, and all that I owned were loaded, and we were on our way before the reality of the situation could register. You know how you can be kind of caught up in the moment and later think how unconscious you were through a string of events.
I came to consciousness, however, during the ride to Benteen. It took one whole long day, what with the horses pulling a heavily loaded wagon. I became aware of the endless prairie, rising and dipping and extending as far as the eye could see with not a tree to break the sight. I hadn’t learned the prairie then, didn’t know about the bluestem and gamma grass and the rye, didn’t realize there would be creekbeds with wild grapevines and plums and berry thickets. I didn’t know about the jackrabbits, prairie dogs and gophers that add life to the land, the quail that flutter out of the grass or the wild ducks and geese. I couldn’t see the lushness and life of the prairie for all the space in front of me. It frightened me some, and I have always since understood the frontier women who went stark raving mad out in the midst of the prairie.
In mid-April the weather was crisp and clear, cool enough that I was bundled up and glad to be protected from the wind that bent the grasses and carried a spring chill. Still, I could feel the intensity of the sun beating straight down on me, and I wondered what summer would bring.
“See over there, Mattie? That’s a dugout.”
“Dugout? Let me see, you said that was a hole in the ground with a wall built in front of it, right?”
Jim laughed. “Well, sort of.”
I peered into the distance, barely able to distinguish the timbers that marked that particular rise in the ground from countless others in the endless roll and swell of the land.
My first soddie was more recognizable, though, and from a distance, I simply thought it was a house, not a very grand one, but someone’s home. As we drew closer, I saw that it was made of dry dirt, just as they had told me, and spring wildflowers and grass grew from the roof. But it had windows of isinglass and a door. A woman stood in the doorway, seeming to stare at us, and both Will Henry and Jim waved heartily.
“Do you know these people?”
“Out here, Mattie, everyone is your neighbor. Sure, we know those folks, even though they live miles from us. Name’s Nelson. Came out here from eastern Iowa. Mrs. Nelson, she ain’t too happy. Misses her kin and all, but Lars, he’s planning on making it big. And he’ll do all right. Like as not, you’ll get to know them once they hear there’s a doctor in the area.”
I stared at that woman, and a memory of her sadness imprinted itself on my soul. She was probably the first link in a chain that bound me to prairie women. In that instant, she gave me my first glimpse of their hardships and disappointments and their occasional joys. It’s a trite saying now, been said so o
ften, but it’s true that the West was great for men and dogs but hell on women and horses.
We passed more soddies and an occasional dugout, but if I was expecting a community, I was sadly disappointed. The houses were all far apart and looked lonely. About the time Jim told me we were nearing the end of the ride, we began to drive along next to a river. I remember being amazed that it was so wide, and Will Henry told me that old, now familiar saying about the Platte River being a mile wide and an inch deep. We rode across it at a point where there were three trees—the only trees in sight—and Jim pulled up in front of a soddie that was ringed by a picket fence, newly painted.
“Well, Doc, here you are at home.”
“Home?” I echoed with disbelief. There was not another house in sight, nothing except the river beyond the soddie and the three trees I had been written about. This was my tree claim!
“But where’s Benteen?”
“Further on, about five miles.”
I don’t suppose I fooled them, even though I tried to be bright. “Well, it looks wonderful. I want to go inside.”
“Aw, Mattie.” Will Henry was plainly a little uneasy. “It ain’t wonderful, and it’ll take some fixin’, like window curtains and all. But it’s the most solid soddie I seen in these parts. You’ll be warm and comfortable here; Jim and me made sure of that.”
For a moment I felt like an ungrateful wretch. They had broken their backs to get things fixed for me and to build me the nicest house they could, and there I stood, thinking with longing about my comfortable bedroom in Omaha, the well-furnished kitchen I had supervised, the proud dinner table at which I’d sat. All that was a thing of the past, but sometimes it’s hard to be as adaptable as you’d like.
“I appreciate it, Will Henry, and you know I do. I’m sure I’ll be comfortable. It’s . . . it’s just going to take a little time for me to adjust. Come, show me the inside.”