Mattie

by Judy Alter

  “If we don’t do this, he doesn’t have a chance. Oh, he might wake up, but infection would set in sooner than I don’t know what. And I want you to realize it still may. I can’t guarantee this at all. They don’t attempt things like this except in the big medical centers back East, but I see no choice. We certainly can’t transport him anywhere, let alone to a big medical center.” I think I was pleading with them to have faith, to will him to recover, and they seemed to understand.

  “We’re with you, Doc. You do the very best you can.”

  And so, I cleaned out that wound and sewed a silver dollar over the hole in young Weatherby’s head, my hand miraculously steady in spite of the raw state of my nerves. I tried to give the wife the piece of bone to keep, but she was squeamish and didn’t want it.

  It was touch and go for some time, and we worried a lot, but Weatherby recovered fully. Fact is, I heard tell not too many years ago that he had ridden in a rodeo parade at the age of seventy-five. Still had that piece of metal in his head.

  I was exhausted when I got home, but I wanted to tell Em the story. I poured out all the details of what I considered a remarkable experience, and all he said was “Really? You should have seen Nora while you were gone. Sara and I took her for a ride today, and she loved it. Mattie, are you listening to me?”

  My disappointment in him was strengthened by sheer anger, and for a moment I even wanted to lash out at Sara, but I said nothing. Next day, Sara hung on every detail of my story and kept exclaiming, “Papa will be so proud, Mattie! You must write him immediately.”

  I suggested she write the letter, but I was warmed by her reaction.

  That was also the summer Mary Jane Canary entered my life again, though at first I didn’t realize who she was. Late one night, three cowboys pounded on the door, demanding in loud voices that I come immediately. I threw on a robe and went to the door, Em’s protests echoing in my ears.

  “Doctor! We need a doctor, now!”

  “Quiet!” I told them. “I’m the doctor, and all that yelling isn’t doing one whit of good. It’s only disturbing my family. Who’s the patient?” From the doorway where I stood I got a strong whiff of stale whisky, and I suspected none of them were sober.

  Even as I spoke, there was a loud screaming in a deep but definitely female voice from the wagon that had been hitched to our gate.

  “Out there,” motioned one of the cowboys. “Don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  “Can you bring her in here?”

  “If we have to, reckon we can,” said another.

  When they approached the woman, her screaming became more frantic, calling all the while for Bill. I showed them into the office, praying that Em wouldn’t come charging in to demand what the hell the ruckus was all about. They had to hold the woman before I could even get near her, for every time they loosened their hold, she began to flail her arms wildly and once tried deliberately to kick me hard. Later, that kick would ring a familiar bell in my mind.

  I surveyed the group for a minute and was truly appalled. Sure, we had cowboys come through Benteen now and again, even though the days of the cattle drives were over. And most cowboys did look pretty seedy, but these were the worst I’d seen in a long while. Their boots were scuffed beyond repair, their jeans worn and thin, their shirts crumpled enough to have been worn a month without changing.

  But the woman they so stubbornly held on to was the worst of the bunch. Her hair hung in dingy brown strings around her face, probably uncombed for days. Her face itself was as dirty as her clothes, and her eyes were wild, as though she saw something horrifying directly in front of her. All she could see, far as I could figure, was me. I hadn’t treated any cases of drunkenness—I guess you’d call it the delirium tremens these days—but I thought I recognized one.

  The men who held her kept trying to calm her, saying, “Easy now, Calamity. It’s okay. Bill’s not here, can’t come to you. Calamity, calm down.”

  One finally lost his patience and yelled, “For God’s sake, Calamity, shut up!” But she just yelled the louder.

  I deliberated a moment, then took charge of the situation with the only cure I knew, a purgative to try to empty some of the alcohol from her stomach, followed by quantities of strong black coffee and lots of walking up and down the road in front of the house, held always by at least one of the cowboys, who, for some strange reason, seemed devoted to her and determined to see her through this siege.

  We kept that poor woman walking for hours, until the rest of us were exhausted, and Em had, predictably, come to demand to know what was going on.

  “You woke both Nora and Sara,” he accused, “and scared them half to death. I tried to comfort them.” Then he looked at Calamity, in her filth and wildness, and muttered, “Damn drunken scum. Has no right to take up your time.”

  “Hush, Em,” I whispered. “Don’t cause more trouble.” But I was too late. One of the cowboys, who to this day remain nameless to me, heard him.

  “What’d you say, mister? You insult my friend?”

  Em considered the situation for a moment, a haughty look on his face, and then, fortunately, seemed to decide that he didn’t want to tangle with all three of them. “No offense,” he muttered. “I’ll just go calm the girls. Try to keep it down, please.”

  “You try to keep it down,” the cowboy said menacingly, but I took his arm and led him back to his charge, who was, finally, beginning to show signs of calming down.

  Eventually Calamity quieted enough that we could put her in the bed in my office, and I even could make some attempt at cleaning her up. The cowboys held her hand until, at last, she fell into a deep sleep.

  “She’ll feel awful when she wakes, and I think I should watch her for a while,” I told them.

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s never been this bad before. You do whatever you think necessary.” And he peeled a number of bills off a wad and handed them to me. I never thought to ask where such poor-looking cowboys got so much money, and to this day, I don’t want to know.

  My patient slept soundly for over twelve hours, and when she awoke, she was weak as a kitten but her eyes still flashed. I moved around her, trying not to disturb or upset her. All the time, though, I could feel those eyes on me.

  Finally she spoke. “Who are you?”

  “The doctor,” I said calmly. “You were, well, pretty ill last night.”

  “Drunk, you mean!” she snorted.

  “Have it your own way,” I said, not willing to sympathize with anyone who would drink that much.

  “What’s your name?” She was staring at me intently again.

  “Jones. Mattie Jones.”

  “You married?”

  I almost told her smartly that it was none of her business. My business was to get her better and out of there, and she should be quiet and let me do my work. But I answered, “Yes.”

  “What was your name before you married?”

  “Why?” That, I thought, was pushing the limits of courtesy and everything else.

  “Think I know you.”

  I looked at her strangely but could think of no one who would have known me as Mattie Armstrong. Still, I told her my maiden name.

  She grinned wickedly, nodding her head, and mumbled, “Canary. Mary Jane Canary.”

  I nearly dropped the washbasin I had just picked up. A stream of images went through my mind . . . Mary Jane taunting me as I ran errands, Mary Jane trying on clothes like a princess and trying to kick me, Mary Jane reducing Sara and me to tears. Frozen, I stared at her.

  “That’s right. You heard me,” she said brusquely. “Mary Jane Canary from Princeton, Missouri. And you’re Mattie Armstrong, daughter of the town you-know-what.”

  Even when she said that, the old anger didn’t rise to the bait. I looked at Mary Jane Canary, saw what she had become and felt a pity I never would have believed possible. When I finally spoke, it was calmly.

  “You’re right, I’m Mattie Armstrong from Princeton, Missouri. But tha
t was a long time ago. I’ve put Princeton behind me.”

  “Hah!” she snorted. “So have I, I guess. You hate me?”

  I sank into the chair near her bed. “No,” I said slowly. “Not anymore. I did, once.”

  “I know. Good thinking on your part. I was worth hating. Maybe still am.” She turned away, as though hiding her thoughts.

  There were a hundred questions I wanted to ask her, mostly having to do with how she had gotten from that big house with its newly painted picket fence into this condition on the prairie. But I never did ask her anything. And for the first time in a long while, my thoughts went back to Dr. Dinsmore. I wished he could know, could see my reaction and understand how I felt when I was finally confronted with the one person who symbolized all the unpleasantness of my childhood. I felt not anger but a big void, a blank nothing. I had really left Princeton behind, and it had taken a dirty, alcoholic woman to prove it to me.

  Mary Jane Canary dried out, as they say, but she was weak, and I kept her in the infirmary two days. Her cowboys came to check on her periodically and let me know they’d take her whenever I said the word, but other than that they stayed away.

  Em nearly ordered me to kick her out of the infirmary. “Okay, she’s sober now. You’ve done your job. I don’t want scum like her and her friends around Nora. Get rid of her.”

  I didn’t explain to him why I had to keep Mary Jane and maybe bend over backward to take extra care of her. It wasn’t as though I owed her, but it was gratitude. She didn’t know it, but she had just done me a great service.

  After that one time, Mary Jane Canary never again mentioned Princeton to me nor talked as though we knew each other. She was loud, demanding and difficult, and I was relieved when I finally told her friends they could take her out of the infirmary. I never heard from her again, though years later I heard the story about Calamity Jane claiming she was the wife of Wild Bill Hickok and how when she died they finally did bury her next to him. That, I thought, is a fitting end for Mary Jane Canary.

  Summer seemed to end before we knew it. Em kept busy on the claim, where our small herd of cattle was slowly increasing. I occasionally was given a calf or yearling in payment for medical services, and by then we had upward of twenty animals, including calves. Not much, but a start, Em used to tell me, and I thought about starting a cattle fund to increase the herd. But between the cattle and his crop of wheat, Em went to the claim every day and seemed busy. Lord knows, he came home sweaty and hot.

  Most days, it was too hot for Sara to take Nora far, let alone out to the claim with Em, but she developed a true genius at keeping that child occupied and happy. Sara never seemed to tire of prancing and acting silly to delight Nora, and Nora would reward her outlandish behavior with chorts and snorts of happiness. Much as I loved Nora, it was the kind of play for which I had neither time nor patience.

  My work kept me busy, and I was now trying to write a paper for publication about Jim Weatherby’s injury, so I spent long hours in my office. But occasionally I broke free to join Sara and Nora in an early-morning stroll, when there was some cool breeze, and in the evenings all of us sometimes went to the baseball games. Will Henry still played on the Benteen team, and we all wanted to cheer for him. Once the Gelsons rode in and spent the night camped in our backyard. We all had a grand picnic, and I considered it one of the highlights of the summer.

  But as summers do, this one ended too quickly, and it was time for Sara to return to Omaha.

  “Can’t you just write your father and tell him you’ve decided to stay?” Em was almost pleading with her.

  “Em doesn’t know Papa, does he, Mattie?” She laughed as she looked at me, still unaware, I gathered, of the cause of my leaving Omaha and the nature of my final relationship with her father.

  “No, he’s never met him, Sara, but I’ve told him a great deal about your father.” That was a slight lie, because though I had told Em about Dr. Dinsmore, I had never told the full truth.

  “Papa would never understand. He’d be so angry he’d come out here himself to get me.” Sara thought it a fine joke, because she never considered staying in Benteen. But Em was not able to see it as funny.

  “Why do you have to go back?” he persisted.

  “Em,” I said, somewhat out of patience, “her father wants her to come back, and it would be purely selfish of us to keep her out here on the prairie when all the opportunities of a major city are open to her.”

  “Hogwash! I grew up in one of those so-called major cities, and you can give me the prairie any day. Now, we’ll just find her some strapping young farmer who stands to be rich one day . . .”

  Sara left in late August. I worried some about her taking that long train trip in the hottest time of the year. Railroad cars were like small infernos then, even when the windows were open, and cinders blew in at you and dirtied your clothes, your hair and your face. But Sara decided it was time for her to return, and there was no stopping her.

  Nora seemed to know she was leaving, for she was fretful all the day before and clung to Sara, not allowing anyone else near her, much to the distress of Em.

  The next day I stood at the front gate, holding a sobbing Nora and waving brightly while Em drove off to take Sara to the train. I felt a slight lump at seeing her go, but it was easy for me to accept that she could not stay, not for her sake nor ours.

  Sara wrote immediately to assure us she had arrived safely, and she wrote periodically thereafter. Em and I settled down to raise our child, a family of three, Em with his claim and various other business enterprises that seemed to crop up, me with my growing and satisfactory practice, and Nora with all the business of learning and growing to do. I viewed it as a steady but wonderful period in our lives.

  Chapter Four

  Life on the prairie could be harsh and it could be beautiful. Mostly from those days, I remember the beauty. I loved going on house calls alone, much to Em’s distress, and would, if the day was pretty, simply set out on horseback across the waving sea of grass. Those were the days I abandoned my buggy and rode for the pure joy of being outside. They say pioneer women—and men, too, I suppose—developed an uncanny sense of direction, so that they could point themselves toward a destination and, without any cattle track or anything, cross the prairie without getting lost. I knew it wasn’t an uncanny sense, because Jim Reeves had taught me much about direction and the prairie, but I did develop that feeling of being at home and secure out there in the midst of nowhere. And I loved it, loved the feeling of freedom and space and openness. It was as though the confines of Princeton were finally behind me once and for all.

  But the prairie could be cruel, and I saw much of that, too. I saw a man die of lockjaw because he’d rammed a rusty nail through his foot. I was called too late but we had no tetanus antitoxin then, and I could have done little except clean the wound with strong spirits and pray—sometimes it worked—but by the time I got there I could only comfort the family and try to ease his pain. Still, he died in terrible spasms and suffering, and I suddenly saw everyone around me threatened by every nail in every piece of wood.

  And I saw young children die of diphtheria and cholera. Sometimes they would linger days, and sometimes I would think I was winning the battle, only to lose them with heartbreaking suddenness. Prairie children had a diminished chance for survival, and families knew that only too well. Still, I took each defeat personally. And each death made me fiercely protective of Nora.

  “What do you mean she can’t go outside barefoot? That’s the silliest garbage I ever heard of. She’s my daughter, and she’ll go barefoot in the summer if I say so. What kid ever wore shoes all summer?” Em fairly screamed at me.

  “My child,” I answered as calmly as I could, “and you can’t cross me on this. I won’t take a chance that she’ll step on a rusty nail, or even a wasp’s nest. She wears shoes.”

  In the end, Nora went barefoot, holding her father’s hand and grinning back at me like a victorious conqueror.
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  She grew more charming with each day added to her age. Dark, curly hair framed a pixielike face dominated by two huge brown eyes that could sparkle with mischief and turn equally expressive with self-pity when she was thwarted. Trouble was, Nora was seldom thwarted when Em was around, and mostly, my efforts at discipline were countermanded. She soon learned to run to Em any time I gave her an order or issued a warning.

  “Mattie, you’re so busy. You’ve got to slow down, take time with her, learn some patience. She’s only a child.”

  It was the end of a long day, filled with this one’s cough and that one’s cold, none of it serious but all of it wearing, and I was out of patience.

  “Em, have you ever tried to housebreak a puppy? You can’t do it by letting the puppy have its way. You have to be firm. The same is true for Nora.”

  The look on his face was truly priceless. From understanding sympathy, which had been his opening attitude, he changed rapidly to indignation, his eyes growing wide and his mouth hanging open. When he finally spoke, it was through his nose in a tone calculated to impress.

  “You cannot compare our child to a dog. She is a brilliant, unusual little girl.”

  “I agree, she’s brilliant. But she’s undisciplined, because you let her have her way over everything. I tell her no, and you say, ‘Oh, it’s all right, honey.’ I tell her to go to bed, and you suggest she sit on your lap a little longer. Nora is learning to get her way by hook or crook, and it’s not a good lesson for her.”

  “Why not?”

  Sometimes Em’s deliberate disregard of accepted truths had me nearly ready to scream in exasperation. Everyone knew that undisciplined children grew up into undisciplined adults and that while you might spare the actual rod, you couldn’t back down and give up. Still, Em acted as though discipline were something that had never existed in the world until I told Nora she had to clear the dinner dishes or clean her room. It was one of those endless, circular arguments which I never won because he threw logic out the window. I gave up, one more time, and felt the anger rising in me.