What Once We Loved

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  Gambling. All life was that, so why ruminate like an old horse on a mouthful of stale grain? Winning at faro or poker or roulette left all men thirsting for more of something that could never fill them up. At least not at a poker table.

  He heard the boys in the nursery next door, little Sason chattering, and the low, staccato jabs of words that must have been Clayton. Those scamps should be asleep. He thought about those boys, the sweet warm way they smelled, inviting as a bedroll on a cold morning. “Men holding babies are as catching as a cold,” Elizabeth had said. A bell rang, and he heard the muffled voice of Sterling Powder. Probably telling the boys to quiet down. Two more days and that man would be gone. As far as Seth knew, Suzanne hadn't found any replacement. Maybe he should volunteer. He scoffed.

  He pulled on his coat, brushed at the wide lapels, snapped his knuckles at the nap of his tall hat and pulled it onto his head. He needed some air, that was what it was. Fresh air.

  A moon shown bright enough to make shadows as he walked. The light reflected on pools of water at the cobblestones, a thin layer of ice formed at the edges. The promise of cold that would disappear with the sun. He tripped on a tree root digging its way into the path, caught himself. He heard a pig grunt, a catfight begin and end in the distance. While he walked, he shook his head, turning his hands this way and that. He rehearsed what he would say to Suzanne in his head. All Fm saying is that Fm sorry my being here has meant some disruption for you. Wouldnt want to hurt you. Dont know if going or staying does that. Would that confuse her? Did it say more than he intended? I am who I am, is allFm saying. Not a perfect man. Not predictable. What did a man say to a woman to move the caring forward when he didn't know for certain where his own heart was headed? A flash of lantern light flooded a circle of wet cobblestone before him. It illuminated his way for a moment, and then he walked right through. That was exactly how he felt: clarity for a second then stumbling on in darkness.

  He tried to imagine what advice Elizabeth Mueller would give him about this. He had no mother to ask advice of, no father to show him the way, no brothers or sisters to cajole and correct him. He was an orphan just as sure as those Wintu Indian kids Mazy Bacon collected. Maybe that was what appealed to him about Mazy in the first place, that she took in strays. That was just what he was.

  Well, he'd done his part in saving strays himself. He'd brought the women safely into Shasta City, and he'd placed a good chunk of his gambling winnings into Mazy's farm that now not only fed folks but was a place of business. Would Mazy think it was dirty money if she knew it came from gambling? He hoped not. She could take something unworthy and make it good. She had a soul for that. It was probably as close as he would get to sainthood. He snorted. He hadn't realized he hankered after sainthood. Now that was a losing gamble.

  He looked up when he heard the music. Front Street. Bursts of laughter and the thump of feet tapping in time led him forward. Behind the tall doors of the brick building stood croupiers and dealers at blackjack and roulette tables. Smoke swirled like mist around them. Voices rattled the chandelier above the faro table, and heavy red drapes muffled the music of the five women dressed in pink playing cellos and fiddles onstage. There'd been a theater around here once, he'd been told, taken out by one of the floods.

  A woman approached him. Dressed all in black except for a red satin flower attached to the side of her hip, a green stem trailing to the floor. She sidled up to him. “Looks like you know your way around.” She fiddled with the diamond stickpin in his lapel, caressed his chest with the palm of her hand. He felt her heat against his leg. “Buy a girl a drink? Make you one happy man being kind to a needy girl.”

  He looked down at her. Was this his life then? Even without wishing to, this was what he drifted toward, wasn't it? He found his way here, when he sought direction, here to this den of drunken men and wasted women.

  No, he hadn't sought it. He'd allowed himself to drift. That was what he did. Drift like a fishing line through a pool. These people before him represented the relationships he was capable of: shallow, temporary, depleting. He was a drifter. Well dressed, rich in worldly goods perhaps, but a drifter just the same.

  She pressed against him. She smelled of whiskey and sweat. Face powder, mixed with lip rouge, caked at the corners of her mouth. A critter wiggled next to the fan spread open in her black hair.

  “You're a man of good habits,” she said. “I can tell that.”

  A man of good habits.

  He stared at her. Was this what he was meant for then? To simply respond to the moment, to be led by his habits?

  “What do you say?” she said. She had a crooked nose. She inhaled his scent, a long seductive breath, sniffed with her chin lifted.

  “Looks like you might have had enough already,” he said. “I know I have.”

  He pushed her aside and stepped backward, his eyes scanning the faces that swirled before him, the woman's included, her expression hurt, then angry. His heels hit the cobblestones none too soon. Then like a boy caught in the pumpkin patch by the farmer with his gun, he fled. He just didn't know where he was running.

  “Mrs. Kossuth? Tipton? Isn't that right? Tipton Kossuth. What on earth are you doing here? Here, let me help you up.”

  Tipton cowered back into the shadows, barely hearing her name over the pounding of her heart. She'd seen the form approaching, huge and bulky but now the person before her seemed almost tiny. Blurry but tiny. And she used her name. Someone knew her name? Tipton squinted, trying to make sense of where she was and how long she'd been here. Sea gulls cried out. She smelled murky seawater.

  The form leaned into her. A woman. She let the woman take her elbow, help her sit up. She shivered, not sure if it was from fear or weakness. The woman brushed at her skirts. Tipton's head pounded like the thump of a water wheel against a river.

  “You don't remember me, do you? I'm Esty Williams. Suzanne Cullver's friend. I helped her find her house in Shasta City. Remember?”

  Tipton shook her head. That hurt even more. She held her head with both hands. She didn't remember who had found Suzanne's house, only that Suzanne moved into one before any of the others. She'd never seen this woman before. How could this Esty person possibly know her, let alone identify her from a dark shadow in a strange city?

  “It doesn't matter. Are you hurt? Did you imbibe too much?”

  “I'm fine,” Tipton said, stiffening. “Just fine.” She lowered her hands, straightened her short jacket at her hips. “How is it you know me?”

  “I used to watch you, when you dragged those big baskets of laundry through the streets to the St. Charles Hotel. And Lura talked of you all, of course, what good friends you were. She mentioned you as the pretty one.' I knew your brother.” She pushed a hatpin into her felt hat. “And I heard about your marriage after the fire.”

  “You did?”

  “Where is Mr. Kossuth, by the way?” Esty looked around. “I can't imagine that he left you here unprotected like this. Did something happen to him?”

  “Just what are you doing on this wharf so late?” Tipton challenged.

  Esty tipped her head in a questioning way. “I'm waiting for the steamer to…youre bleeding. Your head is bleeding. Here.” She reached into her reticule for a handkerchief, dabbed at the side of Tiptons head. “And it isn't late. It's morning. Early, yes, but the sun'U be up soon. How long have you been here?”

  “I'll be all right,” Tipton said, “I'll be all right.” The dabbing at her wound stung, and her head pounded like unlatched shutters slamming in a windstorm. She swooned, falling against the woman. Maybe she could accept her help. She seemed kind enough. She was well-dressed, had a hat with feathers and flowers that swooped down to touch her narrow shoulders. A dragonfly hatpin held it at a cocky angle. She must have worked in the saloon if she knew Lura. Was she a banker? Or a woman of negotiable affections?

  “Here,” the woman said. “Come sit on my trunk.” She led her to a flat-bottomed chest with the word “Millinery�
�� stamped on the side. She picked up Tiptons flattened hat, pushed it out, and looked around for a pin. “There,” she said and placed the hat on Tiptons head, pulling the dragonfly pin from her own to hold Tiptons on.

  Tipton reached up to touch it. “It's heavy,” she said. “Thank you, miss…”

  “It's Esty,” she repeated. “And the pin is brass.”

  “My head. It hurts terribly.”

  Esty hesitated, then said, “Take a smidgen of this.” She pulled a small case from her reticule, turned it open to reveal a white powder.

  “What's this?”

  “Opium. The Chinese use it for pain. Just a little,” she said. “My hip bothers me some, and this helps. Here.” Esty took a pinch of the powder between her dark gloves and dropped it onto Tiptons tongue. “Sometimes it works faster underneath,” she said. “But you've had quite a blow. Need to take it slowly.”

  The powder had a bitter taste at first, then her tongue felt numb, then nothing. Within minutes, the head-throbbing eased.

  “Look,” Esty said. “I don't know if you're awaiting a ship or have just arrived, but your bag has apparently been riffled through. And you're obviously hurt. Is your husband coming back? You can't stay here.”

  Tipton looked around. “I've…I've been…Nehemiah will be along. Thank you. I'm fine,” she said. “This isn't where I arrived.”

  “You're on the dock for ships to Sacramento. That's where I'm headed. Suzanne lives there now. And Sister Esther. I'm sure they'd take you—

  “No! They can't know. No, we came to San Francisco.”

  “Where is Mr. Kossuth then?

  “I'll stay right here. I'll…I'll wash clothes again, just like I did before. I'll—”

  “Not do much until your head is stitched.” Esty paused. She tapped her finger to her chin. “There'll be a doctor on board. You can stay with me for a time if you don't want Suzanne to know, though I can't imagine why not. Every one of you women who came across together share something special. You're so fortunate.”

  “I'm not resisting anything,” Tipton said. “I'm just doing this on my own, is all. We have to do it alone.”

  “Suit yourself then,” Esty said. “You can wash laundry in Sacramento if you've a bent to. I'd hire you myself. I barely have time for my own laundering with the millinery orders I have. Have you ever stitched hats?”

  Tipton shook her head, stopped with the throbbing. She didn't have to settle on laundering, she guessed. If she took up millinery, she could work inside. It wouldn't be nearly the hard labor. But then Suzanne and Esther would know. And they'd tell Nehemiah, she was sure of it. No. She'd told herself laundry. If she didn't keep her own promises, how would she ever keep promises to her baby?

  “I'd surely get that stitched, or it'll leave a disfiguring scar,” Esty said.

  Tipton's hand went up to the wet wound. She could feel a chunk of flesh just hanging, the soft tissue beneath it damp and exposed. It reminded her of her brother's ear all chopped off.

  She was penniless, bruised, and alone in a strange city. What was she going to do? Her hand rubbed her abdomen. No, not alone. She could still choose. She wasn't breathing fast nor drifting away. She would make this a better day.

  “If I could just take out a small loan. Until I get settled and find a place for the tubs and irons.”

  “That might be arranged,” Esty said. “If you get that head looked at.” Tipton nodded. “All right. And should I have just a little more of the powder? Then I think I'll be strong enough to walk on board that ship to Sacramento.”

  They were into the tenth day of the silver storm. Matthew's early temper tantrum on the first day was a distant memory compared to the irritations each foiled on the other in the days since.

  Ruth noticed this annoying habit Matthew had of cracking his knuckles and whistling without a tune. Lura hummed as she worked and smacked her lips when she kneaded the flour, loud as a pig. Mariah whined. She hadn't ever seen the girl do that before, though she had to admit, she'd rarely seen her playing jacks before either and losing to Sarah who got sassier than Ruth had ever seen her. She complained that Ned and Jason were hiding her pencils so she couldn't draw.

  Ruth tried to stay out of their way, mediating, then working on her mecate. The boys had helped her spin the strands before the storm hit. She now had three, twenty-foot strands she was twisting into a rope. The singing and dancing led by Ned, followed by stories told by Matthew and Burke, too, had gotten them through most evenings. Sarah had cut and drawn an entire set of dominoes. Lura “uncovered” a deck of cards inside her spice box. But the diversions were wearing thin.

  They were tired of venison stew. The flour would be gone that day, Lura announced. No more biscuits. Just meat and a few old vegetables to argue over. So much for the kindness of kinship, Ruth thought. This being under one roof day after day stretched any relationship. It was truly a miracle when two people stayed married, but divinely inspired if they lived through ten days of a silver storm and still spoke. Wasn't it Mei-Ling who had told her that the Chinese word for “trouble” was made up of two characters: one being the symbol for “under one roof” and the other being “two women”? They could certainly prove it here.

  The first days had been…adventurous. They'd played games, learned some new songs led by the deep baritone of Burke Manes. Matthew had told stories of being along the Columbia River the year before. Ruth sensed he left some things out, but she found she liked what he remembered to share about landscape. They'd had things in common, and if it wasn't for her commitment to this land, this place, and her children, she might have allowed herself to speculate about what might someday have been with him.

  Lura regaled them with mining camp tales, buttressed by Mariah and Ned's memories. Burke gave lively renditions of biblical stories, most Ruth had never even heard of, about widows and even women warriors, or at least women who strategized battle plans that the men carried out. No one had ever mentioned that before. She thought now that they'd all been holding their breath, assuming this storm wouldn't last long, couldn't last long. Each day they'd peer at the sky, hoping for the sun, and each night they sought the moon.

  Then Mariah came in sobbing that one of the mares was down. She'd gotten so thin, Mariah worried that she'd miscarry. When they reached the barn, the mare struggled as though delivering early and then, huffing with exhaustion, died.

  “They're not getting enough water,” Ruth said patting Mariah's shoulder as the girl cried. They'd been chopping holes as best they could in the stream and hauling it from the spring that didn't freeze. But leading them up to the spring was treacherous, like walking across a frozen pond. The animals were stressed, not eating well and not drinking. And they'd had no salt now for almost a month.

  Then one of Matthew's scrub mares, as she called them, fell on the ice and had to be put down. Ruth found herself hardly sleeping, just standing and staring at the silver world. She could lose them all! All the foals, all that was promised for that first payment in the spring just a few months away.

  At least Jessie was doing better. In an odd way, the girl seemed strengthened by their togetherness, so Ruth would go out and help haul water, chop at the haystack for an hour or two. And then the next day, Jessie would be worse, not able to even bear weight on her legs. Ruth wondered once if Lura gave her something to eat that weakened her, but that made no sense at all.

  Jessies color seemed brighter since Burkes arrival, but perhaps it was because she slept better. Burke had asked if he might pray with the child that second day after he'd arrived. Ruth had hesitated, but Matthew said, “What could it hurt, Ruth?” She'd consented, and that night the child's breathing had been less labored.

  “Color and breathing's better because of the little dab of whiskey I put in her serving of soup,” Lura confessed one day when Ruth mused out loud about her daughter's strange healing.

  “Don't do it again,” Ruth said.

  “And why not? Perfectly healthy. Even Doc McCully said
so.”

  “I never heard that,” Ruth said. “And I'm her mother. I'll decide such things.”

  “Truth be known, you got a ways to go before you've had the years of experience that I've had,” Lura said.

  “It's not the years, it's the miles,” Ruth retorted.

  “Not the tears, it's the smiles? Is that what you said?”

  Everyone laughed, and for just a moment Ruth wondered if Lura wasn't feigning deafness.

  At least Burke hadn't been condemning of their efforts, or of Lura's whiskey episode either. He wasn't at all what she expected a preacher to be. He worked beside them, eased in at their table as though he belonged, and never assumed he was wiser or more patient or better than anyone else, though Ruth thought sure he was. The attention he gave to the children proved that.

  One night he'd stayed up at the fire while everyone else snored or tossed in their bedrolls around his feet. He just sat, whittling on a thin stick, “making toothpicks,” he said. Ruth had lain awake, watching his gentle face in the firelight.

  “Would you mind company?” she asked, wrapping herself in a blanket.

  “Never do,” he said.

  She made her way quietly to sit across from him, her long braid falling over her shoulder, the plaid blanket pulled over under the opposite arm.

  His features weren't really clear in the backlight of the fire so she wasn't sure how to read him. Finally she ventured, “We aren't, well, we're none of us married to each other,” she said. “We're just staying together until spring comes, and then Lura and Matthew and Mariah, their family, will be getting a place of their own.”

  “Fortunate to have such friends who are willing to help out through a winter like this,” he said.

  She didn't know why she felt the need to explain to him. “They would have gone on already. Matthew has a place picked out north of Jacksonville, near the Table Rocks. He found it when he took my mares on ahead, after my brother and all the other men died. But when Jessie took sick…they stayed. To help get me settled. Us.”