Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

  “I don’t see any other natives around town. I wonder why she stays,” I muse aloud, thinking I might eventually be able to ask her that question myself. Now my nights need not be silent as she has decided to speak with me. It is a small step toward acceptance, to be sure, but a good one.

  “Eventually, I expect you’ll meet others. She has a very interestin’ story. If you get her in the right mood, you might hear it one day,” he says plainly but with finality, and then finishes the last piece of cutlery. I pour out the water and follow him into the office.

  I cannot imagine how he does any work in here. It is so cluttered that I am at a loss where to start, so I sit on the floor and pull a pile of books toward me.

  “Perhaps if we clear off the bookshelf and build it back up from scratch before moving to patient files?” I offer.

  He stands in the middle of the chaos with his hands on his hips, looking a bit forlorn now that the task is in front of him, and gives a rueful little laugh as he surveys the mess.

  “You know, Mrs. Weber, I sit in here every day and generally do not worry about the way it looks. I suppose it doesn’t do for patients to see this disarray, and it would make it difficult to have an assistant help out if nothin’ can be found. If you are signin’ yourself, that is.”

  “Exactly,” I say, and start to sort out the books in front of me by author’s last name. He pulls down the rest and makes a pile next to me on the floor.

  “Might you want to get the rest from upstairs in your bedroom?” I ask casually, and he stops moving suddenly.

  “You’ve been up there, have you?”

  My cheeks flush in embarrassment. “To dust. Clean the floors and scrub up the washroom.”

  “Oh, aye,” he sighs. “I noticed it was all cleaned up and forgot to thank you. Of course, yes. I’ll go get them.”

  I hear his steps above me. In the moments of his absence, I flip through a few more patient files. One catches my eye, and I read through it with speed and a little bit of shyness, and then avid curiosity.

  Patient – EvaRose (no last name)

  Address – Fortuna’s – the Powdered Rose

  Occupation – “Dancer” (prostitute)

  Jan ’75—Influenza; bad case

  July ’75—Attempted suicide. 8 stitches, left arm. Determines it was an accident

  — 2 weeks later “stitches opened by themselves” – likely a second attempt. 10 stitches applied.

  Aug ’76—Hemorrhoids. Prescribe diluted witch hazel bath and a pause of all “activities” – Fortuna angry and determines I cannot treat her girls if I ask them to stop working.

  May ’77—Fortuna requested visit to resolve ER’s bruises on her calves. Discovered new ranch hand (T. York) on Svendsen Rance prefers to tie the girls up.

  —Discussed with D. Svendsen before Fortuna found him. T. York dismissed.

  Sept ’77—Hemorrhoids returned. Prescribe undiluted witch hazel direct on sores, plus aspirin.

  Mar ’78—Patient attempted self-abortion with knitting needle, result infection of uterine lining, perforation, and intense bleeding. Fetus expired, but not dislodged. Fever at 103 by the mercury, and discharge is…

  I’m about to turn the page and hope the riveting diagnosis continues—did this EvaRose survive? What did he do to save her if she did? Fascinated by the story, I glance at the next file, but my moment for snooping is gone, and I hastily return the papers to their place. The doctor clambers back downstairs loudly, thumping each foot heavily on the stairs with the pile of books in his hands. He sets them down on the floor before crouching next to me, and we work in companionable silence again for a few minutes before my prying and inherent drive to gain information gets the better of me.

  “I couldn’t help but notice the portraits in your room when I dusted. Are they of your family?”

  He stops shuffling faded copies of medical journals. I immediately regret my familiarity. The easy and abrupt way people ask questions out here is starting to affect my own judgment of conversation and character. In trying to adjust and fit in, I am unwittingly becoming a nosy housekeeper. I should keep my eyes down and my mouth shut!

  But then he starts talking, slowly, as if whittling the tale of his youth from the depths of memory.

  “It was the famine. My family, like so many others in Ireland, was allowed to keep only the potatoes to eat. When the blight came in the forties and everyone began to starve, my parents and siblings and I were affected too. I have no direct memory of this. I was the youngest, and the healthiest. My great-auntie, a widow at the time of the famine and with just enough money for passage to America for herself and one other, came to my parents and asked for one of us to take along. My father was her favorite nephew as they were close in age—he the eldest child of her eldest brother, and she the youngest of ten.”

  “And your parents chose you?”

  He nods, and then picks at the thread of his story calmly and plainly. “They did choose me, as the babby and newly weaned. I’d grown strong enough on mother’s milk even as the rest began to starve. The potato blight was . . . it destroyed. You can ask the Salomons, the blacksmiths, they are here because the same potato disease hit Poland. I wonder too if my parents thought I had the best chance of movin’ hearts to pity as my auntie traveled, bein’ small and young. It was a decision that saved my life.”

  I want to ask more questions right away, but wait, pulling more books and putting them on piles. Finally, he sighs deeply, and finishes with obvious resignation.

  “We often wrote to the village back in Ireland, tryin’ to find out what happened to the family. As I grew older, I learned to make different kinds of inquiries. Before I left my apprenticeship—before we left Boston—we finally discovered they’d gotten lost in the workhouses and then mass graves, likely.”

  I consider his story. It’s not entirely unique, and similar to the stories of many who lived in Boston. But now I can understand better his determination to be a doctor in the far reaches of America where there is little help, his desire to save people, and his worry about people like Alice Brinkley having enough to eat. He wishes to give back what had been given to him, for I am sure it was both hard work and luck that brought him as far as he has come. And now I know that he really is alone. The death of his aunt deprived him of the last bit of family to his name.

  There is silence, save for the soft pound of book covers thudding against others as we finish sorting and start to shuffle things onto the shelf. He has quite a few worn and patched medical books, several fictions, which surprises me as he doesn’t seem a reader, and more scientific books than I can count, on everything from plants to chemistry to animal studies. Some are not in English. Is he far more learned that he lets on? Can he actually read the German? Maybe he will let me read some—the English ones, at least—if I should ever have time on my hands. The notion unfurls in my chest. Maybe . . . maybe when he’s gone, I can snatch a few words. If he wants me to help him as a nurse, I think I desperately need to know more than I do!

  I make us a light lunch, and I realize I am not very hungry after the morning’s retching. The doctor does not seem to notice my lack of appetite as he eats as heartily as ever.

  When he leaves to make his afternoon rounds, I take it upon myself to continue in his study. There are papers in each folder, and soon I realize he does have a method to his disarray. Sometimes, it becomes a matter of simply writing a person or family name on a file and putting it into alphabetical order. Most of his scribbling is hard to understand, so I could not read about cases if I were to become a busybody. Some names I have to put aside to ask him about later, when we have a moment again in his study.

  Though I try not to meddle, I cannot help but look back at the study of EvaRose the prostitute. I learn she is one of three girls employed by Fortuna, the madam of the Powdered Rose bordello. She survived her attempted abortion, dated only four months ago. Reading of the intensive care she needed is one more affirmation that I made the right m
edical choice to bear Theodore’s child instead of trying for an abortion myself. If I had tried to rid myself of the babe without a skilled physician, even if I had one I trusted, I likely would not have survived it.

  There are many more people here in Flats Junction than I realize, and the names start to blur, though some are familiar. I know William Warren of the Golden Nail Saloon. There is a host of strange Chinese names that makes me pause as I read their occupations and connections. It seems Peng and Yan Yeng operate a tiny noodle and soup shop, which explains the heavy kettle I saw them heaving that first morning walk. They are married to sisters. There are four Wu brothers who are apparently lackluster laborers, good only for odd jobs. This in comparison to the Chen brothers, who are relatively successful farmers and come with a short list of injuries due to their preference for Oriental healing. Doctor Kinney does not seem to hold their medicinal ideas in high esteem based on his notes.

  There are a lot of cowboys, most employed by the handful of ranches here, and their names bleed together as manly shorthand: Bernard, Hank, Tate, Thunder, Manny, and Noah. More and more, until I stop counting. I note the Fawcett name and am surprised at the lengthy notes on the children in that family.

  But there are absences too. Why are there no files on Horeb or Gilroy, or the blacksmiths? I know the town has a farrier and a tannery and a livery, among other things, and yet there are no files on the tradesmen here. Why not? Surely they get ill and injured.

  I take a break from paperwork to wash the clothes. Today the spring air seems warm enough that things might dry quickly. I must come up with a rhythm to my week: certain days for laundry, washing, scrubbing, and cooking, but I have no handle on the weather. I brace myself to enter the doctor’s personal space again. It is time for me to tackle his clothing.

  As I bundle up his clothes, which smell of dust, old sweat, medicine, and of him, I hear the screen door slam shut. I frown. The doctor is not due back until supper. Could it be a patient? I brace myself and head down, hoping it’s nothing too urgent. I can soothe a fever if needed, but I can’t put together broken bones!

  The stairs are steep so I cannot see below, but I nearly run into the doctor himself at the bottom, as he’s standing in the narrow hallway with his hands on his hips. I hope I have not displeased him with continuing in his office. I suppose there may be personal papers he wishes to keep private. I cannot think why else he is glowering.

  “Mrs. Weber. Give me those,” he growls, grabbing the laundry. The surliness is unlike him. I have not seen him cross yet, and it is entirely unnerving. Is he ashamed of his dirty clothes, or does he not want a woman washing them, especially since I am not his kin as his aunt was?

  “It’s alright, Doctor. I don’t mind doing them. It’s part of my duties, to keep house, I mean, I thought . . .”

  He shakes his head, walks out of the house, and dumps the clothes unceremoniously next to the washbin, where I have hot water waiting, and the can of talc nearby. I follow him outside.

  Staring at the bin, he asks irritably, “Did you pull this wash yourself? Filled it too?”

  I shrug and give a frown. “Yes. How else . . .”

  “You’re to ask me!” He swings around and puts his hands back on his hips, then changes his mind and crosses his arms. Agitated yet, he shakes them out and stalks into the house.

  Suddenly, I realize what has happened. The doctor must have spoken to Widow Hawks. I feel the heat of embarrassment rush my cheeks, and I’m sure I look as flushed as I feel. I’ve seen myself like this often enough in the mirrors back East, and I hide my jaw in my hands, trying to draw the color down.

  Suppose it is not real. I have not yet felt the quickening. It is early—too early to really discuss it. For this employer to know, when my lover had not, feels as if I am exposing my private bedroom to a stranger.

  Terror shoots into me. I hadn’t wanted him to find out. Not so soon and not like this! Damn the widow! I’d asked her not to speak! Now he will send me back home to be a widowed mother alone in the quietness of her parents’ house with the sharp stigma of a loose woman. No one back East will truly believe the child is Henry’s. They might think I went wild in the West.

  I follow him back inside slowly, thankful he has the tact not to yell at me out in the yard, where I am certain the neighbors, especially prim and brisk Mrs. Molhurst, would hear him. I do not want my pregnancy so public yet.

  No one knows me here. There is some safety in that, and I must convince him to let me stay. And I must tell him the same lie. There’s no other way. Everyone here in Flats Junction must think I was as married and settled as I say. And the doctor, too. What would he think, having hired such a disreputable woman? The shame of my brief desire for Theodore, and the self-loathing I carry rises up and tries to suffocate me.

  My heart batters in my chest. Will I faint? Will I be able to hold my head to his and beg him? Can I spit out the story and will he believe it?

  The doctor walks into his study, fuming and vibrating with anger, and I feel I must follow him to hear my fate. He stands with his back to me, surveying my work. Already there is some order, and it’s easier to move about the small space. I can see by the bend of his head that he is still angry, still thinking of what to say to me. I fear my dismissal with a rushing, blinding wave and grip the door frame with intensity, a sliver of wood working its way into my thumb.

  “How far along?”

  His voice has softened a bit, and I try to relax, and try to think of the numbers I’ve created.

  “I . . . I am not quite sure. I think perhaps sixteen weeks now? It is still early.”

  “Does your family know?”

  “No. I . . . Henry didn’t even know. I myself didn’t realize it until we’d already settled on the date of my arrival here.”

  Finally, he turns to look at me. I cannot read his face. It is blank of any emotion. Is he still angry? Frustrated? I try to hide my shaking hands, and my intense fear of termination, and my worry that he will disbelieve my honor. He is suddenly completely in charge of my future. Will he condemn me? Send me home?

  “You didn’t think to say anythin’?”

  “It did not seem fitting to bring it up at our first meeting, and life has . . .” I shrug in anguish. “It has been busy. It still does not seem possible I could finally . . . that Henry had . . .” I cannot bear to finish. To discuss sex, and my husband’s difficulty conceiving, if not my own as well, is too much to say. And it’s all false anyway. How much should I say? And will I remember it perfectly? It does not matter that he is a doctor, and he is accustomed to these discussions. He is not my doctor, does not give me exams, and is not my confidant.

  “Mrs. Weber.” He steps closer and lightly puts a hand on my shoulder. “I am not a bad man, I like to think. I am tolerant. I have always vowed to be so. I am not angry about this comin’ baby, only that you were too afraid to speak up.”

  “Please...you will let me keep working?”

  “Within reason.”

  I start to protest, but he shakes his head and puts his second hand on my other shoulder. The weight of his arms is heavy, yoke-like. He pins me, serious and determined to have me meet his eyes.

  “You will let me do the heavy liftin’, Mrs. Weber. You must. You forget I like to help around the house when I can. And you must just tell me what you need before I leave. I don’t mind.”

  He gives my shoulders a quick squeeze before releasing me and turning to his office desk, shaking his head. I am surprised at how light his voice is as he comments, “It is shapin’ up quite nicely. Now, back to my rounds. Supper in a few hours, Mrs. Weber?”

  “I’ll be sure to have enough for the Brinkleys, as well,” I respond weakly as he brushes past, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. He grabs his hat, bounds outside, and swings onto his horse. From the screen door, I watch him spin the mount around and canter off, his body swaying easily with the jaunt of the animal’s gait.

  Once he is out of sight, I sink to
the floor and breathe a long sigh. The choke of tears presses upward and into my throat. Thank heaven he did not see it fit to send me back on the next train out! A small tremor passes through me. What would I tell my folks if I had to return? They still do not know I am pregnant. They’d think I’d turned loose here, never imagining it all started much earlier. I shudder to think of such a response from my loved ones, and I am mercifully thankful of the doctor’s tolerance.

  Chapter 6

  26 April 1881

  Widow Hawks sews my dresses for me. She insists that she can do it deftly, faster. That she cannot bear another night sitting next to me and watching me labor over each stitch. And, of course, she is right. Within three weeks, both housedresses are finished, with neat patterning and easy seams. I have a purple bonnet to match the lavender dress and my brown calico is set with the split skirt so that I might start to ride easily, like the way I saw Kate do when she traveled with some of the cowboys to visit Yankton to see how the town was faring after the flooding. While I am afraid to go on horseback with the babe in my womb, I know it is something I must eventually master.

  There are funny whispers about childbearing that I overhear even without meaning to. Tales of sighting a deformed calf sent Julie Bailey, the farrier’s wife, into a tizzy. Apparently, she is of the belief that such a view when pregnant might mark the unborn baby and produce a hermaphrodite. And a woman in the family way should never touch her face after thinking about out-of-season food. That particular bit of nonsense was discussed after Mass this past weekend, as that too can mark the babe. I think I will keep this pregnancy quiet as long as possible, if only to avoid such types of advice!

  I am beside myself with happiness at the companionship of Widow Hawks. She hums, now, in the morning and night, native songs that resonate throughout the room. I’m surprised to realize I’m glad to have a child who will listen to such lovely, haunting melodies. When I tell her this, she smiles fully, and I am always struck by her serene beauty. Her teeth are white against the dark cinnamon of her skin, and the creases of her eyes remind me of the doctor’s when he grins, and of Kate’s when she smiles, though that is rarer still. I do not know how Widow Hawks makes her way, how she comes by groceries or dry goods. Like everyone here, she has a garden out back. Sprawling squash vines reach out beyond the borders of the garden, while beans curl around poles, and potato plants nod gently. But I do not see how she survives on her own. It is, like many things yet, a mystery.