Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

  We still do not share meals, nor much else other than silence or quiet chatter in the night. I have not accused her of approaching the doctor about my pregnancy. It feels ill-placed to do it, as she has been a constant nursemaid when I’ve been ill in the mornings. And she is my advocate with the doctor if I am too shy to ask for anything, though that is slowly changing. I find him eager to help however he may, and he is even professional about my occasional bouts of nausea, which, thankfully, are lessening considerably. I wonder at this, but then I remember he has no living relations. He may be glad for any babe to be part of his life, if only to have someone to care for in the way of family. Already I can see how one easily cleaves to others when alone out here. It is easily done. I’m doing it myself.

  Today, I wear the new yellow calico. There is no need for me to dress for riding, so I think the serviceable brown will be good for days when much work is to be done, particularly outside.

  Widow Hawks fits it to me, making a final tug or two.

  “How did you learn to sew so prettily?” I ask. She has made an attractive bodice, and a full skirt, with plenty to let out when I grow bigger with child. Her own clothing is usually a mismatched combination of traditional deer and rabbit hides, and English skirts with calico shirts, so I do not see how creating a ladies’ dress is possible for her.

  “I learned how for my daughter’s sake,” she says quietly. It is an answer I do not expect. “And for my husband, for he wished me to wear your English dresses sometimes.”

  “Well, I thank you. I finally feel a woman,” I say, and I take her hand and squeeze it. So, she has a daughter. I feel relief. I might be able to ask childrearing questions of her. She hangs on to my fingers a moment longer but says no more.

  When I walk to the doctor’s house, I pass the two usual townsfolk who watch me. One is a grandfatherly figure who is always out to watch the sunrise on the porch of his daughter’s family home. George Ofsberger has aged rapidly even since I’ve been in town. His son, Douglas, is the town postman. I wave, and he tilts his head in his usual response.

  The other is a cowboy who is always up brushing his horse at the livery, as if the stallion is the most important thing in the world. And I suppose it is the most important thing, or being, he owns in the world, so I cannot blame his obsessiveness. Today he stops brushing to give me a second look.

  “Good day, Missus Weber,” he says and tips his hat. I nod silently in return.

  As I turn onto First Street, a huge coyote sprints across my path, ducking opportunistically into the trash outside the pig farm and causing the sows in the crowded barn to shriek and squeal.

  I let out a scream of my own, and the cowboy comes springing toward me from the livery stables, his hand holding nothing but the horse brush, raised high.

  “Mrs. Weber! You alright? What is it?”

  I put a hand to my chest and heave a short breath. The cowboy looks around in consternation, and then notices the big wooly animal near the sty. He marches toward it without fear, and I follow him only because I don’t know what else to do. The pigs are still causing quite a ruckus, and Alan Lampton, the purveyor of the pig and pork trade, runs out without anything on but his faded, stained long underwear, brandishing what looks to be a stove poker.

  The coyote, suddenly noticing it is cornered on both sides, bares its teeth, pricks its long ears even higher and then rushes off toward the north, sprinting up the wide path called Bone Jump Road. Alan and the cowboy stop and look at one another, then the pigs, and then me. I smile, suddenly feeling foolish, and shrug, trying to hide the quivering of my chin. The animal had been huge! Suppose it had tried to attack?

  “He’s gone.” Alan grunts. “Did he eat one?”

  “No,” I say, feeling confident in that, at least, and my voice cracks. “Just wanted whatever you have in the slop piles.”

  I gesture to the huge, disgusting compost of food and table bits spilling out of the troughs, and the rotting wooden bins by the side of the fence. Alan nods, looking satisfied.

  The cowboy turns to go back to the livery, and I don’t know what to say to either of the men. Do I thank them? Did they save me, or was I never in danger? But neither give me any mind as they separate, so I take the last bit of road to the doctor’s. My heart is still throbbing from the excitement, and my blood pumps so tightly behind my eyes, it’s a wonder I can see straight.

  It is quiet as I let myself in. He must still be abed or not quite ready yet.

  As I make the coffee, I think again on Widow Hawks’ words about dressmaking. I wonder where her daughter is, or if she, too, has died as the husband has. With my increasing ability to ask personal questions, I still do not go about asking the important ones, it seems. I’ve spent too many years shielding my inclination to research and learn about everyone and everything. It’s a shame. Had I come out here when I was younger, before I’d come out to society and then married, I might never have learned to shut off my nature.

  “Mornin’.” The doctor speaks as he rounds the corner, but stops up so quickly, I turn to make sure he did not trip. Instead, I see him taking me in, a shrewd look in his eye.

  “Yes?” I do not understand his look.

  “It’s . . . the coffee smells delicious.”

  I lift an eyebrow at his stilted comment but say nothing. We eat the toast and cheese in relative silence. Today I am helping in his study again to go over the updates to his files. I look forward to a morning inside and to be seated, as I am quite tired. It is much better than scrubbing the floors, which is my duty tomorrow.

  “Mrs. Weber,” he says slowly as we finish eating. I do not look up until his hand reaches across the slab table and taps the back of my own so I will meet his face. “The new dress is very fine on you.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim, and I try not to laugh. He does indeed have an eye to color, then. It is not what I expected of his character. “I . . . thank you.”

  He nods, as if the compliment is sufficient and normal enough to say, and then finishes his coffee. We do the dishes together, as we have started to do when he is not called away by patients. I still think it’s a bit odd of him to help with such womanly chores, but it is his house and his kitchen, after all.

  “Widow Hawks mentioned she had a daughter,” I say, feeling the statement is awkward, but not sure how to bring up the topic. I glance at him and am surprised again to see his face look tender, soft, and a bit wistful.

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Does? Is she around here? I hope I have not deprived her of a bed and place at her mother’s home.”

  “Oh, no, that you have most certainly not done. Widow Hawks’ daughter is quite independent.” There is affection in his voice.

  Since he does not immediately offer up more, I drop the subject, and try to come up with other conversation, but it all escapes me. I hope I get to meet Widow Hawks’ daughter.

  I spend an amicable morning doing patient paperwork with the doctor, and then polishing instruments in the afternoon as he does rounds. It’s another nursing duty that falls on me now, and I hope to figure out the name of each tool eventually.

  But then he mentions over supper that I ought to have my sidesaddle clothing on hand, so that I might dress for patient visits some days.

  “I could use your nursing skills,” he says. “Not for the very difficult cases, but when it would help to have a second pair of hands again.”

  “Did your aunt help you, too?”

  “Yes, she did, sometimes,” he admits. “It did help to have a woman’s face around, even if just for the families. And it might help again to have a woman available for those who don’t want me.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  He looks a bit dismayed, and rubs a hand along his neck roughly. “Well . . . Doc Gunnarsen before me was . . . he wasn’t very . . . effective.”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  “Ah . . . you know that old adage about sins of the father?”

  “Bu
t you’re not related to the old doctor, are you?”

  “Oh no!” he exclaims, scraping his knife along a dark stain on his tin plate. “No. I stayed because Percy and Widow Hawks asked me to stay. And I was lookin’ for a place to set down roots after wanderin’ the Territories to find a town that could have me, support my practice. I’d almost given up, to be truthful. And the Indians . . . well, I came here on a bad day for Flats Junction and ended up havin’ lots of patients from the first day. Treated the Sioux too. And I was lucky, what with Doc Gunnarsen dyin’ earlier in the year. Well, it worked for me, anyway. My Aunt Bonnie and I had enough work to keep us busy. So aye, I’ll take a nurse again, however you can manage it.”

  “Alright then,” I agree, though I am uncertain what I have just agreed to do. I have no true nursing training, only how to make an ill patient a bit more comfortable, as I did for Henry. I suppose I know some about how doctors like to work, and I am at ease at the side of a sickbed. I absently spin the wedding band around my finger, and then suddenly wonder when it will be proper for me to stop wearing it.

  “Now then, we’ve finished up a mite early for the evenin’. What do you say, Mrs. Weber, to a bit of readin’ on the porch?” It is a tradition we do now that the light lasts longer, and when we can manage it.

  “Of course,” I say. I set about finishing up the kitchen and put away my apron.

  We read a bit of The Conduct of Life, and I like to hear the doctor take a turn with Emerson’s words, as his lilt is soothing. I try not to drift to sleep. Even a day without hard physical labor leaves me exhausted at times.

  “What I cannot understand, Mrs. Weber, is why you waited so long to be married.” At first, I do not realize he has stopped reading. “You’re a decent lookin’ woman, you know. Did you pine for your husband before he married you? Wait for him to have enough money?”

  Goodness! I am now not drowsy at all! The doctor is asking very detailed questions provoked by our reading material. I am shocked my employer wishes to know these things about my past. What could come of it? How dare he presume to pry?

  “Why . . . I mean . . . that is to say . . .” I trail off, then gather my courage to be frank, molding the words as best I can, allowing my past to filter through me, and giving in to the private pleasure of sharing information and knowledge.

  “I was, soon after I was introduced to society, sometimes asked by young men to dance or to be called upon. My sister was a celebrated beauty and married young to . . . to James.”

  After all the years and my marriage to Henry, I can finally say my brother-in-law’s name dispassionately and without feeling heat feather through my skin. He had been the first young man to catch my eye, the only one I would have considered marrying. Except he’d been captivated by my older sister, and he had chosen to formerly court her instead. It had felt like a betrayal, though he’d never given me any indication that he held me in affection. It still had made family gatherings difficult.

  In a way, Henry rescued me from that. And then I dove back in the minute Henry was a month in his grave, enjoying the attentions of a man who looked very much like James.

  “But I did not really find most of the men I met to be interesting,” I say instead. “I knew my duty, to find a proper gentleman and be settled, but I was careful in my choice.”

  “And Mr. Weber was proper?”

  I nod briefly, twisting my hands into my skirts. “Yes. And by the time I met him, I’d rather scared off the handsome young bachelors who were interested at all in marrying me. I was known for being a bit . . . earnest. I found research to be interesting and the newspapers a topic for discussion. Such qualities are not very attractive or desirable in a wife. Henry liked how I would listen to his thoughts and sometimes add my own. We were a very intellectual match. I was older and wished to settle down or risk spinsterhood. He wished for a wife to aid him in society for his work and to keep him company. It was a decent arrangement.”

  “It sounds proper.” The doctor watches my face as I talk, leaning forward with the book closed between his fingers. It is a bit refreshing to unwind my marriage, to see it dispassionately, and without emotion in the retelling. I cannot complain. Henry had been true, had not stepped out, nor held any horrible faults. I cannot blame him, even in death, for a lack of desire that had been missing from the start.

  There’s a shuffle and snort, and our heads snap up at the intrusion. The sun is starting to set, and a horse and rider detach from the long dark grey shadows along the homes.

  “Speaking of proper. Begging pardon, Doc and Missus.”

  “What is it, Bern?” The doctor is on his feet, expecting an emergency, though I do not detect that in the languid manner of the man. He slides down, grabbing the reins of his mount, and walks up to the porch. It is the cowboy from this morning, who had attempted to rescue me from the coyote. He is a bit dashing, with dark hair, and eyes that squint at the corners. I hadn’t noticed that earlier.

  “It’s getting a bit late, and I was going to offer Mrs. Weber a walk to her quarters.”

  From the astounded silence in the yard, I cannot tell who is more stunned by his proposition, the doctor or myself. Is this how it is done? Without proper introductions to this man who goes by Bern?

  “Well, I . . .” I glance at the doctor. He has a strange, half-bemused smile on his face and gives me a small nod.

  I am to take my leave with this man I do not know?

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Weber. I’ll see you in the mornin’. Thanks, Bern.”

  I press my lips together. This is most unexpected, and I feel befuddled from dissembling to the doctor and not quite willing to handle a new introduction. I am familiar with this cowboy only by his willingness to come to my aid when I shrieked. Yes, he is polite to me, saying hello, smiling, tipping his hat, but that is all I really know of him. He has not shown interest in me before, but I can only guess that this walk home is a prelude to romance, and I am nervous about this notion. It still seems so early in my arrival. I have been in Flats Junction for mere weeks.

  What would he think if he knew I was with child?

  “Mrs. Weber.” He tips his hat to me, waiting. I gather my things, bid the doctor good night, and we begin the walk down East Avenue and onto Main Street toward Widow Hawks’ house. “Bernard Masson, at your service. Folks around here call me Bern. I like that better than Bernie, myself.”

  I nod, smile, and decide to offer him my own front name as is common here.

  “You seem to already know I am Mrs. Weber. Please call me Jane.”

  We are silent until we are nearly to Widow Hawks’ house, and I am halfway relieved but also confused. Why has this Bern decided to escort me home today? Does he think I need the help as I’m so obviously skittish? If I cannot handle the sighting of a single coyote, maybe he pities me.

  “You’re kind to walk me,” I venture.

  “It’s no trouble at all, Jane,” he returns, and tips his hat to me at the edge of the railroad. He then mounts his horse and rides off without a word.

  “Well, I’ll be!” I say under my breath. This interlude, and my chatting with the doctor today, has given me new voice, a new strength. I decide I will ask Widow Hawks about her daughter tonight.

  I stop short as I turn to the house. I see a mound of animal carcasses next to the doorway, half rotted and black with flies. Thankfully, it does not make me vomit, but I am shocked that Widow Hawks has left this. It is unlike her.

  Going in, I see her methodically making the fire. The smoke is pungent, filled with sage and other acrid fumes. Without a word, Widow Hawks walks outside, likely to fetch water as usual.

  I go to my bed and see my dresses all fitted out and ready, but I cannot enjoy them. I am too riled and discomfited by the stack of rotting remains I’d witnessed.

  I go to find her outside. She’s digging a hole in the ground. It is not very deep or wide.

  “May I help?” I approach her. She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow. Though the sun is nearly
set and the light is fading fast, it is still quite warm.

  “Get you inside. I’ll be in soon.” Her voice is hard and firm.

  “Please let me help.”

  She sighs very softly, then juts her chin. “Fetch me that bag there, then, but take care not to touch anything but the corners.”

  I go to the bag nearby, but recoil when I realize it is filled with the animal parts and carcasses from the doorway. Widow Hawks is still digging the hole, humming a tune that sounds like a dirge. Holding my breath, I find the courage to pick up the sack and bring it to her. There are strange native symbols written on the cloth. I feel quite out of my element.

  She continues her song for another long moment, eyes half closed in the rhythm of the digging, and then hauls herself out of the hole. Picking up the bag reverently, she starts to chant softly in her native tongue. I watch, fascinated, and a bit fearful, as she carefully places the bundled bodies into the opened ground, sprinkling them with dried herbs. Rocking on her heels, she tilts her head to the sky, where evening glows with its first stars.

  She finishes the chant and begins to scoop the earth back into the shallow hole. I begin to think of it as a grave and say as much as I start to help her, using my hands as a shovel.

  “Weasel. Otter. They are sacred animals and should be given high reverence,” she says softly, sadly, as if mourning.

  I stop moving dirt. “These animals are sacred to your people?”

  She nods.

  “Then why take their fur and leave their poor bodies to rot?” I try to keep any negative emotion from my voice. I truly do wish to understand her culture, as it is fascinating in small doses. It is nothing like what the papers back East say about Indian life. It only proves to me that I cannot always accept what I hear and read—research must sometimes accompany information.