by Sara Dahmen
“Everything okay?” he questions easily. I look at him, surprised he is sensitive enough to notice the slight change in my manner, and realize I cannot speak my mind, that I do not know him enough to be honest. Perhaps there is something about him the doctor knows and wishes to warn me. Perhaps it is best to find out more about this so-called beau, and not hear the news secondhand, the way I have learned about others today.
“Yes. Everything is fine. Thank you,” I say. On the way home, he tells me about his family, his parents in Minnesota, and his brothers who both work a few villages down the rail line. He speaks of them fondly, and of his riding and love of horses. I know nothing about the quality, value, or work of livestock, so I am interested. He is open, talkative, more so than ever, so we stand outside Widow Hawks’ door for a spell before his stories end. Then he tips his Stetson and leaves.
Widow Hawks is waiting for me when I walk in. She is standing, watching the door open. She looks a bit anxious.
“Is he going to court you in earnest?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
She gives a small shrug and motions aimlessly with her hand. “Not now, no.”
I see my opening and pounce. I go to sit next to her as she kneels and picks up her stitching. She is making a bunting for the baby. She figures I will be due in the fall, but I know it will be later than that. I plan to tell everyone how mathematics and my cycle are never very precise.
“Well, it’s not always so passionate, is it?” I reason. “It wasn’t so with Henry, why should it be any different now with Bern if he is interested in me? You were married. Were you happy?” I mean more than happiness, but I do not know how to put the words just right.
Her hands still, and she bends her head. I see the sparkling silver hairs sprinkled in her dark grey braids. Finally, she looks up at me. The long lines framing her mouth are noticeable in the waning light, her black eyes are soft with melancholy.
“I was very happy. Happier than I could have imagined. It was not always easy, and there were difficult weeks and months, but we had one another always. Not doubting his love was beautiful in itself.”
So, there was passion between her and Percival Davies.
I wish I had met him. I wish I had seen them together, so I could read what a good marriage, a good, strong partnership, looked like. I could have modeled my own fate along those lines, and I would know if a future with Bern had much to recommend it, or if I truly am trapping myself again, slowly, into another loveless union.
“He sounds very kind,” I say instead, and she smiles into the distance.
“He was incredibly so. Kindness with a backbone of strength. I rarely see such a combination. Patrick has it, though not nearly so tough as my husband. Likely that is why we took Pat in when he and his aunt came to town. Until they built up the house. Because we saw a bit of ourselves in him.”
It takes me a minute to remember the doctor’s front name. We are quiet together again. The fire crackles as it eats the new logs, and I inhale the sage leftover in the air. My comfort with Widow Hawks comes so much from our companionable silences. So many times, I was quiet in my life and my marriage, and while I accepted it, it always felt forced. The silence here is comfortable. Even tonight, when I wonder about Widow Hawks’ past, and my mind is whirling with implications, I don’t feel the need to speak.
She gives the softest of sighs and moves to begin her evening rituals. I go to my bed, stripping down before putting my hands on my belly. Nothing is quite showing yet, though perhaps my waist is slightly thicker. If I were truly pregnant with Henry’s child, how much bigger would I be?
I do not turn when I ask, “Why do you suppose that cowboy, Bern, walks me home?”
“Because you are an available widow woman. And you’re not afraid of hard work.” Her answer is bald and bold and unexpected.
“When shall I tell him about the baby?”
“When you are showing, I should think,” comes her response. “When the babe quickens.”
I do not like to think of that conversation; it will be intensely uncomfortable. I worry about what the handsome cowboy will think of me. It almost bothers me to think that he will stop courting me, and I am surprised to realize that I enjoy his attentions. It is heady, and it is a bit intoxicating to think I could make him do many a thing to win my full favor. And yes, I’m grateful for his interest because it means the other cowboys don’t ogle at me quite as openly as they used to.
When I was first out in society, there were suitors interested in both my sister, Anne, and me. Anne had a particular idea of what she had wanted in a husband, and I did not. So, when I was introduced to James Miller, I had been shocked with my response to him—to his wit, his smile, and his charm. I’d thought I’d finally found a match. One who would listen to me, to my notions, and understand that under all the practiced calm and steadiness of my actions, lived a woman with a deep, inquisitive sensibility. But then, Anne had noticed James, too. And then it had been over, for no one could withstand her charisma and her laughter and brilliant eyes.
I had thought my spinsterhood was all but certain until Henry had attended one of the parties in Rockport, where he often pulled shipments of granite and lime. We had found ourselves standing along the edge of the dance floor, and it only took one song length for us to realize we had mutual hopes for our lives. I wonder now if that will be the way of it with Bern. I wonder if he simply wishes a wife to cook and clean for him, or if his affection for me borders on passion.
I don’t know him well enough yet to feel fully in control of the situation. If—when—he discovers I am pregnant, will he leave me alone? Will he believe me when I say it is the child of my dead husband? A widow is often thought of as a bit of a temptress who knows the pleasures of the bedroom and is not willing to forgo them, and who will do anything to entice a man to the sheets. Could I work here with such an unwarranted stigma on my head? Would the doctor want such a woman working for him, one who is so shunned by his town?
I’m petrified of my pregnancy and all its shortcomings. I don’t want to lose this odd freedom in Flats Junction. I don’t want anyone to think poorly of me, especially Widow Hawks and my employer, and even a few of the women who send me tentative overtures of friendship: Sadie Fawcett, Anette Zalenski, and Alice.
But this child will make me risk it all, from the loss of a handsome man’s attentions to, possibly, my employment. I wish I could have come here without such a heavy burden in my belly.
Chapter 8
3 July 1881
Independence Day celebrations come up quickly. I am mostly just grateful, as it means a break from the usual workload, and I am especially intrigued about what the doctor will say about my cooking. His challenge for a pie had me cull the earliest of the tomatoes, all green and unripe, and soften them, cook them, and spice them. I taste as I go along and I think I might pass the pies off for apple, which are nearly impossible to come by out here. I do the cold chicken as well, as we’d discussed, just in case the pies don’t turn out.
Kate has me in charge of the ladies’ contributions while she is busy decorating the general store, post office, bank, and other public buildings with new bunting she’s had delivered. I’m glad to help her, and I wonder if it means we’re truly friends.
Bern has asked me to watch him at the races, and I have said I will try to do so amid the food preparations. The cowboys have several specialties they like to show off for the townsfolk’s entertainment. Since telling me in detail about his protective and loving parents, and his competitive, but earnest brothers, Bern speaks more freely each evening, though he rarely asks about me. I do not mind, as I do not have any colorful stories to share and much to keep quiet. His lack of probing reminds me of the gentlemen back home, who did not pry with personal questions so quickly.
I finish the pies in the morning and put them off to cool while I go about my scrubbing. The kitchen and surgery wipe up easily, but the hallway, stairs, and especially the was
hroom take a good long time, as the wood seems to soak up soap and dirt more readily there. One could call the wood stoic, solid, and give it human characteristics that one would wish for oneself. I mull along these lines as I scrub. Today I’m trying lye instead of vinegar, which I found in the doctor’s surgery, and the mixture seems to be working a bit better, though my hands are itching with the concoction, and my eyes burn.
As I take the dirty bucket of water down the stairs, the doctor comes in from his afternoon rounds and catches me at it. He frowns a little, and brushes travel dust absently from his shiny vest. Then he sighs and hikes up the stairs, his mouth twisted in a weary grimace.
“Mrs. Weber, really!” he admonishes, meeting me halfway up. “Stop liftin’ things!”
“How am I to get any work done, then?” I ask him a bit irritably, as I relinquish the bucket. He pauses on the step, wavering.
“Use smaller buckets. Anythin’ like that,” he says, a bit deflated. “Confound it, Mrs. Weber. I don’t want you or the wee babby hurt.”
I am heartened at his worry, but what woman does not like a little pamper now and then? I meekly follow him down the stairs.
He sniffs suddenly and stops, peers into the bucket, then at me suspiciously.
“Lye?”
I lift my shoulders. “I wanted things very clean.”
He frowns, and then grabs my hand, flipping it over to see the palm. The flesh is red, and I resist the urge to scratch it. “You used lye water? Did you know the right mixture?”
“What mix?” I glance at my skin. The itching is giving way to pain. It’s as though the lye has burned my nose as well, the odor lifting like an invisible powder to sizzle away any ability to smell.
“Don’t you know how to use lye properly?” He drops the bucket and my hand and strides into the surgery.
I follow him, wiping my fingers briskly on my apron, and then notice that the fabric seems to be disintegrating in large patches, and parts of my skirt as well. What on earth?!
He turns to me and settles a basin on the operating table. “Put your hands over this. It’s goin’ to hurt for a bit.”
“What?” I hide them behind my back.
“I’ve got to stop the lye from diggin’ into your skin and burnin’ you worse than it is. Cold water, lots of scrubbin’, and then I’ll put on a bit of salve.”
I hesitate, the typical questioning bubbling up. “How do you know just water will work?”
He looks indignant. “I’m a doctor.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Weber, don’t be foolish. You’ve already shown me you have no understandin’ on lye water, and you’ve ruined your new housedress. Now is not the time to argue.”
Embarrassment charges through me, and I bite my lips against the sting of his reprimand. He’s perfectly correct, and I am not sure if I feel more ashamed or upset. And the dress! I hadn’t thought of the dress! What a waste! Widow Hawks just made it, and now it’ll be patched and ragged from the start.
I let him pour cold, clear water from his copper water cistern over my hands and the splash makes me cry out. He apologizes abruptly, then puts more water over them.
“Too late,” he says mournfully, inspecting the skin. “Burns for sure.”
Snatching a hand back, I look over the palm and am surprised to see that my stinging skin looks completely raised with puffy, red blisters. Good heaven! What have I done?
The doctor is rummaging around his glass bottles and canisters, and the clinking is loud in the sterile space. When he turns back, he still looks completely befuddled.
“I can’t believe . . . you mean to tell me you had no notion of how to work with lye? Why didn’t you clean with a simple water and vinegar?”
I press my lips tighter and scrape my fingers together, wincing with pain, which is building higher, and hotter, as each moment ticks along.
“I . . . I didn’t know.”
“What did you clean with back in Boston?”
I hesitate, meet his steady, blue gaze briefly, and then look down at my bubbling hands.
“I didn’t clean much. Not like this.”
The doctor gives a short, angry huff and takes my hands back in his, laying them palm up on the operating table and leaning over them. Then he opens a creamy salve and starts to daub it on with delicate circles, his frown deepening as he goes.
“It’s goin’ to hurt for a bit,” he states. “And you’ll need to patch your clothes when you next wash them out. Or the lye will keep eatin’ them.”
I nod, watching, and mesmerized by the curls of cream he continues to swirl into my flesh. He adds another layer, blending it in slowly, the wide pads of his fingers tracing the lines of my hands, and the raised welts of the lye. I can almost forget my foolishness in the sensuality of having someone take care of my needs. When was the last time someone managed for me? Henry? Before he took to his bed?
“Did you have a maid, Mrs. Weber?” he asks quietly, startling me out of my memories.
“A maid?”
“To clean your house in Boston.”
“I . . .” I close my eyes briefly, wishing I could have a better answer. “I had a maid once a week, yes. But I did my own cooking.”
“Well, that part I can figure,” he says wryly. “And likely had a garden of sorts as you’ve managed to plant the vegetables without too much trouble.”
“I would dust,” I tell him, salvaging what dignity I can. “But it wasn’t proper for a businessman’s wife to be on hands and knees in the privy or on the kitchen floor, scouring.”
He raises his head to meet my eyes directly. “I see.”
Does he? Does he understand what he’s been asking of me? I’ve put aside my pride to clean, I’ve stumbled through most of the steps of keeping a full house in shape. And I’ve done it all without real knowledge of what I would find in the Territories. I’ve had to make it up every day, hoping I do right.
Winding clean bandages around my hands, he tightens them briskly and then removes the bin of water now full of lye.
“You’ll need to wash down the rest of the stairs, and wherever you’ve cleaned, with plain water, so it doesn’t stay as a dusty white coverin’ over everythin’. Just splash it down and get the lye off the floorboards and sweep it out onto the porch so you don’t muddy your hands.”
I nod wordlessly, thankful that he doesn’t seem angry anymore. Why is he so kind? What else should I say?
“I’m sorry.”
The words are abrupt, but soft, and I don’t actually mean to say them aloud. He spins around as he wipes his hands with a cloth.
“Sorry?”
“I didn’t have the experience you might have expected.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then looks up at me, his face relaxing as he shakes his head. “You never overpromised, I suppose. You just said you could be a housekeeper. And you’ve done well enough. It’s a shame about your new skirts, though. And your hands’ll hurt for a good while.”
Hurt? They throb so hard, tightening and blistering even under the cream that I want to scream.
“Did you do your own laundry?”
I pause again, wishing I could offer a rosier response. “I did, yes, though some of it we sent out for laundering.”
He sighs, and then shakes his head. “Anythin’ else?”
If I ever were to give in and tell him about my pregnancy’s truth, now would be the time. Should I press further, and ask him what kind of expectations he has for my nursing abilities? He cannot be so displeased that he’s thinking of dismissing me, and now that I’ve spent enough weeks here, I realize there’s little reason for him to fire me for anything other than theft, or my complete inability to keep up. And even though I’ve revealed exactly how stupidly inexperienced I am, he doesn’t seem inclined to worry on it further.
Is it fortune, or is he simply very good at burying his disapproval and disappointment?
Well, there’s nothing left to do now but feed him supper and hope
that I can spill enough water tomorrow to wash out the lye on the floor. He follows me into the kitchen, still mumbling about my mistake. I grab the kettle of yesterday’s soup, something that doesn’t require me to do much with my hands. I try to ignore the tatters of my apron or the holes in my skirts. I hope they will be an easy fix. Will Widow Hawks be exasperated? Upset? Will she just quietly take in the holes? Might I fix the holes myself? It’s just a work dress. I cannot be the only person who has ruined a dress.
To put aside my embarrassment, I ask about patients as I heat the soup. “How did the poultice work with Anette Zalenski’s youngest?”
“Well. She’s mendin’,” he says comfortably, sitting down and grabbing the bread from under a cloth, where it is hiding with the butter.
“I’m glad to hear it. I saw her the other day in the general,” I respond. “But she was busy with her mother and I didn’t get a moment to ask about it. Speaking of . . . I have been wondering why Anette’s mother is always at the blacksmiths. Does she keep their house?”
“Oh, that.” Doctor Kinney wipes his mouth with a fast swipe. “Anette’s mother, Berit, married Walter Salomon, the elder blacksmith, back in the sixties. Before my time. I hear it was a love match many thought endearing.”
“Why so?” I wonder, watching the bubbles pop in the broth. I love to hear the stories that make Flats Junction unfold yet again for me, coloring the spaces of each person I meet.
“They were older. Both widowed. I suppose when one marries late like that, it’s only if you love one another instead of as a necessity.”
The idea is sweet indeed. A marriage of passion instead of bland acceptance or need. I suppose that is my own thought now. I suppose it is why I am waiting for my stomach to twist with joy and fluttering when I think of Bern, so I know I am not repeating my old life once more.
Then the doctor spies the pies cooling and exclaims in delight.
“Where did you find fruit?”
I laugh. “It’s green tomatoes. Hope they are good. I’ve made three.”