by Sara Dahmen
“It should never have been an argument. Good night, Mrs. Weber.”
He pulls away, and I turn to the other bedroom, where I undress in the lantern light. Widow Hawks is already in the bed with her back to me. Tears tickle my eyes, and I wonder at her staunchness. How can I cry for her loss when she bears it so readily?
I put out the light, climb into bed, and put my arms about her shoulders. She is strong, with a boniness that comes with age. Her hands grasp mine, and the power in the hold speaks to me, and tells me she is hurting. Eventually, I fall asleep. I do not know if she does.
Chapter 25
1 October 1881
In the morning, at first I think it is a dream, that my hair does not really smell like smoke, that I am still simply recovering in the doctor’s house, that time has not pushed forward. Widow Hawks is gone from her side of the bed, even though the light is watery and pale and early. There is a rattle of crockery below, and it is not Widow Hawks’ gentle hand, but the doctor’s tumbling way of making coffee. I listen to his steps, counting them from the kitchen to his study.
I go down to the kitchen, realizing that the clothes I had been washing the night before are still in the washbin in the yard. The soak probably did them more good than harm. Everything lays about the yard in a haphazard place, tasks unfinished. I sigh. Now is as good a time as any to wring things out and soap them up. I take out the tin of charcloth, flint, and steel from my pocket and light up some soft dry grass easily, the quick puff of fire a reminder of yesterday’s fast blaze. I build the flames, and prepare the lye with exceptional care, and start to haul up water from the well in small buckets to fill the bigger wash kettle.
As I wait for the water to heat, I pull the washboard toward me, swirling my hand in the chilly water and gaze at my garden. It has done well this year, and I wish I would be able to stay and cultivate it better in following years. But this will be Kate’s realm soon enough, surely. It will be her green patch, and her washbin. It was never really mine to begin with, so it is not truly a loss for me. I commit these words to my mind, over and over: it is not mine. This is not my place. I am only a paid housekeeper.
“Stop.” The doctor is behind me, holding steaming mugs full of coffee.
I sigh and take one of the cups from him. He does a decent job with the brew, and I sip it slowly, watching the bits of morning haze and fog shift on the grassland around us. He stands next to me, comfortable and at ease, while my body tenses. I fear if I am not on guard around him, I will give in. I will grab his hands and kiss his mouth, and he will be shocked and repulsed and will no longer wish to spend such moments in friendship together.
“Where did she go?” I ask instead.
“Esther? She went down to the rubble, to see if she can glean anythin’ from the ashes. I doubt she will, but there’s always a chance.”
“What now?”
He gives me a sliding glance. “You mean, what happens to those who did this?”
I nod, and he gives a long, sorry sigh.
“I’m not the lawman, and even if I were, it would be hard to get people interested in talkin’ if they knew somethin’ about it. She’s Indian, pure and simple, and folks don’t think our laws apply to them. It doesn’t help that memories here are fresh of the wars and many think of natives as shirkin’ the law anyway. It’s a huge mess, is what it all is.”
“We don’t have a sheriff here, do we?”
“No. Old Henry Brinkley is as close as it comes, short of bringin’ in someone from Fort Randall or Yankton. We prefer not to have that. So many are barely above the law as is. Usually anyone callin’ himself a deputy or sheriff is mainly a hooligan lookin’ for a payout.”
I grow hot with anger. “So, nothing will be done?”
He shrugs and looks into his coffee. “I’d like to see somethin’. I’ll be makin’ general inquiries when I can, but I know my place here isn’t quite so revered as all that, and you know it too. There’s enough of the town still skeptical of me, and of doctorin’ in general, so I can only ask carefully. Unless someone outright admits or brags of it in a moment of drunken pride, I doubt we will ever really know who did it. If old Davies were alive, there’d have been hell to pay. If Kitty wanted justice, some would probably listen.”
“Then she must! For her mother’s sake! You ought to talk to her about this. You’re her beau.” The word trips from my mouth and hangs between us. We have not discussed their relationship since the evening I forced the issue, even though it is obvious what has happened.
He gives a bemused smile as he looks down at me. “Speakin’ of beaus, I noticed you walk home alone when you go by the general.”
He’s trying to be lighthearted, to deflect attention from his personal life, and I suppose he is in the right. As my employer, he does not need to answer to me about Kate. I gulp down the rest of the coffee, nearly scalding my throat.
“Yes. I—that is to say, Bern and I decided it was not necessary to continue on.”
He seems genuinely surprised, and a strange look passes across his brow.
“Why? Are you not interested in settlin’ down? You’re young yet, and could still even have children. I have made sure of that as best I can.”
“I know, and I thank you for it,” I say. “But no, I do not wish . . . I’ve been married once before, and it was not easy. Henry and I had a decent marriage, but I could not tie myself down again simply to marry. I’d prefer a love match, though I think I might be too old.”
“You never know,” he reminds me. “Think of old Walter Salomon and his elderly bride, Berit. It might happen to you again.”
“Well, unlikely,” I say flatly, unable to look at him, swallowing the bit of boiling, suffocating nausea lifting in my lungs when I think how true the statement is. “Anyway, I knew Bern was not the man I wanted. For all that it would have been easy enough to wed him, I didn’t think it right to do so.”
“This is true. You’re not one for takin’ the easy way. I remember.”
“Should I have allowed him to court me, knowing I do not love him?” I ask, feeling as though I can ask him such questions, considering how deeply he knows my story. “Why should I? I want a good marriage, whatever that is.”
“I can understand that,” he agrees, though I do not think he truly could, given how long he’s been a bachelor. He finishes his coffee before insisting on helping pull up more water. He does against my protestations that my strength is returning easily, then leaves for his rounds. There’s a sharp sound from around the elderberry hedge. I glance up to see the quivering straw hat of Mrs. Emma Molhurst bouncing behind it. Has she been eavesdropping? I find I don’t care a bit.
She disappears inside her own house soon after the doctor departs, though, and I stand in the quiet for a minute before bending back to the washboard. A winking in the sun reminds me of my wedding band. It is still on the garden rock. I bend to pick it up, inspecting it. It seems a shame to give it up, for it is a stout piece of jewelry and could be pawned if I ever fell into penury. Why do I wear it? It seems frivolous now, and there is no point in it. Henry’s time in my life is over. Putting it in my pocket, I turn back to my chores.
Chapter 26
1 October 1881
Widow Hawks comes back soot-stained and weary. In her hands is a small wood box streaked black, one corner so charred it breaks away as she opens it.
“My wedding band, a hawk’s feather, and the pearl buttons from the first pair—only pair—of gloves I ever owned,” she says softly. “I would have taken the photo of Percy over any of this.”
The box sits on the table between us at the doctor’s house, forlorn, half empty, a strange collection of sentimental items that survived the flames by chance. It had been buried under the iron stove, which is blackened and choked, the tin piping twisted beyond use, but it is the only thing still standing. She is as emotional as I have ever seen her, more affected by her loss now than while it was happening in front of us.
“What will
you do now?”
She sighs and sits, leaving the box open, and picks up the feather. “I know my daughter would have me go to the reservation, west of here. Or perhaps even further west. I don’t know how far my family made it before they settled for the season.” She pauses, and then looks at me serenely. “I think I will stay here for a time, and help you and the doctor.”
I look down at the well-worn grooves of the planks. I know the creases that collect the most dirt, the drafts around the doors, which stairs squeak particularly loud. I know where the mice like to hide, and I’m very fast at killing them now. I know where the doctor keeps all his files, and how to find a case at the moment it is needed for reflection. And I even know most of the patients personally. Everything in this house is mine. No! Not really mine. I cannot offer her the sanctuary she requests. It is for the doctor to decide.
But I will not stay. Even now, Doctor Kinney does not come home for supper, choosing instead to dine with Kate. Why should I stay and watch this unfold? Why should I wait for their wedding? He’s known her for as long as he’s known Widow Hawks. Why shouldn’t he wed her? Men and women have married with less in common, and less history. He may not agree with Kate all the time, but a quarrel does not always end a romance.
And what will become of me when he marries? He will not need a housekeeper. He will have a wife.
Widow Hawks is watching me. I wonder how much conflict shows on my face. Slowly she reaches across the boards and grasps my fingers.
“I do not mind the loss of my house, Jane. Do not weep for me. The memories most dear are still in my mind, and that is all that matters.”
“That is a lovely thing to say.”
I turn to the stove to make us a light supper, mostly of squash from the garden. We eat in silence. My appetite is still diminished, and for the first time, she notices acutely.
“What troubles you? Do you not feel well?”
I choke down another bite of the simple meal, and then put my fork down. I push my fingers into my eyes, willing them to keep from crying, but it is no use. I am much too passionate. My miscarriage seems to have let loose torrents of feeling, and I do not have the language to explain it most times. I deserve little happiness for the choices I’ve made, and certainly don’t deserve what my heart desires.
“Jane!” She stands and comes around to the bench where I sit, and her hands cover mine, pulling them away from my face so that I must look at her. “What is it?”
I sigh inwardly, then realize the truth is better than anything else I can say. This, at least, I have learned well.
“I will be leaving you, and I will miss you.”
“What?” Her shock is genuine, perhaps even more so than when her house was on fire. “When will you go?”
“As soon as my aunt writes of a situation that will suffice. I expect her letter in a few weeks, I hope, and then I will take the next train out.”
“But why?”
I give her a small smile. “It is as you said. I suit the doctor and I should love him.”
Her eyes immediately grow warm, but she seems to innately understand my dilemma. As a mother would, she draws me near, embracing me lightly, whispering to my hair in her own language, and the undulation of the strange words rolls over me: “Owákaȟniǧe ye. I understand. Wana wačeye’ye. I am crying now. Owákaȟniǧe ye.”
I try not to weep on her, because she has lost so much herself, but I cannot help it. My tears turn to sobs, and I cry for the future I have lost, the chances I wasted, and the words I’ll never be able to say. Even with her arms around me, I feel empty and alone, as if crying forever would not make things right for either of us.
Chapter 27
2 November 1881
The sunset is golden today, and the weather unseasonably warm. The long grasses of the prairie are gold as well, and soft pale ivory, and brushed red. The colors are vibrant here too, in the tiny cemetery at the northern edge of Flats Junction. Grasses grow thick along every small stone and marker, except the clay-and-sand filled mound, freshly finished for my little son.
Wandering through the cemetery, I stare at the words stamped into the copper crosses, already turning green along the edges. It is the family section where Marie the tinsmith loitered after my son’s funeral. Some grave markers are placed so close together I cannot see how so many bodies could fit in the earth below. Tomasz Kotlarczyk. Ludwik Kotlarczyk. Further away I read another last name: Monika Salomon. Several others. And the two stillborns she’d mentioned, unnamed but marked as well.
I’ve yet to make it to Marie’s for tea. I’m too nervous. And now I’ll never go.
I move to kneel next to the small cross of my son, and I absently pull young renegade weeds from his grave. No one will think to come here when I leave, and he will turn to dust without prayers over him. There is some comfort that his bones will not be lonely, as I have been, and at least he rests near a Kinney. The small stone next to his marker is young and fresh, placed in recent months. It reads: Brónach Caera Kinney. Beloved Sister, Aunt & Wife. 1822—1880.
I look back at the smaller grave.
“My boy,” I whisper. The wind catches my voice and pulls it away from me. “I’m sorry I never was able to hold you, and that you left my body early, so you could not even breathe one puff of air. You might have loved it here.”
Would he have grown to look like Theodore, with his brown hair and solid jaw? Would he have taken after my father, with his broad chest and stomach? I cannot imagine any of these visions.
Would I have loved him enough, for all he was unplanned?
I brush the dirt in swirls with a finger, and feel tears pressing against my eyes, but thankfully they do not fall. I’m quiet for a while. I hear a dog bark in the town and a wagon creaks by. But no one hails me. Perhaps it is an unwritten courtesy that one does not call out to someone mourning at a grave. Maybe the bulk of St. Aloysius blocks me from most eyes.
The wind slows, and in the silence of the grasses, I say, “And I will remember you, my little one, though I never met you, and though I know I could not have given you everything you deserved. Your father and I—well . . . I’m sorry. I must leave you. Please forgive me.”
“Where are you goin’?”
I nearly jump out of my skin with surprise. The graveyard, even in daylight, is a bit disconcerting.
It is the doctor, probably on his way to Kate’s for supper, as it’s about that time. He stands nearby, arms crossed, his broad mouth trembling with words, and the light shines into his face so his eyes are blue and pure. I do not have the energy to rise and tell him my news. The letter just arrived today. I’ve been stopping at the post office each day, hoping for news, unable to bear the heaviness in my chest each night the doctor dines with Kate. Douglas Ofsberger gave me an appraising look each time I asked, as if I was awaiting some scandalous news. Nancy would speculate, but she’s guessed wrongly. News from home is simply news from home, I’d told her.
There is always a train heading east on Fridays at five in the morning. It feels hasty and too fast, but I’d written to my aunt that I would head straight out once receiving her letter. I wish to do something right for once. It is proper of me to keep such a promise.
“My Aunt Mary has found me work,” I finally answer the doctor. “I’ll need to leave on Friday to make sure I have time to set up a cottage before I start cooking for one of the great houses in Gloucester.”
He drops his arms, gaping at me.
“And why would your Aunt Mary write you about a job when you’ve got a good one here?” He is indignant in his surprise. He is nearly angry, given the way his arms uncross and re-cross, but it seems he’s more shocked than upset right now. I sigh, clear my dress, and slowly stand, careful so that I am not too dizzy when I do.
“Because I need to have a purpose, Doctor Kinney. And once you decide to stop courting Kate and marry her instead, I won’t have a thing to do here. There will be no reason to stay. I need to make my own life.”
“I do.”
“Then . . . why? How will I manage the patients? I’ve grown used to havin’ you about for the smaller tasks. Keepin’ my papers and the like.”
“I’m easy to replace. I think you might find an avid helper in Widow Hawks. She is capable. She helped you save my life. She has nowhere to live. It works out right . . . proper.” The ill-put English slang slips out as I try to fend off my unease. This is not how I had planned to tell the doctor of my departure.
“If you are doin’ this because you don’t wish to impose on my charity, I have no issue with you both stayin’ on with me.”
“Doctor Kinney.” I shake my head at him. “You know that it’s an impractical arrangement, and eventually the town won’t like it. You’ve enough against you already. And you know it will not work once you are married.”
He gives me a hard look. “You seem so sure I’ll marry.”
“Won’t you?”
I brush past him, heading back to his house, irritated I have nowhere to retreat from the argument. He follows me to East Avenue, though Kate’s store is in the opposite direction.
“So where will you go?” he asks, badgering me, and obviously frustrated.
“My aunt has found me a cottage to let in Gloucester. I’ll be on the seashore again.” The idea gives me some small hope. Surely, only good can come of living by the ocean once more. It will be homey and I will be able to start over with the introductions Aunt Mary has found. I might forget the doctor, and find a beau.