Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

  “And how is Anne?” I return the question.

  Mother sighs, but not unhappily. “She is busy, of course. I’m sure she would love to see you sometime, now that you’re back in the States.”

  “Perhaps at Christmas,” I reason, hoping to delay the visit. My sister and I were never very close, which was exacerbated when she married James. To this day, I am not sure if she really knew I had cared for him. That I had hoped, once, to be Mrs. Miller. I do believe, now that time has passed and I am older and widowed, that she and James truly care for one another. It was a better match.

  And then there is the other reality. Anne and I view life very differently, and I’m vastly fortunate Mother has always seemed to understand and nurture her daughters accordingly. She is the type of mother I hope to be, should I ever have children. Tolerant. Perhaps that is why I am tolerant of others, too.

  My thoughts are on children and family, so I offer up a tidbit of gossip on my own life.

  “I have a beau, now.”

  My mother’s cup comes down with alarming speed, though she has the presence of mind to set it on the china saucer with care. Her eyes widen.

  “You do. For how long?”

  I think back. “He began to court me in the later spring. It is very proper, and Aunt Mary is a good chaperone.”

  My mother sits forward. She is not overly eager for details, but wishes to know as much as I offer, and I find myself staggering to say more, now that I have let out the secret.

  “Is he well off?”

  “He is a merchant,” I explain slowly, choosing how to describe Andrew. If I were to talk about Doctor Kinney, I might be able to paint a vibrant picture of broad brogue, generosity, and kind manners, but truthfully, I know so little about Andrew. Our stilted, careful, public conversations are usually overheard by several people, and I have only known him in the privacy of Aunt Mary’s parlor for a handful of hours over the weeks.

  “He is a dairyman,” I elaborate.

  “Ah.”

  I know it is not so prestigious as a lawyer or a businessman. Mother might not even tell Father unless my courtship becomes more serious in nature. He will frown a bit at my marrying a dairyman and becoming a farmer’s wife, but he cannot stop me at this point in life.

  “He is kind,” I reason. “And he has been widowed, like me. And it would be the type of active life I like.”

  “That is true. My Janie, who never does the expected or easy way of it,” she says gently. Her tone carries both an acceptance of my nature, and a soft wish that I was a bit more complacent with my lot, instead of seeking some sort of unique situation. But she does love me, and does support me, and of this I am grateful. If there is something good from leaving the Dakotas, it is that I am nearer to her. No matter where I am, I have a mother to whom I can speak. That is a comfort in itself.

  Chapter 36

  16 October 1882

  I wave goodbye to Andrew as he leaves my aunt’s home. He gives me a little smile, lighting up his green eyes, more brilliant because of the cloudy day.

  Summer in Gloucester has been busy. Now it is fall, and I finally feel that I have found some peace. October storms roll in often. The sea is churning, the waves are soothing, and I have a little romance with the dairyman’s son.

  I like him. His children are sweet, his parents welcoming. Aunt Mary is beside herself, hoping for a wedding to plan with her friends. We have courted nearly a full six months and he is, as my friend Rose once said, a dear soul. We do not touch, and we are quite proper as is expected. I miss the easy, tactile way I had with Doctor Kinney, but that was something altogether different. I shouldn’t compare.

  Andrew rounds the corner as the wind picks up, and then disappears up the hill. The sky fills with clouds and darkens to a pale purple and grey. I think I will go walk the stretch of beach in front of my little cottage, as I like to do before the rain hits. I love the smell of the sea when it is cleansed with new water from the rains, as if the beach itself is washed. It is a pure, salty scent, free of fish and grit.

  “All is well?” Aunt Mary gives me a hopeful grin as I go into her kitchen, where she knits for the ladies’ group at church.

  “As always.” I bend down and give her skinny shoulders a little hug. She absently pats my hand.

  “When do you suppose you might fix to marry that nice man?”

  I sigh. She asks the question at least twice a week. It is her age that makes her eager, too, as I know she’d like to have a wee one to hold before time takes her away.

  “I don’t know. That is to say, we’ve discussed what I’d do, how I might leave the Chester house and work at the Angus family farm. I wouldn’t mind the work. It sounds rewarding. But he hasn’t asked me, anyway.”

  “Well, he’s asked me.”

  My heart stops. “He has? When?”

  “After church, two weeks ago.”

  “Well, why so long ago?”

  She arches her eyebrow at me. “So eager for him to ask? Because he’s still not certain you’d say yes, Janie.”

  I inhale. She’s right. I don’t know what answer I’d give Andrew. I like to think I would be grateful for another chance at happiness, even if it is a quiet marriage. I might grow to be very fond of him, even though I do not ache for his touch, or feel overwhelmed with his nearness.

  Never mind. I will reach the moment of truth soon enough when he asks me to share a future with him, however long or short it might be. He would be a gentle husband, likely more sensitive than Henry had been.

  “My dear, it’s time you let go of whoever you are pining away for.” Aunt Mary’s words pull me away from reflection.

  I give her a careful look. “I have not ever said I pined for anyone.”

  She chuckles and puts down the knitting needles. “You don’t have to. I’ve seen a lot in my time, and it’s always apparent when someone is worrying over someone else. Besides, there’s no other reason for you to hesitate over Andrew Angus. Someone from out West, then?”

  “Well, no matter. Mr. Angus might ask me next week,” I say, and then bend to kiss her dry cheek before heading home.

  Rose is married now, and Jean is in the throes of her own wedding planning to young Clark. I have a good rhythm to my weeks: teaching, cooking, courting. And I am near the ocean. There is little for me to want. This is a peaceful, fulfilling life. If I put the words in my head often enough, surely I will start to believe them.

  Aunt Mary wants me to stop pining away. In the quiet of the cottage, I sigh. I do not dwell anymore on the fact that I haven’t heard from Doctor Kinney. Widow Hawks writes in her halting letters about town life, and I receive the gossip from Alice Brinkley. My friends in the Territory do not yet know of my beau, as I have only just admitted to it on paper, and it takes a week or two for the mail to reach the West. Soon I will be able to write my own happy tidings, should I accept Andrew.

  I should stop pining. I know this.

  Glancing up at the mantle, I gaze at the little glass bottle, long empty and kept only for my own silly sentiment. Pulling it down, I run my nail along the handwritten note. A groove bites the paper where I often have caressed the words, as if willing any emotion to leak out of them and into me.

  Slipping my finger pad over his signature, something bear-like and black crushes my breath. Enough. Enough! The power swells through my arm and shimmies down my elbow, bleeding into my hand until the bottle flies out of my palm to smash against the edge of the hearth. The crinkle of glass shards is so loud in my tiny, lonely house that I wince, and the tears of surrender gurgle in my stomach. Weeping, I fall to my knees, heedless of the glass, and pick up the label. It is still whole, but that seems wrong. It shouldn’t be whole.

  I grasp the top to split it down the middle in one, long, agonizing pull.

  It is much like ripping open a seam. Or peeling off an old skin. Or tearing out one’s heart.

  The second tear is easier, and then the third. By the fourth, I cannot find enough room for my
fingers, and the paper falls like white ash to the floor, scattering about the broken bottle. The ink against the white paper still peeks at me, mocking me.

  Enough.

  The beach is a solace today, so I go to walk it with a ponderous stride. Sand finds its way into the black shoes. The boots I used in the Dakotas sit forlorn and unused next to the split saddle skirt in my closet. It is too soon to part with those relics, but I suspect I will dispose of them when I permanently plant my roots in Gloucester. After nearly a year back in Massachusetts, once again I am used to the grittiness of sand, of the heavy air, and the salt that seems to sit in my hair. There is mud instead of dust, and the oldness and stone of the buildings are so different from the newer planked wood of the houses out West. Everything here is sharp angles and soft fog at all times, a strange mix of elements I find both familiar and tiring.

  The wind is strong, almost horizontal, and the clouds streak purple and blue and grey across the sky, skittering over the black water and white-capped waves crashing onto the beach. I stop walking and hug the shawl over my shoulders, my hair whipping around my head. I do not need to wear bonnets against the dust here. Some Sundays, I keep my braids loose and soft when I see Andrew, so he can notice the dark luster of my locks against the pale, muted colors I wear. It’s my way of flirting, I suppose.

  I think on him. I do not desire him, but there is a stirring of romance when I remember his kind ways and gentle heart. If I think about Doctor Kinney too much, I will feel all the weight of my sadness, so I focus instead on my real possibilities.

  I could marry, and move to the Angus farm, and help a new family with their way of life. I needn’t stay in service all my days, and perhaps Andrew and I might have children. The thought of lying in bed next to him does not thrill me. I do not hold any lust for him, but I have had a marriage bed like that before, where passion is put aside for expected convenience. It’s nothing new. It’s not what I’d hoped for, but it holds some merit against the solitude. I see that, now. I’d been so sure I would never marry for anything but love. I was too proud of my newly minted widowhood.

  Of course, I could always rebuff Andrew if he does ask for my hand. I have earned the right to stay single forever. But then I will always be lonely. With Andrew, I won’t be alone.

  Yes, I will marry him. The decision is made slowly, but decisively. The mind can wander without actually thinking while the pound of the waves lulls, and then a final choice can be picked up without the brain being too crowded with thoughts. The same small seed of wonder unfurls again within me: I might find some happiness yet with another.

  There is a pale, pink calico at the mercantile. It reminds me of the pattern and color I saw at Kate’s a year ago, and I decide I will buy it and make it up for my wedding dress. We can marry in the spring when things are new and fresh, and I will move forward with as good a resolution for my life as ever.

  As I walk carefully, balancing around the wind and my skirts, I see the gait of the passerby on the road along the beach, and I pause.

  Is it Andrew, coming to find me after our Sunday sit in, unable to wait to ask for my hand? My throat goes dry and scratchy. It is time to accept my future. I don’t want to. God knows, I don’t wish for it. I shouldn’t. I cannot. I will not.

  I say such things to myself while knowing, deep in my spirit, that I will accept him. When Andrew asks, I will tell him yes, no matter what I want.

  There must be some hope, and I will hope to learn to love him. It is hope, or smashing everything I own before going into a madhouse.

  The dark clothes are unfamiliar in the dim light. At first, I think I have misjudged.

  But no.

  It is Doctor Kinney himself walking down the dunes toward me. His stride is single-minded and quick. This is not possible. Perhaps I am still harboring my old fantasy. Surely, I would have had word that he was on his way.

  As my steps halt, I wait, and when he is at arm’s length, I look at him intently. All I think to do is reach out. My arms loop about his neck, and suddenly his are holding me, too, so tightly that I am lifted off my feet. There is the smell of him: his medicines, the carbolic acid, and old dust cling to his suit, and I bury my face into his shoulder.

  “Janie!” His voice sounds smaller than I remember in my daydreams, or because the wind captures it, and throws it against the roar of the surf. I refuse, at first, to even speak, in case doing so will break the spell. I fear that I will find I am not in this embrace, and am alone near my little cottage, bearing the ache of an unrequited love.

  “Doctor Kinney. Is it you?” I wonder, still holding to him tightly. His arms are strong, but he sets me down, so I need to release him or risk looking clingy and improper. The space between us yawns open.

  “It’s me,” he says happily, as if no time at all has passed, as if it has not been a year since I’ve last spoken to him or touched him. “But as I am no longer your employer, you could call me Patrick.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m pickin’ up medicines in Boston over the week and attendin’ a short lecture at Cambridge on new laboratory tests. It is close enough to Gloucester.”

  My heart might fly out of my chest. But before I say more, the rain arrives in sharp pellets, driving with the wind. We race up the beach to my cottage in a rather undignified manner, and we get in just before the big droplets begin in earnest. It is a hearty, late afternoon storm, so I put the heavy iron kettle on the stove and light the lamps. The rain is loud and comforting against the window, and Doctor Kinney goes to the glass to watch.

  He gives a low whistle. “Now that’s a view worth leavin’ Flats Junction for! Look at those waves! It’s been a long time since I’ve been here on these beaches, and I’ve never seen it storm.”

  I am speechless. It is as if I have suddenly entered my own daydreams. I’m overwhelmed, desperately wishing he might confess an affection for me, or that he will say something wildly romantic. Am I foolish to hope so? Likely. But I am hardly able to fathom his appearance. He fills my rooms, and I am utterly aware of his nearness. I can smell the same medicinal scent on his clothes, and I notice the way his hair waves back. I want to touch him again, though there is no excuse I can make to do so. The silence fills the kitchen, but it is as comfortable as always. Finally, I find my voice.

  “Have you already been to Boston?”

  “No.” He turns from the window to me. “First I thought I might see you. And then, yes, tomorrow I’ll head into the city and take in the lectures and get the medicines.”

  “So, you’re only here for today?” I am moved he goes so far out of his way to see me, but I tell myself not to expect it means much more than friendship. “I am so glad you came.”

  His eyes are warm, a clear blue, and his face looks the same as I remember. He gazes down at me, so near I could simply reach out and run my hand along his shoulder. Time has done nothing to cool how I feel when I am close to him. It is undeniable.

  “I had to come, Jane.”

  “You did?” The kettle whistles, and I turn from him to take it off the stove. “You are lucky to find me here.”

  “You’re leavin’ again?” There is surprise in his voice, and I find I cannot face him while I admit my future plans.

  “No, I’ll stay in Gloucester. But Aunt Mary just informed me that the man who has been courting me has officially asked permission for my hand.”

  “Mrs. Weber!” He is immediately at my side, turning me to look up at him, his urgency unexplainable at first. “Jane. You haven’t said yes?”

  “Andrew hasn’t asked me yet, so no, I have not given an answer.”

  “Well, you’ll have to tell him no,” he determines, his tone final. “You’re comin’ back with me as soon as you can resettle things here.”

  I laugh a little at him. “You think it’s so easy? I’ve built a life. I’m not thinking of leaving it.”

  He sighs and looks back out at the window.


  “Esther said you might need convincin’, but I didn’t think it might come to this, that you might be marryin’, and so soon.”

  “Widow Hawks spoke to you of me?”

  “Oh aye. We read your letters together over supper. Or that is, we did.” His forehead creases. “She’s gone off, you see. To the reservation to find her mother. She said it did not matter how I think of her as my own family. She’s decided her place now is with her people as her daughter won’t have her at all and you left her, too. Kate won’t even speak to her own mother, and . . .”

  “Then who received my last letter?” I ask, already knowing the answer. I wrote of my courtship with Andrew most recently. Doctor Kinney admits to it without preamble or excuse.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. You said I might get news of you through Esther’s letters.”

  “You certainly did.”

  “You’re not upset about that, are you?”

  I could not be truly angry with him if I had wanted to be.

  “No, Patrick. I’m not.” His name falls out of my mouth with effort, and it is a bit foreign to say it. I look over his dear, familiar face and recognize the fatigue lines there. “But the tea will keep. I can reheat it again. You ought to take a rest from your journey. Will the sofa suffice?”

  His eyes travel over my simple cushions. “You know me too well. Will you wake me in time to get to the inn for supper?”

  “I’ll wake you for supper, but you’ll eat with me. I want to hear all the news from Flats Junction.”

  “You’ll make me one of your meals?” He takes a seat and stretches out with a groan. “I hadn’t hoped I’d be so fortunate.”

  “I’m glad my cooking still pleases you.”

  “It never didn’t.”

  I plump a pillow and hand it to him, and he stuffs it behind his head, staring up at me. There is a change in his face, as if he sees something he did not notice before.