Bess waited until the flopping stopped, then took the chicken to the front door where she laid it down and went inside to get the pot of hot water. When the water started to boil, she carefully took the pot outside, grabbed the chicken by the legs, and dunked it into the hot water. Mama had shown Bess how to do this as a child and it made plucking the chicken much easier, particularly when removing the pin feathers.
She laid the chicken on a burlap mat and waited for the feathers to cool a bit, then sat down and plucked the chicken clean of its feathers. When she was finished, Bess took the plucked chicken into the house where Martha had finished peeling and slicing up the potatoes. Mama had taught Bess how to clean the chicken—cutting it up into the various pieces, drumsticks, thighs, cutting the breast into two pieces, the wishbone, and carefully cleaning the gizzard. What remained was the chicken’s back and what Papa called the “piece that goes over the fence last.” He always said that was his favorite piece, but Bess really knew he was letting Mama and her have their own favorites.
Martha watched attentively as Bess methodically cut up the chicken into frying-sized pieces. After Bess had seasoned the pieces with Mama’s spices-and-flour mixture, she placed them in the frying pan.
Martha had salted and peppered the slices of potatoes and put them in the other frying pan on the stove. They stood together at the stove, each tending to her cooking. “This gets my mind off it,” Bess said. “I suppose the only thing I can do is just keep busy.”
“That’s what I found,” Martha said as she put her hand on Bess’s shoulder. “Keep busy and put your mind on other things.”
When they finished cooking, they set the table and enjoyed their meal mostly in silence. Bess was lost in her thoughts about the tragic loss of Linda. The fried chicken tasted just like Mama used to make, and Martha had seasoned her potatoes just right with lots of pepper.
When they finished eating, they washed the dishes and decided to take another short walk down toward the lower pasture behind the shed. The clear sky and millions of sparkling stars complemented the beautiful Milky Way that stretched clear across the heavens. “Papa told me that the Milky Way was named by the Romans,” Bess said. “It’s beautiful.”
“I always like to go outside on a dark night and look at the stars,” Martha said. “Somehow it gives me hope. It’s almost like looking into heaven.”
Bess nodded and took Martha’s hand. “It is,” she said. “Do you think there’s a heaven?” Holding Martha’s hand made her feel comfortable. And safe.
“I hope so,” Martha said.
Together they walked back to the shed to feed the horses. When they went over to the pile of hay near the far wall, they heard a distinctive “hiss” coming from the side of the pile nearest the wall. “That’s Hiss,” Bess laughed. “As I said before, he’s harmless.”
Martha stepped back from the pile of hay and wrinkled her nose.
“Almost a pet now,” Bess said. She thought about the upcoming winter and what would happen to Hiss. Most likely he would get deep under the hay and sleep. At least that was what she hoped he would do. She enjoyed having him around.
After feeding the horses, they went back into the house to get ready for bed. “I didn’t have time to make a pie,” Martha said, but Bess was lost in thought again and barely acknowledged her.
“Bess,” Martha said, “you never get over the loss of a friend or a child. Instead, you just have to learn how to live with the loss.”
Bess wiped the tears from her eyes. “I suppose so,” she said, “but it’s so difficult.” She broke down in tears and fell into Martha’s arms. She had been so happy about the future, but now it seemed she was truly alone. They sat together in silence.
Chapter Eighteen
Bess and Martha spent three days talking about the past and their hopes for the future. From time to time, Bess would cry as she thought about Linda. There must be some end to this, thought Bess. Happiness is somewhere. But where to find it? Thank heaven Martha is here with me. It would be awful to be completely alone.
Martha didn’t talk much about what Don had done to her, but she spoke fondly of him and their times together before the loss of their child. Don rarely drank before the loss of their child, and his abuse seemed to be a result of that tragedy. From time to time Martha would sit in silence, sadness written across her face.
“Don has always been kind to me,” said Martha. “I suppose that he’s also worried about the homestead.”
“How so?” asked Bess.
“Our claim—our land is very poor,” she said. “We’re not close to a watering hole and the water we get from the well that Don dug for us was bad. Alkaline. Don wanted to farm. Raise wheat crops—sell the grain, you know. But the soil’s not good over there. Maybe good for cattle and sheep, but not for farming.”
It sounded to Bess that their homesteading experience had been quite rough, and Bess thanked her lucky stars that her own experience had gone smoothly thus far. At least the homesteading part, she thought. Having a companion for the past few days has been a godsend for me. I don’t know what I would have done had she not been here. So comforting. Takes my mind off Linda.
During the nights, Bess and Martha slept close together, just being close to each other for comfort. Bess was beginning to feel very comfortable with Martha.
Bess and Martha had spent Wednesday morning cleaning the shed and Martha was beginning to like Hiss even though she hated snakes. They had moved some of the hay from the stack that Ken Fisher had built into the shed, being as careful as possible to not disturb Hiss, who was coiled up on the side on a small pile of hay near the far wall, frequently making his presence known.
When they had finished, they went into the house and had an early afternoon dinner of vegetables and scrambled eggs. Afterward, Martha made some tea while Bess sat down to rest. When she least expected it, she would feel pangs of pain as she thought about Linda. She was trying to learn how to live with it. Living with the loss. It will take time, she thought. Lots of it.
As Martha sat down at the small table to enjoy her tea, Bess heard a slight sound coming from outside the house as though someone were riding up on horseback. She rose from the table and went to the front window where she saw a man dismounting from his horse. “Someone’s coming,” Bess said. “Don’t know who.”
Bess walked back to the table when she and Martha heard a soft knock on the door. Martha remained sitting and Bess went to the door. When she opened it, she immediately recognized Don Homelvig standing before her. He was neatly dressed, clean-shaven, and had removed his hat and was holding it in his hands. “Miss Parker?” he said. He looked at Bess, and then looked down.
Bess was startled, more surprised than afraid. “Mr. Homelvig,” she said loud enough that Martha could hear.
Don and Bess looked at one another for a moment before Don replied pleasantly, “Yes. Lookin’ for Martha.” He had a look of concern on his face and didn’t appear to be angry.
Bess hesitated for a moment. What is happening? Is Martha in any danger?
“Who is it?” she heard Martha say as she got up from the table.
“Just a minute,” Bess said. She turned and looked at Martha, who had walked up to the door. Bess stepped aside.
“Don,” Martha said. “Where’ve you been?”
“Scranton,” he said. “Doin’ some thinking. I’m sorry, honey.”
Martha looked at him sternly. “You should have told me you were leaving.”
Don fidgeted with his hat in his hands and said, “I’m so sorry. Won’t happen again. We need to talk.”
Bess had overheard the conversation and stood in silence, watching carefully—not knowing what to say. Or whether she should say anything at all.
“Just a minute,” Martha said. She walked away from the door and put on her coat. “Don wants to talk,” she said, looking at Bess with concern. Then she walked back out the door and shut it slowly.
Bess walked over to where she could
see out the front window, trying hard not to be seen. She felt somewhat concerned for Martha, but Don seemed pleasant, even contrite. They walked down by the well in front of the house about thirty yards away where Bess could see that they were engaged in what appeared to be a friendly conversation. They stood near the well for about ten minutes, and then Don put his arms around her and they kissed. They stood together and talked some more, not appearing to be arguing. Each was smiling as they spoke.
Bess immediately had feelings of relief. Happiness for Martha. Then she felt a pang of sadness. It was a strange combination of feelings. Happiness for Martha—maybe a fear that she might suffer a second loss. And so soon!
Martha and Don must have talked for at least fifteen minutes before they walked into Bess’s house. Martha was smiling and Don appeared to be happy. “Bess,” Martha said, “I’m going to go back to our place with Don.”
She seemed quite formal, Bess thought, most likely for Don’s sake and to give the impression of appropriate distance in her friendship with Bess. “That’s wonderful,” Bess forced herself to say.
Don said nothing as Martha gathered her things and quickly put them in the small bag she had brought with her. “Bess,” she said. “I really want to thank you for your hospitality. It has been wonderful visiting with you.” She reached out and shook Bess’s hand.
Don walked over to Bess and extended his hand. “Thank you, Miss Parker, for caring for Martha. She means so much to me.”
Bess shook Don’s hand, returned his smile, and said, “It was my pleasure, Mr. Homelvig. She’s a good friend.” It seemed a little awkward knowing how close she and Martha had been over the past few days and how formal things were now. Understandable, though, she thought.
Bess donned her coat and went out to the shed with Martha and Don to help saddle Martha’s horse. Apparently, Hiss was asleep or probably under the hay because she didn’t hear a sound. After saddling Martha’s horse, they all went out in front of Bess’s house where Don turned to Bess and said, “Thank you again, Miss Parker. You’ve been very helpful.” They shook hands and Martha gave Bess a rather stiff hug.
“Thank you, Bess,” Martha said. “See you in church on Sunday?” She was smiling and seemingly happy, not afraid as Bess thought she might be.
“I’ll be there,” Bess replied, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to go.
Bess watched them ride slowly down the hill toward Haley. Then she looked toward the west and thought about Linda and the horrible tragedy. A feeling of grief swept over her. Over the past few days she’d had someone to talk to. Someone who cared. Someone whom she cared for. She had coped well with the tragedy—the dashed expectations, the love lost—and had developed an almost intense fondness for Martha.
Now she, too, was gone.
Tears came to her eyes.
Bess went back into her house and shut the door.
Alone.
Chapter Nineteen
The next two weeks seemed surreal to Bess. She was still mourning Linda’s tragic death and their future that she would never know. Martha’s abuse and her need for comfort and safety had been a distraction from the cold, icy grip that the grief of Linda’s loss held her in. But when Don came and took Martha home, Bess was left alone to mourn the loss of many things.
Since she and Linda had spent together in Dickinson, Bess had many fantasies about what their future together might be. She had never felt love before—at least she thought what she felt toward Linda was actually love, and that feeling was wonderful. Her favorite fantasy was Linda living with her in Haley--homesteading together. More realistically, she thought that at least they could be the best of friends, even lovers.
With Martha, however, there were different feelings bubbling under the surface. Of course Bess was attracted to her, and she enjoyed their intimacy, but it was something else, almost as if she were the caretaker, in a way--and Bess liked taking care of things. Just like Linda brought Bess out of her shell, Bess brought Martha out of her shell, and it felt good to be the one to nourish that desire.
When Martha was staying with her, Bess even thought, and hoped, that perhaps Martha would stay with her for an extended period of time and that Don would never come back. Martha had certainly helped to ease the pain of the grief Bess felt because of the loss of Linda. It’s confusing, she thought.
With Martha’s departure, however, the feelings of grief began to sweep over Bess again. Her belly was tied up in a sailor’s knot and she wondered why she sometimes had tears in her eyes but she couldn’t cry. Mama told her that she could count on one hand the number of times she had seen Bess cry. She said that Bess didn’t cry even when she’d burned her hand on the stove when she was three years old. I always thought that if you are tough, you don’t cry, thought Bess. And I’m tough.
At the news of Linda’s death, Bess cried. She felt like crying now but didn’t know how to do it. Being alone and having to cope with the death of a friend was not in Bess’s plan for the homestead. Her plan was to homestead and to succeed. She took a deep breath and thought with steely determination, I’m going to do just that, with or without Martha. Or Linda.
Keeping busy is the key, Bess thought. Feeding the chickens, sheep, and Annabel was difficult in the sense that she had to force herself to get up and think about something else. Just do it, she thought. She didn’t have anyone to talk to, so she talked to Annabel, which seemed to help. She even talked to Hiss, who would occasionally respond with what Bess interpreted to be a nice hiss. Whenever she went outside and moved from one place to another she would feel fine for a moment, but then the grief seemed to chase after her and engulf her again.
On Friday morning, a little more than two weeks after Martha left, Bess sat down and felt the need to write a letter to Linda, telling her exactly how she felt and that she hoped that what she had heard wasn’t true. Somehow writing the letter made Bess feel better, but she was aware of the harsh reality and didn’t mail it. Instead, she put it in an envelope and hid it with some futile hope, she supposed, that she would discover someday that everything was all right. That didn’t make any real sense to her, but it did make her feel better and that was all that counted.
Sunday morning, Bess decided to go to church in Haley with the hope of seeing Martha to assure herself that Martha was safe. It was a cold and rather blustery day, with gusting winds mixed with a cold rain, and despite second thoughts about venturing out into the inclement weather, Bess saddled up Annabel and went into town.
There weren’t many people in the congregation that morning. It’s probably because of the weather, thought Bess. They’re fair-weather churchgoers. The only people Bess knew were the Curries, the Feists, the Lees, the Harlands, and Ken Fisher and his wife. Martha and Don Homelvig were absent. She visited briefly with Mr. Feist and mentioned her plan to build an extension to her shed. Mr. Feist told Bess to come to the lumberyard on Monday to talk about it.
“Ken can do that for you,” he said.
Disappointed that she did not see Martha at the church service, Bess rode back to her homestead. The cold rain had stopped and it was beginning to clear in the west as bright sunshine beamed through the clouds on the distant horizon. As Bess approached her sod house, she was reminded how the color of her house would change in the rain. If it was dry, the color was a light brown with a tint of gray; when it rained, the color turned to a much darker brown, like the freshly plowed soil it was. There was no need to paint anything, except the window frames, which she had painted bright white to contrast with the sod. My house is beautiful, she thought, even though it was constructed mainly of native sod. Someday I’ll build an extension on the house, she thought. But that will be made of wood!
After she put Annabel in the shed, Bess decided to rearrange the vegetables and supplies that were stored in the root cellar and to clean up the entrance. Having easy access to the door of the cellar would be important during the winter, as well as arranging the supplies in a logical manner so she could a
ccess them easily when the bitter cold came.
The root cellar was deep enough and the door was heavy and well insulated to ensure that the temperature would not drop below freezing even on the coldest day. The root cellar generally stayed in a comfortable temperature range, not varying more than twenty or thirty degrees even at extreme hot and cold temperatures (at least she hoped). Papa had told her to build the entrance securely to ensure that the cellar would serve as a cool place to store mainly vegetables and canned goods. Bess hadn’t done any canning during the summer but intended to do so the following year.
Mama had taught Bess how to can vegetables and prepare food such as stews. Mama said that home canning was invented by Napoleon over a century ago, but Bess didn’t know if this was true. The best way to can food was to use Mason jars—glass jars that usually held a quart. There were glass threads on the top of the jar so you could screw on the metal lid and seal it with a rubber ring. Mama expressed the importance of putting the jars into boiling water for at least five minutes before filling them with food and sealing them. It was important to boil the rubber seals and lids too before putting them on the jars. When the food in the jar cooled over time, the lid would become depressed because of a vacuum created in the jar. Before using the food that you canned, you always had to make sure that the top of the lid was still depressed. That meant that the vacuum was still there and there had been no leakage of air into the jar.
“You should never eat anything that is canned if the lid isn’t depressed,” Mama had said. “That way, you know that the food inside hasn’t spoiled.”
After Bess finished arranging and rearranging the vegetables and supplies in the root cellar, she went inside to write a letter to Mama and Papa. She wrote a newsy letter about Haley and some of the people she had met, and what she had been doing to prepare her homestead for the upcoming winter. She thought again about telling them about Linda and Martha, but they wouldn’t understand, and, in fact, would probably not approve of her feelings.
Bess: A Pioneer Woman's Journey of Courage, Grit and Love Page 15