by Forever Wild
Gramps had been a real problem. It had been difficult to get down to Ingles and back every Sunday. He’d arrive back at the lumber camp exhausted and have to put in a full day’s work And once or twice he’d failed to get a ride back to Ordway’s tract and had been docked a day’s pay. At last, though his grandfather had made a bit of a fuss, Nat had worked out an arrangement that provided for Gramps and salved his own conscience as well. One of the lumbermen, Joe Corinth, lived in North Creek. Every Saturday night he left the lumber camp to be with his wife. If Nat saw that he wasn’t going to be able to get away to see Gramps, he’d give Corinth an envelope with some money in it. Corinth would pass it on to Tom, the stationmaster at North Creek, who’d send it on the first train to Crown Point. The stationmaster there would give it to Ed Harold, who had agreed to buy food and firewood for Gramps and take it out to Ingles.
It was complicated, but it worked. Nat still managed to get to Gramps fairly often. When there was no envelope, everyone on the chain went about his business because that meant Nat was making the trip himself.
Nat threw down his pike and wiped the sweat from his forehead. They’d finished loading the logs onto the sled. About fifty or sixty logs, which was about all that the team of horses could manage. Using heavy chains, they fastened the lumber to the sled, twisting a small log through the chain as a binder at the last, to pull up the slack.
The burly drover who was to take this load jammed his knitted cap more tightly to his head and looked around the clearing. “Where the hell’s my road monkey? Where’s Frankie?”
“Take it easy, George,” said Nat quietly. “He’ll be here in a minute. I sent him on an errand.”
“What the hell’d you do that for? You’re not running this show, Stanton. You’re just helping me. Check that goddam chain one more time. And if that kid don’t show up soon, I’m going to beat the tar out of him.”
“Christ! He’s only a kid.”
“He’s doing a man’s job. And pulling down a man’s pay! So he better get here.”
Nat smiled tightly. “You’re a prince, George. You could make a stone squirt lemonade. Here’s your road monkey.” He pointed as Frankie came panting up to the sled and team. “Get your tools, lad.”
Frankie nodded and slung an ax and a shovel over his shoulder. George climbed up to the top of the logs in the front of the sled, grabbing the horse reins that Nat tossed up to him. Nat clambered aboard the stack of lumber and took his position near the fastening chain in the middle. While George maneuvered the sled on its runners—avoiding the deep ruts in the road—Nat’s job was to keep an eye on the load itself, to be sure that a chain didn’t loosen or a log slip. Frankie went on ahead to make the road smooth, stopping every few yards to chop at an icy bump or fill in a deep rut with snow.
The first couple of miles was fairly level; Nat found his glance and his thoughts wandering. The land around here had been worked over long since. By the light of the flickering torches, the tree stumps looked like stubble on a giant’s beard. He remembered Brian Bradford and the land at New Russia. How many more government tracts, he wondered, had been leased over to greedy men like Bradford? And all quite legally.
Way off in the distance, an owl hooted. Nat thought, Enjoy your night, you bird. While you can. While there’s still a tree left to perch in. It had started off with man pitted against Nature. The pioneers in the Wilderness. The age-old struggle. But lately the odds seemed to be changing.
“Look alive,” said George. “We’re coming to a slope.” He hauled on the reins and stopped the team. Nat checked the lumber, twisted the binder log one more turn to tighten the chain, and fastened down the binder with its own small chain. The hill was quite steep. Using his shovel, Frankie dug into the mounds of sand that had been left at the side of the road, and sprinkled it on the icy ruts. When Frankie had just about reached the bottom of the long hill, George started the team again. The sled creaked under the strain of its load, seemed to pause for a second at the crest of the hill, then began its cautious descent. The iron-clad runners of the sled scraped on the sand; the horses snorted, their hot breath suspended in the frosty night air. In spite of George’s hold on the reins, the sled began to pick up speed, propelled by the heavy load. One of the horses stumbled in a hidden rut. The sled tipped dangerously, wobbled once, then righted itself. Nat clung to the rocking logs, checked the binder log again. But that sudden lurch had been enough; the heavy sled was now traveling at its own pace, picking up momentum as it hurtled down the slope. Faster, and still faster, while the icy wind whistled past their ears and the horses trotted furiously. “Jesus!” said George hoarsely. “The son of a bitch is going to go!” His face was white. “Jump!” he yelled, and threw himself off the logs into a snowbank.
Nat scrambled to his feet, prepared to leap. The horses were now galloping in fear, manes streaming, in a mad contest to outrace the careening sled to the bottom of the hill. “Frankie!” shouted Nat. The boy looked up, his eyes wide with terror, to see horses and sled bearing down on him. He cried out; tried to run; slipped and fell, hitting his head on his own shovel. He lay in the middle of the road, dazed. Without a moment’s hesitation, Nat sprang to the edge of the logs and leaped onto the flank of one of the racing animals. He leaned forward, grabbed the horse’s bit in his fist, pulled with all his might. The horse screamed in pain and terror. But he turned—rearing violently so Nat was thrown from his back—and ploughed into a snowbank on the side of the road. The sled, stopped short in its headlong flight, shuddered and lurched sideways. There was a sharp snap as the chain gave way, and then the rumbling of the logs as they tumbled off the sled.
Nat looked up. He saw the logs falling. He saw Willough’s face. And then he saw nothing.
He awoke to the scent of flowers. They smelled like Willough’s hair. That silken glory, black as a raven’s wing. “Willough,” he whispered. It didn’t sound like his own voice.
“There, there, Mr. Stanton. Don’t try to move.”
He opened his eyes and blinked. He seemed to be in a room full of flowers, bright pink roses that danced across the walls, yellow lilies that hovered above his head. He blinked again. The lilies were attached to a bosom, the bosom to a gray dress, the whole giving off the strong odor of flower-scented perfume.
“Are you feeling better?”
He allowed his eyes to stray upward from the lilies and the bosom. A cheerful-looking woman, with bright cheeks and a snowy head of hair, was beaming down at him. “Where…” he croaked, then cleared his threat and started again. “Where is this?”
“You’re reposing in my house, Mr. Stanton. In my sister’s room.” She laughed, a birdlike chirp. “Though Mabel would be as amused as I am to see a big, strapping fellow like you in the pretty little room where she spent so many happy hours. And never will again.”
He frowned. Was she expecting sympathy? “Has she…passed on, ma’am?” he asked delicately.
“Bless my soul, no! She’s just married and gone to live in Boston! So when my nephew—that’s Dr. Mortimer, you might just remember him, though I’m not certain you were lucid when they brought you in…” She drifted off, her bright eyes on his face. “You must be thirsty. Would you care for something to drink?”
“Please.”
“Don’t try to get up.” She took a glass of water from the bedside stand, lifted his head with one hand, and brought the glass to his lips. “As I was saying…when my nephew wanted a place for you to stay—he has such a tiny house, and far too many children—I naturally thought, why not Mabel’s old room?”
He closed his eyes and turned away from the glass. There were things he had to remember. “But where is this house?”
“Why, in North Creek. They brought you here after that dreadful accident in the woods. Mr. Ordway was quite beside himself. He seemed to feel that the boy, and the team of horses too, would have been done for, but for your quick action. He said you were not to worry about a thing. He will pay you your wages during the perio
d of your convalescence, and until you are completely recovered.”
He stirred restlessly under the quilts. He ached all over, and his left leg felt strangely stiff and numb. “Recovered from what? I remember the logs falling on me. That’s all.”
She looked uncomfortable. “Well, of course you had rather a lot of cuts and bruises about you. A very nasty blow to the head, and several broken ribs…”
He felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. “And…?”
“You were pinned under the logs for a long time and lost a great deal of blood—we’ll set that to rights in no time, now that you’re yourself again.” Her snowy head bobbed vigorously. “A few weeks of my calves’ foot jelly will have you fit as a fiddle in no time.”
“Is that all?”
“You must face these things with pluck,” she said. “God sends us trials…”
“In the name of God, woman,” he burst out, “what is it?”
“Your leg…it was very badly crushed…”
His eyes widened in horror, anxious hands searching under the covers. “My God, have I lost it?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Stanton. Not at all! My nephew—Dr. Mortimer—set the bones as best he could. But he fears that you’ll limp for the rest of your days.”
He exhaled in relief, managing a small smile. “I never was one for dancing, ma’am. Ma’am…?”
“Mrs. Mortimer. Mrs. Grace Mortimer.”
He was suddenly very tired. “I’d like to sleep again, ma’am, if I may.” No. There was something he had to remember.
“That’s wise of you, Mr. Stanton. And when you wake up again, I’ll give you a nice sponge bath and perhaps a shave. I used to do it for Mr. Mortimer all the time when he was alive.”
He rubbed at his chin. It was a very heavy growth. One might even call it…the beginnings of a beard. He looked at Grace Mortimer with fresh panic. That’s what he had to remember! “How long have I been here?”
“Oh my. Well, let me see. This is Friday…”
He frowned. The accident had been on Tuesday. The eleventh. “Today’s the fourteenth?”
“Oh, no. The twenty-first.”
“God!” He struggled to sit up. “Sweet Jesus…how could I have lost so many days?”
“Mr. Stanton! Do try to be calm. You were in a great deal of pain. Your leg was quite shattered. Dr. Mortimer thought it advisable to keep you heavily sedated. You had lost so much blood. You would never have had the strength to endure such suffering…”
“You don’t understand! I’ve got to get a message to Crown Point! There’s someone who depends on me…” He had begun to shake.
“Of course. I’ll have a telegram sent at once.”
“To Mr. Ed Harold.” He dictated the telegram, fighting the terrible weariness that was creeping over him. He had to stay awake until the reply came in. He had to. He had to…
He opened his eyes. It was night. Grace Mortimer was sitting in a little gold chair beside his bed, a small Bible on her lap. She smiled at him, her eyes warm with concern. “Do you wish a cup of tea, Mr. Stanton?”
Her expression told him everything. “I think I’d prefer a glass of whiskey. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry, and so is everyone else. They all assumed…when you didn’t send any money on Sunday…”
“That I’d gone to see him myself.”
She nodded. “Mr. Harold said…it looked like he’d run out of fuel. He’d burned most of the furniture. When they found him, he was on the floor near his stove. He’d been trying to burn his invalid chair.”
“Oh my God…” He covered his face with his hands.
“If you’d like, I’ll get that whiskey now.”
“No. Just leave me alone for a while.” He stared up at the ceiling, where the kerosene lamp made a pool of light. He had no memory of when the tears started. It seemed somehow that they’d always been there, just behind his eyes, in his heart. He wept for Gramps, and Jed, and Pete. And all the wasted lives. He couldn’t even turn his broken body to bury his face in the pillow. He lay on his back, the tears sliding down his temples, and mourned the loss of his family.
After a while, the tears were replaced by anger. And a cold hatred. All the evils of civilization—the cruelty that set one man to destroying another, and all to despoiling God’s earth; the carelessness of the powerful; the greed and snobbery—had become focused on one person. One person who had come to represent all that he’d learned to hate.
“I’ll pay you back, Willough,” he whispered. “By God, I’ll get my due.”
Chapter Ten
“Please, Madame. Take it.” Old Jacques smiled at Marcy and held out a large pink peony. His French was sharp with a provincial accent.
She shook her head, answering him in the simple French words she had learned. “No, I thank you. One cannot afford what one cannot afford.”
“But every day, for nearly nine months, you buy a flower from me. And so I say to myself, if she does not buy a flower today, it is because she has not the money. Jacques, I say, today you give her the flower. Please, Madame. Take it.”
Relenting, Marcy took the flower from him, thanked him, moved on down the boulevard. She sniffed the fragrant peony. Pivoine, Jacques had called it. She must remember that. At least if she could ever afford to buy one again.
She glanced up at the soft twilight sky. The first star. When she looked up at the heavens, she could almost forget the city swirling around her. She blinked back her tears, aching with longing for home.
She sighed. She had one more errand. Drew had given her enough extra money to buy a little firewood. But it was a warm evening, a lovely June night. They didn’t need firewood for heat. And she could heat supper over the spirit lamp. But Drew needed paints. If Monsieur Tanguy, the color-grinder, was still in his shop on the rue Clauzel, she’d pick up the blue and the yellow that Drew lacked. Firewood could wait. If need be, she’d buy some tomorrow on credit. She already owed the boulanger and the greengrocer; one more debt didn’t matter until Drew sold his next drawing.
She sighed again. If only he were able to sell a painting. Not for the money, but for his confidence. He’d been despondent since the association of artists—the Café Guerbois habitués—had opened their group exhibit in April on the boulevard des Capucines. For a whole month they had endured the derision of the critics and the public. And when the exhibit had closed and they had tallied up their expenses against their receipts for entrance fees, catalog sales, and the commission on the few paintings that had sold, there was not even enough left to pay back each artist the sixty francs in dues he had advanced. One by one, the artists—Pissarro, Renoir, and the rest—had packed up and left Paris, relying on the hospitality of wealthy friends in the provinces to see them through the dry spell.
And still the criticism continued. Sarcastic articles appeared in Le Figaro and Charivari, mockingly alluding to the group of painters as “Impressionists,” because of Monet’s painting of Le Havre, which he had, at the last moment, titled Impression, Sunrise.
Drew’s two works that he had exhibited—dancers at the opera, and a scene of the rue de la Condamine, painted from their window—had been dismissed by the critic Albert Wolff with a few terse words: “Constipated little pictures, with sudden bursts of bizarre color. It would appear our American friend gained nothing by crossing the Atlantic.”
She bought Drew’s paints, and a bit of alcohol for the spirit lamp, then hurried down the street for home. She hoped the landlady wasn’t around. They were three weeks behind in the rent now, and it was getting very hard to make up excuses. Drew had already sold his watch.
The studio was dark. Drew wasn’t home yet. She tried to ignore the finger of uneasiness that scratched at her insides. They’d quarreled this morning. About money, of course. She’d had an offer from one of the instructors at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. They were willing to pay her three francs a day to model in the classroom. In the nude. Drew had been livid with rage.
“You’re my wife, Marcy! I won’t hear of it!”
“But it’s a good job. And there’s not much else I can do. My French isn’t good enough to work in a shop.”
“All those men staring at you…”
“Oh, bosh! How can you be jealous? They won’t be looking at me! Just at my body! Like a flower you paint, a tree in the Tuileries, a china cup. That’s all I’d be to them.”
He had looked at her sharply, his blue eyes filled with mistrust. “Perhaps you’re aiming to catch the notice of some young man whose father is rich enough to pay his tuition.”
She had been near tears. “Dang you, Drew Bradford! Why won’t you let me help you?”
“If you’re so eager to make money—and don’t care how the hell you get it—you can go back to modeling for that lecher Stewart. Or join the Montmartre ladies in their evening strolls!”
She’d felt the blood drain from her face. “At least it would be nice to be wanted by a man. For any reason.”
He had bowed to her, a twisted smile on his lips. “Touché.” Snatching up his hat and sketch pad, he’d stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind him.
Now it was getting late. And he wasn’t home yet. She ate a cold supper, washed the dishes, mended a pair of stockings. Paced the floor. What was happening to them? He didn’t make love to her these days. Not since her miscarriage. In bed he stayed as far away from her as possible, but when he slept, he pulled her close. It was the only time she felt needed anymore.
She heard the chime of a clock on a distant church. Midnight. She picked up the flower Jacques had given her, brushing its soft petals against her cheek. She was useless to Drew. It wasn’t the lack of money that bothered her; it was the thought that she was failing him. All the love she had in her wasn’t enough to balance out his disappointment in his work.