Cherokee Rose

by Judy Alter

  I thrilled with excitement at the thought—eight months in England and Europe! Impulsively I grabbed Buck's arm. "It's more than I ever dreamed of, Buck. Just think, we're going abroad! When I was in the convent in St. Louis, all those little rich kids used to talk about going abroad, and I always thought it was something I'd never get to do. I'd never get to use that French I worked so hard to learn!"

  "Yeah," he said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  "Buck, you aren't as excited about this as I am." I'd known that ever since talk of England first came up, but I'd managed to ignore it. Sometimes I'm a real slow learner.

  "No, I'm really not, Cherokee." He bit his lip and looked away. In front of us, the colonel was still addressing the whole troupe, talking about arrangements and places I'd never heard of, like Shepherd's Bush in London. But the colonel had lost my attention now; I was puzzled by Buck.

  When the meeting broke up, the colonel pulled me aside and asked me to meet him in his study. "You hear every word I said, Cherokee?" he asked, sitting down at his desk and pulling out a cigar.

  "No," I said slowly, "I really didn't. I got distracted." I perched nervously on the edge of one of the chairs facing him. A small fire burned in the grate, giving the room a hot closed atmosphere, and I began to feel uncomfortable, as though I wanted a deep breath of clear fresh air, preferably cold.

  "I know you didn't," he said, but both his tone of voice and his expression were kindly. "I saw you talking to Buck. What'd he say?"

  I wondered just what the colonel knew that I didn't. "He just wasn't too enthusiastic about the tour," I said slowly. "He never has been."

  "He doesn't want to go," the colonel said flatly, blowing a great cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "Says, as a matter of fact, that he isn't going."

  My instinctive reaction was one of panic. How could Buck not go? But it took me only a minute to put reason before instinct. The latter came from having been married to Buck for several years now and assuming that we had to be together all the time. Reason told me that we weren't very happy together, and I might have a better time on the tour if he didn't go along. But there was still the troubling matter that he'd told the colonel instead of me.

  "Has he said that?" I finally asked.

  The colonel had been patient, looking away while I sorted this thing out in my mind. Now he turned back to me and nodded to indicate a yes. "Couple days ago. I told him to take it up with you."

  "He hasn't." What more could I say?

  "Didn't figure he would. Cherokee, that boy's... well, scared's not the right word, but he doesn't want to cross you, and he doesn't know what he wants."

  "But he doesn't want me?"

  "Not necessarily. But maybe he doesn't want always to take second billing to his wife. Besides, do you really want him?"

  I did a thing so unlike me that it puzzles me to this day. I burst into tears, clasping my hands over my mouth to hide the great roaring sobs that wanted to escape.

  The colonel was uncomfortable and didn't know quite what to do. He heaved himself up from his desk and came around to where I sat, only to stand rather awkwardly patting my shoulder and saying, "There, there." Finally, after a long minute, he went in search of his mother.

  Mrs. Miller came in and closed the door firmly behind her. "Don't need that fool son of mine right now," she said. "He's got no more idea what's troubling you than if you were a horse with a bellyache. Matter of fact, he'd be better at handling that."

  With great efficiency but no lack of compassion, she handed me a fine lacy handkerchief for my eyes. I took it, but then was hesitant to use it.

  "Go on, it's just lace. Not near as important as you are, dear."

  So I dried my eyes and tried to sit up straight, and Mrs. Miller pulled another chair up close to mine and took hold of my hand. "I won't pretend to know what's bothering you, Tommy Jo"—the use of my old name almost sent me into wails again—"but I know you need a woman to talk to. Not me. I think you best go to Guthrie. She understands you better than anyone, and from what my sons tell me, she's a savvy woman."

  It flashed through my mind that this wasn't easy for Mrs. Miller to say. As a mother, she may have resented Louise in her own way, just as Mama resented her. Maybe it was no easier to have your sons run after a woman in town than for your husband to—it was just different.

  We sat in that room for a while, until I could get some control back, and then she said, "There's no one in the house right now. You go on and splash water on your face, get your appearance back."

  I did as she told me.

  But I couldn't let it go. Something in me made me confront Buck that night as we dressed for bed. "The colonel says you don't want to go on the tour."

  "I tried to tell you that today." He sat on the edge of the bed, skinny yet strong in his underwear, and for just a moment I felt a flash of longing. But then I was angry again.

  "Why didn't you tell me before you told him?"

  "I didn't think you'd understand."

  "What I do understand," I said distinctly, "is that our marriage is over." Even as I said that in an accusing tone, putting all the blame on him, I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe the marriage was over because I wanted it to be, not because he did.

  "I don't know that's true," he said, "but I guess some time apart might help us figure that out."

  "You don't mean for me to stay back just because you're going to?"

  He was almost too quick to answer, jumping up from the bed to stand in front of me. "Not at all, Cherokee. This is important to you. You've got to go."

  "Will you... stay here... at the 101?"

  Now he was truly uncomfortable, pacing the room like a caged animal. I watched him, remembering how not very long ago I had thought him perfect, thought I couldn't live without him. I simply waited.

  "No," he said slowly. "I been thinking. Well, Cherokee, you know I want to—want to give Hollywood a try."

  So that was it! He wanted to go to the moving pictures! Or, and this thought struck me belatedly, did he want to find Belle and little Sallie? I could think of no clever thing to say, so I simply looked at him—and he damned himself.

  "Now, Cherokee, it's not what you think. I've heard from Belle a time or two, but she's simply been telling me what opportunities there are out there for someone like me, a cowboy who can sing."

  It didn't seem worth my while to ask why Belle should be looking out for opportunities for him when he was apparently well settled with the 101. I simply said, "I hope you find what you want, Buck. I'm going to England."

  "Well," he said, belligerence rising in his tone, "I'm not. I don't have to go just 'cause you do."

  It dawned on me that I had done it all wrong. I hadn't given him the cause to get angry, the reason to storm away from me. He wanted me to accuse him of infidelity with Belle—emotional, if not physical—because then he could get angry and separate himself from me in high dudgeon. I had let him down.

  "No, Buck," I said, "you don't have to go. I think it would be better if you went to Hollywood. But"—and I measured my words carefully in my head before I said them—"I doubt there'll be any marriage for either of us to come back to."

  "Cherokee," he said, "don't you threaten me."

  There, I had given him what he needed. He took his clothes for morning and left to seek one of the empty bedrooms. Buck Dowling and I never shared a bedroom again after that night, though I couldn't have known that at the time. It wouldn't have made me sad.

  * * *

  In spite of Mrs. Miller's advice, I didn't go see Louise immediately. I guess I thought I had figured it all out in my mind myself. But I went to Luckett's and Guthrie for a last visit before we left. This time Buck let me go alone and never said anything about worrying about me. In fact, he didn't even say good-bye.

  My visit to Luckett's was a waste of time—Papa was down in Guthrie. I spent the night in an empty house, strangely enjoying the loneliness and the memories, and then rode to Guthrie the
next morning.

  When I let myself in the kitchen door, there they sat at the kitchen table, like an old married couple who've been sharing breakfast for years.

  "Tommy Jo!" Papa was up out of his chair and hugging me in a flash.

  "I came for a visit before we go abroad," I said, still wrapped in his arms. "But I didn't know I'd find both of you at one place. I'm glad I did."

  They laughed, and I thought it wonderful that none of us let guilt or old ghosts trample on us. Louise fixed me a breakfast bigger than I needed. We talked of the tour and the acts that were planned—I was rather vehement about my objections to Paul Revere and Betsy Ross—and then we talked about traveling by boat to England and all the other things that could possibly come up.

  At long last, Papa said, "Where's Buck?"

  "Back at the 101," I answered noncommittally. Neither one spoke, but I could see the question on both their faces. "He's not going to England. He wants to go to Hollywood."

  Nobody jumped up and threw their arms about me, nobody said how sorry they were, nobody said anything for a long minute, until Papa finally uttered, "Damn fool!"

  Rising to refill her coffee, Louise said philosophically, "It's about time." When Papa glared at her, she shrugged and added, "Tommy Jo knows it. Buck wasn't going to last a lifetime. You're not brokenhearted, are you, Tommy Jo?"

  I almost laughed aloud. "Not now," I said, "but I was pretty surprised when it happened." Then I thought about it a minute and said, "But I guess now relieved is the word I'd use."

  Papa stared like we were both out of our minds, and the more he looked at us, the harder the two of us laughed.

  Colonel Zack had told me that he had a job in the troupe for Papa if he wanted, managing the stock and generally seeing that things went well. I'd meant to make that offer to Papa, but seeing him sit at Louise's table, I knew I wouldn't do that. He was where he belonged. The past was behind both of us, and I was headed off to a new adventure. No need to take my papa along.

  "Don't forget," he cautioned as I rode away, "you're still a married woman. I expect you to behave as such."

  "Yessir," I said, and kissed his cheek. He didn't need to say that. Getting involved with another man was the last thing I wanted for a long time. What I really wanted was to be myself.

  * * *

  We sailed from New York on March 21, just as the colonel had said, on a ship called the Lusitania. Little did we know that the ship would make headlines on its next trip, and that we should well be grateful not to have been on that crossing. The Lusitania was a luxury ship, built for wealthy people like all those girls in the convent. We, of course, stayed in the belly of the ship in the smallest berths they had—third class or whatever they called it. Whatever, it was so humble that I swore I heard the horses kicking right next to us. Even so, I wondered that the colonel could afford all this.

  "Got bookings in England already," he said, "clear through the summer. Don't you worry about money, Cherokee."

  So I stopped worrying. But I didn't enjoy the crossing one bit, nor did I get to partake of all that luxury. I was seasick before we even steamed out of the bay in New York, and I stayed gruesomely sick the whole voyage, lying in my bunk and wishing I were dead as the ship pitched from side to side. It did little to comfort me when the colonel came to check on me periodically and each time repeated, "It's an unusually rough crossing, Cherokee."

  "Then why," I wanted to demand, "are you upright and healthy looking?"

  The one thing I wanted to hear from him was that Guthrie and Governor were safe and well cared for, and the colonel assured me of that. Back in Oklahoma, he'd been doubtful that I should bring my own horses, but I convinced him that I performed best on them—roping from Governor and doing tricks with Guthrie—and that we wanted the best possible show for the King of England. He'd given in reluctantly, saying, "I hate the responsibility, Cherokee. If anything happens to either of those horses—"

  "What could happen to them?" I'd asked, as though the question were foolish.

  Now, lying in a bunk bed and barely able to care for myself, I began to worry inordinately about the horses and curse myself for having brought them. It became a daily ritual for the colonel to tell me that he'd just been to check on my horses and that they were doing much better than I was.

  The other girls in the show were kind to me, bringing broth—about all I could stomach—and checking on me. Sometimes they tried to tell me about the marvelous buffet they'd enjoyed or the dance on the deck, but I simply groaned and turned away.

  Pearl, the Texas girl who'd run away from her mother, usually brought me the broth or tea. Sometimes she'd wring out a cold cloth and put it on my poor throbbing head; other times, she'd sit quietly by my bed, never saying a word but giving me the sense that someone was there, someone cared.

  When I began to get a little better toward the end of the voyage, we talked some. I asked if she'd heard from her mother before we left, and she said, "Yeah, she wrote. But she wasn't in a forgiving mood. Maybe she'll feel different in a year."

  "Are you going to keep writing her from England?" I asked.

  "Why should I? She ain't gonna write back."

  "Maybe she isn't going to write back," I said, enunciating every syllable as carefully as I could, "but she is still your mother. Mine's dead. I can't write to her."

  Pearl really had a good heart, and now she was conscience-stricken. "Oh, Cherokee, I'm so sorry! I—yes, I'll write to my ma." She was silent for a minute, and then boldly she said, "I don't talk right, and I know it."

  "I can help you."

  "I wisht you would, Cherokee, I really wish you would."

  "It's wish," I said, "not wisht."

  And there began the friendship that meant much to me in England.

  It occurred to me one day in the depths of my misery that it was fortunate that Buck wasn't with me. He'd have been disgusted with a sick wife. And then it came to me that I was disgusted with myself. I'd never been sick before, and it struck me as a kind of weakness. With that thought in mind, I struggled out of my bed, dressed, and powdered my nose—a look in the mirror was almost frightening—and made my way along the passage, headed for the upper deck.

  Fresh air would clear my head, I told myself. But I barely had one foot on the stair when a wave of nausea sent me back to my room.

  "Some people just get more seasick than others," the colonel assured me. "I asked the captain."

  But he did get so worried that he sent the ship's doctor to see me. That kind man said, "Miserable, isn't it? Drink as much broth as you can, and don't worry about it. Another four days we'll be in England, and you'll be all right."

  When we finally docked and the ship was absolutely still, I crawled out of bed and Pearl helped me put on the first clothes I laid my hands on. They seemed to hang as though on a scarecrow, and I needed no doctor to tell me I had lost weight during these ten days.

  The colonel had booked us into a small London hotel run by a motherly woman who, once she heard my story, took it upon herself to nurse me back to health. She tucked me into bed—literally—and brought me oatmeal and toast and tea, after I told her I could not face another cup of broth.

  "Lordy, lordy, child, no more broth," Mrs. Duncan said. "I'll get ye some good Scottish oatmeal. Goes down on even the rockiest of stomachs." Her Scottish burr seemed to thicken as she talked.

  That night I slept in a wonderfully soft bed that stayed still the whole night long, and I awoke feeling like a new person. But by the time I was dressed and presented myself in the common room—that's what they called the dining room—I was weak as a kitten.

  "No energy, lovey," Mrs. Duncan said. "You need to build yourself back up. You'll nay be ridin' them horses today."

  "Mrs. Duncan's right, Cherokee. You're not going to ride for several days. You just build your strength back up." The colonel was becoming downright considerate, just when I'd have thought anxiety about the forthcoming show would make him unbearable.


  I spent a luxurious four or five days. Mrs. Duncan was a natural mother—she'd raised five strapping boys, she told me—and she fluttered over me every minute. Whereas Mama would have wrung her hands and worried, Mrs. Duncan was calm and forthright about my need for food and rest. And while Louise would have prodded me into thought and action, Mrs. Duncan let me be.

  In the end, I prodded myself into some introspection and decided that seasickness had been my mourning period for Buck. But it was over, and I was ready to get on with my adventure in England.

  "Cherokee! Cherokee!" Pearl burst into my room late one afternoon when I was taking one of my several daily naps. "We've been invited to high tea!" She paused, a funny look on her face. "Whatever d'ya suppose high tea is?"

  I laughed aloud. "I don't know, Pearl, but we'll find out, won't we? I wonder what one wears?" In my mind I was thinking of full ball gowns and coiffed hairdos and all those things I didn't have and knew nothing about—I knew just enough to know that high tea was fairly formal.

  "We've been told to wear our western duds," Pearl said. "The whole point, says the colonel, is to see us as we really are."

  "Well then, Pearl, let's get out our best duds!"

  We plowed through our clothes, slinging garments this way and that as we sought our best silk shirts, our dressiest split skirts. "No pants," I said firmly.

  "Jodhpurs?" she asked.

  "Nope. Split skirts. But our best hats." Mine was a wonderful cream-colored felt Stetson; Pearl's was a lesser known model in brown beaver, a truly gorgeous hat that she said her pa had bought for her. We wore them high at the crown, not creased like cowgirls do today.

  The day of the tea we knotted silk kerchiefs around our necks and pulled on the fanciest boots we owned. Finally dressed to our satisfaction, we looked in a long mirror in Mrs. Duncan's private quarters. She was as anxious as we were that we make a good showing, and inviting us to use her mirror was her way of helping.