by J. Birch
“I made coffee,” she said.
“Well that’s fine, buttercup, I’m parched. Jack, you finish filling in the base and then come join us. Do a good job, now.”
Troy dropped the shovel and sauntered down the hill. He and Emily disappeared inside the house.
“Rich folks,” Jack said, shaking his head. He flattened the dirt around the base of the new marker.
“But darling.”
He stopped and turned to look. Troy and Emily stood just inside the door. They appeared to be arguing. Jack didn’t think Emily had the gumption to say anything to Plymouth outside of “yes”, “of course”, or, if she was feeling particularly rebellious, a firm “all right” to whatever he asked. Every conversation he’d witnessed between the two had left Emily staring at her hands with the quiet, resolute look of a woman who knows that a man’s word is stone.
Jack kept pressing dirt, but he strained to listen:
“Darling,” Troy repeated, “it’s all ready at the house. The seats are set in front of the gazebo. It’s been re-painted and decorated with the prettiest flowers you’ve ever—”
“They won’t be there,” she said.
Troy sighed. “Well no, honey blossom, because they’ve passed—”
“I won’t have any family there,” she said, her voice thick. “Every seat will be filled by your kin. Please, do this for me.”
Troy sighed again. It was a great, exaggerated sigh. “Now, peach pit, Ezzie has put a lot of work into this wedding. And you know how she disapproves of surprises.”
“This ain’t your sister’s wedding day, no matter how far she buries her beak.”
“Now that’s not fair. She just wants things to be proper.”
“Oh?” Emily said. “A shame I can’t scrub my face clean.”
Troy didn’t respond to that, and Jack found himself feeling sorry for the man. If his family disapproved of Emily’s skin color, it wasn’t his fault.
Jack snuck a peak at them. Troy removed his hat.
“You’re right,” he said finally. “This is your day. And if you want the ceremony here, then by God it will be so.”
“Thank you,” she said, and left him standing there. Troy stepped off the porch and moved back up the hill.
“Service is going to be here,” he said.
Jack squinted down at him. “Okay.”
“Emily wants to be married in front of her pa and brother.” He cringed. “Doesn’t fit my liking, but you know how Indians keep the ghost about them.” He turned and looked in the direction of his ranch. “I don’t know how we’ll do it. I have so many relatives we may have to herd and drive them down here like cattle.” He chuckled, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “But, if my Emily wants it, she’ll get it.” Swatting Jack’s shoulder with his hat, he said, “The things we do for our women, huh Devlin?”
Jack blinked.
“Everything’s fine,” Troy said. “Fine as May wine.”
The first to show were the ranch hands, followed by two wagons piled high with folded wooden chairs. They worked quickly, arranging the chairs in a rough, almost bat wing shape. Troy’s guests came next—and they just kept coming. There were business associates and friends, a hundred cousins, dozens of uncles and aunts, seven brothers, three sisters, and one Grandma Gladys. They came on horseback and in wagons. They flattened the grass beside the house and churned the earth into mud.
Jack hid inside the house and listened to the crowd chatter and squawk, reminding him of a flock of gulls over freshly plowed land. He’d never seen so many people gather in one place before. It hurt his head. His stomach ached to think about all those eyes. Soon, he and Emily would have to walk out there and everyone would stare. What would they think of him? Hopefully they’d be too busy gawking at the bride to notice.
That helped a little. He liked the idea of being invisible.
As he quietly panicked, a tall, thin woman in a plain blue dress walked in through the back door. Seeing Jack, she stopped. She had limp brown hair, a long, storky neck, and a rather large Adam’s apple. She held a pipe in her hand.
“Who are you,” she said.
“I’m Jack,” Jack said.
She scrutinized his clothes. She sniffed. “Hired help?”
“Friend of the family.”
“I’m Ezzie, Troy’s sister. How do you do.” She saw a box of matches on the supper table. “May I,” she said, picking up the box. She removed a match and struck it against the table. She lit her pipe and sucked on the stem. Glancing around the house, she said, “No wonder the girl wants to marry herself off.” She sat down. “The girl in her room?”
Jack nodded. “Been there all morning.”
“The girl better be ready. Everyone is waiting. I made a cake. You seen my brother?”
“No.”
“Late as usual.” She blinked against the smoke. “Do you have any whiskey?”
“No.”
“Rum?”
“No.”
“Honey wine?”
“No.”
“Bogger’s Triple Spiced Licorice Spirits?”
“I have no idea what that is,” Jack said.
She nodded and stared out the window. “Looks like rain on the horizon. We’re eating outside. I hope my cake isn’t ruined.”
Jack inched his chair away from the table. There was something about Ezzie he didn’t like. She reminded him of his old schoolmarm, a woman who liked to whack his knuckles with a slate. No wonder he never learned his letters.
She blew smoke out her nose. “You say you’re a friend of the family? You don’t look Indian. You a mixer like the girl?”
“No.”
“Can’t wait to see their offspring. Oh, won’t that be a sight.” She smirked. “Although I can’t imagine her on her back much, what with her chores.”
“What chores?” Jack asked.
“Timmy, Tommy, Rachel, Elsa, and Robert. With those little rats scurrying about the house, she won’t have time to do much more than catch her breath.”
“Troy has children?”
Ezzie coughed, although it may have been her idea of laughter. “Why do you think my brother is scraping the barrel? He’s desperate for a nanny.”
“He’s not sweet on her?”
“He reckons he is,” she said, pulling the pipe from her mouth. “But a few turns with her and he’ll grow bored, like all men do.” She shrugged. “As long as she does her job, I see nothing wrong with this marriage. Some of our relations are in hitches over it. They say he’s breaking the Bible’s commandment to never mix the races. But what self-respecting white woman is going to marry an old rancher with a house full of children?”
“I’m here!” Troy called from outside. He entered the house, followed by the preacher. “A round of apologies on me. I had to see to a sick foal.”
“Everyone’s waiting,” Ezzie said, tapping her pipe ash onto the table.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Troy said.
She stood. “Gran Gladys is doing her impression of various dog breeds.”
Troy’s eyes widened. “I see. In that case, take the preacher and I’ll be out directly.”
Ezzie gripped the preacher’s arm and led him out the back of the house.
“Like the duds?” Troy said, smoothing the sleeves of his suit jacket. He was dressed in black from head to toe. “All special made for the occasion. My boots are made from alligator skin, my belt from calf hide, my hat … well, I can’t remember the animal, but there ain’t many left!”
“Troy!” Ezzie called from the back porch. “I made cake.”
“Right,” Troy said, hurrying toward the back porch. “Fetch my bride, will you Devlin?”
Jack stood and crossed over to Emily’s room. He raised his fist, and hesitated.
This was it. This was all he had left to do. This one last thing and he was square with Charlie forever. Just walk his sister up the hill and hand her off to Troy—
Like a horse for the breaking.
&nb
sp; He knocked.
“Who is it?”
“Jack.”
“Come in.”
Jack opened the door. Inside, he found Emily standing in front of a rectangular mirror. She wore a long, white wedding gown. A wreath of wildflowers encircled her head. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, looking washed and brushed. In the light of the window, she glowed like a star.
Jack cringed as he saw himself in the same mirror. Despite giving his clothes a good scrubbing the night before, he still looked like a no good dirt fiddler. He wiped at his trouser legs, but scuffs and holes wouldn’t just brush off.
“Sorry,” Jack said, not knowing what else to say.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Wonderful,” he blurted, and immediately wanted to disappear beneath the floorboards.
She smiled, catching the light on her painted lips. “Really?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
“I think Charlie and Pa would’ve liked it.” As she turned toward the window, Jack tucked his shirt into his trousers and pushed his fingers through his hair. It still didn’t help.
“I want to thank you again,” she said. “For giving me away.”
“It’s okay,” Jack said. “Has to be done, I reckon.”
She gazed out the window. After a few moments, she said, “You’re just like him, you know. Samson. You both dream of running. You, up north. Him, just about any place but here.” She touched her fingers to the windowpane. “Are you excited about Lone Pine?”
“I want my land,” Jack said. “I’m not myself unless I’m working the soil, growing some crops.”
“Your bite of peace.”
“Yes,” he said. “My bite of peace.”
She turned to him. “Come closer.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to cry.”
They moved toward each other. She placed her forehead against his. No sobs this time, only tears. Her breath touched his lips. “When you’re up there, think of me,” she said. “Remember me.”
“I’ll remember.”
Clasping his hands, she said, “And when you can, come back and visit.”
“I will.”
“Promise,” she said, her tears on his cheek. “Promise me, Jack.”
“I promise.”
She lingered with him a moment longer, then released him and returned to the mirror. Her eyes were strained, her lip paint smeared at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t fret,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “He won’t notice.”
Together, they left the room. As they emerged onto the back porch, the guests turned to stare. A fiddler began playing.
You’ve danced some?
Some. And you?
Only a few turns with my sister when we was young.
Move closer.
Troy Plymouth and the preacher waited in front of the grave markers. Troy was grinning wide enough to touch both ears. Jack wanted to grip Emily’s hand and run, run into the prairie and never look back.
But he didn’t.
When it came time for him to give her away, he was barely able to utter the words. He said, “I will”, “me”, or something of the sort. And then she left him.
Jack returned to the porch. He watched as Troy held her hands and spoke sweet words of love and devotion to her. He watched as one of Troy’s daughters stood from her seat and handed him the rings.
And then he could watch no more.
Jack rushed through the house, burst out the front door, and made it half way to the corral before falling to his knees. He clamped his hand over his mouth, and wept.
* * *
The Plymouth clan was apparently hungry. It took them very little time to mobilize for the trek back to the ranch. Even Gran Gladys moved with the vigor of a young woman, swinging her arms and barking like a Dachshund.
Jack stood at the corral with Samson and watched them leave. He thought about going back to the house but didn’t want to risk seeing Emily again. He was afraid he’d make a fool of himself.
Not that it mattered. She belonged to Troy now, same as the land, the house, the barn, and even poor Samson. The Sewell family had vanished during that ceremony. All that remained were two wooden markers.
Emily and Ezzie appeared among the exodus of Plymouths. Ezzie escorted her to a wagon, leading her through the grass and the mud. Emily reached the wagon and climbed aboard, her wreath shedding a few petals. Ezzie climbed up after her, nudged her down the wagon seat, and then cracked the reins.
Jack stepped away from the corral as the wagon veered to its right, taking the lead in the wedding train. For one brief moment, he thought he saw Emily turn her head to look for him, but it was difficult to tell in the sunlight. Then the wagon turned again.
Promise.
“Devlin!”
Troy Plymouth approached him. “A glorious day,” he said. He reached Jack and nodded at Emily’s wagon as it rumbled down the trail. “She looks pretty, doesn’t she? Like a white flower, one of those—well, whatever white flowers are called.”
“Which ones?”
“That’s it,” Troy said, clapping Jack’s shoulder. He led him back to the corral. “Devlin, I’d like to thank you.”
“Wasn’t much,” Jack said. “Someone needed to give her away.”
“Not that,” Troy said. “For watching over her. After losing her pa and brother, I figured she’d go mad Indian, paint herself up and dance around a fire whooping for rain. But you kept her civilized.”
Jack didn’t know what he was talking about, but figured the less said the better. So he said nothing.
“Still, a thank you is about as helpful as spit on a field, especially when it comes from a rich man. And I am most certainly rich.” He chuckled. “So, I’d like to thank you proper.”
Troy raised his finger and pointed. Beside the house, a ranch hand nodded and reached into the back of a wagon.
“Emily told me you’re heading to Lone Pine.”
“Looks like it,” Jack said, keeping his eye on the ranch hand.
“How you plan on getting there?”
“Head back to Brush and work my way north.”
“Uh huh. And what will you do once you get there?”
“Claim my land.”
The ranch hand pulled out a large saddle and tack.
“That’s for you,” Troy said. “Should fit just about perfect on old Samson here.”
Samson turned his head to look at them.
“You’re giving me Samson?” Jack asked.
“I’m giving you the saddle,” Troy said. “Samson comes at a price. But don’t fret, I’ve no need for a Clydesdale, so he’s cheap.”
The horse snorted.
“I need someone to keep an eye on the property,” Troy said. “I’d tear down this old house and barn today if I could, but Emily insists on taking a few sticks of furniture with her. What I’m asking for is one week, Devlin. You keep an eye on the house for one week, and you can have this horse. He’ll deliver you to Lone Pine with ease. He’ll plow your land in no time—these horses are bred for work. What do you say,” he said, holding out his hand. “We have a deal?”
“What happens to Samson if I don’t take him?” Jack asked.
“He’ll come back to the ranch, but I don’t think he’ll like it. A bit of a wind hugger if you ask me.”
Jack looked at Samson. He felt rotten accepting a horse that belonged to Charlie’s pa, but what was the alternative? Samson would be about as happy at a ranch as Jack would be in a city. A crowd was a crowd, whether horses or people.
“I accept,” Jack said, shaking Troy’s hand.
“A wise choice, Devlin.” Behind them, the ranch hand carried the saddle into the house.
“All right, enough business,” Troy said. “Let’s go eat.”
“If it’s all the same, I think I’ll stay here,” Jack said.
Troy looked astonished. “Oh, but you can’t. We have cherry pie.” He leaned closer. “And iced cream. Isn�
��t that something?”
Jack didn’t know what that was, but he still said no.
“What about Emily? She’ll want you there.”
And he wanted to be there for her. His stomach ached to see her again, but not as Troy’s wife. He wanted to see Charlie’s sister. He wanted to see the girl he’d danced with.
“I’m just not hungry,” Jack said.
Troy shrugged. “Suit yourself, Devlin. I’ll see you in a week.” He gave him a rib rattling slap on the back and then jogged over to his wagon. “And I’ll bring the missus with me!”
The missus. What a terrible word.
Jack turned to look at Samson. The horse stared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said, “but what should I have done? You go with him and you’ll be in an even bigger corral surrounded by other horses. You want that?”
Samson moved toward him.
Jack stepped back from the rails. Up until that moment, he’d never seen the Clydesdale do much more than blink. The horse stopped at the fence and stared down at him.
“You do understand, don’t you?” Jack said. As he reached up to touch his muzzle, Troy’s wagon rolled past. Jack dropped his hand and headed back to the house.
Inside, it was dark and silent. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. Jack sat at the supper table and looked around.
Emily’s broom stood in the corner.
Emily’s towel lay over the washbasin.
The door to Emily’s room stood open. Her bed quilt lay crumpled on the floor.
It was going to be a long week. A long, boring week, with nothing to do but look at the various reminders of her and Charlie. What else could he do? There was no point in fixing the roof—Troy Plymouth was only going to tear the house down. He’d have to milk the cow and feed the chickens, but that would occupy a small portion of his day. His only alternative was to chop wood. A lot of wood. Maybe he could fix Charlie’s fiddle and give it a try. He once plucked a guitar string—it was a start.
Jack stood and walked over to Emily’s bedroom. He lifted her quilt and spread it over the bed, revealing a large, rusty blood stain.
“Damn,” he said, as the tears welled in his eyes. He sat on the bed and wiped them away.
The only thing worse than the long, boring days would be the nights. How was he going to sleep with a house full of ghosts?