by Stephen Bly
“Yes. Don’t they look like it?”
“But they have the peelings still on them.”
“They’re good for you.”
“You always peel the potatoes.”
“Well, I didn’t this morning.”
“Are you sick again, Mama?”
“Baby, you know me—I always feel a little puny early. I get stronger as the day goes on. Anyway, some in the train are mighty impatient. I’m not sure they will wait three days.” Retta slipped her fingers into her mother’s strong, callused, pale hand. In comparison, Retta’s fingers looked short, plump, and brown. “I hope they don’t go. I like all the people in our wagon train.... Well, almost all of them.”
“Some are talking like they might leave tomorrow.”
“It will be too muddy.”
“Maybe it’s all just talk. They are frustrated, no doubt.” Mrs. Barre put her hand on Retta’s shoulder. “Now, young lady, I want to apologize for sounding so frightened and discouraged yesterday. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.”
“It’s okay, Mama. Everybody gets discouraged sometimes.”
“Yes, well, I hope your papa can bring some encouragement to those who want to leave. The safest thing for all of us is to stick close together. They say between here and Fort Hall there could be Indian trouble.”
Retta stared down the endless row of wagons, each harboring a hurried blur of activity. “Did Papa go to talk to the California-bound?”
“He and Colonel Graves called a meeting.”
The sun broke across the prairie and began to rise into a cloudless pale blue sky. Steam swirled off the canvas wagon tops, awnings, and tents. Retta turned toward the river. Lord, Joslyn is going to California. I will really miss her. Maybe You can find a way to keep them with us.
She stared at the canvas sling under the wagon. “Mama, what do we do when we run out of buffalo chips? The ones out there are all mushy and won’t burn.”
“I suppose we will eat cold meals.”
“Cold potatoes?” Retta moaned. “I could get sick on cold potatoes.”
Mrs. Barre grabbed the three-legged skillet and balanced it over the dug-out fire pit. “Mrs. O’Day said Gilson was worse today,” she reported. “I don’t think she’ll be able to gather chips for a while.”
“I wish she wasn’t sick all the time. I pray and pray for her. Do you think the Lord hears my prayers?”
“Yes, I do. Just think how sick she might be if you didn’t pray.”
Retta dusted a few flakes of buffalo chip from her buckskin skirt. “May I go see her?”
Mrs. Barre waved toward the covered wagon. “After you wake sis up for me. Even if we aren’t on the trail, she needs to milk the cows.”
“Me? Wake her up?”
One glare sent Retta to the wagon. The flap was still damp from the rain. She crawled over the seat and into the wagon bed. The quilts were wadded in the corner near Great-grandma Cutler’s brass clock and the crate of dishes. Lerryn was flopped on top of the covers, her head sunk deep in her feather pillow.
Retta studied her sister. Lerryn was so pretty, so perfect. She must be the prettiest girl in the whole world.
Lord, I’m happy You made her that way, but sometimes I sort of wish You would have saved a little bit for me. Not that I’m complaining, but everyone who knows her and then meets me says, “You are Lerryn’s sister?”
I wouldn’t have to be fancy-pretty like her, if only I was sort of pretty ... like Christen ... or cute-pretty like Joslyn ... or even pale-pretty like Gilson.
Papa thinks I’m cute, but everyone knows papas are very silly when it comes to their daughters.
She sighed. “Sometimes I wish someone would say, ‘Oh, you must be Lerryn’s sister. I noticed the family resemblance.’”
Lord, I don’t look like anyone. Papa says we’re created in Your image, so maybe I resemble You ... sort of.
Retta pulled a small hand mirror from a green valise and scooted closer to Lerryn. She stared at the mirror and peered at her sister.
Do You see what I mean, Lord? Look at her eyes, her eyebrows, those long eyelashes. Look at her nose—it’s small and dainty. And mine? It looks like someone stuck a little round hunk of clay on my face.
Look at my hair. There are horse manes prettier than this. Lerryn has very lovely lips. I heard Brian Suetter tell her once she had kissable lips.
Retta scooted down until her head was only a few inches from her sister’s. She studied her own lips in the mirror. They were puffy like she was stung by a bee. And kind of chapped and dark, not pale. I don’t think I have kissable lips.
Retta puckered up her lips and studied them in the mirror. Is this what a kiss looks like close up? Kind of like a carp? No wonder Lerryn closed her eyes when she kissed Brian. It must feel better than it looks.
She held her lips in an exaggerated pucker and pulled the mirror closer. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips against the mirror. It felt cold and slick and hard. Well, it better be a whole lot more fun than this, or it’s a waste of time.
“What are you doing?” Lerryn shouted.
Retta dropped the mirror on the quilts and jumped to her feet.
Her sister sat straight up, waved her hands in the air, and screamed, “Get out of here.”
Retta scampered out of the wagon onto the wooden seat.
“What’s going on in there?” Mrs. Barre asked.
Retta jumped down off the wagon. “I just woke her up like you asked me to,” she mumbled.
“What was all the screaming about?”
“I guess we startled each other.”
“Mother,” Lerryn yelled.
“Can I go see how Gilson is?” Retta asked.
“Mother, I need to talk to you,” Lerryn hollered.
“Just a minute, Lerryn. Yes, go on, Retta, but don’t stay long. I’ll have breakfast ready soon.”
Retta raced down the row of wagons.
A tall, thin woman fried meat in an iron spider skillet over a small fire. Their campsite was littered with wooden cases and dining room chairs.
“Good mornin’, Mrs. O’Day.”
The woman wiped flour off her hands. “Hello, Retta dear. What was all the screaming in your wagon?”
“Lerryn saw something that frightened her when she first woke up,” Retta replied.
“A scorpion or a snake?”
“Whatever it was must have been very scary. May I check on Gilson?”
“Please do. Perhaps you can talk her into eating some biscuits and gravy.”
Retta crawled up on the O’Day wagon and stuck her head inside the flap. Gilson had a dark green comforter pulled up to her chin. Her thin blonde hair stuck out in several directions.
“Good mornin’, yellow-haired girl,” Retta called out. First one eye, then the other opened. Gilson didn’t move anything else. “Hi, Retta.”
Retta scooted in next to her friend and sat on an ox- hide-covered trunk. “I heard you’re feeling poorly today.” Gilson pulled the comforter down to her shoulders. “Do you ever think about dying, Retta?”
Retta’s hand went to her mouth. “I try not to.”
Gilson rose up on one elbow and leaned closer. “Why? Why don’t you want to think about dying? It’s as natural as eating and breathing, isn’t it?”
Retta brushed the girl’s blonde bangs back out of her eyes. “What kind of talk is this? I come here to cheer up my sick friend, and you want to talk about dying?”
Gilson laid her head back down and closed her eyes. “Sometimes I think about it,” she murmured.
“Remember two weeks ago when I ate those berries that I thought were ripe, but they weren’t, and I got sick to my stomach?” Retta asked.
“Yes.”
“I sort of wanted to die that day.”
“I want to die every day.”
Retta rocked back and forth. Lord, this talk is scaring me. I don’t know what to say. “What are you talking about?”
Tea
rs trickled out of Gilson’s eyes and plunged to the pillow. “I’m so sick and tired of being sick and tired all the time, Retta.”
“I don’t want you talking about dying. You aren’t going to die for a long, long time. We’re moving out West, and it is very, very healthy out there. We are going to live to be old ladies with dozens of grandchildren, and we’ll sit around in the church basement making quilts and making up stories about the Oregon Trail.”
“Making up stories?”
“Well, there hasn’t been very much excitement on our journey. Besides, when you’re ninety years old, you can’t remember anything. So we’ll have to make up things,” Retta declared. “Maybe we should practice.”
Gilson opened both eyes again. “What do you mean?”
Retta reached down and took her hand. “Why don’t you sit up, and we’ll pretend we are old and quilting.”
“Really?”
“Sure, I’ll help you.” Retta pulled Gilson to a sitting position and then sat down on the floor and spread the quilt out between them.
Retta pretended to have a needle in her hand. She held the quilt up as if sewing. “Well, honey, this quilt reminds me of one day when we were out on the trail. Do you remember that day?”
“Huh?”
“I’m pretending, Gilson. Pretend we are very old and in Oregon and remembering this trip.”
A slight smile crossed the blonde girl’s pale face. “Oh, okay. Eh ... which particular day were you thinking of, sweetie?”
“See ... you can do it,” Retta called out. “Do you remember the day when the red-headed girl fell off the fancy black horse and landed right in the fresh buffalo dung?”
Gilson giggled. “You mean, the MacGregor girl, dearie?”
“Was that her name? I can’t remember.”
“I think her first name was Ansley,” Gilson said.
“Was that it, snookie? I thought her name was Pansy.”
Both girls rolled over on the quilt in laughter.
Gilson coughed twice and gulped a big breath. “No, I’m sure it was Ansley. What do you suppose ever happened to her?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Retta sat up, waving her hands in front of her.
“Hear what, dear one? Speak a little louder. That’s my bad ear. ”
Retta shouted, “She never married.”
Gilson flashed a pretend look of shock. “No!”
“Yes, it’s true. She’s living in a small home in Baltimore with her mother.”
“Her mother? Ansley must be ninety-one years old. Her mother would be 120.”
“Mother?” Retta laughed. “No, you misunderstood. I said her brother.”
Gilson shook her head. “Ansley didn’t have a brother. She was an only child.”
“Oh, no. Don’t you remember? He was born right after Fort Hall. Ansley was ... eh ... thirteen.”
“Oh, yes, that brother!” Gilson clapped. “Well, it’s a shame she never married. I wonder why?”
“No one ever asked her, I suppose.”
“Yes, I reckon you’re right.”
Retta pretended to be sewing the quilt. “Do you remember how the boys used to follow after us on the trail?”
Gilson’s body rocked back and forth. “Oh, yes. It was quite embarrassing at times.”
“You know, there were nights on the trail when I longed to be plain and simple like Ansley so the boys would leave me alone.” Retta raised her round nose and tried not to grin.
“Yes, I know what you mean, honey.” Gilson glided her pretend needle along the quilt. “Although I suppose there are a few advantages in not being married or having children.”
“Oh?”
“Think of all the washing and ironing she didn’t have to do.”
Retta nodded. “I see your point. And she certainly didn’t have to go through childbirth six times like we did.”
“Twelve times, dear,” Gilson corrected.
“Twelve times?” Retta gasped.
“We both have twelve children. Remember?”
“Oh yes! Six boys and six girls.”
Gilson’s blue eyes flashed. “All this make-believe is getting painful.”
“Well now, dearie, just remember, before you have babies, you have to have a husband that loves you and ... you have to...” Retta slapped her hand over her mouth and giggled.
Gilson chuckled. “Retta Emily Barre, are you being naughty?”
“Almost. Come on, get dressed. Let’s go see if Ansley has fallen into the buffalo dung yet.”
Gilson struggled to her feet. “Okay. Hand me my yellow dress. Not all of us have buckskin to wear.”
Chapter 8
The sun hung halfway down the western sky as Retta hiked along the line of wagons. She stopped at a large loaded Conestoga, the second biggest wagon in the train. “Hi, Ben, is Christen here?”
“Nah. She and Mom went up the line to see the Randolphs’ new baby,” the fourteen-year-old replied.
“A new baby? When was it born?”
“Last night, so I hear. What have you been doin’ all day, Retta? You didn’t go see your Indians, did you?”
Retta stared down at her shoes. “Papa wouldn’t let me. He said it was too muddy. So me and Mama washed some clothes and ironed them. Mama ironed them. I just kept the fire and the irons hot.”
“Iron clothes? She worries about that out here on the plains? My mama said she was not heatin’ an iron until she gets to Oregon,” Ben declared.
“You know how Mama is. She’s very particular. ‘Isolation is no excuse for being slovenly.’ She was upset ’cause she didn’t have any starch for her apron. What have you been doin’, Ben?”
He jammed his floppy brown felt hat back on his head. “Mainly just listenin’. Some folks are giving the colonel a bad time. They want to break off and go on their own.”
“I don’t know why anyone would be in that big a hurry.”
“Some think they are still goin’ to find gold in California if they get there quick enough. They claim it would be better to leave tomorrow, even if we only go a few miles.” Ben yanked his hunting knife from its sheath and bent over to scrape mud from his boots.
“When Papa signed onto the wagon train, he had to agree to do what the colonel says,” Retta declared.
Ben scraped his other boot clean. “So did all the rest. But I reckon now they are changin’ their minds.”
“If we pull out tomorrow, I won’t be able to go see Two Bears and his family,” Retta said.
“Do you really think you can find them again?”
“Yes. I’ll find them, or they’ll find me.”
“And you’re going to take me with you, right?”
“Yes, but we have to include others, too.”
Ben looked around as if expecting someone to be listening. “Why?”
Retta puffed out her cheeks. “It wouldn’t look right.”
“What do you mean, it wouldn’t look right? What are you talkin’ about?”
“You’re not so ignorant, Ben Weaver. You know perfectly well what I mean. A boy and a girl goin’ off together to the river wouldn’t be proper.”
“You and me?” he hooted. “No one would say anything. You’re only twelve years old.”
“I’m twelve and a half. Besides, you just turned fourteen.”
“I’m big for my age.”
Retta glanced down at her buckskin dress. “And I am ... I am ... twelve and a half,” she repeated.
“We’ve known each other all our lives. You—you’re like a sister to me,” he exclaimed.
“I am not your sister, Ben Weaver,” she snapped.
“I didn’t mean that.” He blushed.
He shoved his knife back into the sheath. “Who do you want to take with us?”
“Christen and Joslyn and maybe Gilson, if she feels like it,” Retta replied.
Ben pulled off his hat. His curly hair exploded like a jack-in-the-box. “You mean I have to go find the Indians with a bunch of girls?”
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Retta crossed her arms across her chest. “No, you don’t have to go at all, Benjamin Weaver. Besides, you were willing to go if it were only me.”
“Yeah, but that’s different.” His smile revealed two dimples besides the one in his chin. “I want to see some Indians.”
“We’ll see them all right.”
“But, you know, I was hopin’ it would be just you and me.”
Retta studied his eyes. “Why?”
“’Cause.”
“Ben Weaver, what were you scheming?”
He dropped his smile and swallowed hard. “I just thought if I got really scared or something, no one would see me except you.”
“And I don’t count?” Retta asked.
“No!” He stared right back in her eyes. “Retta, you’re always on my side. You and me have been pals for a long time. I know I could depend on you to help me and not tell anyone.”
“I already promised the girls they could come,” she explained. “But there won’t be anything to be scared of with Two Bears.”
“I don’t think Joslyn will come with us tomorrow. I heard they were one of the wagons breakin’ off the trail and goin’ on.”
Retta laced her fingers and pulled them to her lips. “No, they can’t do that.”
Ben pointed up the wagon row. “They have the light buckboard wagon and tent. Mr. Landers thinks they can make it with some of the men on horseback.”
“But—but...” Retta held her breath, puffed out her cheeks, and then blurted out, “I don’t want her to go.”
“Maybe they won’t do it,” Ben murmured.
“I’m going to talk to Joslyn.”
Ben grabbed her arm. “And you won’t go see the Indians without me?”
Retta glanced at his hand and raised her eyebrows. “Nope.”
Ben dropped his arm to his side. “And you won’t tell anyone I was sort of afraid to go see them?”
“Nope,” she said.
The wide dimple returned to his chin. “I knew I could count on you.”
Retta curled her lip down. “Yep, that’s me—your pal.” She hiked out from under the canvas awning.
Ben scurried up to her. “Wait a minute. I’ll walk with you.”
A wide grin draped her face as she walked alongside him. Lord, I like it when Ben walks with me. Is it bad to like having a boy walk with me? “So you want to go see Joslyn with me?”