The Personal History of Rachel DuPree

by Ann Weisgarber

  Isaac said, “Any other time, I’d buy his ranch outright. But until I can, and Al’s agreed, I’m leasing grazing rights from him.”

  I didn’t understand. We didn’t have a red cent to our name. The short supplies Isaac brought home a few days ago showed that. My hands began to pat my swelled-up belly.

  “When I go back for the horses,” he said, “I’m going through the rest of Al’s herd, see what I want before he takes them to market.”

  I was too stunned to say anything.

  “It’ll be tight,” Isaac said, “but Al’s got some good range-land. And this is a chance to replace the cattle we’ve lost this summer. It’ll get us back to where we were. I’m taking Al’s bull. That animal’s top-notch . . . smooth back, good-angled legs, easy disposition. I’ll lease him out; he’ll pay for himself in no time flat. Like he did for Al.” He paused. “With a lot of hard work and a little luck, it’ll be like this drought never happened.”

  I couldn’t get any air. Isaac said, “The rain’s turned our luck. You can put in your garden. I’ll get the winter wheat planted. And here’s something else. Al wants us to have that Deadwood piano. Maybe one of the children has your brother’s knack for music.”

  There was less than four weeks’ worth of supplies in the kitchen. The root cellar was bare. Winter was coming. I said, “How many cows are you buying? Along with this bull?”

  Isaac rubbed his thumb across the tips of his fingers like he was counting, like he hadn’t already thought it out. “A hundred or so. About half of them are settled. That’ll be close to a hundred and fifty after calving season.”

  “A hundred? I thought we were nearly broke. I thought most of it went for Mabel Walker’s place.”

  “I’ve got it all worked out.”

  “How?”

  The air tensed. Since the day I’d married Isaac, I had never questioned his judgment. He always knew what to do; I even let him put Liz in the well. But not now. If there was money, it had to be for supplies, not grazing rights and more cattle.

  “Please, Isaac,” I said. “Tell me how you’re going to pay for all this.”

  He didn’t say anything; he just stared off toward Grindstone Butte. Finally he said, “Al’s agreed to let me pay him next spring.”

  “Spring? Where’s the money going to come from? And what about supplies?”

  “What about them?”

  “You only brought home four weeks’ worth.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “I don’t see how. Can’t even count on having any cabbage and squash, not when we haven’t planted yet.”

  “We’ll be all right. I told you I’ve got it all worked out. The war, it’s going to save us.”

  “The war?”

  “Cattle prices are sure to shoot up. Even stringy beef will get a decent price.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?”

  “It will. It’s driving up the price of gold too. Al McKee told me, and Fred Schuling’s heard the same thing, that they need more men at the Homestake Mine, over in the Black Hills. I’m going to see about hiring on for the winter.”

  My hand found the letter in my pocket. I gripped it like it was Sue’s hand I was holding.

  “I’ll leave mid-November. I’ll be back before calving season. Fred said he’ll come by whenever he can.”

  The porch floor tilted; I was dizzy with disbelief. “I don’t understand. You’re leaving us?”

  “Wages are good at the gold mine.”

  “You’re going to be gone? During the winter?”

  “Fred’ll come by. I’ll send him my pay; he’ll bring supplies.”

  “We’ll be here by ourselves? Is that what you’re saying? Me and the children?”

  “You’ll be all right.”

  “No. No.”

  “Rachel.”

  “Don’t leave us.”

  “I have to.”

  “Then send us to my mother’s, like Al’s doing for Mindy.”

  “I need you here, to look after the livestock.”

  “But I can’t. I can’t make paths to the barn, not when the snow’s up to my waist. I can’t get hay out to the cattle. I can’t chop ice when the stock tanks are froze up. Not with a baby.”

  “You’ve got Mary and John.”

  “They can’t take your place.”

  “They’ll come close.”

  “What about your mother? Ask her—she has money. Then you won’t have to work the mine.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll pay her back.”

  “It’s a handout.”

  “It’s your mother.”

  “I said no.”

  I turned my head like I’d been slapped. Far off, coyotes yipped and howled. My skin crawled. Isaac was going to the gold mine. He didn’t care what I thought. His mind was made up. He was going, and he expected me to run the ranch.

  The coyotes’ howling sounded like demons, circling, coming closer. I pinched the corners of my eyes to stop the tears.

  “Rachel, look.” Isaac was calmer now. I pinched harder at my eyes; I knew what was coming. He was going to talk me into liking the idea. But not this time. This time he was asking too much. I steeled myself.

  He said, “Look, I know this comes as a surprise, and I don’t like it either. But it’s a chance; it’s an opportunity to pull us out of this hard time. I have to do it. They—” He stopped himself, and in that moment I believed I heard what he was thinking but couldn’t say. People expect me to give up; they think I’ve bit off more than I can chew. No Negro, not even Isaac DuPree, is smart enough—tough enough—not when times get hard. But I am, and I’m going to show every last one of them.

  “Don’t do this thing,” I said. “Please.”

  “I have to. There’s no other way around it. I’m not saying it’ll be easy; it won’t be. But you can do this, Rachel, I know you can. You’ve chopped sod, you’ve strung fences, you’ve driven the horses during planting season. Usually you’ve had a baby in your belly or one on your hip. You’ve done without. You lived in that sod dugout over there longer than most would’ve. You’ve built this place, same as me. Twenty-five hundred acres, Rachel. You and me. Nothing’s too big for you.”

  I stared at him.

  “Not many men can say that about their women. But I can.”

  Nothing’s too big for you. Isaac DuPree admired me. It was in his words and in his voice. It bucked me up. In the dark I felt him looking at me. I imagined a shine in his eyes. Heat rose from my chest, ran up my neck, and made my cheeks burn.

  It all came down to this: I still wanted to make Isaac glad that he had married me. I wanted to live up to his admiration. I wanted to hear it again in his voice.

  He found my hands. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get some sleep.” I let him pull me to my feet. My hands in his, he rubbed his thumbs along my fingers. Maybe I can do it, I told myself. Isaac had a way of making things work out. It might be a mild winter. Fred Schuling could bring supplies. The shame of giving up would be a burden too heavy to carry. Better to try than to quit.

  “All right,” I said.

  “You’re made of grit,” Isaac said. He put an arm around my shoulders and steered me to the door. The letter in my apron pocket crackled. I put my hand to it.

  “Not now,” Isaac said. “It’s late.”

  I nodded. Whatever Sue had to say could wait.

  12

  JOHNNY

  Nothing’s too big for you. Those were the words I heard in my mind the next day. I heard them when the rain started back up again, beating the tin roof. I heard them as water ran into the downspouts and gushed into the rain barrels. Rain pinged in the basins that lined the edge of the porch, and the words tapped in my mind. Three days of rain and everything was better. Three days of rain and a fast-moving stream coursed through the wash by the cottonwood.

  It was a day for inside work. Isaac and John were in the barn going over equipment, seeing what needed cleaning and oiling and what needed fixi
ng. Me and Mary worked in the kitchen and the little girls played under the table with their rag dolls. Mary stirred the big pot on the cookstove; she was boiling pillowcases. I folded one that she’d finished and cranked it through the wringer. A basin caught the squeezed-out water. I’d use it again. I wasn’t about to waste a drop.

  A cool breeze came through the kitchen window. Fall, I thought. It’s come. The baby still hadn’t kicked, but the bleeding had slowed down. Emma’s burned hand was some better. The drought was broken; determination had taken hold of my mind. I believed myself able to face all things, even Isaac’s faults. I was determined to live up to his admiration. Me and the children would stand the winter without him.

  I hung the pillowcase on the clothesline we’d put up earlier in the kitchen. It’d be a few minutes before there’d be another one to wring. I put my hand in my apron pocket and felt the unopened letter from Sue. “Mind the girls,” I said to Mary.

  I went to my bedroom, closed the door, and got out Isaac’s magnifying glass. I eased into my rocker; it was good to get off of my legs. I slipped my thumbnail along the flap of the envelope and pulled out the folded pages.

  My nerves balling up on me, I held the pages to my nose and breathed them in. I could almost smell the black ink. The letter came from a home that had electric lights, a kitchen sink with running water, and an icebox packed with cuts of meat. It came from a city where people went to movie houses, listened to music on phonographs, and drove Model Ts on paved roads. Telephones rang, and in narrow apartment hallways, neighbors spoke to one another.

  I smelled the pages again like I could bring that kind of life to the Badlands. Then I told myself it was time. I held the letter to the light that came through the small window over the bed. I put the magnifying glass to Sue’s words. They rose up big before me.

  August 10, 1917

  Dear Sister,

  The Kids are asleep and Paul left just now for his shift at the hotel. At last I have a few minutes to finally write this Letter. I have put it off long enough. Mama tried but couldn’t bring herself to. I myself am real tired and my hands ache bad so I will keep this short.

  I do not know what you hear way out there. Probably not much but surely you heard about the troubles in East St Louis and are worried sick about our Brother. You are right to be worried. I do not know how to put this other than Johnny is dead.

  The pages dropped to my lap. I felt like crying and laughing all at the same time. I thought it would be my mother. Johnny never crossed my mind. I read part of the last sentence again. Johnny is dead.

  Me and Mama were in the Laundry Room when we heard about the Race Riot down there. That is what the newspapers called it. A Race Riot. When we heard about it Mama got a real bad feeling. She ran out the Hotel and went to the Telegraph Office and sent a Telegram to Johnny. We waited two days to hear from him. It was hard. Mama finally asked Mrs Fuller if she could use one of the Hotel Telephones to call Johnnys Boarding House. She said yes but she would take it out of Mamas pay. I would say that woman does not have a heart but she helped Mama make the Telephone Call which is not so easy it being Long Distance.

  Pearl came on the Telephone Line and she did not know where he was, she said that mobs of White Men were hanging Negroes and she was packing their things cause it was not safe. White Men were kicking down doors telling people to get out of town and then setting fire to their houses. She was crying and Mama could not make out half of what she said. Mama asked her where was Johnny and she said she did not know. Johnny had not been home in two days and she was too scared to go look for him. Mama told her that when Johnny comes home tell him to send his Mother a Telegram right away she was worried sick.

  Rachel my hands hurt bad I have to quit.

  August 11

  I told the kids to be quiet I have to finish my letter to you.

  After Mama talked to Pearl a whole week went by. Then Mama got a Letter instead of a Telegram and it was not from Johnny but from some man by the name of Quince Armstrong. A Friend of Johnnys. He said in his Letter that a mob of White Men busted into Connies. That is the place where Johnny was playing. These White Men were swinging baseball bats and Johnny got hit real bad on the head. He held on for a few days but never said nothing. Then he passed away. July 6. He is buried down there and Mamas heart is broke cause he is so far away from home in some Potters Field with no marker. She wants to have him dug up so she can bring him home but she does not have the money. Paul says we do not have it either.

  And we want to know what happened to Pearl and the babies. We want to bring them home. Mama wants them here. But we do not know where they are. This has taken the Life right out of Mama. I am worried about her.

  August 16

  This Letter is worrying me. I promise you I will finish it tonight.

  Sister every body is nervous here. We are careful to stay on our side of town. So many Southern Negroes have moved to Chicago to work in the factories for the War Effort that the White People and some Negroes too are saying there are too many. That is what they said in East St Louis and look what happened to Johnny. Johnny never hurt a fly. You are lucky to be where you are. Nobody can say The Badlands is crowded with too many Negroes.

  This is Sad News. I am sorry to be the one to tell you.

  Your loving sister,

  Sue

  P.S. Quince Armstrong sent some of Johnnys music. He said that Johnny wrote them. Having them is a comfort to Mama.

  I folded the pages, careful to keep the same creases. I put the letter in the envelope. Johnny had been dead almost ten weeks, and I never even had a feeling about it. When we were children, I always knew when something was wrong with him. I could read his face; I could tell what he was thinking. He could do the same with me. When Mama scolded one of us, it hurt both of our feelings. If one of us did good on a school examination, we were both happy. That was, I always believed, because Mama raised us as twins. Johnny was just eleven months and three days older than me.

  We weren’t twins, though. I was everyday plain, but not Johnny. He was the one with a God-given gift. He played the piano. He played so well that his music glided in the air like loose strands of light blue silk long after he bowed his head and his fingers left the keyboard.

  Pain squeezed my chest. Johnny couldn’t be dead. But the words were on paper, and those papers were in my hands, and that made it true.

  I put the letter back in my apron pocket. I got my shawl. I walked through the kitchen. “Mind the girls,” I said to Mary.

  “Mama?” she said.

  “Mind the girls.”

  I put the shawl over my head. I went out into the rain and stepped off of the porch into the mud. I sank up to my ankles. I lifted each foot, one at a time, the mud sucking at my boots. It coated the hem of my dress. I made my way down the rise to the barn, seeing nothing but Johnny’s face. From the time he turned fourteen, his brown eyes carried a nervous look. That was about the time when Dad started talking about Johnny being old enough to work in the slaughterhouses.

  “My hands,” he would tell me when no one else was around. “Butchering will kill my hands.”

  “You don’t have to,” I always said. “Not you. You’re meant for more.”

  I pictured him bent over a piano, his long fingers barely touching the keys. I saw a swinging baseball bat smack the back of Johnny’s head, knocking him into the front of a brown upright piano, its wood scarred with cigarette burns. Sheets of music scattered as the last notes that Johnny ever played crashed under his collapsed weight.

  “Isaac,” I said when I got to the barn door.

  “In here,” he called.

  I stepped into the barn and wiped the rain from my face. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. Isaac was with Jerseybell in her stall. The rotten stink coming from her was so strong that I put my hand to my nose like that would make a difference. I went to her stall. Long, ropy strings of dark drool hung from her open mouth.

  “I was just coming to get
Mary,” Isaac said when he saw me. “I need a hand. Had to send John out to upright a few fence posts. A little rain’s nothing to him.”

  “Isaac,” I said, but that was as far as I got. My mouth wasn’t working right, and my face was numb.

  “She’s in a bad way,” Isaac said, and he could have been talking about me. He ran a hand along Jerseybell’s back. “Poor girl. She’s served us well, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes.” My eyes began to water.

  He said, “I’ve got one last thing to try. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to put her down.” He picked up a long, black rubber tube. “It’ll go hard on Mary. If it comes to that.”

  Isaac had Jerseybell on a short rope tied to the railing. “Hold the lantern for me, will you?” he said. “Hold it high.” He pried open Jerseybell’s teeth and looked into her mouth. Her startled eyes rolled, but she didn’t make any effort to pull away. “Stinks,” Isaac said, shaking his head. He glanced at me. “This making you queasy?”

  “No.”

  Isaac looked again at me. “You look queasy. You all right?”

  “I’m all right.”

  He took me at my word. He cleaned the snot from her nose with a rag. I looked away; cow snot was the one thing I couldn’t take. Then, with one arm tight around Jerseybell’s neck to hold her still, Isaac snaked the tube through one nostril. When the tube was in her front stomach, Isaac said, “Get the castor oil going.” He kept one hand on the tube at Jerseybell’s nose.

  I hung the lantern up, took off my shawl, and put it on a railing. I found the funnel and began pouring the oil into the tube.

  Jerseybell didn’t bother to jerk her head away from Isaac’s tight hold. She watched me, her eyes rolling like she was pleading for me to stop this, like she wanted to be left alone so she could die in peace. “Don’t blame you,” I said to her.