I put the gown on the bed beside my wedding dress. Taking a rag, I went to the kitchen and dipped it in a water bucket. Back in the bedroom, I got undressed.
The baby heaved as I washed between my legs. I gripped the bedpost and counted until I lost track.
When it was over, I put on the birthing gown and sat in the rocker. Rounder came into the room and with a grunt, settled down on the floor beside me.
“John’ll mind if he wakes up and finds you gone,” I said. “But I’m glad for the company.” He thumped his tail. “You’re a good dog. Should’ve named you Faithful.” And then I thought about Isaac being gone when I needed him home. I thought about his plans to leave us this winter, and how I’d be doing my own leaving too.
With my foot, I pushed the rocker back and forth, trying to ease the ache in my back. Things could go bad if Mary had to deliver the baby. She had a steady hand and a stout heart, but all the same, she was just a child. Grown women had been known to panic if a birthing went wrong. If something bad happened, it’d go rough on Mary. It’d be the kind of thing she’d never forget. Or forgive herself for.
Through watery eyes, I saw my wedding dress that I’d left on the bed. I got up, picked it up, and sat back down. I blew the thin layer of gray dust that coated it. The white scalloped lace collar was so pretty, I’d nearly forgotten. And it hadn’t yellowed at all. That would please Mama no end. She had made the lace.
My back throbbed. I shifted my weight some, grateful that the labor pains had stopped. Everything is all right, I told myself. The baby was waiting on Isaac.
I fingered the lace collar, following the scalloped edging. On the very first Saturday afternoon after Isaac had agreed to marry me, I had met Mama and Sue on the corner across the street from the Palmer Hotel. They laughed when they saw me coming. Like them, I had just gotten off work and I was nearly running with excitement, darting around knots of slow-moving people, the cloth handbag with my weekly pay in it pressed to my bosom. I smiled to think what Mrs. DuPree would do if she knew how I planned to spend the money. At the street corner, the three of us caught the trolley that carried us to Green’s Fine Fabrics. There we studied books of dress patterns and fingered bolts of material.
I wanted my wedding dress to be a light blue, and Sue thought I looked best in yellow. It was Mama what settled the matter. “You’ll want something dark for the train ride,” she said. “The soot will be something awful, going all that way.” After a while, the three of us settled on a plum-colored satin.
Every Sunday afternoon for five weeks we sewed in the front room of our two-bedroom rented house. Mama did the lace work while Sue worked the Singer machine making the skirt. I stitched by hand the bodice with its full, pleated sleeves and made the buttonholes that ran down the back. While we worked, we talked about that morning’s preaching, and who was in church and who wasn’t. We talked about who had the fanciest hat with the most feathers, and who was making eyes at who. We talked about the people at our jobs, and we talked about all of Sue’s suitors and how Paul Anders kept asking her to marry him. We talked about what I needed for my own kitchen. But the one thing we didn’t talk about was how far away I was going or how lonesome it’d be for those left behind.
On my wedding day—a Wednesday—Mama and Sue helped me get into my dress. “Just look at you,” Mama told me. “You’re as pretty as a picture.”
“Prettier,” Sue said.
They kissed me good-bye; we told each other again that we’d write every Sunday. Mama cried some, and then they went on to work at the hotel. That left just me and Dad in the kitchen, with neither of us having much to say. My traveling trunk filled with clothes, linens, dishes, and pans sat by the back door. I was too nervous to eat the breakfast I’d cooked, but Dad’s appetite was good and he ate in a hurry. After he mopped up the last of his eggs with a crust of bread, he left without saying a word and limped back to his bedroom. I washed up the dishes, wearing my apron to cover my dress. I got weepy thinking how it was the last time I’d wash Mama’s dishes. I was drying the last one when Dad came in wearing his Sunday suit, his gray hair combed. “What’re you looking at?” he said.
“Nothing.” I swallowed. Then, “You.”
“Isn’t this your wedding day?” I nodded, all at once smiling, happy, not minding his gruffness. I hadn’t figured on Dad coming to the wedding. He hadn’t wanted me to marry Isaac DuPree. He disapproved of me going off with a man he hadn’t met.
But on my wedding day Dad limped two blocks down to the main corner and hailed a horse cab to come to the house. “I’m not having my daughter meeting her groom with mud on her shoes,” he said while the driver loaded my trunk. “New, too, aren’t they?”
It was grand riding in that horse cab with Dad in his Sunday suit beside me. When we pulled up at the church, Isaac stood on the gravel sidewalk looking down the street like he expected me to be on foot. My breath caught as I watched him from the cab window. He wore his army uniform and was fresh shaved. He could have had any woman in Chicago. I could hardly believe he was willing to settle for me.
The cab driver opened the door, and when I got out, Isaac took a step back. It was like he didn’t know me in my satin dress, my waist pinched narrow by my corset, my face half covered by the wide-brimmed plum felt hat. The shock on his face showed that he had never thought of me in anything but patched-over dresses and aprons.
Isaac recovered enough of his wits to introduce himself to Dad, saying how pleased he was to finally meet the father of his bride. Dad only grunted. Then, still looking at me like he didn’t know me, Isaac offered his arm. “No,” Dad said. “She’s still mine.”
“Yes, sir,” Isaac said. “That she is.”
He followed us into the church. I felt his eyes on me, and the secret pleasure of it made heat rise to my cheeks. During the ceremony, with Dad and my brother Johnny nearby, Preacher Teller told me and Isaac to stay on Jesus’ path and to always look to the Lord in times of trouble. I will, I told myself. And then I heard the words “for better for worse, for richer for poorer” and “till death us do part,” and all I could think was, Please, Lord, let death do the parting. Don’t let it be our bargain.
Now, sitting in my rocker, I touched the lace collar on my wedding dress. There were thirty-four pearl-shaped buttons that ran from the back of the collar clear down to the waist. Mama had paid for the buttons. They were her gift to me.
I wore the plum satin dress on the train. It had been a long trip; sitting together on the train as man and wife changed everything. We didn’t know what to say. There was no boardinghouse kitchen to sit in, no dishes to wash, nothing to help us talk. There was only the pleasure of our arms side by side, sharing the same armrest, our fingertips meeting by accident from time to time. But it was a pleasure so deep that there were moments when I was faint with wooziness.
The trip, a dusty journey with many stops and starts, took the day and the following night. We rode it sitting up, and we changed trains once in Omaha long after dark. On the first train, when we walked into the dining car, the other passengers stopped eating and stared. Maybe those white people were surprised that Negroes could afford the dining car. Or maybe they had never seen a Negro in an army uniform and his wife in such a fine dress. The man who took the diners to their tables gave us a peculiar look. He pursed his lips and pointed to the table closest to the kitchen. I didn’t think a thing of it, but when I saw the tight look on Isaac’s face, I said, “My, isn’t this something? Our food’ll be good and hot coming directly from the kitchen.” The tightness in Isaac’s face faded, and then he smiled some, making everything all right again.
We got to Sioux Falls as the sun was coming up, less than twenty-four hours since the wedding. The next train to Interior didn’t leave until late evening. Zeb Butler, from Isaac’s army days, met us with his buggy at the train station. Glad to see each other, Isaac and Zeb laughed and slapped each other’s backs. I stood off to the side, my black cloth purse in my gloved hands as the two
of them joshed. There were white people everywhere on the station platform, and I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I made like I was taking in the sights.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Isaac had said it was the last big town east of the Missouri, and so I had pictured it the size of Chicago. But there wasn’t much to the station, only four tracks, and I didn’t see the first skyscraper anywhere, just low wooden buildings. There weren’t any Negroes either, other than us, and that gave me a feeling of uneasiness.
Zeb said something, Isaac laughed, and then he turned to me and took my arm. “Rachel,” he said to Zeb.
Zeb put his hand to his heart and bowed. “How do you do?” he said. He was older than Isaac; there was gray in his hair and he hadn’t shaved in four or five days. He was almost as dark as me. His belly hung over his belt, and I thought I smelled drink on him.
“My wife can’t wait to meet the bride,” Zeb told me as we started toward his horses and buggy, picking our way over the dirt road. He took my hand to help me up into the buggy, and I believed that he held it longer than what was needed. I sat in the front and waited as the men strapped my trunk and Isaac’s bag to the back of the buggy. Zeb Butler climbed up beside me then, and Isaac got in the backseat. I didn’t like how Zeb let the side of his leg rest beside mine. I tried to make myself small.
“Yep,” Zeb said after he cracked the reins and the buggy began to roll. “My wife wants to meet the woman that finally caught Isaac DuPree.”
That got me to wondering just how many others had tried.
The Butler house was on the edge of town, not all that far from the train station. It was a faint yellow, it wanted fresh paint, and the yard needed trimming. The house beside it was empty and boarded up. Iris Butler, thinner and taller than her husband, came out to the alley to greet us. Her apron, I saw, was fresh, and that cheered me. She hugged Isaac and then me. “You got yourself a wild one,” she whispered into my ear. “But you’ll tame him. Like I did Zeb.”
Startled, I tried to smile and think of something to say. “Much obliged for the hospitality,” I managed to say. As soon as the words were out, I felt lost and homesick in that strange town. I didn’t know the Butlers. I didn’t know anybody. Isaac was a stranger; even I was a stranger in my beautiful dress. I should be cooking breakfast at the boardinghouse. I should be going home tonight to my parents. I should be sleeping beside Sue tonight, not by this man who somehow had become my husband.
Iris Butler said, “You could stand a washing up. Come on.” I followed her upstairs, and she took me to a bedroom that had a damp smell. She told me that most Negroes that passed through town stayed a night or two with them but Isaac was an old friend and the room was free. The bed, I saw, sagged in the middle, and its spread might have been white a long time ago. “Got you a pitcher of water, a towel too,” Iris said, nodding to the washstand beside the bed. “Breakfast’ll be ready when you are.” She started to turn away but then she stopped. “That’s one fine dress,” she said, her eyes sweeping up and down my figure. She studied me like a man might. My cheeks turned hot. “Isaac did good for himself,” she said. “But he always did have an eye for such things.”
“Oh,” I said, and then I stumbled toward the washstand, feeling faint, not liking the meaning behind her words.
I washed up as best as I could, the cool water in the pitcher perking me up. I told myself that all men had an eye for women and that Isaac was no different. I dried my face and neck with the towel that Iris had laid out, trying not to notice that someone had used it before me. Instead, I reminded myself that I might be wearing a plum satin dress, but I was just the kitchen help. Isaac had married me only so he could stake a claim in my name. That was all I was to him, just a claim.
My hands shaking, I took off my hat and fixed my hair. I gathered my courage, went downstairs, and found the three of them at the kitchen table eating. I sat down with them and picked at the eggs and bacon. Isaac, Zeb, and Iris talked about the army days at Fort Robinson. Zeb and Iris had been married for five years when Zeb joined up, and Iris earned extra money by doing laundry for one of the officers and his family. The three of them laughed over the times that they’d had at the fort. They clicked their tongues and shook their heads when talking about the people they once knew. I felt far away from them all; I didn’t belong. I kept a smile, though, and laughed when they did. But I was alone in that room with those people. I didn’t like the Butlers, and I didn’t know what to make of Isaac. Laughing and joshing, he had become as rough cut as Zeb and Iris.
Iris washed the dishes, and I dried as the men talked about the homesteads Isaac had staked in our names. “That’s wild country out there,” Zeb said. “It’s going to be hard to make a go of it. Most folks don’t last a winter. DuPree, you sure about this?”
“Hush,” Iris said, glancing at me. “Zeb, these two are worn out, and I’ll be late for work if I don’t hurry up. As for you, Old Lady Chapman is sure to be looking for you with a list of chores a mile long.” Her hands made a shooing motion at Isaac and me. “Now you two go on. Make yourselves at home. Me and Zeb’ll be gone the better part of the day. Be close to suppertime before we get home.”
When Zeb thought I weren’t looking, he winked at Isaac. “That’s right,” he said, grinning. “Won’t be nobody to bother you all day.”
My belly tightened. Alone with Isaac. “I’ll have supper started,” I said to Iris, my voice sounding tinny in my ears, my hands gripping the dish towel.
“I bet you will,” Zeb said. He laughed hard and Iris did too. The coarseness of their meaning made me burn with shame and confusion. My eyes down, I twisted the dish towel even tighter.
“Zeb,” Isaac said, a note of warning in his voice. Zeb and Iris didn’t seem to hear. Still laughing, they made a big show of leaving, slamming the door behind them, calling out good-bye too loud.
When they were gone, Isaac said, “Put down that towel.” I did.
“You all right?” he said.
I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want to be alone with him in the Butlers’ house. It felt dirty to me; I wanted to scrub the floors, I wanted to wash the bedclothes, I wanted to get back on the train and go home.
“Zeb,” Isaac said. “He—”
I looked up at him. His tone told me that he didn’t like what Zeb had said. The sick feeling in my belly eased. Isaac was a gentleman; he was a better cut than Zeb. He understood my shame; he wasn’t going to push. He was going to give me time. “Yes,” I said, relieved. “I’m all right.”
His eyes darted past the kitchen to the stairs that went up to the bedroom. I took it to mean that he thought I should have a little rest. I smiled my gratitude and began walking that way. Isaac followed and that surprised me. I stopped and looked back at him.
I was wrong. There was expectation in Isaac’s eyes. I was his wife, and I had told him that I was all right.
The house was quiet with the Butlers gone. The wood floors creaked and each stair step groaned as we climbed them. My dress rustled, and I held the skirt to keep from tripping. I went into the narrow bedroom where I’d washed up earlier and stared at the bright red wallpaper roses that swirled and climbed up the walls. Mama would call it trashy. Sunlight flooded in the eastward window, showing dirty streaks. The room was too bright but the window didn’t have a shade. My back to him, I listened as Isaac closed the door behind him, the latch catching with a click.
He put his pocket watch on the dresser beside me. I heard him take off his jacket and work his arms out of his suspenders. I stood frozen, my back to him, my breath held.
“Turn around,” Isaac said.
I couldn’t get my feet to move.
“Damn,” he said. He let out a whistle of air. “You don’t know anything about this. Do you?”
Still not looking at him, I shook my head.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five.” I heard the surprise in his voice. Then he said, “You don’t have
to—it isn’t part of our deal.”
For two months I had thought about what it would be like when me and Isaac were alone. It had made me shake with excitement. But in that strange room in a strange town, I was scared. I didn’t really know what to expect past a kiss. But I wanted Isaac to keep me, and I had only a year to prove myself. Every day mattered. That day most of all.
Over my shoulder, I said, “My buttons. I can’t reach them.”
I stood without moving while Isaac undid all thirty-four buttons. I kept my eyes fixed on his pocket watch on the dresser, my heart pounding to the jerky tick of the second hand. The shock of Isaac’s touch made my skin sing. He didn’t seem to notice the gooseflesh on my neck. He didn’t rush; he took his time, careful not to tear the satin.
Years later, in the Badlands waiting on a baby that had to get itself born, I let myself cry. Isaac, I thought. You never hurt my flesh. Only my heart. After a while my tears ran out. I put the wedding dress away, blew out the lantern, and got into bed.
Early in the night, my water broke. It wasn’t much more than a slow trickle. I got up and cleaned up as best as I could and then went back to bed. From time to time the baby pulled me awake, but not all that often and not with any kind of pattern. When the parlor clock chimed five times, I got out of bed and sat in my rocker to help ease the pinching ache in my back. I hadn’t had a labor pain for a long while, and I told myself that was good. As soon as it lightened up a bit, I’d send John for Isaac. That way John could meet him halfway, hurry him along.
When I woke John an hour later and told him what I wanted him to do, he said, “I’ll run the whole way to Mr. McKee’s.”
“No. You’ll wear out too quick. Walk. Promise me.”
I told him to get two cold biscuits for his breakfast and to take Rounder with him. Then I went back to my bedroom and sat in the rocker. Mary, in her white nightdress, came to my open door. “Mama?”
The Personal History of Rachel DuPree Page 22