Another Chance

by Janet Cooper

  Silver Wolf faced Sarah and offered her his hand. "My grandfather wishes to be excused. He will see you in the morning before you depart."

  Little Turtle staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the house.

  "Shall I carry you?" Silver Wolf asked.

  The boy's shoulders drooped, and his legs buckled. In one swift movement, Silver Wolf lifted him into his arms. Once there, the lad nestled against his father's chest and sighed with contentment. A warm smile filled Silver Wolf's face.

  Several times this evening, Sarah had seen another side of this impassive Lenape. She liked his reaction to his son, to his people, and especially to her. As she walked beside him, she considered taking his arm. Instead, she said, "Thank thee for inviting us to stay."

  "You are welcome," he replied.

  "Is tonight the end of the ceremony?" she asked.

  "My people mourn for twelve days, starting on the day of the person's death; during that time, the spirit of the departed journeys to its new home in the stars."

  Earlier, she had heard Silver Wolf say that to Little Turtle. Without Benjamin present, she voiced her opinion. "What a beautiful thought."

  Silver Wolf glanced at her curiously, his eyebrows rose as if waiting.

  She looked up at a sky that had cleared. When had this happened? Had the ceremony help lift the sorrow and thereby the heavens? She chided her superstitious thoughts, but did not divert her focus. So many constellations, more than she ever seen before, some she had seen only in drawings or at a planetarium stared back at her. "The idea that thy family members are visible, perhaps looking down on thee, sharing thy problems, caring about thy life gives one a sense of peace. I could accept that."

  "What would your father say about that?"

  Sarah blushed. "Well…"

  He eyed her.

  She did not want him to think her father prejudiced against the Lenape's beliefs. "We believe in heaven. Why can't heaven be the sky?"

  He examined her expression and disbelief showed in his face. "You really think he might agree?"

  She shook her head. "Probably not."

  Silver Wolf nodded his agreement.

  As they walked up the steps and into the house, Sarah remarked, "What a beautiful home." When she had arrived earlier, she had noticed the large two-story structure. The stone had appeared to have a hint of blue. She remembered that many Colonial homes had been constructed of this strong, local material.

  Since Silver Wolf had his arms filled, Sarah pushed down on the wrought iron knob and shoved the heavy, oak door open. She followed him into the long hall that traversed the length of the house. Hand‑blocked wallpaper covered both sides. Who would have guessed Indians lived like this? Then, she remembered tales of the opulent homes build by the Cherokees in Georgia and North Carolina and embarrassment replaced her previous thoughts.

  A middle-aged woman dressed in a bright red wrap around skirt greeted them. "Bowl-Woman, this is Sarah Stone."

  "Good to meet you," Sarah said.

  The chubby Lenape smiled and nodded. "Your room ready."

  "Thank thee."

  Bowl-Woman held out her arms for the child. When she cuddled him to her breast, she murmured a few words in a soft, lilting language. Sarah watched the woman carry the boy up the steps.

  "If you will follow me, I will show you to your room," Silver Wolf said.

  "May I see the house before I sleep?" Sarah asked. Although she considered her request presumptuous, her inquisitive mind plus the fact that she would be leaving early tomorrow pressed her to ask. A quiet voice added that stealing a few more minutes with a fascinating man might have had a little influence on her forwardness.

  "My home?"

  She nodded.

  He shrugged. "Certainly. If you will pardon me for a minute, I must speak to Bowl-Woman.”

  "Of course."

  "Go into the parlor. I will meet you there." He gestured to the room on the right side of the hall.

  Sarah walked in. Beautiful paper with scenes of trees and animals decorated the walls. Chippendale furniture flanked the walls accenting the red Aubusson carpet. On a small pie crust table, a tin-ware tea service stood as if waiting for a hostess to come, sit, and begin to pour. In the corner fireplace, wood was laid on the grate ready for a match, opps, a flame. The ends of the fireplace, jutting into the room, were crescent shaped permitting the warmth to extend to a larger portion of the parlor. Above the mantel, a door-less wooden cabinet stood recessed into the wall. Small pieces of saltware decorated the shelves.

  The grace and quality of the furnishings amazed her. How can Silver Wolf hate whites, yet embrace such unquestionably European splendor? Does he separate what belonged to his grandmother from whom she was? No pictures graced the walls. Six over nine windows remained bare of decoration. The room had the appearance of an unfinished museum. Did anyone ever sit on a chair, drink from a cup, or was the parlor only cleaned and dusted? Had Silver Wolf's grandmother not had time to finish decorating before she died? Had lack of money interfered with her plans?

  She heard Silver Wolf clear his throat. "Oh," she exclaimed as she turned around. His clothes contrasted sharply with the elegance of the room, yet his manner and his presence fitted well with the furnishings. "What an exquisite room."

  His face hardened. "Are Indians not allowed to possess fine pieces of furniture?"

  "Of course. I only meant"

  "I know what you meant. We should live in wigwams or lean-tos, but not a white man's house." His gruff voice turned bitter. "If you will follow me, I will show you to your room.” He whirled around.

  She ran to him. Grabbing his forearm, she tried to stop his steps. He shrugged her off like a troublesome fly. She dashed in front of him, blocking his path and holding her ground. "No you, damn, thou doesn’t know what I mean." Sarah placed her hands on her hips. "This house is lovely. Period. The ownership makes no difference. To see such wonderful decorative arts anywhere is a surprise; to see them in a country house more so.

  "And, to see them in an Indian's house, the greatest shock of all." An iron statue could scarcely compete with the hardness his face showed. He slid to the side as if to go around.

  Anger burned inside her. "Don't make statements, and pretend they are my words. I can express myself quite well without any help from thee." She sensed his hesitation and charged ahead. "Will thou forget thy animosity toward me because of the color of my skin for just one evening and please show me thy house?"

  He hesitated, as though debating her words. His jaw muscles tensed and finally released. "Come," he said harshly.

  As he took her through his house, Sarah kept trying to think of a way to halt or at least bank his resentment toward all whites, especially her.

  She saw another sitting room with Windsor style chairs, two cushioned settees, and a corner table. A hooked rug decorated the center of the parlor. Again, the windows remained bare of curtains allowing the starlight to illuminate the room. The greens and yellows used throughout the parlor gave a warm, homey feel. "Doeth thou sit here often?"

  "Even an Indian appreciates a chair, now and then," his voice as uncompromising as before.

  Sighing silently in frustration, she followed him down the hall.

  The large, first floor kitchen radiated warmth, but not only from the stove. Here was the heart of the house. "What a wonderful room!"

  "We discovered having a roof over the cook's head keeps her dry when the rain comes. She is more productive when dry and the food tasted better."

  Sarah considered pounding on him, forcing him to see her as herself, not the image he chose to create in his mind.

  "My grandfather's room is the last room downstairs," Silver Wolf said, as he whirled around.

  Gritting her teeth, she followed him to the room across the hall. Only a mat and a painting of a woman graced this room, yet it spoke loudly of White Owl.

  "He seldom sleeps here for like most savages he enjoys sleeping outside rather than inside."
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  She nearly gasped at the sarcasm in his voice. Silver Wolf had meant to hurt her with his caustic remark, and he had. However, his words angered her to the point that she resolved to set him straight. Sarah pushed him against the wall of the long hall.

  A shocked expression crossed his face, but she refused to allow his surprise to stop her.

  "That's enough! I enjoy visiting homes. I relish seeing different decorations. I like learning about people. And I am not prejudice." Although she spoke softly, she hurled the words at him rapidly.

  He stayed leaning against the wallpaper. Carefully, he eyed her from the top of her head to her plain, black pumps. She stood straight, never flinching, even when his gaze fastened on her chest. If he means to discomfort me, he has chosen the wrong woman!

  "Shall we go upstairs?"

  "After thee. " She marched up the steps. Her grandmother would have been proud of her erect posture. I bet I could even keep a book balanced on my head. The totally unrelated idea eased her tension and her anger, slightly.

  Upon reaching the second floor, he said, "Your room is at the end of the hall on the left. I will see you in the morning." He opened the door in front of him, went in, and closed it.

  She had not expected him to invite her in, but his cold, rude departure amazed her. At times during the evening, he had been a diffident, yet polite host. But this! She considered banging on his door and…-what? Force him to apologize? As proud as he was, he would never admit he had made a mistake. She shook her head and walked toward her bedroom. Could she have done something to make him understand? Reluctantly, she decided she had said all that was possible. His prejudice against whites colored his hearing.

  Sarah pushed down on the latch and opened the door. The fire in the corner hearth danced merrily and bade her welcome. The warm greeting helped allay her anger. In this room, Chippendale furniture had been used. A large poster bed graced the center of the room. The spread and the bed-hangings, although faded from their original bright blue and white checked, retained their hominess, and matching curtains covered the two windows. She wondered if all the bedrooms upstairs had drapery. In White Owl's room downstairs, the windows were bare.

  Silver Wolf's grandfather had mentioned his wife. He said she was white, and this was her family's home. Had she selected the furnishings or had her parents? Another thought struck her. Might White Owl have preferred the uncovered windows, while his wife had favored the traditional English style of decorating? Had they compromised? Sarah wanted to ask, but was not sure how to do this without antagonizing Silver Wolf.

  As she undressed, she thought about her attractive host. He had become angry when she complimented him on his house, yet earlier when Benjamin had insisted they leave the ceremony, he had accepted the statement calmly. Sarah shook her head. Too many secrets surrounded Mr. Luke, Silver Wolf, Keenan, but the greatest of all might be why her skin tingled with just the memory of his touch.

  * * * *

  Wolf walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the cool glass, leaned his arm on the window frame, and stared out at the darkness. He wished his grandfather had not invited the Stones to stay overnight. Wolf's life needed no additional complications, and being near Sarah and learning about her, increased his desire for her. He recalled their time together this evening. Her comments about the stars, her enjoyment of The Dance of Strength, her hearty appetite, and her effort at friendship with Little Turtle chipped at Wolf's defenses; something he could not allow. Sarah was a fascinating woman. Wolf would and could not deny that fact.

  He stared at the outside bonfire that burned and illuminated his father's pyramid, yet his thoughts strayed. Tomorrow, she would leave both the plantation and his life. His musing triggered an emptiness deep within.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Daughter?" Benjamin called, as he rapped on her door.

  Pulling up the blankets, Sarah said, in a groggy voice, "Come in." She thrust her hair off her face. Sleep had eluded her during the night and fatigue clouded her brain.

  The light that Benjamin carried did little to brighten the dark room. "I will be harnessing the horses. Please meet me outside as soon as possible," he said. "There is much work for us at home." He touched the flickering flame to the candlewick on the table near the bed.

  After throwing on the clothes she had worn the day before, Sarah hastened down the steps of the silent house. Her dream hadn’t ended. Perhaps she needed to be at the tavern. A sigh escaped her lips. With her hand on the front door latch, she paused and glanced around, strange how little of the house reflected Silver Wolf's personality. He might have been a visitor for all the impact he had made.

  She pulled wide the heavy, oak door to see a touch of pink coloring the horizon, and framing Benjamin and the empty wagon. Off to the side, but directly in front of the burial mound, an old woman sat and wailed softly. Sarah saw no one else. Her heart dropped. She wanted to say goodbye to White Owl and thank him. Her conscience nagged her for that was only part of the truth, and not the major reason. Although she scanned the area, Silver Wolf did not appear. With heavy feet, Sarah walked from the house.

  Benjamin helped her climb in the cart. "I took our leave of Luke and White Owl, and thanked them for their hospitality."

  His answer helped explain their absence, but failed to erase her depression. She had wanted to mend her fences with Silver Wolf after the less-than-favorable ending to their evening. To herself, she admitted she wished to memorize Wolf's features and keep his image with her for all time. Yet, she couldn't even say goodbye.

  As they drove off, Sarah took one last look. A tall, familiar man now stood in the barren field. He watched them leave. She waved. He only stared.

  * * * *

  The rays of the sun struck the Georgian chest of drawers, magnifying the dust specks on the delicate molding and in the canted corners. Sarah stared at the minute particles of dirt, but remained seated on the windowsill. Her only response, when she heard the inn's door on the floor below open and close, was to tuck her nightshift under her bare feet and push the side of the blanket tight against the lower pane. When she had returned from Long Meadow Plantation, she had expected to awaken from her fantasy. Yet, four mornings later,-if each sunrise counted as days as they had in her own, real world, nothing had changed.

  She missed her home and her modern plumbing. At that thought, Sarah glanced at the chamber pot under the bed and shuddered. She had even tried to recreate the last scene in her real life. After placing a couple of bed pillows on the wooden settle, similar to the one in her own parlor, she had lain down and eventually drifted off. Her plan failed, for when she had awakened, the 18th century still ruled her life.

  There must be a way to make my own furniture and my own century reappear. This thought permeated her existence. If she stayed in her room, her own world might return. She pulled her shawl tighter, trying to protect her body from the stream of cool air that seeped through the window.

  As had happened so often before, during quiet, reflective moments, Silver Wolf's face floated into her mind; she had not seen him since Long Meadow, yet his image was as clear as a mountain stream. Thinking of him became a diversion to her mundane life. Although they had parted in a cold, unfriendly manner; she recalled other memories. His gentleness with his grandfather and son, his positive and negative reactions to her, all these thoughts kept his image unclouded in her mind. But most of all, she recalled the sensuality of his touch.

  A knock sounded on her bedroom door. "Yes?" Sarah replied. Though the idea was foolish, for who would ever knock on her bedroom door in the 21st Century when she lived alone and kept the outside doors locked, still she hoped.

  "Daughter?"

  Her spirits plummeted to the depths of the inn's well. Slowly, she exhaled. "Yes."

  "May I enter?"

  "Of course," she responded in a blank tone, tucking the blankets firmly around her.

  "Is thou well?" Benjamin asked. Concern showed on his face, as he walked into
her room.

  His expression dented, if only slightly, the cradle of depression surrounding her. The more she saw of Benjamin, the more he reminded her of a stuffed bear, gruff looking on the outside, soft and warm beneath. The unbidden image of her parents brought tears to her eyes. For the second time that morning, she blinked them away.

  How could she answer his question? What should she say? Physically, she felt fine. Mentally, she was okay. Emotionally, she was despondent. Did they recognize depression two hundred years ago? Unable to choose an answer, she shrugged her shoulders.

  "Is it thy woman's time?" Benjamin persisted.

  The idea shocked her. The thought of using rags revolted her, but that was surely what they used in the 18th century.

  He waited patiently for her to speak.

  "No," she said, strongly.

  "Doeth thou suffer from melancholia?"

  Deciding that name was as close to depression as she was likely to discover, Sarah replied, "Perhaps, I do. Do... doeth thou have a suggestion?"

  "Work," he said, conviction punctuating the word. "Work will keep thy mind and body occupied."

  She might have guessed his answer. Unable to think of an excuse, she said, "I shall dress and be down directly."

  "Wear thy oldest clothing," he cautioned.

  Before she could ask why, he stepped back and closed the door.

  Sarah slid off the window seat and stepped onto the bare, pine floor. Icicles shot up her leg and climbed her spine. "Damn the 18th century," she mumbled. After taking care of her immediate needs, she thrust her hands into the washbowl then jerked back. As she shook off the icy water, she gritted her teeth before hurriedly splashing water on her face and hands. "Ohhh… blast!"

  Throwing open the lid of the carved oak chest that stood at the base of her bed, she searched for a well-washed, outfit. She considered several petticoats and short gowns, but rejected them when she noticed the strength of the linen. At the very bottom lay a possibility. She drew on the threadbare, faded costume, pulled on the panties she had washed the night before, and pushed her feet into the same black pumps she had worn since she arrived then trudged down the steps.