Chance's Bluff
Page 19
Ben quietly helped with chores and disappeared when not needed. He never said where he went, but Annabelle found herself looking forward to his return, even though sometimes it wasn’t until days later. It was so nice to have someone new to talk to, she thought, even better than she had imagined it would be during those long lonely days when there had been only her, Richard, and the wind whistling through the pines.
Best of all, though, was the fact that he treated her and her brother as equals. Always, the former soldier asked permission before doing anything around the farm, as if acknowledging they were in charge, even though he was older and seemed vastly more experienced than they were.
Except, Annabelle realized he wasn’t as old as she’d thought at first. Despite creases at the corners of his eyes and an air of quiet confidence, she suspected Ben wasn’t yet thirty.
Somehow, neither she nor her brother got around to asking Ben when he planned to leave. Privately, Annabelle hoped he wouldn’t leave for a long time. Her favorite time of day was after supper, when Ben took his harmonica out of his pocket and played a medley of tunes, some sprightly, some sad, while she washed up the dishes and swept the floor. Richard listened, too, as he sharpened farm tools by the fire, or scratched mathematical equations onto the hearth with a piece of charcoal. The expression on her brother’s face was inscrutable.
Gradually, the farm lost its ramshackle air. Ben fixed the broken rung of the rocking chair by wrapping it firmly with strips of wet rawhide, which shrank while drying, holding the joint more firmly than the strongest glue. He said it was a trick he’d learned from the Indians.
He helped Richard clear the field until it was triple its original size, so they could plant more grain for the following winter. Ben hitched the harness to Millie, the former milk cow, while Richard guided the plow.
The more Annabelle got to know Benjamin Marlowe, the more he puzzled her. The former soldier worked harder than anyone she had ever seen, yet paradoxically, he sometimes would leave a chore half done and lie in the shade of an aspen tree, napping or watching clouds scud across the sky. Sometimes he would disappear for several days without a word, and return without telling them where he had been. Annabelle wondered if he went to visit his old friends, the Indians.
One evening after dinner, she could hold her curiosity no longer. “What do you do while you’re gone?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged. “I just loaf.”
“Loaf?” Her brows rose.
Ben smiled at Annabelle’s expression. “Why not? It’s my opinion that most people spend too much time working. Life’s to be enjoyed, don’t you think?”
“No! That is—I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“Maybe you should think about it.” He began a sprightly version of “Oh! Susanna” on his battered harmonica.
Annabelle couldn’t help smiling, but after that she did not ask what Ben did when he wasn’t around. It was clear he didn’t trust her enough to confide the truth. Ben Marlowe reminded her of the black cat she had left behind in Philadelphia, which would appear from time to time and briefly accept her caresses before vanishing to pursue its own mysterious interests. Once, when she tried to keep the cat from leaving, it delicately raised its paw and left a deep, bleeding scratch along her forearm from which she still bore the scar.
Under the men’s labor, over the next few weeks the farm took on a neat, orderly look. Rows of potatoes and corn spread across the valley floor, green furrows as deep and straight as if scraped by a giant comb. As the seedlings came up, Annabelle realized this might be the first winter they wouldn’t have to worry about having enough to eat. Even if Ben stayed, there would likely be plenty of food for all of them. Her hands clutched the sides of her skirts. She hoped he would stay.
She was too polite to ask their guest about his background, and he never talked about it, but Annabelle often wondered where the former soldier came from and why he’d left his home to live among the Indians so far from his loved ones. Mountain men and traders did, but they were barely civilized, and even the men in her wagon train who bartered with Indians never associated with them as friends and equals. A strange man, Benjamin Marlowe.
Richard’s attitude toward the older man never thawed past grudging acceptance. He accepted Ben’s assistance reluctantly and, at times, with a snarl. One day when Annabelle brought out lunch for the two, she stopped from a distance and saw Ben leaning on his hoe, talking, while her brother listened, and for a gut-twisting moment the scene reminded of her how her father used to bend over Richard the same way. Richard needed a man’s influence, she thought, but the harder Ben tried to create a bond with Richard, the more the youth pushed him away.
Why did Richard resent their guest so much? Annabelle wondered. Did he feel Ben was somehow trying to take their father’s place? That would explain why he resisted the man’s friendship with such hot pride. Not that it mattered, she thought, with a shade of melancholy. From the beginning, their guest had made it clear that he was just passing through.
Late spring stretched into summer. The men built a second room for the cabin and even laid a wooden floor over the packed dirt to keep out winter’s chill. She offered the new room to Ben, but he declined, claiming that he preferred to keep the shed for himself. With the new room to store their food and possessions, the cabin felt comfortable and homelike.
Unpredictable as ever, Ben remained inside one morning after Richard left for the fields, lounging in a chair he’d fashioned from boards salvaged from the old wagon. His moccasins were crossed on the old, battered trunk, his hands clasped behind his neck, while he watched Annabelle patch Richard’s tattered clothes.
She tried to ignore him while the needle flashed in and out of the fabric, but when she folded the repaired garment and reached for the next object in the sewing pile, he spoke. “Don’t you ever relax?”
Annabelle paused, holding one of Richard’s worsted socks. This would be the third time she darned it, and next time it would go into the rag pile. “How can I relax when there’s so much to do?”
He reached out and took the sock from her hand, returning it to the sewing basket. “Work’s all well and good, but it shouldn’t consume every waking minute. I’ve noticed that whenever you finish one task, Annabelle, you immediately start another. Being so busy is healthy for neither your body nor your soul.”
“‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,’” she quoted and picked up the sock again.
Ben leaned forward, his dark eyes more intense than she had ever seen them. “Life is more than an endless succession of chores. It is enjoying each moment fully, even something as seemingly insignificant as watching an ant travel across a patch of ground, or a drop of dew slide down a flower petal. How could darning socks be more important than those?”
She stared at him. “Those are the kinds of things children do.”
“You are a child.”
“No, I’m not …” Annabelle broke off. She had stopped being a child the day her parents had been killed. She changed the subject, not liking the topic. “When you go away, Ben, is that really what you do? Nothing?”
“I consider doing ‘nothing’ a sacred duty.” Ben gave her a crooked smile. “It’s a form of worship, although a far different kind than we were taught at Harvard divinity school.”
“You went to Harvard?” Annabelle didn’t know which statement was more astonishing, that the buckskin-clad wanderer had attended university or that he considered loafing a form of worship, which was the most sacrilegious idea she had ever heard.
Ben pulled her to her feet. “Go outside. Maybe you’ll see what I mean.” He gently pushed Annabelle toward the door. “Take an hour off and go wander in the meadow and gather wildflowers, or wade in the creek. I’ll fix supper, and Richard won’t mind if he has to wait another day for his mended socks.”
“I can’t! There’s work to do!”
“There’s always work to do. That’s why you have to leave it sometimes.”
Feeling a bit silly, she strolled toward the far end of the valley, watching the clouds drift by overhead while picking an armful of Queen Anne’s lace. She tried not to think of the basket of mending back at the cabin or the kettle that needed scrubbing.
Along the way, she stopped to watch a black-and-yellow honeybee gather grains of golden pollen onto its legs and shiver up into the air, carrying its booty back to the hive. She noted the direction it flew, thinking that later she would search for the honeycomb. On impulse, she slipped off her boots and dabbled her toes in the cold creek until they turned pink, watching the green water dance over smooth stones, and pink-and-gold spotted trout slip through the shady depths.
Finally Annabelle ended up at her parents’ gravesite and stretched atop the rough sun-warmed granite, closing her eyes and allowing the rock’s strength to seep into her bones like sap rising in a tree. It had been a long time since she had come, unlike the first year or two, when she had visited frequently.
She strained her ears to hear her parents’ voices in the rustle of the long grasses. What would they think of Benjamin Marlowe? she wondered. Would they think him as odd as she did? A bad influence? A danger? Or would they see Ben as he saw himself: a philosopher, a dreamer, a poet?
She looked up at the deep blue sky and pondered how anyone so seemingly impractical could survive in the rugged West, where bandits preyed on the innocent and wildlife devoured the unwary. But then, Benjamin Marlowe wasn’t really impractical, she reminded herself. He could wield a hammer and guide a plow. He had survived a year amid the Indians and navigated the mountains alone. Ben Marlowe was unlike anyone she had ever known—even if her experience was admittedly limited. Her mind flashed to the big, blond-haired bandit who she thought had tried to kiss her, and her cheeks grew hot.
Annabelle suddenly realized her father would have liked Ben. Gustav was an odd mix of dreamer and adventurer himself, interested in nature and philosophy. She could picture them engaging in long discussions while her mother listened with interest.
Annabelle smiled to herself at the thought, but inside something stirred. What were these strange feelings she was having for Benjamin Marlowe? Sometimes she imagined what his kiss would feel like, compared to that of the bandit. Better not to explore those stirrings too closely, she told herself sternly.
Over dinner, Annabelle shot glances at Ben but looked quickly downward whenever he glanced in her direction. Her cheeks burned as she remembered her thoughts earlier that day. Suddenly, without meaning to, she blurted, “Why do you wear those awful clothes?”
Ben raised his eyebrows, looking down at his butter-soft buckskins. “Why not? What’s wrong with them?”
“Well, they make you look like an Indian.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She did not know how to respond. Why would anyone want to resemble a savage? “Well, for heaven’s sake! Don’t you want to look civilized?”
Ben opened his mouth, then closed it again. When he finally spoke, she suspected the words were not the ones he wanted to say. “I lived with the Nez Perces for a year.” He set down his knife and fork and pushed back his seat while leveling an intense look in her direction. “They were as civilized as any white men I’ve known. In some ways, perhaps, more so. In fact, I very nearly joined their tribe.”
“But you didn’t, did you? So you ought to dress like what you are.”
“And what is that?”
She floundered. “Well … a white man, of course!”
He smiled slightly. After a moment, she realized his skin was dark as oak bark from working in the sun, and his eyes darker, almost black. Nothing about him was “white” except the whites of his eyes. “I think you’re being unfair to the Indians,” he said. “When I lived with the Nez Perces, I found they had more integrity than the majority of white men I’ve known. Besides, just before I left their village, I burned my army uniform. I didn’t have any use for it any more. These buckskins are all I have.”
Annabelle was surprised at his defense of the Indians. All she knew of them was what she had heard on the trail to Oregon, that they attacked defenseless wagon trains and had massacred the residents of the Whitman Mission. Maybe, just maybe, all Indians were not alike, just as not all white men were not alike. She thought of the red-bearded bandit. “Well … you could wear some of Papa’s things. He was heavier, but you’re about his height.”
“Not Papa’s clothes!” Richard broke his characteristic silence with an outraged outburst.
“Why not? It’s the least we could do to repay our guest for all he’s done.”
Ben tried to intervene. “Really, Annabelle, it’s not necessary. I’m fine—”
“No,” she said firmly. “Now that you’re living with us, there’s no need to go around in Indian clothes anymore.” Springing up impulsively, she yanked open the trunk in the corner. Her father’s possessions, neatly folded, filled one side, her mother’s the other. She lifted out a checkered shirt and a pair of canvas trousers. “Here. These will make you look like one of us.”
“Will it make you more comfortable if I do?”
“Yes.”
Ben smiled slightly. “The Indian girl who gave me these buckskins did so for pretty much the same reason. Funny, how much alike people can be in some ways, in spite of what we imagine are differences.” Ben looked at Richard, and his smile faded as her brother turned his back, facing the fireplace with arms folded tightly across his chest.
“Please, Ben,” Annabelle said in a low voice. “It means a lot to me. I’ve been away from civilization for so long. If you dress like us, it will help me feel more like things used to be. Back when life was normal.”
Their guest searched her face closely, then nodded. “All right. If it will make you happier.” He walked outside to the shed, the clothes wadded under his arm.
When Ben reappeared, brother and sister both stared. Their guest could have strolled down any town’s main street without attracting a second look, except perhaps an admiring one from the ladies. He’d combed his shoulder-length hair behind his ears and buckled the trousers around his slim waist.
“Satisfied?” He stood with arms outspread, awaiting her verdict, looking faintly amused.
She would not give him the satisfaction of telling him her initial reaction. “No. You need to cut your hair.”
“Cut my hair?” He put a hand protectively to his head. “Isn’t changing clothes enough?”
“No. A man should look …” She searched for the right word, but only came up with the same one. “Civilized.”
Ben looked at her with that odd expression on his face. “That word means quite different things to different people, you know. Is having shorter hair what it means to be civilized, to you?”
Annabelle felt confused. “Well, that’s part of it, isn’t it? Why would you want to look like something you’re not?”
Ben did not respond immediately, as if considering her words. “Something I’m not?” His voice was soft. “Then, what am I?”
She felt even more exasperated. “What kind of silly question is that?”
“A very important one, Annabelle, if you think of it. In fact, it’s one I’ve been wondering for a long time. So far, the best answer I’ve been able to come up with is that, above all, I’m a human being. A fellow to everyone I’ve met. Rich, poor, old, young, red-skinned, white. Someday I hope to meet many others, in the Sandwich Islands and in the Far East, and expect to find that they, too, are very much the same underneath. So what does it matter what I wear, or how long my hair is? What does that have to do with anything that truly matters?”
She stared at him blankly. “Where did you ever come up with such strange ideas?”
Ben smiled again, but there was an edge of sadness to his smile. “I once met a poet who wrote about such things. Some people thought he was mad, or wor
se, dangerous. I think he was a sort of prophet.” Sitting down, Ben bent his head. “Go ahead and bring on your scissors. I couldn’t care less what length my hair is, and if you are determined to cut it, I have no objection.”
Wondering who the Indian girl was who had given Ben the buckskins, Annabelle whipped a cloth around his shoulder and took a lock of his hair in her hand. He closed his eyes, shoulders tense, as if restraining himself from jumping up and running away. For some reason, the story of Samson and Delilah crossed her mind.
Before she could change her mind, Annabelle began to cut his hair. It seemed strange to let her fingers run along the strands of silky black to check their length, her palms brushing his warm temples as the small scissors snipped carefully around his ears. Lengths of hair slipped to the floor in coils until the ground by his chair was piled ankle-deep with two years’ worth of growth.
Sweeping up afterward, Annabelle thought with satisfaction that Ben looked much better. Younger, handsomer, and, yes, civilized.
That night their guest did not take out the harmonica. Instead, he sat reading Richard’s dog-eared copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress by the fire while Annabelle knitted and Richard scratched algebra problems into the ashes of the hearth. Somehow, she thought, glancing over her clicking needles, in that shirt and those trousers, with his hair shorn, Ben looked even more of a stranger than he had when she had first seen him in his buckskins, carrying a pair of rabbits.
The fact reminded Annabelle how little she and her brother really knew about the man. Benjamin Marlowe had appeared out of nowhere and become a part of their lives as if he’d always been there, yet all they knew about him was that he claimed to have studied divinity at Harvard before the war between the states, and that he’d recently lived among the Indians. Who was he, really? Where was his family?
Richard sat on the hearth, absorbed in his equations. Puzzling out problems from the mathematics books their father had packed was one of the boy’s favorite pastimes, and he seemed to absorb the books’ contents magically. She prided herself on her own ability with numbers, but this past year her little brother had surpassed her, even without instruction. She had long suspected that Richard was a genius, and now she was sure of it.