“That Steller’s my teller. Plenty of jays come ’round, keep a running conversation. But that one there tells me what’s gonna happen. In the future,” she said, pointing up. “That’s how I knew you was coming.”
“That so?”
Elisabeth wondered if Nandy was dim-witted.
“Times I don’t know what he’s saying till after the happening. Early yesterday morning he was fussing when I seen a fawn come into camp. Slight thing, small like you. I was watching and thinking ’bout my own little Andrew in Missouri when that fawn ran to a buck down that hill. I ain’t ever seen that. A fawn running with her daddy. No mama in sight.”
Elisabeth considered what sort of mind conjures a notion like that from seeing a couple of deer, but she kept quiet and listened.
“First time my jay talked to me, Big Bear came,” said Nandy.
“Big Bear Henry?”
“Now let me tell it,” said Nandy, hotly. “I don’t like rushin’. I tell it how I like to tell it.”
“Are you always this rude to customers?”
“I don’t see no customers,” said Nandy.
Billy let out a huge belly laugh by the fire pit.
“Fair enough,” said Elisabeth.
Elisabeth nibbled the last of the quince and chucked the spent core in the grass.
“One Sunday my jay was clamoring and noising about more than usual, flying crazy from branch to branch. I was sweeping the brush away from the cabin, and Billy was out collecting firewood. Master Sappington sat in front of the cabin on his rocker, tapping his pipe and reading his Bible, sore as usual with my jay’s disturbings. He looked up every now and then, hollering, but my jay paid him no mind and kept on fussing. Then my jay left the oak in a hurry, leaving bad feels around the cabin. Sappington declared he was glad to be done with the racket, but I knew my jay flew away for a reason. A hot second later the devil’s spawn itself swooped down and landed atop the bakery table, giving Sappington such a fright he toppled off his rocker onto his bottom. A beast of a creature stared him down, standing nearly three feet tall with black spiky feathers all around its neck. A nasty thing, with a wrinkly raw head, pink and yellow, and black eyes. Hissing and grunting, that beast let loose a river rat from its beak atop the table, squeezing that poor critter in its talons, making it flop and squirm and squeal something awful. It started the work of shredding it up then and there, gulping bits of gray fur and flesh and itty-bitty pink paws still wiggling for mercy down its gullet. When old Sappington got up from the dirt and took a step toward the table, that beast spread its wings wide as a house, flinging blood onto Master’s white Sunday shirt. What a sight! Sappington scrambled into the cabin, coming out with his gun. But the beast beat off in a whoosh like you never did see, circling overhead, taunting and taunting, till Sappington done used half sack of powder shooting at the sky. When he sat down in his rocker, sweat pouring from under his hat, that’s when Big Bear come.”
“Big Bear Henry?”
“No interrupting,” said Nandy.
“Big Bear come clad in animal fur saying California is free, earned her freedom through war with the Mexicans. Saying all folks out here is equal. Saying men and women dig equal for they own selves. Big Bear claimed this land a free state. Said we is free. That sound like your daddy?”
“No.”
“Well, he didn’t say nothing but curse words for Sappington. Pointed his rifle at him. Tried to run him off. Of course, he don’t like that. Stayed put. Called Big Bear’s bluff, saying he’d be swinging from a tree by sundown if he killed a wealthy Missouri man like his self. And I know ’bout that. Mmm hmm.”
“What happened next?”
“Big Bear stormed off, spewing words for the devil. That’s when I knew my jay was talking to me. Telling me the future.”
“Did he have an Indian girl with him?”
“Nope. But came again, when Sappington gone out digging, telling me and Billy we is gonna be free soon. He come four more times after, too, saying the same. We is gonna be free. Well, we isn’t free yet. I’s still waiting. I know Big Bear is telling the truth.”
“Did you ever get to his claim on the North Fork?”
“I never left this spot in three months. I ain’t free yet, girl.”
“I got a need to know about him. How he lived. What happened,” Elisabeth said.
“We don’t always know the why. He gone now, sugar, that’s all we need to know.”
“How do you know?”
“On account of that daddy buck I saw. He done ran away when his fawn wasn’t looking. That sorry thing walked around in circles for hours confused till it figured it could move on by itself. It didn’t need a daddy no more.”
“That’s a queer view of it,” Elisabeth said.
“Where’s your mama?” Nandy asked.
She’d tied a knot on that thread, preventing a loose memory of melancholy from unraveling inside her mind.
“Massachusetts.”
Nandy flipped a loaf, browned to perfection, onto the table from the Dutch oven. Elisabeth stared at the warming lump, still suffering with morning hunger, even after eating the quince.
“You got any food?” Nandy asked.
Elisabeth shrugged, staring at the warm lumps of bread, downright crazed with hunger, probably whipped up more by eating the quince.
“You far away from Massachusetts now, girl. You at the far ends of the earth. Far away in here too,” Nandy said, pointing to her temple.
“I get your point,” Elisabeth said.
“The world is different out here. And not a slight different. A big different. People get all mixed up sideways. I seen it. But it ain’t all bad, I tell you. This place is special. It presses into you, no matter what you got to say about it. Like a stranger offering a gift you didn’t know you needed. Once you take it, you ain’t never gonna be the same.”
An idea slipped into her head. If a slice of buttered bread cost two dollars in town, one quince might sell for three, or three and a half in the diggings. Maybe four or five further up river. She posed the idea to Nandy.
“Listen, I appreciate the story and the advice and all, but I’d be better off if you’d lend me that sack of quince. How about I sell them down in the diggings and give you twenty percent,” Elisabeth said.
“Twenty percent? For my very own quince?”
Nandy giggled and giggled, with her whole chest heaving.
“I thought . . . since you can’t leave here, and all. On account of Sappington,” she said.
“I may be a slave, but I ain’t stupid. My quince is more to me than all the gold I could hold in my hand. Seeing as I ain’t got no rights to spend it. Yet.”
Embarrassed at trying to get an advantage over Nandy, Elisabeth turned to go. But Nandy called out.
“I saw you sewing for those men yesterday.”
Elisabeth turned around to defend herself.
“That’s my business!”
“I ain’t judging. Just sayin’. You got more thread?”
“Yes.”
“Then you be fine,” Nandy said, handing her a single slice of buttered bread. “You Big Bear’s girl.”
6
“Adopt the pace of Nature. Her secret is patience.”
With a whole quince and a slice of buttered bread filling up her belly, she bounced along the trail with Nate, feeling buoyant and strong. More than strong. Making money on her own terms had forged a strong nugget inside her, changing the balance in her marriage. There was no going back now. She’d pushed Henry’s leaving down into the deep holes of her mind so she could forget and move onto something better.
She’d already made twenty-eight dollars mending an overcoat, three shirts, and two pairs of pants for diggers while Nate swirled his pan in the river nearby waiting on her to finish. He wasn’t sore anymore, now realizing they could keep fed with her sewing while he panned for gold. She asked for more money downriver, sewing slow and smiling pretty, knowing those diggers were pleased to ha
nd over the coins if she delivered the sewing with a bit of flirting. Not too much so she’d seem too loose. Just a little giggle. A toss of her chin over her shoulder. A slight batting of her eyelashes. Nate scrunched his nose at her sly acting and the men staring, but she didn’t sew faster, and he couldn’t say a thing about it. She was the earner now.
She refused to sulk over Nate drinking at Shannon and Cady’s the night before, either. She’d relished the time alone, touching herself, imagining. Besides, Nate had returned before dawn, lying next to her in the sand, draping his arms around her middle, and only smelling faint of drink. When the sun rose, he’d rubbed her shoulders until she stirred awake, mumbling “my darling” in her ear. When she opened her eyes, he’d smiled sweet, telling her how the men at Shannon and Cady’s explained how to use a rocker box to get at the gold. Walking back upriver toward the Goodwin cabin, they planned to find Chana’s claim for a demonstration firsthand.
Elisabeth soaked up the deep, rich, never-ending blueness soaring overhead, unfettered by any cloud. Spread clear and expansive, the western sky unlocked endless possibilities, unlike the grayness in the east sagging like a wet blanket, dulling the senses. Even in summer. When the sun moved directly overhead, they stopped to eat near the river. Nate peeled an orange, picking off the white inside skin meticulously, bit by bit. He put eight slices on a small flat rock for her and took only two for himself. Sucking on a slice, she watched Nate peel an egg and sprinkle it with a pinch of salt from a tiny pouch. He handed it to her, smiling like he was just fine with his wife doing the earning, and the sour crack between them filled in with a sweet sauce of tenderness. The egg-orange lunch seemed a feast to Elisabeth, and her spirit sang with the meal and mending and the clear sky and the surging water, and her smiling husband.
“The river,” she said, speaking over the loud cadence.
“Huh?” Nate asked, pulling out his notebook.
“I like being with you, beside the river,” she said.
Nate tapped his finger light on her nose. She hated it when he did that. Dismissed her, like a bothersome child. He put on his round reading spectacles, sliding them down his nose, and started writing. She leaned over, peeking at the pages, and Nate pressed the notebook to his chest.
“Do you mind?” Nate asked, snippy.
“Wondering what you’re writing is all,” she said.
“Nothing of consequence. Simple observations about the West, and such. Not worthy of your attention.”
She skipped flat rocks, waiting for him to finish his daily writing. She marveled at the American River, flowing powerful and with intent, completely different from the Concord River she knew back home. Slow and meandering, the Concord lay languid and lazy, contented and steady, bloated with convention. And the muddy Merrimack in Lowell, slogged sick and strangled with production. The American ran fresh and fervid with no manners or tradition, shooting and exploding in every direction, alive with adventure and no regard for any known canon. The water rushed past, full of rapids in the middle, pulling sticks and leaves and anything else caught up, infusing her with the confidence it carried, whispering. Encouraging. Prodding. Insisting she share in the adventure.
After writing two pages, Nate blew the ink dry and tucked the notebook into his knapsack. They continued on the trail, rounding an oxbow, toward two dozen men digging on a shallow gravel bar. Chana’s claim. She stood in shock seeing all those men tearing at the mud and rocks, digging deep trenches alongside the river and in the flats, and diverting the water into a long, wooden sluice. Mr. Chana called out orders, telling the men to cull the upended riverbed for gold. With hunger and hope on their faces, they destroyed the natural course of nature, cracking rock with pickaxes and shovels and even bare hands, and dumping buckets of mud into boxes atop the sluice, rocking and swishing for gold. Absolutely nothing remained untouched but the air itself.
“Would you look at all that!” Nate said.
Mr. Colton greeted them and took Nate down to the water to show him the particulars of the sluice mechanism. Elisabeth noticed a few Indian women crouched on the far side of the gravel bar, swirling reed baskets through the water. Elisabeth wondered if they worked for Claude Chana too. They wore double-fringe deerskin aprons barely covering their bottoms, and their naked breasts flopped and shook with every swirl of their baskets. Magnificent red markings swooped around their shoulders, and white bones pierced through their earlobes. A ripple of envy skidded through Elisabeth at seeing those women working half naked among those men with such ease. They looked so intent and useful yet carefree, too, sifting the gravel over and over in smooth, rhythmic motions. They carried themselves strong and proud, with no hint of shame to cover up, and none of the discomfort or fear she carried around like a sack of weakness. Elisabeth felt an unreasonable urge to rip off all of her clothes and join those women splashing around in the river. She imagined slipping naked through the silky water with them, giggling along as the warm pine air flowed through the canyon and prickled up goose bumps on her bare nipples. A familiar voice startled her back to reason.
“Bienvenue! Bienvenue!”
Claude Chana waved and came up close.
“A pleasure, madame,” said Mr. Chana, kissing her cheek, then the other.
“Oh!” said Elisabeth, uncomfortable with such public affection.
“A Frenchman greets a woman with kisses,” he said, pulling back with a grin.
She tipped up her straw hat to get a better look at Chana, taking in his thin mustache and tidy blue silk vest. She liked the sound of his French accent and the strength of his pointy chin. Wiry and slighter than Nate, he carried his short self tall and vibrant under the California sun, with an air of optimism and no hint of worry. And his face looked golden tan, not a ruddy red like Nate’s face.
“You must be exhausted, after such a long walk from town,” Chana said, offering his wooden chair.
She declined and remained standing, feeling nervous, the sort of nervous that made her feel excited.
“You have any mending?” Elisabeth asked.
Mr. Chana smirked.
“Do I look like I need mending?”
“What about your men?”
“Look here,” he said, pulling a nugget out of his pocket.
He held it between his fingers, and she whistled, marveling at the bit, odd shaped and sparkling golden, with a smooth round side and spiky bits poking ’round the other side.
“So that’s what all the fuss is about,” she said.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
As she reached to touch it, Chana slid the gold nugget into her palm. It was cold and hard yet soft, too. When Chana rubbed the gold up her sleeve, and to her shoulder, she froze. When he touched it to her cheek and brushed it across her lips, she gasped but didn’t back away.
“If you were my wife, I’d not make you roam the river for supper. Dirtying yourself for a man,” he said, his French accent enticing.
“Mr. Parker doesn’t make me work.”
“Looks to me like he does.”
He pointed out her muddy working dress, and her face flushed hot with embarrassment. He wiped a spot of mud from her blouse, touching her breast, slow and lingering. Her nipples hardened like her body had a mind of its own, yet she didn’t flinch.
“I want to work.”
“Mr. Parker has no prospects,” Chana whispered in close.
“Meaning?”
“What I mean to say, madame. Mr. Parker offers you very little. I, on the other hand . . . I can offer you more,” he said, pocketing the nugget.
She found his directness refreshing and imagined what it might be like married to a man like him. A strong man in control of his fortune. His future. A man with charm and passion. When he lifted her chin, she let him, standing still under his touch. Nate was only twenty yards away by the river with Mr. Colton.
“Your eyes are stunning. Green, like the Pyrenees in spring.”
“Mr. Chana. You’r
e too much,” she said, flirting back.
“I’m lost in your eyes.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, egging him on.
“I assure you, madame, my offer is not in vain. Consider the opportunity. Divorce is possible out here. I know men, accolade governors who will help.”
“Divorce?”
She blinked wide-eyed at the nastiness of it. Cutting loose from a commitment. Breaking a promise made before God, for a bit of gold and a few exciting kisses. Just like her father.
“You will consider it. A woman like you, too beautiful for a measly man like him,” he said, tilting his head toward Nate down by the river.
When he slid his arm around her waist, she realized she’d taken the flirtation too far. She tried to wiggle away, but Mr. Chana held on tight.
“Let off,” she said.
“You want me.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, more forcefully now.
Nate turned around just as she pushed Mr. Chana away. Nate tossed the rocker into the sluice and marched up the riverbank, slow and deliberate. Elisabeth went to his side, shaking with shame.
“What’s this all about?” Nate asked.
Chana straightened his vest.
“I’m simply offering her a choice. There is no crime in that, surely.”
Nate balled his hands into fists.
“You’ve quite a nerve. I demand an apology.”
“I’ll not apologize for offering the lady a choice. Me, or a man who makes his wife work.”
“She has no choice. She’s married to me.”
“Leave it be, Nate. Let’s go,” she said.
“I’d not make my lady work for her supper,” Chana said.
In an instant, Nate’s decorum dissolved. With ferocious speed, he jumped atop the Frenchman, pushing him into the mud, pinning his chest down with his knees and hitting him in the face over and over again, smashing his nose. Blood splattered on Nate’s shirt, but he didn’t stop, punching and pummeling the Frenchman harder, grunting like a bear. Chana didn’t seem to have an ounce of muscle to fight back, lying limp in the mud. She stood transfixed at the squishing sounds of fist on flesh, watching with a mix of awe and disgust while Nate beat the Frenchman into a pulp of oozing blood and snot and sweat and disgrace.
Prospects of a Woman Page 5