by Sara Dahmen
“How will you get Father to let you go? He will protest. Hell, he’ll forbid it.”
“I’ve thought on it. When the others leave, I will slip out. You won’t even see me do it until it’s done. At least you will know of my plans, so you will be able to put Father’s mind at ease.”
“So I’m to do with all the emotional baggage again?”
“You’re the female.”
“Females don’t always like to deal with feelings,” I tell him, shoving down my own. “It’s stupid. You’re going to make it worse for us. You’re being selfish.”
“At least I’ll be away from your harsh tongue,” he suddenly lashes out. “And your horrible cooking. And watching you sink the business with your terrible customer service!”
“I’m not ruining the business!”
“Sure.” The sarcasm bites, and then Al hangs his head. “Damn it, Marie. I hate fighting with you.”
“You will—you will hurt Father’s heart, Al,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t go. I wish I could make you stay.”
“Even your stubbornness can’t stop me.”
“I could tell Father.”
“Don’t! Please. Marie—I must do it, or I’ll begrudge him, and I will forever feel like I’m not enough. Much like your Jimmy.” He takes a moment to smirk at me, all arguing forgotten.
“Whose Jimmy?” Walter asks, and we both jump around. Walter ambles into the kitchen to offer me a few small pieces of tin. There are spots of rust on one—tiny, brownish red droplets that look like dried blood—but they will suffice for my little project.
“Oh—we all have seen that Jimmy has eyes for our Marie,” Al says, and I reach out and slap him playfully, my head still pounding with the implications of what he has told me.
Walter’s eyebrows go up, and he presses his lips together. “Is that so?”
“So he tells me, sir,” I say softly, slipping into the formal in my embarrassment. Al has the presence of mind to realize he has spoken out of turn in his own nervousness, and backtracks.
“Well, he’s made no declarations, and Marie has not given him any hope.”
“Hm. Well then. I’ve brought some of our old snips too.” Walter pulls a few straight tin scissors out of his belt. Most of them are oiled, and small enough for the daintier work. I take up a pliers and estimate the crease of the lap seam, bending to mark it. If I focus on the metalwork, maybe Al will see how I lack, and how he needs to stay and help me.
But Al walks out, and Walter and I are left in the quiet, with only the crackle of the hearth and the smell of bread rolling over us.
“That is very nice, Marie,” Walter finally says, and I am at once grateful he will not tease me in the way of old men, and wind out a story about the possibilities between myself and Jimmy. Instead, he is intent on the grater, and the marking of the base and cover I do before I carefully cut out the circular shapes, pushing against the metal
“Good. You’ve left room for the burr?”
I nod, not taking my eyes from the work, watching the snips eat the skinny line of the circle. When it’s finished, Walter takes the pieces and measures them against the tubed grater.
“You will be able to use your machine to finish this?”
“I think so. If Thaddeus is done fixing it.” And if the boys let me touch it again. When they are gone west, I will have plenty of time with the machines. The thought is defiant, but also exhilarating and incredibly bittersweet.
“Solder it when you can. I will buy it from you.” Walter’s eyes are black and merry, and I feel a kinship with him I do not expect.
The bread smells done, and looks it, too. I poke it carefully. “There we are. At least I did not burn them.”
“You are too hard on yourself, Marya. You’ve yet to make a poor meal since you’ve arrived.” His use of my Polish name warms me, and I smile at him fully before pulling the bread pan off the biscuit oven, placing it on the pitted and worn surface of the kitchen trestle.
“That’s because Jimmy has made most of the food, and I’ve only made things I know I will not mess. Truly, I generally ruin a lot of things. When Jimmy is away, and I will be in charge of cooking for you all … Well, then you will see my talent, or lack of it.” I mean more than the food.
Walter does not rejoin, and in truth I am surprised he has been so talkative today. I place one of the loaves of bread on the mantel on a piece of cheesecloth. Pulling another off, I take out a heavier piece of cloth from my possibilities and wrap it up.
“This is for Jimmy, for tomorrow.”
Walter nods once, shortly, and reaches for one of the tankards of ale. He always has one half-full permanently on the table. Once again, I notice the slight tremble to his fingers. I wonder if Thaddeus knows. Surely, he is observant enough to see it?
I leave the copper oven where it is, and put the pan back after scraping down any leftover residue into the fire. I gather up the other loaves in my apron, and head to the door, but before I can reach the latch, the door swings open, spilling in the twilight and the cold air as well as Thaddeus, who is glowering more than usual. He is a black shadow, and I pull back as he pounds past me, his height and size adding to the storm of anger.
“Marie. The new burring machine is set up. Think you can manage not to break it?” he says shortly, pausing briefly as he stalks in.
My chin goes up, and I clench my apron tighter around the loaves. “I didn’t break the other on purpose last time.”
“That so?”
“What do you take me for? A destructive woman?”
“Ha. Well, then.” Thaddeus barrels toward his father, and I slip out. Still, the walls and door are only made of wood, and I am able to hear Thaddeus’s voice carry as if he was booming into my ear.
“So, Father, you must be exceedingly pleased with yourself!”
Walter’s response is calmer, but I can hear it just as well.
“I am not sure what you mean, Tadeusz.”
“We’re not going to dance around this topic any more. You know I’m stuck here as master now, and I will not be able to go fight at all. Already Army orders are trickling in, and surely Fort Randall will ask for additional wheels for supplies to wherever they’re building the next fort, plus summer projects at Randall itself. I’ll be tied to the forge for months.”
“That is the way of the blacksmith.”
“That is your planning, Father, your scheme. Your wish for me to stay behind and safe instead of considering how I might wish to strike out on my own. Maybe I want a good fight. Maybe I want to make fast money like Tom Kotlarczyk. What if I want to grow our nation my own way, with the other young men?”
“Your patriotism is misplaced.”
“So you say! You! The one who wishes to see the railroad, the progress, and more trades come and grow this town?”
“My desire is to build in Flats Town what was lost in the Old Country. My loyalty is not to America so much. I want our life here in the west to be good and successful. Something small to you, maybe, but it is enough. It is foolishness to chase away a good business for the sake of the frontier.”
“You calling Tom and Jimmy foolish?”
“I didn’t say so.”
“Someday the west will be America, Father. I care about it, and I want to show my loyalty. I want to—”
“Show your manhood?”
Even through the door, I am able to hear the sarcasm and disappointment filtering Walter’s words. I can imagine him, sitting at the table with his head down and his eyes on his beer. Perhaps Thaddeus is pacing, or standing over his father with his hands on his hips, his eyes boring into his father’s slowly balding crown.
Walter’s voice continues, though more tired now.
“You are needed here. I am finished being the master and your nauczyciel teacher, though you think it premature. I have reasons, and they are more than what you say. I do indeed have a desire to keep you close, for you are my only son and my only family. But it is more than that.”
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br /> Before I can eavesdrop further, a hand snakes around my waist, and I am spun into a loose embrace. Jimmy’s cheek presses to mine, and the early stubble of a young man’s beard chaffs my skin. He smells like fire and sawdust and sweat, and his long and lean arms catch me up with ease.
“I leave tomorrow, Marie,” he says, stating the obvious. “Will you leave me with nothing, if you will not give me your promise?”
I am not quite sure what he asks of me, but I can sense it and anticipation trickles through my blood. The headiness of Jimmy’s attentions rushes into my head, though it is not quite so titillating as I expect. Shouldn’t my heart feel full and glad? Still, I am so very grateful I get a turn in the quiet stillness of moonlight, with the end of winter breathing around us. It is certainly exciting, and is filled with the potential of the future. My heart beats and stops at intervals, laced with the worry that someone will find us in such an embrace.
“I can leave you with a little something.” It seems an appropriate response, but he takes me at my word and presses me close, so the tightness of his chest hits my bosom, and the hollow of his stomach curls against the gathers of my skirt. We are similar in height and he gazes into my eyes directly against the blue of the starlight.
He kisses me. It is both a tremor and an ache, and delightfully shivery, and my body pulls and catches at once. It is my first kiss, and I do like it. Jimmy’s hands move to my waist, and one of his flat palms brushes against the side of my breast. Womanly instincts flash and burn into being. Suddenly, I fully understand what is the lust between a man and a woman. I can start to understand the need pooling, and the inability to see straight. Though I am unable to let myself go, as my nerves are too jumpy and my mind too buzzy with calculations, I still like the tingle, however slight it is.
But Jimmy kisses me as if he is a hungry man, and his lips are insistent. I allow him to open my mouth further with his, and I do not jump as his hand once more lightly touches my chest. I am interested in experiencing what I saw from across the wagon circle at night. I want to feel what it is to be kissed, to be wanted. It is a quiver and a hope, a whisper without words.
We break apart, and Jimmy’s breath is fast and hot against my neck. It is a powerful feeling. I might ask much of him right now: a trinket, a lifetime, a piece of his character. Some women might. The idea is tempting, but what exactly would I beg of him? I do not want his promise yet, as I am not sure I want to tie his life with mine. For all the headiness of his embrace, there is still much to consider. Will Father approve? My brothers? Does he love me?
My reverie is broken when Jimmy dives back in for another kiss, this one more insistent. I allow him another moment of passion, but then push against him with the hand not holding up my apron. His chest is flat and hard against my palm, his breath wild and quick.
“Is that what you wished, then?” I ask softly.
He presses his forehead to mine, and nods silently, unable to speak. I feel a deep fondness unfold toward him. His earnest affection for me, coupled with his respect and desire, is a lovely combination. It is, truly, what I had wanted in a match. I find myself hoping he asks Father for permission to court or marry me when he returns.
I pull away from Jimmy and our arms drop away. The night chill creeps along my shoulders. The warmth from the bread is nearly gone, and I look toward the deep tawny light spilling from my family’s space.
“Go ahead home. I will see you yet tonight for dinner,” he says, following my eyes.
Before I walk into the lamplight, I look behind me. He’s standing in the blue and black of falling night, watching me go, and my heart leaps a little higher.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
10 May 1866
I spend more of the night awake than I care to be. It is a foolish thing to do. Even without much sleep, my duties in the morning will be there, with the same amount of water to be hauled from the Flats Basin stream, the same clothes to be washed and wrung, the same candles to prepare, the butter to churn, the pigs and damnable chickens to feed. And coffee will need to be roasted and ground again, and the Salomon’s smokehouse needs to be cleared of the rabbits Jimmy brought back last week. I still need to speak to Father Jonathon about the church social, and Sadie has invited me to go berry picking with Grete and Bess—Bess, who just married Franklin Jones, so she’s not plumping her breasts at my brothers anymore.
Al says he’s going tomorrow. He shouldn’t. He can’t. The thought makes my stomach churn, and if I were a weepy woman, I would allow myself some tears of fear and distress, but my eyes are dry and scratchy. Instead, I steel myself, pulling up my resolve, as the questions still pour in. What about the shop? How can Al leave Father and me? Is Al’s young pride—his peace of mind, his manhood—so unstable by the thought of the wild frontier? Is it so necessary to prove his mettle, that he is man enough to live here?
I cannot understand the workings of a man’s heart, though I live with so many. They say a woman is not sensible, and must have her way carved out by a father or brother or husband. But there are times I do not believe it. There are times I believe the sensibility of our communities is rooted in the women. Many times, here in Flats Town, I’ve seen a woman speak a word, mind a business, or take control. I want to do the same, though no one listens to my ideas, and I’m painfully aware of my crude attempts.
I turn over in bed, and the blanket shifts to expose my foot. I kick it back against the creeping cold of the room. My bed is not near enough the potbelly stove, though its radiant heat wafts over us weakly. The boys have made the rough bed frames fast, and one of the legs of my bed is cut too short. They are so exact with their tinwork, but sloppy with wood.
Unlike my flowers. I’ve just planted the roses in a perfect row outside. Mrs. Andersen mentioned it when she stopped in a few days ago.
Mrs. Andersen seems very nice. She is the widowed mother of Grete; their faces are cut of the same cloth. Father’s eyes followed her when she visited. She stopped by to say hello, bring food, and decided I needed help with making an early green soup. Tom pulled me aside later, and said I am to watch out, as Father might be interested in replacing Mother with a woman we do not know well. His worry may be misplaced. I noticed Mrs. Andersen pays the same amount of attention to Walter as she does Father.
I toss again, and remember my kiss with Jimmy tonight. It runs through me, a tingle of excitement when I recall his touch, his caress. I understand now how a body can awaken to the touch of another. My heart turns over the sense in tying myself to Jimmy. Eventually, he might open a second smithy when he returns from the Army. Goodness knows there is enough work. And he does not begrudge my poor cooking. He smiles at me, and he is attentive without being overbearing. It is what I would hope for in a husband. I know this. I just did not expect it to be so … quick. I expected to feel something permanent and earthy. Well, perhaps Al and Tom will discourage him as they march out. Perhaps they will tell Jimmy that I am not available, as they have done so many times before. Perhaps my own heart will bloom with deep affection in his absence.
The night is old. I pinch my forehead and beg my heart to stop soaring, to let exhaustion consume me. Under the simmering of my racing, jumbled, thoughts, my worry for Al, and my fear for the future, I must sleep. My world will upend in the morning.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
10 May 1866
“Don’t you think everyone might waste away from poor victuals?” I say to Jimmy, trying to be humorous, and to keep from talking about the hundreds of miles between here and there.
He gives his bright smile.
“Just bake him bread. That you can do well.” He raises a kerchief, where the fresh brown loaf is packed around hard cheese and dried meat and the last of the previous winter’s salt pork from the Salomons.
“That at least,” Tom nods as he passes by, his wide shoulders holding an expansive plank to serve as extra seats across the loaded wagon bed. Buckskinner David Fawcett will drive to Fort Randall with a few other local Army recruits
anxious for the promised funds. His adopted children climb up and around one another, hanging on and shouting unintelligibly to Caroline: “Louŋčiƞṕi! Ina! Louŋčiƞṕi! We are hungry! Mother! We are hungry!”
“Loyačiƞṕi he? Wašteṕe! You are all hungry? You all be good!”
“You will be fine, Marie,” Jimmy says. “We won’t be gone forever. It’s only a month’s walk to Fort Laramie. I’m sure we’ll get home at some time sooner than later. And your brother will send the money back.”
The money, the money. It’s all about the damn money.
“You can make fine things from tin in the meantime,” Jimmy continues. “Though one can’t eat tin.”
“Unfortunately not,” I agree, and grin back up at him. The cord between us strings tight with hope and uncertainty, and I feel my heart flutter again. Though he has not demanded a promise of me, I like him better for it. I turn to him so that we are very near each other. Would an embrace be so very inappropriate here? Now? In front of so many?
He seems to think so, and instead takes up my hand and bends over it as a gentleman would in the city. “I will think of you often, Marie. Be well, and hearty. I will see you soon.”
I want to know if I’ve imagined the way my body reacts to his, and pull him toward me so he ends up hugging me anyway, just so I can try to feel it all over again. The spark is there, tempered. I wonder why, but there’s not another moment. Tom claps a heavy hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.
“We’re to be off, Jim. Release my sister. It’s my turn.”
He fairly pushes the younger man away. With a backward glance, Jimmy hops up to the wagon with his agile speed. Tom hovers, his bear-like stance magnified by the messy hair hanging over his shoulders and bleeding into his beard. He glowers at first, then yanks me loosely to him.
“Be well, Marie. No boys until we’re back, all right?” Tom wiggles his eyebrows once, and if the day weren’t so somber, I’d laugh.
