Tinsmith 1865

by Sara Dahmen

  There is a long scar dug into the tree’s bark, creating a crusty, rough, pitted exterior with yellowy deposits of sap hardened into chunks or streams of stiff drips. Some of it has already started to turn dark to help the tree heal from whatever damaged it, and that is no use to me. What I want are the lighter pieces for rosin flux. I’ve nearly run out and it’s pointless to send east for something I can find in the trees nearby.

  “Hold out your apron, I’m going to break off what I can!” I call down to Anette, who dutifully steps up, preparing her wide piece of stained cloth to catch the pine resin.

  Some of it comes free without issue, and other bits can be pried with my nails. When I want to get the last chunk, a golden-hued globule half hidden by dirt, I pull out a small paring knife to dig into the soft pine.

  “Anette!”

  She swings at the sound of her name, a manly shout neither of us expect.

  “What is it?”

  “I found one of yours all the way down by the water at the smithy, no doubt trying to find her grandmother. But Berit’s out right now. I saw her myself by the general as I was leaving.”

  The top of Danny’s head comes into view. It is a strange sight, to be higher than him, to see the full scalp of rich blonde hair shimmer through the needle branches.

  “Thanks for returning her,” Anette says comfortably. “They do wander. At least Flats Basin River isn’t too deep.”

  “It’s a stream,” I laugh.

  “Thaddeus near tripped over her on his way to it,” Danny tells us ruefully, his eyes finding me and dancing. “There was some … ah … colorful language used.”

  “Oh dear. Well. Nothing she can’t hear anywhere else in town if she’s ears on her. Isn’t that right, kjæreste?” Anette bends down, still holding the apron up to her waist. I’ve nearly finished prying the rest of the resin. As I shift on the branches, some of the debris from the loose bark rains down on Danny and Anette.

  “Why on earth are you up there, Marie?” he calls up. “One of the littles is good for that.”

  “They’d disappeared,” I say, climbing off the boughs slowly with the last piece in hand. “And I’d rather get it myself, really.”

  “Thaddeus said you were up the buffalo path looking for resin,” he says, watching me descend closely, and then graciously taking my hand to help me the last bit. It’s a romantic gesture to be sure, though certainly unnecessary. Behind his shoulder, I see Anette grinning and nodding. “I didn’t think to find you up a tree, though.”

  “I need more rosin flux,” I explain. Anette waves a hand, as if beckoning me to say something more, but words are stuck and tight in my throat.

  “Well, do you need any more help?” he asks uncertainly, staring up at the towering conifers.

  “You’ve the height for it,” Anette says at once. “And I might get home myself to start dinner. I’ve taken enough time away from my duties. You can help Marie finish her hunt.” Her smile widens. “I trust you both can be responsible, and don’t need a chaperone?”

  Her jibe, in the tone used by scolding mothers, is not lost. The three of us chuckle, though perhaps with some reservation on my part and Danny’s. We are so rarely alone, for all the snippets of conversations we’ve had over the past few months. What will I say to him in such leisure?

  “I’ll stay and give aid where I can,” he agrees, and gives me a small, hopeful smile. I am incredibly anxious and excited all at once. Should I treat him like a customer? Ask him about his day, and his plans? Perhaps I should discuss the logistics of his cattle the way I would the repair of a lantern.

  “I’ll be off!” she says cheerily. Anette’s pronounced departure only heightens my heart’s speed. My eyes are wide at her, and she waves again with additional cheer and a wink.

  She calls sternly for her children, and pours her resin into my basket. The four children arrive in staggered gaps, though it feels far too quick for my preference. Danny is looking at me in a way that makes me weak and breathless, and I still don’t know what I will say to him in the stagnant silence of the forest, when the lilting chatter of the children departs.

  But depart it does, and then the soughing of the wind in the razor leaves of the pines is the only noise. A pop of sap, a buzz of a summer insect, and the trill of a horned lark cuts the lull between us. Danny still stares at me, as if he cannot get enough. It is unnerving. I can, now and in their deaths, be even more grateful for my brothers, who knew my nature better than I did, who kept men away so that I would not constantly be flustered.

  “What are we looking for?” he asks, and his voice is lower than usual.

  I clear my throat and look above at the trees. “Scars in the bark—like that one—where the tree is healing. The sap is congealed within it, or dripping out. It is the tree’s blood, and the clearer it is, the better.”

  “And you use this in the shop?”

  “Yes. It gets the solder running when I work on seams.”

  “Leaves something sticky, though, I shouldn’t wonder,” he observes, and I look at him, impressed at his notion.

  “You’re right. It’s difficult to remove the residue,” I agree.

  “How are you holding up on orders?” he asks me, as if trying to find purchase on a topic. I’m not sure if he truly believes in my talent or is simply humoring me.

  “There’s much to do,” I tell him.

  “It’s good you have work,” Danny says without preamble. “As Father wants to raise your rent. Again.”

  I wonder if my face drops its color.

  “Have you told him that it’s only me?”

  “He knows,” Danny says miserably. “But he’s a businessman, and he sees his figures every week. If he charges good rents on all his properties, he can purchase more land for more cattle. It’s that or sell to the railroad, and Percy Davies is giving him enough push on that so he’s been saying no to the rail bosses so far. You know how it goes, Marie. I won’t insult you by treating this as something else.”

  My own head is whirling with numbers.

  “How much is he thinking?”

  “He wants ten dollars a month.”

  “What?”

  “I know, Marie.” He looks truly pained. His blue eyes, the color of a clear prairie day, stare into mine as if trying to press into me his sincerity. In another moment he has captured both of my hands, running his thumbs over the bumpy scars on them, and couching my fingers with his calloused ones.

  “I’m sorry, truly I am.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that, Danny,” I say.

  I know I cannot. Even in the cities, ten dollars is more than a month’s wage for a tinsmith. It’s an impossible rent.

  “I know, Marie, I know. I would offer you other notions on how to escape the cost, but they would be ill-placed in this moment.” His hands grip mine tighter, as if he wishes to save me from myself, and all the worries coming with his news.

  He starts to release me reluctantly, and then, as we are alone for the first time in months, he reaches and clasps me into his arms. I’m surprised at the strength of him, and the long confidence of his embrace. It’s not anything I was expecting. I like it. I like being held by him, and the tenderness with which he cradles me.

  I find myself interested in his smell. It is horses and dirt and leather and the leftover chaff of animal feed. It’s a masculine smell, and his skin is warm under the calico shirt he wears. His body is strong and lean and firm against the yielding softness of my own. Part of my small attraction to him is matched with my fascination in the visceral responses of my body. Whether this is affection or love or something in between, it ought to be a good thing to be partnered with such a man, who is kind and strong and smart.

  He circles me into his arms tighter, and lowers his lips to mine. It is a light kiss, careful and sincere, and fills me with the fluttering I expect from an embrace. Danny’s hands are firm on my back, his mouth sure and then desperate. I want to melt into him, if only because he is a man and I
wish to feel the desire I hope will come. I sense a tingle of it. Possible pleasure, budding breathlessness, and wonderment bubble within my stomach. I allow him to kiss me deeply, and close my eyes and my worries against the heat clattering across my shoulders and through my marrow.

  I wish I were a brazen woman, who hides my buried carnal hopes below the veneer of tin and copper, willing and able to explode into the man who kisses me. But the joy and desire I yearn to know eludes me. My heart and head do not sing Danny’s praises easily for all I find him kind and sweet. Is it enough for a lifetime? Enough to give up my trade?

  Will it matter?

  He is a gentleman, and pulls his face from mine before we can dive further into the kiss. When he releases my mouth, he leans his cheek on my head, his chest heaving with unspent passion. Goodness! That a man should desire me so! It is powerful, indeed.

  We stay like this for a long while, swaying slightly and unevenly. I will myself to stay apart from the maelstrom in my belly, to think on what this moment means. A kiss with Danny Svendsen is not without strings.

  There are difficult discussions to come, ones that would never have happened had my family been around me.

  “Danny,” I say softly. “We ought to continue looking.”

  He draws away slowly, and I see his mouth is pinker with use, as if our kiss has ripened his lips beyond the narrowness of his heritage. I smile at him, and he smiles back, though it is tremulous.

  “Of course, Marie. Of course. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. I cannot lie and say I did not enjoy our embrace myself.” After I say it, even though it is a truth, I realize it sounds very much like encouragement. I feel a new flush feather across my neck.

  His eyes light with hope, and he grasps at my words. “Then—perhaps, in the spring—”

  “Marie!”

  The shout is loud, meant to scan a broad swathe of land, as if the caller hopes to find me in a hurry.

  “It’s Thaddeus.” Danny states the obvious, and we turn toward the blacksmith’s voice as one. A crashing through the brush accompanies the next yell, and I move forward.

  “What is it? I’m here!”

  “Marie! You must come—chodź teraz! You must come now!” Thaddeus comes into view, his apron still on and his hands black with soot. His face is unreadable, but his words are wild. “It’s your father. Something’s wrong. Mrs. Andersen sent me—you—Marie, I think he’s dying.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  3 July 1867

  The summer heat swells and hangs. My flowers wilt but do not brown. There is no reason to wait to bury Father, and we put him to ground hours after he breathes his last.

  I watch them cover the box of new, planed wood with the red and grey-tan of the Flats Town earth. It is my place to throw handfuls in. It feels a frivolous, emotional task. My body boils with fear and anger and helplessness. The day sags stolidly, and I expect the night will roll through sleeplessly. I am grateful for Mrs. Andersen, who stayed with me while we waited on Father’s life to leave him.

  Anette brings meat pies and sweet apple pie to our house. With the help of Sadie and May Turner, and the unwavering shadow of the Salomon men, I’ve had very little to do.

  I’m supposed to be mourning. This I understand. But it is one thing to know it and another to do it. The tears won’t come. Sometimes I think they should, and I think if I spend time thinking on his death, I might start to weep. But then I feel myself draw up, as if shutting down the sorrow is the proper response. The agony of my aloneness is unspeakable, and will break me if I dwell on it.

  I burned many candles to finish some metal work well into the late hours last night, hoping the numbers and the artistry will be enough to salvage my grief. Thaddeus has kept the sword away from me since Father started to fail. Likely that is wise.

  Hymns are sung by people who knew Father only as their newest craftsman. The deep baritone under it all is Walter, who knew him in his youth. My lips won’t even move, and I chafe under the fine black gown Sadie lent me so I might be properly dressed. Most married women have a black dress, but that is not my lot.

  So I stand on the cliff’s edge of Father’s grave, wearing borrowed goods and feeling nothing proper at all inside.

  I want to rage at the unfairness of my lot. Would it be considered ill-placed of me to scream? Is everyone watching and waiting for me to break? To be a weak woman? To leave town? To give up?

  Does everyone feel this way when they bury the last remnant of their family?

  “Marie—my dear. Are you ready to go?”

  Danny is at my side, a place he has staked since the early morning. I am pleased to have him near, for he is gentle and does not overwhelm me. I know he will do anything within his power that I ask of him. His actions are obvious: he adores me, he loves me, he wishes to take care of me. The innate knowledge of this—the deepness of his feelings—is both a comfort and an obligation.

  “No, I’d like to stay,” I say quietly. “I know they’ve put together some vittles for everyone and it’s the way of it to have a meal. I’d prefer to wait until the deed is done.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” he says lowly, and takes up a shovel to make the work go faster, even as most of the other folk drift toward the trestle groaning under the ironware weighted with food. Walter and Thaddeus were up with the first light putting out the boards. I had tried to answer questions and direct my preferences, but I mainly just wanted to be alone in the shop. It seems it has become my refuge. If I am thinking of fractions, I might not feel so ravaged.

  How do I tell Danny I wish to be alone? There are no words to say it kindly. I wish to think of the last moments of Father’s life, when he might have offered some words of affection, or given me some acceptance. Instead, it was only a garbled slur. Is it enough to sustain me the rest of my days? It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Father would never have told me the shop is mine, even had he been able to speak. He would never have wanted my destiny to be so unusual and unorthodox.

  Soon the only ones left are myself, Danny, Mrs. Andersen, and the Salomons, who have done most of the digging and burying, with Thaddeus bearing the brunt of the work. He is sweating through his yellowing shirt, and Walter’s arms are shaking visibly with the physical effort. Danny does not seem to mind the labor, and his head is down as he finishes pitching dirt.

  “Come, Marie,” Mrs. Andersen says softly, taking my arm with hers and winding them together. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  I resist the urge to look back at Danny, to think of his father’s increased rent on the property, to worry on how I will build a new shop by myself if I cannot stay. Percy Davies came to the funeral, and though he says nothing and his Indian lover looks at me with deep kindness, I can feel the festering of my loan. It eats and gnaws at me.

  The void of my days stretches grey and unthinkable. To make any decision now is impossible, and I look at the packed grass at my feet, focusing on each blade of crushed green, and then at the softly wilted roses around the shop and the stemmy geraniums framing the doorway to the Salomon house.

  My head rotates around such plain thoughts, as if by focusing on them I’ll lose the fear running in dizzying circles around my head, and I will be able to hold in the screaming shriek building inside my chest.

  Nothing is as it should be.

  Nothing is as I expected.

  And nothing will bring back Tom or Al or Father, or even Lou.

  Or Mother.

  No choice leads backward in time.

  “Marie!” Anette waves to me, her brood of five scattering and congealing around her as waves around a rock. Jacob is short and steadfast behind her, two plates of food heaping on his wide flat hands as he patiently waits for her to find a place to lay down a blanket. I wave back, but Mrs. Andersen has a firm grip on my arm so I might not stop to chat.

  Food is handed to me, some of which I don’t even like. But I pick at it dutifully, sitting on the edge of a woven rug brought
out from the Salomon house.

  “He will be missed,” Walter says wistfully, and I wonder how, when he has been like a dead man for months as it is.

  “You’ll miss the sharing of memories,” Mrs. Andersen tells him, and the old blacksmith nods and presses his wavering hands together. She puts one of her own work hardened ones over his and squeezes.

  “That. And he was a good smith,” Walter finishes.

  “Marie will manage,” Thaddeus interjects. His eyes fill with questions as I look up into his hard face. “Though it is a blow to lose one’s father.”

  I nod absently, and bite into an early apple. They are sweet and ripe, nearly juicy.

  “Perhaps Marie won’t have to manage,” Danny says quietly. “If she marries, she won’t need to work so hard.” These words are spoken directly to me, but so soft I barely hear them. I find his earnest, genuine face and smile bleakly.

  “She’s not alone,” Thaddeus counters.

  “I meant—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you meant. She has us.”

  “And you’re fine company. You never said much when we were young and you’re not much better now.” Danny’s tone is light but his fingers close into fists.

  “Better than talk for talk’s sake.”

  “Do you suppose the harvest will get in without issue?” Mrs. Andersen asks casually, purposefully changing the course of the conversation but with an obviousness not lost on anyone.

  “I hope so,” Danny offers, playing along after one more glance at me. “Though it is a hot summer.”

  “We’ll have a long Fall, mark my words,” Walter adds.

  Their chatter fades to a buzz in my ears. I watch the people milling around. Most I recognize as customers or general townfolk. Flats Town is not so large that there are many complete strangers, yet even so, I do not know everyone. I see several people look my way, sympathy and questions etching and stretching across their faces.

  I’m not a particularly emotional woman, I like to think, but today I have feelings crackling within me. When will they all leave? When do I get a moment to myself?