by Sara Dahmen
“I’d offer you a bunk at the shop, but it wouldn’t be proper,” I say, and the same vision spills back into my mind without pause, except this time it is my own hips I imagine sandwiched with his, leaving me simmering oddly, and floating disjointedly.
He looks at me closely. “You’ll be all right there alone?”
“Why does everyone wonder that? Your father asked, and so has Danny,” I say, throwing irritation behind the words. “Does no one think I can manage these days?”
Thaddeus raises his hands in instant defeat. “Probably because whoever is asking is just worried about you.”
“Well, I thank them. And you. And I’ll be fine. Będę! I will!” I hand him the empty pot and he automatically grabs it with his free hand. “I’ll see you soon, as the sword is coming along fine enough.”
I stomp through the yard to the tinshop and slip in through the doorway. Surveying the glowing, blackened iron of the machines, the golden fire of the copper, and the silver white of the tin scattered around the benches and the floor, I feel as though I can breathe and be myself. It is a strange thing, to feel at home in such a place, for all that it truly is lonely.
CHAPTER THIRTY
20 October 1867
Sliding a poker into the rounded belly of the stove, I wake the embers, and stare at the glow. It’s a warm evening, for October, but I need some light if I’m to work past twilight. Opening the doors, I gaze across the yard. It’s quiet. Sunday. And I’m exhausted.
It’s tiredness brought on by worry. By pain. By loneliness.
I miss Father. And the boys. I don’t even want the Army’s money anymore, I just want to be free of my debt, my responsibilities, and the quiet of the shop.
I could warm the brazier and start some copper work, and fill my head with fractions and the slip of metal sheet in my fingers. I could dive into the mathematics and hide from the reality of my life. I could fly to Danny and beg him to marry me and save me from my debt.
No. Nie. No.
Should I bother to return? To Chicago? To what? For what? For whom?
I don’t know.
Giving up my trade, the only thing I’ve ever done well, is a fool’s notion, but staying here and digging myself further into debt is nearly as bad. I feel trapped within a circle of blackness, unable to see beyond, unable to discover a way out. There must be something. Must be a way to get out from under Percy’s thumb, must be.
Marriage to Danny? That also feels like giving up. It feels unlike a choice.
It feels like a failure.
And I do not love him.
On the table, waiting for the last of the carving, the sword is so sharp, so fine and so pure. The steel gleams, and it will look like a mirror when it’s polished.
I stare at the point. The tempting tendrils of the idea waft through my senses, as strong as the tantalizing smell of baked apple jakbłecznik.
It is a sin to think of ending it all.
But the thought is there, growing, taking form, a looming darkness curling around me, until it seems the shop disappears, and the only consideration is me, and whether or not I will use the sword the way it is meant.
Am I truly so tired? Tired of what? The work? Of being stubborn? Of fighting?
It would be the end. It would stop the questions, the worries, the fears.
Lifting the sword, an edge bites into my palm, but I do not feel it. The red of the blood seems to belong to someone else, and the river of it slides down my wrist and to the corner of my elbow.
A slice to the gut would be death too long in coming. The bowels would be worse.
The needle-point end flicks up toward the concave hollow of my chest, where my breasts swell just above my stays. It’s as if the sword knows where to go. It is instinct, knowledge, surety. It is aware of my distress, and understands it must cut me fast, perfectly. It must use my strength against me, turning the power of my hands and my muscles inward.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Thaddeus is an inky shadow, detaching from the gloom of the evening. Even in the darkness, I can feel the quivering of his body, the shock and anger and fear.
He’s afraid.
Him! He has nothing to fear, damn him! He is not giving up his life, forced to marry someone he does not want. He is not drowning in debt, blackmailed beyond reason. He is not without family, alone and destitute and despairing.
The sword is stuck, suddenly far too heavy to move, and the press of the steel against my body is like a caress. And I’m frozen, too. Embarrassed. Appalled.
And yet longing for it to stab into my flesh.
Will it hurt?
Will it sting?
Surely it will not bite me the way the acid did. It won’t scorch like the words of the people here who disapprove of me. It won’t burn like the bile in my stomach when I think of marrying Danny. It will likely just throb. Slowly, like the heavy pulsing of my blood. I may not feel much at all.
Thaddeus strides across the shop in five gigantic steps. Wrenching the sword away from me, he glares at it, where it slides across his palms and catches the orange and red of my little stove’s coals.
“Goddamn it, Marya. Damn it. What the hell are you doing? Trying to see if I’ve made it sharp enough? It’s sharp enough!”
I have no words to offer him, and for once the stubborn rearing of an argument fails me. I can feel the last bit of strength in my body crumbling away, as if by tearing the sword from my chest, Thaddeus has ripped a hole into my soul.
“I cannot …” I gasp for a solid breath of air, find it, and finish. “I cannot go on like this.”
“Of course you can. Everyone does,” he dismisses.
“No,” I shake my head. “It’s asking too much.”
“There are others who’ve had it far worse than you,” he tells me flatly. “At least you’ve a roof over your head.”
“That won’t stay,” I say softly. “Eventually. Money won’t find itself. I have no way to pay Percy Davies back. I have … I’m trapped if I stay—”
“You’ve nowhere else to go.”
“—and I’m alone.”
“You’ve us,” he repeats, echoing what he said at Father’s funeral. “And if you leave, do you think you’ll be less alone?”
He’s so correct I cannot answer. Staring hard at the sword, and my half-carved designs, Thaddeus finally sighs and places the weapon on the tinner’s bench, where the silver glints and winks in the dim light.
“Don’t be so quick to give it up.”
“Quick? I’ve been alone for months!” I want to laugh, and the sound comes out brittle and bitter. “But don’t worry. I can’t really leave. I don’t have the cash. I’m stuck here, wallowing in debt for the rest of my days, surrounded by nothing but flowers and blasted chickens and empty air. I’ve only the metal.” I wave my hand. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”
“Impale yourself?”
I flinch, but Thaddeus doesn’t seem to care. He stands over me, his arms crossed, his beard and hair blending with the black of the night, his eyes a hard glitter against the faint fire and single lantern.
“That’s what you were doing,” he accuses. “Isn’t it?”
I fold my lips over my teeth, pressing my hands deep into my skirts to keep the trembling at bay. Hunching my shoulders, I curve into my own body, hoping I can keep in my tumultuous sobs until he leaves me be.
“Isn’t it, Marya?” He’s shouting now, his words almost as sharp as the sword. “You’ve given up, have you? Think it’s worth the sin? You’ve nothing left, is that it? The talent in your hands, the business you’ve built, nearly single-handedly—that’s not enough? Who are you trying to be? What else are you hoping to prove?”
“Go away, Thaddeus,” I tell him suddenly, knowing if he continues I’ll be weeping in front of him and unable to stop. This is nothing like when I stood at the precipice of Father’s grave.
This is harder and deeper and darker.
His
anger washes over me, as palpable and thick as ever. He spins on his heel, his boot grinding into the dirt of the floor, before turning back and grabbing the sword up in one huge hand.
“Hell if I’m leaving this here with you,” he growls, and marches out into the night. By the time the back door of the Salomon house slams, my eyes are scratchy and dry and tearless.
Sleep fails me. The night insects sigh and chirp and sing a tune with the prairie grasses. The wind picks up sometime around midnight, seeping through the handful of cracks around the door and window, eddying in swirls along the floor, pulling up the old smells of stale and earthy musk.
Who am I trying to be?
What do I hope to prove?
I’ve always thought someday I’d be like Mother. If I tried hard enough and remembered her properly, I’d be just like her. Bright, vivacious, and beautiful. Sparkling and charismatic, brilliant and strong. I’d be able to spin a soup, cook a goose, and have dozens of friends. I’d have a love as deep and honest as she shared with Father. Something joyful and solid and real.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m nothing like Mother.
I’m something else.
I must sleep, but it certainly doesn’t feel like I might. Tossing often, I wake myself each hour until I find the churned blankets unbearable. The room is empty, a cavern of dust. The barren beds of my brothers lie flat and cold, Father’s is wrinkled but lonely. And I’m lonely. And lost. And a failure at everything I touch except the metal. I might have to give that up, too, if Danny takes me. And then I’ll be a wife, and will have to do everything I cannot do well.
Getting up and yanking on my clothes in the dark, I stalk into the tinshop, lurking like I used to when the boys would be asleep.
The burin gleams on the tinner’s bench, catching the bits of moonlight. The end is duller now than it first was, but it is still sharp enough.
Will I be banished to hell?
Will it be cold if I use the tempered iron to rip open my veins?
Picking it up, I test the weight of the metal tool and place the end against the delicate flesh under my wrists, where there are no scars and the skin is unbroken and a soft white-gold. I can trace the rivers of blood underneath, visible even in the rusty orange of the low brazier coals. They are a deep purple-blue rippling up toward my elbow.
Will it hurt?
Pressing carefully, I draw a straight line, and the metal scratches across my flesh, not quite drawing blood. The coldness of the iron screeches through my body.
Dropping the burin, I shake my hands fast, willing them to warm. They are like ice and my body is a flame all at once. Stop! I must stop! I must get out of the house, and away from the tools.
I go outside into the chill of the fall morning. Father’s grave is just visible, and when I kneel there, the old sorrow rises. It is a slow, wide bubble, forcing itself out until the cry releases. Draping my limbs across the dirt, I wish I could feel him hug me back.
Who would have suspected me to be a metalsmith? I’d started the trip to the Territory with a broken machine, but now it’s me who is broken.
I’m sorry, Father! Mother—I want to give up!
Would I use the sword now? If Thaddeus had left it, would I slice my veins open and let myself go onto the earth, soaking it with my life, and letting the troubles slip away?
Do I really want to give up? Has my stubborn will left me, finally?
The sobs wrest themselves out of my body, painful and wretched.
Oh God! What do I do now?
What should I try next? I cannot think past this moment, this morning. The darkness is close, wrapping itself around me as thickly and thoroughly as death, overwhelming and choking and complete.
If I stop now, if I simply lie here, will anyone notice? Will they come and pick me up, and care for me? Would Danny think I am insane, or would he cradle me up and tend to my broken spirit?
“You’re so loud I can’t hear myself.”
Once again, my emotions are harshly interrupted. Thaddeus stands in the barn doorway across the yard, his hands covered in manure and grime. The pinpricks of light from the barn lantern reveal his frown.
“Damn you!” I pull myself up to my knees. I expect to feel embarrassed again, but after the previous night, I don’t know if I can this morning. “Can’t a woman mourn in peace?”
“If she’s quiet about it.”
When I stand fully, the chickens suddenly scatter from the barnyard, spooked from their roost earlier than normal. The two biggest make a line for my shoes, their beaks lowered. Filled with frustration, I take a swing with my foot, catching one under the neck, hearing the crack as the body flies, flopping and shivering, into midair.
“I hate these damn kurczaki!”
Thaddeus is silent, watching the bird flip about and wobble its death throes until it stops. I am shaking as well, my hands quivering so violently I think the tremble will work its way through my whole body.
“I can’t do this, Thaddeus,” I say quietly. “I want to stay a smith, but I can’t see how to make it work.”
“So marry Danny,” he shoots back, still immobile, still holding the lantern up so the light dimples on the ground, like golden pricks of starlight on the old grass. “And all your problems will be solved.”
“No, they won’t. And besides, Danny hasn’t asked.”
“It’s better than using the sword to end it. Jezus, Marya.” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid to give it back to you.”
“I’ve settled,” I promise him, realizing as I say the words that somehow they’re true. “I don’t know what I’ll do, and I can’t keep going like this, with all the debt, and all alone. But you needn’t be worried about it.”
He snorts and shakes his head again.
The embarrassment finally floods back, and I wonder what I might have done had he not entered the shop and stopped my dark thoughts. Warm relief and soft release ebb into my chest, and I look up at Thaddeus and smile.
“You seem to always catch me at my worst.”
“I do.”
“And yet you’re still my na—friend.” Another word nearly trips over itself to be said, but I manage a tamer one.
“I am.”
“I suppose I should help with chores.”
“You should.” He stands aside from the barn door, swinging the lantern so I might pass first. As I head into the building, and the odor of musty straw and old hay fills my nose, Thaddeus glances back into the yard.
“Chicken for dinner today, then.”
My laughter comes without warning, bursting out like a shot. It is nearly hysterical, but needed. I think I see Thaddeus grin under his beard, and goodwill swims in my chest. He is good-looking when he smiles. I wish he’d do it more often.
Yet his silence about my dark, unhappy moments is both a comfort and a sadness. It reminds me, once more, of my loneliness.
Najdroższy, I’d nearly called him. Dearest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
25 October 1867
“Marie!” Harry Turner greets me expansively, his eyes taking in my raggedy day dress. “What can I do for you?”
“A cone of sugar, for starters.” I gaze up at the bolts of cloth. I can’t truthfully afford anything, but I need leather for a larger apron. Sometimes Harry trades with the Sioux when they come through to visit Esther Flies-With-Hawks, Percy’s lover, and then Harry has different hides for sale. This time of year, I’m in luck, but I’ve no money and hardly a shred of credit left.
“Been working along on the sword, I hear,” he mentions off-handedly when I gesture for him to fill my sugar order.
“As I can.”
He pulls the sweet over, but his bushy white eyebrows are still up. “Did you hear about Morten Henderssen?”
“No.”
“His teeth have turned black! Doc Gunnarsen says he can pull them all, but old Mort went and hid. They found him two days later in a foxhole!”
“Ah.”
“An
d you know Matthew Winters is re-opening the mess hall? I heard that his sister-in-law Doris has her sights set on Tommy Winters, but I say she’s her work cut out for her for all she’s a seasoned widow. It’s her long face that does it, and Tommy’s set on trying to be a cowboy, but if he’d pay more attention to his riding instead of his mustache designs, he’d get somewhere, don’t you think?”
“Well, have you met Tilly and Eva Rose yet? Fortuna brought them in when she was buying flasks.”
Harry shoots a sideways glance at May and clears his throat. “Ah, no. No, I have not been to Fortuna’s Powdered Rose, nor met any of her girls. No, not at all. Never plan to, either. I’ve got me a wife, of course. No need for a brothel.”
He stops his gossiping, though, and I can look over the goods in peace and quiet.
Harry binds up my purchase, marking it down in his great book on the counter. Watching my line of credit embed itself deeper is painful, but I gulp down the sourness in my gut.
As I walk out of the general, I nearly run into Danny. The soft package almost tumbles out of my arm. He catches it speedily, and tucks it under his elbow.
“Marie! I was going to meet you after I ran into the mercantile, but I’ll take the opportunity to walk you home now,” he says warmly.
“Fine then,” I say, as if I am actually offering him permission, though we both know I wouldn’t refuse him anyway.
We walk companionably. There’s no use in having a private conversation along the soft dusty road, as we are constantly hailed from both sides. Sadie sweeps her front porch in the hopes of seeing passersby and to show off her early belly curling with pregnancy, and Doug Ofsberger the postmaster sits outside the office and shouts to anyone who has mail. Mrs. O’Donnell is working to manage her yard weeds by the fence with unusual zeal, and Elaine Warren is arguing so loudly with Toot she seems about to break the windows of the Rusty Nail.
