The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  “I can’t stop thinking of her, that’s the trouble,” Paxton said and sighed as they crossed the street to the mercantile.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Watching Whit ride down the hill to the ferry from the barn, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, Anora whispered to the chickens pecking the ground around her feet, “Well, that’s that. Say goodbye to Whit, ladies. Tell him Anora Claire will remember him always. I pray he’ll remember Anora Claire as the silly, laughing girl he liked to twirl around the campfire and not the stupid lump of scarred flesh he found yesterday.”

  Sobbing, she said, “I love you, Whit Comstock. God speed. You go, this is how it has to be.”

  A cold, dank shroud of loneliness settled on her shoulders. She shuddered and wrapped her arms over her chest. Hugging herself, she stood shivering and alone, looking toward the river and the moving ferry.

  Squaring her shoulders, she sniffed back her tears and wiped her face with the skirt of her dress. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Whit, for your tenderness.”

  Putting her mind to the practical things, she checked the stores of feed for the animals. The goats had less than half a barrel of cracked corn, and the same of oats. The chickens were down to their last sack of corn mash. Roscoe and Pete and the milk cow had less than half a stack of clover hay. They were out of grain feed altogether. Ruben took care of the supplies, making deals, conniving, making promises he didn’t intend to keep. She couldn’t do that. She could never do that.

  Eyes to the sky, low and gray, the ground beneath her feet soggy, Arona slogged through the muddy puddles dotting the track to the cabin. A nagging voice of doom whispered a dire warning. Everyone knows you’re alone over here. You don’t dare talk to anyone. You can’t do what Ruben did, you can’t barter…or trade. The jackals will come to rip the flesh from your bones. They’ll pick you dry, as Ruben predicted.

  Responding to the voice in her head, she said aloud, “I’ll fight them off. This is my land. Ruben bought it with Papa’s money. It’s mine.”

  The voice, Ruben’s voice, taunted her. Roscoe and Pete are gonna get mighty hungry. They won’t last long workin’ those ferry lines on empty bellies, then where will you be? Who’s gonna work the ferry? The boy? I don’t think so.

  She answered the voice, “There’s new grass. Roscoe and Pete and the cow can forage on that for a while. I’ll turn the goats out on the slope behind the cabin. “The chickens…the chickens can scratch for…worms…bugs.”

  Reaching the porch, she decided what she would do. I’ll make soup for the folks when the Willa Jane comes in. Maybe some bread too. I might sell it, or trade for sugar or flour. Maybe sell my butter and eggs too. Ruben won’t be here to double the price of ferry passage. I wonder, can I do it?” Giving herself no time to quibble, she told herself, I have to.

  A wagon rattled into the yard coming up from the ferry. She stopped in the doorway. On board sat a man, his facial features surrounded, nearly obliterated, by bushy salt and pepper hair. From his temples to chin, a bushy beard sprouted in undisciplined, tight coils, a carpet of hair lay on his chest over his long canvas coat. Predatory, beady eyes shone like hematite, snapping and sparkling.

  “Your man owes me seventeen dollars and six bits. You got the cash?” he asked, his beard barely moving as he spoke.

  Anora, mouth agape, couldn’t think, her thoughts had been for her own survival, her sacrifices, her thriftiness, and the welfare of her animals. The word cash never entered her mind.

  “I didn’t think so,” the man answered for her. She heard him mutter under his beard, “Stupid skirt, probably don’t understand a word. Looks to be as dumb as old Ben said.”

  He started to turn the wagon up the track toward the barn and told her over his shoulder, “I’m gonna have me some chickens, maybe a goat to square the bill,” he said.

  Anora plopped down on the milk can, all the starch gone out of her. From the porch she watched the man climb down from his wagon and begin to unload the crates from the back.

  “Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about running out of feed now,” she said to herself. “And so much for selling or trading. I probably couldn’t have screwed up enough courage to do it anyway. He’s right, I am a stupid skirt. I wonder how many other people Ruben owes money to?”

  “Hey, Anora,” Whit called to her, galloping into the yard, “what’s he doing up there?”

  “God, Whit, I thought you were gone.”

  Anora moaned and put her hands over her face. Of course, he’s back, maybe he never left, and he’s back to witness my humiliation. That’s why God sent him in the first place. Things weren’t bad enough before, apparently there is a never-ending supply of shame to be endured. “Why did you come back?”

  Whit smiled that crooked, disarming smile of his and leaned over, handing down a package to her. “I had to go to town. I wanted to do a little shopping.”

  The sound of clucking and squawking birds distracted Anora from his offering. She frowned, watching the grizzled stranger stuff flapping, reddish brown chickens into slatted wire cages.

  “What’s going on up there? Who is that old geezer? I saw him in town.”

  Sighing a resigned, heavy sigh, she said, “Ruben owed him money. He’s taking chickens…and whatever else he can find. I don’t have cash. Ruben owed a lot of folks. I can expect others to follow. I doubt I’ll have enough chickens or goats to go around.”

  “Well, I reckon I better go see about this.”

  “Whit, don’t. He can have the damn chickens, and whatever else he wants. I can’t afford to feed them anyway. I can’t afford to feed myself. It won’t be long before I’ll be the one eating grass.”

  Whit laughed. “We’ll see about that. You and me got to get a plan here. We’ll talk,” he said.

  “You’ll only delay the inevitable, Whit. Too bad Ruben isn’t here. He’d be pleased to know this turn of events. I can hear him laughing.”

  Whit rode off toward the barn. Anora followed on foot, her intent, she needed to stop him from doing violence to the man. This wasn’t his fight.

  Whit jumped off his horse and bounded over to the barn door, blocking the old man’s access to his wagon. “Howdy,” Whit said, an open, good-natured smile on his lips.

  The old man came to an abrupt halt. Winded, hot, and mad, the old man waved Whit aside. “Got no cash, so these chickens is mine,” he said, elbowing his way past Whit. He had four chickens by the legs, two in each hand, hanging upside down, flapping and squawking, indignant.

  “Well, let me give you a hand,” Whit said, lifting the lids to an empty nearby crate that sat on the ground at the rear of the wagon. After the chickens were folded into the crate and the lid secured, Whit offered his hand to shake. “Whit Comstock,” he said.

  The old man closed one eye, huffed, and removed his work gloves, offering Whit a hand to shake. “Name’s Charlie Hemphill, I run the tannery in town.”

  “Ruben owed you money, huh?” Whit asked.

  “Ruben?” Charlie repeated, momentarily confused.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot, Ben to you.”

  “Yep…me and a lot of other folks. Thought I better get over here and get mine before they pick the place clean.” Nodding toward Anora, Charlie continued. “She ain’t gonna last long. Probably end up in a hen-house herself.”

  Whit tucked his chin in and pressed his lips together. He looked back at Anora.

  She shrugged, confused, feeling helpless. She felt the insult, it came as a slap to the face. She didn’t know what he’d meant when he’d said she’d end up in a hen-house, but she knew she didn’t want to go there. He’d said it with a nasty sneer, so it probably wasn’t at all comfortable or respectable.

  Whit turned back to the old man to ask, “You got family, Mr. Hemphill?”

  Charlie snorted, then replied, “I got a wife, her folks, and seven kids, and another little one due before the end of summer.”

  “Keeps your misses pretty busy, I guess. You got a farm, I s
’pose? Lots of animals?”

  “I got more than I can feed, I’ll say that. Why, these here chickens was mine afore I traded them to Ben for ferry passage.”

  “You don’t say,” said Whit. “You wouldn’t consider the same offer, you know, trade Ben’s debt for ferry passage…instead of these chickens, I s’pose?”

  Charlie rubbed his chin whiskers and thought on it a bit. Then his eyes narrowed, and he snarled like a rabid dog. “She ain’t runnin’ the ferry; the Ambrose kid is takin’ the fares. What you trying to pull?”

  “After tomorrow, I’ll be working the ferry for the widow.”

  “Widow? She ain’t no widow.”

  “Well, her man’s gone, ain’t he?” Whit said. “He ain’t coming back. I’d say that makes her as good as a widow. She’s got a right to hire me to run the ferry and use the money however she can. She’s willing to give you free passage, and your family.”

  Anora could see the old man wasn’t convinced, but Whit kept after him.

  “For…a month, starting day after tomorrow. That would make it through the first week of March.”

  The old fart spit a stream of black juice out of the side of his mouth and held out his hand. “Deal.”

  Shaking the man’s hand, Whit grinned. “We got to get this in the books. You can shake on it with the widow. Nothing is sealed until it’s in the book.”

  Whit helped Charlie free the chickens and load the now empty crates. He tied his horse and then took Anora by the elbow, rushing her back to the cabin. Whit taking long strides, Anora jogging to keep up, they reached the cabin before Charlie Hemphill could get down from the wagon.

  Turning her around to put her back to their visitor, Whit whispered into her ear, “You got paper and pencil?”

  “Paper and pencil… No,” she said, irritated by the need for conspiracy.

  “We’ll be with you in just a minute, Mr. Hemphill,” Whit said over his shoulder, a big smile on his face. “Let’s go inside a minute,” he said loud enough for Charlie to hear. “I bet I know what I did with that pencil.”

  To Charlie Whit he said, “We’ll be back with the book. Won’t be a minute.”

  “Whit…?”

  “Shhh, keep your voice down.” Stepping back, taking a peek out the window, Whit pulled her to the side of the door, out of sight. “Mr. Hemphill, out there, is willing to trade off the debt for the price of ferry passage for a month. We got to seal the deal, get it written down. Now, you got to have some paper around here somewhere. What about the calendar?” he said, reaching out to take it down off the wall behind her.

  “No…not the calendar.” She backed up, her arms stretched out to the side to guard it. After giving it some thought, she said, “I’ve got a diary. It has a lot of empty pages. And it has a pencil.”

  “Good. Get it, bring it out to the porch. Write down Charlie Hemphill, Tannery account, $17.75 to be paid in full by March 4th, by means of free ferry passage for his business, the tannery, and his family. We’ll have him sign it.”

  “Whit?” Anora stopped him, her hand on his arm, searching his boyish face, looking hard into his dancing eyes full of mischief. “He won’t sign it.”

  “He’ll sign it, and he’s gonna’ shake your hand, so let’s go do business.”

  “But…I don’t run the ferry. Barney runs the ferry and takes the fares.”

  Whit grinned at her and flicked her on the nose with his finger. “Not after tomorrow, he don’t. You just hired me. And we’re gonna start getting you out there doing it yourself. If that kid can do it, you can, Anora. You’re a strong girl, I know you are. You can do it. It’s almost time to sink or swim, Anora. I know you got it in you. Start paddling,” he said, and pushed her back out onto the porch.

  Charlie read over what she’d written down, voicing his astonishment she knew how to write and spell. He signed it, much to her surprise, and appeared willing enough, even going so far as to begrudgingly shake her hand. His sour, pinched expression told her he disliked the necessity of having to do business with a woman.

  Whit never stopped grinning, even after Charlie pulled out of the yard.

  “I’m going down to let the boy know he’s out of a job after tomorrow,” he said, his enthusiasm doing nothing to assure Anora of anything but more problems, more complications.

  She backed into the cabin. The corners of the room now in shadow, the light from the window cast the table and chairs in a spotlight in the center of the room. Glowing coals in the fireplace radiated heat to keep the kettle of bean soup simmering on the iron arm to the side of the fire.

  Clutching the diary to her chest, Anora put herself in the nook between bed and dresser and sank onto her haunches, her spine against the wall. Hiding her face to the corner where wall met dresser, she tried to shut out Ruben’s voice.

  The voice, cunning, hypnotizing, low pitched, hammered at her brain. All of Ruben’s vile, sadistic threats came back to torture her. The smell of him surrounded her. He stood over her, his eyes black and vicious, swooped down on her, drawing her down, down into a black and watery place.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Anora, what are you doin’? You playin’ hide and seek…? Come on, Anora, stop foolin’ around. I got a present for you. A pretty dress, and some stockings. What say I get out the harmonica and play some tunes?”

  Anora heard Whit’s voice, but his words came from far away. Ruben’s voice out-shouted, out-threatened, driving away rational thought.

  She folded inward—reliving the beatings, the shame, the torture. A finger, cool and smelling of hay and rain brushed her check, the touch came as a whiplash releasing a scream of agony.

  Feet and toes numb, shoulders aching, she slowly emerged from the black, putrid depths of her mind. Blinking, Anora concentrated on the lamp in the middle of the table. Food, barley soup and cornbread. Her stomach growled and gurgled on empty. Pressing one hand to the wall and the other finding the top of the dresser, she rose unsteadily to her feet. The diary dropped to the floor, falling open, blank pages missing.

  “You better come eat,” a voice, a familiar voice, said to her.

  Whit Comstock? Whit is here? Still here. Dry eyes burning, wide open now, she looked around the room, searching the dark corners, finding no sign of Ruben. She squeezed them shut and took a deep breath. Ruben wasn’t there, he’d left, she remembered now. But he hadn’t left her head, her mind. He’d left her alive, alive to wait and dread his return. Legs trembling, bones turned to custard, she stumbled to the table.

  Standing near the table, watching her, judging her, too cheerful, Whit said, “Supper’s on. Barney says the Willa Jane will be coming back upriver soon.” He dished up two bowls of soup and then put a biscuit on the plate in front of her.

  She cautiously took a bite of her biscuit. Warm butter coated her fingers. One bite led to another. He put another biscuit on her plate. “Eat the soup while it’s hot.”

  She didn’t look up at him but did as ordered. The soup tasted salty and hot. She closed her eyes, the raw feeling in her stomach subsided.

  “You didn’t open your present. Got you a couple of pretty dresses. You’re a mighty pretty woman, Anora Claire. Mighty pretty.”

  Whit put his hand over hers. Looking at his strong gentle fingers she said without thinking, “I don’t want presents from you. I don’t need dresses. I need flour, sugar…some salt and feed for the animals. You offer false coin. Don’t lie to me. I’m ugly. No dress can change that. Nothing can change what I’ve become. You shouldn’t be here. You’re going to leave, so leave now.”

  Mouth open, Whit sat across from her at the table. He closed his mouth, set the pot of soup aside. Leaning forward, his hands in his lap, he asked her, “After your folks passed on, do you remember the talks we use to have, walking alongside the wagons coming across to Oregon? You were a good listener. I liked to talk about the cattle drives I was gonna go on.”

  Stubbornly, she refused to meet his tender gaze. She tried to remember…she
wanted to. “I recall the biting alkali dust stinging my cheeks and lips. And the sun beating down on my head and neck. I don’t recall any conversations.”

  “I remember you said, you thought me lucky to be a boy ‘cause I could do what I wanted. I asked you then, what you’d do if you was a boy? You said when you got to Oregon, you’d find a place along a river and make a ferry crossing like your pa was gonna do. The way you talked about it, I could see it. It was gonna be a lively place with folks talking, coming and going, eating your Aunt Carrie’s cooking. You were gonna work the ferry by yourself, you remember that? You told me how your pa showed you how, he taught you how. You know how to do it, Anora. You done it when you were a kid. You’re a full-grown woman now, you can do it. Barney’s gonna show me how, and I’ll help you get started.”

  She shook her head and started to get up from her chair, but he grabbed hold of her wrist to keep her from leaving the table.

  She sat, eyes downcast, hands folded in her lap.

  Whit pulled back, straightened his shoulders. “This ain’t my place, Anora. This is your place. I ain’t gonna step in and make it mine. I don’t know if I’ll ever find my place. Right now, I don’t want one. Tansy is about all I need. My horse is home to me. But you and me is friends, and I’m here to help you. I’m gonna stay to see to it you get your dream, Anora. Everybody needs a dream. I believed in yours. I want to see you get it. It’s here, right here, all you gotta do is take it.”

  She brought her head up, meeting his wide-eyed, naive gaze. “How wonderfully simple life is for you.”