The Widow's Ferry

by Dorothy A. Bell

  Anora stepped farther back into the shadows of the room, feeling the intruder, yet unable to look away. The tenderness between them, she found it spiritual. Lydia surely must know she was the luckiest woman alive.

  “I…when…just before Carter was born,” Lydia said, her eyes closed, speech slurred and stilted. “I told you I thought I was going to die.”

  Mr. Reason buried his head in the crook of her neck, his arm across her bosom, holding her. “Lydia, Lydia, you aren’t going to die. I told you then and I’m telling you now. You have a fever, we can fight that. We expected that. You shouldn’t have gone. The wagon ride, all of it, too much for you. Rest is what you need. Tomorrow, you’ll see…”

  “I…I should be with him. He’s all alone down there in that grave, cold and dark. I…I should’ve done something. Maybe I shouldn’t have done something. I don’t know, but I killed him—my body killed him. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he’s dead. My body…killed him,” she said, sobbing, deep-chested sobs.

  Standing at the end of the bed, Mr. Hayes asked, “Hank, do you think I should fetch Mrs. Gregson?”

  Anora hadn’t heard him come in. She moved farther away, fading into the dark corner of the room.

  Mr. Reason looked down the length of the bed, his face wet with tears, and said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “No, I don’t want her here,” Lydia cried out, rolling her head from side to side, agitated. “She pokes and fusses. I don’t want her here.”

  “Do you think it would be all right to wait just a half-hour, see if the elevation of her legs and rest will slow down the bleeding?” Anora asked, and instantly wished she’d kept her mouth shut. They’d obviously forgotten her. She’d gone and done it now, she’d have to step forward and speak up. “We can check her fever every few minutes, make sure it’s not getting worse. But…but…I’m sorry, it’s not for me to decide. Only, I think we should give Lydia a chance to recover on her own before we bring in Mrs. Gregson.”

  Paxton reached out for her and pulled her into the light.

  Mr. Reason brushed a curl of hair from Lydia’s eyes. “I think the tincture is working, she’s sleeping. We’ll wait a half-hour.”

  Isabell appeared in the bedroom doorway. Mr. Reason saw her and waggled his finger at her, inviting her to come lay down with him on the bed. Anora sat in the wicker chair beside the bed, Mr. Hayes took up his place at the window seat, and they waited.

  When the clock downstairs struck the hour of six o’clock, Anora took up the bottle of tincture, inserted a dropper full between Lydia’s relaxed lips. Her patient sighed in her sleep but didn’t wake up. Mr. Reason scooted himself and Isabell off the bed and carried his daughter to the hall. Anora smiled to herself, hearing him ask the child, “Where’s my sandwich?”

  Mr. Hayes filed out of the room behind them. Anora stayed behind. She pulled back the covers to check the amount of bleeding. It wasn’t excessive, but the fever, she thought, had intensified, Lydia appeared flushed, her nightdress damp. She read the directions on the bottle again. “Ten drops three times thirty minutes apart.” She didn’t know how fast-acting the remedy might be, she hoped it would kick in soon. Lydia, weak from giving birth, and in her state of mind, didn’t have the will to fight.

  On her way downstairs, Anora hoped Mrs. Gregson knew what she was doing.

  »»•««

  “She’s going to be all right, Hank,” Paxton assured him. “She shouldn’t have gotten out of her bed, but you know our Lydy, we couldn’t have stopped her short of tying her to the bed.”

  Hank couldn’t argue with that. Staring into nothingness, Anora set a plate of cold ham and baked beans down on the table. She’d started to pass out the plates when they heard a knock at the back door.

  Paxton rose to his feet. Anora stopped him. “You sit and eat. I’ll get that. Probably a neighbor coming to see how we’re doing. I can take care of them.”

  Hank heard and recognized the voice of their caller and cringed.

  “Anora Claire, I been missin’ you.”

  Whit Comstock, that’s all we need.

  Anora responded in a cheerful enough voice. “Whit? The milk, I’d forgotten all about it.”

  Hank turned to see her push their caller back out to the porch.

  Paxton shoved his chair back and got up to look out the door. “Comstock? What the devil is he doing here?”

  “Said he’d bring the milk,” Hank said. He scrubbed his eyes and sighed.

  “Milk, my ass,” said Paxton, coming back to his chair, brows puckered up over a deep scowl.

  They couldn’t help but overhear the conversation. The back door stood open. Hank and Paxton sat there, eavesdropping.

  The cowboy, trying to keep his voice low, said, “You look worried, Anora. I thought maybe you’d come back sooner than you thought ‘cause of the baby…passing on and all.”

  Anora whispered, “I can’t go now, Whit.”

  Hank heard a scuffle and the voices went down a notch, but he could still hear every word. “Lydia’s taken sick,” Anora said.

  A lengthy pause ensued. Then Comstock said, “Ah, I’m right sorry to hear that. I’ll take myself off then. But before I go, I want a promise that you’ll take care of yourself. I’ll come by again tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, Whit.” The quiet left their imaginations to fill in the blanks. Hank squirmed in his chair. Paxton started to get up, but Hank held him down by the arm and shook his head.

  Hank, with Isabell in his arms, rose to take the sleepy little girl up to her bed. “It’s time for another dose. I’ll be with Lydia,” he told Paxton.

  »»•««

  From the back stoop, Anora watched Whit, on Tansy, go down the drive and out onto the road. She picked up the can of milk and the brown crock of culture and brought them into the kitchen. Mr. Hayes lay in wait for her, leaning against the doorframe. Mr. Reason and Isabell were nowhere in sight. Mr. Hayes put his hand on her arm. She stopped in her tracks. Eyes downcast, he answered her unspoken question, “They’ve gone to give Lydia another dose of the tincture.”

  She nodded and tried to step away.

  “So, are you going to meet him in the barn after we’ve gone to sleep? Do you miss him?” he asked, a sneer in his voice.

  Anora, confused by the question, misjudged the distance between them and stumbled back.

  “Why won’t you give me a chance? You can trust me, Anora. All I want to do is take care of you. I know we can’t be together now. Don’t go to him. He’s going to leave you. Wait for me, Anora? Don’t waste your time on that drifter. The only thing he’s got working for him is he’s tall and he’s got more hair than sense.”

  “Please, Mr. Hayes, Paxton, I’m not meeting Whit in the barn or anywhere,” she said, turning away from him. “You have to believe me. Whit brought the milk, that’s all.” Looking him directly in the eye, she said without blinking, “He’s worried about me getting enough rest.”

  Trembling, she said chin up, looking him square in the eye, “I’m not going to meet Whit, or any man, or you, ever, in any barn or anywhere else. You must stop with these wild accusations. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt tonight, because we’ve all been under a strain. Rather than assume you’ve lost your mind, I’m going to forgive you. Rest, Mr. Hayes, and clear your mind.”

  Breaking away, she rushed out of the kitchen, headed for the sanctuary of Isabell’s room. Mr. Hayes’s voice wasn’t Ruben’s voice, his hands weren’t Ruben’s hands, but the result was the same; he made her want to hide, double up in a ball, and hide.

  Collecting herself, she went down the hall and found Mr. Reason slumped over, asleep in the chair beside the bed, Isabell in his lap also asleep. “It’s almost midnight, Mr. Reason. Take Isabell into her bed and go to sleep yourself. You aren’t going to do Lydia any good if you get sick too. I’ll sit with her until first light. If there’s any change at all, I’ll come get you.”

  He shook his head. “I shouldn’t, but dam
n, I can’t keep my eyes open. I tried to get Isabell to go to sleep, but she wouldn’t stand for being left alone, so I brought her in here.”

  Weaving back and forth, he managed to get himself to his feet without dropping his daughter or disturbing her and made his retreat.

  Anora arranged herself in the big chair so her feet were on the bed. She kept the quilt around her shoulders and body and put the wool blanket Mr. Reason had been using over her legs, with the heat of his body still in it.

  Lydia didn’t look like Lydia anymore, her skin always so pink and healthy had become nearly translucent. Her once rosy lips, bloodless, had faded to lavender. Anora found the water glass, then removed the eyedropper from the tincture bottle, and tried to insert some droplets of water into her mouth. Lydia pushed her hand away, her eyes opening, unseeing, glazed with fever.

  “Crying for me,” Lydia said quite clearly. Anora dropped more water between Lydia’s lips. She sat back in her chair, wondering what else she could do. She decided to bathe Lydia’s arms and legs in cool water. After that, she could do nothing but wait and hope Lydia would fight off this fever. She did seem more comfortable, less restless.

  Before dawn, Mr. Reason returned. Anora had fallen asleep in the wicker chair. Lydia, white as a ghost, breathing shallow, didn’t respond to her husband’s voice when he sat on the bed and took her hand. Anora came awake with a start.

  “Lydy, wake up. Wake up now, your fever is better, you’re going to live, damn it.” Her hand lay limp in his palm. He shook her arm, then tapped her cheek with his finger. “Listen to me, you’re going to live and see grandbabies, and help me pick peaches. Remember you said you were going to eat them as fast as I could grow them? Lydia! Lydia! Please, sweetheart, wake up.”

  “I’ll get Mrs. Gregson,” Mr. Hayes said from the doorway, swimming into his flannel shirt over his white long johns as he spoke.

  “There’s nothing she can do. Lydia’s leaving me. She’s leaving us, Paxton, and there’s nothing we can do or say to keep her,” Hank said, yelling at him over his shoulder. “There’s nothing anybody can do. Jesus, Lydia, don’t go.”

  “We don’t know that, Hank,” Mr. Hayes answered. “Lydia couldn’t…wouldn’t, ever, just let go. She comes from good solid stock; she’s beautiful, but there’s never been anything fragile about my sister. She’s strong-willed, I’ll grant you that.”

  “Go away, go away both of you,” Mr. Reason said, including Anora in his gaze. Anora had come to her feet, the blanket tightly snugged about her shoulders and chest. Mr. Reason wrapped his arms around his wife, holding on to her body, muttering prayers into his wife’s ear, begging her to hold on to her life, their life together.

  Anora, with her head bowed, exited the room. Scared now, remembering what Lydia had said, she had said she was going to die, and it appeared she’d meant what she’d said.

  “I’m going to get Mrs. Gregson,” Mr. Hayes told her, already at the head of the stairs. “I don’t know what this is, but there has to be something we can do. She can’t just die, I won’t allow it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mr. Hayes arrived with Mrs. Gregson in tow a little after six a.m. Anora slipped back to Isabell’s room to hide. Isabell slept until nine thirty, a peaceful, healing sleep uninterrupted by coughing and wheezing, but as soon as she woke up, she ran to her mother’s bedside.

  Anora, alone, stood at the opened door of Isabell’s room, straining to hear the muted voices coming from the room at the front of the house. At precisely ten forty-five a.m., exactly forty-eight hours after giving birth, Mrs. Gregson’s shrieking cry announced the moment Lydia Reason shed her earthly mantle.

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Anora prepared herself to face Mrs. Gregson; the woman would have questions. The second she showed herself in the doorway, Mrs. Gregson pounced on her like a hawk spying a lowly vole. “I understand you were alone with her during the night.”

  Arms folded tightly across her ample bosom, Mrs. Gregson dismissively waggled her head. “I doubt you know the difference between the truth and a lie, but I’ll know, I’ll know, young woman. Don’t you try to skirt the truth or make excuses with me. Now, tell me, did you check Mrs. Reason for excessive bleeding as I showed you? Did she show signs of nausea, such as vomiting? Did she ever go out of her head…convulse?”

  Unable to meet Mr. Hayes’s eyes, or Mr. Reason’s grief-stricken countenance, Anora squared her shoulders and answered her inquisitor. “I checked for bleeding several times and nothing excessive. No nausea, nothing like that. Not even chills, really, just a slight fever. Mr. Reason and I, we bathed her with cool compresses, kept her warm, gave her your tincture as you instructed. Around one o’clock I thought the fever had come down, she seemed to be resting easier. I tried to give her a little water…she didn’t want it. After that, she went into a deep sleep. I’m sorry…but…she was so quiet, I fell asleep.”

  At last, breaking free of Mrs. Gregson’s rapier-sharp glare, Anora sought out Mr. Reason, hoping to find support. Drowning in tears, her voice lost its power. “I didn’t know…God, Mr. Reason…I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Gregson’s accusing eyes had her pinned like a bug to a corkboard.

  Mr. Reason, with Isabell clinging to his leg, stood at the foot of the big bed, staring, tears running down his cheeks, didn’t give her a glance or acknowledge her. Mr. Hayes, sitting in the big chair, said nothing, his head in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” Anora said, her feet moving, backing her out of the room.

  Out in the hall, she heard Mrs. Gregson say behind her back, “I warned you, Mr. Reason. I warned you of the risks you were taking having that young woman under your roof. And now look what’s happened. She brought bad luck with her. I don’t say she did anything, but Mrs. Reason was a strong young woman. Her life shouldn’t have ended this way. It’s not supposed to be this way.”

  It rained all day and into the night. Anora prepared soup, but no one ate. Isabell curled up in her bed, inconsolable, cried herself to sleep early in the afternoon, but awakened an hour later, picking up where she left off, screaming for her mama. Mr. Reason tried to reason with her. Becoming frustrated and angry, throwing up his hands, he took himself out of the room, waving off Anora’s offer of food.

  Mr. Hayes proved of little use. He’d barricaded himself in his room and wouldn’t answer his door.

  Setting her tray of soup and biscuits down on the side table beside Isabell’s bed, Anora tried to get through to the little girl. “Sweetheart, please stop, you’ll make yourself sick. I need your help. Your papa won’t eat, and he won’t speak to anyone but you. There are things we need to do. I need your help to choose a dress for your mama. Did she have a special dress? Which one did you like the best?”

  Isabell actually stopped screaming to consider the question. “I…like,” hic…sniff, “the blue one with the satin around the neck. My mama looked like a fairy princess when she wore the cream dress with the red roses on it. She showed it to me once after we comed here, it’s in her cedar chest. She said she was saving it for a summer dance. She told me we’d go to lots of dances, and Papa would dance wiff us.”

  Anora put her arm around her, and the little girl cuddled up within her embrace. “Well, now, I think that sounds lovely. Close your eyes, try to see your mama in her pretty dress, dancing on the clouds. Maybe baby Carter will be there too. Do you see them? Do you see her? If you listen very closely, she might like to tell you something.”

  “She asked me not to be mad at her for going away. Wait, she’s dancing around to me again.”

  Anora waited, keeping very still, while the little girl listened with her whole heart. After a few moments, Isabell opened her eyes, a wistful smile on her face.

  “Mommy says anytime I need her, she’ll come to me. Papa told me that too. He said Mama will come to me in my dreams. She’ll never, ever scold or be angry at me again. We can dance together anytime I want to, anywhere. She looks so happy and pretty. Not sad like yesterday
.”

  The little girl slumped down and put her head on Anora’s chest and wept. “But she won’t ever be back…she can’t hold me. She can’t rock me to sleep anymore.”

  “I can do that,” Mr. Reason said, coming into the room. “It got so quiet up here, I had to see if you two were all right.”

  Isabell scrambled off the bed, arms out, she rushed into her father’s embrace.

  Anora rose to her feet. “Isabell’s been telling me about a favorite dress of Lydia’s. With your permission, I’d like to find the dress, if that’s all right with you?”

  “Please, God yes, Anora. Do what you can to make her look her best. I’ve been putting if off for the last hour. I’ll help if you need me. Isabell and I are going to sit and talk a while, maybe have some of your soup.”

  In the front bedroom, Anora set to work to style Lydia’s hair. Memories of her mother and father, dead, lying in their makeshift coffins, rose to the surface. Stopped in mid-brush stroke the vision of two shallow graves side by side beneath a grove of cottonwoods reached out and tossed her into another time and another place.

  She and Aunt Carrie had bathed them and dressed them in their best clothes. Papa didn’t have any shoes. Ruben had kept them.

  She remembered trying to put some color back into her mama’s cheeks by using the juice from some raspberry jam. Shaking her head, she thought that a silly thing to do, but at the time that little touch had helped her to let go. She remembered feeling deserted and angry.

  Coming back to Lydia, heavy and stiff, Anora struggled to get the cream-colored taffeta dress with the red roses on it over Lydia’s cold body. She didn’t bother to button it all the way down the back; she simply tucked it in and around. Lydia would have to be moved downstairs soon, she’d do up the buttons then.

  Mr. Gregson had promised to have a coffin ready this evening. Mr. Reason had begged Mrs. Gregson to set the word about that they would not be accepting or expecting callers tomorrow.