One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel

by Olivia Hawker

  Perhaps that’s why he turned so brutal, she mused almost lightly, for the pain of the long ride and worry for her son had eclipsed all fear of Substance. What was there to fear in a memory? Perhaps he thought he could beat the coldness out of me—break the stone of my determination with his fists.

  Something inside Substance had broken open beside Alta’s grave, and a foul darkness Nettie Mae had never seen before had come trickling out. What was inside Nettie Mae couldn’t be shattered, not even by her husband’s strength. But he did dash her love to pieces, and she had come to despise Substance long before they settled in the shadow of the Bighorns. Many a time, Nettie Mae had entertained the thought of leaving him—taking Clyde and whatever few possessions she could fit inside a saddlebag and riding away in the dead of night. Riding off in search of mercy, if any was to be found. But Substance was so damnably strong, so certain of his own mind. He always knew precisely what to do when Indian traders came nosing around the farm or when the floods came or when wolves descended on the sheep. The world beyond the Webber homestead was untamed, unknowable. In his anger, Substance was as terrible as a brush fire. But when he and Nettie Mae were at peace, Substance proved a better bulwark than God—protective, infallible.

  Nettie Mae’s tears dried with time, and she settled into a grim acceptance of the ride: the ache that plagued her body, stabbing everywhere at once; the clumsy stiffness of her cold hands; the hunger that gnawed at her belly, for she had eaten nothing since supper the night before and hadn’t thought to pack so much as a crust of bread. After another weary hour, acceptance caved, and she wept again with sheer frustration, for it seemed as if she had ridden for a season—a year—and still Paintrock was no closer. Then she noticed that the road had widened. It sloped around its edges from use. Rainwater ran off to either side, so the going wasn’t quite so muddy; the middle of the road was firm enough that she asked Clyde’s horse to pick up its pace. Her left foot in the stirrup was so cold and stiff—and the muscles of her leg so cramped—that she couldn’t rise to the rhythm of the trot. She bounced in the saddle like a baby dandled on a knee, weak and precarious. But Paintrock emerged from the rainy haze ahead—brick buildings, wide and low, solid and blue with distance. Relieved, she rolled her shoulders to ease the tension of the long and solitary ride.

  The sheriff’s building stood on the southern edge of town—corrals and horse sheds out back and the tall, flat-topped jail butting up against the road. Nettie Mae watched the front of the brick jailhouse as her horse jogged past. Ernest Bemis was somewhere inside, pacing out two years in a narrow cage.

  What might happen, she wondered, if she were to go on inside and speak to the jailer? What if she could find the sheriff and plead the case for her neighbor? Release Mr. Bemis early. Give him a shorter sentence. The Bemis family must have their man returned to them, or Clyde—assuming he survived this fever—would go on helping his neighbors. He would wear himself to the bone because he thought it the right thing to do. But the work would only grow harder as the rains carried on and mud piled up to one’s knees.

  Clarke’s General Store was the next building after the jail. Its red-painted walls were dark with rain; a continuous strand of silver fell from a corner of the roof, splashing on the hard-packed street below. Three women had clustered together on the plank sidewalk outside the store, where a shingled awning offered shelter from the rain. The women had been admiring the bolts of silk displayed in the store window, but one of them glanced over her shoulder at the sound of hooves. When she spotted Nettie Mae, jouncing like a rag doll in the saddle, she dug her elbows into her friends’ sides. They all turned to stare. Nettie Mae’s face went hot, and the flush prickled against the cold. Surely by now the whole of Paintrock had heard the news. Nettie Mae was a widow; Substance Webber had been shot dead for having to do with another man’s wife.

  Pointedly, Nettie Mae turned her face away from the women under the awning. Time enough later for shame. My son’s life is in danger. Let those cats gossip as they will; I care nothing for them.

  The doctor’s office stood in the heart of town. Nettie Mae reined in with a shudder of relief and slid from the saddle. Her feet hit the ground, but her legs couldn’t hold her; gravity dragged at her heavy skirt, her rain-soaked woolen shawls, her exhausted bones. With a startled cry, she clutched at the saddle horn and hung from it, supporting her weight with a trembling arm, wincing at a thousand needles of pain.

  Her heart raced with a fresh new fear. I’ve damaged my legs. I’ll never walk again. I’ll be helpless—an invalid!

  “My goodness. Nettie Mae Webber, is that you?” A stout woman with a graying braid had opened the doctor’s door. She hung half inside the office, half out, watching Nettie Mae with wide eyes. Nettie Mae had met her only once, years before. She was Abigail Cooper, the doctor’s wife.

  “Yes, Mrs. Cooper. Is Dr. Cooper in?” The possibility that he might be away brought tears to her eyes again, but Nettie Mae refused to weep now. She had come this far on her own; if the doctor had gone elsewhere, tending to some other patient, she would find the man and drag him by his ear to Clyde’s bed.

  “Land sakes,” Abigail said, hurrying out into the rain. “You’re shaking. Are you ill?”

  “I’m only tired and weak from a long ride. And I . . . I’m afraid I can’t walk so well. My legs have gone numb.”

  Abigail tied the horse to the doctor’s fence, then pressed herself under Nettie Mae’s arm. “Lean on me.”

  Nettie Mae shook her head. Her arm felt almost as weak as her legs, but she couldn’t let go of the saddle. She would fall for certain; she had never been strong enough to hold herself upright against the agonies of life. That had been Substance’s duty.

  “Come now.” Abigail wrapped an arm around Nettie Mae’s waist and tugged at her insistently. “Your full weight—lean into me, my dear. I’m stronger than I seem.”

  “But my legs—”

  “They’ll be right as you please in a few minutes. Though I’m afraid you won’t much enjoy the thawing out. Let’s get you inside. One foot in front of the other—that’s the way.”

  Abigail guided Nettie Mae into a tidy parlor and eased her down into an upholstered chair. Nettie Mae couldn’t suppress a groan of relief; the softness of the velvet cushion seemed to wrap itself around her entire body, soothing the relentless ache in her seat and the small of her back. The respite was short lived. As Abigail bustled away down the hall, calling for her husband, Nettie Mae’s legs began to tingle—then to sear. A thousand individual pains crackled along her limbs, each clamoring at once for her attention. And the pain worsened with every frantic beat of her heart.

  Nettie Mae willed herself to stillness as the doctor emerged from the hall. She clenched her jaw, determined not to cry out at the current of torment coursing up her legs.

  “Mrs. Webber.” The doctor took the chair beside her, adjusting a pair of spectacles on his broad nose. “What brings you here this afternoon?”

  “Is it afternoon already?” She turned to a great wood-cased clock in the corner. “It’s nearly three o’clock! God have mercy! I may already be too late.”

  “Now, now.”

  The doctor patted the back of her hand. Nettie Mae resisted the urge to jerk from beneath this touch. There was no time for sympathy, no time for conversation. At this rate, she wouldn’t return to the farm until well after nightfall.

  “Doctor,” she said, rather breathless from the pain in her legs, “my son Clyde has taken a fever. I nursed him all through the night—I never slept a wink—but he’s in a terrible way. His breath has begun to rattle.”

  “I see,” the doctor said. “How old is your son?”

  “Sixteen. You must come and help him. I’ve had to leave him alone, or nearly alone—”

  “Ah yes. Your poor husband. My condolences, Mrs. Webber.”

  Nettie Mae shook her head impatiently. “That doesn’t matter now. Substance—Cora—none of it.”

  “Cora?”
>
  “Please, Doctor; you must come at once. I’m . . .” Her voice caught in her throat, and came out fractured and small. “I’m afraid my son will die.”

  “Very well,” the doctor said, rising much too slowly for Nettie Mae’s liking. “I’ll hitch up my cart and we’ll drive back together. You may tie your horse to the back.” He raised his voice and called into the depths of the hall, “Abigail, my dear. You mustn’t expect me for supper tonight. I’ll be down at the Webber farm, and I suppose I must stay the night, for it will be too dark to drive home after.”

  Nettie Mae sat for a long while in the silence of the parlor. The clock ticked out a mocking rhythm. The pain in her legs rose to a fierce crescendo and she conceded one small whimper, squeezing her eyes shut, begging God to bring her some relief.

  The next moment, relief came. The agony abated—not entirely, but enough that Nettie Mae settled back in the chair, sighing. Her legs still quivered with weakness, and the stabbing pains still burst like the sparks of a campfire. But she no longer feared she had ruined herself for good.

  By and by, she felt brave enough to lever herself up out of the parlor chair and take a few experimental steps across the room. Every step was clumsy and halting, and her thighs and calves burned from overuse. But some of her strength was returning, and she found it felt good to walk after so many hours in the saddle.

  Nettie Mae slipped outside, impatient for the doctor’s cart, ready to strike out for her son’s sickbed. The rain had finally ceased and the sky had lightened, spilling a wash of yellow light across the town. Nettie Mae patted the faithful buckskin horse, stroking its sodden hide, silently thanking the animal for its strength.

  You’re Clyde’s horse, aren’t you? I know he loves you; I’ve seen how he cares for you. If we get to him in time—if we manage to save his life—I’ll tell him how well you carried me today.

  A thin call from across the street took her attention away from the buckskin. The post stood opposite Dr. Cooper’s office. The postmaster had come out below his eave, which still dripped rainwater; he waved at Nettie Mae with obvious urgency, summoning her closer.

  Nettie Mae frowned. She had no time for distractions now. But the doctor still hadn’t appeared in his cart, and she would gain nothing by standing about waiting. She hobbled across the road and nodded a greeting to the postmaster.

  “You haven’t been up to fetch the mail in far too long, Mrs. Webber.”

  Nettie Mae had no appetite for a scolding. Not this day, of all days. She replied with a hint of acid. “Perhaps you haven’t heard the news, Mr. Fields. I am newly made a widow. I’ve had other matters on my mind.”

  The postmaster swept off his hat and pressed it against his chest. “Indeed, I had heard. Terribly sad news. You have my sympathies, Mrs. Webber.”

  “Do I?”

  The man pretended not to notice her sting. “Since you are here in Paintrock now, I must ask you to carry a parcel south.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ve come on an urgent errand, to fetch Dr. Cooper.”

  “But this is a very special parcel. Come inside; let me show you.”

  Nettie Mae glanced over her shoulder, but the road remained empty. Clearly, the doctor felt no urgency in hitching up his team. Nettie Mae clenched her teeth at the postmaster’s audacity, but she followed the man inside. She might as well while away the minutes, and the postmaster’s grand parcel was as good a distraction as any.

  Mr. Fields had installed a jaunty new bell on his door, and it rang and bounced on its long steel spring as Nettie Mae entered. The postmaster vanished at once behind an oak counter, ducking through a set of twin half doors that swung wildly on their hinges. He reappeared before they had stopped swinging and beckoned to Nettie Mae.

  “Step right behind the counter. Don’t be shy, now, Mrs. Webber.”

  The man was grinning like a fool, eager as a child—itching to reveal some great surprise. Nettie Mae’s stomach clenched; she had no taste for such foolish games.

  “I wish you’d come right out and tell me what you find so very important.”

  “It’s a delivery,” Fields said, “though not for you and yours, I’m afraid. There has been a rather sizable shipment intended for the Bemis farm. It’s been taking up space in the back room for two weeks now. I’d intended to send a rider to Mrs. Bemis, to inquire when she meant to fetch her parcel. But I find you here instead. I call that fortuitous. Seeing as how you live so near to the Bemis farm, I thought—”

  “I will tell Mrs. Bemis she has a delivery waiting,” Nettie Mae said, turning back toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Fields.”

  The postmaster cleared his throat with a small, rather nervous-sounding cough. “I had hoped, ma’am, that you might be willing to deliver the parcel yourself. That is, if you’ve brought the wagon. And if you’ve enough space to carry it. It’s a large crate, you see. It certainly can’t be carried like a letter or a small package. Yes, it’s most fortunate you’ve happened in today—most fortunate.”

  “I haven’t brought my wagon, but I will be riding home with Dr. Cooper.” She placed special emphasis on the doctor’s name, hoping to impress upon the man how silly his parcel was when set against matters of life and death. “It’s possible the doctor may have room to carry it in his cart. How big is the crate?”

  Fields gestured to his swinging doors. “Suppose you step back here and have a look. You can tell me whether you’ll be able to take it with you.”

  Nettie Mae stifled a curse. She stepped around the oak counter, following Mr. Fields to the back room. It was a modest space, already dominated by several tall wooden stacks, each partitioned into countless slots, each slot labeled with the names of the families who lived in or near the town of Paintrock. Some held letters or small parcels wrapped in brown paper. A long table held packages too big to fit inside the slots. And standing before the table, jutting haphazardly into the meager space, was a wooden crate almost four feet to a side.

  Fields gestured at the crate with all the gusto of a showman revealing his most astonishing and wondrous act. “The post fee has already been paid. Paid by the sender. I’m sure I can’t guess what might be inside that crate. But just look at the return address, will you?”

  Nettie Mae crept forward. The crate—its sheer size, its unexpected appearance in her life—left her feeling distinctly cautious. Bits of straw and a few wisps of cotton batting showed in the cracks between boards. She read the words painted on the crate’s top, neatly stenciled in dark green.

  MRS. CORA BEMIS

  PAINTROCK, WYOMING TERR.

  RETURN TO:

  1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE NW

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Nettie Mae could feel the postmaster’s agitation. She couldn’t understand why the man ought to shiver so, why his hands clenched so tightly in his trouser pockets. Nettie Mae shook her head vaguely and looked at Mr. Fields in hopeless confusion.

  “Don’t you recognize that address, Mrs. Webber?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s the White House, by Jove! The president of the United States has sent this crate here—to Paintrock, of all places! To Cora Bemis, a humble prairie wife. What do you think about that?”

  Nettie Mae straightened, still staring at the damnable box with its tidy green address. The last of the pain dissipated from her legs. Her trembling stilled.

  “I will certainly tell Cora about this parcel,” she said, slow and cool. “It seems a very important delivery indeed. And now I must be going, sir; the doctor is waiting.”

  Nettie Mae hurried back to the street, where Abigail was securing Clyde’s horse to the rail of a smart black hooded carriage. Dr. Cooper was waiting in the driver’s seat, and he stretched out a hand to help Nettie Mae clamber up beside him. The carriage springs creaked as she settled back in the seat, and Dr. Cooper urged his pair of grays into a hasty trot.

  If God was good, Clyde would survive. And even if he did
live—even if she was granted one gift to keep in a long life of deprivation—Nettie Mae resolved never to speak a word about the crate. A gift from the president! Of all the absurd, unacceptable things. Cora had everything already: living children, a living husband, even Substance’s affection. Nettie Mae wouldn’t allow her to also have the president’s gift—whatever it might be.

  CORA

  Gray and gray, and grayer still. That was all Cora saw when the wagon finally lurched to the crest of the ridge and the lee-side valley opened below. She had never traveled so far into the foothills before. Indeed, she had always avoided the rutted track that snaked up into the high, sage-covered slopes, fearful of Indians and wild animals. Cora hadn’t known what she might find on the other side of the ridge, but she hadn’t expected this. A bank of cloud had gathered against the mountains’ flanks, obscuring the Bighorns from view, and a dense mist fell heavily from the hidden peaks into the valley, gray like vast swags of some heavy, stifling fabric draped and slung among the pines. She could scarcely discern the trees themselves through the mist, and all color was robbed from the scene—evergreen trees dimmed to flat charcoal and the borders between mountain and sky erased as if they had never been.

  The persistence of so much gray unsettled her; the mist wrapped around the wagon, rolling across the ridgeline in slow tumbles and torpid spirals. Could she see the farm at all, if she turned now on the wagon seat to stare back down the trail? Or had autumn swallowed the farm, as it had consumed the ridge? Cora did not look back the way she had come. She already felt weak and isolated—insignificant. No good would come from proving her fears well founded.