With Endless Sight

by Allison Pittman

  “Neither have I. We always had doctors and—”

  “Well, I ain’t never had nobody.” He raised his voice for the first time since that day at the stagecoach. “Nobody ever took care of me, and I ain’t never looked out for nobody but myself.”

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother to you. Perhaps if you had allowed my parents to continue on their journey to Oregon, we wouldn’t be such nuisances to you now.”

  I turned around, ready to stomp back into the cabin, but he caught my sleeve.

  “You ain’t a bother,” he said.

  “Let go of my arm.” When he did, I walked back inside.

  Phoebe managed to take a few sips of broth later that afternoon, and she seemed to have a clearer presence of mind when she sat up and asked where Laurent was.

  “Outside,” I said.

  “In the snow?”

  “I don’t think he likes being cooped up with us.”

  I helped her get out of bed long enough to fluff and smooth the covers.

  “I want to see the snow,” she said, and sick as she was, she could still furrow that brow to let me know there was no use arguing.

  “Most of it’s melted,” I said.

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’ll freeze to death.”

  “Just for a minute. I don’t even have to go outside. Just take me to the door.”

  I wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and helped her walk across the room. Keeping one hand around her waist, I opened the door, and the vision beyond it took away what little breath she had and brought on a short but powerful fit of coughing. I held her steady until it subsided, then stood beside her, taking in the view.

  “You should have seen it earlier,” I said, once she was still. “It was perfect.”

  “I miss out on everything.”

  “Maybe it’ll snow again tonight. I’ll be sure to get you up early to see it.”

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  I felt her strength wane, so I took her back to the bed and helped her settle in, then sat on the edge of the cot.

  “Do you want me to tell you a story? The latest adventures of Chester and Del?”

  She shook her head. “Not right now.”

  It was just as well, because there was a look of peace on her face that frightened me so, any words were wadded in my stomach.

  “Maybe later?” I managed to say.

  “Maybe later.”

  She closed her eyes and seemed to drift off, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave her. I sat on the bed and watched her sleep, feeling my own breath shorten to match hers. Then I fell to my knees and buried my face in the crook of her sleeve.

  When my grandfather lay dying in his bed, Mother gathered us all into a room and told us that we must all pray very hard for him to be at peace. I remember sitting in my starched dress on a damask-covered chair in the parlor, my hands folded in my lap and my head bowed. I swung my feet, listened to the clock tick, and took a few surreptitious glances around the room only to find all of my cousins completely compliant with their eyes screwed shut.

  Except for Phoebe. At the exact same moment I looked at her, she looked up at me, and I quickly bowed my head again. Later, when Mother came in to tell us that our grandfather had passed, Phoebe looked up at her and said, in the sweetest voice I’d ever heard, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Aunt Ellen. If only we’d prayed a little harder.”

  Then she’d turned and looked directly at me with those narrow little eyes, and I’d wanted to run across the room and kick her.

  But I didn’t want to kick her now. I wanted to pray for her like I’d never prayed in my life. There was no ticking clock to draw my thoughts away, no room full of cousins to tempt me to mischief. I poured my soul into her sleeve, speaking out to God, begging Him to heal her. Now. To make me strong enough for both of us. To show me why He’d brought us here.

  My mind wandered to memories of my parents as the pain of listening to Phoebe fight for breath made their death once again raw and new. But they were gone, with the Lord. She was here, and God could heal. Why would He make her suffer so much? Why would He make me suffer so much? What had I ever done except love Him? Follow His teachings?

  It was so, so quiet in the room. Just the sound of Phoebe’s labored gasps and my whispered petitions. Occasionally the door would open, and I’d hear bootsteps on the floor, the stove open, logs added. Sometimes the steps grew near and even stopped just behind me. Once there was a hand on my shoulder—just for a moment—then taken away.

  I opened my eyes once, and the room had grown dim. Later, again, and the room was dark. At some point, exhausted, I must have slept, because when I opened my eyes this time, I was in my own bed, and the room was light. And silent, as if muffled by the snow. I looked up and saw Phoebe, pale and still and cold.

  The door opened, and I turned around to see Laurent standing against a backdrop of solid white.

  The angels were back, and they’d taken her away.

  We may not touch His hands and side,

  Nor follow where He trod;

  But in His promise we rejoice,

  And cry, “My Lord and God!”

  18

  We buried Phoebe on the edge of the ridge that overlooked the mountain lake. Laurent and I each had responsibilities; he was gone for much of the day digging Phoebe’s grave while I stayed behind to dress her. I couldn’t share these final, intimate moments with anyone—let alone a man who remained a stranger. So I struggled with Phoebe and her chemise, her pantalets, her petticoats, skirt, and blouse. I talked to her the whole time, thanking her for not making me cinch a corset, envying the stitched detail on her flounce. I brushed her thin hair and gathered it to one side, securing it behind one ear with a ribbon and draping the rest over her shoulder. It wasn’t a style she’d ever worn, which was regrettable, because it was quite becoming.

  Laurent came back in that quiet way of his and stood behind me. “She looks pretty.”

  “Yes,” I said, and she did.

  The face that always seemed to be in battle with its blotches was now a uniform shade of translucent white—no furrowed brow, no scowl. In contrast to the paleness of her skin, her hair took on a richer, deeper tone.

  With something akin to reverence, Laurent slipped one arm beneath Phoebe’s shoulders and another under her legs to lift her up while I stripped the bed of all but one blanket, which I spread flat upon the cot. He laid Phoebe back down and crossed her arms across her breast.

  “You have anythin’ else to say to her?” he asked.

  I shook my head, though I knew I’d be talking to her for the rest of my life.

  He took one side of the blanket at its corners and brought it over to cover Phoebe. Gently working down the length of her body, he lifted her, tucking the excess fabric underneath. He did the same with the other side, until she was cocooned in bright blue wool. From somewhere he’d produced a thick needle and thin twine, which he used to sew the fabric together. Finally, just above her head and below her feet, he cinched the blanket tight and tied it off with rope.

  “That’s it, then.”

  “Wait a minute!” I panicked and grabbed his sleeve. “Her coat!”

  “Keep it. You’ll need it more than she does.”

  He picked the bundle up again, as if it weighed nothing. If for no other reason than this moment, I was glad to have removed the bullet from Laurent’s shoulder. The only other time she knew a man’s embrace was the tender moments with Chester in the barn at Crook’s Clearing. I sent up a prayer of thanks to God that she had that precious memory to keep with her in her final days.

  I pulled on my coat and followed Laurent outside. The snow was coming down in thick flakes that obscured everything around me.

  “Stick close,” Laurent said.

  I walked head-down behind him, seeing nothing but his boots and the tracks they left, until we came to the grave.

  Everything was white. The sky, the ground, save for one brown, gaping hole
and the earth piled beside it. I took a few more steps to look down at the lake, which was a shade of gray as snowflakes landed, speckling its placid surface. The air had a sweet smell to it, like newly starched clothes. I breathed it in deep. And held it.

  When I turned around again, Laurent had already lowered Phoebe into the ground, and this time I took a few steps to look down into her grave. He’d dug deep, and the little blue bundle seemed small, certainly too small to contain Phoebe with all of her sass.

  “Want to say somethin’?”

  I had been thinking about what I would say at this moment. It seemed only fitting that Phoebe should have a proper funeral, but I’d been to so few in my life, I wasn’t sure of the words to use.

  “I wish I had my Bible.”

  Laurent gave a weak smile. “Can’t help you there.”

  My mind raced through invisible pages, the words zipping by, but nothing seemed to fit what I felt right now.

  “The Bible says …” I started, hoping something would come to me. “The Bible says that …”

  I felt the snow weighing down my eyelashes. I held out my hands and watched the crystals land on my coat sleeves. Phoebe would have loved this. She would have been scooping the snow into hard-packed balls and lobbing them at me from behind any barrier she could find.

  “In the Bible …”

  Laurent stood beside me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, taking his hat off, putting it back on, taking it off again. I reached my hand out and, surprisingly, he took it.

  “The Bible tells us that those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength. That they will mount up on wings like eagles. That they will run, but not be weary.” Laurent became very still beside me. “Phoebe was always strong. And I know how much she hated these past few days. But now,” I lifted my eyes to the snow-filled sky, “she is with You, Lord. Stronger than she could ever be on earth. And filled with more joy than she ever imagined she could have.”

  It was a confusing moment, trying to reconcile my grief at the loss of my cousin with the envy I felt that she was somewhere eternally safe. Icy rivulets of melted snow ran down behind my collar, and she was perfectly warm. My only source of protection and companionship was the man who killed my mother, with whom she now stood in a circle of glory at the feet of our Lord. It didn’t seem fair, at that moment, to be the one who had tried so hard to do everything right.

  I sensed Laurent trying to take his hand away, so I gripped it a little harder.

  “Now, we must wait on the Lord. That strength is for us.” Then, trying my hardest to sound like an official reverend, I said, “Join me in prayer. ’Our Father, which art in heaven—”

  I paused, waiting for him to join me in this recitation; when he didn’t, I went on alone, my voice sounding thinner and smaller with each word.

  “Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Laurent echoed before taking his hand away and slamming his hat on his head. “Get back inside. Warm up some coffee.”

  “I want to stay here.”

  “You don’t need to see this.”

  He picked up the shovel next to the pile of upturned earth and plunged it in. I could tell he was determined not to make another move while I remained, so I headed to the cabin.

  It was nearly dark by the time Laurent came back. The snow fell continuously, and I’d begun to wonder if he’d had to use the shovel to dig a path back to the door. I poured him a cup of coffee and sat across the table from him, drinking my own. There was nothing prepared to eat, but I don’t think we were hungry. Neither of us spoke as the cabin grew cold and the coffee colder, and when the room was more shadows than light, he touched a match to the wick of the lantern.

  He stared down into his cup. “Got to ask you somethin’.”

  I looked at him and waited.

  “With the snow and all. Can I sleep in here?”

  “It’s your house.”

  “It’s yours too, now.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed right now.”

  “Me either. I’m just sayin’. When it’s time.”

  Still another long stretch of silence. He and I, staring at the walls. Snow piling outside, the ghost of Phoebe thick within. I heard the tick-ticking of a clock, then remembered there was no clock, and the sound was my boot heel knocking against the table leg. I wondered if the sound annoyed him and realized he’d never tell me if it did. Then, moving with a stealth that never failed to surprise me, Laurent stood up and walked over to Phoebe’s bed.

  “I want to sleep in that one,” I said, heedless of the harshness in my voice.

  “I figured,” he said over his shoulder.

  He pulled out the trunk from underneath the cot and rummaged through it, producing a bright red shirt, which he laid without comment on the foot of the bed, and something else before snapping the lid shut and returning to the table.

  When I saw what he’d brought back, I felt myself on the verge of a smile. A deck of cards. He tapped the deck on the table, shuffled, tapped, and shuffled again.

  “You play anythin’?” he asked.

  “My brother does. I wasn’t ever allowed.”

  “Ever want to learn?” He set the cards in front of me, and I cut the deck. “Name your game.”

  “I don’t know any games.”

  “Poker it is.” He dealt the cards.

  19

  It didn’t take long for us to develop a routine, giving structure to our days. I woke up every morning to the luxury of a fire burning in the stove and coffee ready to drink. Laurent would be sitting at the table, motionless, but the minute I stirred from my bed, no matter what the weather, he’d put on his coat, hat, and gloves and head outside.

  I’d stay under the covers as long as my body would allow before getting up to relieve myself in a surprisingly ornate chamber pot that Laurent discreetly emptied throughout the day. I dressed each day, having slept in the long red wool shirt he’d provided the night of Phoebe’s funeral. When he came back in, we’d share a small breakfast; then I’d wash up the plates and cups while he chopped firewood or brought in food supplies.

  After that, it was time to play cards.

  Initially we played from hand to hand—wagering nothing—until I learned the game. Then one day he came in, put the cards on the table, and handed me a little leather pouch.

  “What’s in here?” I asked.

  “Open it.”

  I dumped the contents out on the table. Beans, dried and uncooked.

  “Hundred for you.” He dumped his own pouch onto the table. “Hundred for me. We play till one of us is broke.”

  I soon came to understand how my brother could be so seduced by this game. Nothing gave the same thrill as scooping a handful of Laurent’s beans across the table after producing a mere pair of sevens, and never could I imagine that three queens could be defeated. We’d play until one of us had nothing left to bet, then the beans would be divvied up again for the next day’s game. On mornings where luck seemed to alternate from hand to hand, we’d continue until there wasn’t enough light coming in through the window to tell a heart from a spade.

  Our other meal was served up whenever the card game was over. If I were particularly hungry, I might bet recklessly—twenty beans on a pair of tens—hoping to bring a swift end to the game, but I soon learned that the longer I waited, the less likely I’d be hungry again at bedtime. My favorite days were the days Laurent cooked a big batch of beans, because that meant the fire would burn all day as they simmered, and I could play without having to wear my coat.

  At suppertime we’d light the lamp, and I insisted we pray before eating.

  “Not much for prayin’,” he said the first time.

&
nbsp; “That doesn’t matter,” I said. “Anyone can pray—everyone should, actually—and this one is simple.”

  Then I reached across the table for his hand, bowed my head and began, just as I had at Phoebe’s graveside, “Our Father, which art in heaven …”

  After the first few days, he started to chime in on a phrase here and there. At first his words were even more obscure than usual, barely escaping his clenched jaw, but then I slowed my speech, and he had to slow his. We paused and spoke in perfect tandem. Sometimes I let him say, “Amen,” by himself. Then we’d eat in the same companionable silence in which we’d played cards, rationing the day’s distractions as carefully as we doled out food and fuel. The luxury of talking was reserved for our final waking hours.

  To say that we ended our evenings with lively conversation would be misleading. The tradition started just days after Phoebe died, when I found myself rambling on about one of our girlhood exploits—a time when we convinced our parents to let us sleep in the barn, only to wake up in the morning to find great big chunks of our hair missing.

  “Phoebe ran screaming out of that barn, ‘The mice chewed my hair!’ And I just sat there crying because it looked so awful. It turned out that it wasn’t mice at all. My brother Chester and his friends snuck in on us and chopped it off as a joke.”

  “That’s awful,” Laurent said, but I could tell by his slight grin that he was more amused than outraged.

  “Our mothers had to cut our hair clear up to our ears.” I demonstrated the length as if acting out a death sentence. “It took a year to grow back.”

  “What happened to Chester?”

  “Nothing, as usual. He could always charm his way out of punishment.”

  Laurent went outside when it was time for me to go to bed—I guess to give me some privacy—and the night I told that story, I fell into contented sleep.

  That’s how evenings became story time. Once our dishes were cleared away, I would tell Laurent some tale or another, either reliving childhood memories or recounting great heroic tales I remembered from school. He listened with such attention that I felt sorry for his having grown up so deprived.