“Your mother’s not worth much this evening,” she said and I could tell it cost her a lot just to get the words out. I wanted her to say something more, but seeing the bruise and that extra little button with no buttonhole there at her throat made me back away.
*
I’d hardly ever studied my own dad’s face, but as we rode along side by side on the wagon seat, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. It was a long, tanned, thin-lipped face, and his teeth weren’t very pretty. Every now and then he’d screw up one side of his mouth like a tooth was twinging him. It gave him a conniving look. He shaved his chin every morning, but lately had forgot about trimming his mustache. This was something Mother usually did for him late at night after she was in her nightgown, and I was supposed to be asleep, but I saw them once. Being more than a head taller than her, he had sat on a chair with his knees spread so she could stand right in front of him. He had his hands around her waist, big fingertips stacked up along her backbone. She held a comb in one hand and her sewing scissors in the other.
“He’s gotten to look such a murderous soldier,” she said to him, “I must trim his mustache.” To my amazement, even though she held the blade of her scissors right against his upper lip, he began to sway her waist back and forth a bit.
“Mind now,” she said softly. I ran back and jumped in bed.
Now, not only was his mustache looking all scraggly, but he leaned his great self forward, elbows on his knees as he drove the team, like an ordinary sod buster instead of a brave soldier. I realized I’d puffed up a great idol out of very ordinary materials, and what he really was, I did not know.
After a few days Mother couldn’t even sit up to ride and lay on the feather bed in the wagon box behind Dad and me. She’d cry softly for miles, and when I didn’t hear her crying, I heard her grinding her teeth, trying not to cry. At night I slept alone in the wagon, and Dad slept on the ground with his arm around her.
He avoided settlements, making wide circles around them. One afternoon, we camped in some trees in sight of a little town. After we’d staked the team and Sally, Dad started to saddle up his horse. “Are you gonna bring a doctor?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “supplies.” He brought the milking stool out of the wagon, sat Mother on it, tied her hands behind her back and tethered her to the wagon tongue. He left me the Winchester. “Don’t untie her,” he said and swung his leg up over the roan.
For a long time I stood guard on my own mother, wanting to untie her, but somehow afraid to. Suddenly, I had a great idea. Inside the wagon I rummaged in Mother’s best trunk and found the rolled up paper keyboard. Before we left Nebraska, she’d glued together many sheets of paper end to end until she had a strip long enough. Then with her ruler, she drew all the black and white keys so it looked like the keyboard on the piano at church. We called it our spinet.
Almost every evening after dinner on the trip south to Oklahoma Territory, she would roll our spinet open on the tailgate and lay a plate on both the bass and treble ends to hold it flat. I would bring the folded blanket from the wagon seat to make myself higher on the nail keg for she was very particular always about my elbows and my fingers being in just the right position to strike the keys. “Do,” she would sing when I touched my thumb to the paper keyboard. “Re,” she would sing when I touched D. She would watch my fingers carefully, so she didn’t sing what the note was supposed to be, but the key I actually struck, and if it was the wrong key, she would sing out like a crow on the terrible wrong note no matter how lightly I touched it. I hated hearing my mother ever make an ugly sound, so I strived always to play perfectly.
Standing in front of her, I held out our spinet where she could see it. Her head rested against the wagon wheel, but she looked sidelong at me. I sat down on the ground and unrolled the keyboard, weighting each end with little stones so it would lie flat.
“Look, Mother.” I put my thumb on middle C. “Do, re, mi, fa, sol.”
She was silent except for her breathing.
“Let’s do ‘Truehearted, Wholehearted,’” I said. This was a marching kind of hymn, a good boys’ hymn, Mother used to say, because you could sing it plain and loud. I put my right hand on the keyboard, fourth finger on the F to start. I sang and thumped it out.
Trueheart-ed, whole-heart-ed, faith-ful and loy-al,
King of our lives, by thy grace we will be;
Un-der the stan-dard ex-alt-ed and roy-al,
Strong in thy strength we will bat-tle for thee.
I hadn’t sung in so long, and cracky though my voice was, my singing gave me heart, and I pushed on for the refrain:
Peal out the watch-word! Silence it nev-er!
Song of our spirits, re-joic-ing and free;
Peal out the watch-word! Loy-al for-ev-er!
King of our lives, By thy grace we will be. A-men.
I let my Amen ring up to heaven the way she’d taught me and felt I’d done us both some good. But when I turned to see if she was as swelled up as me, she was staring glassy-eyed at the ground, her face wet. I lifted the stones and let the paper keyboard roll itself back up.
Nothing ever raised her spirits better than the spinet, so I knew she was too sick for anything I could do, and the idea of the two of us singing together was foolishness.
*
One night we were camped on a rise above a creek and could see Wichita, Kansas, in the distance. I unhitched the team and staked them to graze while Dad went off to hunt. Mother had hardly moved all day, and Dad didn’t tie her up, just lifted her from the wagon and set her on the three-legged milking stool. After gathering some firewood, I went to the back of the wagon to untie Sally so’s to move her and the calf to some good grass. When I came around the wagon, I saw Mother running down the hill toward the creek. I dashed after her, but Dad, coming along the bank, had seen her too, and I watched him grab her arm and swing his fist. She dropped straight down without a sound, and he caught her and carried her back up the rise.
He stooped to set her back on the milking stool. Putting his arm under her neck, he ladled water over her head and rubbed it on her face, his hand dark against her white cheeks. She opened her eyes half way, but wouldn’t look at him.
“Light the fire, then go back down near the water and bring up those jack rabbits,” was all he said to me.
As I came back up with the rabbits, two huge ones, a man came through the trees leading his horse. He was not so tall as Dad, and his coal black hair and long, thin mustache made me take him for a pirate. But I was so glad to see another person, I wanted to take hold of that pirate’s arm and make him sit down.
Seeing the man, Dad gathered a big breath and rose from Mother’s side. The man glanced at mother, looking broken there against the wagon wheel.
“I see you got troubles,” he said. “I’ll move on.”
I took hold Dad’s sleeve. He said, “Have something to eat before you go.”
“Much obliged.” The man squatted down beside our fire, and Dad started skinning the rabbits. Up close, the man looked nothing like a pirate, cause his eyes were blue. He said his name was O’Riley, and I figured after Dad was asleep, I’d tell O’Riley about Dad holding Mother prisoner. O’Riley and I would take Mother into Wichita to a fine doctor who would give her a tonic for her crying sickness. Maybe she and I would stay on there awhile till she felt strong enough to go back to the claim.
“I’ve got a job in Wichita,” O’Riley said. “Did ya see the electric lights?”
“Uh huh,” Dad said.
“Got a job in the stock yard. Biggest outfit I ever saw.” This man was a talker, and I guessed he could tell Dad wasn’t. I walked through the trees and looked off to the North, and there was Wichita, with little glowing electric lights here and there, the grandest sight.
Dad fried bacon and then the rabbits and some potatoes too and opened a jar of Mother’s corn relish. I coaxed Mother to eat some of the potatoes, but she wouldn’t touch anything else and went to lie down in
the wagon. The men ate big heaps of food, and Mr. O’Riley talked while he chewed, telling one story after another about being a cowboy and before that fighting Indians and before that being in the Union Cavalry. I was surprised Dad didn’t say anything about serving with Colonel Joshua Chamberlain in the Army of the Potomac, but he did allow as how he’d grown up in Maine and moved on to Nebraska in ‘69, and it made me think about how old he was. I wanted him to tell O’Riley about the battles he’d fought in and about how he’d given the Colonel his water at Gettysburg.
But I didn’t say a word, not wanting anything to stop O’Riley’s talking. I lay on the oilcloth next to where Dad was sitting on his saddle raking the coals. As O’Riley started another story about licking the Rebels, I pretended to go to sleep, so they’d take no notice of me.
Dad stirred a little when O’Riley said he’d been there when the Union troops freed the men from the Andersonville Prison. “Never, if I live to be a hundred will I ever see anything more murderously horrifying than the sight of those poor boys.”
Dad put his hand over my ear, but I could still hear O’Riley talking about men’s ribs and black tongues. I felt Dad take in a breath. “My twin died at Andersonville,” he said.
“Aw, Jesus!” O’Riley said, “And me going on about the place. I sure am sorry for your brother. A mighty hard thing to get past.”
“Had to swallow it down.” Dad’s stick stirred the coals.
“You, yourself?” O’Riley asked.
“Colonel Chamberlain.”
“Ah, the finest gentleman and a valiant soldier. Very learned and judicious, they say. To have served under such a man, you are fortunate indeed. And after the war, you—?”
The business about my dad’s twin brother, I’d got from Aunt May, so that was no surprise. She’d said the Andersonville prison was a terrible place to die, and that had puzzled me because if you’re dying anyway, what difference does it make where you are? It did give me some satisfaction that Dad had finally mentioned Colonel Chamberlain, and I wanted to hear more, but sometimes when I’m pretending to be asleep, I am asleep. Next thing I knew, they were talking about something completely different.
“—rough and fine, both of us old for marriage,” Dad was saying, “but she was the most peace a man could ask for. That’s all I was looking for after the war.” It didn’t sound like Dad, going on like that, and I think he must have surprised himself, because he was quiet for awhile, and the next thing I remember hearing was O’Riley saying, “That’s what you oughta do, the Santa Fe, right over there in Wichita. Take her on the train. You can be there in two days. The way your goin’, the cow and the calf and all.”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Leave the little tow head in Wichita. Any good boarding house’ll keep an eye on him ‘till you get back. I’d do it myself, but—”
*
We didn’t take the road into Wichita, but skirted around to the West. The wind had come up again and rocked us, making the going slow. I could see the railroad and the stockyard in Wichita and knew Mr. Riley was already there working. Dad had sold him the calf, so if it hadn’t been for the wind, we might have rolled along a little faster, arcing back to the north. We were headed back to Broken Bow. It made sense, taking Mother back, so Aunt May could nurse her. The only problem was when Aunt May saw the rope burns on Mother’s wrists and found out he’d hit her and it looked like he’d starved her besides, she’d skin Dad alive. Quakers weren’t violent. They wouldn’t hit you with a stick, but Aunt May would call down the wrath of God on anyone who’d lay a hand on her dear little sister. It was hard to believe he’d let himself in for that. He’d always been standoffish where Aunt May was concerned.
Late the next morning, after we’d been on the trail awhile, I asked Dad, “When your twin brother was in that prison, where were you?”
He whipped around at me, his brown teeth clinched and shouted, “You mean why didn’t I just take a company of men and ride into Georgia and make ‘em let all those poor boys go? Is that what you’re asking? Eh!”
My mouth was too dry to speak. He’d never shouted at me like that, and I had to swallow hard to keep from crying.
*
Mother did not rest well on the ground. From the look of him during the day, Dad wasn’t getting any sleep either. After many nights of this, he told me to sleep on the ground, so she could have the wagon box. He made a little iron cuff from an old bridle and at night fastened her ankle to a light chain he held the end of out on the ground where he and I slept, his head on his saddle, mine on the bolster.
The chain raked against the edge of the wagon in the night and made me think of the slaves so long ago my father had fought to free. Shame stung my eyes. My mother was nothing more than a tethered beast, and I was doing nothing to rescue her.
Sometimes when we’d pass another wagon, Mother would cry out, “Help! Help me!” Folks would stare at us, and I’d try to flash them a pleading look. Not too long after she started doing this, we were looking for a campsite near a lake in the middle of Kansas, and a man on horseback caught up with us and called out for Dad to halt.
Dad pulled up the team, and the man, on a tall, black horse rode up beside us so he and Dad were eye to eye.
“My name’s Lester Starr. I’m the Sheriff of Marion County.”
“James Hale.”
They didn’t shake hands. The sheriff tipped up the brim of his hat. “Some folks back in Aulne said they heard a distressful sort of cry. Just could I take a look in your wagon?” I gripped the edge of the seat board. Help had finally come.
Dad scratched the back of his neck and squinted past me, far into the east, hatching up a plan of escape, I figured. He turned back to the sheriff. “Sir,” was all he said, and he handed me the reins and climbed down, not even reaching for the Winchester that was right under us. Broad-chested, thick-fisted and much younger than Dad, the sheriff would win for sure if they got into a fight.
The sheriff got off his horse and after a tiny nod from Dad followed him over to some bushes out of earshot. Still as a post, just the tail of his coat lifting in the breeze, Dad did no more talking with his body than he did with his mouth, so it looked like the sheriff was the one pleading innocent. Pretty soon the sheriff swung out a thick paw, shook hands with Dad, mounted his horse, and rode away. I was a yellow-bellied coward.
That night two women came to our wagon. One was the sheriff’s mother, Mrs. Starr, and the other was his wife. They brought a dishpan, a towel, and a bar of soap that smelled like lavender. They set Mother’s biggest pot to boil on the fire, then, carrying a lantern, they both climbed into the back of the wagon.
I went and sat quietly in the dark off to the side of the wagon. Because of the lantern, the wagon sheet glowed like a moon. Through it the rockers on the chair looked like dark horns hanging above the heads of the two women. The young one knelt at Mother’s feet and held the pan while the old lady undid Mother’s clothes. At first I thought I heard a man’s voice answer the women, but it turned out to be mother’s voice, broken by all her crying. I moved closer.
“May I just lift you head, Mrs. Hale?” the old lady said. I could see their shadows and could hear the water as the old lady wrung out the cloth.
“You are in no pain, Ma’am?” the younger one asked.
“No pain in my body.”
“Then it is a sickness of the soul?” the young one asked.
“Leave her be, Hazel,” the old lady said. “Now the other arm, Mrs. Hale.” The old lady was as gentle as if she’d been washing a baby.
“But if it is a matter of the soul, then surely we should send for Reverend Rawlins,” the one called Hazel said.
“Leave her be. It is the melancholy. Now Mrs. Hale, I’m just going to send Hazel for a fresh pan of water, so I can wash your hair if you’d like.”
The younger woman climbed out and rushed to the pot on the fire to fill the pan.
“I think I’ve got all the pins now. Such beautiful ches
tnut hair, Mrs. Hale. Don’t mind Hazel, she is young and quite taken with the new preacher in town.” Like a woman carding wool, Mrs. Starr drew the hairbrush through my mother’s long hair.
Hazel rushed back with the pan, but before she could climb into the wagon, a bundle of my mother’s clothes was thrust out in exchange for the pan of fresh water. Hazel took the clothes back to the pot and began to stir them into the water. There was no sound from the wagon except the dripping of water as Mrs. Starr held my mother’s head above the pan and ladled the water over it.
Hazel made short work of the wash, ran down to the lake to rinse, then laid my mother’s dress and petticoats across a branch to dry. She rushed back. “Isn’t this just the kind of case Reverend Rawlins was describing, the total absence of hope?” Hazel said, climbing back in.
“Is there something clean I can help you put on, Mrs. Hale?” Mrs. Starr asked softly.
“But it’s always the person’s fault if there is no hope; it’s a sure sign the Devil had gotten in. And he got into her life because she harbored doubts. That’s what makes way for the Devil. A Doubting Thomas is what she is, and you can see the results.”
“Ah, that’s better,” Mrs. Starr sighed. “There’s nothing like clean clothes and clean hair, is there, Mrs. Hale.”
“You’re only pleasuring the body,” Hazel wailed, “when we should be driving out the Devil.”
Suddenly, Dad was standing not ten feet behind me. “Thank you for coming and doing for Olivia Jane,” he said in a booming voice as he walked to the wagon.
Hazel’s head poked out. “My preacher can drive out this devil. He knows the truth.”
“Thank you for coming, ma’am.”
The women finished up quick after that and left. I felt very uneasy. “But Dad, if that preacher could help her.”
One Hundred Years of Marriage Page 11
