B004XR50K6 EBOK

by Kathleen Shoop

  “Ruthie said she’d understand if I couldn’t help them load up their wagon, if you needed me. She knows…”

  “No, go.” Jeanie shrugged his hand off her shoulder. “Ruthie doesn’t deserve to carry the weight of two people with nothing in return. James already loaded the wagon with our knapsacks and linens and—” Jeanie wiggled away from Frank and disappeared behind the necessary curtain to use the chamber pot. The only thing Jeanie could figure was that Frank was indeed using opium. How else could she account for such sweeping moods?

  She’d yanked her skirts up and pulled down her netherthings. Squatting there, Frank pulled the curtain aside. Jeanie should have been swept by humility and embarrassment that her husband was watching her relieve herself, but none of that came. And as she finished up her business, she stood, resituated her clothes and washed her hands while Frank watched every move she made. Jeanie couldn’t decide what it all meant, that neither of them flamed red as they would have, as they’d done, just months before.

  Back at the stew that didn’t need stirring, Jeanie bit the inside of her cheek. “Just go on, Frank. It’s fine. We’re all set. We’ll see you at Templeton’s.”

  Frank pulled on his outer clothes and boots and hesitated at the door as though wanting to say something.

  “You’re not eating that opium, are you Frank?” Jeanie cringed away at her words as they floated off into the air. He snorted and shrugged his shoulders and in the end he roughly yanked open the door and disappeared into the blinding sun leaving Jeanie to consider how she’d allowed her feelings to tangle as they had.

  How had they come to this point where circumstances dictated their feelings for each other, making her daydream of how it might make things easier if he were dead, if they were divorced, if that kind of thing were possible to do and continue to live. Yes, she wanted him gone, but there could be no divorce, no way of making him disappear, to stop him from influencing their lives one way or another. They would die without him, it was impossible for a woman to keep a family once she’d been divorced.

  So, it was clear that she needed to harden herself to anything sweet or sentimental because there was nothing more wasteful of energy than the constant rumination of one’s feelings. She would be the one to hold their family together. She’d known that for some time, yet every time she thought it, the realization felt stunningly new.

  At Templeton’s Jeanie and Greta laid the pheasant in the middle of the Thanksgiving table and draped their arms around one another. Anna held her mother’s hand, clearly having regressed to role of baby since Anzhela died.

  Jeanie’s children had always been independent, never latching on past the point when they could walk themselves. They had been curious to the point of dangerous, but in Des Moines, between Jeanie, her mother and the nurses Jeanie’s mother always provided, the children never wandered too far into trouble. Jeanie squeezed Greta’s waist and smoothed Anna’s yellow hair down her back, cooing at her, hoping that the baby in her belly might be like Anzhela, clingy.

  “Well, the table is perfect. The linens, the pumpkin color, it’s stunning and the perfect complement to the real thing,” Greta said.

  Jeanie dropped her embrace and looked at the table. “All that’s missing are Katherine’s candles. She worked days creating what she deems a masterpiece—or several masterpieces. My little artist.”

  “She is talented,” Greta said. “Not that I really know, I mean, formally I have no education in the arts, I have no education period, but I know what looks pretty and that Katherine has a way of seeing the world that’s beyond her years.”

  “She does,” Jeanie said. “I agree.”

  “Maybe she’ll be famous, painting’s hanging all over the best walls in the world someday.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. “Jeanie flushed, not wanting to boast about her daughter. She walked to Templeton’s front window.

  “Greta, is it me or is it impossible to keep a window clean around here? Have you noticed?”

  Greta raised her eyebrows.

  “I washed Mr. Templeton’s windows just minutes past. I scrubbed and scraped. And as soon as I thought they must certainly be clean, I stepped back and all I saw was the other side, the dirt on the inside of the pane stood out like a beacon in the sea. I’d never noticed such a thing.”

  Greta shook her head, face blank.

  “I mean,” Jeanie said. “I suppose it’s sort of like people. There’re all these layers of trouble and angst and when you finally think you’ve cleared away some aspect of the muck, when you stand back to take a deep breath, you see the other side of the person, the rest of the dirt. And you never can get it all clean, can you?”

  “Well, not on the prairie, anyhow,” Greta said, her voice gentle.

  “I must have alternated between the outside and inside panes five times. Both sides only gleamed together, for mere minutes and then the other was dirty.”

  Greta nodded at Jeanie’s ramblings as though she understood Jeanie’s need to express her thoughts. They worked side by side, as though they’d been friends, working a kitchen in tandem, for decades. Jeanie had never been so grateful to be in the company of a friend as she was that Thanksgiving morning, after the weather had kept them hibernating for weeks.

  “I think my Aleksey notices Katherine’s artistry, too.”

  “Oh, Aleksey is a sweetheart, but you’re not suggesting they’re whispering sweet love speeches to one another are you? Katherine barely mentions him.”

  “Well, have you watched her when he comes into her presence? Her eyes nearly cross with glee.”

  “Oh my. My, my. You’re right. I’ll have to pay more attention, I suppose.” Jeanie said hoping Greta was wrong. Aleksey may have been a sweet boy, clearly hardworking, but his lack of culture would be a big obstacle for partnering as far as Jeanie could tell.

  “All I know is,” Greta said, “I realize this is coming from the mother of a stable of work horses and you’ve given birth to the breeders, the stable masters. We need all kinds to make the world work and I think Aleksey and Katherine may have already matched themselves up like a set of those candles she so carefully crafted.”

  “Well, your boys are getting an education with Miss Ruthie. She is a fine teacher,” Jeanie said.

  “Well, teaching is only a quarter of what needs to be done around here. I don’t know how Ruthie deals with Lutie’s laziness. How she gets up every morning to do the day’s work while Lutie lays about, thinking.” Greta said.

  Jeanie’s shoulders rose at Greta’s words as they invoked images of Frank.

  “I’m sorry,” Greta said, “I know you Arthurs are thinkers, too. I don’t mean to disparage the act of contemplation, but sometimes, I just think busting a hard trail to the next chore is the only way, the only way to live.”

  Jeanie shook her head. “Oh, no, Greta, you didn’t offend me, I think you’re right, it takes all kinds. And it’s hard to know what a family is living with, what they know about each other, the allowances that are given for reasons the family members themselves might not even be aware of. That’s probably why Ruthie can withstand her sister. Ruthie is a special woman who has many burdens and I can only hope that she finds a man who matches her in abilities and love.”

  “It’s just you all are so different than Nikolai and I. Sometimes we actually sit there, heads thrown back, taken so hard by laughter at the thought of all of you out here, without the likes of us. Other times we’re stilled by worry. You’re all so, well… “

  “Soft?”

  Greta tilted her head to the side and then righted it before nodding, smiling shyly.

  “If it’s any consolation, I’ve thought the exact same thing about us. We, or at least me, I know how much your family means for the existence of the rest of us. We depend on your kindness and skill. I know that to my core.”

  Jeanie shifted her pot of stew from one side of Templeton’s cook-stove to the other. She spun around to Greta when an idea came to mind.

&n
bsp; “Why don’t you let me to repay you?” Jeanie clapped her hands.

  “But, the sewing. You’ve done your share.”

  “No, no. I can lend you my library. Or part of it. Oh, Greta, much of what I brought is instructive and would appeal to your sensibilities. Farm Ballads and Farm Legends! You would love these—the piece, Over the Hills to the Poorhouse, is very touching and shows how cruel it is to send a poor old mother to the poorhouse.

  The sequel is nice when the black sheep of the family came home. And there’s a funny piece where the girl hid one of her lovers in the churn and the other one in the garret. Just think of having the cream poured all over him! Oh dear, it makes me laugh to think it.” Jeanie gripped Greta’s arm and Greta grinned.

  “Another good one is Betsy and I Are Out. One line attracted my attention, ‘And she kissed me for the first time in over twenty years.’Imagine husband and wife living together without once kissing each other in twenty years!” Jeanie was invigorated by the thought of sharing literary conversation even with someone who’d clearly only had scant opportunities over her life.

  “That is a variety of reading.” Greta pulled her arm away from Jeanie.

  “I’m sorry to go on like that,” Jeanie said. “I don’t mean to imply those issues are funny in themselves, it’s just the way they’re presented.”

  “I can’t read, Jeanie.”

  “But I’ve seen you.”

  “No, I simply get by.”

  Jeanie flicked her hands over the skirt of her apron then grasped for her invisible pearls. “Allow me to teach you.”

  Greta shook her head. “There’s no time for that. And I don’t suffer for not being able to oblige my literary sensibilities—if one could possess them without having fully entertained them.”

  “Why yes, I think that’s possible. What if I simply entertain your literary sensibilities for you, with you, when we’re together.”

  Greta nodded. “I would consent to that.”

  The two women made light work as Jeanie regaled Greta with tales from Shakespeare, Carlton, Beecher, and Taylor. Greta became bent with laughter and quieted by the awe of some of the most famous literature in the world, further engaging the two women in a friendship that filled both their souls with contentment.

  But, their friendship was cemented when Greta inquired about Jeanie’s own published books and insisted upon hearing about them. Jeanie recited some of what was in them and admitted as only a true friend might, that she had never been a true housewife until they moved to the prairie. Greta laughed heavy at the idea Jeanie had only overseen the skinning of a rabbit or plucking of a pheasant before she lost everything and took to the prairie.

  At one point Jeanie’s storytelling slowed, her voice lost its gusto and it was Greta’s turn to take Jeanie by the arms, to offer reassurance.

  “I would never have suspected you were a fraud if you did not tell me yourself.” Greta’s face was stoic, but her gaze was warm and she seemed almost pretty that way. The delivery of the sentiment inspired great laughter in Jeanie who knew Greta was sweetly lying through her serious expression. Jeanie pulled her arms from Greta’s grip and took the big, wonderful woman into a full hug. She patted her back and squeezed tight.

  “You are a true, perfect friend, Greta and I’ve enjoyed this laughter over the ridiculousness that was my former life.”

  “Well, this has been nice. Since Anzhela, I have not laughed. I’m shocked I forgot about her for a moment, here with you.” They clung to one another, Jeanie wishing she could remove Greta’s pain. “And, I enjoy a woman who can laugh at herself.”

  “That, I’ve learned to do,” Jeanie said as she released her friend and greeted a swarm of hungry children looking for their Thanksgiving meal.

  By mid-afternoon, the entirety of the Darlington Township cooperative was seated at Templeton’s table, the one Frank apparently crafted in secret, without even Jeanie knowing it was in production. It was both elaborate and simple—using primitive pine, but carving intricate floral patterns into the apron and legs. The guests couldn’t help but fondle it, running their fingers into the grooves, feeling the magic in something so remarkable—one who isn’t skilled in such things can’t begin to imagine how it has come to exist.

  Several times over the course of the meal Jeanie closed her eyes, sometimes to will away the contractions that had been pulling more consistently than ever and sometimes to carving the sight of them—what felt like a miracle of mild weather, the gathering of people who she’s come to depend on in so many ways—into her brain.

  And while the children squealed intermittently, laughed a lot, bickered about who could do more work in twenty minutes, and even broke into a wrestling match or two, the dinner remained somehow calm, the noise being absorbed into the big sky, the air whisking it away, creating a calm and peace that Jeanie was positive could not exist anywhere else in the world.

  Each woman, with the exception of Lutie, made several pies to share for dessert. Lutie, did however manage to work milk into cream and by some feat of God or whomever, she created a whipped delicacy that nearly disappeared in their mouths before realizing it was even there, making every person partaking in the feast to gorge him or herself, the pies acting as vehicles for the otherworldly cream.

  By the time dessert was finished and everyone had agreed to coffee, the kids had gone to play and Greta seemed irritable, angry that Anna wouldn’t stay by her side, that she wanted to play with the others as she always had before Anzhela’s death. Clearly Greta’s lighter moments from earlier that day had passed and she could no longer shake Anzhela’s ghost.

  Every once in a while, Greta would wince as though in pain. After removing her own plate, Greta stood at the doorway to the kitchen. Jeanie gathered her plate and Frank’s and joined Greta in the doorway. Greta stared into the space where everyone sat.

  “Are you all right?” Jeanie asked.

  Greta closed her eyes.

  “It must be so hard for you.” Jeanie said. I couldn’t go on, Jeanie thought. I would be of no use to anyone if I were you.

  Greta didn’t respond, but began to sort the dishes and scrape the scraps into a slop bowl.

  “Greta, I’m your friend. You can share your sadness with me. I’m amazed at how you’re doing, managing it all with what must be impossible pain.”

  “I’m simply not sleeping enough. That’s when grief comes for me most.” Greta’s voice was nearly inaudible, but she dug at the plate so hard with the spatula that both flew from her hands, hitting into the wall, splattering gravy and grease into blob-like designs.

  Jeanie looked toward the door. Ruthie stood there watching both of them.

  “Oh, my hands are so greasy,” Jeanie said, “the plate just flew from my grip like a pig from…well, not that I’ve ever handled a greasy pig myself, but I’m sure—”

  Jeanie heard a pop that sounded as if it came from far away and seconds later a gush of water hit the ground under her skirts. She lifted her dress to be sure.

  “Well, Jeanie Arthur, don’t tell me you’ve lost your bladder, you’re not that old,” Lutie said coming up behind her.

  “No, you fool,” Ruthie said, “her water broke. And early. This baby will not last the night.”

  Jeanie’s consciousness heard Ruthie’s words but she wasn’t able to fully grasp what she meant or why Ruthie’s tone would be so harsh when in the past, Ruthie had been only kind.

  Jeanie wrapped one arm around her belly and folded over. Greta supported her, moving her toward the bedstead.

  “This is too early. I’m only…I think…maybe I’m off…I think, this baby is too early…maybe I’m wrong.”

  “Shh, shh, shh,” Greta smoothed Jeanie’s hair back then settled two pillows under her back. “It’s all right. Just let it happen. It’s possible it will stop. This same thing happened with Anzhela, then she waited three more months. A little water doesn’t mean the baby’s coming for sure. Let me have a look.”

  Frank r
ushed into the room as Greta was lifting Jeanie’s skirts and Jeanie reached out to him, unable to speak. She saw him tapping his leg, nervous, before he ducked his head, recoiling out the door. Jeanie couldn’t speak. She didn’t have time to consider Frank’s weakness.

  Greta was wrong. Jeanie may not have emptied all her water, but she was contracting, the cramps quickly progressing to purposeful, cascades of pain that meant nothing but Jeanie’s baby was on the way. She tried not to be afraid, to fear the loss of her baby. She’d never gone this far in a pregnancy and then delivered still born. If this baby was coming, Jeanie was sure it would be alive and sure it would be healthy.

  James stuck his head in the door. Luckily Jeanie was between contractions, and her skirts were lowered.

  “James, honey, I’m fine. Go on, take care of everyone. I’m fine.”

  “Sure? I can help. I know I can.”

  “I’m sure, baby, go on, the others will need you.” Jeanie doubled over into a contraction, vomiting her pheasant dinner onto the floor. Greta ran to Jeanie, propping her up so she wouldn’t choke. James ran to the stove where he took a cloth from a shelf.

  “Here, I’ll clean that up, Mama.” Jeanie wretched again, with mostly clear liquid coming up after the last heave. She watched James clean up her vomit. When he’d gotten most of it by way of the cloth, he looked at his mother and wiped sweat from her hairline with the back of his hand. “I’ll get some water and a fresh cloth. See, if we were in our little dugout, all I’d have to do is take a shovel and carry the soiled part of the floor away. Clean, lickety-split, good as new.”

  Jeanie chortled. “Well, I guess our definition of clean has changed a bit, hasn’t it?”

  James kissed his mother’s forehead and left the house, shouting for Frank to fetch some water. He stuck his head back in the door. “Don’t worry Mama, the baby will be fine. She’s strong like you, I can feel it.”