A feeling of melancholy stole over me as I thought that, one day, I would tell the story to a child of my own.
The perfume of a dozen flowering rose bushes scented the air, mingling with the good clean smell of earth and grass and trees. But I was more aware of Clarissa’s own sweet woman-smell, and my arm tightened around her shoulders as I wished for the words to tell her how much I loved her.
Clarissa snuggled closer to me, her hand resting on my chest. “Just like Adam and Eve,” she murmured sleepily. “All alone in the Garden.”
“You’re a little over-dressed for Eve,” I remarked, fingering the sleeve of her nightgown.
“That’s easily remedied,” Clarissa assured me and, no longer sleepy, she shed her gown and tossed it aside.
When I slept indoors, I slept in the nude but, out here, I wore a pair of loose-fitting trousers.
Smiling seductively, Clarissa relieved me of my trousers, then lowered herself over me. Her long blond hair fell forward over her shoulders, brushing my chest like ribbons of silk.
She pressed herself against me, her breasts warm and soft against my skin, her lips sweeter than honey as she teased me with a kiss.
“Better?” she asked, nipping at my ear lobe.
“Better,” I agreed, and it was a long time before we went to sleep.
* * *
Clarissa indulged me in all my peculiarities. I know she didn’t really understand my need to be out under the stars any more than she understood why I was more comfortable sleeping in the raw than in silk pajamas, or why I preferred to sit cross-legged on the floor instead on sitting on a chair. I guess I had a hundred strange habits, but she put up with all of them and never complained, never questioned me, never looked at me with anything but love.
We spent the rest of that summer sleeping outdoors, until the weather turned cool and I began to fear for Clarissa’s health, what with her being pregnant and all. She was such a fragile thing, my Clarissa, with no more substance than a shadow.
She was quite the little homemaker, my bride. Unlike so many of her friends, who would not think of dirtying their hands with housework, my Clarissa refused to hire either a housekeeper, maids or a cook, preferring to look after our home, and our needs, herself. It was the topic of much gossip among her peers, but she cared nothing for what they thought. At first, I had urged her to hire household help, but, in the end, I let her have her way because it pleased her, and pleased me, to do so.
She was an excellent cook, and dinner was always an adventure, for I never knew if we would be having roast beef and potatoes, or some exotic Chinese dish. Some nights she set the table with our best crystal and china and served a meal fit for a king. Other nights we sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and dined on bread and cheese and wine, or went outside, if the weather permitted, and had a picnic under the stars.
She was an efficient housekeeper, as well, and our home sparkled with loving attention that could not be found in the houses of our friends. It seemed there were always fresh flowers on the table, usually yellow roses, which were her favorite.
Clarissa seemed to grow more beautiful with each passing day, if that was possible. Her eyes fairly glowed with joy and contentment as her belly swelled with our child.
A baby...I found the idea of being a father a little frightening. What did I know of children? I couldn’t help wondering if my child would be ashamed of its Indian heritage, if, when he grew older, he would be shunned because of his Cheyenne blood, or if he would be teased and taunted for being different. And I couldn’t help wondering if there would be any Cheyenne still living wild and free when my son or daughter was old enough to learn about its ancestors.
Much to my surprise, Katherine was thrilled with the prospect of being a grandmother. She bought dozens of baby things: lacy pink dresses and gowns and bonnets because she hoped for a girl; red, white and blue sailor suits and rompers and hats because Clarissa longed for a son. “It’s bound to be one or the other,” Katherine said, laughing. “And what we don’t use for this baby, we can save for the next one.”
I grinned at Clarissa. “This kid’s not even born yet,” I remarked, patting her belly, “and Grandma’s already planning for the next one.”
“Maybe we’ll have twins,” Clarissa mused. “Or triplets!”
Triplets! Just the thought made me nervous beyond description. “I’ll settle for just one to start with,” I said. “A little girl, as lovely as her mother.”
And a girl it was.
I guess I did all the things expectant fathers are wont to do. I smoked one cigarette after another. I paced the floor, casting frequent, anxious glances upstairs, wondering if, and why, childbirth always took so damn long.
Clarissa’s parents sat in the parlor. Neither of them had ever really come to terms with the fact that their only child had married a half-breed. Grace Van Patten stared out the window, her face growing a little paler each time she heard Clarissa cry out. Belmont had his face buried in a newspaper, but I knew he wasn’t reading it; he hadn’t got past the first page in the last forty minutes.
My mother was the only calm one in the room.
After six hours of waiting, of pacing, I bolted up the stairs.
The doctor frowned at me as I burst into the room. The curtains were drawn. The air smelled of blood and sweat and a strong disinfectant.
“Mr. McKenna,” the doctor exclaimed. “This is no place for a man.”
“You’re here,” I retorted, glancing anxiously at Clarissa. “How’s my wife?”
“She’s fine, just fine,” the doctor assured me. “Now, if you’ll just go back downstairs, I’ll get back to work.”
“Johnny, don’t go!”
“Mrs. McKenna. Mr. McKenna, please, this is most irregular.”
I threw the doctor a withering glance. “If she wants me here, I’m staying,” I told him firmly, though now that I was in the room, I wondered if I wouldn’t have been better off staying downstairs.
Clarissa’s lovely face was drawn and pale, her green eyes were dark with pain - pain I would have gladly suffered in her place. Her brow was sheened with perspiration; strands of hair clung to her damp brow.
I knew very little about childbirth, but I knew most men, both red and white, generally stayed as far away as possible until it was over. And as I watched Clarissa writhe in pain, and listened to her cries, I understood why. But I couldn’t leave her, not when she wanted me to stay, and so I took her hand in mine and held it tight.
“Try to relax, honey,” I said, lightly stroking her brow with my freed hand. “Try to make friends with the pain.”
“Friends!” she gasped.
I nodded. “If you don’t fight it, it won’t hurt as much.”
“I’ll try.”
Her nails raked my arm as another contraction rippled through her.
“Relax,” I urged. “Breathe through your mouth.”
She nodded, her grip loosening on my arm as she willed her body to relax.
The doctor frowned at me, but said nothing as I talked Clarissa through the rest of her contractions, quietly urging her to accept the pain, to think of the baby she would soon hold in her arms. I told her I loved her, that she was beautiful, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and it was all true.
Finally, just after midnight, our daughter was born. Bending low, I kissed Clarissa on the cheek.
“It’s a girl,” I said, “and she’s got all her fingers and toes in the right place.”
Of course, she wouldn’t rest until she had counted each tiny dimpled finger and toe. When she was satisfied that the baby was indeed perfect, the doctor called for Clarissa’s mother, who came upstairs to wash and diaper the baby.
I wiped the perspiration from Clarissa’s brow. “Never again,” I whispered fervently. “I’ll never let you go through this again.”
“Oh, but I want dozens,” she murmured, and smiled as her mother placed a squirming pink bundle in her arms.
We named our daughter Angela, and a lovelier, more cheerful child had never been born. I was her slave from the moment I first held her in my arms, and I knew I’d do whatever was necessary to lay the world at her feet. She was so tiny, so helpless, she awakened all my protective instincts, and I vowed no man or woman would ever cause her a moment’s unhappiness, not while there was breath in my body. How I loved that child. She filled our days with laughter and made our house a home.
She made other changes, too. Foremost among them was the change in the Van Patten’s attitude towards Indians in general and me, in particular. I suppose the sudden change was only natural, seeing as how their only grandchild was a quarter Cheyenne, and looked it. Her hair was thick and black and straight, her skin was the color of pale copper.
Angela forged the last link in the long chain that shackled me to civilization. I was a family man now, and I played the part to the hilt. No one would ever accuse my daughter of having a savage for a father. I dressed impeccably, gave up gambling, and behaved in a manner that was socially acceptable at all times. I took my wife and daughter to church every Sunday, made handsome contributions to several worthy charities, entertained important people, including the mayor.
Every Monday night, we went to visit the Van Pattens. After dinner, Belmont and I sat in the front parlor smoking expensive imported cigars and talking business, while Grace and Clarissa fussed over the baby, making elaborate plans for her future, for her schooling, her coming out.
Thursdays, we went to visit my mother, and while old man McKenna and I sat talking business and sipping aged brandy, Katherine and Clarissa fussed over the baby. The child was well on her way to being spoiled rotten, there was no doubt of that, or of the fact that I was as eager to spoil Angela as everyone else.
Sundays were the best days of all. It was our day to spend as we pleased, just the three of us. Often, after church, when the weather was warm enough, we took Angela to the park. Other times we stayed home. Seated before the fireplace, with Angela sleeping peacefully between us, Clarissa and I made plans for the future - the best schools for Angels, another trip to Europe when our daughter was old enough to appreciate it, a pony for Christmas.
In January, my mother married Roger Wentworth. It was a quiet wedding, held in the front parlor of the mansion. Old man McKenna looked as pleased as punch as he gave the bride away. At last, Katherine was marrying a man worthy of her.
Funny, but I can’t find the words to describe how I felt, standing there while my mother became Mrs. Roger Allen Wentworth the Third. They made a perfect couple - rich, handsome, cultured in all the ways of the vehoe. Curiously, my father was much in my thoughts as Katherine and Roger Wentworth exchanged their vows. I supposed my mother would be happy as hell with Roger, and yet he would never be half the man my father had been.
Like I said, it was a simple ceremony, quickly over. Not so the reception that followed. There was a full orchestra, dancing, flowers everywhere, champagne and cake, enough wine and whiskey to float a battleship, and a midnight buffet.
I guess I should have been smiling and mingling with the guests, but I took root in a corner and stood there downing one drink after another while I tried to sort out my feelings.
I had just finished my fourth drink when Clarissa found me.
“Feeling blue, Johnny?” she asked
“Why should I be feeling blue? I’m not marrying Wentworth.”
Clarissa’s lovely green eyes gazed deeply into mine. “Possibly because you have the feeling that, by marrying a white man, your mother is rejecting you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Damn right. She’s been rejecting me all my life.”
“Johnny, that’s not true.”
“The hell it isn’t. But it doesn’t matter, not anymore.” I took Clarissa by the arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“We really should stay a little longer.”
“No one will even know we’ve gone. Come on, let’s go home and get drunk.”
“All right, Johnny, if that’s what you really want.”
We didn’t get drunk. When we got home, Clarissa checked on the baby, then dismissed the woman who had come to sit with her while we were gone. Slipping out of her evening gown and into a lacy blue negligee, she took me by the hand and led me into the parlor where she drew me down beside her in front of the fireplace. Her lips were warm and soft, her eyes luminous, as she pressed my hand to her breast and kissed me.
“I love you, Johnny,” she whispered. “I love everything about you. Don’t ever let Roger Wentworth or your mother or anyone else make you ashamed of who you are.”
Damn, but that woman was good for my ego! What difference did it make what the rest of the world thought of John McKenna so long as this golden girl with the incredible green eyes loved me?
We made love all that night long, moving from ecstasy to ecstasy as our passion rose and fell and rose again.
Sometime during the night, the fire in the hearth died and the air grew cool, but I was warm in the light of Clarissa’s love.
* * *
Days and weeks rolled by. Sometimes, when I looked in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself. I was an accepted member of the community now, admired and respected. I had a comfortable home, a loving wife, and a beautiful daughter. Life was good, so damn good, I should have known it couldn’t last.
Angela was eleven months old when Clarissa caught a cold. She took the usual headache powders and spent a few days in bed, thinking it would go away. But the fever and the cough persisted and I finally called the doctor. His diagnosis was pneumonia.
I sat by Clarissa’s bed day and night, holding her hand, telling her how much I loved her. How much I needed her. Begging her to get well. I cursed myself for not summoning a physician sooner. The best doctors money could buy came and went, but to no avail. Daily, she grew weaker, thinner, until I knew it was just a matter of time until I lost her.
I never left her side after that, not even when Angela came down with a fever that developed into a bad cold complicated by the measles.
Three days later, our daughter was dead. My mother was stunned when I said I wasn’t going to the funeral, but I refused to leave Clarissa’s side, even for an hour. My daughter was dead and there was nothing I could do for her now.
I never told Clarissa that Angela had passed away. Instead, I let her go on thinking that Angela was safe at my mother’s.
Clarissa died the following week. I was with her to the end. It was cold and windy that night. Dark clouds scudded across an indigo sky like a herd of buffalo on the run. Thunder echoed like cloven hooves beating against the ground.
Clarissa woke from a restless sleep whispering my name, and I gathered her in my arms, afraid I might crush her. She was so thin, so frail.
“Hold me tight,” she murmured. “I’m not afraid when you hold me.”
She was like a feather in my arms, her breath hot and dry against my neck, her eyes fever bright.
“Don’t let Angela forget me, Johnny, promise?”
Choking back a sob, I said, “I promise,” and buried my face in the hollow of her shoulder lest she see my tears.
“You’ll be able to go home soon,” she remarked after a long while. “Back to the Black Hills.”
“Clarissa...”
Her hand stroked my hair. “I know you’ve never been happy here.”
“Honey, that’s not true! I’ve never been happier in my life than I have been, here, with you.”
“Truly, Johnny?” She looked up at me as if my answer was the most important thing in the world.
“I’ve never lied to you before, have I?”
“No.” She smiled faintly. “Not even about Virginia Randall.”
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” I said, blinking back my tears. And it was true. I had never regretted marrying Clarissa, not for a moment. She was everything good in my l
ife, everything that made living worthwhile.
“Make love to me, Johnny,” she whispered.
“Later,” I promised. “When you’re stronger.”
“Now, Johnny. Please.”
And so I made love to her one last time, caressing her wasted body as gently and tenderly as ever a man had touched a woman. Her skin was hot and dry beneath my hand. Tears ran down my cheeks as she whispered my name over and over again.
An hour later, she died in my arms.
I couldn’t believe she was dead. In less than a week, I had lost everything I loved, everyone who had given my life meaning.
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I drew the covers over her, tucking them under her chin. She looked peaceful now, the pain and weariness gone from her face. Brushing a wisp of hair from her brow, I sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed. I had never hurt so badly in my life. Not when I saw my father die. Not when McKenna laid my back open with a whip.
There was a pair of scissors on the table beside the bed, and my hand seemed to reach for them of its own accord. The shears were cold in my hand, as cold as the terrible void in my heart.
Cheyenne men and women often cut their hair and slashed their flesh when a loved one died. It was an outward symbol of an inner pain that was too grievous to be borne, a sacrifice to the Great Spirit that He might be merciful to the new soul as it made its way to the world of spirits.
I had thought myself a civilized man, but as I stared at the scissors in my hand, I felt my Indian blood stir, as though waking from a long sleep. Only by mourning in the old way could I hope to ease my grief. Only by the shedding of my own blood could I hope to live with Clarissa’s death.
In the Shadow of the Hills Page 14
