Stillwater

by Nicole Helget

  “I know dat, yull dumb animul trapper,” said the blacksmith. “Now yull better get that paw off mah shoulder or Ima stick this horseshul up yull asshul.” He smiled as he said it.

  “Blacksmith, ye have not shown me much friendliness all the while I was here nearly dying of a terrible disease and losing my best horse too, but now ye seem to be changing yer heart toward a more agreeable manner.”

  The blacksmith shook his head and shifted his weight from foot to foot. He pointed at Beaver Jean’s horse. “I bet Charlemagne here wull bust yull face into the back of yull skull before yull get half mull out dis fort.”

  The horse shivered the muscles along its black back, as if in agreement.

  Beaver Jean patted the blacksmith on the shoulder and then waved goodbye to Fort Pierre on the Bad River. He was a man invigorated, a man headed south for Texas, which had been annexed by the United States.

  30

  Angel Learns to Negotiate

  MR. HATTERBY STUFFED boxes of cigars, bottles of French champagne, stiff boots, fawn-skin gloves, and silk nightclothes into a traveling trunk. Every time he moved away from the trunk, Mrs. Hatterby’s cats would hop on top of the things and paw, nip, and scratch at them. As Mr. Hatterby searched the house for his long duster coat, which he needed for a couple of weeks on the windy prairie, he yelled at the cats and pointed at Angel to take care of them. One of the cats grabbed his glove fringes in its claws and began to bite and tear.

  “I’m not supposed to touch them,” Angel told her father. “Mother says not to touch the cats.” Angel had just turned nine and had received a kitten, which she didn’t like. Not that it mattered. The cats were for her mother, she knew.

  “For God’s sake,” Mr. Hatterby sighed. He waved his arms at the cats. “Get the hell off those gloves, you nappy feline!” he roared. “Those are expensive gifts!” The cat whipped its tail and lazily jumped off the gloves and onto the floor. It slinked around the trunk and, as soon as Mr. Hatterby turned his back, jumped back onto the gloves and began clawing and biting the fringes.

  Mr. Hatterby’s coachman waited outside with the horses and carriage. His wage was determined by a combination of both the miles he covered and the minutes he spent. Mr. Hatterby, nothing if not thrifty, which is why he was an important man with an important job, was eager to depart.

  “Where is that coat?” Mr. Hatterby asked.

  Angel didn’t understand much of what her father did to earn such a fine living, but she could see how other men respected him, deferred to him, and asked for his opinion on matters great and small. She sat on the steps of the grand staircase, watching her father scurry here and there, adding papers to his satchel, sweeping the cats away, and crushing a pillow into his trunk. She was used to the last-minute bustle and also the fuss her mother created each time her father had to leave. Sometimes Mrs. Hatterby feigned illness herself and made herself vomit. Sometimes she pretended as though there were important dates, such as imaginary church holidays, that her father would miss while he was gone. Once she claimed to have had a premonition, a dream, in which he was killed by wolves on his trip and which she was certain would come true. Another time she threatened to invite a common logger man into the house while he was gone to fix all of the things her father hadn’t had time to mend: a loose floorboard, a window that wouldn’t shut tight. She threatened to kiss the logger on the mouth. Sometimes she pretended not to care at all that her husband was leaving and would stay in her room the whole morning, emerging only when he had gone. Today she was in her room, throwing things around and crying loudly.

  “Milly!” Mr. Hatterby boomed. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted up toward Mrs. Hatterby’s room. “Milly, what have you done with my coat?”

  The wailing upstairs grew louder. It sounded mournful and high pitched, with bouts of choking. Her fake cry.

  “Milly, I’m not going to ask you again! Time is money!”

  Mr. Hatterby and Angel heard the knob turn and the door creak open.

  “Find it yourself!” Mrs. Hatterby shouted down. “You don’t care about me! You don’t care about us! All you can think about is statehood, statehood, statehood, running to that whorehouse, and being governor.”

  “Being governor!” Mr. Hatterby scoffed. “If word ever got out of Stillwater about the lunatic I’ve married, I’d not only lose the governorship, I’d forfeit my whole reputation and this house! Now where is my coat, woman?”

  “You don’t even care that Angel’s been deathly ill all week,” Mrs. Hatterby sobbed. “What if she falls stricken while you’re gone?” Then she heaved and panted. “Oh my. I feel faint. I can’t breathe.”

  Mr. Hatterby looked at Angel. Angel shrugged her shoulders and shook her head no.

  “Angel’s fine,” said Mr. Hatterby. With his eyes closed, he inhaled fully and breathed out slowly. When he opened his eyes, he smiled. “Should I call for the priest?”

  Mrs. Hatterby filled her breast with air and shouted, “No, I don’t want the damn priest! I can’t find my headache powders. Where are they?” The sounds of drawers opening and slamming shut came down the stairs.

  Then the door opened all the way, and Mrs. Hatterby emerged at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were red and watery, but Angel did not worry because she had often witnessed how her mother would poke her own eyes to make them look that way. Angel had even tried that trick on Nanny to get extra treats until Nanny figured it out and gave her a spanking.

  “My darling,” said Mr. Hatterby. “My beautiful wife. Please come down here.”

  Mrs. Hatterby crossed her arms and pouted.

  “You don’t love me,” she said.

  “You are my life,” pleaded Mr. Hatterby, softly, coaxingly. “Come down here now so I can talk to you.” He waved for her to descend. She picked up her taffeta skirts and descended. Mr. Hatterby shook some papers from his satchel and held them.

  “My dear girls. Do you know what these are?” The papers had big block letters on the front.

  “We’re not concerned with those,” said Mrs. Hatterby. “We want to know when you’re coming back.” Her voice had turned low and soft. She stuck out her bottom lip. When Angel saw her mother act this way, she sometimes felt ashamed, even if no one else was near enough to witness it. Other times, Angel felt simple curiosity at how little or how much her mother could affect her father’s words or behavior. She’d study her closely, watching the little eyebrow lifts and welling eyes and quivering lips. And other times, like today, Angel grew frustrated as her mother’s behavior thwarted her own chance to hear about the interesting thoughts and actions of her father. Angel sometimes wanted her mother to go away so she could listen to what her father had to say about the world outside the big house, outside Stillwater.

  “What are they, Father?” asked Angel.

  “These, dears, are notifications in all the country’s major newspapers about the organization of Minnesota Territory.” Then he pointed to some words. “And right here? This is where it mentions the four major cities. See, Angel?”

  Angel looked hard. She recognized many letters, but she didn’t know the words. Then one stood out to her. It was the same word that was on many of the buildings in town and even on the carriage outside her house.

  “Stillwater, Father?” she asked quietly. Her mother looked at the paper and at Angel and then at Mr. Hatterby.

  “Yes, my dear. You are correct and very smart.” He kissed her forehead, and Angel felt very warm.

  He pointed to the word. “This one says Stillwater, our town. This one says St. Paul. This one says St. Anthony. And this one says St. Peter, which is far south of us on the prairie and where I have to go for a few days,” said Mr. Hatterby.

  “But why?” moaned Mrs. Hatterby. “Why can’t someone else go?” She fanned herself and collapsed into his big chest.

  “This is my responsibility, Milly.”

  “Father, what will you do there?” asked Angel.

  “Well, there are four ma
jor buildings we must construct in the territory before the United States government will consider us for statehood and before we’ll have a proper vote. We need to have a capitol building for the legislators to meet in, a proper university to educate our citizens, a prison to hold our criminals, and . . .” He paused and looked at his wife. “And a state asylum.”

  “What’s an asylum for, Father?” asked Angel.

  He patted her head. “Don’t you worry about that. That’s the one I’m going to convince the people in St. Peter to take, far away from us folks up here.”

  “Well, what are we going to get?” asked Angel. “The capitol building?”

  “No,” said her father. “St. Paul will have that. I’ll fight for the university, but I’ll settle for the prison.”

  “What would we do with a university?”

  “People go there to learn to be doctors, lawyers, and scientists,” said Mr. Hatterby.

  “Did you go to university?” asked Angel.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Can I go to university?”

  Mrs. Hatterby interrupted. “You won’t have to worry about that. We’ll find you a nice prosperous husband with a fine house and good inheritance and lots of servants.”

  “You know what else is in this paper?” asked Mr. Hatterby. “A woman has earned her degree to become the first woman doctor in the country!”

  “A doctor?” asked Angel. “My goodness. She must be very smart.”

  “I know all there is to know about doctoring and tending the sick, and I never spent one day in any school,” said Mrs. Hatterby. “Not one day.”

  “In any case, I must be off,” he said. “Now where’s my coat?”

  “What will you bring me?” asked Mrs. Hatterby.

  “Milly, I’ll be on the prairie. There are no shops there, only country folks and country wares.”

  She fluttered her eyelids. “Then I don’t remember where I put your coat.”

  “OK. How about this? They’ve got quite a large Lakota population down there. How about I bring you some beads and feathers, and then you can give them to the seamstress to sew into a new hat once I get back?”

  She puffed up her cheeks and sputtered. “Anything else? Do they have anything else that’s ornamental?”

  “Not really. They’re not so colorful and showy as some of the other tribes.”

  “All right then. Feathers and beads will do. Your coat’s under the veranda.” With that she turned and ascended the stairs. She called down, “Angel, go to Nanny today. Mother has a dreadful headache.”

  “Yes, Mother,” replied Angel. Then she turned back to her father. “Have a good trip, Father. Try your best to get the university. I’d like to go there. Having a prison nearby sounds dreadful.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said her father. “But a prison brings good jobs and cheap labor, which attract businesses too. Now help Father fetch his coat out from beneath the veranda, would you?”

  “Father,” Angel said, “then will we be a state?”

  “Well,” said her father. “Not right away. The Southern states. They don’t want to be outnumbered.” Angel’s father looked at his daughter, and his eyes softened. “They’re nervous about the Negro question.”

  “What question is that?”

  He kissed the top of her head again. “This smell is the one that always hastens me home,” he said to her. “You’re a good child, Angie.”

  After he left, Angel went to the steamy kitchen and sat watching Nanny prepare a lunch of roast grouse and sweet potatoes. Angel rested her head on the table.

  “Nanny, who taught you to read?” she asked.

  Nanny didn’t turn from the stove but continued to stir the pot. “I went to school in Norway,” she said. “My fotter tought it very important his daughters readt ta Good Book and ta newspapers.”

  “Why, though?” asked Angel. “Why is it important?”

  “What?” She turned around. “So’s you can make up your own mindt about ta events and not be fooled by contracts and important papers, tat’s why!” She pointed a spoon at Angel. “When my husband and I get ta land here, we bot read the contract and signed ta papers. We both work, we both own. When he and ta babies die in the tornato, I sell ta land and get all ta money. If not, it would go to somewhere else. With dat money I have purchased ship tickets for three cousins from Norway to come here.”

  “I want to learn to read, Nanny.”

  “Ya! I tell your motter tat, and she got upset and treatened to hire a new nanny for you,” said Nanny. She slathered the grouse with a thick spread of bacon grease, then she wiped her hands on her apron and went to Angel. “Is your motter sick in bed today?”

  “Yes,” said Angel.

  “How’s your stomach today? Hurt?” asked Nanny.

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Angel.

  “Tat’s right. It never hurts when Nanny takes care of you,” she said. She seemed to be thinking about something. Her blue eyes seemed to melt on the inside but grow hard on the outside. Her faint blond eyebrows came down. “Today we go visit the school again,” she whispered. “We bring some of your old dresses and some treats for the childrens, and you can sit in the schoolroom with the other childrens. Would you like dat?”

  “Very much,” Angel whispered in return.

  “But it’s a secret, yah?”

  “Yes,” said Angel. She hugged Nanny, and some bacon grease smudged her pinafore.

  “Yah,” said Nanny. “Now I make a plate for your mother. You take it up and tell her to eat and rest. When she naps, we go.”

  Angel carried the tray to her mother’s room, set it on the floor. She knocked gently on the thick oak door before pushing it open and picking up the tray. Angel was careful with it. She liked the sound of the teacup rattling against its saucer. All the drapes in the room were closed. A burning lamp cast a dim glow near the bed. On it, her mother rested on her back, with her hands folded over her middle. A crumpled cloth lay next to her. From it emanated a light but distinct odor. Whatever it was that helped Angel’s mother rest, Angel knew its scent well. When she was small, her mother put a cloth with that scent over Angel’s mouth and nose when she cried too much. After she inhaled it, the room would turn fuzzy, voices became indiscernible, and Angel would want to sleep. When she woke, she felt calm but nauseated.

  “Come in, Angel dear,” her mother said softly.

  “I brought your food,” said Angel.

  “Set it on the table,” said her mother. “Smells like sod-hut food. That woman needs sophistication. When I regain my strength, I’ll prepare you proper meals. But I’m very tired now.” Her mother had changed into a thin nightgown and rubbed her rounded belly.

  Angel noticed the bulging womb and wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. “Yes, Mother.”

  “I was dreaming about a beautiful dress, black silk, with a belt made of feathers. Can you imagine it, Angel? Wouldn’t it be grand for funerals?”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Angel. “I’ll come get your tray later. I’ll leave you to rest now, Mother.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said her mother.

  Angel turned to leave the dark room.

  “Angel?” said her mother.

  Angel stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “You understand we pay Nanny very well to take care of you,” whispered her mother. And then she added very lightly, “Behaving as though she loves you is her job.”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Angel. She left the room and closed the door behind her.

  31

  Weather in Heaven

  CLEMENT BIT HIS FINGERNAILS as a hushed but powerful quarrel between Mother St. John and Big Waters disrupted the orphanage. The boys, nine of them between ages four and fourteen, stood bare-chested in a line. Mother St. John had run down the line with soap and shears and a pail of water. Each boy received a washing and a haircut. Among the boys were three Indian children, two full-breeds from a chief who wanted his sons to learn English and Chri
stianity and a half-breed, the child of a railroad prospector and a squaw who’d died in childbirth. Big Waters, seeing the three Indian boys with their sheared locks, flew at Mother St. John and pounded her fists on the nun’s back.

  “Big Waters!” Mother St. John raised her arms to protect her head. She turned and grabbed the old woman’s fists in her own capable hands. “Stop that. What’s gotten into you?” She shook Big Waters’ arms. “What’s gotten into you, I said?”

  Big Waters yanked her hands back. She looked at the boys, whose eyes were wet and downcast.

  “What?” said Mother St. John. “See how handsome they look.” She put her hands on her hips and panted.

  Big Waters shook her head.

  “It’s for their own good,” said Mother St. John. She spoke quickly now. “Father Paul wants all the boys to receive the Holy Eucharist and wants them to have clean faces and short hair and smart clothes.”

  Big Waters groaned and licked her parched lips. “Shame,” she said clearly. She extended her withered finger and gestured for Clement to follow her. He glanced at Mother St. John, who nodded. He followed the old woman.

  “But school begins in a half-hour!” Mother St. John called after them. She exhaled. “I did it for their own good,” she said again, to no one in particular.

  Clement followed Big Waters to the schoolroom. Sunlight coming through the window played over her face, and Clement realized that Big Waters was very old. She pointed for him to sit. And then the words croaked from her ancient lips.

  “In the beginning, the Sky Woman gave birth to two children. One was Earth, in which all the good things took root and grew. The other was Wind, which was always moving and changing, threatening to destroy everything Earth had grown. Wind had no use for Earth. But Earth needed Wind, for without it the seeds of all growing things would not come. Wind grew bold and teasing, whispering to Earth and tormenting it, dropping seeds, but then blowing them away. Sky Woman grew angry at her child Wind. Out of Earth, she made Rock and Fire and cast them upon Wind in the form of clouds. Now when Wind drops seeds, Rock and Fire grow black and clap and shoot and release rain onto the seeds so that they take root in Earth.”