She waded to the depths of the river one more time and plunged beneath the surface, then emerged to claw a handful of soap, work it to a lather, and attack her scalp. She grabbed still more, and soon red tracks marked the passage of her nails across lavender-scented skin. She threw herself backward, allowing her hair to rinse as it dangled in the water.
Gloria wondered what would happen if she fell asleep right now. Would she roll over and drown? Maybe the river’s current would just take her away, far from Danny and Kate. She pondered, for a second, which would be worse. She realized she really had no idea how long John William and the Logans would be gone. What if that happy little wagon pulled up right now?
What a sight she was, the naked water nymph floating on the surface of the sacred Umatilla River. She pictured John William’s face, shocked and ashamed. She heard Josephine Logan’s voice, softly surprised yet kind.
The thoughts poured through her head as she poured rivulets of water across her stomach, once again flat and firm, all traces of having carried a child lost. Forever.
Gloria righted herself and walked to shore, wringing her sodden hair over her shoulder. She stood on the bank and wrung until no more droplets fell, then ran a wide-toothed wooden comb through the wet tresses before wrapping her head in the towel she’d used to dry the babies. Although the sun felt glorious on her clean dry skin, a nagging bit of propriety insisted that she don her loose-fitting cotton sleeping gown, sleeveless and cut to just below her knees.
Suddenly a nap on the river’s bank seemed irresistible. She stretched herself out on the blanket, her head just parallel to the triangle of shade she’d created for the babies. She took one last look at their sleeping forms—Danny on his tummy with his little face half-smashed against the quilt, and Kate on her back with her arms flung open to the world. Gloria curled on her side, facing them, and closed her eyes.
She was just making her way to the edges of sleep when she heard the buzzing. She brought her hand up to send halfhearted slaps toward the sound, but it wasn’t until one of her fingers made contact with something that she actually sat up, fully awake and aware.
Bees.
At least a dozen of them swarmed around her, landing lightly on her skin. She leapt to her feet crying, “Shoo! Go away!” slapping her hands together, successfully crushing two of them between her palms.
She swept the towel off her head and whirled it through the air, feeling little fuzzy bodies make contact. When the bees refused to leave, she grabbed the towel by its corners and furled it into a tight coil which she snapped, whip-like, killing two or three more in midflight.
She had no idea how long she waged battle, but at some point she stopped to catch her breath and realized that the air was clear. The bees were gone, and she was full of an exhilaration she had never felt before. This instinct to protect, this animal-like passion to drive the wolves from the nest made Gloria feel alive and proud. So proud, in fact, that her only regret was that nobody had been there to witness the feat. The very lives she was protecting napped through the valiant display.
Then she saw it. A tiny red welt just beginning to swell on Danny’s left cheek.
“Oh God,” she said, calling out a plea that surprised her. She fell to her knees and gathered her son into her arms, bringing him close to put her lips on the red, hot flesh. “Danny, Danny, I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
Still holding Danny close, she scanned every exposed inch of Kate’s sleeping body and was relieved to see that her flesh was milky white and unmarked.
“I could never let any harm come to you, Kate,” she whispered as she gently ran a finger down Kate’s soft cheek. “If I did … he wouldn’t need me any more.”
The voice of Reverend Thomas Fuller filled the tiny church. True, any voice would fill the space—barely four hundred square feet—but Reverend Fuller seemed to attempt to reach every corner without overwhelming the congregation.
John William sat on a bench at the back of the church. The wood was smooth and varnished to a gleam. Maureen Brewster sat next to him.
Early in the service, Reverend Fuller led them in songs of worship. Adele had been right about the sparse number of hymnals: there were exactly five. But the reverend led them through songs the congregation knew by heart, and John William felt months of spiritual reserve chipping away as he raised his strong baritone to join the others. Maureen’s voice, as diminutive as her body, quavered somewhere around his elbow, and often during a song he looked down and she looked up as they shared both a note and a smile.
Now the sermon was in full swing, and John William was thrilled to hear God’s Word spoken by a man who’d studied it and knew its full meaning.
“We are all newcomers here,” he was saying, his hands gesturing to encompass both the congregation and the outlying countryside. “We are all strangers in a strange land, and we will determine whether or not this will be a land for God.”
John William thought about the places he’d lived, places he’d seen. Wild towns built on gold and promises, fueled by whiskey. Men driven by a quest for fortune. Women …
“So we must commit our lives to this land just as we commit our lives to our God. We must take root and grow a society that will be pleasing to His nature.”
Living in fancy hotels or tents. Or four-walled shacks that let the winter snows blow right in. No place for a family. No place for a daughter. Or a son.
“And so I have decided to make Middleton my permanent home.”
A unanimous gasp went up from the congregation followed by whispered joy.
“I will be sharing my itinerant duties with a minister in Centerville, and will hold church services here the first and third Sunday of every month.”
The elation of the people expanded into applause. The excitement of Maureen beside him made John William feel comfortable to join in the celebration of these strangers. It wasn’t until the ruckus died down that he noticed the intent gaze of Adele Fuller, turned fully around in her front seat, fixed on him. He returned a polite smile, but was so startled by the boldness of her expression that he didn’t hear what Maureen said.
“What was that?” he asked, bending his large frame to better hear her.
“I said, if we’re going to have a proper church, maybe I’ll stay after all.”
John William wanted to inquire further, but Reverend Fuller was leading them in a prayer of dismissal.
The sky was full of horses and pantaloons. At least that’s what the clouds looked like. Gloria sat on the little campstool gazing at them, having gathered the children up and brought them back to the wagon site to finish their nap. Now awake, Danny and Kate inched their way around the blanket spread on the ground at her feet, periodically being scooped up and brought back to safety when they came to near the blanket’s edge.
She had dabbed Danny’s face with cool river water, and the swelling was down considerably, but the area was still red with a tight raised bump at its center. She held him now, and he rooted against her, hungrily searching out her breast.
“You know, son, I haven’t eaten anything today yet, either,” she said. “Guess it’s beans, beans, beans.”
Gloria, still in her nightgown, set Danny back on the blanket, stood up, and wallowed in a luxurious stretch and gratifying scratch before wandering over to the wagon’s larder. One bowl of beans. Cold. She knew John William would be able to do wonders with these, given just a slice of salt pork and half an onion, but neither of those was available now. Not that she would know what to do with them. She knew even the smallest fire would return them to a more palatable temperature, but the thoughts of gathering wood and assembling kindling and striking a match seemed a bit overwhelming on such a warm, lazy summer day. So she took the bowl, grabbed a fork, and returned to the blanket.
“Now this,” she said out loud, gesturing with the fork, “is what that Sabbath commandment is all about.” She stretched one leg out to caress Kate’s soft cheek with a toe. “Who needs church?” She a
llowed a bean to linger in her mouth, warm up a little, before sending it to join the others.
“And I’m saying that because I know,” she continued, giving her heavy, damp hair a shake off her shoulders. “I’ve been to church before.”
What she didn’t say out loud was that the minute she’d walked through the doors, the minister pointed at her and shouted that a whore such as this had no place in the house of God.
“I even talked with the minister once.” The previous evening when she’d refused to perform the favors he demanded. “So I know what we’re missing,” she said to the babies, who were now each propped up on their little elbows, staring at her intently. “And we’re not missing much.”
Because the church met so infrequently, the better part of the day was devoted to worship, fellowship, and teaching. After the initial time of song and sermon, the congregation split into Sunday schools. The children were grouped together for classes: the girls led by Adele Fuller and the boys by Reverend Fuller. The women gathered to discuss the focal passage among themselves, as did the men. John William soon learned, though, that the Middleton men’s Sunday school class would not be a great source of Bible study. Almost immediately the conversation turned to crops, weather, and farming.
“I’m telling you, MacGregan,” David Logan said, “you’ve never seen land like this for growing things. Looks like I’ll be harvesting near twice what I did last year.”
“Yep,” said another Middleton neighbor, Phil Jasper. John William learned that everybody called him Big Phil, and his imposing girth gave the obvious explanation why. “I got a quarter section of corn coming in, wheat looks good. This is God’s country for sure.”
“I can see that,” John William said. “And a town startin’ and a church. I think we can make a life here.”
“You might want to talk to Maureen Brewster,” David said. “Her husband died last spring, just after getting the crop in. She’s been wanting to sell and move back East.”
“Now why would he want to do that?” Big Phil said. “He can get himself his acres from the government for free.” He turned to face John William. “One square mile, six hundred forty acres, and the same for your wife if you don’t mind havin’ it in her name.”
“Well, yeah,” David said, “but the Brewsters was one of the first families to settle these parts. If he buys her place, he gets land that’s been cleared, house built. Buying the Brewster place’d be like buying ten years worth of labor.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen please,” John William said, laughing and laying a hand on each shoulder. “Let me have some say in the matter. Besides, just during church she said she might not leave at all.”
“I wouldn’t wait too long to make a decision if I were you,” Big Phil said. “Mrs. Brewster’s a land-owning single woman. If she don’t leave, she’ll be married off before the wheat sprouts.”
John William looked over at the crowd of women gathered in earnest conversation. Maureen Brewster was one of the oldest there, her gray frizzled hair hardly the markings of an object of desire.
“You sure about that?” John William said.
“Listen here,” David said, “women here are scarce. Men can’t be too particular about age and beauty and such.”
Just then Adele Fuller turned slightly and gave the men a stunning smile before returning to her conversation.
“Then how come that Adele Fuller ain’t married yet?” John William asked.
“Aw, she can afford to be particular.” This from a slick-looking young hand named Lonnie. “She could have herself any man she wants. And she don’t want a farmer.”
“Judging by the way she’s looking at you,” Big Phil said to John William, “you’d better get yourself a farm as soon as you can.”
“I’ll talk with Mrs. Brewster when I get a chance.”
“No better time than now,” David said. “It’s time for the dinner.”
There was a bustle of activity as boxes and baskets were unloaded from the wagons parked around the church building. It was a tradition of the congregation to share a generous potluck dinner, each family contributing what it could. The fresh doughnuts brought by the Logans were just the tip of their contribution. Mrs. Logan also had two-dozen corn muffins, sausage links, a jar of pickled beets, and cold potato cakes.
Planks were laid across the wagons creating long tables loaded with dishes, bowls, pots, and plates. The bachelors of the congregation brought kegs of fresh water and cider. There were kettles of baked beans, cooked overnight and wrapped in towels to keep warm. One family brought a smoked ham from a pig that had to be slaughtered early, another a huge pot of venison stew. There were jars of pickles, cans of oysters, loaves of bread, dozens of biscuits. Apple, cream, and fresh berry pies were lined up and guarded closely. But the greatest treasure of all was isolated and revered: Adele Fuller’s chocolate cake.
John William stared, openmouthed. He’d never seen such bounty in his life. He felt a plate being placed in his hand and looked down to see the now familiar face of Maureen Brewster.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I didn’t bring anythin’.”
“Nonsense,” Maureen said. “There’s plenty here. Now fill your plate and come sit with me.”
“Yes, ma’am. You’re just the person I want to talk to.”
Mae had given her the magazine just as Gloria was loading her things into the wagon before leaving Silver Peak. “Just a little something to pass the time,” she’d said, and Gloria had spent many hours flipping through its pages, largely ignoring the pages of elusive text.
But she did enjoy the pictures, especially the styles that John William told her the magazine heralded as “the latest from Paris.” Four of the pages were devoted to hairstyles—complicated labyrinths of braids and loops. For Gloria, who had never done much more than restrain her curls in a single thick braid, they presented the challenge of civilization and sophistication.
Still wearing the sleeping gown she’d put on after her bath, Gloria sat in fierce determination to achieve success. The magazine lay open beside her, a small rock anchoring the pages against the slight afternoon breeze. John William’s shaving mirror was propped up on an overturned crate, and next to it a small dish contained every hairpin Gloria owned. Seven. It was hardly enough to recreate the crowning glory from the picture, so she improvised using strips of cloth to anchor sections, tucking and hiding the ends within the mass of hair.
Three thick sections were wrenched into a twist along the back of her head. The hair remaining loose at the side of her face was divided, plaited into twelve tiny ropes—six on each side—which were meant to crisscross over the large twist and create a profile not unlike the prow of an ancient ship.
After what she estimated to be an hour’s worth of hard labor, Gloria had a sheen of sweat across her face, aching arms, and a disaster on her head. Up close, the shaving mirror allowed her to see only a quarter of her face and head at a time. Each step she took away from the mirror gave a fuller view. When she finally had a chance to see the complete picture, the only resemblance to the reflection in the mirror and the picture in the magazine was that both depicted a woman with hair.
“I think that’s a better use for that hairbrush,” Gloria said, looking at baby Kate chomping hungry little gums on the brush’s wooden handle. “It certainly didn’t do me much good here.”
Kate took the brush out of her mouth long enough to emit a gurgly giggle.
“And what about you, young man?” Gloria said, turning to Danny. “What do you think?”
But Danny was absorbed in the creation of spit bubbles. Gloria couldn’t even get him to look at her.
“Men,” Gloria said. “Women torture themselves trying to look beautiful for them, and they don’t even notice.” Not that she had any man to look beautiful for, of course. John William always took extra pains not to look at her at all.
Unfortunately, the undoing of the creation proved to be just as unsuccessful as the style itself, and soon
she was left with a mass of half braids, tangles, and wild, frizzed tresses.
Perhaps it was the flurry of activity around her ears, perhaps it was the mumbled cursing that accompanied her task—whatever the reason, Gloria failed to hear the approach of the Logan’s wagon. She was, in fact, quite unaware of their presence until she heard John William say, “Gloria?”
She whipped herself around, brought one arm up to cover her uncorsetted breasts and the other to unsuccessfully cover her hair.
“You’re back,” she said. “I … I didn’t hear you.”
John William’s face was a mixture of concern and amusement. David Logan turned beet red and quickly averted his gaze. Josephine looked like a woman who had just discovered a wounded puppy in a rosebush.
“Can I help you with that, dear?” she asked in that sweet voice Gloria found enviable and annoying.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Gloria said, frantically trying to pat the mess down.
“Nonsense,” Josephine said. “These styles are nearly impossible, especially without a proper vanity table or mirror.” Within seconds she was out of the wagon and at Gloria’s side. She cleared the shaving mirror off the crate and guided Gloria to sit on it. “Let’s just see what we have here,” she said, stooping to take the brush from baby Kate’s grip.
“Come on, MacGregan,” Logan said. “Let’s leave the women to their talk.”
The men jumped down from the wagon and walked toward the river.
Gloria submitted herself to Josephine’s ministrations. She felt gentle tugs on her scalp as Josephine loosened the anchored braids.
“The children are asleep in the back of the wagon,” Josephine said. “These Sundays just wear them out.”
“I can imagine,” Gloria said.
“Your little ones seem wide awake. Did they just wake up?”
“A while ago.”
The women lapsed back into silence as Josephine worked with Gloria’s hair.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” Josephine said.
“You’re not.”
As each section came free, Josephine spread the hair across her palm and smoothed the tresses with the brush.
Ten Thousand Charms Page 15
