Ten Thousand Charms

by Allison Pittman

  “Thank you,” Gloria said.

  “Of course,” Josephine said. “What are friends for?”

  Gloria looked up at her with questioning eyes.

  “At least,” Josephine said, “I hope we’ll be friends.”

  “Me, too,” Gloria said. She thought about her late night talks with Sadie and the other girls. What in the world would she talk to Josephine Logan about?

  Josephine gathered all of Gloria’s hair into one hand and brushed the lot of it. The women were silent, lulled by the whoosh of the bristles.

  “You have beautiful hair,” Josephine said. “The curls, the color. It’s just beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Gloria said.

  “Would you like me to braid it for you?”

  “No, no thank you,” Gloria said. “You should probably be going.”

  “Of course.” Josephine set the brush down on the crate and cupped a hand to her mouth. “David!” she called. “It’s time to go!” Then she stooped to give each of the babies a tickle on the tummy before climbing into the wagon to wait for her husband.

  As the Logans drove out of sight, John William turned to Gloria and offered her a big smile.

  “You seem to have enjoyed your day,” he said, looking her up and down with amusement.

  “We went to the river, took a bath, came back. Ate beans.”

  “And the hair?”

  “Don’t ask. Boredom makes you do crazy things.”

  She’d taken the time to pull a skirt and blouse over the sleeping gown, but her hair remained full and loose and clean.

  “How ’bout you, big fella,” John William said, bending to pick up Danny. He hoisted the boy up into his arms, took one look at the child’s face, then turned to Gloria with a concerned look. “What happened?”

  “He got stung. By a bee.”

  “What about Kate?” His voice was full of panic, even though the obviously healthy child rolled around at his feet, the only immediate danger being his own boots.

  “She’s fine. See?”

  “Thank God,” John William said. “But this poor little one—”

  Gloria bristled. “Is fine, too.”

  “How could you let this happen?” By now he was on his knees, having set Danny back down, and lifted Kate into his arms. He held her aloft, looking over every inch of her, bringing her little feet up close to his eyes and lifting her gown to check the skin underneath.

  “I told you she’s fine. I handled it.”

  John William brought his daughter close to his face, inhaled, made a face, and brought her close again. “What is that smell?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to change her.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He sniffed the child again. “She smells like … flowers?”

  “It’s lavender. I mixed some of my lavender oil with the soap. Otherwise, it’s just so—”

  “What were you thinkin’?” John William stood to his full height, still clutching Kate protectively. “Turnin’ my daughter into one big flower, then layin’ her out in a field! Of course the bees came swarmin’. You’re lucky they didn’t eat her alive.”

  “Oh, no,” Gloria said. “I didn’t even think—I’m so sorry!” Gloria reached out to touch baby Kate’s cheek, but John William brusquely turned, taking her out of reach.

  “You just have to be careful,” he said, his voice softening a little. “It could have been bears.”

  “I would have fought them, you know.”

  John William turned to look at her again and, to her immense relief, a smile tugged at his eyes.

  “You know, I believe you would have.”

  Gloria reached for the dishtowel hanging on a hook on the side of the wagon. “You should’ve seen me with those bees,” she said, whirling the towel into a rat’s-tail whip. “They never stood a chance.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I snapped them.” She punctuated the word with a flick of the towel. “Killed them in midflight.”

  “So bath, beans, and bee-killin’? You have had a busy day. Well, I had a busy day, too. I’ll tell you about it over supper.”

  “Supper?”

  “Yes. My surprise.”

  Gloria hadn’t paid any attention to the basket John William brought out of the wagon, but now she eyed it with curiosity. “What’s in there?”

  “It is …” John William whisked the large cloth napkin off the top of the basket, “a feast!”

  Gloria peered inside. “Is that chicken?”

  “It is indeed. There’s a family here, the Jaspers, that brought two or three fried chickens and a chopped egg and vinegar salad.”

  Gloria felt her mouth water as the contents of the basket were unloaded onto the overturned crate. Slices of ham, sweet potatoes, fried onions, beans.

  “I’m afraid it’s all cold,” John William said. “If you like, I’ll build up a fire so you can heat it up.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” Gloria said, her mouth already full. “I’m starving.”

  “Can’t you say a blessing first?”

  “Oh, all right, go ahead.”

  “Thank you, God,” he prayed, “for the generosity of our new neighbors. Bless this food. Bless our new home. Amen.”

  Gloria was staring at him when he opened his eyes from prayer.

  “New home?”

  She worked her way through the contents of the basket while John William told her about his conversation with Maureen Brewster.

  “She’s a wonderful woman,” John William said. “Very sweet. Her husband died about three months ago. She’s ready to sell and move back East.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” Gloria asked.

  “It just seems like God’s perfect timing. She needs to sell, we need to buy. The land already has a house, a crop.”

  “What is she asking?”

  “We didn’t discuss price today,” he said. “We’re going over tomorrow to talk in detail. I need you to—”

  “Be on my best behavior?” She used her sleeve to wipe the stream of bean juice that dribbled down her chin.

  “After today, I’ll be happy if you’ll just comb your hair.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Gloria said. “If she offers me tea, I’ll lift my pinkie like this.” She clutched a biscuit delicately, littlest finger extended, before shoving half of it into her mouth.

  “What more could I ask?” John William said with mock appreciation.

  Gloria finished off the biscuit and licked her fingers one by one. “That was the best meal I have ever had in my life.” The last word was lost in a very unladylike belch.

  “Didn’t save room for dessert?” he asked.

  “Oh, don’t tease like that.” Gloria leaned back against the wagon’s wheel. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Because I have another bite,” he said in a playful tone.

  She sat up straight.

  “It’s not much, you know, just a little somethin’ …”

  He reached one hand behind his back and brought it back holding a small plate. The sun was nearly set and the little camp was bathed in shadows, so Gloria couldn’t see exactly what it was. He held the plate in front of her face, moving it back and forth slowly, causing her head to follow its movement.

  “Chocolate?” she said in a tiny, hopeful voice.

  “Cake.”

  “For me?”

  “Well, I don’t know. After all, it was a church dinner, and really only the people who go to church ought to get to eat.”

  “But you let me eat all that other food,” Gloria said, not caring that she sounded whiny and weak.

  “That’s because you were starvin’ and pathetic. Now you’re full. I’m not sure you deserve this.”

  He picked up the slice of cake and brought it slowly toward his mouth.

  “Please!” Gloria called out. “Just a bite. I don’t need the whole thing, but I haven’t
had chocolate since Virginia City. Just a bite? Please?”

  “This cake was made by the preacher’s daughter herself. What kind of person would I be if I gave it to some person who doesn’t even have the decency to listen to her father’s sermon?”

  “Just a bite and I’ll go to church next time.”

  “Yes, but what about the time after that?” John William had returned the cake to its plate. “How about this? You go to church for every bite you get.”

  “All right,” she said. “One visit to church for every bite. Now give it.”

  She reached for the plate, but John William snagged it away from her. Holding the plate in one hand, he used the other to pinch off a corner of the cake. Gloria marveled at how such huge hands could maneuver such a tiny morsel from the plate to her open, waiting mouth without dropping so much as a crumb.

  “That’s one week,” he said, smiling.

  “Now wait a minute.” Gloria’s protest was silenced by yet another pinch of chocolate.

  John William laughed at how her eyes crossed as his hand approached, so she closed them and kept them closed. Bite after bite, she tried to focus on the flavor, but could only feel the texture of his fingers as they brushed against her lips. The delicious morsels may as well have been sawdust. She clamped her lips shut and opened her eyes.

  John William was ready, staring right into them. Yet another pinch from the half-eaten cake was held suspended between them.

  “How many was that?” she asked.

  “I lost count.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She opened her eyes and took the remaining piece from the plate and plopped it, whole, into her mouth. “I’ll go as long as I’m here with you.”

  John William studied the pinch of cake he held in his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

  “That’s all I ask.”

  16

  That’s the house?” Gloria asked.

  “Must be,” John William replied. “Mrs. Brewster said the place was about three miles north of town. She said it had a house, garden, single slant-roof barn.” His voice filled with promise as he listed each attribute.

  Just behind the house, if she stood up in the wagon and craned her neck, she saw a blanket of green.

  “Wheat,” John William said. “Acres and acres of it.”

  “The house looks big,” Gloria said. “Did she have a lot of children?”

  “None.”

  “Then why the large house?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they—”

  “And look at the door. It’s beautiful!”

  John William chuckled. “Yeah, you sure see that comin’.”

  It was painted a bright blue and, next to the sky, was the bluest thing Gloria had ever seen. She couldn’t imagine anything more inviting, until the door opened and Maureen Brewster walked onto her porch, smiled and waved.

  “That’s her?” Gloria said.

  “That’s Mrs. Brewster.”

  “She looks nice.”

  “She is. I think you’ll like her.”

  “Why?” Gloria asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because deep down inside, you’re nice, too.”

  The kitchen was perfect. A large eight-paned window looked out to the company path. Just underneath it, a hand pump drew well water into a galvanized sink. Tiers of shelves stocked with an orderly assortment of spice tins and pretty blue crockery adorned the wall on both sides of the window. The workspace counter rounded the corner of the room, creating a convenient L-shaped surface. A length of calico hung from its edge, and Gloria felt an overwhelming urge to take a peek underneath it. A crystal vase full of fresh flowers sat in the middle of a round table; the cuts in the glass cast a pattern of rainbows on the glossy wooden surface.

  “It’s beautiful,” Gloria said, her voice little more than a breath. She carried Danny across her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Maureen said. “We’ve been very happy here.”

  “Why would you ever leave?”

  “Now, Gloria,” John William said, his voice chastising.

  “No, no,” Maureen said. “Believe me, it’s not an easy choice. But I can’t work the place alone, and my sister and her husband have a place for me back in St. Louis, so …” Her voice trailed off in sigh accompanied by a shrug and a shake of her head.

  “Yes, well,” John William spoke into the awkward moment. He held Kate, the baby’s back against his broad chest, and the little girl pointed a soggy finger toward the flowers on the table. She emitted a gurgly gleeful sound, and every adult in the room welcomed the distraction.

  “Yes, aren’t they pretty?” Maureen said. “They’re violets. Here.”

  Maureen reached into the vase and pulled out a purple stem. She ran it lightly across the little girl’s face before placing it in the waiting chubby fist. Kate immediately put the flower into her mouth, made a face, and pulled it out again.

  “She’s always hungry,” Gloria said.

  “Can’t imagine where she gets that from,” John William said, smiling.

  Gloria shot him a face that equaled Kate’s in its sour displeasure.

  Maureen laughed and said, “Let me show you the rest of the house. This, of course, is the kitchen. I’ll bet you’re glad to see a proper stove again.”

  “Why?” Gloria asked.

  “She’s not much of a cook,” John William said.

  “I see.” Maureen pulled back the material that skirted the countertops revealing shelves full of clean, empty jars. “Just about ready to put up what’s in the garden. And there’s a creek in the south corner of the property with some wonderful blackberry bushes. Makes the best jam you’ve ever had.”

  “I can’t make jam,” Gloria said.

  “Of course not, of course not. We’ll divide up the job. You can pick the berries, I’ll make the jam.”

  “I’ve—”

  “Never picked berries?” John William interrupted, smiling.

  “Now you stop.” Maureen gave John William a slight slap on the arm. “Everybody’s picked berries.”

  I haven’t, Gloria thought.

  Maureen led them into the parlor adjoining the kitchen. An imposing fireplace dominated one wall. A line of dainty figurines graced its mantle, as did a cheerful ticking clock and a sepia-toned daguerreotype of a much more somber Maureen with her hand resting on the shoulder of a serious-looking man.

  “We had that made last spring,” Maureen said, running a finger along the gilded frame. “Just about three months before he died.”

  “He was very handsome,” Gloria said, though most of his face was obscured by his heavy whiskers. She glanced over at John William and the full beard that months of growth had produced. She secretly wished he’d shave.

  “These are stones taken from the Umatilla,” Maureen said, stooping slightly to stroke the hearth. “And my husband made all the furniture himself.”

  A long cushioned high-backed bench sat against the wall adjacent to the fireplace. Two chairs of a similar style created an inviting view of the flames. Gloria ran her hand along the back of a chair. Someone had sanded the wood to silk. The third wall housed a window that looked out to the garden. Underneath the window was a wicker basket full of mending and a willow rocking chair.

  “You thoroughly capture the morning sunlight there,” Maureen said, pointing to the chair. “It’s perfect light for sewing.”

  “I don’t sew,” Gloria said. Danny was beginning to fuss a little, so she repositioned him.

  “Well, I can see we’ll need to have a long talk about just what it is exactly that you can do. Now, let me show you the bedroom.”

  Gloria opened her mouth for a smart remark, but the look on John William’s blushing traumatized face stopped her.

  There were two bedrooms. Their combined space took up nearly half of the square footage of the house. The first was the room Maureen Brewster shared with her beloved Ed. A large bed took up most of the room, the thick mattress nestled between ornate head and foo
tboards. It was covered with a cheerful quilt and piled high with pillows. On either side were two small tables, one of which had a kerosene lamp and a well-worn Bible. A curtain ran the length of one wall, concealing a series of hooks on which Maureen hung her other clothing. A large chest of drawers stood against the wall opposite the bed, and next to it sat a washstand.

  “I’ll probably leave the bed,” Maureen said. “Leave all of the furniture for that matter. If there’s one thing we learned on the journey here, furniture’s not suited to travel.”

  Neither John William nor Gloria spoke. There was an overwhelming sense of true, lasting love in this room, and when they did happen to glance at each other, their expressions mirrored a mixture of humility and shame before they quickly looked away.

  The second bedroom was bare, though not empty. It contained the furnishings of its function, but there was no sense of life in it. Much smaller than the first room, it had a narrow bed tucked into a corner and a large wooden trunk on the opposite wall.

  “The bed’s actually fixed to the wall,” Maureen said, pulling back a corner of the quilt to demonstrate. “Ed figured it would be easy enough to just put a railing around the two open sides. That way when we didn’t need a crib any more, we’d just have a bed. We kept the rocker in here for a while …”

  Something happened to her voice as she spoke. It was as if Gloria and John William had left the room and she was left talking to the ones who lived, or should have lived, in the house with her.

  “You never had any children?” Gloria asked. She’d been carrying Danny this whole time, and now she clutched him a little closer.

  “Gloria, don’t—”

  “Ed and I married late in life,” Maureen said. “I was thirty-two, he was almost forty. We wanted children, prayed for them. I figured if God could give a miracle to Sarah—”

  “She’s the one who laughed,” Gloria said.

  “Yes, she did,” Maureen said. “But I wouldn’t have. Every day, from the day we married until the day he died, I prayed that God would send us a child. I guess He just didn’t see fit.”

  “You would have been a wonderful mother,” Gloria said. “I can tell.”

  “Thank you, child. And who knows? I’m only fifty. Maybe I’m still just too young.”