Ten Thousand Charms

by Allison Pittman

  There was a ripple of laugher.

  “Course I’d have to find me a husband first.”

  There was another ripple of laughter, but this one distinctly thinner.

  “Mrs. Brewster?”

  “Please call me Maureen.”

  “Maureen, then. I need to feed the babies. May I go somewhere and sit down?”

  “Of course, dear. Go on into the parlor. Sit in the rocker. That’s what it was made for, you know. Never been used to nurse a babe …” Her voice started to drift again.

  “Maureen,” John William said, “I’d like to take a look at the property, if you don’t mind. The barn, crops.”

  “Certainly. I’ve had a few neighbors over to help, just to keep the place up, you know. Ed has—we have—I have everything you could need as far as tools and equipment. Livestock, you’ll see.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “No, no, son. You just go on. I’ll just take this little one,” she took Kate out of his arms, “and talk with Gloria. She can tell me all your secrets.” Maureen delivered this comment with a jaunty wink, and John William seemed amused by Gloria’s shocked expression.

  “She might at that,” he said. He walked toward the doorway of the tiny bedroom, but before leaving he turned and said, “You know, they say confession is good for the soul.”

  Nothing, Gloria thought, had ever felt as good as sitting in the willow rocker, staring out at a budding garden while feeling the rhythmic tug of a baby at her breast. She was nursing Kate who, as usual, had been too impatient to wait for Danny, who lay on a blanket near the hearth, contentedly mouthing a silver spoon. Maureen was in the kitchen putting a pot of leftover stew on the stove to heat and sliding a pan of bread into the oven. The faintest aromas were just beginning to drift through the house.

  This could be a home, Gloria thought. This could be my home.

  Maureen came into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. She settled her tiny frame into the chair to the right of where Gloria was sitting.

  “Well, I must say,” she said, “I feel like a regular lady of leisure sitting down in the middle of the day. There’s plenty I should be doing, but I think it would be nice to sit and chat for a while.”

  “Yes,” Gloria said, a bit uncomfortable. Chat meant questions and questions meant lies, and though she had known Maureen only for a matter of hours, she knew she could never bring herself to lie to this woman.

  “Your children are beautiful,” Maureen said, looking wistfully at Danny, who was now engrossed in shifting his spoon carefully from one hand to another.

  “Thank you,” Gloria said. She dislodged Kate, now sated, and closed her blouse. She brought Kate to a sitting position on her lap and began rubbing and patting her back.

  “Twins,” Maureen mused. “What a blessing.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Gloria focused intently on a tiny spot on the back of Kate’s neck. A single little freckle. She’d never noticed it before.

  “I have cousins who were twins, but they were both boys. Not identical, but they did favor each other.”

  “Really.”

  Since they left Silver Peak, babies in tow, Gloria had heard this same conversation countless times. Every family they encountered—at supply stops, river crossings, well-traveled roads—had something to say about the “twins.” People commented on how much they looked alike, how very different they looked, their own twin siblings, cousins, children. They sang little rhymes, made dire predictions, quoted superstition, and through it all, Gloria and John William shielded the truth with silent nods and mumbled appreciation for the stories.

  Maureen was still speaking, a cheerful friendly patter, but Gloria hadn’t heard a word. Somewhere in the middle of hearing the exploits of Maureen’s adventurous twin cousins, Gloria looked at her and said, “They’re not twins.”

  “What?”

  “Danny and Kate. They’re not twins. They’re not brother and sister at all.”

  Maureen didn’t look as surprised as Gloria thought she would.

  “John William and I, we’re not—”

  “It’s all right, child.”

  Maureen got up from the chair and sat on the floor at Gloria’s feet. She put a comforting hand on Gloria’s knee.

  “This is John William’s daughter,” Gloria said, handing Kate down to Maureen’s lap. Maureen held the little girl close, and Gloria got up from the chair, gathered Danny, and settled in to nurse him.

  “And this is … Danny is my son.”

  “Gloria, darling, you don’t need to tell me—”

  “Please. Please let me.”

  She locked her gaze with Maureen’s, and even though the older woman nodded a smiling consent, the words just wouldn’t come. So she looked into the earnest contented eyes of her son and let the words flow out of her.

  “I was born in California …”

  And then it was so easy. Her mother, the men, the migration from one mining camp to another. She told stories that should have racked her body with sobs, but the steady suckling of her son kept her grounded. Kept her still. She placed her thumb in Danny’s soft palm and gathered strength from his grip.

  “After Mother died …”

  Her own legacy. Her migration. Dubious fame and tainted fortune. And pregnancy.

  “I still don’t know why I went to Jewell …”

  She could have stayed in Virginia City, had an abortion, given it away. But she’d worked for Jewell before, felt a connection.

  “She reminded me of a mother,” Gloria said. “Not my mother, but a mother. She always took care of us girls.”

  Maureen sat, still and soft at Gloria’s feet. She said nothing except the occasional, “Poor child.”

  “And then I met John William.”

  Silver Peak. The birth, her death, the deal. Leaving. All of it, every mile, every hardship, every test of patience and fortitude. Everything that led up to this moment, this conversation, this … smile.

  It was the first time Gloria chanced to look at Maureen’s face, and she was shocked to see the wide smile that infused the older woman’s face with unblemished youth.

  “I think you may be the strongest woman I’ve ever met,” Maureen said.

  Gloria squirmed under the admiration in her voice. Danny had fallen asleep, his warm milky mouth was slack, and she felt the tiny puffs of his breath against her bare skin. She shifted him gently, just enough to close her blouse.

  “I just wanted my baby to have a father,” Gloria said. “I always wanted a father. Dreamed of having one. I used to wait for him to show up and take me away from my mother and … everything.”

  “Child, child.” Maureen reached up to clasp Gloria’s hand. “Don’t you know that you have a Father?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But you do, Gloria.”

  “You mean God?” Gloria gave a scoffing laugh. “A lot of good He’s done for me.”

  “Can’t you see how He has taken care of you? Guided you?”

  “Taken care of me? Weren’t you listening?” Gloria’s voice was rising. She dislodged herself from Maureen’s grasp and stood up, laying the sleeping Danny back on the folded quilt on the floor. “Why would anyone who loved me want me to have that kind of life?”

  “Just because that’s the life you had doesn’t mean that’s the life He wanted for you,” Maureen said, her voice gentle.

  “And what does He want for me?”

  “For you to have peace. And joy.”

  “Well, He certainly never gave it to me, did He?”

  “Didn’t He?” Maureen remained sitting on the floor. A drowsy Kate listlessly chewed on her finger. “I listened to your story. Watched you as you spoke. And your face changed, your voice changed when you talked about leaving that life.”

  “I haven’t left that life,” Gloria said. “It’s all I know. It’s what I am.”

  “But it doesn’t give you peace, now does it? Not like you feel here.”

  “The peace I fee
l now is for my son,” Gloria said. “All that matters is that he’ll be cared for when I leave. When he doesn’t need me anymore.”

  “And just when is that? When does a child stop needing its mother?”

  Kate was now fully asleep, and Maureen laid her gently on the blanket next to Danny. She rose and stood next to Gloria, who was looking out the window, past the garden to where John William could be seen walking in the field.

  “When it has a father,” Gloria said. Her throat was raw with the threat of tears. “A real, live father on earth, not some spirit in the sky who just watches while you live your life scared and hungry and torn. A father who will pick him up and read him stories and sing him songs. A father with big strong arms to hold him so he can curl up in his lap when there are storms. A father with a deep voice who can tell her that he loves her, that everything will be all right. That she’s safe.”

  Gloria began to shake, then. She clutched her arms to herself and willed her body to stop, closed her eyes to stop the tears, but the cleansing relief prevailed, fortified by the two small arms wrapped around her, a curly soft head resting on her back. They stood there, together, until their synchronized breathing brought a stillness to Gloria’s body, even though tears continued to stream down her face.

  “He’s an excellent man, you know,” Gloria said.

  “He seems so.”

  “He’s not perfect.”

  “Nobody is.”

  “But he’s so gentle with the babies. Sometimes I think he loves Danny as much as he loves his own child.”

  “I talked with him for a long time yesterday,” Maureen said. “Danny is his child.”

  “I didn’t love Kate at first, you know.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Maybe because I knew I was taking another woman’s place. Maybe he could love Danny because he didn’t have to worry about filling anyone else’s shoes.”

  “Neither do you, Gloria.” Maureen turned Gloria around, her two small hands firmly gripping Gloria’s arms. “Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter what you’ve been or how you’ve lived. Look at what you have now. What God has given you. A son. How can you consider walking away from a gift like that?”

  “How can I stay?” Gloria said.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m afraid of him.”

  “Who?”

  “John William,” Gloria said. “I’m afraid of disappointing him. Not being what he needs me to be. We had a deal, you know. I’d take care of his child, he’d take care of mine. But I can’t help but feel like he got the losing end of the stick.”

  Maureen laughed. Slight, at first, but then she reared her head back and let loose with deep, glee-filled noise.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Child,” Maureen said, “you really don’t see, do you?”

  “See what?”

  “You are a beautiful woman.”

  “I hate that.”

  “You hate it because of how others have seen you. But let me tell you,” she brought a hand up to caress Gloria’s cheek, “I’m talking about the beauty I see on the inside of you. The way you love your children. The way you admire John William. The way you open up to me.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” Gloria said.

  “You’re being given a chance at a new life, Gloria. Don’t dwell on the old one, and don’t go back.”

  “But I don’t know how to do any of this new life.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  “But you’re leaving.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  Gloria could tell that Maureen hadn’t considered staying until that moment. And when the realization hit both women, they burst into smiles and fell into each other’s arms.

  “You’ll really stay?” Gloria said. “You’ll take care of the children?”

  “No, I’ll take care of you. For now. Until you can take care of yourself.”

  Just then the door opened and John William’s heavy steps entered the kitchen.

  “Smells wonderful in here,” he called out. He crossed the room to take a peek at the children, then glanced up to look at Gloria. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Gloria said, hastily wiping the last of her tears.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “We’ve been talking,” Maureen said. “Gloria and I had a long talk. She told me everything.”

  The weight of that word landed in the middle of the room. John William took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “So you know,” he said, “that we’re not—”

  “I know,” Maureen said, “that we are all in a state of flux right now, and maybe we better take a deep breath before doing anything hasty.”

  “So you’re not going to sell?”

  “Oh, I’m going to sell. And it looks like I’m going to sell to you. I’m just not going to leave.”

  Gloria beamed silently at her side while the news sank into John William. His face registered shock at first, then acceptance, then a mysterious amusement.

  “So, shall we discuss this over dinner?” Maureen said, all business.

  “Yes,” Gloria said. “I’m starved.”

  They walked together into the kitchen. Maureen directed Gloria to the cupboard that held the dishes; John William pumped water from the faucet to wash his hands; Maureen busied herself dishing the stew into bowls and slicing the bread. When they sat around the little round table, John William bowed his head to say a blessing.

  “Oh, come now,” Maureen said. “Let’s do this right.

  At her bidding, the three joined hands, and John William’s deep voice filled the room. He thanked God for the food, the friendship, the family gathered in this place. Gloria felt his calloused fingers gripping her right hand, while her left enveloped the diminutive hand of Maureen. She wondered briefly which held more power, before the room echoed with “Amen,” and she bit into her first meal in her new home.

  17

  It was as if they’d been a family forever. John William built a partition in the second bedroom, dividing it into two smaller rooms. Maureen found the unused railings, and once attached, Danny and Kate shared the biggest bed they’d ever known. The mattress from the wagon was stuffed with fresh hay, giving John William a bed in the newly created third bedroom. Maureen worried that a straw tick on a bare floor would be terribly uncomfortable, but John William declared that, after months of sleeping on hard, rocky ground, this felt like wafting toward heaven on clouds of feathers.

  Gloria shared the bedroom with Maureen.

  The days here started just as early as the days on the trail. Any thoughts Gloria had of lounging in the feather-stuffed mattress were dashed the first morning that Maureen’s chipper voice woke her up, saying, “Gloria, dear? Rise and shine! Come see the new day God has given us.”

  Although she was grumbling on the inside, Gloria pasted on a smile and did her best to greet the morning. By the next day, the smile was genuine, even though she quickly learned that Maureen would not cater to her.

  “Listen, dear,” she said the first time Gloria plopped herself down at the table and waited for coffee, “you’ll never learn to take care of yourself if you don’t try. Now, our first lesson will be biscuits.”

  At Maureen’s instruction, Gloria carefully measured, mixed, rolled, and baked. They were edible, if not airy, and as John William added an extra spoonful of gravy, he declared them the best she’d ever made.

  The days were a blur of chores. After the monotony of sitting in a wagon all day, Gloria welcomed the activity. Every piece of clothing that she, John William, and the babies owned was washed and hung to dry. Their few tools and utensils were assimilated into Maureen’s household. The garden was bursting with the earliest of its generous yield, and afternoons were spent hoeing weeds along its rows.

  The noon meal was a time of great camaraderie. Maureen assigned part of the meal�
�s preparation to Gloria—even if it was merely slicing the pickled beets—and the three of them joined around the table, just as they had that first afternoon. It was often a rushed affair, as there were always a hundred things left to do, and the conversation was centered on the workings of the farm.

  “I never worked a spring wheat crop before,” John William said one afternoon. “Ain’t it a bit late to be bringin’ it in?”

  “We’ll be the last ones to be sure,” Maureen said. “But before you came along, it was just me, and all the crews are already working. I couldn’t get anybody to come on until that last week in August.

  Then John William and Maureen’s conversation turned to numbers—how many acres, how many machines. Gloria listened to all of this, but contributed nothing to the conversation. She liked it best when they would talk about the crew—who worked hard, who was shiftless. Names of men and women, people of the church and the community floated around the table.

  The afternoons were busy, too. Of course there were dishes to be cleaned and put away. The floors were swept. There seemed to be an endless supply of things to wash or repair. John William worked on creating the larger corral necessary to accommodate his horses. Gloria returned to the garden, finding a new love among its tidy rows of promise. It also allowed her, with just the slightest turn of her head, to watch John William work.

  The babies flourished. Gloria and Maureen took the canvas cover from the wagon and spread it on the ground for Danny and Kate to lie on while the women worked outside. They rolled from one end to the other, and frequently either Maureen or Gloria would have to rush to rescue someone in danger of rolling straight through the onions. At mealtime, the babies sat on laps around the table and experimented with whatever the adults were eating. Maureen soaked cubes of bread in milk and sugar, much to Kate’s gummy delight. They also had tastes of cooked carrots and soft cooked noodles. Gloria’s heart skipped a beat with each little mashed bite. The day would come when they wouldn’t need her at all.

  Then there were the evenings. The hours after supper and before bed were Gloria’s favorite of the day. Supper was usually a light fare—perhaps soup or stew that had been bubbling through the late afternoon—which made a quick and easy cleanup. Then everyone settled into the parlor. The lamps on the mantel and small table made a cozy glow in the room. Maureen taught Gloria a simple stitch, and soon she set herself to making what she hoped would be a scarf. John William sat on the floor, his long legs stretched in front of him, and played with the children, letting each take a turn grasping his fingers and stretching to early, tentative steps.