The Buffalo Soldier

by Chris Bohjalian

  The girls made noise, and that noise, he understood now, was testimony to the fact that their house was alive and vital and well. His marriage to Laura, too: His children’s vitality was one small barometer of that fact.

  He drove back into the business district and decided that what he wanted more than anything was a beer, but he was still in his uniform and so a bar was out of the question. So he decided that he would settle instead for companionship (not friendship, not really, because both he and Laura knew well that a parent’s friends start disappearing about two or three months after a child has died, if only because the grown-ups now have nothing in common and it’s unbearable to sit and talk only about the children who no longer are there) and drop in at the headquarters in Waterbury. He hadn’t been to Waterbury in months, and a visit—regardless of who was there the day before Christmas—would kill at least another half-hour to an hour before he would have to head home.

  As he merged with the traffic on the interstate, a memory struck him with clarity. He wasn’t exactly sure how he had arrived at it, but he believed it had to have something to do with the noise that had once filled his house, and, specifically, the music: It was an image of Laura and the girls dancing together in their nightgowns when Hillary and Megan were eight. He had missed dinner that night because of a B and E out in Waltham, and when he got home it was almost eight-thirty. And there were his girls—all three of them, really—prancing and capering in the den like go-go dancers to the energetic love songs of some rock and roll heartthrob.

  And then, trailing the memory by no more than a second, was a realization: If he ever told Laura the truth about Phoebe, his marriage was over. It was that simple. It wasn’t a question of whether he could or would leave her for this other woman—because, most assuredly, he would not. The reality was that Laura would leave him first if she knew this Phoebe Danvers carried within her the child she herself could no longer have.

  “I expect soon enough the three of them will be sent to Fort Sill. After all, they’re prisoners.”

  SERGEANT GEORGE ROWE,

  TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,

  LETTER TO HIS BROTHER IN PHILADELPHIA,

  MAY 24, 1876

  Phoebe

  She watched her eight-year-old niece put the Tek safety vest on over her sweater, and her nephew—younger than Crystal by close to two years, but, still, almost as tall—pound the girl’s shoulder pads with the pillowy flesh at the bottoms of his fists. His hands looked to her like a pair of small baking potatoes.

  Stop it! the girl said, but it was clear that she wasn’t all that annoyed. She liked the present, and she liked the proof that the shoulder pads cushioned the blows.

  Her brother and sister-in-law’s living room was still layered with the crinkled wrapping paper that the family had deposited there earlier that morning. Whole sections of the rug were hidden beneath crumpled red foil, some of which her brother had balled up and placed in a corner by the couch when she and their father arrived, but had since been reanimated into a pile that dwarfed the coffee table beside it. The tree in the bay window was massive, it must have been just inches short of ten feet: Someone had placed the star against the tip of the tree, rather than upon it, because the tip was almost touching the ceiling. She noticed there were far more ornaments along the bottom of the evergreen than the top, and she assumed this was because her nephew and niece had done most of the decorating.

  We’re supposed to get some snow tonight, maybe as much as six or seven inches, her sister-in-law was saying to the children. Tomorrow should be much better.

  Apparently, earlier that morning her brother and sister-in-law had put the miniature snowmobiles in the back of the truck and tried to find a patch of ground outside of the town with enough snow to try the machines out, but they’d failed. There were long patches of rock-hard ice and the ground was pretty solid, but there just wasn’t a lot of powder. The kids had been disappointed, and so their parents mollified them by reminding them every chance they got that the forecast included snow.

  Her brother and sister-in-law lived in a stately brick house just up the hill from Main Street in Littleton. It always amazed her how well Wallace had done for himself—selling insurance, of all things. Veronica, his wife, had grown up just south of Littleton in a village called Sugar Hill, and came from ski money—her grandfather had helped open one of the resorts near Echo Lake—but Wallace took pride in the fact that they had bought this house entirely with the income they’d earned from his insurance company and Veronica’s interior design business. In reality, of course, most of Veronica’s clients were friends of her parents and grandparents in Franconia, Bethlehem, and Sugar Hill. No matter. It was still income instead of interest. Not a penny had come from a trust fund.

  You’re sure you wouldn’t like a glass of wine or some eggnog? Veronica was asking her. Maybe a beer?

  She knew she shouldn’t have wine or beer because of the baby, and so she considered asking whether there was any rum in the eggnog. But she had never shied away from booze of any kind before, and she assumed that Veronica would figure out instantly why she was wondering—or at least want to know more. Besides, Wallace and Veronica always put rum in the eggnog, so why bother asking?

  Coffee is really what I’m in the mood for today, she answered.

  Decaf?

  Yeah, that would be great.

  She wasn’t sure when she would tell her family she was pregnant. She had already called Nancy Fleming, her ob-gyn, but she hadn’t decided how she would tell her father. Or, for that matter, her brothers. They’d all think she was insane. Irresponsible and insane. And what of her resolve to keep the name of the father a secret? They’d be annoyed by what they would interpret as a self-imposed martyrdom.

  But that wasn’t it, that wasn’t it at all. As she watched her niece and her nephew running around the living room with their safety vests on, she didn’t feel a bit like a martyr: She felt joyful and, truly, expectant. The world was filled with single mothers, and somehow they got by. And most of those single mothers wouldn’t have the support that she had. She imagined her father baby-sitting the child some days, weekends at her brother Wallace’s fine house with her little one and these energetic, older cousins. Maybe when she got her old job back with Developmental and Mental Health Services, she’d rent a nice place in Montpelier. Her old apartment certainly would have been big enough. She saw herself walking into the bakery just off Main Street with a toddler—in her imagination, a little girl—and buying the child one of the long biscotti that sat in the glass jar, and watching her daughter gnaw at the cookie as if it were zwieback.

  In her mind the girl had Terry’s gray eyes, but otherwise looked like her.

  Her father glanced up from his grandchildren at the same moment that she found herself looking at him. He moved slowly these days and his back was stooped from his years with the cows—milking would always take a toll on a man’s back, even when the task had been handed over to a mechanical pump and a hose—but when he was seated, as he was now, he was still a powerful figure. He actually had thicker hair, and more of it, than either of his sons, and his shoulders had remained broad.

  Your mother would have loved to have seen the kids in those outfits, he said to her, referring to the Tek vests the children were wearing. She would have thought they looked mighty cute.

  They do, Phoebe agreed. She wanted to ask him how he was feeling now that they were at Wallace and Veronica’s. He had been depressed before they left the house, saddened by the reality that he was enduring a Christmas without his wife—her mother. He seemed better now, but it was hard to tell with her father.

  Mom would have worried they’re too young to have snowmobiles, Wallace said.

  And she would have been right, Phoebe added, but she meant it good-naturedly and she kept her voice light.

  Those rigs? Nah. They’re practically Matchbox cars, Wallace said. They’re made for kids.

  From the kitchen everyone heard the o
ven timer, and Veronica stood, reaching reflexively for the dish towel that she must have brought with her and kept hidden in her lap like a handkerchief. That would be the pie, she said. Dinner’s about five minutes away.

  Smells like apple pie, Phoebe said to her sister-in-law.

  Apple and sour cream. Even better. Veronica turned toward her children before leaving, and said to them, You two: Wash your hands, please.

  I need to— Crystal started, but her father cut her off.

  You don’t need to do anything, he said, except listen to your mother and wash your hands right this minute. Now go. Scoot. Chop-chop.

  Without taking their vests off, they started down the hallway to what Veronica referred to as the powder room, and Phoebe realized she was alone with her father and her brother, and this was probably about as good as it was going to get. If her other two siblings had been there, she decided, the moment would have been perfect for dropping her bombshell, but Scottie was with his wife’s family in Massachusetts, and Mary was having her own Christmas celebration in Burlington. Still, the moment was good enough. She hadn’t planned it this way, and she understood on some level that she might regret what she was about to do.

  Of course, that might have been exactly why she was doing it—because she might regret it, at least at first. What was it her old boss used to say? Breakthroughs begin with breakdowns. She’d tell her father and her brother her big news right now—perhaps begin by pointing out to them that she was drinking decaf coffee today instead of wine or eggnog or beer—which would give them a chance to get used to the idea long before the baby was born. This way they’d be there for her when she needed them most.

  Besides, if she told them on Christmas Day, they would have to be charitable.

  She opened her mouth and started to speak, but quickly stopped herself. She realized that she wanted Veronica present. Her sister-in-law would be an ally if she were among the small group that was told first; she would help ensure that the men were appropriately...supportive. And so she quickly decided that she would wait, after all, until they were finishing dinner, when her niece and nephew would have been excused to go play with their presents. Then she would tell her father and Wallace and Veronica.

  Her brother and her father were looking at her. What were you about to say, Phoebe? Wallace asked.

  I lost my train of thought, she said. Sorry.

  You get that from your mother, her father told her.

  If it’s important, it will come back to you, her brother added.

  She sipped her coffee and smiled, and rested one open palm on her stomach.

  IT STRUCK HER as funny, but her mouth felt parched. The kids were gone from the table, and any moment now Veronica was going to stand up, start carting the dessert plates into the kitchen, and suggest that they all take their coffee into the living room. Despite the large water glass that she’d drained, her tongue felt like a massive dry sponge and her throat had grown raw. Almost out of desperation, therefore, she took the spoon—unused—and tapped it against the rim of the goblet, as if she were at a wedding or an anniversary party. If she didn’t get their attention that very instant, the moment would pass and it would be weeks or months before she would tell them.

  The three other grown-ups in the room looked at her—Veronica actually paused while dabbing at her lips with her napkin, holding the linen there as if she were trying to clot the blood from a small cut—their eyebrows raised and their eyes wide. What, their faces asked, was Phoebe up to now? Her brother and her sister-in-law, she could see, were expecting...mirth.

  Well, she thought, this won’t be mirth, but it will sure as hell give them something to talk about. Dad, too.

  You look like you have something important to announce, Wallace said, as his wife carefully pulled her napkin from her face, rolled it into a tube, and slid it through the pewter ring by her place mat.

  She nodded and reached across the table for his water glass because it was still half-full, and took a long swallow. Then she said, I do indeed have some news. Some good news.

  You have a boyfriend, Wallace said. Hallelujah! It’s about time—

  No, I can’t say that I do. I have something better.

  Her father folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. His face changed before her from one of expectation to one of annoyance. Suddenly, if only because he couldn’t guess at the surprise and it wasn’t as innocuous as a new boyfriend, he had grown wary. It was as if he knew this surprise, whatever it was, whatever she was about to say, was going to displease him. And that made her just a little bit angry, because he had no right to be displeased about anything she said or did. She’d come home before her mother had died and been with him ever since. She’d been working at the general store, for God’s sake, to be with him. Given up a pretty good job, and something that at least resembled a social life.

  And that is? Wallace asked.

  She looked from her father to her brother and reined in her resentment. Maybe her father feared that she was about to announce she was leaving his house, and her return to Montpelier was imminent. Or maybe his face and his arms and his pose meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. For all she knew, he was sitting that way to stretch out his spine or relieve an ache in his back.

  I’d ask if you were sitting down, she said, giving herself one more brief second when the news was hers and hers alone, but of course you all are—which is probably good. So, here it is, Phoebe’s Christmas Day bombshell. Guess what? I’m going to have a baby.

  There were a pair of lit candles on the table in glass holders, and in the absolute silence that followed her announcement the flames barely moved. Her family was quiet and the air was still, and the trim fires at the tips of the wax were as upright and straight as the slender candles below them. Finally Wallace spoke. Didn’t you just tell us you don’t have a boyfriend? he said, and his voice was so even that she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  Nope, there’s no boyfriend, she said.

  A fiancé? he asked, and then his voice brightened just the tiniest bit. It was clear that in his opinion, a fiancé was a whole lot better than a boyfriend when his sister had gotten herself knocked up.

  No, I don’t have one of those either, she said, and out of the corner of her eye she caught the silver serving tray with the pieces of turkey her father had carved, and the combination of the meat and the subject matter at hand made her think of turkey basters—that was how that gay mother she knew in her office had gotten pregnant—and she feared she was going to have another attack of the giggles. She’d been having them all the time lately: uncontrollable, nearly hysterical fits of laughter, beginning almost two weeks earlier when she met Terry at the bakery in Montpelier.

  Then how? Wallace asked her.

  She knew he meant who or why, but his choice of words—How?, as if he were interested solely in the manner or the technique—put her over the edge, and she started to laugh.

  Don’t worry, brother, I didn’t use a turkey baster, she said, and she snorted in a manner so unattractive that the sound made her laugh even harder. She saw her father glance at her brother, and it was evident that he didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about. She wasn’t sure that her brother did, either. Both men looked confused, cautious, concerned. They actually looked a bit like Terry did when something would set her off, and her giggles would grow into nearly frenzied peals of laughter.

  Veronica’s mouth was hanging open a tiny bit, but not in horror, it seemed, so much as in interest. She wanted to say something, but she was going to wait for her sister-in-law to regain her composure. Finally, with her hands folded into a teepee, her nails impeccable cuts of pink salmon, she said over the last, small ripples of Phoebe’s chuckles, Do we know the father? Have we met him?

  She shook her head. Doubt it.

  Veronica nodded. Will we get to meet him...soon?

  I don’t think so, because—

  Jesus Christ, Phoebe, do you even know who
the hell the father is? her brother asked, unable or unwilling to conceal his incredulity and aggravation. Do you?

  Wallace, please, Veronica said. Of course Phoebe knows—

  Before her sister-in-law could finish speaking, however, her father stood up and angrily threw his napkin into his chair, snapping his wrist as if there were cow shit on it he had to get off. He shook his head and murmured, If your mother were alive...

  But he didn’t finish the sentence, and then he left the dining room for the mudroom just off the front hall, where they heard him putting on his boots and his coat and opening the door to the street.

  “Having committed theft and murder upon government employees within the reservation and upon civilians outside it, the hostile factions within the Comanche tribe have given us no choice but to draw a line. In order that we may be able to distinguish between the hostile and friendly groups, henceforth all friendly Indians must set their camps east of the river, and only at points selected and approved by the Agent.”

  GENERAL ORDER NO. 57,

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL KENNETH OATES,

  TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY

  Alfred

  The morning after Christmas was the first day of Kwanzaa, a holiday they seemed to talk about often in school—Cornish as well as Burlington—and one his teachers always presumed he understood. This was the first time, however, that he’d actually lived in a house that was acknowledging the celebration. Together he and Laura—Laura mostly, in truth—had produced a small Kwanzaa mat from, of all things, a plastic machine that was meant to make pot holders, and placed upon it the symbols from the book she had given him about the holiday: Seven candles in seven holders, each representing a particular value. A clay goblet she had bought from a potter at a pre-Christmas craft show. Three ears of dried corn from the supermarket she had saved through the fall, and a variety of squash from their garden that remained in the basement. Acorn. Butternut. Spaghetti.