Calamity

by Libbie Hawker

  We clambered down from the wagon and stood huddled together in the drifting dust while the rail workers came out of their tents and laughed with the men from the wagon train, pounding them on their backs and smacking their lips over the provisions within the carts. No one paid a speck of heed to the five bedraggled children who stood blinking and disoriented in their midst. I wasn’t yet certain where to go or what I ought to do, but I was dead set on one thing: I would never take to the trail with my brothers and sisters again. It was the trail that tore us up and sickened us, the smallest first—the trail that weakened us till we had no choice but to cast ourselves apart.

  The town of Piedmont stood about a mile away across a blowing stretch of prairie. Piedmont seemed a rosier prospect by far, with its new-built houses—none as fine as the homes in Salt Lake City, but a damn sight better to look at than the rail-camp tents. I could make out a couple of churches, too, white steeples stark and beckoning among slanted rooftops. It seems there’s always a church close at hand; folks can’t set up anywhere in this world without some minister or nun following close behind, wagging a finger and doling out God’s meddling admonishments. That’s my opinion of religion now, but back then, my eyes fixed to one of those steeples and I led the children toward it as fast as their little legs could march. I intended to walk right into the nearest church and throw us all on God’s mercy, for I still believed in a merciful God then.

  I reasoned it all out in my head while I made for that white church: Once God can see us down here suffering, He’ll put things to right. I can leave it all in His hands, and trust that we’ll end up safe, and end up together. You see, it was the hardest thing I ever done, giving Baby Sara to her new ma. I was certain I never could make myself commit such a painful deed again—nor even face the devil of that terrible choice. But that’s the way of all difficult things, ain’t it? And Lord, wouldn’t I know. The first time you face a Devil’s bargain, and make your reluctant decision, you feel you’re the rottenest scoundrel alive, even if you had no real choice a-tall. But after the deed sets on your conscience for a spell, all hesitation disappears, and you find it’s a fair and easy thing to do it again—or to do something worse.

  We reached the town and found its main street, a broad dirt track that seemed freshly made. The church I’d been eyeing from the rail camp stood near the center of Piedmont. I never took my eyes from its steeple till I led the children through its door and straight up the center aisle of the chapel. New-made benches stood in rows, fashioned from simple planks of bright wood. The benches still looked rough in places, having not been properly broken in. Looking at the little-used benches, I thought Piedmont must have more sinners among its population than pious types. That didn’t matter much to me. Sinners or saints, I intended to find one good home all us children, myself included—just as long as we could remain together.

  It wasn’t a Sunday. I don’t remember the day now, and can’t be sure I knew it then, but it surely was not a Sunday, for there was almost no one in that church except the Canarys. Our footsteps echoed among the unsat benches, a small and weary sound, like the feet of a small army marching toward an inescapable doom. The only other soul in the place was the man bent over the pulpit. He wasn’t the first black man I’d seen, but he was the first I’d seen in a long while. He had a gray mustache and a shiny, high-domed pate that rose up around the tight curls of his nearly-white hair. He was busy with the stub of a pencil, scrawling notations over a few papers, which he kept riffling through and sorting into new order. As we approached the pulpit, he laid down his pencil in the groove of his opened Bible and straightened to look at us. I believe he expected to find familiar members of his congregation, for he wore a mild, welcoming smile. When he set eyes on our ragged and desperate selves, the smile vanished. He had shining, silver-wire spectacles, and very kind eyes, but the kind eyes was all that marked him out as a minister—that, and the fact that he dared to hang around the pulpit and use it as a writing desk. I reckoned no one but a minister would presume so much in the sight of God. He was dressed in an ordinary shirt and trousers (not the black robe or suit I was used to seeing on men of the church.) But I felt certain that he was the boss of the place.

  “Please, sir,” I said, “we’re in sore need of help. Help and charity.”

  He came around to the front of his pulpit without saying a word. I found I could speak no more, myself; the inescapable fact of my failure had risen up to my throat, where it blocked off my voice. I could only stare up at that man, and when his soft and gentle eyes met mine, I lost all sight of him in a blur of tears.

  He stepped down from the platform where his pulpit stood. He laid a hand on my head, never hesitating to touch me though I was covered in filth from head to foot. For the first and last time in my life, I felt the peace of a blessing fall across me, body and soul. It was a great tide of terrible, suffocating warmth, as if the Almighty Himself acknowledged that I had fallen far short of everything I’d striven for, as if He knew my weakness and brokenness—and forgave me, all the same.

  The minister said, “Young miss, you do look in need of assistance.”

  I still couldn’t speak, so I clung hard to Lena’s hand and nodded.

  “Are your parents dead?”

  It was Lije who spoke up then. “Yessir, Mister, our ma died back in Missouri and our pa was shot to death on the trail. We come an awful long way.”

  Lena added, “I don’t want to go back on the trail again. Don’t make us go.”

  “You haven’t got anyone here in Piedmont who might care for you?” the preacher asked.

  I shook my head. The shaking seemed to free my voice, but it was smaller and weaker than it had ever been before. “I done all I could do, sir, to get my brothers and sisters here safe. Please, can you find us a place? Any place will do, as long as we have food and a roof over our heads. As long as we don’t have to take to the trail no more, I promise we’ll be content.”

  The minister took my hand and set himself on the frontmost bench. Gently, he drew me down to set beside him. The moment my weight came off my feet, I felt as if my bones began to sing hallelujah. I wanted to melt into that bench like butter in the sun; I wanted to never shift from that spot again till the Judgment Day came. The church was silent, peaceful—and the sorrowful comfort of the minister’s blessing still rang inside my soul.

  “Child,” he said, “what fortitude and bravery you have shown. You are a signal of Christ’s love to the world.”

  I didn’t know exactly what he meant, especially the word fortitude, which was beyond me then, though I understand it now. At the time, sitting and suffering beside that man, all I could think was, I was a coward for giving up Sara. But even thinking it, I knew it wasn’t true. It was a mystery to me then—still is to this day, all these long years later—how I could feel both shamed and proud about what I’d done back in Salt Lake City. How I could know myself for a coward and a brave girl, all in one go.

  The minister went on speaking. “You may all stay here—all of you. I’ll make a place for you until we can find proper families to take you in. Christ said, ‘Whoever has this world’s good, and sees his brother in need, and shuts up his bowels of compassion from him, how can the love of God dwell in him?’”

  I said, “Are you a Mormon, sir—like in Salt Lake City?”

  The minister laughed then, a big booming sound, which I took for a no.

  We had no more need of our grimy, flat, dew-dampened bedrolls. That night the minister made us one great, soft bed right on the platform at the foot of the pulpit. He wrestled in a feather tick that was wide enough for all of us to bundle up on together. The tick was very old and had lost most of its softness, but after months on the trail, it seemed more comfortable than the clouds of Heaven. He brought in warm quilts stitched with bright colors, too, and cushions for our heads that smelled of a real home—wood smoke and bread and a space long lived-in.

  Once our bed was laid, the minister saw to it that we had ba
ths in a real wash tub with water he heated and carried himself—and after each of us was clean and fresh, he carried out the gray, stinking water and dumped it in the church yard, so not one of us had to suffer grimy wash-water. He was patient and tireless in caring for us, and he smiled all the time.

  While Lena reveled in the miracle of her bath, I set beside the minister on the front bench, waiting my turn. “What’s your name, anyhow, Mister?”

  “You can call me Reverend Wilkes, young lady. What am I to call you?”

  “Martha Canary. Ain’t you got a wife and little ones of your own?”

  “In this church,” he said, “the shepherd doesn’t marry. That leaves me free to care for folks like you. But I always thought, if God had chosen differently, I would have liked to be a father.”

  I said, “You could leave, I guess, and go be someone else. I think you’d make an awful good pa. You’re nicer than my pa ever was, by far.”

  The Reverend’s smile never slipped, but he shook his head, and it had something of severity in it. “No, Miss Martha, I’m afraid that would never do. Once God has called us and told us who we must be, we can’t change the patterns of our lives. A man may try to be someone else, but it’s the Lord who decides, and He will always pull us back to our proper place.”

  It made me a little sad to think of this kindly old man never being a father to anyone. He certainly had a knack for caring. Reverend Wilkes fed us heartily and saw to it that we had all the sleep we could stand. New clothes, too, which he sourced from the women of Piedmont, whose children were growing like weeds, he said, in the healthy sunshine of summer, nurtured by the sweet Wyoming wind. I didn’t think wind was to be held accountable for any nurturing, whether it was sweet or not, and I knew only plants relied on sunshine for growing. But I liked the Reverend and I wanted him to like me, so I kept my smart opinions to myself.

  Word spread around Piedmont that a passel of orphans had holed up at the little white church, and once we was clean and rested and properly dressed, word spread again. This circulation of rumor claimed that the orphans was remarkably pretty and sturdy little things—the younger ones, at least. I knew well that there wasn’t much hope any of the Piedmont ladies would find me winning, but they came in small groups and gave Lena and Isabelle dollies to play with, or they gave Lije and Cilus nuts and apples for treats, which the boys always shared with us girls straight away. Then the ladies stood about, whispering together, watching us all with a speculative air.

  Before Sunday came again and the church filled up, two women of the congregation approached the minister and said they would take Isabelle and Lena. Both ladies’ husbands worked on the rails, and as the track spread farther west their menfolk stayed away for weeks at a time. They was powerful lonely, they said—and neither one of them had much hope of getting babies of their own, at least as long as the rail line kept their husbands so thoroughly engaged.

  Reverend Wilkes turned to me with a questioning look. My heart felt ready to split in two at the thought of separating the girls from each other—from any of us. But I had discerned (from the way the women of Piedmont watched us and whispered) that my hope of all the Canary kids living together under one roof was a slim and sickly hope at best.

  So I said, “Seeing as how they’re both members of your church, I suppose it would be all right. The girls can still see each other on Sundays.”

  The lady who took Isabelle was a real pretty one with nice golden curls in her hair. She had a kind, soft voice, too, but Isabelle kicked and screamed and wailed like all the light had gone out of the world when her new ma picked her up to carry her away.

  I shouted, “You be good now, Isabelle Canary! Don’t make no fuss!”

  But the sound of her stricken screams was like a spike driven into my heart. I thanked God in that moment that Sara had been too young to understand what I had done to her when I pushed her into that Mormon woman’s arms.

  Lena went along with her new mother considerably more peaceful. She walked by the woman’s side, holding her dainty, smooth hand, as if this was her just reward after a long trial of suffering. I stood at the church’s picket fence with the boys beside me. We watched in silence as Lena and her new mother took their leave. Now and then, as they made off into the heart of Piedmont, the woman turned her face down and, smiling the whole while, made some remark to Lena. And Lena nodded vigorously in reply, so her tumble of black curls shook and shivered in the good Wyoming sun.

  She only glanced back once, taking in the sight of the church and her brothers and me—me most of all, leaning over the fence, yearning to have her back again. Me with my hot tears and snot running down my face, because I knew I would never see Lena again.

  Lena’s one look back at her family and her past was all too brief. Then she turned away again, and went on eagerly toward her future.

  On Saturday, a man and a woman came to the church, driving a wagon pulled by a pair of bays. They were long in the tooth—the man and woman, I mean, not the horses. The minister went out to greet them with handshakes for each. He helped the woman clamber down from the wagon seat. Then he introduced the newcomers.

  “Boys,” he said, “here are Mr. and Mrs. Richardson. They own a cattle ranch a few miles outside Piedmont, and they need a pair of smart, strong boys to help look after the place, for they only had daughters, who are all grown up now with families of their own. What do you say? Do you think you’d like to be cowboys, and learn how to bullwhack and ride horses like the gents in the stories do?”

  I felt a terrible flush of panic then, a bone-deep chill of fear that penetrated all the way down past the dullness of my grief and the bluntness of my failure. Still to this day, I can’t tell you what exactly frightened me. Was it the thought of the boys going off to work for their living, young as they was, instead of going off to be pampered and adored, like the girls? Or was it simply the fact that now I would be on my own—alone in a heartless world, the last Canary without a flock to call her own.

  Cilus said, “We’re young and scrawny yet.”

  Mr. Richardson gave a tolerant chuckle. He said, “You’ll feed up, and when you’re grown to young men, you’ll be a real help around the ranch. We’ll see to it that you learn to read and do sums, if you don’t already know how. And if you like horses and steers, there’s plenty of ’em on the ranch. You’ll never want for fun.”

  The boys made a silent consultation, a negotiation conducted entirely by lifts of their black eyebrows and twisting of their mouths. Finally Cilus said, “We’ll go with you, but only if you take our sister Martha, too.”

  The Mr. and Mrs. both looked at me then. I could see by the careful stillness of their features that they didn’t much care for the idea.

  “We’ve already raised a whole herd of girls,” the Mrs. said. “I think we’ve got no use for another.”

  “Martha rides better’n either of us,” Lije said. “She’s real knacky with horses and I bet she can make cows like her, too.”

  The Mrs. sniffed. “It isn’t good for a girl to ride. I won’t have any girl in my house who rides like a boy. Besides, she’s too old to bring up properly.”

  “I ain’t too old,” I said. I didn’t like the idea of living with the stodgy old Richardsons, but I liked the idea of parting with my brothers far less. “I’m only just past twelve, Missuz, and I can do laundry real good.”

  Mrs. Richardson turned away as if I had offended her greatly, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure how I’d done it.

  Her husband said, “I’m sorry, Miss Martha. We can only take two children.”

  “Then you won’t take none of us,” Lije said. “We won’t go nowhere without Martha.”

  I clapped my hand over his mouth to shut him up. I blinked back my tears and got down real close, so I could look him in the eye. Lije had always been shrewd and sharp, and had a damn bright mind of his own. I said real quiet, “Listen, kid. You and Cilus got to go with them and learn how to be bullwhackers. Once you�
�re growed up some and got yourself a good, solid skill, we can meet again and really make something of ourselves, and be together forever and never have to part ways again. Understand? But we can’t get nowhere till you and Cilus learn how to make your way in the world.”

  I took my hand off his mouth and waited for him to yell out a protest again. But he squinted at me for a long while, thoughtful and weighing my words. Then he nodded. “All right, I’ll do it. But only so’s we can meet up again later.”

  I kissed Lije on his forehead, right below the black shag of his hair. “I promise I won’t go far from Piedmont, so when you’re big men you can find me again, or I can find you.”

  “And we’ll get Isabelle and Lena, too,” Cilus added.

  And I said—because my soul felt so wild with grief that I figured it might as well fly on the wings of impossibility— “We’ll all of us ride back down to Salt Lake and get Baby Sara, too. Then all together, we’ll go off anywhere we please.”

  “To the gold fields,” Lije said.

  “Or,” I said, “back to Missouri.”

  Cilus snorted at that idea. “We’ll go to the end of the railroad tracks and build a fine fancy house and live like kings and queens out in California!” Then he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed me so hard I could scarcely breathe.

  All too soon, Cilus pulled himself away and took Lije by the hand, and together they climbed up into the back of the wagon. “We love you, Martha,” my brothers shouted as the wagon jolted and rolled and headed away from the white church. “We’ll be back for you someday.”