As her belly expanded, Lena’s temper grew shorter than a bug’s leg. She was often cross with me while I toiled over my kettle of steaming lye. I took her temper in the best stead I could manage. But the colder and angrier Lena became, the less ready I was bear her scorn. Lije had been right; I could see that plain. Lena had nursed her anger at me for sixteen years; she couldn’t keep it in check. But I knew the truth of what had transpired long ago, when we found ourselves orphans on the trail. I thought it a great injustice, that I should be made to suffer when I had done everything in my power to love Lena and treat her as kindly as fate would allow.
One day, when Lena had treated me especially bitter, I pulled a chair out from its place beside the wall and bade her sit.
“I won’t,” she said. “There’s too much work to be done.” But she was already drifting toward the chair, even as she spoke—moving toward the mercy of a rest. She sank down with a long groan, rubbing the small of her back with both hands. Her eyes was screwed tightly shut against the pain.
I sat, too, on the empty crate where we folded shirts. I faced my sister and braced myself up. The time had come to thrash out all the sourness remaining between us. “Listen, Lena. We can’t go on arguing day after day. It ain’t good for your health, with the baby about to make his appearance. Let’s have it all out right here and now, or we’ll never work together peaceably.”
She stared at me for a long moment. I could almost hear all the words she wanted to say, but dared not speak. The accusations she longed to sling in my direction: her life had been harder than she had deserved, and it was my fault, for I had been the leader, back then. Every poor decision had been mine to make; every sorrow she suffered was one of my invention.
To her credit, Lena controlled herself with that same icy resolve. She said only, “Very well, Martha. What do you wish to say to me?”
“I know you blame me for the way things turned out,” I answered quietly. “I guess you can’t help but blame me, for you was such a small girl at the time, but—”
“Of course I blame you, Martha! How should I not?” In the months since making her reacquaintance, I had never known Lena to burst out so passionately. It fair took me aback. “For mercy’s sake, you gave me up! You sent me away!”
I stared at her so long, I swear I felt the Earth slow in its course around the sun. Finally I said, “Lena, you asked me to send you away. You told me to find you a good family to care for you, like I did for Baby Sara. You didn’t want to stay with us any longer—me and Lije and Cilus.”
“That’s not true!”
The memory returned to me, so cruel and stark I could smell the dung of the oxen, taste trail dust upon my tongue. I could feel my sister, small and frail, curled in my lap while I sang close beside her ear. I remembered the firelight dancing fitfully on her black curls, the softness of her cheek against mine. I remembered how my hands ached from washing, and my back ached from walking, and my heart ached from all the ways I had failed.
“It is true,” I said, and for once I was cold and hard to my sister. “I swear it’s true. And even if you hadn’t asked me to do it, I still would have given you away, if I had to make the decision again. For you had a good life, Lena—a kind and loving mother to raise you, a father to provide for you. A happy home, a comfortable future. It’s more than the rest of us got. It’s damn sure more than I got. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, for your sake. And you’re too damn foolish to see the truth.”
Heartsick, hating myself for giving her up in the first place and hating myself even more for cracking down on her now, I stood and left the laundry shed. I kept on walking through the fields, to the pretty little lane, away from the story-book valley altogether. I never went back. Nothing good could ever grow between Lena and me. I seen that truth in my sister’s eyes. All too soon, after just three months with my family, the time had come for me to strike out on my own—to make my life anew, just as I had done so many times before.
By the time autumn came, I found myself in Crawford, Nebraska, and if I never set eyes on Nebraska again, then by God it will be much too soon. An uglier and deader place you cannot imagine. And if I had any power over you, Short Pants, I’d forbid you from ever going. I wouldn’t have tarried in Crawford a-tall, but by then my small supply of money had plum run dry—for I had left what remained of my bullwhacking profits in a little cloth bag atop Lije’s bunk, along with a note directing him to hire a girl to help Lena with her laundry till the baby was one year old. That was my final act of kindness toward my sister. I halfway convinced myself she’d appreciate it.
In Crawford, I set myself up once more as a trick shootist and scraped together enough money to live in a rat-hole of a boarding house. It was a dreadful place—and so damn expensive, I lived on bread and water, without even a few coins left over for a rare sip of whiskey. I’m afraid my circumstances was direr than ever. The legend of Calamity Jane was scarcely profitable in Nebraska, yet my legend was the only asset on which I could hope to trade, for Crawford was full of pretty girls and I couldn’t compete in the brothels. Besides which, I was thirty years old, and had lived a difficult life. What paltry-few looks I had once possessed was rapidly fading. I knew I must earn my keep some other way, for the days when I could squeak by on a whore’s earnings was behind me. By and by, I even grew desperate enough to sell the gun with the pearl star in its handle, for I had sore need of the money. But I couldn’t part with Wild Bill’s gun, nor his watch nor his ring. They was far too precious; I could as soon sell the artifacts of my heart as I could saw off my own leg.
If I hadn’t been so hard up, I never would have fallen in with Bill Steers. And save for the one precious gift that man gave me, I would have called my life blessed (despite its many harrowing stretches of darkness) if I had never met Bill a-tall, let alone taken up with him. No hardship I’d endured could ever compare to the terror of Bill Steers.
Steers began showing interest in me after one of my shooting demonstrations, and I suppose in some strange way I found it intoxicating, to be stared at so intently by a man. Even in my whoring days, no fella had ever looked on me so keenly. Fool that I was, I took the intensity of his gaze for romance—and though I found is cold, craggy face remarkably unappealing, I was flattered by the interest. That’s the way of a lonely heart, I suppose. To this day, I believe Steers read the lonesome heartbreak on my face the way learned men read a book. In my sorrow, Steers found his opportunity. He knew exactly how to draw me in: with kind words and sweet gestures. But he never meant a word he said to me. I learned the truth of Bill Steers, all too soon.
I don’t know whether Bill intended to profit from my name, the way Jim Darling had hoped—or whether he merely enjoyed shoving and hitting and hurting women. His motives don’t matter to me now. They didn’t matter then. All that mattered was that I get away from his fists with all haste—a matter made fearfully difficult when I fell pregnant. Unlike with my first (the poor baby boy I left buried in a cattle pasture outside Boulder) this time there could be no doubt about who had fathered my child.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of raising an innocent, fragile baby under Steers’ shadow. Escape was easily dreamed of, but much harder done. For in addition to his cruel words that often made me weep with shame and despair—and in addition to his kicks, his hard slaps, the crack of his fist against my jaw—Steers hid all the money from me, even the money I earned, so I would have no means of caring for myself till I found a new home. It’s a damn blind miracle he never found the watch and ring, my precious mementos of Wild Bill—nor Wild Bill’s gun, neither. I cut a slit in the bottom of our mattress and pushed those treasures up inside, and every day I fretted and prayed that Steers would never discover them.
As my pregnancy progressed, I grew more desperate to escape. I came to understand that if I wished to be truly free of Bill Steers, I must leave Crawford altogether, for he was too well known in the town; I could never hope to evade him for long. Either that, or I must get that man locked up fo
r a good, long while. I went to the sheriff and showed him my bruises; I begged him to take Steers to jail. He did, but only for a few days. And when Steers was let out of the pen, his rage was ten times worse than it had ever been before. He beat me so bad, I couldn’t get up off the floor for a day and a half. It’s a wonder and a miracle I didn’t lose the baby.
After that terrible beating, Steers got slyer about his methods. He found ways of hurting me that left no mark, so I couldn’t run to the sheriff again. As his outrages against my person became more frequent and more inventive in their cruelty, I felt my body gathering its strength. My labor would come soon; I was frantic to get away. On the night when the first faint pains began, I knew the time had come. I must make my escape without any money—I must throw myself on God’s mercy, or the mercy of whatever force exists in lieu of God. I could only pray I would land somewhere safe before the baby came.
That night, I took special pains to be meek and sweet to Steers. I gave him not the least speck of trouble, but poured his whiskey and encouraged him to drink—which was always dangerous, for it sparked his darkest moods, but I knew if he drank enough, he would sleep deeply, too—as deep as death. All the while, I turned my back whenever a pain took me, for I didn’t want him to notice the strain—or my grim resolve. I was determined to make him believe nothing was amiss, determined to lull him into complacency and guide him gently to a few hours of black unawareness.
When he finally descended into sleep (snoring so hard I could smell the whiskey fumes hanging around his head) I threw a few changes of clothing and some blankets for the baby into a small trunk, barely two feet wide. I buried Wild Bill’s pistol under the blankets and slipped his watch and ring into a tiny cloth bag, which I tied to the strings that held up my knickers, so my greatest treasures was disguised beneath my skirt. Then I hefted the trunk that contained all my worldly goods and crept out of the house, taking care to shut the door soft as a whisper behind me.
It was a cold night; winter was just around the corner and I was frightened, shivering, uncertain where I ought to go. I knew only that I must keep moving away from Steers—as far as I could get before my labor became too intense and I could force myself to go no farther. There was no hope of riding in my big and desperate state; I had been obliged to leave my horse Pie in Steers’ corral, though I hated to part with that fine animal. I left my beautiful saddle, too—the one I’d had since the expedition days, when I had ridden my black mare Silkie alone among canyons and buttes. It stung to leave that saddle behind, for I knew Bill would sell it the first chance he got. But I also knew Bill would kill me, sooner or later, if I stayed. He would kill my child, too, and that I would never allow.
The baby moved restlessly inside me. I felt a terrible pressure, inside and outside, as if all the cold world was telling me my time was damn near up. I near-about went crazy at the sensation; I was desperate enough to try anything, to go anywhere if I could hope for a little shelter and aid. I walked through the dark streets of Crawford lugging that box against my fat hip, sweating and cursing, aching all over. My stomach roiled with a dreadful certainty that the birth was upon me.
Then I spotted a stage coach paused outside a livery. Two women perched inside, their delicate profiles white against the dark of night. They was fine and fancy ladies, indeed, and traveling alone, as far as I could see. I didn’t hesitate; I set my box among their bags at the back of the coach and heaved myself into the vehicle.
“My goodness,” one of the ladies said as I clambered gracelessly into their carriage.
“Good evening, mam,” I said to each of them in turn. “You mustn’t mind me. I was supposed to take a different coach, but I just got word that it has been delayed. As you can see, I’m in a particular state; I must make my trip tonight, so your driver was kind enough to agree to carry me.” I settled on the leather seat and sighed, smiling like it was the most natural and expected thing in the world, for a nine-months-pregnant woman to climb aboard a coach in the dead of night. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Misses. I won’t give you a speck of trouble.”
“You, er—” The elder of the two women paused, eyeing my vast belly where it rested on my lap. “You must be close to your time.”
“Yes mam,” I said, “fairly close now, but it’s nothing to trouble yourself over.” Even as I spoke, all cavalier, my belly cramped with another early pain. I believe my brows pinched together, but I would allow my distress to reveal itself no further.
I settled back in the seat, pressing my big body as far into the shadows as I could manage, and held my breath while the driver returned from inside the livery. My heart beat so wildly, I expected the two women to hear. Would they call out to the driver, ask about my unexpected presence—demand my dirty self be evicted from their dandy carriage to wait for a more suitable rig? But the two ladies held their tongues, thank God, and only blinked at me in mild confusion. Then the stage coach rocked as the driver climbed up to his seat, and when it lurched into motion, I let out my breath in a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Crawford, Nebraska and Bill Steers fell away behind me, swallowed by the night.
By the time a peaky dawn edged the cold horizon with pink light, I could no longer hide the extent of my pains. I huddled over my taut round belly, gritting my teeth and groaning as each labor pain took me. The younger of my fellow passengers had taken my hand sometime in the night, murmuring comforts and casting desperate glances at her companion, who counted the miles to the next stop—a town called Douglas—where she swore I would find help.
“We’ve reached Douglas now,” the older woman said, pressing her cheek against the glass window, watching the town take shape in the frigid morning light. “Hold on but a while longer, my girl. Help is at hand.”
We rolled into Douglas; the stage coach stopped outside a livery.
“We must go to the town midwife at once,” said the elder lady.
But the next moment, the driver opened the doors to let in the morning light. All three of us blinked in the unexpected glare. The fine ladies cast timid glances between me and the driver.
“What in all Hell is this?” the driver exclaimed.
“Please, Mister,” I began. I didn’t get no farther than that. The strongest pain yet gripped me; I could no longer keep my voice in check. I bellowed and hunched, for my body felt ready to rip itself in two. The baby would make its appearance all too soon, and there was nothing I could do but center myself in a world of pain.
Dimly, I was aware of the other travelers pleading on my behalf. “You can see her state. There’s nothing to be done.”
“Like Hell there ain’t,” the driver said. “She never paid me a cent.”
“She’s a poor woman, and she must be fleeing desperate circumstances.”
“I don’t give free rides. Not to anybody.”
“Have a heart, sir!”
The driver had mislaid his heart, and seemed in no hurry to find it again. He shook me by the shoulder. “Out, you. Out! This is the end of the line for you. You won’t go a mile more—not in my coach.”
“Please, sir,” I began.
That devil wouldn’t let me speak another word. “You heard me; out! Be glad I don’t turn you in to the sheriff. It’s only because of your… your state that I don’t. Thank your lucky star, or you’d be dropping that whelp in a jail cell.”
The younger of the two women jumped down from the carriage and offered her hand. I leaned on her heavily as I stumbled out. I managed to gasp, “My trunk…”
But before I could make my way to the foot of the stage coach to retrieve my belongings, the driver beat me to it. He slapped his palm down on my humble box. “I don’t expect you’ve got a damn thing of any value in here, but I’ll take it, just the same. Consider it your fare.”
“Mister, please!”
The women exclaimed at his cruelty, but they made no move to pay my fare in coin, neither. (Maybe I’m unkind to think them stingy. Could be they had no more money left between them.)
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“Go on; get out of here,” the driver said. He kicked dust in my direction, as if I was a feral dog. “Don’t let me see you hanging about. I’d rather call for the sheriff than look at you for one more second!”
I would have fallen to my knees and begged for his mercy, or wept out of pure desperation right there in the street. But my condition didn’t allow me. Instead, I stumbled to the nearest hitching post and braced myself against it, supporting the impossible weight of my agonized body. There I cried as I never had before—choking on my ragged breath, pummeled by a grief I hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t only fear of the strange town that had upset me so. I had lost Wild Bill’s pistol, and all the memories it held. I would never touch that gun again, never recall the way it had fit so easily in my true love’s hand. It was gone forever, just like Bill himself. But I remained, lonesome and in pain, to carry on in a cold, heartless world.
All too soon, another contraction shook me. Then I stopped sobbing and choking, and wiped the snot from my pinched-up face, for I had pressing business and it certainly would not wait. I told myself I could give over to grief once the baby was born. Till I had delivered that child safe and sound, I could spare neither thoughts nor tears for the cruel world.
I lurched away from the hitching post and set about finding a bed. I truly had nothing now—no money, not even the pistol to trade—but I thought I might scare up a little charity, if I could find a church. I squinted at Douglas, searching through my swimming vision for a white-sided church with a beckoning steeple, like the one I’d found in Piedmont. In the blush-dawn light, the buildings and streets blurred around me. I swallowed down my fear, praying I could find my sanctuary before another pain struck.
Then I saw it, across the street and three doors away. Something far better than any church: a dance hall. I staggered up to the door, pressed myself against it while another contraction seized me. Panting, groaning, I waited out the pain. The sweat of my brow burned in the morning chill. When the pain ebbed a little, I pushed open the door and called out, “Help me! Please, Madam, take pity! I’m in an awful way.”
Calamity Page 36
