Out of Innocence

by Adelaide McLeod

  “Tell me about mining,” he said. Harlow’s eyes lit up and Sam likely heard more than he bargained for, Belle thought, as she found herself blocking out his voice and letting her mind wander. But Harlow talked and Sam listened and consequently, Harlow didn’t seem to mind having him around. He even pulled out the cribbage board one night and asked Sam to play with him.

  Calving started in the middle of a snow storm. Belle and Sam bundled up and took some old blankets to the barn. The dogs separated the heifers from the cows and then drove the cows close to the barn where they were out of the wind. A steaming calf emerged from a cow head-first on the frozen ground and though its mother tried to force it up, it was weak and Sam carried it into the barn and its mother followed. Belle soon realized that if a calf was to survive in the sub-zero weather, it needed help. With blankets and a bonfire, they managed to keep the newborns alive.

  In the middle of the night when they were washing up at the kitchen sink, Sam whispered, “You know Belle, you don’t need to get out there in the cold. I can handle it alone. You must be exhausted with all you have to do.”

  “But I want to learn,” she said.

  “Why do you stay with that old drunk, Belle? You deserve better.” His arm was around her waist and he surprised her with a kiss. She kissed him.

  Trembling, Belle pulled away. “I’m married to the man; we can’t do this.” She ran to her room where she closed the door. She was distressed and confused because she liked Sam and she liked being kissed.

  After that night, things were all business between them, Belle saw to that.

  Another winter she’d have to get Beufer’s help. There’d be no more Sam Thompson in the middle of the night.

  Harlow had made a sleigh to get to his mines. He could run it all the way to Shafer Creek if the snow wasn’t too deep for the horses.

  It was early morning just after calving and Harlow had gone from the house. Straightening up her dresser drawer, she came across a little black velvet bag. Opening it brought tears to her eyes. It was her mother’s lavaliere her father had given Belle the day before she left home. “Someday love will find you.” She could hear her father’s voice as if he were standing beside her. She had never worn it. Best not to dwell on it. What good would it do?

  Belle wound up the Edison and listened to Caruso. His voice moved her. She came across an old folk tune on an Edison tube. “T.J., bring the baby,” Belle called, “come quickly.” Her children watched from the fainting couch as she danced the Highland Fling. T.J. was on his feet mimicking her. “I swear it’s in your blood. You take no teaching at all,” she said, glowing with pride.

  “Course not, Ma. I’m a Scot, aren’t I? Scots dance all the night long,” T.J. said.

  “Where did you hear that?” Belle asked.

  “I just know,” he answered. “Scots Sing, too. “

  “Yes, they do.” Belle said. “Loch Lomond, it is.”

  “By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes.

  The sun shines bright on Loch Lomond

  But we twa hae pass’d many blithesome days,

  On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

  Oh! Ye’ll tak' the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road,

  And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye;

  But wae is my heart until we meet again,

  On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

  T.J. marched to the music with his wooden gun on his shoulder, steady on his little fat legs. Then he held onto her skirt as she held Hannah in her arms and the three of them waltzed together.

  “More, Mama.” T.J. tugged at Belle when she turned the Edison off.

  “We’ll do it again another time. Mama has work to do.”

  By the grace of God, Belle’s babies made it through winter with only slight illnesses. A three-year-old at the Jackson ranch hadn’t been so lucky. Little Gordon died of influenza in the depth of January. Influenza was a worldwide epidemic.

  The hills were greening, Belle was at peace with herself. She felt renewed, revived. She got a check from Sam Thompson after the spring sale, and she could afford to hire some help. She’d give Beufer a steady job. That would buy clothes and shoes to get his brothers back in school where they belonged. It had been an endless winter. The mountains had held fog captive in the canyon weeks at a time, obliterating the landscape and oppressing every thought, sending her spirit whirling into darkest depths. That’s all it was. It had just been a dismal winter but now, spring was in the air.

  Belle came in from gathering eggs and feeding livestock to see Harlow leaning over a bottle of whiskey at the kitchen table. She caught the look on his face and knew he was drunk.

  Belle had seen men drink before but she’d never thought much about it. Even her father was known to have a wee crappie of his barley juice, “Scotland’s National Breakfast Drink” as he called Scotch whisky. After he’d had a couple, he’d sing for hours, something he never did sober, but he was always a gentleman. Harlow was something else. A beast inside him came out. What had driven Harlow to drink? Was it her fault? How could she distance herself from Harlow’s insanity? When would the nightmare end?

  Harlow asked Belle to help him down at the barn. Horse needed to be shod. She thought about the calving and how he’d refused to help her. She wanted to say something about it, but decided it would only start a harangue, so she agreed to go. As she walked into the barn, she caught Harlow nipping on a bottle he had stashed in the haystack.

  “Harlow, you’ve got to quit this, it’s killing ye,” Belle insisted.

  “I’ll do as I damn please, woman. Who do you think you are, telling me what I can do?” he snarled.

  “Your drinking, it’s destroying us.” Belle grabbed the bottle from his hand.

  “What us? Don’t you know I’m wise to you? You and all your cattle. And what about that slick kid, Sam Thompson? I know what’s going on.” Harlow’s skin was gray; he looked sick.

  “Harlow. Stop it!” Belle held the bottle behind her.

  “Give me that, Belle.” Harlow grabbed the bottle from her hand, knocking her to the ground. As she struggled back to her feet, he grabbed a pitchfork.

  “Run me through! Go ahead! Could be no worse than what I fed in me heart already," she snapped. She was burning mad and desperate.

  He dropped the pitchfork, as a perplexed look washed over his face.

  She ran from the barn and hid in the milking shed until she saw him get on his horse and ride off down the trail toward Gardena.

  The children were still napping. Belle walked up the glen where the water tumbled over the rocks. Hiking off to the right, she perched on top of a big boulder where she could see the house and rest in the shade of an ancient hackberry tree that grew wild there. What a remarkable tree it was to exist on this dry mountain such a long way away from water. A little gnarled and dwarfed by the elements, it must have a strong desire to survive. Nothing else, except sagebrush, would grow in this parched ground after the spring grasses dried up in summer heat. Yet, its leaves were green and it was thriving. Why had it chosen this raw and desolate place to set its roots? Why had she? She felt akin to that hackberry tree. They had things in common.

  Never, ever again would she allow Harlow to treat her like that. She’d learned one thing: she couldn’t reason with him when he was drunk; which meant, not reasoning with him at all. Maybe she should leave him. If it came to that, she’d figure out some way to do it. She was a woman of some means now, but where could she go? This place with all its harsh demands was home to her. It was only Harlow she wanted to be away from.

  Belle was in the garden cleaning up the ditches when Harlow walked out of the house and rode off. Before the day was over, he showed up with a box of Mrs. McGurdey’s chocolates and a bouquet of wild flowers he’d picked on his way home.

  Belle was standing at the stove getting dinner when he walked into the kitchen. “I’m ashamed for treating you like that, Belle. I shouldn’t have. I promise you it’ll nev
er happen again.” He put his arms around her.

  Belle stiffened and pulled away. “I’m telling ye true, Harlow. If ye ever raise a hand to me again, ye’ll never get another chance,” she said as she set her jaw and turned back to her cooking.

  “I’m so sorry, Belle. I love you, darling.” He seemed so repentant, she had to forgive him. She was in his arms and he was kissing her.

  During the summer the children went down to the barn with Belle and played hide-and-seek while Belle groomed Blue and milked the cows. When she had time, they’d all pile on Blue and head down the cutbank where they’d sit on a sandbar and watch the river roll by or up the hillside where they’d picnic in a meadow.

  Hannah was well over a year old now, and Harlow’s interest in her seemed to grow. She had beautiful blue eyes but no hair and that worried Harlow.

  “Just give her time,” Belle said as she tied a blue satin ribbon around her baby’s head. “There, now you look like a little girl, Hannah.”

  Harlow sat with her on his knee and talked to her as if she were an adult. The sight of that brought tears to Belle’s eyes. He loved Hannah; you could see it in his eyes, in his gentleness when he held her.

  “Hannah, what are you thinking about, I want to know. Talk to me and tell me what’s on your mind.” Hannah would look up at him and her big blue eyes would widen. Harlow loved it. “This girl is a corker. We’ll be beating off the boys with a stick before she’s grown.”

  It was the middle of July and Harlow rode back from the mines early and dropped a pile of dirty clothes on the kitchen floor. “I’m beat,” he said. Sweaty and dirty, he sat down at the table with his bottle, poured a shot into a jelly glass and belted it down. He got up and wandered off to his bedroom and took a nap.

  In desperation, Belle emptied his bottle down the sink. She’d have one night at least without Harlow in a stupor. She was drying the supper dishes when he realized what she’d done. He grabbed a plate out of her hands in his rage and threw it against the wall where it shattered.

  “Here ye are,” she said, handing him another plate from the pantry shelf, “break me dishes.” He hurled it where the first one lay broken. She handed him another and another and he broke them one by one until the cupboard was empty and the children were crying.

  “Broken dishes are like a broken marriage, impossible to put back together,” she said. He stopped in his tracks, startled. So now she’d said it and he had heard it. He turned on his heel and went to his bedroom, slamming the door. She picked up T.J. and Hannah. “Now, now, it’s all right. Back ye go to your beddie-bye.”

  Belle wasted no time in taking some bills out of his wallet, and left him a note telling him she had taken money to buy a new set of dishes. She ordered the most expensive set in the Montgomery Ward catalog and left the mess of broken dishes just where Harlow had thrown them.

  The next morning, she dressed the children and took them to church and when they returned, the rubble had disappeared. Belle knew from experience, there was no point in speaking of it again.

  She was never sure if Harlow was at his mines or at the saloon in Horseshoe Bend. Some nights he didn’t come home at all. One morning, his horse was standing at the gate still saddled with the bridle dangling. Her first thought was to saddle Blue and go look for him and then she thought better of it. “If he’s alive, he can walk home. If he’s dead, I couldn’t stand the sight of it.” When Belle came back up the hill from gathering the eggs, Harlow, fully dressed, was snoring in his bed. She sighed, realizing how quickly her life with him had turned sour.

  It was late August when Belle noticed that Harlow was staying away from the bottle. It was like a miracle. She didn’t know why he stopped, but she wasn’t about to upset the apple cart by asking. They were joking again; he played with T.J. and Hannah. At times he was crabby, but Belle knew he was fighting the urge to drink so she just stayed out of his way. It looked as if better times lay ahead for them.

  Harlow went down to Boise and came back with the ring he had promised Belle. It was wide, smooth and it glistened in the September sun.

  “It’s lovely,” Belle said, “the prettiest wedding band I’ve ever seen.”

  Harlow slipped it on her finger. “Things are going to get better for us. I want to quit drinking. I’m trying. You know that.”

  “I know, Harlow. I wish I could help you but I don’t know how.”

  Harlow had gone down to Boise again, for supplies this time and was due to come back the next day. It was after midnight when she heard someone riding into the ranch. It had to be Harlow because the dogs weren’t barking. She lit the lamp and went to the door as he staggered into the kitchen. He was stumbling drunk. Her heart sank.

  “Did ye unsaddle your horse?” she asked.

  “What do you take me for? Course I did,” he mumbled.

  When she got a good look at his face, she gasped. “What happened? Your eye looks terrible.”

  He stood in front of her, weaving. “That crazy old coot, Blackwell. He got the worst of it."

  Had Harlow killed somebody? Worse than the way he looked would be grave, indeed. “They got Doc Bumguard to sew me up.”

  “The doctor must have been in his cups.” Belle took a closer look. “He’s stitched your eyelid up in a grisly way.” She held up Harlow’s shaving mirror in front of his face. “Ye’ll look like that for the rest of your life. I’m no doctor, Harlow, but I can sew. Lay yourself down on the table. I know I can make it look better than that.”

  Harlow didn’t argue. Belle washed the wound over and over, trying to decide what to do next. She carefully cut the doctor’s stitches with her embroidery scissors and worked with the ragged pieces of flesh until she was satisfied with the way they fit back together.

  With her sharpest needle she kept a steady hand as she replaced the stitches while Harlow winced and moaned with the pain of it. Served him right for falling off the wagon. “Ah, it looks much better now,” she told him as she helped him to his feet and then into bed.

  She crawled into her own bed and her thoughts surprised her. She almost enjoyed sticking that needle into him. It was like getting even for all the pain he’d caused. “Dear Lord, forgive me. I’m ashamed for harboring such a thought,” she said. In the dark, as she closed her eyes, she couldn’t hold back a sheepish grin.

  Harlow fell off the wagon with both feet. He started drinking early in the day now and kept an open bottle by his bed. With his dream of riches from his mines gone, he sat for endless hours and stared into space. Belle avoided him as best she could. She realized she should have left Harlow before the weather got bad, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to give up on him.

  It was hard work pitching hay for the cattle. She’d come back to the house exhausted. Harlow chopped the wood and dumped it in the box by the Majestic. That was all he did to help her. If it wasn’t too cold, he’d spend time in his smithy shop tinkering, sharpening tools or working on a piece of furniture. Without saying anything to Belle, he’d get on his horse and ride off.

  Somber clouds oppressed the morning. But then, just at the horizon line, to the east, a promise of light grew honey-pink and pearlized. At least there were the children. Between the two of them, Belle filled her days talking, reading, and singing to them. Her life had drifted into a child’s world. T. J. pulled Hannah on her blanket around the house as if she were a pull-toy. She loved it. Giggles and squeals of pure delight bounced off the walls, but only when Harlow wasn’t there.

  It was January l0th. Pewter shadows hung heavy on the crusted snow. Belle felt as if she had plunged from one winter into another. It was as if summer had never been. Calving would begin any day now. Harold O’Donnell offered to come and help Belle with it, but she refused knowing it would upset Harlow. Having a neighbor’s help would make him look bad. Sam was definitely out of the question. She couldn’t risk having him around. Beufer would have to be the one. She dreaded what was ahead of her.

  The bare limbs of the red-twig dogwoo
d, the color of cranberries, spiked through the snowdrifts. Icy winds brought sub-zero temperatures and a stranglehold on the ranch. The trees and mountains were a charcoal sketch void of color. Ice etched the windows. While the children napped, she slipped on a pair of Harlow’s britches under her long wool skirt, buttoned her coat over her sweater and went to the corral to herd the horses into the barn. They stood against each other to keep warm. She sent the dogs after the cattle, who came in, slow motion, like gray ghosts through the mist that drifted off the river. She pitched some hay for them. As they chewed, their breath rose in the air forming a layer of fog that hovered above them.

  A tumbleweed waltzed across her path and impaled itself on the fence. She set it free so it could finish its dance. With her heel, she broke the ice in the watering trough. Moving water from the creek kept it from freezing completely. Then she nailed a piece of canvas over the door of the hen house where a board was missing. Satisfied that she’d done all she could to save the livestock, Belle fought the wind back up the path to the kitchen door. Whiskey and Brandy, although they were outside dogs, were anxious to come in out of the cold. She stood for a long time in front of the Majestic before she was warm enough to take her coat off. Wrapping some stones from the warming oven in a flannel blanket, she tucked them into her little ones’ beds as they napped. Harlow hadn’t been around since breakfast. She peeked into the parlor then tiptoed to the open door of his bedroom, but he wasn’t there. Using her fingernails, she scratched a circle on the frosted window in the parlor. Outside, leafless trees surrendered to the storm's frenzy. The mountains were only a suggestion in the fog. “A horrid day for man or beast,” she muttered. Panicked, she cranked the bell on the hoop and holler line. She’d call Edna Darnelle in Gardena.