Miette
MRS. NIXON RODE UP THE DUSTY PATH TO where I stood, brushing out my horse. She slipped down, holding her skirts to cover her legs, and untied a pack. She raised her eyebrows, looking me over.
Are those your father’s clothes?
I followed her gaze down my body and saw the oversized grey work shirt tucked in with a tightly cinched belt (I had punched a new hole halfway down and the tongue of the belt lolled against my hip), the rolled-up bottoms of my trousers and the dust on the man’s boots.
Yes, I said. I thought it would be better for riding.
You’re right, she said. My husband sent me to stop you. I brought you some food, bread and canned goods, for your journey.
Thank you.
She put the pack down on the ground. Stay in a house whenever you can, she said. Your father meant well but no doubt he did not understand the specific dangers of being a woman. Your father was a good man. He helped us so much. You both did.
I know.
He was a good, good man. She patted my horse’s neck.
I know. Thank you for these, I said, lifting the pack.
Mrs. Nixon wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
My father died when I was eight, she said. She looked up at the bright curved sky. I felt so cold. Like the sun was gone. You be careful. Sleep in houses, like I said. Turn around and come back if it gets too hard. We’ll keep watch on the house and your things. I guess you will be back in a few months. Send a wire if you won’t. I hate to say goodbye. It’s my least favourite word. Oh hush, she chided herself. Hush, hush, hush.
She put her arms around my horse’s neck and let tears roll into her mane.
Are you all right?
Yes, yes. I’m fine. I’m just a silly, emotional woman. It’s just that most often when people leave they never do come back.
She let go of my horse and wiped her cheeks with her hands and dried her hands in her skirts.
It takes so much to go somewhere else. No one really calculates what it will take to come back. Well, she said, don’t ride at night. Sleep away from the road if you can’t sleep in a house. I brought you this. She reached into a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress and drew out a Derringer and pressed it into my hand. I know it looks demure but one like it was bold enough to kill Lincoln.
I have a rifle.
I know you do and that’s good for hunting but a lady alone should always have a little gun under her pillow.
You’re very kind, I said, turning the metal comma in my hand, examining the decorative scrolls on the metal handle.
Look, you need to know how to hold it. Give it to me.
I handed her the gun.
There are two ways to hold this. Like this, she said, pointing the gun at me. And like this, she said, pointing the muzzle to her forehead, between her eyes. One likes to believe in the goodness of people. But the people you meet on the road, well, sometimes the unseen cannot really see themselves.
I’ll be careful.
She reached out a hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I could cut your hair, she said softly. It would grow back, but at least from a distance you might be taken for a boy.
I’ll be all right.
I’ll pray for you. Don’t pick up every stray you meet.
I won’t.
You will, but I’ll pray for you.
Martha
SHE LOVED TO RIDE IN THE EARLY EVENING and eavesdrop on the birds’ last interrogations. The coyotes yipped to each other as they skimmed between trees. Sometimes the timber wolves would sing and the long notes drifted down from the hills, causing grazing deer to scatter. This was her world, emerging with each pointed star. She was eleven and nothing had been lost.
They lived in a drafty shack their father had erected by the river in Jackson County. It was three miles to town and often at night she rode to get her father from the saloon. On one of these nights she missed him as he headed home on foot or else slipped down the street to visit a woman. The manager knew her well. He was a kind man who packaged up the kitchen scraps for her to take home. This night, while he was scraping plates and cutting boards for her, militiamen appeared.
They came in through the saloon doors toting rifles, which they pointed at the ceiling. They were a ragged bunch in uniforms assembled from the odds and ends of many wardrobes, dusty pants of black, navy and green, shirts that gaped where buttons had been broken. Their jackets, shades of blue, were ornamented with handmade medals and patches embroidered with the Union flag. If it were not for the colour of their jackets and the flags they could as easily have been Southern Guerrillas or road agents. Martha recognized two as brothers who worked on a cattle farm nearby. The group was unified by bandoliers full of bullets wrapped around their waists and chests. There were twenty-five of them in rows. The captain and two guards were at the front, then six and six and five and five. The bartender greeted them politely, polishing a glass until it disappeared. Martha fell back against a wall and slipped down, squatting in a corner. The manager came out to speak to the captain. He shook hands helplessly as he listened to demands. The captain nodded and with that permission the remaining customers slipped past the soldiers out the door.
Martha began creeping heel to toe towards the foot of the staircase. She managed three steps before a guard ordered her to stop.
She’s just a kid, looking for her father, the manager said.
We’re hungry, said the captain flatly.
I’ll feed you. I’m happy to feed you, said the manager.
AN ANXIOUS banquet began with the men seated, uneasy, stomachs growling, as the manager rushed to stuff bits of rag beneath uneven table legs. A big hand smacked the top of his head as he kneeled. Deep voices joined in laughter. The bartender rushed the drinks, cursing when they splashed. The men drank without speaking. Glasses banged down on tables were whisked away. Cigarette smoke clouded Martha’s view. At times the smoke seemed to come from nowhere and at times it seemed as if everyone was smoking.
Finally, giant platters of meat and vats of mashed potato and buckets of gravy and colanders full of vegetables (for they must have run out of platters and vats) were carried into the hall by children. In an effort to soften the mood the town had sent the youngest citizens to the saloon to make their little lives more visible. The doctor’s daughter in her plainest dress carried the gravy, ow-ing every time it splashed. The blacksmith’s son carried carrots. The main street store’s little broom-boy brought in the mash. The youngest whore in the brothel bore the meat.
The men ate without removing their hats. Darkly digestive sounds travelled around the room. Martha, hidden in a corner, watched the bartender watch the men.
When everything was devoured the children swept the tables clean and exited through the kitchen out the back door. The women entered.
There were three with hair piled in swirls over black feathers. Purple, gold, red and black ribbons weighted with beads on the ends ran from underneath bright wigs to the floor. The women twisted hips and shoulders tensely one way and then the other. Paste jewels on fingers and earlobes refracted green and white under the flickering lamplight.
They danced towards the men, distributing tin crowns to sweaty heads, anointing each scalp with a kiss. It seemed at last as if a real party had broken out when the rifles were placed against the walls and the men allowed their collars to be twisted and their cheeks to be pinched by the three dancing sirens. One man pushed his hand down the front of a dancer’s dress and squeezed her breast, dragging it out of her bodice and twisting the nipple until she shrieked and smacked at his shoulders begging to be let go. The captain barked and the three women retreated in tears to the kitchen.
Gentlemen, shouted the manager anxiously, haven’t we fed you well? Haven’t we shown you hospitality and kindness? It’s late. Please let us close up and come as our guests another night. I implore you, he said, his hands in prayer in front of his face.
The captain stood and raised his r
ifle, pointing the barrel at the manager’s face.
Are you harbouring or do you know of any Confederate soldiers in the area? the captain asked.
No, said the manager. No, please, no. I’m a working man. I have a family.
Why don’t you all get out of the building, said the captain, turning in a circle on his boot-heel. We thank you for your loyalty to the Union.
The bartender grabbed Martha, carried her out of the saloon and dropped her in her saddle. He untied her horse and handed her the reins. Get home as quick as you can; you shouldn’t be out at night. Let your father get himself home from now on, he hissed.
Confused, Martha let her horse pace in place for a minute. Two of the men dragged the manager and threw him down, unresisting, in the road. From the line of horses waiting for them the men drew torches out of supply packs. They lit the torches and then they lit the saloon. It was an old building, made of dry planks, and in the sudden rising wind it caught like a match. Martha held her panicking horse tight and rode her away down the street. From there she watched the fire light the clouds. She could see the manager in silhouette, standing and gesticulating, clutching his head and crying as the walls of the building buckled and with a great sigh the roof slid away.
Miette
UMH! UMH-HM, SAID THE MAN WHO JOINED me outside of Rosebud where we started onto the Gleichen Trail.
I asked him, Do you know a place called Deadwood?
He said, That is the very place I am going. Why are you going to Deadwood, if you don’t mind my asking?
I’m going to find my mother.
He was on foot and lame and he refused to share my horse. He was old and I could not leave him behind, so I decided to walk beside him and lead her by the reins.
The river valley was rife with wild rose bushes in full bloom. Hundreds of doting pink faces filled my gaze, almost magical. The air was sweetened. In the sunlight the shimmering river dissolved and resolved itself before my eyes.
His shoulder and mine bumped every other step; that was how close we were. I looked at his face, so like a shrivelled apple. His jaw wobbled and bobbed as he walked and a lump on his neck stood out like the moon emerging from behind a tree. His stooped shoulders were barely traceable beneath his shirt. He shambled along, dragging one turned-in foot.
She’ll be happy to see you! he said. Umh! Whoever you are she will be happy to see you.
Why are you going to Deadwood? I asked him.
He shrugged and gestured to the sky. I’m just going, he said. Just keep moving. Thought of walking to Montana. Thought of walking there. Thought it would be too bumpy.
Bumpy?
Yes, bumpy, with all the mountains. Ain’t got the right shoes.
We walked on together while I tried to think of what I should do for the man.
What does your mother look like? he asked at last.
I never met her.
Well then, you won’t know her, will you? She could be any woman at all.
I know her name.
What is her name?
Martha, but people call her Calamity Jane.
He stopped walking at that and stared at me.
The wind rose up very strangely. I heard thunder roll and then, as if after a breath, the sky began to hail.
Come on, keep moving, I said. Crazy weather.
The hail was painful, as large as musket balls. The flowers were abused. I saw a blackbird knocked out of a tree and killed. We shouldered the wind with our faces tucked to our chests. Even my horse walked with her head swinging back and forth to escape the stinging. I took for granted that we were still heading in the right direction because it hurt too much to open my eyes and look around. Then, as suddenly as the hail began, it fell away and a blazing white sun took over the sky.
I know her, he said. I know your mother. Look, you see that hill, and those cliffs? He pointed at the landscape but there was nothing like what he described before us. The little man shook with excitement.
I know her, he exclaimed. She lived right behind there. Now turn this way. You see the brow of that hill, where it cuts the sky? Now look hard. Look hard to see it. And back this way. You see that ridge, so far away you can barely see it? You see that broken tree? Well, end to end, your famous mother owned every speck of this land. Owned it with her body for patrolling it as a scout and seeing and knowing it. Every tree and stone and animal that crossed this earth belonged to her. All of us were her sons and daughters brought into this world drunk and rolling on straw mats. And the real joke of it is our fathers carried each of us to be baptized, and we only knew a father’s arms. Not one of us was baptized on her land. It was that way with you as well, wasn’t it?
What the hell are you talking about?
Calamity Jane is my mother too.
He laughed and I shivered. A murder of crows the size of terriers came cawing over a break in the rocks and blackened the sky. I looked at the glittering balls of ice on the trail and I felt like I was sinking into a pure cold fire. I thought, he is either a lunatic or a ghost. If this is death, if I am somehow dead, then I will have to ask the Devil for a blanket. I looked at him and thought maybe the sudden hail pounding our heads was queering either what he said or what I heard or both, or else my grief had conjured a hallucination.
You know her?
I did but she’s dead. Calamity Jane has been dead for years. A train hit her when she was drunk and sleeping on the tracks. Cut her into squirming parts and never stopped. The woman was living bile—living, moving, humping bile. But I think about her at Christmas.
He whipped out a long knife from his hip and struck my horse with the flat of the blade. She went stumbling fast down the incline. Her reins pulled from my hand and I had to chase her even though our six legs were made of unjointed lead.
Martha
SHE FLOATED IN THE WATER IN THE WEEDY creek, parched skin gleaming. Boys in uniform called abuse from the shore. She laughed and showed her finger. They dropped belts and guns and clothing in the long grasses and entered the water splashing like dogs, paddling to her. It was as if for an hour the war meant nothing. Martha and the other soldiers dove under the surface, touched the stones, scratched the soft silt and swam in circles. The cold water washed old dirt from wounds, erased false lines from their soft faces. Kicking, they felt feet and legs touch weeds. Empty stomachs rumbled.
She looked down at herself and then at them, how thin they all were. She turned her face towards the sun and touched the part in her hair where the scalp had burnt. She bent her knees, pulling herself under the surface. Water filled her ears and she heard the roaring.
Miette
THEY CALLED IT OBLATION. IT BEGAN IN THE East but when it came to the West, the practice of leaving infants on the steps of monasteries, or in churches, or by cemetery graves had become the very incarnation of gifting a life to God.
I was an oblate?
Yes, you were a gift. St. Benedictine said that if a child—like you—Miette, should be donated to the service of God, then the child’s hands should be wrapped and in one hand a petition should be placed so that the parents’ intentions would be clear. These were not unwanted children; they were the offspring of noble families.
Father, I wish I were yours. I wish—
Shh, you don’t understand what that would mean.
THERE WAS no town at all behind the hills where the crazy man who hit my horse and claimed to be my brother had pointed. I saw no one on the trail after him until I arrived at a hamlet in magic hour.
The low sun shone more yellow on the walls of the houses as the pink sky deepened and the heat began to lift. Certain birds sing at different times of the day but the birds that sing at magic hour are all like doves, cooing. Even the moulting ravens sound like cooing doves if they make a noise at all. Though I heard children laughing, hidden behind walls in the yards of their houses, the place where I stopped (I did not know what it was called) seemed hushed as if the roofs had absorbed the last human energy of the day al
ong with the red stains of sunset. My footsteps echoed on the cobbled paving stones of the main street. I felt quite suddenly all right, no longer wondering about the ravings of the crazy stranger who had cursed my mother dead and hit my horse. I released him completely from whatever ill he meant me and said a little prayer for his health.
The picture of my father I carried in my pocket began to sweat with the heat until it was almost like he himself was sweating up against my heart. I took it out and studied it. It was an old photo, ragged all around the edges, riddled with pinpricks from where I had posted it many times, and with a hole the size of a pencil where the paper had decayed. It was the only image I had ever seen of him before he took the robes. I had found it in a flowerpot filled up with herbs: dried lemon balm, castilla blossoms, rue. I took it without telling him and pinned it inside my dresser drawer.
He was sitting in front of a bookcase in a suit and tie and hat. His moustache and sideburns looked fuller and darker than I had ever seen them. He looked like a man that women might have conspired to be near in the dusty summer hours. But stiff and so still because he couldn’t move for the picture, and that made him a stranger, for I never saw him alive when he wasn’t moving, farming, hiking, hammering, digging a grave, or soothing something. He was restless and he liked to be away from people but maybe that is what it takes to be a man devoted to God in a place where you build and rebuild Heaven alone. I touched my pocket and wondered if the picture would help my mother to remember the young priest she saw that day she surrendered my little self.
All the doors to all the houses were shut, which was strange when any breeze was worth gold. A few doorways were overgrown with weeds. When we were about to reach the edge of town I saw an old woman, wrapped in a coarse dark shawl, cross the street ahead some ways. I saw her long loose white hair picked at by the wind, and then I didn’t see her and then I blinked a few times and saw her again cross the street in the other direction. Finally, a person, I thought.
In Calamity's Wake Page 2
