The Springsweet

by Saundra Mitchell

  Tempered by her calm, I found myself drifting pleasantly too. My fingers danced, and the needle slipped between them like a silver fish leaping over waves. The muslin shimmered, the same way the prairie did when the wind rushed across it.

  On the horizon of the edge, past the stitched field of grain I made, it seemed very dark. Without thinking, I murmured to Birdie as I turned the scrap again. "Will the chickens go in their coop if it storms?"

  "If such a thing ever happened, they would," she replied.

  "It rained on me yesterday, and I think it's going to again."

  "From your lips to God's ears. We didn't get a drop, and we could use it," Birdie said. "I'll be lucky if my corn row is ankle high by July."

  I hummed softly, my embroidered field growing. It flourished with each sway, and each fluttering sigh from the baby in my arms. Rubbing my face against Louella's silky cheek, I repeated, "I do think it will."

  A crack of thunder agreed.

  Though the thick sod walls insulated us from the sound, it startled Louella from her near-nap. She slid from my lap and threw open the front door. What we hadn't seen through the oilpaper windows was the sky kneading itself darker and darker. Faint, lavender veins of heat lightning coursed through the clouds.

  Any sky could threaten, and lightning meant nothing when it was the threadlike, embroidered sort. But the wind turned, and it smelled of rain-—that distant, heavy greenness that comes before a storm.

  Leaving my sewing on the little chair, I said, "I'm going to put the chickens in, just in case."

  "You do that," Birdie said, and I felt her eyes on me all the way out the door.

  ***

  Chickens, it turned out, rather liked the rain.

  I'd had a devil of a time getting them into the coop the night before, and the following morning they splashed in the mud like unruly children.

  "They're eating bugs," Louella said, standing over the chickens instead of scaring them out of their wits.

  And she wasn't wrong—the storm had scoured the night, leaving morning full of twisting worms and newly bloomed flowers.

  Even the sky seemed scrubbed clean. The horizon that just yesterday faded into a dusty haze now stretched on forever. When I squinted, I made out the shape of another homestead in the distance.

  It gleamed gold in the early light, a timber house instead of a soddy. A curl of smoke rose from it, another family in the wilderness breaking their fast. Something about that made my heart swell. The world went on around me, and we were all connected by earth and rain and the bobbing heads of poppy mallow and indigo.

  This is a good place.

  I didn't so much think it as feel it—a certainty that didn't settle in the marrow of my bones but emerged from it. I smiled at the basin we'd set out, now full of rainwater to wash our clothes. Though my breast and bone still protested the lack of a corset, I had to admit I found the way the wind slipped through my clothes a singular pleasure.

  "Time for breakfast," I told Louella.

  I would have picked her up, but she'd run outside without stockings or shoes, and now she, like the chickens, wore a layer of mud. I laughed when she ran straight inside—yet another advantage to a soddy. Louella could hardly track mud in on a dirt floor!

  "I'll be heading into town this week," Birdie said as she sat with a tin pan in her lap. She'd baked a bit of corn cake and boiled last night's beans again to heat them. Louella got the biggest share of both because she was growing, but even her portion was small.

  As Birdie offered neither honey nor butter, I didn't ask for them. But, shamefully, I missed them desperately. The beans tasted only of beans and a bit of salt; the corn cake was gritty—not sweet or light the way Mama's cornbread was. My mouth watered for breakfasts I had bolted down without thought in Baltimore: fresh eggs, and bacon, and hotcakes shining with maple syrup.

  Apparently, my memories played on my face, for Birdie put her fork down and said, "I know this isn't much, but Caroline will be paying me for this month's lace soon. We'll have a proper dinner to welcome you then."

  Embarrassment slapped my cheeks scarlet. "This is good."

  "No, it's not." Birdie snorted and picked her fork up again. There was no sadness in it, simply matter-of-factness. "I've been putting a dollar aside each month to get a hog or a cow."

  "Milk," Louella sang, chasing a bean around her plate.

  "Yes, probably a calf," Birdie agreed. "It's a hard thing to balance. With a cow, we'd have milk and butter and cream, and it'll happily feed itself through the summer."

  Though I had never considered what keeping animals might mean, I guessed the converse. "Whereas a pig won't do anything but demand feed and scraps for months, until it's big enough to slaughter?"

  Impressed, Birdie nodded. "Exactly right."

  "I could take on some sewing too. My stitches are good, and..."

  "No, ma'am." Birdie ladled a bit of the bean broth into Louella's plate. "I need you to mind Louella and the chores. I can accomplish plenty of sewing when I'm not doing everything else. And if you keep Lou entertained, we might yet have some eggs."

  My traitor stomach growled, and at that, my hard, hard-working Aunt Birdie threw her head back and laughed.

  ***

  Thus, my first days on the prairie passed in hard labor.

  The little vegetable patch behind the soddy drank all we could give it and then demanded more. So did Louella.

  Water for farming, for drinking, for washing—all of it had to be carted by hand. It was the first task of each day, before I could start anything else.

  Yesterday morning, I'd hauled water and grubbed for early wild onions and Jerusalem artichokes. Then came the afternoon. I hauled water and scrubbed Louella clean once the mud had dried up. After that, I hauled water for our dinner of thin pea soup and chicory tea.

  Now, standing alone by the well, I glared at the yoke and gave it a little kick. No one was there to see me do it, and I thought I had earned a tantrum.

  But I was annoyed by my own petulance. This was just what I had waited for, what I had begged for—a new life of labor in the West. And it wasn't awful—just hard, and tedious.

  I bent to lay the yoke across my shoulders. Full buckets dangled on either end of it, held safe by grooves carved into the wood. Carefully, I rose to standing. I had gotten brave lately, carrying back full buckets. But that meant every step had to be deliberate lest I slosh all the water out between the well and the soddy.

  I could hear my mother laughing from a distance, pointing out what a good lesson in posture this chore was. Though I imagined her amused, I certainly wasn't. I felt every inch bruised and battered and badly used.

  It did little to soothe me to know I had yet to gather the laundry I'd left on top of swaying prairie grasses to dry. Marching back, I made pictures out of the clouds and hummed to myself.

  A waltz measured my steps and reminded me fondly of Thomas. There were no tears in thinking about him at our first dance, asking for all my waltzes. Once I had danced in Irish lace, in my beloved's arms, to the intimate third-beat of Mr. Chopin's compositions.

  My memories shortened the walk and drifted away like so much morning fog when I reached the yard once more. They left nothing but a sweet impression in my mouth, like the lingering flavor of a penny candy.

  I poured my bounty into the basin Birdie had left in the yard. In a bit, I'd split it into dinner water and washing water. I took a moment to catch my breath.

  Still, when Louella shrieked by, I plucked her off her feet. It was a kindness to the chickens, run ragged by her chasing, and a treat for me. She was a warm, squirming bundle, sweetened by wind and exertion.

  "You're mine, mine, mine," I told her, rocking her like a baby in my arms.

  Kicking her feet, Louella shrieked her reply. "No, no, no!

  My back protested, but I swung her around. Then it was my turn to shriek, because she flung herself headlong from my arms. Though I lunged to catch her, she was back on her feet and f
leeing into the prairie again.

  Lifting my skirts, I chased her, for the sun had dipped at the horizon, and Emerson's warnings against wolves and bobcats floated to the top of my thoughts.

  Louella was nothing more than a shaking of the grass. I heard her laughter and saw the ripples she left in the field-—the only traces I had to find her. Though she was small, she was sure-footed. Perhaps half goat, I thought uncharitably as I stumbled across the uneven ground.

  Sweat soaked me beneath my dress; the prairie was deceptive in its openness, hiding vicious heat in the clarity of the air. By the time I caught a glimpse of Louella, I was dizzy and thought myself quite liable to swoon before I caught her.

  But she stopped, then somehow rose above the tall green and golden grasses that swayed from here to the horizon. In my lightheadedness, I believed for a moment that she might jump up and take flight like a little mockingbird.

  After all, hadn't I known a girl who could see the future? Had I not myself looked into the dark to see the veins of water flowing through the land? Why not a babe with the gift of wingless flight-—would that be entirely impossible?

  Stumbling into a clearing, I realized that my silly head had been dreaming the impossible. Louella had not floated, she'd jumped up—onto a rail of graying wood.

  "That was a good chase," I said, swiping my brow with my sleeve. I approached, slowly so she wouldn't be tempted to run again.

  "I won."

  With a laugh, I murmured my agreement. And as I came closer I realized she balanced not on a rail but on a foundation of sorts. Wood had been joined together, stretching across the dry ground in a long rectangle. It didn't quite meet in the middle, and I realized as I walked through that space that someone had left room for a door.

  Turning inside the border, I asked, "What is this?"

  Louella held her arms out wide, walking the rail fearlessly. "Our house. Papa started it."

  Inside my chest, my heart tightened. Birdie and her husband Petty had settled first in Kansas—that's where Louella was born. But when news of the land rush in the Territories came this year past, they moved to claim their 160 acres. It was free land to anyone willing to race for it. To care for it.

  Walking the borders of the foundation, I tried to imagine what this would have been, if scarlet fever hadn't taken Petty.

  I had only Emerson's cabin as a measure, but it was a good measure, I thought. This house would have been twice as wide. Room enough for a bedroom, for an iron stove; space enough for a family to spread out a bit come winter.

  Nothing like the earthen cellar of the soddy, where Birdie had to take up the pallets each morning so there would be room to cook and eat and sew during the heat of day.

  Standing in the middle of an unfinished promise, I rubbed the place where my locket had been. My fond remembrance at the well peeled away. In my own grief, the world had stopped. Having it start again so abruptly, on such a sharp reminder that my pain was hardly singular, I dammed my tears.

  When Louella strayed near, I caught her hand. "It's getting dark, duck. Your mama will be wondering about us."

  "I'm tired, Zora," she chirped.

  Weary, I groaned. But when she put her finger in her mouth and implored me with big green eyes, I relented. Giving her my back, I said, "Hop on, then. No pulling my hair for reins."

  And hop she did, nearly knocking me to my knees. Worse yet, she was hot. It felt as though I carried a burning coal on my back, one with wriggly little fingers that pulled my hair in spite of my admonition. Which turned out to be quite a bit better than when she felt her balance shift and threw both arms around my neck.

  Half-strangled, I wheezed. The sounds I made sent Louella into peals of laughter, which—once I had extricated myself enough to breathe—made me laugh as well. We were a disheveled, giggling mess as we came around the soddy.

  And so it was, with delight on my lips and a babe in my arms, entirely careless and hair pulled loose, that I met Mr. Theo de la Croix again.

  Six

  "Let go now," I told Louella.

  I dipped low so she could slide off, then straightened. My hands flew immediately to my hair. There was no salvaging the chignon, so I did my best to smooth everything around it.

  It wasn't that I wanted to pretty myself for him, though it was generally embarrassing to get caught out so discomposed. But what it did, however, was let me stall polite conversation so I could try to regain my composure.

  Unfortunately, I failed and blurted out, "What are you doing here?"

  "Where are your manners, Zora?"

  Birdie's voice sounded tight, and when I caught a glimpse of her face, I noted the tension between her brows. Reaching out to take her hand, I forced the best smile I could and looked up at Theo again. "I mean, imagine my surprise. This is the last place I expected to meet you."

  "Forgive me for that. It seems I'm always turning up unexpectedly on you," he said. His voice was creamy as I remembered it, warm like his skin and dark eyes. Perhaps in deference to travel, he'd pulled his glossy hair back and fixed it with blue velvet ribbon, the same sort that edged his lapels and cuffs. "As I was telling your aunt, I have a great deal to atone for when it comes to you, Miss Stewart."

  Insistent, I said, "No, of course you don't..."

  "I think I do," he replied, and tried to catch my gaze.

  Panic clutched at my heart and stilled it. In my mind, I all but bargained with possibility. He couldn't have come all this way to court me—that was madness, wasn't it?

  Even if his coach trip from Skeleton Ranch to West Glory had been entirely uneventful, it was still a journey of significant hardship and distance, to come from Maryland to Oklahoma Territory. Surely he'd meant to come this way on his own. Certainly it was a coincidence that he stopped at my aunt's homestead...

  Then, to destroy my anxious hope, Theo said, "I have only the most honorable intentions."

  I looked at the ground, and my vision blurred. The last thing I wanted were his intentions. My love lay in the cold ground, forever sleeping beneath the flowering pear trees, and that's where it would stay.

  Words were dust in my mouth when I said, "You're too kind."

  "Where will you be staying?" Birdie asked.

  "I've got a room in town for now. The school board said they'd help me find a modest place of my own as soon as they could."

  At that, I lifted my head. "Will they? Is that common?"

  Theo smiled, offering me his card. "Common enough, I suppose. I'm taking the schoolmaster post in West Glory."

  Once again, my manners failed. "Why would you do that?"

  Tipping his hat, Theo smiled once more—as if he hadn't noticed my discomfit at all. In fact, his black eyes sparkled, dancing as if he'd met a particularly toothsome challenge. "As I said, I have only the most honorable intentions."

  With that, he mounted his very fine horse and made his pretty adieus to Birdie and Louella. They watched him go, for he was quite something to consider, but I studied his calling card instead.

  It was one of the most fashionable kinds. The front bore his name, and on the reverse, each corner had a word printed in it. Instead of scribbling a note, he simply had to fold the corner that best expressed his sentiment, so it would appear on the face. Today, he'd presented Visite, as if I might not have noticed that he'd delivered it in person.

  The paper was so thick, it weighed in my palm, and I knew those extra engravings came at quite a fee. This wasn't the card of a poet at all; it belonged, instead, to a very rich man. In a moment, all my assumptions about him shifted.

  And they made him seem rather more dangerous to me, a wastrel for entertainment's sake, a rich boy used to getting what he wanted. I couldn't bear to think what that meant; I refused to consider that I might be the thing he wanted.

  "I see?" Louella asked, pulling my hand down so she could grasp for the card.

  "You may keep it," I told her, and went to collect my wash.

  ***

  To my disma
y, Theo's visit lit a fire in my Aunt Birdie. While I tried to master the temperamental woodstove, she finished the last of her lacework with a giddy sort of amusement.

  "Can't feature running away from that," she said as I handed Louella a pan of peas to pick.

  Clasping the back of my neck, I avoided Birdie's gaze and turned back to the stove. "It's not what you think at all."

  I started chopping my field onions, rough, hard strokes to work out the tension between my shoulder blades. My plan was to mix them with the cornmeal, to make a flavored cornbread, just a touch of variety to go with boiled, mashed peas.

  "That boy is a sugar cake," Birdie said. Amused, she raised her lace to inspect it and spoke to me through it. "Melt right on your tongue."

  My gaze flew to Louella, who had not the slightest idea what kind of conversation was flying around her little curly head. She'd centered the pan of peas between her legs. Her face had transformed, a mask of concentration, as she picked the pods open one by one.

  Satisfied that Louella was unaware, I nevertheless lowered my voice before replying. "Do you know where I met him? At the cemetery. Drinking in the daylight, sharing a toast with a dead poet."

  This revelation further delighted Birdie at my expense. "So he cuts a dramatic figure."

  "A foolish one," I replied.

  "Obviously, it intrigued you enough to meet him at the dance." Birdie folded her lace carefully, then leaned back in the chair to appraise me. "And into the gardens..."

  Rather harder than I meant to, I dropped a pan on the stovetop. "In both cases, he followed me. In both cases, I fled."

  "That's not what Pauline said in her letter."

  I swept around, dropping to the floor. I clapped my hands over Louella's ears, which didn't seem to bother her at all. Apparently, she had found her bliss in a handful of peas.

  "It's not that way at all. I left him with my friend, and that would have been the last of it if I hadn't fallen in the fountain! He didn't ravish me, I ravished him so Mama would ... what's so funny?"

  Birdie covered her mouth, rolling her eyes heavenward. And she shook, loose curls dancing around her face, reminding me how young—how pretty—she was.