by Alix Hawley
I step inside. Jesse is too close to the fire, sitting at Daniel’s feet, the way Jamesie did when he wanted to hear a story. Jesse is half asleep but his eyes are fixed wide. He says:
—Did you fix the fort, Daddy?
How can he remember a thing about that fort, he is so young.
Daniel goes rigid. He says:
—We fixed the fort some.
Levina says very softly:
—Did the Indians come to the fort when you ran away from them?
She looks at him full of fear, my girl who is afraid of so much, remembering that place.
Daniel looks into the fire, his leg jogging up and down. He says yes.
Jesse pipes up:
—Did your mother and father come from that town to find you?
—My father did.
—Did he want you to go back there?
—He did.
I say:
—Why did you not go?
They are all startled. They have forgotten me. Daniel stands and says very heartily:
—Time we went to bed, my girl. Time we all did.
The younger children shout. Jesse cries as if Daniel will be conjured away from him again in the night. Perhaps he will be. Polly waves limply and says in a weak voice:
—Daddy, tell us another story first.
I say:
—Daniel, you can sleep here by the fire. You are very cold after your journey. Goodnight. The rest of us are going upstairs. Get up, Polly.
* * *
I keep waking with a start, thinking myself out in an open camp with a great animal breathing nearby, and the children shivering in their sleep next to the dead fire, which I cannot start again, though I try until the flint cuts my hands. In the end I give up and sit awake. The children are restless too. I hear them turning and whispering for hours. I catch Jesse trying to stumble his way downstairs, but I stop him and rock him back to sleep in my arms. I keep him with me all night.
But when it is just light, I cannot stop him and the others from tramping down to find their daddy. I can hardly get the bread started for them all dancing in and out of my path. Daddy talk Indian. Daddy do a dance. Daddy Daddy—
I cannot help hearing it in James’s voice, his baby voice.
Daniel is not thinking of Jamesie. He has gone out to bathe in the creek already, and coming in he looks less tired, almost happy. He shakes his short wet hair at the children and says:
—I am used to cold water now! My Shawnee family gave me the taste for river baths.
He comes to kiss my cheek. I stand very still. His beard is rough. A smell of the creek, a quick scent of Neddy. Only it is not Neddy.
Daniel looks me in the eyes. He thinks his place here was only waiting for him. He smiles, such a pure smile, and gives me another kiss. In my ear he whispers Little girl, then Little witch, his old names. He sets his hands at my waist. I do not know how he can do it without thinking I will strike him—I do not know how I do not do it.
I will not be made uncomfortable in my own house. I think only of the children and the baking. I move around him, getting out my pans and bowls. And soon he is sitting at the table, singing one of his old songs and clapping while the children leap about, overturning chairs and baskets and returning to touch him again and again. The Shawnee have not changed him. Nothing has. He is blind on purpose. Like a dog who will never lose its hopes no matter how you train it or beat it. Believing what it wants will come in the end, simply because of its wanting.
Then he stops singing, and says:
—But where is my Susy living? I must go and surprise her. I want to see my little granddaughter too. I am a granddaddy now, would you believe it of this youthful man?
He slaps his short grey hair. Polly says:
—I will take you.
She has quite recovered from all her foolishness yesterday. It is easy to see her youth and health. Daniel sees it too, smiling at her. His love plants itself quickly as a weed.
Jesse and Reba and Becky and Levina pipe up, they will go too. Daniel turns his smile on them and half stands, but I say:
—You are all going nowhere without breakfast. Sit.
They bolt the porridge down so fast that Daniel laughs. When he has finished his own bowl, he bangs it with the spoon and says:
—Very fine. Now my lady, we are off. Will you come with us?
I do not want to go. But I will not let Susy see him without me there. He piles three of the children onto the back of his horse, which I put in the stable myself last night, and sets off walking with the rest, Polly close at his side and Israel just behind, proud as can be with his polished gun against his shoulder. I trail them. Even Jesse is looking only at his daddy.
When we are close to Susy and Will’s house up the creek, I say:
—Let me go first. Let me tell her.
But they are too far ahead, and not listening. I try to hurry. I see Susy in her garden at the side of her house, bending over a row of onions. Her little Lizzy sits in the dirt beside her. Before I can call, Susy stands to stretch her back and catches sight of us. She is running and screaming, running straight at Daniel. Daddy Daddy—
She bolts into his arms, and I hurry on towards them. My breath catches when I hear how she is crying:
—Susy, take care, think of your child.
Her hand goes to her belly a moment. Daniel steps back, holding her shoulders, with tears in his own eyes. He says:
—Susy. Are you making me a granddaddy twice over?
—Daddy, yes, we never thought to see you again—
—Never mind, never mind, here I am! Do not be so quick to have me buried! Where is my first grandchild?
In the garden Lizzy has begun crying softly. I turn, but Daniel strides to her quickly and picks her up. A dried beanpod hangs from her lips. She stares at him with her fat cheeks wet. He says:
—How do, little round face.
Israel has followed him. He grins and says:
—Is that a Shawnee name?
—Why not? They called me Wide Mouth sometimes. And Big Turtle.
Daniel’s face drops for a moment and he looks more tired than ever. But he bobs Lizzy up and down and says:
—Do you like turtles? You would make a fine little Shawnee.
Susy is holding Daniel’s arm now and wiping away Lizzy’s tears, laughing. I say:
—We have heard enough of your stories for now.
Polly arrives at my elbow, saying:
—We have not! We want to hear all of it. Tell it again, Daddy.
Susy pulls at him:
—Come on, come and show yourself to Will.
They all go round to the barn, Israel leading the horse with the young ones on it kicking their legs. Lizzy bounces in Daniel’s arms with his great steps. He has always walked as though he were a very tall man. She gapes back at me and I try to smile to show her it is all right.
In the barn, Will is bent over his grey mare’s foot as he tries to help his black man pick out a stone. The smell of dung and seeds left to crumble away in boxes. When he looks up, he blinks and sneezes:
—What—
Susy tows her father along:
—Will, look! Did you ever think to see my daddy in your barn? Look!
Daniel grins and shifts Lizzy into one arm so he can clasp Will’s hand. Poor Will looks unsure, but he gives half a smile to see his wife so happy. He leaves the horse to his man, takes Lizzy from Daniel, and says:
—Well Dan. Well. I do not know what to say to you.
Susy says:
—Will! Go and fetch a drink to celebrate. I will see what food I have for everyone.
Off she bustles. I go with her, taking bewildered little Lizzy and leaving the rest to jump round Daniel and Will in the yellow dust of the barn.
* * *
—Have I time to make an apple pie? You are staying the day?
Susy bustles about indoors, pulling out bread and butter, onions and apples and sugar, everything she has, sending h
er black girl Cotty outside for lettuce.
—No, Susy. We will not trouble you long.
She stops in the middle of a twirl, and says:
—Ma. What is it? Why are you not happy?
—I can see you are.
Her eyes narrow and try to read my face. Again she says:
—Are you not happy?
—I am happy enough.
She laughs:
—Ma, I know you are not one to wear your heart on your sleeve. Did Daddy bring you a present?
Lizzy sucks in her lips at the sound of the word. I touch her fine hair:
—You like presents, do you not, my little dolly?
—Ma—
—I said I am happy, Susy. Now give me some butter and I will start your pastry for you. They will eat you alive, you know.
Susy and Cotty fetch more things, and soon enough we have two pies baking in the embers and a soup cooking above. We hear the talk, talk, talk from outside as Will shows Daniel around the place. The children point out everything they see, as though they were all babies again. As though we have gone backward. Look at the birds. Look at the clouds. Look at the sky. Look at Daddy.
Susy calls them in to eat, delighted at hosting so many. Her stomach is small yet under her apron. She ought to have many children, if she is able. If her next birth goes well.
She has Daniel sit at the head of the table. Will readily gives up his place and whispers to Lizzy when she climbs up onto his knee. The rest go on pointing things out to Daniel: Jelly. Cream. Pie.
—Well well. Quite a feast. We could have used you as cook when the Shawnee came calling at the fort, Susy.
Daniel takes a sip of rum, raising his cup to my girl. Will raises his as well and drinks long. Then he says:
—They came calling?
Daniel swallows all the rest of his rum. Will says:
—How many of them?
When he looks up from his cup, Daniel’s eyes are over-bright. He says only:
—Some.
From where she is poking at the fire, Susy calls:
—Daddy, what did they want?
Daniel’s cup tumbles over. He starts at the noise, but he only says:
—Aha, this means it is time for more. Do you have any?
Israel leans across the table and says:
—Were they coming to fight?
Daniel breathes out strangely, as if his throat were very dry. He says:
—There was some fighting. All through with that now.
Israel’s face sets hard. He says:
—I would have killed any of them. All of them.
Daniel stands quickly and flattens his hands on the table. His look is wild:
—There has been enough killing—
Susy stops in the middle of the floor with a platter and says:
—Who was killed?
Daniel shakes his head.
—Who?
—Only two at the fort.
—Who, Daddy?
—It does not matter now—
I say:
—It does matter, Daniel. Who was killed?
The children are all looking at me as I speak. He looks at me too before he says:
—London, Henderson’s black. And David Bundrin, the Dutchman. But that is all.
Susy looks stricken and sets the plate before Will. She says:
—Big London, with his hair? He was killed?
She holds out her hands from her head to make a round shape like London’s hair. Israel says louder:
—Did you kill many of the Indians?
—Some were killed, yes. The rest have gone now.
His face is deeply sad, though his eyes still flash. He sits and picks up his cup again as if it might have filled itself. Will tries to mend things in his gentle way:
—Well Dan. How did the fort receive you when you went back?
Daniel wipes his hand over his mouth, and says:
—Like you. Surprised to see me living.
He gives Will a half smile, but Susy says:
—Dick Callaway said he would arrest you if you ever came back. Or kill you himself!—Well. We all know Old Dick’s mouth. We will talk of him no more.
Susy persists, standing behind Daniel now and gripping his shoulder. He pulls away as though it hurts. She says:
—Were they not all angry you had been gone so long? Did they let you leave again to come back here? Why did you not come sooner?
Daniel says nothing, but gets up again. Polly watches everything, her loose red lips open. He turns to the door and says:
—The fort—
Then he stops and asks where the damned rum has got to. He rummages on Susy’s shelf. Polly leaps up to help. No one speaks, until Israel says:
—Well when are we going back to Kentucky to see it?
Before Daniel can answer, I am standing too. I snatch Lizzy from her father and I am out the door with her in my arms, her face tucked into my neck. She struggles to be put down, but I am walking hard, and why would I stop—
TWO WEEKS in my house and I hardly speak to him, though he makes his presence felt. He is restless in his old way, but worse, always moving. He keeps himself busy in the fields and the barn with the horses, the children following him everywhere. I do not know what he does or what he tells them. I do not care.
November. A clear night. Very cold.
Another wash day, and the linen freezes on the grass.
I go to see Anna, who is up and about and well. Late that night Jos, one of my brother’s blacks, comes over the fields for me and stands outside spinning his hat in his hands. His wife’s time is here, her second baby. She lost her first to a fever. The usual black midwife is at another birth and Jos is nervous asking me, but I say I will come. Daniel, taking something apart by the fire, hears me on the stairs and says he will ready me a horse, but I tell him no. I want nothing from him. I walk with Jos in the cold dark, a smell of ice in the air.
The labour is long, but it goes as it should. The baby comes out clean and quiet and opens its eyes to look at its ma. A girl, with plenty of curling dark hair. The black women in the small cabin take turns to hold her tight and sing to her. Come in, come in. One brings spiced tea for the mother, who smiles hugely though her eyes are shut. When I get them settled, Jos gives me a great jug of cider, then tries to put a coin in my hand. I tell him to put it away for his new daughter, and he shrugs and says:
—All right. For her wedding day maybe.
I leave the warm cabin and walk out into the dull afternoon. My eyes itch in the wind. I think of the new baby growing old enough to be a young married woman, and to have more babies.
A hawk with black tips to its wings makes a slow circle over the trees and flies off. I stop a moment and take a drink of the cider. It is very sharp. I should not have more, but I do.
* * *
I put the cider behind a box in a corner of the hayloft. I do not drink any more, and at any rate we have plenty of our own in the house. The girls and I made another several jugs with the softest of the fall apples. But I like having Jos’s bottle put away. Something of my own, which I earned myself, and no one needs.
It is snowing when I think of it one evening as I am going back to the barn with a shovel one of the boys left out. The children are all indoors now with Daniel and his twitching restlessness. And so I think of the jug in the loft, which I might go and sit with for a short while.
But Daniel is inside the barn, brushing his horse. He looks thin yet, and cold, with drops of melted snow in his hair. I can see him thinking whether to try speaking to me. Then he says:
—Got two good-sized does this afternoon. Plenty for everyone.
—We have plenty already. Everyone has been fed.
I set down the shovel and brush snow from my shoulders. The horse swings its head. Dan makes kisses into its ear, then speaks to me, though he is still looking at the animal:
—My son Israel was born a good shot, like his daddy.
—Yo
ur son—do you have to say this again, Daniel? Is it all you have to say?
—Seems it needs saying.
He looks at me now. I breathe in:
—Here is what needs saying—did you find him? Your old Cherokee friend, who used to come visiting, then went and killed my first son?
He drops his face against the horse’s nose and puts his arm round its neck.
—Rebecca—
—Did you?
—I did not find him.
—Why not? What else was left to do?
—There was some trouble at the fort. And afterwards—
His face goes dark, he cuts himself off from saying more, though I see there is far more to tell. I say:
—Trouble is an easy word.
He strokes the horse’s cheek with a flat hand, and says quietly:
—Rebecca, I did look. I do not know where he is.
—Did you not ask your Indian friends? Your Indian father, who you love so much?
—My Shawnee wife knew of him.
I step back without meaning to. His eyes are like cold water now, set straight on me. He says:
—Yes, I have another wife.
—How pleasant for you.
My chest aches as I say it. The thought of him happy as can be with an Indian woman, in an Indian house.
—She was more wife to me than you have been.
—Go to her then.
—I do not know where she is. I do not know if she is—
—Still kindly favoured towards you? Since you left her, I would imagine she is not. I cannot see how she would want you back.
—You know nothing, nothing of her.
—I know you.
Daniel comes towards me, white spittle gathered in the corners of his lips. He says:
—Do you know me, Rebecca?
His voice is quieter than I expect. The pain goes through to my backbone. I say:
—Do you not think of him? Jamesie?
Daniel’s shoulders sag. He says:
—All I do is think of him.
I go cold inside, I cannot help it. My feet and fingertips ache with it. I cannot help crying out the dreadful words again:
—It was your idea to send him back for food, it was your idea to go to that dreadful place at all. He was only a boy, a child—
