“Well … That was seven years ago. I kept trying for a couple of years, but there was no trace. Then finally, a letter. I could read only a small part of it because it had been torn, damaged, and wet, and part of it was missing. I knew that I was to receive it only in the event of Hebbie’s death. I could read that much.”
He paused, choking back a tear.
Now the expression on the face of Margaret Jones was one of pure sympathy. “How difficult for you! And you had no idea where the letter had come from?”
“None … Yes, it was a hard time. It still is.”
“Of course. There’s not much I can tell you, but a little. Mary—that’s the name she was using—Mary gave birth to your son in Carlsbad. There was a TB treatment center over there, with some huts in the cave. You know about the big cavern?”
“Not much.”
“Well, it’s huge. Miles and miles of caverns. The theory was that a constant temperature—no change in the air, winter and summer—would help heal the tuberculosis. I don’t know that it was very successful, but that’s where she was. To protect her baby, she placed him here.”
“She never saw him?”
“Only at first. She didn’t want to expose him to the infection.”
“You knew her?”
“Not really. I met her only once. I didn’t know about the letter to be sent to you in the event of her death. She said only that if she recovered from the tuberculosis, she would pick up the baby. If something happened to her, his father would.”
“But how—”
“That letter—the one that was destroyed—must have told the whole story,” she pondered. “I was notified of her death, and was puzzled that no one inquired about the child. Finally I wrote you. The 101 Ranch had been mentioned, and I thought it worth a try to write you there. But that was a year ago.”
“I was in the Army. Just mustered out, a few days ago.”
Now, the woman’s face was filled with sympathy.
“How hard it must have been … Not to know … You did not even know of your son?”
“No, I had no idea.”
“Ah … Mary … Hebbie, you say?”
“Yes. Short for Hepzibah. Bible name, I guess.”
“Well, she named the baby for his father … John Buffalo. He was a wonderful child, Mr. Buffalo. It was so hard … . We lost three of the children to the influenza.”
“Yes, it was bad. I was in an Army hospital with it.”
He refrained from further details.
“You said in your letter that they are buried at Carlsbad?”
“Yes. The mother was buried there, and we thought it appropriate that her son rest with her.”
“I’ll want to visit the graves,” John said.
“Of course. Where are you staying?”
“Nowhere, yet. I came here directly from the train.”
Her eyes swept over his dusty clothes.
“Would you care to stay here? Our census is low, and we have a spare room. You could change and refresh yourself. I have to make a trip to Carlsbad tomorrow, and I can show you the way to the cemetery.”
“Well, if it’s no trouble …”
“Good! It’s settled, then.”
The “spare room” was comfortable and quiet, and apparently little used. A plump Mexican woman brought him a kettle of hot water. She took the pitcher from the dresser and returned quickly, having filled it with cold water. She placed it next to the basin, laid out towels and a washcloth, and turned to go.
“Gracias, señorita,” said John.
The woman blushed and giggled. “Señora,” she corrected him with an embarrassed smile.
“Oh! Sorry.”
She giggled again and departed, closing the door behind her.
John bathed and shaved, dressed again in the only other clothes he possessed, and tried to brush some of the dust and wrinkles from the coat he had worn en route.
He made his way downstairs and was greeted by Margaret Jones, who now seemed genuinely friendly. John decided that she must have formed a very poor opinion of the sort of person he must be. It could have been no other way. It had appeared to her that he must be a shiftless wanderer who had abandoned a sick and pregnant wife and, in turn, a motherless son. Now she was probably trying to make amends.
“Supper is at six,” she told him.
He had no watch, but was accustomed to estimating the time. He had been involved with boarding enough trains and participating in enough shows and military schedules to be pretty adept at it. Now he judged that it would be two or three hours until supper.
“Let me show you around the facility,” Mrs. Jones suggested.
“You have no other responsibilities?” he asked. “I don’t want to bother—”
“No, no, nothing important,” she interrupted, “and I enjoy a change in the routine.”
It was a rambling old house, with four-foot-thick walls of adobe. He knew that it would be warm in winter and cool in summer’s heat. Comfortable, solid, protective … Ideal for an orphanage. The house had been built by a wealthy entrepreneur as his own family residence. He had been orphaned himself, and understood the plight of a child without family. He had married, but had no children of his own, and in his will had specified this use for the estate after his own passing.
“It’s really a home,” Margaret Jones told him. “At least, we try to make it so.”
“Church supported?” he asked.
“No. Most orphanages are, you know. But we are well funded through the estate. Quite a unique situation. The founder was a self-made man. Oh, it’s for boys only. He specified that. Frankly, that avoids a lot of problems.”
“But … You’re the director—a woman.”
She laughed. It was a hearty masculine laugh, one he could appreciate.
“Yes,” she said. “Sort of a contradiction, isn’t it? But Mr. Hope—a name he selected for himself, incidentally—felt that he wanted a woman’s influence in the operation. Preferably, a married couple. My husband and I …”
She hesitated, and John attempted to fill the gap.
“You had children of your own?”
“No … Yes, one, but he died in infancy. We were unable to conceive again. But I have many sons here.” She smiled.
“How long ago … ?” he began.
“ … Did I lose my husband? About six years now, I guess. But back to the operation. We teach the three Rs, have an extensive garden. A full-time couple … You met Rosa. She and her husband are a great help. Juan can fix anything. A good carpenter.”
She paused and chuckled, half to herself.
“Your original question, as I recall, was about church. Mr. Hope insisted that we be nonsectarian. So, we have a priest who comes in for Mass. I’m Methodist, myself, and we have Protestant services, Sunday evenings. Rosa and Juan are Catholic. Our boys are permitted to attend either or both.”
The afternoon flew, and it seemed only a little while until a chime sounded, like a smaller version of a church bell.
Margaret Jones led the way to the dining room, where clean-scrubbed boys of various ages were assembling.
There were eleven in all. Three appeared to be under the age of five; two were showing a fuzz of whiskers along the upper lip and jaw, suggesting approaching manhood. Between were six others of varying ages. All seemed to relate well to each other, the older helping the younger. There was considerable good-natured teasing. The whole thing was impressive.
“This is Mr. Buffalo, our guest this evening,” introduced the director. “We can sing for him after supper. For now, let us say grace. Aaron, will you do the honor?”
All heads bowed, and one of the older of the boys asked a blessing on the group and the meal.
John found it good that the son that he had lost, without having ever known of his existence, had lived here.
“Amen,” sounded the chorus of young voices at the close of the grace.
John wiped away a tear, hoping to be unobserved.
SIXTY
-THREE
The next morning, he helped Juan harness the horse and hitch up the buggy for the trip to the town of Carlsbad. Staying at the orphanage had been a good experience. There were some things that could not escape his notice. Similarities to his own childhood. The whole operation reminded him of a boarding school. More specifically, of his own experience in the first of the government schools he had been forced to attend.
However, the differences were greater than the similarities. The entire atmosphere was pleasant, cooperative. There was genuine love in the approach of Mrs. Jones, and of Juan and Rosa. In the short time that he had been at the Door of Hope, John had felt a sense of belonging on the part of the orphan boys who lived there. They were fortunate to have arrived in such a place. At the age he had been when he arrived at the government school, this would have given him an entirely different outlook. Maybe … But no, there was no point in pondering, “What if …” There was some satisfaction in thinking that the short life of the son that he had never seen, his and Hebbie’s, had had some happy and loving times there.
Margaret Jones took him to the cemetery, a peaceful place with a magnificent vista of landscape. In a area where the markers were close together, simple, or nonexistent, she pointed out two wooden slabs with carving that told the bare facts.
HEPZIBAH BUFFALO
1885-1915
JOHN BUFFALO
1912-1918
Somehow, he felt great satisfaction in the fact that Hebbie had taken his name. John had always felt that when he returned from Stockholm they would have married, except for the disease that had taken her from him.
He was startled from his thoughts as Mrs. Jones spoke gently.
“I knew her as Mary Ellis,” Mrs. Jones was saying.
John nodded. “That’s why I could never find her. I had suspected … She didn’t want to burden me with her problems. I would have—”
He stopped, unable to talk.
The woman went on, “I think that she always hoped she would recover. She wanted her son nearby, so that the two of them could return to you.”
“He—He was a good boy?” John asked.
“The best …”
Now Margaret Jones was having trouble choking back tears. Finally she was able to speak.
“Would you like to stay here a little while? I’ll run my errands and come back for you.”
“That would be good,” he said in a husky voice. “Thank you.”
When the buggy was out of sight, he sang the songs of mourning for both of them. It was good to be alone with his thoughts for a little while, with no one to interfere, no pressing responsibilities. There were memories to cherish … . He felt close to Hebbie again. He thought of the times when she had appeared to him in a dream or vision, and felt a confidence that brought him peace.
Thank you, Hebbie, he voiced, wordlessly. I wish that we could have shared our son … .
That had not been fated, but this quiet hour was very meaningful to him, something that he had long needed.
The buggy returned, and Mrs. Jones asked if he was ready to go. He could see that she understood.
They rode in silence for a little way, and she spoke, gently and with understanding.
“Is there anything you’d want to do for them? A headstone, maybe?”
John thought of the burial practices of his people, the scaffold burial, and smiled to himself.
“No. I know where they are.”
“Will you want to visit the cavern? It’s a day’s travel west, but I could help arrange it.”
John thought a little while. He had always had the fear of closed places that is born into the marrow of the nomadic prairie dweller. The thought of a dark underground place was enough to make him shudder. He did not think that he wanted to visualize Hebbie in such a setting.
“The lodges … Houses? What is the ‘treatment’ you spoke of?”
“Mostly, the constant temperature deep in the cavern, I suppose.”
“They never came out?”
“I don’t know, John. I think that it was not very effective. It is my understanding that there are huts, below the level influenced by the weather outside.”
“I don’t want to go there,” he decided.
“Then will you go back to Loving with me?”
For a moment, John was thoroughly confused. He had been somewhat startled when she boldly called him by his first name. Now her last question caught him completely off guard. Loving … In the space of a few heartbeats, his mind reevaluated the question. Loving, New Mexico … The town. He was embarrassed that he could have thought otherwise. He risked a glance at her face and, to his surprise, saw the hint of a blush along her neck. She, too, had caught the nuance. He devoutly hoped that she would not realize his thoughts. Margaret Jones was a very attractive woman. He had left his duffel bag at the Door of Hope, and would need to retrieve it.
“Of course,” he said formally.
“Good! You will spend the night before moving on? Where will you go? Back to the 101?”
She appeared to be trying hard to move on to another subject. Maybe he could help.
“I don’t know,” he mused. “I think not the ranch. I traveled with the Wild West Show, and it’s not in operation now. But … Well, Hebbie and I met at the 101. It might bring back too many memories, to be in places we shared.”
She nodded in understanding, and he felt that she really did know his feelings. She, too, had suffered such a loss.
“I may go back to Wyoming,” he went on. “I worked there a while.”
“In what job?” she asked.
“Cowboyin’. I’ve also friends in Kansas. I was at Fort Riley, there, in the Army.”
He didn’t want to be too specific. He had already decided that he would not yet intrude on the loss that Ruth Jackson had suffered. Later, possibly … Give her a little time to mourn. A year, maybe. Then see what feelings were left, and whether they would support a relationship other than that of friends.
It was nearly dark when the buggy drew up at the stable behind the Door of Hope. Juan met them and helped Mrs. Jones to dismount.
“Rosa saved you some supper, Señora,” he told her. “Go on … I will take care of the horse.”
It took him a long time to fall asleep. There were jumbled and confusing thoughts in his mind. He dozed, and the images of people in his memories wandered through fragmented dreams. Mostly, women. Hebbie, of course, flashing her shy smile. Jane Langtry, her golden hair almost glowing in the moonlight. Then the image of Jane faded and changed and became Ruth Jackson, the angel who had literally saved his life when he had been dying of influenza.
There were a couple of frauleins in Germany, their memories passing even more swiftly than the actual relationships … . An English girl, near Shepherd’s Bush, who, at a later time, would have been called a groupie.
And Margaret Jones … There had been no romance, even a hint. But she had been kind and understanding. She was an attractive woman, and her maturity and frankness was a definite advantage. She, too, had known sorrow and bereavement.
He thought of her accidental innuendo—return to Loving with me—and smiled in the darkness of the bedroom. He wondered about her age … . Possibly a bit older than he, but of that rare charm which seems to make some women age gracefully, actually becoming more attractive with maturity.
What strange thoughts … It had been a long and stressful day. He drifted between waking and sleep, possibly dreaming. Was he trying to read more into this woman’s friendliness and compassion that what was really there? Probably. But he could not deny that in the short while he had known her, there was a closeness and understanding between them, out of all proportion to the situation.
It must have been about that time that he heard—or rather sensed—someone in the hall outside his bedroom door. Not actual footsteps, but a presence, which paused and hung there for a long moment. He had the strong impression that someone was about to enter the room, and he was certain as
to the identity of that person. He could even visualize the hand on the doorknob …
The moment passed, and the presence, real or imagined, moved on down the hall.
John awoke with the soft rays of the rising sun peeking through the window. He was refreshed, though he felt as if he had hardly slept. Strange dreams … Someone in the hall, deciding whether to enter … Had that really happened, or was it merely a wishful thought on the part of a lonely man in his grief?
He dressed and prepared to meet the day, still wondering. He could hear no one stirring yet. Maybe he’d take a walk before the day warmed enough to make it impractical, and before the house awoke to the busy schedule of a herd of small boys.
In the front hall he encountered Margaret, also dressed for the day.
“Good morning,” she said quietly, “I was just going for a walk.”
“I, too,” he said with a smile. “Shall we?”
They slipped outside into the quiet of early morning.
“You slept well?” she asked conversationally.
“Yes, ma’am. Some dreaming … A lot of memories.”
“Of course,” she said thoughtfully.
They walked in silence for a little while.
“John,” she said finally, “would you consider staying here for a little while, helping with the boys? It wouldn’t pay much, but they need a father figure. Juan is a good man, but—” Her voice trailed off, leaving a lot unspoken.
He took a deep breath.
“I don’t know that I’d be much of a father figure,” he mumbled self-consciously.
“Oh, John, I’m sorry. That’s not what—Now I’ve hurt you. I didn’t mean …”
She paused and chuckled ruefully. “I guess I’m pretty transparent. I was being selfish. I was prepared to hate you, but … Well, it’s apparent that we have … Oh, John, you know what I’m talking about.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Of course. But … Margaret, this has happened so quickly. A few days ago I didn’t even know I had a son. You have been kind, and very gracious to me. I will always treasure your help when I needed it, as well as your care for my son. If I’m in your area again, I will come back.”
The Long Journey Home Page 39
