by Sara Dahmen
When the doctor’s home looms in front of me, it is cast in morning glow that is extra bright from the nearby snow. The shutters are blue as Kate promised, though I can see the chips and scratches in the paint with the starkness of sunlight on them. Mr. Greenman goes ahead of me and drops my trunk without ceremony so one of the brass ends inherits another gash. He turns abruptly to the road again.
“Thank you, Mr. Greenman.”
“Gilroy.” His voice is a throaty grumble.
“Thank you, Gilroy.”
And then he is off, huddled against the late winter breeze. After I watch him for a moment, I take the few stairs to the door. Oddly, it is open slightly, even with the cold spring morning, and a makeshift screen stands between me and the dark dimness of the interior. My knock echoes, though my knuckles barely feel it.
Doctor Kinney must be rustling in his back rooms. There is a muttering and a short curse after my knock. I look at the neighbors’ houses with interest and a bit of trepidation. Who are they? Will they be kind?
There is a short wait, and then a clambering from the rear of the house brings a shadow into my sight.
He is not as tall as I expected and not nearly as old as I assumed. Though there are lines along his mouth and wrinkles in the slants of his eyes, they are more from fatigue than age. I guess him to be five years my senior, perhaps ten if I am careful in my opinion. He pauses, and we stare at each other from both sides of the screen.
I find my voice. “I’m Mrs. Weber. Here to keep house for you, Doctor?”
Chapter 2
20 March 1881
There is a long moment as the doctor measures me, considering. I don’t typically mind waiting, and do not fidget, but I’m now aching with cold. He finally opens the door and stands aside.
“Come in. My study.”
His voice has an Irish lilt with a cadence of something more, and I bite back an impulse to comment. My roots are in Massachusetts, and many neighborhoods are filled with Irish voices. I step inside, and he pulls my trunk in behind us almost as an afterthought.
His office is tiny. A narrow wooden desk is covered in files and papers. Boxes stack on the floor while bits of paper haphazardly sprinkle through his overloaded bookshelves. The chaos reminds me of Kate’s general store, and the flood of memories from this morning alone crowd into my head.
He stands behind the desk and I perch on the only other seat available: a worn straight chair with a spindle back. It is not very comfortable. His blue eyes peer at me in the watery light; only a small window brings in the morning sun. And while his hair is quite dark, like Kate’s, the sun tips it with the barest trace of red. I suppose I should expect a little of that for the Irish in him. Should I mention that I am used to his culture? That in Boston some of my neighbors were Irish? Or perhaps he, like me, tries to leave the East in his past, and I would do well to keep from reminding him of it.
I so dislike not knowing my footing! Everything had once been arranged, organized, and curated. Damn Henry, and damn the doctors who couldn’t heal him, and damn my own inability to do nothing about it!
“Mrs. Weber.” Doctor Kinney says my name slowly. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yes,” I say guardedly. “Thank you for agreeing to take me on. I am grateful for the work.” It is all I can say. I am more than grateful. This work will give me a purpose and save me from the quiet fading of widowhood. Better yet, the distance of Flats Junction from Boston is enough for me to pass along the story that the babe I carry is Henry’s.
He sits down so we are more at eye level, but he is quiet for a long moment. I glance around the room again and see the corners are filled with grey and black dust. The smell of old cooking oil, sour milk, and a pungent, overarching odor of sanitation acid and iodine settle on my already travel-weary clothes. I want to scratch my skin raw of grime and then wash everything again the minute I think of my dirty petticoats. I wonder if my stays are caked with black dust.
The doctor sighs and looks away from my face, then dives into the subject with a straightforward manner.
“I’m sorry for your loss. You must miss Mr. Weber very much.”
I give a small nod, not trusting myself to answer. I am often afraid the truth will come out, and it would be so very improper and unbecoming. I should be glad that I had had a husband at all, and I should mourn him better than I do. I owe him that much.
“We need to go over the particulars of your duties. But first, there is the matter of your room and board.”
“Oh?” I panic inwardly. My correspondence about this position with the MacHughs in Boston had been plain about the larger points of the arrangement, and I feel discomfited to discuss funds already. I do not have enough saved to pay for a room at an inn every day, and he certainly isn’t paying me enough to manage it. We had confirmed that I would stay in his previous housekeeper’s room. Or did the MacHughs tell me falsely?
“Yes,” he pauses again, then meets my eyes. “You are younger than I supposed, and it would not do to have you stay in my auntie’s old rooms upstairs as I’d planned.”
His words deflate and embarrass me further. He’s right. I know acutely that my status comes with its own stigma. Now that I know he’s in his middle thirties, the revelation of my condition might be mistaken by the town and I will have lost all I gain with coming West. The old panic rises and tastes like yellow bile.
But I still cannot afford the inn, and I voice as much, though I say so with apology and embarrassment. He waves it away with a large, bunched hand.
“I’m not goin’ to have you stay at the inn, Mrs. Weber. But the only other place I can think of is boardin’ you with old Widow Hawks.”
“That sounds fine,” I say soothingly, trying to be as easy and amiable as possible. All at once, I recognize why his accent is unusual. Doctor Kinney is an Irishman, but his brogue is faintly Scots.
“Widow Hawks is Sioux.” The statement is almost defiant, and it brings me from my thoughts.
Sioux?! There is a large part of me that hesitates and recoils. A Sioux! I thought all the Indians were gone—living in the obscurely named Indian Territory or on a reservation. The shock of his suggestion sinks in further, and only bare threads of dignity keep me from protesting outright.
Live with an Indian? I don’t want to! I can’t! I’m worried that she is, by definition, an outcast. If I stay with her, I will be shunned immediately among the townsfolk. If that is the case, then why did I bother to leave Boston? I could have stayed and been an outcast there as well. If I admit it fully, I’m afraid of living with an Indian. Everything I’ve ever read in the papers back East paints them as fearsome, heathen, and uncivilized. My mother would be beside herself, and my sister, Anne, would leave on the next train if this was her only option for a room. Then again, I’ve never been much like Anne.
But I look at the doctor and realize he seems oddly anxious himself. Does he expect me to scream and refuse? I suppose he might. He would not offer this unless he thought it was safe. I must trust someone, and why not my new employer, even if he is a doctor? If he does not doubt the widow, I have no reason to do so either. This rationale is all I can muster, and I keep my gaze on his face. If I close my eyes, I’ll likely grow dizzy with the swirl of numbness, fatigue, and distress raging in my chest.
“If she is a fair landlady, I have no objections,” I manage to say evenly, and he relaxes slightly, then leans into the worn wood of his chair and looks me over. I take the time to take in his stocky shoulders, the round muscles of his arms, the holes in his shirt, and the patches in his leather vest, shiny from wear. He has curls in his dark hair, and he is newly shaved. At least there is some tiny semblance of civility here!
He nods slowly, as if he is still mulling what we have already decided.
“Yes. She’s like family to me, and I know you’ll be treated well. It is best.” His eyes watch me. I do not know if he is just observing or if he is creating opinions already. I scramble to make an excuse for my d
ilapidated appearance.
“I’ve only just arrived . . . haven’t had a chance to straighten myself or put on anything fresh.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry again for your recent loss, Mrs. Weber. I know you are in mournin’, but the work here is hard. You’ll be advised to cast off the blacks and greys soon and wear more suitable clothing anyway.”
His pragmatic attitude is a balm to my need for order and logic. I do not like being fussed over, and mourning Henry has been chafing enough, but I feel I must make a point to respectability.
“My period of mourning is not to be over for another twenty months.”
His voice is hard all at once. “That is for the East and city livin’. There is no time for mournin’ like that here, and the fabric of your gown will be in tatters in short order.”
The words are harsh, and my hands clench hard in the folds of my skirts. And yet, to cast aside the obviousness of my widowhood would be freeing. To do so now, mere months after Henry’s passing, seems to be one of the best ideas I’ve heard in a long time. There is also the need for a second dress. A loose one.
I’m nodding and agreeing all at once. “I have enough saved to make what is needed. I would think Kate can steer me in the right direction on cloth.”
The doctor’s head comes. “You’ve met Kate already?” His voice is softer.
“Yes. She was kind enough to offer me coffee when I arrived on the train. We spoke briefly.”
He smiles for the first time since we’ve met, and I like the way the lines bunch on his face and how his blue eyes squeeze to half-moons. My body settles further into the uncomfortable wooden chair with something like relief. I think he will be a kind employer. I hope he will be! And fair. And reasonable, when the time comes.
We fall into discussion about my duties: cook, clean, organize, mend, care for the garden and home, and generally do wifely duties without being his wife. This is good. I feel I have a purpose again, and thankfully, it does not come with the strings attached as my marriage had. I have vowed not to tie myself to another union that is so detached, and I am glad I can hide myself in this new role for decades should everything be acceptable here. I’ve miscalculated once and have no wish to do so again.
As we reach the part of the discussion pertaining to the use of patient files, there is a knock on the door. It is a young cowboy, covered in dust and clapping a hat to his thigh as he pushes through and turns directly into the office. There is little privacy here, I note.
“Doc! Hank’s horse ain’t getting from the far side of the pasture this morn. We’ve tried everything short of force. He thinks something’s wrong with him.” As an afterthought, the boy looks at me. “How do, ma’am.”
The doctor sighs and stands. I notice he does not bother to tidy any of his clothing. His slightly disheveled state must be a standard. He glances at me, frowning slightly.
“I’ll be back for midday dinner, I’d think, Mrs. Weber. If you could manage to fix up a bite, we’ll head to Widow Hawks’ place later to get you settled. Alright then, Manny.”
As they amble out, I see the doctor grab a well-worn Stetson from a hook behind the door, and a large, worn, leather hunting frock coat. The door and screen slam behind them, echoing across the street. I’m left in semi-silence. I am surprised to hear a drip of a spigot somewhere deeper in the house. Around me, dust settles across the beams of watery sunlight, trailing slowly down to one of the piles and piles of patient folders on the floor and desk. I blow out the lantern in his study and suddenly have a pang at the loss of the easy gaslight in Henry’s office. I look once more into the gloom of the small room and want to sit back down and sleep. And I’d like to read through the books and papers on the man’s desk. There’s a copy of a map of the Dakota Territory on the wall, a sketch of the town, and one of the books on the top pile on the floor has a florid name: The Pharmacopoeia of the United States of America, by the Authority of The General Convention for the Formation of the American Pharmacopoeia, Held in 1830; Second Edition. Dear heaven. Why did I tell him I knew something about nursing?
I only know what it takes to ask doctors very particular questions without sounding too smart, and how to read a few medical journals. And I can make a patient comfortable, as I did for Henry. Somehow, I doubt now that will be enough to suffice. What am I doing? What have I done? I want to curse Henry for leaving me, and to damn my sister and her husband for their little party. And most of all, I want to curse myself. All my years of planning and organizing, lining up a respectable husband and then restraining my nature so I was the proper wife, all of that, gone, with no thanks to my own damnable curiosity.
Ignoring the pull and call of the rest of the books, I step out of the small room to set my wrinkled satchel on the scuffed plank floor.
As I walk down the narrow hall, I glance briefly inside each door. Next to his study is the surgery. The instruments are a dull silver that gleams in the half-light. The walls are whitewashed, and a nail holds a thin, wood-framed certification. There is a large black cabinet with wide beveled glass doors. Through the glass I see bandages piled neatly, beakers arranged according to size, and other utensils I don’t understand. His surgery is the opposite of his study; neat, tidy, and precise. The dripping comes from a soft brass and silver spigot. I didn’t expect something so fine in a simple house in the West. The spring-loaded piece must be attached to an outdoor water pump and cistern. Will he let me use this for cooking, or will I still have to haul water from outside?
There is a staircase to my right. I assume the bedrooms are up there. At the end of the hallway the kitchen yawns open before me. The room is wide and the stove is large, double the size of Kate’s, and the unsoiled pans and pots are still hanging on hooks. Perhaps his great-aunt had kept a good fire going, keeping the meals hot and ready. Shelves line another wall, where a few plates and knives sit in a line. The rest are all dirty in a nearby wash or still sitting holding half-eaten food on the wide slab table in the center of the room. There are a few chairs around it and one long bench. There is even natural light slanting in from the eastern windows, and a back kitchen door is shut tight against the cold. I will be spending much of my time here and I find myself well-pleased.
I do not know how long it will take Doctor Kinney to do his veterinary services, so I decide to mix up a batter of flapjacks if the ingredients are in the pantry. Surprisingly, the place is rather stocked, as if he didn’t know what to do with the dry goods. I was not so well off, when married to Henry, to have a cook, although I did have a weekly maid to help with the heavier cleaning. The chemistry of the kitchen comes natural to me. It is one of my few talents. I step around the kitchen, cleaning bowls and spoons as I need them, and stoke the stove and heat the griddle pan so it’s hot for when Doctor Kinney returns. The cast iron is black and smooth with age and use. His auntie must have cooked often.
Flapjacks are not really lunch, but they are all I can think to do without knowing his schedule. Perhaps in the future, I will learn his methods so as to properly guess the lengths of his work. I hope I do right by his expectations. There was so little time to discuss his demands in detail, and I must keep this job.
While I wait for him to return, I decide to start working at the mess of the kitchen. I am only halfway through the suds of the dishes when I hear him racketing into the house, slamming the door. Strangely, I think of the babe in my womb, and how I might ask the good doctor to not slam the door when he or she is sleeping. When I think of the baby, the uncertainty of my position is a solid choke, and I barely catch up the dry, heaving sob in time.
But he doesn’t come right in. Instead, I hear water and realize he is at the tap in the surgery. I am grateful he at least thinks to wash his hands.
He walks into the kitchen with a sturdy stride, and I give him a small smile and motion wordlessly to the place I have set at the table. I pour him a cup of my own coffee brew. I make it differently than Kate, though I am, myself, used to tea. My coffee is strong, but not thic
k, without the grains floating in it. I use the old trick of adding eggshells to settle the grounds before pouring. It tastes rather good. Henry used to compliment me on it often. I wait for the doctor’s reaction, or a word of approval, but none comes. He is fidgeting behind me. When I finally turn with a plate of golden jacks, his face falls blank. I am immediately worried. I need this work for my own sanity, for protection, to keep my practiced and careful life of respectability intact. Worst of all, I had thought to do a good job from the start. I see now he is frustrated instead of pleased.
He tucks into the flapjacks so fast, I move to make more immediately. This time when I turn around, he is just finishing the food so he is not watching me, and I am saved from the disapproval on his face. I make more, hoping I have enough batter to fill his stomach as he eats nimbly, quickly. The next batch he seems to eat slower, for when they are finished, I put the next fresh ones on a plate near his elbow so he can take them when he is ready.
I put the rest on the slab and sit across from him. I twist the mug in my own hands nervously, staring at my fingers so as not to watch him. My hands are not a true lady’s hands. There are burn scars from my oven back in Boston, blunt fingernails, and a few small callouses. My veins are blue and visible. They are not long-fingered hands, nor very powerful, but they are capable and strong. I always thought they’d be strong enough for anything, but now I’m not nearly so sure.
Finally, I sense him shift, and I glance up to see him leaning back in the chair, looking content. He sips his coffee, piercing me over the rim.
“Were they good?” I ask the trite question to fill the silence.
