Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

  His lips press tightly together. “I am sorry you had to go alone last night. It is embarrassin’ to me. To ask Widow Hawks to take a boarder is easy. She is a good woman and we’d do anythin’ for each other. But to ask you to go alone, without introduction . . . it was inexcusable.”

  I look down at the sticky eggs resting in the bowl cradled in my arm. It would not do to be truthful with him now, to tell him that I was scared with the dusky night walk through town, nor that Widow Hawks does not speak to me. Not that I am sure I can be so forthwith to my employer anyway, regardless of how kind he is.

  “You would feel better if I forgave you, then?” I ask.

  “Please, yes.”

  “Then you are forgiven. Though I don’t think it’s necessary,” I add as I continue whisking and spinning the eggs. He stands next to me for another moment, as if words are trembling on his lips, but he says no more. I should have expected him to be a gentleman, but his worries are still touching, nonetheless.

  It means I do not have to fear a short temper from him, or unfair accusations. This is hopeful and good, as I have other anxieties, such as the babe I carry. At this thought, I am stabbed with guilt. I should be honest and tell him about this coming issue, but my words are stuck. As I muse, I know the answer for my silence: it does not seem real that I carry a baby. There is much irony in this pregnancy. Henry would not give me a child, and I did not know I could even conceive. And Theodore himself does not know of it. Likely, and logically, he’d ask me to take care of it—to rid myself of the result of our few, fleeting moments together.

  But I know what I will tell the doctor, and anyone else who asks, and even the child when it is born. I will say that somehow, in one of those last, strangely sterile moments together, Henry had finally fathered a child.

  Doctor Kinney and I eat companionably. I appreciate the meal as I suddenly realize that I am hungrier than ever, and quietly hope he leaves some eggs in the pan so that I might have a little extra. Unfortunately, he leaves nothing to spare, but he praises my cooking. As he finishes his coffee, he leans back.

  “How did you find Widow Hawks?”

  Swallowing my own mouthful, I answer carefully, unable to meet his eyes.

  “She was accommodating. Thank you for arranging a bed.”

  He stares at me, as if measuring a response, and gives a slight nod while he sets down the empty mug.

  “I’ll work in the study a wee bit until I start rounds. Thank you for the breakfast, Mrs. Weber.”

  He leaves the kitchen. I am still hungry, and I decide to make a bit more during dinner and supper to allow me seconds, and still have leftovers for the Brinkley family. I haven’t forgotten the plan to see one of the doctor’s patients today.

  The day is overcast, so I decide to take a peek at the slowly unfreezing garden once the dishes are finished. It is nice to not have the sun beat down on my hair and back as I chip around the soil to see if I can figure what—if anything—is planted. I worry the spring will get on faster than I realize. It’s a sore project, though, and I give up trying to decipher the garden to tackle the scrubbing of the kitchen’s ironware and skillets crusted with rings and blooms of rust.

  I kneel outside in the yard with my coat flung over my back, and my hands turn rusty and brown, and my fingers go numb with the sloshing, cold water. I mull over the schedule of the days and try to find a rhythm. I will make breakfast, and we will eat. Then he will do paperwork, and I will do chores. He will visit morning patients, arrive for lunch, and then head back to rounds until dinner. We will have dinner, and I will clean and return to my silent rooming partner on the far end of town. It is full and busy, and it will not be an idle existence. More than anything, I’m grateful that I have a house to keep and someone to feed, and a job far from Boston.

  One of the small iron pots turns over in my palms. I crack off a particularly dense piece of rust and spill the spoiled water onto the ground. The chalkiness of the dirt here reminds me of Henry’s dry skin, and the way his body, always slim, seemed to break apart from within as his sickness grew. He’d been told by numerous doctors of a wasting illness they could not fix. It seemed to wax and wane without warning. Some had thought the sickness lived in his blood and needed to be drained. Other doctors wanted to treat him with horrible medicines that made him feel worse. Consequently, I did not know which doctors to believe. To remedy this, I spent many long months reading pamphlets and the occasional medical journal, to no avail.

  For a time, I had wondered if it was his marriage to me that had caused him sadness and his odd apathy. There was no love between us, so I found I could not throw myself into cheering him, and I had begun to think I was an unsound wife. Perhaps, I had reasoned, it was no wonder he did not smile much at me, for I hadn’t tried to charm him. This guilt drove me to try to find a cure, no matter how unbecoming Henry thought me as I chased articles and pamphlets on healing. As the doctors trickled in and out of our door, he finally gave up asking me to stop learning and instead, begged that I not tell the doctors my opinions and to keep my research to myself. He once muttered that he had no idea he’d married such an inquisitive woman. I do not think, even now, that he meant it as a compliment.

  But as our marriage tripped along slowly, we became closer, friends even. And later, I was his advocate and his nursemaid. Eventually, even that was not enough. My Henry, husband, lover, and kind friend had succumbed to the disease, and I wore the black veil of the widow. The gowns in my closet are still ash and grey and black.

  As I think of the bleak colors of my dresses, the sun breaks through the clouds and hits my hair and the back of my neck, heat soaking into the dark fabric of my mourning clothes. I do not realize how exhausted I am until I stand up and immediately feel dizzy, falling to my knees to keep from fainting.

  “Mrs. Weber!” There is a call from the house. Doctor Kinney has stuck his head out of the window. I did not realize that he could watch me from his office. “Are you alright?”

  I nod, feeling my heart pump hot blood through my head. His head disappears back inside. Picking up the cleaned skillet and kettle pot, I carry them in and dry the last of the dirty wares in the kitchen while staring outside the window. There is much solace in making a schedule. It makes me forget where I am and keeps me from screaming aloud against the trail of my life, which meanders so opposite to the vision I’d had.

  The garden needs seeds, and I wonder what I should plant. I do not have much of a green thumb, and I have no understanding of what grows well in the soil out here. A few wealthy acquaintances back East kept greenhouses, though I did not have that luxury. But I want—likely will need—fresh vegetables for cooking. Well, that’s yet another question needing an answer.

  I wipe my hands on my apron, and head back into the cooler shade of the hallway. The doctor is taking his hat from the peg by the door, and his coat is already on, but he stops and looks at me with concern.

  “I have two patients to visit this mornin’. Don’t trouble much for luncheon.”

  I wave away his worry. “It’s no matter. I’ll have something small.”

  He shakes his head, plops the hat back on the peg, and marches into the kitchen, calling to me over his shoulder. “You should feel free to wash up in the surgery whenever you like, Mrs. Weber. If you’re keepin’ clean, I have no issue with you usin’ it.”

  I enter the laboratory with some hesitation. It has pale, whitewashed walls, and shiny glass and silver instruments arrayed on a side table. In the cabinet, vials are carefully labeled and organized. The tap is moist with soft condensation from the room’s warmth. I pour some water out on my hands and clean the rust from under my nails.

  Turning, I see him standing in the doorway watching me blandly, a tumbler of lukewarm water in his hand.

  “You’re a bit pale. Have enough to eat after your long journey yesterday? Still recoverin’ a bit from the trip, I shouldn’t wonder,” he explains, then hands me the glass before heading back to the door.


  “Thank you,” I call, belatedly, as he walks out. I am not sure he hears me. I have forgotten to ask him how long he will be. Guessing that two patients in town might take an hour or so, I calculate. Likely I have time to dust the house before I make the midday meal.

  I do not touch the lab. I don’t know how to sterilize his equipment properly, so I dust around the piles of paperwork and mounds of books in his office. The map on the wall pulls me in, and I look at the dotted lines, the railroad names, and the long, wispy feathers of rivers, creeks, and streams. It is only a partial map of the Territories, but Flats Junction is marked as Flats Town, with the “Town” crossed off and “Junction” written in by hand. I suppose when the rails came through and crisscrossed here, the town saw fit to change its name. A large smudge on the top right is labeled as “buffalo jump.”

  I wipe down the shelves around his books, ignoring the titles as best I can so I don’t get distracted, and then debate lining up his files and papers. The top one catches my eye. I recognize the doctor’s rather rounded hand, and I’m drawn in before I can stop myself from being the typical nosy housekeeper.

  Patient – Dell Johnston

  Address – the Powdered Pig Saloon

  Occupation – Saloon Owner

  Jan ’75—Influenza; mild case

  May ’77—Damaged outer ear – hit with frying pan. Fortuna is unharmed but admits to assault. Minimal damage to inner ear.

  Sept ’80—Saloon brawl. Broken ribs, smashed finger. Set finger with wood and muslin splint, and asked patient to rest on rib injury. Patient agreed to rest for a single night only.

  Rumor: saloon brawl started with Fortuna’s girls arriving and soliciting clients.

  —must talk to Fortuna

  I glance below Dell Johnston’s page and see a large “F” in the corner of the next paper, and I realize it’s the mysterious Fortuna’s file. Good gracious! I’ve been at it a day, and I’m already sticking my fingers where they likely do not belong. I know I’m supposed to be some sort of nursing aide to the doctor, but I’ve been given no leave to inspect patient files.

  Leaving the office with my duster, I slip the rag along the shelves on the kitchen before hesitating a moment at the stairs. I wonder if I should intrude on the living level above, but decide that as the housekeeper, I cannot shirk half the house. I walk up the narrow stairs. A few of them protest with pops and squeaks.

  There are two bedrooms and a community washroom. One room is spare, the faded, flowered coverlet the only evidence that the space once was his great-aunt’s bedroom. A cross over the bed speaks of their Irish Catholicism, and there is not much to dust other than the bed rails, and tops of the bedside table and bureau. Her bed reminds me of my easy fatigue, but I push the thought away and turn to the washroom. A tin bathtub on planked flooring is shielded by a dark calico curtain. There is a matching curtain strung along the wall, allowing for privacy so a person might bathe while another primped at the wash station. I note the curtains will need a spring clean. The water in the pitcher is low, so I see he has washed out the bin. The floor needs a scrub, and the bathtub, too, but I am pleased the doctor is not sloppy.

  Bracing myself, I look in his private room. This, to me, is the doctor’s ultimate sanctuary, and it feels deceptive to walk into his bedroom without asking for permission. The bed is made, though there are wrinkles in the thin blanket. His clothes spill about indiscriminately instead of hanging on the hooks. There are a few books on the table by the curtain-less window. I am struck by the fact that he has artwork on the wall. One picture is a small, simply framed portrait of an older woman. I wonder if this is his recently deceased aunt. Another is a wedding picture. A photograph. I think there is resemblance in the man’s face to the doctor, but the couple’s clothing is old fashioned, and I wonder if they are his parents or his grandparents. I like the woman’s eyes.

  Stop! I’m prying again! Shaking myself with a stern reprimand, I dust around his things, then head back downstairs into the kitchen. Lunch is a light soup, and I am stirring as he slams the screen door and walks in.

  “How were your rounds, Doctor?”

  “Good. The calf is doin’ fine, and Tate’s leg is handlin’ my treatment,” he says, before disappearing around the corner. I hear the familiar gush of water, and then he is back, and eyeing me as I set the table.

  “How are you feelin’?”

  I think of the babe in my womb and catch my breath, only managing, “Quite well.”

  “I should have thought of it—given you time to settle in more than I did. It’s no wonder you felt peaked earlier.” He considers, then goes to the stoneware jug, pours out more water and wordlessly hands it to me. I am embarrassed that I am already such a bother on my second day of employment.

  I say this while we eat, and he shows a half-smile.

  “You’re not used to the weather, work, and extra needs here. Until you’re seasoned, I don’t mind helpin’ to keep you alive.” His voice is lighthearted and I stop worrying for the moment. There is too much to learn and figure. If I really think of all the dangers, the changes, the amount of heavy work I am to do, I will panic. Best bit by bit. It’s that or run screaming through the house in a fright, which will likely only bring the wrath of Mrs. Molhurst, the neighbor, which sounds unappealing as well.

  Perhaps I should tell the doctor about the babe now, but it seems far too early. I wish to confess my condition to someone, but to tell a man—this stranger—within a day or two of our acquaintance goes against my nature. This entire situation is beyond comprehending. Not only is my widowhood and surprising pregnancy after so many years of barrenness something new, but to be expected to offer the secrets of my life without history or relationship is beyond my ability. The words are nearly impossible. I must adjust, I know, and eventually spit out the details of my health. I just simply cannot. Not yet.

  After some silence, I venture, “Where might I find seeds for the garden?”

  “Kate,” he answers between bites. “And you ought to get your cloth from her, too. Make yourself a serviceable dress or two and a good bonnet.”

  I nod, then glance about the kitchen. “Where do we get milk and cheese?”

  “The Brinkleys. We trade services and goods. It’s how they’re payin’ for my help with the new babby, but otherwise, they’re the family that supplies most of us ’round here with dairy.”

  “That reminds me, I’ve made enough food for us and them. Might I take some over today for their supper tonight?” I ask. He gives me a true smile with his eyes crinkled, half-moons. I smile back despite myself.

  “Alice’ll be grateful. I’m headin’ to them next; why don’t you come along and meet them. You can head to the general from there.”

  I agree, and we companionably clean the dishes together while I ask him what plants he would suggest I try in the garden. His aunt had squashes, cucumbers, dill, herbs, carrots, beans, and potatoes. I wonder about tomatoes, and he approves my idea to try them. I’m heartened by his encouragement.

  We walk out together for the Brinkley’s place. He courteously opens the screen door for me, and I recall the gentlemanly way Henry had treated me. I am surprised to think of him with such nostalgia. He was not a passionate man, nor a very expressive one, but he had been polite, careful, and respectful of me. He had been very grateful to find a bride he could talk to and could easily take to gatherings. Unlike Doctor Kinney, Henry was not one to remain a bachelor.

  “How long were ye married, Mrs. Weber?” the doctor asks sociably, and I try not to start. It’s as if he is reading my mind.

  I want to brush off his questions. They’re very forward. But we’re not in Boston and, apparently, the months of niceties do not pass here before people move into personal questions. I should not be surprised by this, especially given the prying way Kate asked questions of me yesterday. I’m so wrapped up in organizing my new life, battling the dirt, adjusting to the frightening place I must sleep, and fighting nausea, that I keep forgetting t
he people are different here.

  Was it only yesterday I arrived? How strange. I am more overwhelmed than I realize.

  I try to open myself, speak calmly, and answer my employer as truthfully as I can. “I was married almost four years. My mother was glad. She’d started to worry I would be too old to wed. Well, older than most girls out East, that is,” I admit, offering up more information than I intend in my fluster.

  “No children?”

  “No. It was...difficult...for Hen...for us.” I pause, then decide to give him a broader picture of my marriage. “Mr. Weber had health issues.” I answer without thought, forgetting for a moment that I am pregnant, and by the time I speak, the moment for confessing is gone.

  I think he is going to ask more questions of me, but we draw up on the farm, and the doctor turns and hails some of the men in the fields. I should remember to ask him about himself, and of the photographs in his bedroom to repay him his interest in me. Besides, it will be good to understand my employer to properly manage his home.

  The Brinkleys are not far from the town. Their farm is the first on the main road east, visible even from the town square. It is pretty, neat, and obviously successful. I count five homes on the property as we make our way there. Each one has a woman’s touch of a window box, curtains, and painted doors. I can smell the cows, the sheep, and a muddy aroma of land and snow mixed. These are the scents of peacefulness, a familiarity that feels welcoming.

  A few garden plots already sprout tiny green leaves. So, it is possible to start here early! My garden may very well be late by the time the seeds arrive if Kate doesn’t keep packets on hand. I’m not sure I should attend any churches to meet the women and get some of their saved seeds either. I’m not Lutheran or Catholic. Will that matter?