by Sara Dahmen
“You danced with Bern nearly all night.” It is more an accusation than a statement, and I try to shush him. His skin is flushed in the soft yellow lantern lights, and, like all of us, he is sweating in the night heat, though it smells more like booze than anything natural.
“He is the only one who asks much,” I say, placating and reasonable. The doctor gives an annoyed shrug.
“He’s not who I would have chosen as your beau.”
That he has an opinion at all is slightly surprising, though I suppose the doctor would take an interest in the man who might steal away his new housekeeper.
“I wanted to thank you for the salve for my hands,” I redirect his thoughts. “I’m sure it will help.”
“Oh, you found that, did you?” He smiles absently. “Good, good.”
I’d like to say how I found his thoughtfulness especially touching, and how his little label buries itself in my mind, but he grouses again about the heat and the lack of sweets at the food tables, and his attitude breaks the moment.
Thankfully, our dance is short, and I am in Bern’s arms again for the last three songs. I watch the doctor out of the corner of my eye. He dances once more with Kate, then joins the cowboys still tipping back the jugs.
The music stops a bit after ten o’clock. Mitch Brinkley appears at my elbow.
“Pardon, Mrs. Weber. The doc’s done his annual enjoyment of the whiskey. I’ll help you take him home.”
I follow his glance, and I am dismayed. The doctor sprawls with the worst of them. He looks in no shape to walk the short distance home without aid. I doubt he can even stand. The cowboys are singing a silly tune now that the musicians have stopped the music, and I blush when I hear the nature of the song. It includes a lady’s skirt, and something about her bosom. One of the Army officers seems to be the leader of the bawdy ballad, his arm rotating in lazy circles a step behind the beat.
“That’s enough, then.” Bern takes charge at my silence. He and Mitch extract the doctor from the group. Slinging one arm around each of their shoulders and sandwiched between them, the doctor stumbles and starts toward his house.
I follow, uncertain what to do. I feel it is my place to see him settled. A shadow steps next to me. It is Widow Hawks.
“Every year he does this,” she says quietly. “I am usually the nursemaid.”
“I’ll do it this time,” I say.
She gives her head a little shake.
“I can do it,” I insist. “I’m not too tired.”
“It’s not that, Jane,” she says gently. “I’m only thinking of your reputation.”
“My—” I stop. My pregnancy might not show, but it will not do to spend a night alone in the doctor’s house. She is right.
“I’ll let you take care of him, if you feel it is your duty,” she continues. “But I’ll spend the night too, like I always do each year.”
As our group ascends the two steps of Doctor Kinney’s porch, I open the door. Bern and Mitch haul the slurring doctor up the stairs to his bed. He collapses, but is still awake, trying to put two sentences together. He is disheveled and ridiculous. Oddly, I am more worried than upset. I did not expect this of him.
“Alright then?” Bern looks at me. I glance at the bed, where Doctor Kinney now mindlessly hums an Irish ditty.
“Widow Hawks and I will manage from here,” I say, sounding more confident than I feel. He nods tightly and does not look at the older woman as he and Mitch leave the room and clamber down the stairs. Widow Hawks and I wait quietly until the screen door slams.
“That was kind of Bern,” she mentions.
“Doesn’t he typically help around town?”
She slides a glance my way. “No. Courting you has changed him.”
“I see.” I hope I do.
“I’ll bring up a few cool cloths," she says into my uncomfortable shift. “In the meantime, why don’t you take off his boots?”
I look at the doctor. The last time I was alone with a helpless man was when Henry lived. He was, in the end, too weak to manage much for himself, and I was a capable helper. I suppose I can draw on that strength, though for some reason, the alcohol is more unsettling than cancer. At least Henry had always had his wits about him, until sleep had become all he could manage.
Drawing up to the bed, I untie the laces and take off the heavy, dusty, well-worn shoes. He starts to sing again, watching with bleary eyes. It is a tune about a girl with lovely eyes and ample hips. I try not to listen. Then the song switches again, his voice slurring and thick.
I met a girl last summer
with beauty in her eyes
and in this song we call life
we seemed to harmonize
And though I didn't know it
my luck began to slide
it was getting closer to the day
when I'd be tied and dried
“Jane, here’s towels. And some water, too.” Widow Hawks returns. He quiets and closes his eyes. I wonder how much the room is spinning for him, or if he will even remember how we help him now. I hope he really only does this the one time a year, and I do not have to expect a repeat at Christmas.
Widow Hawks heads downstairs again to make tea. I turn to Doctor Kinney, now half-propped up in his rumpled bed, watching me with a small smile on his face. Well, at least he is not an angry or mean drunkard! It could be worse.
“Mrs. Weber,” he says sluggishly, his brogue muddled. “Beautiful—”
“Drink this,” I say, and hand him the water.
“Beautiful,” he says again, and dutifully guzzles. “Kate. Kate seemed to enjoy dancin’ with me.”
“I noticed,” I say shortly, and remove his stockings. I gently press his shoulder back. “Lay down now. How do you feel?”
“I feel fine,” he says, slurring the last word. “How are you feelin’, sweet mother?” His hand comes up, and he haphazardly rubs my arm.
I take his fingers and hold them in both of mine. “I am fine, Doctor. Don’t you worry about me.”
“But I do!” he insists, and he tries to sit up again. I can smell the booze reeking through his every pore. “I don’t want you workin’ too hard.”
“I’m not working now. Lay down,” I plead, squeezing his fingers. I free a hand from his and place a cool, damp towel on his sweating forehead. “Tell me about Kate. Did you like dancing with her, too?”
He gives a broad smile. “Oh, aye. Aye. She’s just lovely, a special woman. Do you know I was a bit taken with her when I stayed with her parents? Before I had the house. I know some of the men around here won’t look twice at her because she’s half Sioux, and if she didn’t have the general they’d probably want her out of town too . . . but I don’t mind. I was an outcast in Boston as a child, bein’ Irish. We’re kindred spirits, Kate and I.”
“Of course,” I soothe. “A man would be lucky to have her as his wife.”
“He would. A battle for his children, though, with native blood. And Mrs. Weber,” he says, and twists to look up at me. “Always wanted to fill up the rooms with little ones.” He gets a bit teary at this comment, so I think it’s wise to have him drink a bit more water.
“You need something else to sober you up.”
“I’m soberin’,” he insists, but his words are still fuddled. I shake my head at him, and rise from the side of the bed, but he grips me close. “Mrs. Weber, are you leavin’ already?”
“Just wait here, I’ll be back in a moment.”
“I’ll wait.” His eyes pierce mine, clear and blue. I frown, shaking the quiver of uncertainty flashing through my chest, and leave the room.
He is soundly asleep when I come back up with the water. Setting the glass on the table, I pull the chair closer to the bed to keep watch in case he needs something else, or, worse, wakes to empty his stomach. But I am well tired, and nod off almost immediately.
Chapter 12
5 July 1881
“Mrs. Weber.”
I wake to a hand taking mine. The
bandages are dirty. I’ve forgotten to re-wrap them after the activities of the Fourth, but at least the stinging is gone, and the blisters itch inside the linen. I’ll take the itching over the pain.
Blinking in the early morning light, Doctor Kinney sits up on his bed, still in rumpled clothes, but looking rather well for his rough night. His lips are dry and he still smells like old booze, but he seems clearheaded enough.
“Are you alright?” I ask, relieved he appears somewhat recovered.
“Aye, I am, though a bit tired,” he admits. “But I am appalled you stayed on.”
“Widow Hawks is below. I think she slept on the floor in the kitchen,” I say, but he shakes his head.
“Not that. Damn the properness. It’s that you slept in the chair. You, pregnant.” He pulls me up. “You must get some proper rest. I’d be a poor physician if I didn’t insist. Here.” He takes me across the hall to his aunt’s room.
“But breakfast,” I protest. “And at least the coffee.”
“I managed before you came to Flats Junction. And though I prefer your brew over mine, I can take on the kitchen for a day,” he says lightly. “Here you be.”
He nearly forces me onto the bed, and draws the thin, patched curtain over the window. I sit and watch. I am exhausted, but also unsure about my employer’s insistences.
“I can go down.”
He gives me a stern look. “If you’re so worried on my abilities in the kitchen, I’ll ask Widow Hawks to help. Rest. You must. I couldn’t let you work for me this mornin’ after you stayed up until the early hours to manage my annual abandon. Please, Mrs. Weber.”
It’s no use arguing, and I am very tired. I lay down and close my eyes. The soft mattress feels like heaven. I have not been on a real mattress since Massachusetts. The doctor hasn’t even left the room before I am asleep.
Chapter 13
5 July 1881
A plate rattles against cutlery, and I stir awake. It takes a moment to realize where I am. The light is bright and clean and yellow in his aunt’s bedroom. The curtain does little to hide the midday sun.
“Widow Hawks made some jacks.” The doctor balances a plate and a glass of milk on one of the slabs of wood I use for a tray.
“You’ve eaten, then?” I ask, sitting up. “I can certainly eat downstairs.”
“Too late, brought it all up already.” He hands me the plate piled high with the pancakes, cheese, bread, and tomatoes.
He goes to his room, comes back with the chair, and draws it next to me. I eat easily; it’s good, more so because I did not have to make it. The bread is soft on the inside yet, and there is butter on some of the slices, which I eat first. There is sheep’s milk cheese, soft and tangy.
“Mrs. Weber, I . . .” He stops and gives me a hopeful look. “I hope I did not say anythin’ last night that offended you.”
I finish my bite and wave his comment away. Swallowing, I say, “You were a gentleman.”
“I highly doubt that,” he says, looking guilty. “I apologize you had to see me like that.”
“You said it was your annual abandon,” I remind him. “I cannot blame a man for indulging once or twice a year.”
“You don’t blame it on me because I’m Irish?” he asks candidly.
I frown. The thought had not occurred to me, and I shake my head. “I’ve lived among many Irish and most were not drunkards.”
Am I unique in my lack of prejudice? Intolerance seems to always simmer beneath surfaces, but it’s never been a thing to affect me directly. Henry had had opinions, and my father as well. But I’d always preferred to research before landing on a final decision. If pressed, I’d usually say I could not form an opinion without further inquiry. It had frustrated Henry to no end after we married. Stop considering and just do! Decide! Do you not have a final opinion, Jane? He’d say such things in frosty frustration when I’d debate over anything. I learned to hide my mind and questions from my husband, same as most of my society.
The doctor does not seem to immediately jump to conclusions or prejudice either. I suppose he had to handle many in the East who did not have a kindness for his heritage, just as the people in the West do not care for the natives.
“Doctor Kinney, I’ve been wondering about your accent,” I tell him suddenly, the thought coming with my reflections on the Irish of Boston. “You say you’re Irish, and your name certainly is so. But you sound different.”
“Aye. Scots-Irish,” he agrees. “It’s a reflection of my childhood. My great-aunt’s employer, Andrew McClure, was from Ulster. You know the difference?”
I shake my head negative, and he gives me a small smile, leaning his elbows onto his knees and twirling a finger to remind me to keep eating as he talks.
“Many in Ulster have some Scottish blood. Back, oh . . . near three hundred years ago, the local chief in the north of Ireland, Conn O’Neill, gave large tracts of land to two Scotsmen in return for savin’ his life. Over time, those Scotsmen brought over many of their kin to work the land of Ireland, bringin’ with them their own version of Gaelic and customs. Of course, you can’t stop a boy and girl from fallin’ in love and many an Irishman married a Scottish lass, or the other way ’round, and there you have it. It didn’t help when anyone comin’ over from Ireland or Scotland in the Famine years were grouped together by the Americans who couldn’t always tell the difference in accents, either.”
I settle back against the headboard. “You’re good at little history lessons.”
He grins and sits up straight. “Anyway, you might say Mr. McClure rubbed off overmuch on me. I always did want to be like him when I was a wee boyo. I’m only sorry he never could be part of my adventure into the West.” He grows pensive, then looks at me hard, his face suddenly unreadable.
“Mrs. Weber. Your husband. He died when?”
I gulp down the milk too quickly and cough. The doctor automatically thumps me on the back, and I straighten as best I can.
“Midwinter.”
“Ah. And . . . left you little money?”
Heat fills my cheeks. What does my financial position matter? “I sold the house to pay for the business debts he had left, and then closed the doors of the shipping company. I didn’t know enough to keep it running and his business partner had passed already. I had enough for the train ticket here.” And enough to live meanly in Rockport in early penury or with some charity, or to work in a great house with some leisure, or to purchase another ticket back to Massachusetts if I had to. But other than that, I have little to my name. And the bit of money I make whenever the doctor has the cash for my wages goes to Widow Hawks for my use of her home and bed. She takes it resignedly, but I’m glad to pay her.
He nods. “I know the way of it. When Mr. McClure died, after the debts were paid, there was little money left by the way of an inheritance.”
I don’t know what to say to his revelation, and bow my head over the last of the cheese.
“Well, I’m glad I did not say anythin’ inappropriate last night,” he says.
“You mainly talked about Kate and how beautiful she is, and how you liked dancing with her,” I explain.
He looks boyishly sheepish, embarrassed at my words. “I did, eh?”
“You ought to formally court her,” I recommend to him, though I find I do not have much zeal behind the words. I say it because I think it is what he desires, and I want him to have happiness. He is a kind man, and he deserves the children he says he dreams about. He is silent for a minute. We hear Widow Hawks in the kitchen below us, tinkering with the cutlery.
Finally, he sighs. “I am glad you were here,” he says quietly, taking the empty plate from my hands. “It was nice to wake to a friendly face.”
I look up at him and smile. “I agree.”
He stops at the door and glances at my bandages, visibly making a note in his mind, before nodding absently and clattering back downstairs.
Chapter 14
5 July 1881
I manage to
make supper without any mishaps after my nap. Widow Hawks stays with me the whole day. She explains that it is to make sure I am not too tired, but she keeps an eye on Doctor Kinney as if she is waiting for him to relapse or collapse. He does neither, and he seems his usual self through the evening meal.
When I walk out the door with her, Bern is waiting. He is not surprised to see Widow Hawks, but tips his hat only at Doctor Kinney, who has followed us out.
“Thank you for your help last night, Bern,” the doctor says. His voice is neutral.
Bern gives a brief nod. “Yes sir, Doc.”
The three of us walk back through town. Widow Hawks hurries her pace until she is several feet ahead of us, leaving us alone, though we do not have much to say to each other today. I keep my eyes on her back so I do not need to meet Bern’s. I am embarrassed on behalf of the doctor, and nervous because I know Bern is not partial to Widow Hawks. As I gaze at her tall back, she stops suddenly, then almost breaks into a run. She stumbles once over one of the rail ties. The ungainly trip is so unlike her it scares me.
Bern actually crosses the tracks today. When we catch up with Widow Hawks, I see the windows of the house are wide open, the hides and calico ripped away, and the door itself is hacked to pieces, as if hundreds of hammers or a dozen small axes were used to utterly damage the wood. It is irreparable.
The entire outside of the house has been vandalized.
“Oh no,” I breathe. Widow Hawks hurries inside to see if the vandals ventured inside, but I stand, flabbergasted, with a silent Bern.
“Did you know of this?” I ask him, thinking he might have a pulse on the townsfolk. Would he know who might do this cruelty? If he does, will he even tell me?
