Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

“It’s not that I do not want to meet them all,” I explain. “It was Doctor Kinney, thinking I needed to sleep elsewhere so that you would not need to bother.”

  Her face softens, and she glances at the doctor before sinking to her knees beside me.

  “Stay, Dowanhowee. The house is open for you. I’ll stay here with my family tonight. It is our old place, a place of the ancestors, and they tell me it will be the last time. You will be able to sleep without interruption.”

  I am very relieved there is no need to ask Kate for charity tonight. “Thank you. Tell me, though, please, what was that you called me?”

  Her eyes laugh, and she nods to her brother and nephews. “They’ve given you a Sihasapa name, Jane. You made an immediate impression when you spoke.”

  “I suppose I should thank them?”

  “No need. Now, to serve the food.”

  The woman releases my hand, and I rise to help Widow Hawks and others serve a meal. We offer her family native cooking, and I do not know what I am doling out in mismatched cutlery, but it smells delicious. The doctor asks to have some too, even though we just recently finished supper.

  “I did not know you liked this type of cooking,” I say, as I ladle fragrant beans. He sits with the men in a separate circle.

  “You forget, Mrs. Weber, that when I first arrived, this is all I was served in the Davies’ home. It’s a treat to get it now. Like this ağúyapi.” He lifts a piece of fried bread.

  I cannot help but admit to him, a bit proudly, “They’ve apparently given me an Indian name.”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t ask me to pronounce it!”

  He glances around, announcing he will find out so he can call me by it, but I know he is teasing.

  “Do they not have a name for you?” I ask. He nods around a mouthful.

  “They do indeed, though I earned the most recent one only three or so years ago, when they figured I was not goin’ to marry. I am called Takoda now. Friend-To-Everyone. Though before that I was simply Pehiŋ Akáŋ Lúta. Red-On-The-Surface-Hair.”

  “Oh,” I reply, glancing at his dark head. “But you’re not much of a redhead.”

  He laughs. “That’s what I said, too. I guess the sun hit it just right the first time I met them all.”

  Once everyone is served, I join Widow Hawks. She oversees the cornbread finishing in the fire.

  As I watch the bread brown, I finally ask, “What is your full name?”

  She gives me a sideways glance full of bewilderment, and I amend my question. “Everyone in town calls you Widow Hawks, but I know you did not marry Percy with such a name.”

  “My name, when I met Percy, was Flies-With-Hawks. Or just Čatán, for Hawk, because my mind always seemed to be soaring in the heavens with the birds, thinking up fanciful futures for myself. It was an apt name, and I keep it to this day. Now I will think of it as a way to watch over my family from a distance.”

  I frown, unable to catch her meaning. “Won’t they come again next summer?”

  She shakes her head, and I see sadness stretch across her broad features, strong and deep.

  “No, Jane. This is the last of it. They will slowly make their way to Fort Buford in Montana, where they will join Sitting Bull’s people. It has been said he is going into the reservation at last. There are no more free People. Hečato weye. It is so.”

  Chapter 17

  31 July 1881

  The next day, I am surprised when Bern meets me on my walk to the doctor’s in the morning. If I see him in the early part of the day, he is usually busy with his morning chores at the livery before heading out to the Svendsen ranch.

  “You stayed with the Indians last night?” He is almost accusatory. “I looked for you, but Sadie saw you and the doc leaving to visit with them after supper.”

  “I slept in my usual bed at Widow Hawks’ house. They all slept outside in the hills.” I hope I do not sound too defensive.

  He shakes his head. “When are they leaving?”

  “They didn’t give me their plans. I do not speak their language, you know.” I think guiltily of my newly minted Indian name, but I realize Bern will not think it extraordinary.

  “Well, they should head off. People aren’t happy about them in town to begin. The sooner they go, the less chance for trouble.”

  I lift my chin. “I was told they plan to live on the reservation now. They won’t be back. At least, not next year.” Truthfully, I have no idea what it means for the Sioux to go into the reservation, and I only know the idea inexplicably fills me with sadness. Bern, on the other hand, seems to relax at the news, though he does not respond to it.

  He simply gives me his customary hat brim touch and leaves me at the entry of the doctor’s house.

  Chapter 18

  8 August 1881

  In the hot sweltering heat of August, I slave over the canning jars. Alice wavers next to me, and her little Pete coos happily in a pile of blankets. I have learned to can green beans, and now we are making chutney. So far, with Alice’s help, I am able to do this task without much failure, and the larder is filling nicely for fall. I take the time to write down her instructions as she gives them, so I might do the same next summer too. Her gentle babe gives me hope that I will have time to do this, even with a child of my own to watch over. I harbor a little hope that I might be able to join the Brinkley women for their annual can. If I can get to know Alice’s sisters-in-law, it is possible.

  Alice is generous to give me some of her family jars to use, as well as her time. My gooseberries, currants and raspberries will make good sauces for the winter. The harvest is plenty already, and I plan to salt and dry most fresh foods. As for the chutney, it will be a luxury to have sugary things on hand. The doctor does have a sweet tooth.

  She tells me how to boil each mix long enough without burning so the fruit will store without spoiling. While I did not have a very easy life in Boston, I did not have to worry over the food the same way that I do here. By some luck, kitchen duties come natural to me so that I am not daunted by food tasks, but rather enjoy them. As for everything else in the Dakotas, there is no guarantee I’ll do right, or succeed, or even know the best action.

  Yesterday I was supposed to help the doctor with an emergency bullet removal at the Main Inn. No one would say exactly how the farmer ended up with a lead ball in his leg, and the blood was horrible, dousing the linen on the operating table a deep, thick ruby. I had no idea what to do, and the doctor ended up nearly shouting at me. I’d handed him the wrong instruments most of the time, completely failed at keeping my stomach at the sight of all the blood and exposed meat of the man’s leg, and couldn’t even manage a proper dressing of the finished, sewed wound. Doctor Kinney had been very short with me last night. It seems he considered those activities basic nursing, and I failed even that.

  “And then you do the rest of the steps once more,” Alice explains, encouraging me with the simplicity of the task as we pack another jar nearly to the brim. “Just like the others.”

  She watches me put the jars in boiling water and nods with approval. I feel closer to her more and more, now that I reach the middle of my pregnancy. It’s only just becoming obvious. No one has said anything to me directly, though I’m sure there’s speculation, and I have no notion how to head it off. I do not think Kate will be very sympathetic. Alice, the dear that she is, has only been as encouraging about my situation as she is about my canning ability. At least there is one person in Flats Junction who believes I can do something right.

  “Alice,” I ask, as we watch the jars heat underwater, “how are you getting along with Mitch’s family since your birth?”

  “Oh!” She smiles happily. “Fine, now that Mitch has been back at the fields all summer. I know they were not happy with us taking time away from planting, but it was so wonderful to have him around to help for a few days, and to have him bond with little Petey.”

  “I can only imagine how much Mitch enjoyed his time with his b
oy,” I say, and try not to wonder at the man’s strange behavior. It is an odd man who will put his child before the fields, even for a few days. I still cannot fathom his reasoning, but the little one is most definitely dear to me, too, if only because I treasure his mother’s friendship deeply. There is not much time with the harvest coming to fondle and dandle babies on one’s knee, but he’s a smiley lad who is easily entertained. I wonder if all babes are so. Theodore’s personality is very shadowy in my memory. I will not know if the child will be like him or no.

  As we stand over the stove, I feel a twinge in my lower abdomen. It is light, fanciful, and I think, at first, I only imagine it. We eat a lunch of leftover gooseberries and plums Alice brought from her family’s orchard, and continue with the canning. In the soft heat of the kitchen, little Pete falls peacefully asleep in his blankets.

  I wince again. I have no way to know if there is pain as a child grows, or if it is how a babe moves in the womb. But the twist is sharp and low. I bend over a little as it pierces my stomach.

  Alice looks at me strangely. “Jane. Are you alright?”

  I start to nod yes, but then realize it is a lie. “No. I don’t believe so. I’m sorry, Alice, but I need you to go ask for Doctor Kinney at the general, or have someone send him here. Just say . . . if he can find time to stop between his patients . . . it would be good. Or tell Kate—or Horeb and Gil—or possibly Nancy—she sees everyone at the post office—anyone who might chance to see him.” I refrain from telling her how scared I feel. With all my rough, hard work, my body has yet to fail me. Will this change now too?

  Alice’s face is white. Without another word, she goes to gather up her sweetly sleeping child. Her eyes are big as she turns to me at the kitchen door.

  “It’s not good to have pains so early, Jane. Are you sure you’ll be all right for a bit? Perhaps get off your feet.”

  I wave her away. Early? Indeed. Alice—everyone—thinks I am close to eight months pregnant, and I have taken to wearing the yellow dress with the seams out, so I look bigger than I am. What I am really? Not even a full seven months. I know exactly the week I conceived toward the end of January.

  It is early to have cramps, this much I understand. It might be something normal, but in my ignorance, I cannot diagnose myself. And I only will trust the doctor’s word. Trust? Since when have I started to trust a doctor so completely?

  A stab of freezing doubt hits me hard, just as the throb turns into a constant ache. Every day, I battle the elements, the harsh work, the laboring chores. That alone is fearsome. This is different. I am frightened, desperately so, and all I want is the doctor to come home. I don’t feel well. I feel dizzy, nauseated, and sweaty.

  I decide, in the time to spare waiting for the doctor, to start on supper. Anything to help take my mind off the pulsing pushing inside my body. Using most of the vegetables we have not put in canning jars, I boil them, add herbs and butter, and then begin the soup.

  It’s no use distracting myself. The pains start to come regularly, and I feel fluid run through my clothes. I am afraid to look, but finally realize I will need to wear some rags.

  In the laboratory, I find a few clean operating cloths. I take one and go to the upstairs washroom to take care of any little stain.

  It is not a light smear of blood. Even in the dim light of the bathroom, I see it is quite dark, and there is more than I thought. I have already ruined my petticoats. Nothing can be done. I’ll have to soak them a long time to try to remove the stains. I wrap the laboratory towel around my middle under my dress, and head back to the kitchen, where the haphazard soup is starting to simmer.

  I do not know how long I stand at the stove. Time seems to lose meaning as I endure another contraction, sinking into my worries, afraid to sit lest I ruin one of my few dresses with the blood I can feel seeping through the cloths. I pray the rag holds the gushes in, and I am not such a disaster as I feel.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” The thick Irish swear booms through the kitchen. I turn around and see the doctor standing in the doorway. His eyes are wild, his hands hanging limply at his sides. He stares at the floor, and I look down hazily to see tiny pools of blood at my feet.

  “Mrs. Weber!” He suddenly springs into action, striding across the room as he talks, bending swifter than I would have thought him capable, and picks me up as if I am not a grown woman with a mind of my own.

  “The soup!” I manage lightly.

  “To hell with the soup,” he growls, and marches sideways up the stairs to his aunt’s bedroom. I wrap my arms around his neck to keep from slipping from his arms. “How long have you been bleedin’?”

  “I . . .” I try to think. “Perhaps an hour or two. Three? Did Alice not send for you?”

  “No! I was comin’ home early. Thought to help you tonight and give you a bit of a rest as I know you’re comin’ into your time.”

  I try to answer, but I cannot because I must breathe through another bout of cramping.

  “Did you lose the babe?” His brogue is more pronounced, and he is all business, lying me down, bunching up the sheets below my hips. I shake my head negative, though he is not looking, and is too busy removing my boots and socks. I finally register that he plans to half undress me for an examination.

  “Wait!” I struggle to my elbows. “Surely there’s no need . . . a midwife?”

  “I am the midwife,” he says flatly.

  “But—”

  “Mrs. Weber.” He looks at me finally, holding my stocking foot, and ignoring my protests. “Did you lose the child?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Yet,” I whisper. I expect to start to cry when I admit it, but I do not. This child is such an enigma, a babe that might grow up the spitting image of its father, to remind me always of my lusty moments of weakness and a man I barely know. It is a child unlooked for, unexpected, and brushed aside by my shame and my new daily hardships.

  “I have to examine you. I’ll gather instruments and send one of the neighbors for Widow Hawks to help you undress. Can you remove your petticoats?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He leaves the room. I sit up and hike up my skirts so I can shimmy out of the stockings. The rags I’d clipped to staunch the blood are drenched in hot, dark, red-black congealed tissue. I give a small cry, realizing that all of my underskirts are, regardless of my efforts, destroyed. And the amount of blood makes me cry out.

  The doctor must not have gone immediately for the neighbors. He bolts up the stairs and back into the room when I make a noise. He stops short, his eyes taking in the utterly soaked cloths at my feet. Another contraction seizes. I hold my breath, terrified about what I ought to let my body do, and double over against the effort of trying to stay upright. As the pain hits, a stream of blood pours out from under my dress, unstoppable, deep red, and sweltering. I have not yet let my skirt down, so my naked leg is scandalously in view. One look at Doctor Kinney tells me he does not care about my ankles, or the white flesh of my knee. He seems horrified about the blood, and that scares me more than anything else. My heart feels as though it will give out. It’s pounding fast and strong, and I can’t breathe without feeling like I will choke on my own spit.

  “Sweet mother Mary,” he swears again.

  “Stop, please. The pains are not horrible. It cannot be so bad, can it?” I beg him to agree with me. And it is true. While the contractions are strong and push hard in my belly and back, and my womb throbs, it is not unmanageable, and is not excruciating.

  Instead, he reaches and eases me onto the bed, situating more rags beneath my body.

  “I’ve got to look, Mrs. Weber, there’s no waitin’ for it. I’m sorry,” he says. I mutely follow his instructions, uncomfortable and nervous. I did not truly think about what it would mean to birth a child here, let alone miscarry, only that I believe it is safer to try birthing than an abortion. Neither guarantee survival, but one has slightly better odds.

  “There’s still a chance, of course,”
he mutters. “It could just be a wee bit early.”

  “A chance?”

  “You’re what—eight months? A bit more?” He gazes over my stomach with a critical eye. “If I recall correctly?”

  He’s reciting the proper length of time, given what I told him when he’d first asked. But he’s wrong, and I know it. There’s no way this baby will live, if I’m truly giving birth. If the child still lives at all.

  Strange, terrible, guilty relief surges through me, shocking and appalling and utterly wrong. I do not want a baby—mine!—to die! What kind of woman wishes for this? What kind of unfit mother would hope to lose a child? Is that what I am? A failure as a loving wife, a failure as a housekeeper, a hopeless trial of a nurse, and now unable to be a mother?

  God save me.

  But if this is a miscarriage, it will set me free from the constraints laced around my life. It’s a repulsive notion, horrifying in its own tantalizing and yet outrageously compelling way.

  And if the child does not come, and lives?

  Then I must endeavor not to fail at motherhood.

  The doctor bends over my bare legs, and a new reality hits all too clear. Doctor Kinney, my employer, will be delivering my baby, and seeing me in all states of undress. How improper! I should have a different doctor! Another contraction hits, and I gasp through it, all thoughts fleeing.

  He looks up in concern, then rustles at my midsection while I concentrate on the ceiling and at the Catholic cross on the wall, pretending to ignore his rummaging along my inner thigh and quick, thankfully gentle, probing. Then he is at my side, standing over me, wiping down his slick, bloody hands.

  “You’re deliverin’ the babe,” he says, all matter of fact. “It’s early but there’s a good chance you’ll do fine and the child can live.”

  “Well, that’s that, then.” I try to stay light, because he still seems so upset. He shakes his head.

  “It’s a lot of blood for a delivery. I’ve got to watch it. But first, I’ll go have someone fetch Widow Hawks.”