Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  - 5 -

  The Rawleys’ farmhouse was set near the road, constructed of logs, square-cut and sturdy. The barn was nearly twice the size of the house, a looming structure with an oblong coral, a chicken coop, and a pig pen adjacent to its foundation. Stately pines guarded the northern edge of the dooryard, while chickens roamed in their enclosure; it appeared a tidy and pleasant place, similar to what I envisioned when imagining Jacob and Hannah’s homestead. There were three boys climbing on the corral beams as we entered the yard, but they all ceased playing with amusing suddenness, jumping from the fence to watch with open curiosity. It was probably coincidental that they stood in descending height order, like risers on a staircase.

  Grant proved to be a conversational fellow, only months older than Malcolm. He grew more animated as we neared his home, explaining that his family had farmed in Iowa for the past decade, after relocating from Ohio, saving the time his father served in the War.

  “Pa was discharged early on, as he was shot in the hip,” Grant said. “He was lucky, though, gone scarce a year from us. Mama said it was a heaven-sent bullet.”

  Grant had four younger brothers and confessed that his mother longed for female company.

  “All we got for womenfolk other than Ma is the milking cow,” he joked, then immediately asked Malcolm, “Guess what?”

  “What’s that?” Malcolm responded gamely.

  “Ma’s making ice cream!”

  I caught Sawyer’s eye as he smiled, both of us thinking that Malcolm had found a kindred soul.

  The lady of the house came outside into the sunny day before Sawyer halted the wagon. I elected to ride beside him on the wagon seat, dressed properly, as so to avoid shocking her, though my initial impression suggested that she was not one easily shocked; she clapped her hands and smiled with welcome, calling, “Visitors! I knew it, I had a feeling this morning, did I not, Grantley?”

  Her voice held the soft, familiar lilt of home, and I was certain that, like me, Sawyer, Boyd, and Malcolm each pictured their own mothers. Mrs. Rawley was a slim, angular woman with dark hair in a braided bun, untying and removing her apron as she walked. Sawyer and Boyd swiftly removed their hats, almost in unison.

  “Who have we here?” she asked, regarding us with genuine warmth.

  Boyd dismounted, hat held to his chest, and bowed formally. I could tell she was charmed.

  “Boyd Brandon Carter, ma’am, of Suttonville, Tennessee,” he said, in his most gentlemanly cadence. “Your good man invited us to dinner, if that suits you. An’ your boy escorted us, forthwith. This here is my dearest friend, Sawyer Davis, his wife an’ my sister, Lorissa, an’ my brother, Malcolm.”

  “Suttonville!” she cried. “Oh, I could have heard it in your voice. My mama was from Suttonville herself, young man.” She offered her hand to Boyd, which he took and lifted politely to his lips. She said, “I am Frances Eugenia Rawley, but you may call me Fannie. How pleased I am to meet you.”

  Malcolm mimicked Boyd, bowing politely, hardly able to contain his exhilaration. He was nearly beside himself at the promise of ice cream and firecrackers, not to mention the troupe of rambunctious-looking boys eager to play. He enthused, “Ma’am, I hear tell that you’s making ice cream!”

  Fannie patted his cheeks and said, “Bless you, son, we are.”

  Any concerns we may have harbored about a less-than-enthusiastic welcome were swept away as quickly as dust by a broom. Fannie Rawley proved as gracious as any Southern hostess from my childhood, hugging each of us as though we were relatives expected for a much-anticipated visit.

  “Newlyweds, I can tell,” she said to Sawyer and me. “May I say, Mr. Davis, I have never beheld such a beauty as your wife. You are indeed a lucky man.”

  Sawyer grinned widely, saying, “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I couldn’t agree more.”

  Fannie appropriated my arm and sent a sharp tone in the direction of the boys, calling, “Come here and meet our guests, for pity’s sake!” To me she clucked, “You’d think they were raised along with the pigs. Boys, all I have are boys!” Indicating Grant, she said, “You’ve met my eldest, named for my daddy, Grantley Belford Catton, God rest him. This young scoundrel here is Miles, and this fellow is my best troublemaker, Silas. There’s my bashful Quinlan yonder, he shan’t venture near just yet, and inside at the window is my youngest, Willie. He’s turning the crank, as you’ll shortly notice. How old are you, son?”

  This question was directed at Malcolm, who replied, “Thirteen, this month.”

  “You shall fit right in with these boys. We may have to keep you here with us. Mrs. Davis, do join me inside. Boys,” and she addressed Boyd and Sawyer with this word, while I bit back a smile, “If you would be so kind as to set out the table and chairs from the barn under the poplar trees, just there? And then do be seated. Miles, fetch two jugs of tea from the root cellar. Silas, fetch Quin and spread out the quilts near the table. We’ll have us a proper picnic once the Yancys arrive.”

  Upon the narrow table in her living space sat a small wooden barrel with a hand-crank, which she explained was the ice cream maker. A boy of perhaps a half-dozen years sat working the handle; he watched with bright-eyed interest as his mother entered with a stranger. A nearby sideboard bulged with food. I saw sliced ham and boiled eggs, two loaves of bread, a crock of creamy butter, jars of preserves, and best of all, two fruit crumbles with crusts so golden and tempting Malcolm’s eyes would undoubtedly grow tear-filled with happiness; mine nearly did.

  “Willie, this is Mrs. Lorissa Davis. She, her good man, and her two brothers have only just arrived to celebrate the Fourth with us,” Fannie said, while I beamed with pleasure at being referred to with Sawyer’s last name attached to my first. She invited, “Mrs. Davis, do have a seat.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” I told the boy, settling upon a chair near him, offering a smile.

  Willie was possessed of curly hair and lively brown eyes, and explained importantly, “I gotta keep cranking this here handle, Mrs. Davis.”

  My smile broadened at his earnest words; I earned one from him, in return. He perched a little closer to me, on the edge of his chair. He could have been Malcolm’s kid brother.

  Fannie lifted the cover on the barrel, peered within, and informed her son, “Your work is well done, sweetheart. Introduce yourself to the men, yonder, and then you may find your brothers and meet young Malcolm,” and Willie burst outside with no further encouragement, while his mother smiled after him.

  “You have fine boys,” I said.

  “Thank you kindly. I wish I could tell you that there shall be more womenfolk to chat with once the Yancys arrive, as they’re our closest neighbors, but Thomas Yancy is a widower. I tell you, I have been attempting to find him a wife for over a year now. He’s two sons, Fallon and Dredd - named for his mother’s family, that one - and they need a woman’s influence. They are as wild as you may imagine.” She did not cease moving as she spoke, gathering a tray of tin cups. “There are few marriageable women in this area, unfortunately for Thomas. The homestead north of ours is also owned by a widower. Crawford is his name, Zeb Crawford. He too lost his wife before he returned from the War, and his boys were killed in action, the entire lot of them. It was a terrible misfortune.”

  I opened my mouth, on the brink of admitting to having lost my own brothers, before frantically stifling this error in judgment; I could not admit, even indirectly, that Boyd and Malcolm were not truly my kin. Instead, I asked the first question that scrambled to mind, “Will Mr. Crawford join us, as well?”

  I did not believe I was imagining the suggestion of a shadow that flitted over her features. Unknowingly confirming this, Fannie heaved a small sigh and admitted, “He shall not. I do not much care for the man. Please do not think me an unconscionable gossip, Mrs. Davis, though it has been months since I’ve conversed with another woman. The truth of the matter is, I consider myself a solid judge of character and I do not wish my boys near him. The few occasions w
e have met, there was something about Zeb I found unpleasant. And there was the rumor, last autumn, that he had…”

  My eyebrows lifted in alarm at her tone and the implication of such a pause; though I was not certain I wanted to hear the answer, I asked quietly, “Had what?”

  Fannie lowered her voice and finished, “Burned a dog alive.”

  I had been privy, in my time at Ginny’s, to all manner of despicable tales featuring unscrupulous men, capable of any number of immoral acts, and I was less shocked than she would have known, though the idea of any man treating a living creature with such cruelty turned my stomach.

  “To this day I am not certain if that was simply a tall tale,” she said, saving me from responding. “I would like to believe so. Thomas Yancy served with Zeb in the Fifty-First, and has never expressed undue concerns about him. My own Charley does not share my excessive dislike of the man, and so it may be that I am simply reading too much into the situation.” She offered me a sudden smile and admitted, “It would not be the first time my imagination has captured my senses.” She rolled her eyes at herself, apologizing, “And here I am, chattering up a windstorm at you. Forgive me. Tell me, how long have you been on the trail?”

  She has no idea you used to be a whore. No idea at all. Do not fret.

  I faltered for the faintest flicker before lying, “Since April.” It was a half-truth at best; Sawyer, Boyd, Malcolm, and Angus had begun their journey from Tennessee then, while I joined them, however unexpectedly, later that spring.

  “Oh, how well I remember the spring in Cumberland County. How wonderful that the four of you are from that area. I’ve not been able to successfully grow honeysuckle here, no matter how I try.”

  “It is the best scent in the world,” I agreed, and allowed myself the luxury of relaxing enough to enjoy conversing with a proper woman. It had been so long.

  “Here’s Miles with the tea,” Fannie said, as her son clomped inside bearing two corked, earthenware jugs, the kind in which people back home kept moonshine. “We have plenty of food, do not you worry. Even with the addition of three strapping young men.” She winked at me and directed Miles, “Take those to the table. Mrs. Davis, why don’t you join them and bring these cups, and I shall finish my tasks.”

  “Please, do call me Lorie,” I told her, accepting the tray.

  Sawyer and Boyd were hatless, elbowed up to the table, which was surrounded by four chairs. Silas and Quinlan had spread the quilts, though the boys were not in sight. Miles, after depositing the jugs, scampered off in search of them. I set the tray on the table, moving just beside Sawyer’s chair to do so, and he curled an arm around my hips and drew me briefly against his side. I smiled at this husbandly gesture, bending to kiss his temple. His hairline was damp with sweat.

  “What have you there, Lorie-girl?” Boyd asked. “I’m a-thinking we stumbled onto the best dinner we’s had in a month of Sundays.” With his usual drama, he added, “This makes up for them panthers attacking our camp, wouldn’t y’all agree?”

  “There is fruit crumble within the house,” I confirmed in a whisper, and laughed as this comment elicited small groans from Sawyer and Boyd.

  I poured cups of tea for each of us; the smell of mint rose pleasantly from the liquid. I had just settled into a chair when Fannie appeared in the doorway and called, “Lorie, I do apologize, but would you mind spreading this cloth on the table?”

  “Of course not,” I responded, and hastened to her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “As soon as Charley has returned we shall have our dinner.”

  Boyd lifted the tray and Sawyer the tea while I spread the linen and straightened it with care. No more than a half-hour later Charley returned with two riders, and I helped Fannie cart food to the table; the boys materialized as though conjured by magic once dinner appeared. It turned out that the neighbor’s sons had accompanied Charley; their father would be along later in the evening.

  “Oh, it is so lovely to have a woman here,” Fannie said as we collected dessert from the sideboard. “Any chance you folks would be willing to settle near? I do not speak lightly,” she insisted, as I smiled, almost shyly, at her. “I am so starved for a woman’s company. And now Thomas has put an idea in Charley’s head, that of taking a marshal position. Thomas works as a marshal himself, between Cedar Falls and Iowa City. Both of them served in the Federal Army, so it makes sense, I suppose. I’ve been fretting over it, I’ll not deny.”

  “Iowa City is along our route,” I said, feeling an old twinge of discomfort at the mere word Federal, but I would never dream of letting that show; I was her guest. Following her outside, cradling a delectable-looking blackberry crumble, I said, “I’m given to understand that it’s one of the larger settlements we’ll come across for some time. Perhaps until St. Paul, in Minnesota.”

  “Iowa City is a good five dozen miles northwest, half a week’s ride in the wagon, considerably less on horseback,” Fannie said. “I’ve never been farther north than that. You are on an adventure, my dear, but if I thought for a moment that I could convince you and your good men to settle near, I would,” and I was sincerely heartened at her words.

  Charley carried an additional chair to the table and the five of us chatted as a magenta sun melted downwards along the western curve of the sky. Again I relished the satisfaction of conversing with respectable people, at a dinner table no less, able to draw upon my intellect and education, as I had not in so very long. We spoke of travels, the upcoming election, the Homestead Act; Charley felt certain, as had Angus, that Sawyer and Boyd would be granted eligibility as homesteaders.

  “They are anxious to settle the Northern and Western lands,” Charley said. “The two of you are able-bodied, willing to work and start families, and as such are ideal candidates.”

  “Malcolm may very well be in possession of a great deal of acreage, if they deny us,” Sawyer said, though only half in jest. “He can sign the deeds for us, as he was never a soldier.”

  Boyd snorted a laugh, and Charley said, “Despite the current climate in Washington, there are those in Congress who wish to leave the shadow of War behind, for good.”

  “Such a long shadow was cast,” I said, before considering the depressive nature of the statement; after all, we were here to celebrate the nation’s original independence. I added hastily, “I do not mean to be morbid, but I fear it will take some time to escape its reach.”

  Charley said, “You are correct, but let us allow for the possibility of sun. Perhaps with a change in administration, the escape shall be swifter.”

  “Iowa and Minnesota shall lean towards General Grant this autumn, I am thinking,” Fannie said.

  “I believe Tennessee will give her electoral votes to Grant, as well,” Sawyer acknowledged.

  “He could hardly do worse than Johnson,” Charley said. “Ulysses is no politician, but he is one hell of a leader, which is what this country needs. We shall exist only tentatively at peace without strong leadership.”

  “I fear you’s right,” Boyd said.

  “And certainly part of why you are choosing to relocate,” Fannie acknowledged. “I understand the sentiment.”

  “Tennessee will be the home of our youth, for always,” Boyd said quietly. “An’ my memories of them days’ll always be sweet. But it ain’t home, no more.”

  “Home is where your family resides, and no other,” Fannie said, patting Boyd’s forearm, just to her right, a gesture both tender and maternal; Boyd nodded in half-bashful agreement and I smiled to myself at the sight of such an uncharacteristic flush upon his features.

  “That is the truth,” Sawyer said, laying a hand briefly against my back.

  “I am even tempted to think of the prairie as home, at times,” I admitted. “I have found journeying across it unexpectedly pleasant.”

  Charley said, “When the sun lifts over the fields, come an early morning, there is not a much prettier sight. Especially this time of year.”

  “An adventure,�
�� Fannie said again, and her gaze moved to encompass her boys. She murmured, “Soon enough the wanderlust shall strike them.”

  “The country is expanding westward, in leaps and bounds,” Charley said, with a sigh. “I expect they shall not be easily corralled, give or take five years.”

  The boys, eight in all, ate their fill and began kicking up trouble with one another. I was put in mind of Clairee Carter minding her four sons, plus Sawyer and the twins, once upon a time. Though, Fannie seemed unconcerned at their antics. She and I relocated once dessert was served, claiming a spot to ourselves upon a quilt spread beneath the shade of a sprawling poplar. The mahogany-tinted evening light dusted the sun-warmed earth, arousing in me memories of Tennessee; it was the lilt of a woman’s soft voice, the sounds of horses in the background, and boys roughhousing with one another. If I squinted, letting my vision haze, I could almost imagine I was back at my daddy’s ranch.

  “I haven’t had ice cream since I was a little girl,” I said, as we spooned the treat from small porcelain bowls. I sat with my feet tucked beneath me, my indigo skirt belling and both sleeves rolled to the elbow. My hair had come down from where I’d neatly pinned it, but despite her status a Southern-bred woman, Fannie did not strike me as the sort to be unduly bothered with such details. Her hair also escaped its confines and curled around her face.

  “It is delicious, is it not?” she agreed.

  “And I do thank you for letting us share your celebration so unexpectedly,” I added. “Truly. It’s very generous of you.”

  “I appreciate the company, do not fret yourself a moment,” she said. “I love to hear your Tennessee voices and recall my youth.”

  “My childhood home lay just outside Lafayette, in the valley near Lake Royal,” I told her. “Before the War.”

  “Lafayette, such pretty country there. You’ll find the North beautiful in its own way, though I do long for the red dirt roads and the pawpaw trees. There’s nothing like that here. But I’ve grown fond of it, after all these years.” She licked her spoon. “Though you must be prepared for the winters. Into Minnesota, even more so.”