Amethyst

by Lauraine Snelling

  He was sitting at the table working on his first cup of coffee when she walked back in the door. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning to you too. Breakfast will be ready in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  “I stirred the mush.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was in mighty good humor for someone who’d been yelling at her in the middle of the night.

  “You bring in all the supplies by yourself?” He held up his coffee cup, and she refilled it.

  “No, it had started to rain, so I left everything in the wagon.” Including you. She sliced bread and brought the jam and butter out from the larder to set on the table, then poured the cream from the crock into a pitcher. When she dished up the mush and sat down, he folded his hands, bowed his head, said grace, and started in to eat.

  “Musta been right tired last night. Still had my boots on this mornin’.”

  Colleen poured some of the cream into her coffee and stirred in a bit of sugar. She wasn’t going to comment on that. “We better be thinking on butchering soon.”

  “Art’s goin’ to bring over his two hogs at the first heavy frost. We’ll do ’em together. His missus and the biggest boy’ll come too.”

  “When did you talk to him?”

  Her father frowned, his eyes wrinkling in puzzlement. “Don’t rightly know, but he said so.” He nodded. “You done good yesterday?”

  “Yes, I did. Nothing left to bring home again. Could have sold more butter and eggs. With two cows milking next year, we should do right well. Think I’ll let more of the hens set come spring.”

  “Got more of that mush?”

  She refilled his bowl and sat back down. “I got a letter yesterday, an answer from Melody’s folks. You want to read it?”

  “A’course.”

  She fetched the letter and watched as he picked up his knife to slide under the dab of wax, then realized it was already open. He glanced up at her, but she only smiled back. You were in no shape to read anything. I can’t believe this. It looks to me like you don’t remember a thing that happened. Not waking up in the barn, nothing. Lord, if this is what you meant by let me, I give you all the thanks and praise.

  When he finished reading, he looked up. “You got to go find ’im.”

  “Who will take care of the livestock while I’m gone? And what will I use for a train ticket?” The two questions sounded insurmountable to her. Like a rocky cliff face on a mountain she’d seen in a picture once.

  “I ain’t helpless, ya know. I was milkin’ cows afore I went to school. And I kin cook if need be. You jest find us that boy.”

  “How will I pay for the ticket?”

  “You got money from yesterday.”

  “I paid our bill at the store and bought winter supplies. Paid for them too. Don’t owe a dime now.” She said the last with a bit of pride. She hated owing anyone. Didn’t seem to bother her father none though. And she hadn’t lied to him either—about the money she now had hidden where he’d never find it.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all. What an idjit thing to do. Crawford don’t mind none. Just means we keep comin’ back.” He thought a moment. “We could sell the heifer, I s’pose.”

  “I’m counting on her milk to tide us over when the cow is dry. Then I can sell cottage cheese and butter all through the year. Been thinking on making soft cheese too.”

  “Got to get that boy back here. How much is a ticket?”

  “I have no idea.” She looked at him over the cup rim.

  “You ask at the station. See about if children are cheaper. Only need one way for him.” He twisted from side to side. She knew what was coming. “I sure got a hitch in my side. Think I better be layin’ down fer a spell. Otherwise I’d take one of the horses and ride on back into town.”

  Knowing where he’d end up, she didn’t say anything, not that she had any words that would make a difference anyway. If you hadn’t stole the money from the sugar tin, there might have been enough for the train tickets. But what good would bringing that up do? The money was gone, and now he’d have to figure a way to get money for the tickets if he wanted her to go that badly.

  A week later the weather changed, and the Soderbergs arrived with most of their family and their hired man just after the rooster’s first crow to begin the day’s labors. Colleen had laid the fires under the scalding tank the night before and had lit them first thing after she woke up. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw all the helpers. How she and three men were going to butcher four hogs in one day had been beyond her.

  “Gerry Lynn stayed home to get the little young’uns off to school, and then she’ll be right on over.” Mrs. Soderberg climbed down from the wagon and hefted two baskets of food out of the back, giving her two little ones instructions to stay away from the fire and out of the way of the menfolk.

  “Can I help you?” Colleen hustled out to the wagon, where she saw two more baskets, several crocks, and a meat grinder. “My, you did come prepared.”

  “Wasn’t sure what all you had.” She set her baskets on the kitchen table. “I sure do miss your ma. Life just ain’t been the same since she died.”

  Colleen swallowed the tears that snuck up on her whenever someone mentioned her mother. “Me too. Never a day goes by that I don’t think on something she’d say.”

  “She knew her Bible. That was for sure. Better’n the preacher knows his, I’m thinkin’, at times. But don’t you go tellin’ him I said that.”

  “I never would.” Colleen opened the oven door to check on her baking beans. She’d started them the day before, as soon as they decided to butcher. Baked bread and pies all day too. Took a lot of cooking to feed hungry working men. Her father sprang out of bed when he heard the wagons driving in, grabbing bread and cheese as he went. Never matter that Colleen had been up for hours.

  Colleen kept the scrapers and knives sharpened as they killed one hog at a time, dunking it to scald in the hot water before laying the carcass up on a trestle table and scraping off all the coarse hair. Hanging and gutting followed, and then the carcass was sawed down the backbone and the halves left hanging until the cutting table was cleared of the one before.

  The job Colleen hated the most was cleaning out the intestines and then washing them in salt water so to be ready for stuffing. While she washed, Mrs. Soderberg kept the grinder going, using up every bit of meat. The haunches and rib meat were set in salt water, preliminary to smoking for ham and bacon.

  By the end of the day all four hogs were finished, and so were the workers. Colleen waved good-bye from the porch, arched her back, and kneaded the aches away with her balled fists. What a job that had been. She returned to the kitchen, where two pigs’ heads simmered in her largest pot. When the meat fell off the bones, she would set the kettle to cool and bone it out in the morning. Bay leaf, cloves, and other pickling spices kept together in a cheesecloth bag scented the room, all the flavorings needed for headcheese. Scrubbed pigs’ feet simmered in another kettle. Once cooked, she would remove the hoofs, add vinegar, a bit of sugar, and her secret spice and, after draining the feet, put them in the crock and cover with just enough liquid, then weight them down with a plate. Since Mrs. Soderberg hadn’t wanted the feet from their hogs, Colleen would take some to town at the next market day. Pickled pigs’ feet were especially prized by the local German population.

  She heard the cow beller from the barn. Had her father not gone out to milk? She wiped her hands on her apron and went in search of him. Not in the bedroom, nor in his chair. “Pa?” No answer. Slipping her arms into her chores coat, she checked the springhouse. The bucket waited patiently, as did the egg basket. Muttering under her breath, she grabbed the two handles and headed for the barn.

  She found him sound asleep in the haymow. How long had he been here? When had she seen him last? She knew of but had ignored the flask she’d seen passed around as the day’s work had lengthened. As if the women were supposed to be dumb and blind as well as keeping on wit
hout even a cup of coffee.

  “Pa.” She pushed at him with the handle of the hand-carved pitchfork. While many farmers used the new iron forks, the threepronged one he’d carved who knew how many years ago still suited them. A ready excuse for not spending money they didn’t have on a newfangled fork.

  She prodded him again, less gently this time.

  He sputtered and opened his eyes, then rose up on his elbows, shaking his head. “What in—” Glaring at her, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t a man rest in peace after a day like we just been through?”

  “You’ll rest in peace all right. I thought you’d gone out to milk and do the chores so I could finish up with the hogs.”

  “Now, Colleen, you jist don’t know how weary a man can get, hefting those hogs, scrapin’ and cuttin’. Why, my back . . .”

  Colleen shook her head. “I just hope you were there until the end and didn’t leave your work for the others.” The humiliation of it made her face grow hot.

  “Held on to the last, I did.” He flopped back. “Jist give me a minute or two more, and I’ll…”

  Colleen forked hay down for the cow and climbed back down the ladder. “You can catch your death up there for all I care. I’m not coming back for you.” She milked the cow, threw oats to the chickens, and rubbed two dried ears of corn together so the hens had an extra treat of shelled corn. She’d noticed that when her father fed the hens, he just threw the corncobs on the floor for them to fight over.

  For supper she warmed up what was left of the baked beans and the stew, sliced herself a piece of bread, and instead of eating at the table, sank down into the rocking chair she’d pulled closer to the stove. She set her plate on the reservoir and sipped at her tea. While it was a good thing the temperature was dropping so that none of the meat spoiled, the warmth from the drink felt mighty good down in her belly.

  Should she go get her pa or let him sleep out in the barn? You could at least go throw a horse blanket over him. If he gets chilly enough, he’ll come inside. The argument in her head raged all through her meal. He wouldn’t freeze to death in the haymow. Knowing him, he’d burrow down into the hay without even waking. He’d done so before.

  “Oh, Ma, if only you were still here. Not that I’d want you to leave your heavenly home and return, but…” What can I do about my father? The let me floated through her mind again. Hmm.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Trains tore along at an unbelievable rate.

  Colleen felt as though she needed to hang on to the seat around every corner, and when they crossed a trestle with the river far below, she closed her eyes and covered her mouth to still the shriek she felt rising. The fastest she’d ever traveled was a slow gallop, and that wasn’t even halfway from town to home.

  “How you doing, ma’am?” The conductor stopped beside her, a gentle smile easily showing the carved commas that ridged his dark cheeks. Corkscrews of silver peeked from under the band of his hat.

  “I…ah…fine.” She knew her eyes were round as sugar cookies. “Really.” She sucked in a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

  “Sho you are.” He nodded, his eyes twinkling. “It get easier. Just remember to hang on to the seat backs when you walk the aisles.”

  Since she had taken a seat right behind the ladies’ necessary, she hadn’t had to walk far. And the walls were close together.

  “Thank you.”

  “When we be out of de mountains, it gets easier.”

  She nodded. He might think it easier, but thoughts were relative. She watched him move down the aisle, swaying with the rocking of the train. Rigid as an oak plank would be more the way she described her own movements.

  Rigid was a word she often used to describe her father—especially his opinions. She thought back to their discussion. With December already here, she’d suggested she go west in the spring, but he was adamant—she needed to find Joel now and bring him home in time for Christmas. When she reminded him she needed money for a ticket, he rode into town and returned twenty dollars richer.

  She never asked where he got the money. That along with what she’d hoarded in a flat tin stuffed in her mattress allowed her to buy a round-trip ticket to Medora in Dakotah Territory. She would buy Joel’s ticket after she found him. All she knew was that Medora was located somewhere west of Fargo, which was west of St. Paul in Minnesota. She had found them on a map she studied at the schoolhouse.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. The night before she left for Harrisburg to catch the train, she’d taken the family Bible up to her room and, with a lamp on the bedside table, opened it to read the family history on her mother’s side. Only her father’s parents were included from his side. Beside each of her children’s names her mother had written in her painstakingly precise hand, Deceased and the date. Except for Colleen’s and Patrick’s. And now Patrick was gone too.

  “Ah, Mother, so much death in your life. I don’t know how you managed.” Leaving the front pages, she thumbed through the Bible, stopping here and there to read passages or to admire the pictures. Her mother’s family must have had money to own a Bible like this one. Pictures, maps, fancy capital letters at the chapter heads. She read bits and pieces and, in flipping pages, found a lock of hair in a bit of tissue. Whose? She held the tissue to the light, but the ink on it had faded so as to be illegible. Several ribbons marked pages, and she read carefully to see what had caught a reader’s fancy some time before. Psalm 23, Psalm 139, Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, Paul’s letter to the Philippians. She turned the last page, and the light caught two round ridges in the back cover. She smoothed the circles with the tip of her finger, figuring something round had indented the heavy paper lining the leather cover.

  Something round and hard lay under the backing. Using a darning needle from her sewing basket, she lifted the paper with great care. How had no one else found this? Did no one ever read the Bible? She pulled out a paper-wrapped packet and laid it on the table, folding back one side of the paper to expose half of two gold coins. As if lifting the Holy Grail, she folded back the remaining paper to reveal two twenty-dollar gold pieces. Her breath caught in her throat. Who? Why? She picked up one of the coins and bit down on it. Her slight teeth marks proved what she thought. Gold, real gold.

  When she lifted both coins from the paper, she saw the writing underneath. For you, my daughter, for when you are desperate. Your loving mother. Colleen lifted the paper closer to the light. It was indeed her own mother’s handwriting. When had she come upon such largess or, most likely, how had she scrimped and hoarded to amass such a fortune?

  One thing for certain, her father had never searched the family Bible. And while he confessed to being a believer, one would not discern such faith by his actions.

  Colleen had taken the Bible with her and sewed the coins into the hem of her heavy black wool coat. The coat was so heavy that the extra weight would not be noticed if someone picked it up. The same coat was now her blanket on this journey west.

  She kept herself from fingering the coins for fear of drawing attention to them. What wealth. More than enough to buy a ticket back for Joel, for she doubted that her father would find the money to buy the boy a ticket and send it to her in Medora.

  Once they left the mountains, the trip was indeed more comfortable, just as the conductor had assured her. She looked with delight out the windows at the passing scenery—bare trees, lakes rimmed with ice, sleeping fields and smoke rising from chimneys on farms and in villages. Since she had never traveled farther from her home than Smithville, where she sold her wares and attended church, the expanse of the country was a constant awe to her.

  The power and heat of the steel plants in Pittsburgh hinted at the fires of hell. The black soot that hung in the air assured her of it. How could people live and work in such a place? Changing trains set her heart to pounding while the smoke brought on a coughing fit. When she was finally on the correct train heading west—she’d checked her ticket severa
l times and asked the conductor to make sure she was on the right train—she could breathe freely again. Rationing the food she’d brought in her basket made her stomach growl in resentment, but the fear of running out of money before she returned home made her drink more coffee from the pot on the heating stove in the middle of the car.

  She knit her way through the tenements of Chicago, anything to distract her from the squalor she’d read about but could barely believe even when she saw it: a woman in rags standing on an iron stair of the third floor of a brick building, smoking a cigarillo, a small boy at her feet, with not enough railing to keep the child from falling to his death. A line of raggedy clothing looped from the railing, behind which the woman stood talking to another.

  A woman smoking. Ishda. Colleen wanted to scream out the window. Take care of that child; you are fortunate to have one. But if the window did indeed open, she’d not let the frigid air in. Snow on roofs and icicles hanging spoke to the cold. The stockyards had seemed to go on for miles, myriads of cattle, some with horns, some not, in a patchwork of corrals with a stench strong enough to permeate the train.

  At the train station she ordered a bowl of soup at the counter that served lines of travelers. Shaking her head over the exorbitant price, she took her plate with bowl and a slice of bread over to one of the tables. A man stepped back and bumped her arm, sloshing her soup.

  “Oh, excuse me, ma’am.” He eyed her hat, which was, as usual, fighting the battle to be free of her hatpins, and smiled. “I hope that wasn’t so hot as to burn you.”

  “No, no. Not at all.” She set her plate on the table and used the napkin to mop her gloved thumb. “Just messy.”

  “I am sorry.” He tipped his hat and strode off. Other than the conductor, he was the first person to speak to her in three days.

  She ate her hearty bean soup, the smell of ham and beans reminding her of the smokehouse at home. Was her father keeping the fires stoked? Had he fed the livestock? Of course he had. While he was inclined to laziness, he would not hurt the animals that provided their livelihood—would he? A pang of homesickness caused her to choke on her soup. Tears burned behind her eyes, so she had to blow her nose in one of the handkerchiefs she’d hemmed herself. How quickly would she be able to reach Medora, find Joel, and head back home? She listened to the voice announcing the trains that were loading and departing. When she heard the voice call for Minneapolis/St. Paul, she quickly finished her soup and tucked the bread into her carpetbag to eat later.