Delivering Virtue

by Brian Kindall

  “Well,” I muttered, and peered directly at a catalpa blossom that had fallen to the ground. “You people certainly do think ahead.”

  WISDOM IS A CURIOUS commodity, and bashful, too; it so often flees the scene in the moment of its greatest need.

  A wiser man would have laughed at this good Mormonesque joke presented so strategically by Thurman and his dreary brethren. He would have handed over the babe, tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and walked as quickly as he could to the nearest saloon for a tall glass of stupor. A wiser man might have stopped to weigh the practicalities of the situation. Maybe it was the effect of the heat, but somehow those selfsame practicalities got all twisted and reversed and turned updown sideways in the void of my wisdom-washed brain. Or maybe it was Virtue’s eyes watching me that did it. She possessed a subtle power that was already entangling my heart. My deepest most motherly parts were unwilling to give her up to just any Thomas, Richard, or Nehi. Not that my reputation was so spotless in such matters, but whom else, besides myself, could I trust with her fragile purity? Honestly, I could not say clearly what I was thinking. My good sense seemed muddied with a hearty dash of brazen foolishness.

  All that aside, I ultimately told myself, Rain, you are most surely bust, and without much to recommend you otherwise. Thirty thousand dollars is an opportunity not to be taken lightly.

  Besides, I had an obligation to Dallon. I knew he was courting a young lady in St. Louis, and needed every asset he could muster to impress her. I have always felt irrationally obliged to do my part for the cause of love, although, undeniably, it did seem my partner had not been forthcoming on the somewhat irregular details of this particular assignment. But mostly, as Solomon once so wisely warned all men, it was finally and indisputably vanity that was to be my undoing. Vanity, vanity, sayeth the preacher – that great submerger of acumen.

  I had become increasingly disillusioned with life in the last few years, poured out and empty, and not much given to the magic of my existence. I was growing old before my time to grow old had arrived, inhabiting, one might say, those bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. And so when Thurman and his flock suggested that I might be integral in some sort of cosmic prophecy, I eagerly and shamelessly licked his hairy hand while awaiting his next command. For who does not secretly feel that he is destined for greatness, if only greatness will take the bother to seek him out?

  “You are asking me,” I said to Thurman and company, “to carry a glass of water for a thousand miles across rough ground.”

  Thurman nodded. “Indeed we are.”

  “The chances are great – are, in fact, likely – that spillage will occur.”

  My cunning wordplay did not appear to faze their resolve. Such is the marvel of a collective blind faith.

  “In the likelihood of the child’s death,” I persisted, “what are the compensations for everyone involved?”

  “Mister Rain,” said Thurman, shaking his head. “You are thinking wrongly of the enterprise before you. What you do not understand is that this venture is preordained by God. The One and Only. All of your needs will be anticipated. You should feel honored to be the vehicle of His will.”

  I do not know how I might have appeared to him when he said that. It is quite possible that I inadvertently swelled my chest and glowed. I fear I might have revealed a somewhat preposterous hobbledehoy superciliousness.

  “The child has a destiny, Mister Rain. And as with a powerful stream into which you have found yourself flung and are unexpectedly floundering, you can fight against it, or you can go with its flow. Either way, you will end up where you are inevitably being carried.”

  I was not accustomed to being metaphorically outmaneuvered, and I could only guess that Thurman had been given a bit of help from some divine and invisible wordsmith. Perhaps I was involved in something big here.

  Little Virtue finished off the bottle right then, and turned her head so the nipple pulled free from her mouth with a soft slucking pop. She batted at it with her pink knuckles, a bubble of white foam forming between her parted lips. As I said, I was a childcare neophyte, and so it was as much a surprise to me as it could have been to anyone watching when I then lifted the girl gently, and lay her facing backward over my shoulder. Someway, I knew just what to do. Maybe, I considered, some instinct remembered how my mother had performed the same motion with me when I was quite small. I patted Virtue’s back with my palm, and gave her a little bounce, swaying, in that way mothers do.

  Everyone – Benjamin, Dallon, Sarah, and even Thurman – was grinning favorably as I demonstrated my inherent maternal expertise.

  “God bless thee!” croaked Sarah, with a fairly disarming enthusiasm.

  And then everyone repeated in chorus. “God bless thee!”

  I just stood there, puffing with motherly pride, while Virtue voiced her own blessing in my ear by way of a whispery, milk-scented burp.

  AND SO IT CAME to pass in a fortnight that a baby girl, two geldings, a she-goat, and one so-called Deliverer set off on the long and onerous journey to the City of Rocks.

  It was a relief to leave Independence behind. Even under these quixotic circumstances. It always felt good to part ways with streets and buildings and vile humanity in trade for open and unsullied country. A sense of opportunity came with such an action. A world of magic awaited. I was a poet again, and a ream of pure white paper lay rolled out before me. Now it was left only to my muse to urge me toward a heroic epic of the most lasting poesy. Surely mine was not dissimilar to the optimism that infected every pilgrim soul who ever took those first steps westward into the Wonders of Nature. They tossed their common sense. They all shared a refusal to abandon their most improbable hope. They all sought the end of that elusive and mythical rainbow arching over the elysian fields of their most childish dreams.

  Of course, all those folks were perfect fools.

  Every last one of them.

  Myself, most indubitably, included.

  PART TWO

  PERILS

  THE HORSES PROVIDED FOR our journey were quite handsome – a cross between trail-savvy Indian ponies, and broad-chested farm animals. One was glossy black with white knee socks on all but his right foreleg. This gave him an eccentric and lopsided appearance, which seemed a deliberate decision on his part. One imagined him choosing to leave off wearing a sock on that foot, like some ornery youth, or trend-setting dandy, and the rest of us could learn to like it, adopt it for our own fashionable purposes, or lump it. I dubbed him Puck for his spirited and amusing temperament.

  His counterpart was a steadfast sorrel with a suggestion of appaloosa showing itself in a constellation of dark spots dotting his left rump cheek. He was graced with an uncanny legerdemain of the four-hoofed variety. I never knew him to so much as stub his toe, or miss a step, even by close of the longest day over the roughest terrain. Although he most decidedly deserved a name to match his noble character, I came to affectionately call him Brownie. If a horse could be kindhearted, Brownie was. When I removed his bridle at eventide, he would often nuzzle my shoulder in a show of gratitude. I found he had a gentle and rolling gait, and so of the two animals I tended to ride Brownie more often, as he made it easy on the buttocks after long hours in the saddle. Puck was relegated to packhorse, but he did not seem to mind his lowly station. He carried twin trunks slung over either side of his sawbuck, filled as they were with our kitchen kit, baby paraphernalia, an assortment of girl clothes, and, of all humorous curiosities, a full size wedding dress to be delivered along with the child.

  Both horses got to be good friends with me, and although I tended to spend more time on two legs than they did, there was an air of equality among us as we set about in teamwork to perform our common cross-country commission.

  The goat, I argued with Thurman, would only be a hindrance. How would she ever keep up? But as he so vividly illustrated, she was a necessary member of the caravan.

  “The child will need milk,” he admonished. �
�And Mister Rain, unless you have developed an ability beyond the typical male of your species, I suggest you take her along.”

  I soon learned my worries were unfounded. The long-legged gal turned out to be an intrepid traveler. She jogged right along with the horses, tirelessly, her bulging milk bag swinging in cadence to mark her steady pace. I had never seen her breed before, but I guessed she was of some variety cultivated in the Arabian Desert, or some other locale geographically severe and wide on the map. She was completely the color of sand, right down to her eyeballs and horns. For all I know, she might have been part dromedary. She came to me nameless, and nameless, I am ashamed to admit, she remained. For she was, after all, an invaluable member of our band, and I have often regretted not treating her in a more kindly manner.

  But the truth is she bore an uncanny resemblance to Old Sarah, all the way down to the wiry hairs on her chin. It was as if the hag had slipped a part of her own soul into the creature’s skin so she could keep a close watch on me. This put me off in more ways than one, but never did it bother me more than when we had to make a stop so that I might fill a pail on Virtue’s behalf. At such times, kneeling beneath the nanny, and tugging away at her dusty udders, I would sometimes see Sarah’s dehydrated face floating before me. She nodded approvingly at my work, and I had to force myself to think of other things less revolting.

  “Come with me and be my love,” I quipped. “And we will all the pleasures prove…”

  But Sarah only smiled more broadly. “Bless thee!” she bleated. “Bless thee!”

  This unnerved me to no end.

  *****

  I carried Virtue in a type of sling that held her high against my chest. This ingenious contraption allowed my arms to remain free underneath so that I might work the reins and steer my horse. It was reasonably comfortable, although my neck did ache something fierce by day’s end. The little girl proved an admirable traveling companion, not too much trouble except for those horrendous, odoriferous diapers, and her endless thirst for milk.

  To put it casually, Virtue was unusual in many ways, and would prove herself even more glaringly extraordinary as our journey progressed. I have no doubt that any other youngster would have been screaming and fussing the whole time, driving a sane man over the edge of his patience. Most children I had observed generally acted in such a manner. But Virtue possessed a sagacity that belied her age. She seemed astute enough to understand that no matter how uncomfortable she might be – no matter how sunburned, bug bit, or in need of a stretch – it was not going to serve her to complain. Any time I looked down at her, she was looking back up at me, patient and calm, her eyes reflecting the cloudless blue sky, as if in meditative contemplation of her rightful place in the world. I had heard the term Old Soul used to describe certain characters in novels and in poems, but until meeting Virtue, I had never encountered anyone to whom such a moniker so aptly applied. Was I in charge of an angel?

  Still, I was used to a more galloping pace when making my deliveries. And although it was now high summer, and toastier than a raging inferno, I already feared falling short of the City of Rocks before first snow. The space between us and there was great, with many perils strewn between, and having to stop all the time to boil bottles, drink milk, and rinse laundry was a major detriment to our forward locomotion.

  WE TRAVELED NORTHWEST ACROSS country until we reached the muddy Platte. It was late in the season, and most of the settlers and gold seekers heading west to Oregon and the honeyed hills of California had already left some three months prior, in hopes, as it were, of crossing the mountains before the passes were closed with winter. As a result, we had the road mostly to ourselves in the early stages of our journey. There were only a few tradespeople along the waterway moving freight between the upstart towns that were sprouting like weeds on the shore. I was so occupied with my charge, and earnest in my duties, that I do not think it fully registered with me what an oddball troupe we appeared to be. We solicited more than a few sardonic and quizzical stares, but generally, at first, I hardly noticed.

  Then a man pulled up next to us in his buckboard. We rolled along side by side on the rutted road. He looked over, and then, dumbstruck, and nearly tumbling from his cart, he looked again. He even stood up, balancing precariously on his seat, so he could get a clearer view.

  “Is that there what I think it is?” he hollered over the rattle of his team.

  “That depends.”

  His cheek was abulge with tobacco, and he spat a quantity of sickly brown liquid into the road at my goat’s feet. He wiped his chin on his sodden sleeve. “Depends on what?”

  I did not answer, as he appeared bereft of intellect, and not worth the trouble of the breath I would need to draw in order to form the words to make an answer. But he persisted.

  “Is it a runt person?”

  The heat made it difficult to be cordial. “It is a gift from God,” I informed him. “An angel sent to light our darkened way.”

  He sat back down and scratched the stubble on his throat. “Say,” he said with a grin. “Are you the mama?”

  He was a dolt, but his question irked me. “No, friend,” I replied with mock good nature. “I am merely the wet nurse.”

  He thought this was tremendously humorous, and started in on a fit of laughter that caused tobacco juice to squirt from his nose. “Well, mister,” he cackled. “You sure are one ugly woman!”

  Generally, except in extreme situations, I am not quick to temper, but if I had not had a baby hanging from my neck right then, I might have jumped over and punched that man senseless. Clenching the reins in my fist, I fantasized briefly about that very act. But then again, had I not had a baby hanging from my neck, I suppose there would have been no need. As it was, I just kicked Brownie in the ribs, urging him to a trot, and leaving the man to gag on his own maniacal mirth.

  “Sorry, Brownie.” I stroked the horse’s neck. I felt ashamed for taking my frustration out on such a gallant beast.

  I peered down at Virtue, and shrugged an apology to her as well. “That there was a duck of the variety most commonly referred to as a crétin,” I said. “Dumb as a rock, and not worth the space he takes up on the planet.”

  Virtue smiled.

  I had to smile too.

  There was no denying that we were joined in a most comedic situation.

  *****

  From then on that is how it went for a while. Every time we encountered people on our route they felt it necessary to make comment on the peculiarity of our procession, and, specifically, on my position as the baby-toting leader. Traveling sideshows got less freakish attention than we did. It was as if these people had never seen a baby, a man, two horses, and a goat all in one place at the same time. Most amazing! They seemed to think I had given birth to the child myself, and now they wanted to chide me for my aberrant accomplishment.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” they heckled me.

  And, “Is this your first? Why, darling, your hips don’t seem near wide enough to pass such a healthy child!”

  And, “What a pretty little thing! You just let me know if you ever need a man to help you make another one just like it.”

  After a time, I must confess, these jibes began to wear on my patience and self worth, not to mention the subtle harm it was inflicting upon my masculinity. “Remain calm, Rain,” I told myself, trying to shrug it off with a smile. “Stay the course.”

  It proved good that I did not have a gun, as I might have filled more than one of my tormentors with holes. I found myself tensing my jaw, riding in a state of relentless apprehension.

  Until, at last, we drew near to Delight’s.

  THE PLATTE, IT IS popular to say, is a mile wide, and an inch deep. But this is not strictly factual. Especially in the lower reaches, where, particularly with the springtide, channels and whirlpools can run deep and treacherous. To get from one side to the other it is necessary to hire a ferryboat, and a few men have made small fortunes hauling across the fleuve.

>   One such man was Avin Tuttles. He had set up shop on the perfect site for such an enterprise. The seasonal tide of the river here was comparatively predictable and manageable, the banks gradually sloping into the flow, and he had rigged a crossing line on large mechanical spools that could be reeled in, or let out, adjusting to the fluctuating water level. Whereas all other ferry crossings had drowned passengers at one time or another, Tuttles and his sturdy barge had proffered no sacrifices to the ever-ravenous river gods. He had become renowned in the region for his success ratio. A man of reputation. Still, everyone called him Boob. Boob Tuttles. A somewhat derisive appellation, considering his stature, but one he did not appear to grudge. He reckoned such a name could only arise from other men’s envy, and so he bore it proudly. He was a contented and successful businessman, forever donning a veneer of complete placidity. Nothing, it seemed, could shake his unwavering equipoise.

  But there was one thing the ferryman did not know about himself, one more claim to his fame of which he was unaware, and the true reason behind his nickname. Boob Tuttles was the blissfully ignorant cuckold of the most vivacious and hardworking prostitute a man could ever have wed.

  Delight Tuttles.

  Flaming hair and lips of velvet.

  Ample of rump and bosom.

  Skilled and limber and willing to bend over backwards – quite literally – at the drop of a hat.

  In their little corner of Eden, Delight was the apple of Boob’s eye. He worshipped her like a goddess. As tokens of his devotion, he ordered her combs and dresses from East Coast catalogues. He bought her scented lotions and a pink parasol to protect her delicate facial skin from the demon sun. In an ultimate expression of his love, he even named his crossing after her. And from all corners of the plain, like tributaries coming together at a confluence, men would travel for miles to line up and wait their turn at Delight’s Landing.