Sarah's Quilt: A Novel of Sarah Agnes Prine and the Arizona Territories, 1906

by Nancy E. Turner

  “Well, that’s a fine thing,” I said to Mary Pearl. “I’m supposed to take orders ?”

  “Aubrey is coming for supper. Mama wants me to stay here and help you out until you get back on your feet. I’m going to cook the whole thing. By myself.”

  Back on my feet? Did I seem that out of sorts to my family? “Well,” I said, “what are you fixing?”

  “Chicken and green peppers. While you were gone, we got a letter from Clove and Granny. They’re headed back. Josh, too, of course.”

  “And Melissa?”

  “Uncle Harland said she was finally at perfect rest. The letter’s up at our place, if you want to read it.”

  “No, I know what that means.” I looked over her shoulder at the pan. “You know Aubrey isn’t from around here, don’t you? He may not care for green peppers.”

  She shrugged and then said, “Well, he’s going to get used to them.”

  When Udell came for supper, my sons and Chess were still out at work. Udell showed me around. He pointed to where pipes had been run from the well, explained how to open and shut the tiny windows up near the ceiling, and told me everything my neighbors had done to build me a house. He said when the word went out around the county that I had lost my place in a tornado, things started appearing so fast, they didn’t have room to store them.

  Then Udell pulled two folded sheets of paper from his shirt pocket. On them was a list of every person who’d given something for my house and what they’d brought. Everyone had signed it. Even those who couldn’t write had made an X, and someone else penned in a name next to it.

  Rudolfo had quickly made good on his promise to pay me back tenfold. I said I didn’t want Rudolfo’s money, but Chess said I’d be wise to accept it. Rudolfo would feel better, and money had been needed for a roof, even though neighbors had donated their time to build it. The Cujillos had donated twenty-five huge beams and all the vigas between them. Flores’s family had brought two rugs, each big enough to fill a room. Albert and Savannah had bought all the glass for the windows. People from Tucson, too, had brought offerings of furniture, and, more often than not, had stayed to lend a hand.

  “And,” Udell said, “I prefer not to be in debt. Long before you needed the house, I had determined to buy the cattle from you if I could, but I hadn’t heard yet what I had. Remember when I went to Benson that day? Well, I thought that cross was tarnished silver decorated with gold. Turned out, it was solid gold all the way through. I bought your cattle free and clear, and put in some for the house, too. Now I’m counting on you to teach me how to keep them alive.”

  My throat tightened. “You sold your cross? For that?”

  “Part of a gift, Sarah, is that you have to accept it when it’s given. My wife worked so hard to earn the money to buy the cross. Assayer said it was probably made from melted-down coins. Came out at .85. What was I going to do with it? Watch it sparkle, when there are bills to pay? When there are good folks in need?”

  “I can’t accept all this.”

  “It’d be unkind to everyone if you didn’t. Why don’t you accept that other folks want to repay your generosity?”

  Charlie said, “Udell’s right, Mama.”

  Gilbert added, “You been taking care of folks across the territory for twenty years, Mama. Let them take care of you one time. No one went broke doing it. It was just a good turn for everyone.”

  I said, “And Rudolfo Maldonado had a hand in this?”

  Chess said, “There’s nothing wrong with the man trying to make amends. He’s not going to ask anything in return. This is what he’s giving to repay you for what he did.”

  I said, “Somebody tell me how you all got a house built in just three weeks?”

  “Twenty-five days, Mama,” said Gilbert. “Working day and night. Cujillo’s family makes adobe in Sonora. They borrowed two mule teams from a friend of Flores who works down at the copper mine in Bisbee. Some of their boys came back with the load, just to be sure we put it up right. One fellow did all that plaster nearly by himself. Fast as we could mix it up, he was waiting for more. You should have seen him work. You’d have wanted to adopt him.” Everyone chuckled at that.

  Charlie said, “Some days, we had upward of thirty people working here.”

  My sons pulled me into a room I realized I had not seen the night before. It was wide and had its own fireplace, surrounded by chairs and a large table. Two walls were lined with shelves. I whispered, “My books,” and hurried to see them. I ran my fingertips over the bindings. Most of them were wrinkled, but all of them were there. “You saved my books,” I said. “Thank you, boys. Thank you.”

  “Tell Mr. Hanna. He did all the books,” said Charlie.

  Albert and Savannah had made plans to see Esther’s grave. Charlie was to lead the way. I said I’d ride along, but Savannah said, “No. It will be all right. Sarah, you stay here and rest. Ezra and Zachary will stay and do anything you need done. They are not to complain or shirk. You have had so much to bear. It will be all right.” Albert said he would mark the place, then go back in a year and move her bones home. Their remaining daughters sat in the surrey. It would be nightfall before they got back.

  I spent the day lost, wandering. The walls were a good eighteen or more inches thick, plastered white and smooth, inside and out. All the floors were new wood. The kitchen was fine and the stove was new and sleek. The oven box was big enough to put three cakes into at one time. Chili ristras hung like chandeliers from the beams overhead, showing off wealth I didn’t have. But I couldn’t find anything, couldn’t lay my hands on a bowl or spoon that I recognized. I missed my old house. Missed feeling at home. I went out to the barn just to be someplace familiar. Hunter ate from my hand. Rose chortled at him, and he answered her back. Then she nosed me, wanting her apple, too.

  Chess and Gilbert went down to help Udell put up the first of his corrals and some fence posts. Zack, Ezra, and I were to stay in the great house, which still seemed to belong to someone else. I asked them to feed the horses, and they went right to it. Then I said, “How about the hens?” and they went to that, too. When I said, “How about hoeing up some rows in the garden?” they eyed each other just like they used to in the old days. I smiled. I’d had just about enough cooperation, and it was good to see some spunk in them, like before all this sorrow came to us. I said, “Buck up, fellas. We won’t do the whole garden.” So we worked side by side, pulling out thorns and cholla and at least a hundred paloverde sprouts. We passed around a canteen of cool water, which tasted sweet as honey after all that work. Then I said, “Boys? Go on and see if there’s enough water in the creek to cool off with, and I’ll go fix us up some picnic lunches.”

  They headed toward the creek faster than they’d moved all morning. I pushed open the wide blue door. It was cool in the house, pleasant as only an adobe house can be. I meandered through the long room to the right of the main door. It led to the indoor kitchen, which had a door leading to the courtyard and its cooking area. The door across from that led to the side yard, close to the chicken coop and the garden. The big worktable was right in the center. First time I’d noticed that. Someone who knew cooking had helped make this kitchen. I uncovered a crockery bowl, where we had stored some extra tortillas the night before. Then I pulled three layers of cheesecloth off a salted ham and took up a knife from its hook to slice some. Just before I touched the meat, I saw there was a streak of something on the blade, so I reached for clean one, inspecting this one more closely. The edge had a tiny line from the shank to the tip. Blood. Dried on. One by one, I took all seven knives down, and each and every one had blood on it. I worked the pump handle and leaned over the windowsill for a pat of lye soap. The water splashed into the basin.

  A man’s voice said, “I’ve paid the price, you see.”

  I whirled around. “Lazrus!” He wore no shirt, and the lattice of scars on his chest was laid over with fresh wounds, some having only just dried. In his hand, balanced as if he were casually toying with
it, was my kitchen pistol. I glanced at the knives lying in the shallow water. Had he used them on himself? I said, “Paid a price?”

  “I couldn’t let that go on. I have been sent to watch over you. That girl—”

  “Did you murder Esther?”

  “Murder? I offered hospitality. ’Twas her foolish husband wouldn’t let well enough alone. See how I’ve paid for my transgression? There have been many over the years. See?” He looked down at his scarred body. “For all of them, I’ve offered a blood sacrifice.” I watched him move the pistol from one hand to the other, hefting it for weight. He said, “That’s over now. Done. Redeemed. I’ve tried to make you see. You belong to me. I’ve come for you.”

  The pistol glimmered in a shaft of light, and I could see the head of a bullet in the chamber. He bounced it to the other hand. I tried to remember where I’d seen my rifle. The shotgun. I’d always known which door they were behind in my old house. I hadn’t spotted them since I’d come here. “What do you mean, ‘all’? You’ve killed others?”

  “Killed, no. There have been accidents. Things befall people, events of their own making. Those who had no civility. No shred of decency or sympathy. Not like you. I have loved you always, since before time began.”

  I sidled toward the door to the courtyard, the quickest way to my bedroom. “Let’s talk about that,” I said. “Let’s see. Do you have a plan of some sort, something for us?”

  He grinned and straightened. “I always have a plan. In case things are not as they seem. I have brooded long and suffered for this plan. Sacrificed. For you.”

  “Tell me about your plan, Lazrus.” I glanced around the room, hoping to glimpse the doorway and see whether it was open. He looked toward the door, too, and for the second his head was turned, I reached into the basin and took a knife, holding it behind my back.

  Lazrus stepped toward me. “Where are they?” he asked.

  “Who? My sons? Working, that’s all. Working. But they’ll be back for dinner. That’s why I came in—to fix them something to eat. They’ll be here any moment. Here comes Chess now. Chess! Come on in. We’ve got company.”

  The lunatic cocked his head at me as if he were a dog, peering into my eyes. “They’re too far to hear you. I hate it when you lie to me.” He came another pace closer. I moved toward the door. “You won’t go out there. That would be a mistake.”

  I knew my only chance was going to be to put more space between us. Run if I had to. He had a new rawness about him, something animal and wild, which told me I’d never fight him off with just the knife. I said, “It would? Well, then. Where could I go?”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  I showed the knife. “You promised to go away. Get out of here. Go on. You promised.”

  “There’s always a sacrifice to be made.” He held the pistol to his lips, kissed the barrel, pointed it at my head, pointed it back at his own, and laughed, screeching. “Hand me the blade. You’re not strong enough to do it. In my weakness am I made strong.” He reached for my knife, and I swiped it at him. He laughed again, a wicked, low sound. Then he lunged at me, and before I could think, I struck him with it, aiming for his neck but only pulling it across his chest and shoulder. He took my blade hand in his and squeezed hard, holding the pistol to my middle with his other hand. He squeezed so hard, my fingers opened, useless. The knife fell to the floor. “Evil is purged,” he said, looking down at the fresh red flow on his arm, “by blood.”

  I waited for the bullet to punch through me, made myself arch forward, the way Willie’d always stood, then felt nothing but surprise that he hadn’t pulled the trigger. He kissed the fingers of my aching right hand. When he crushed his blackened hands into my flesh, I could still feel the tang of the scorpion’s sting. “You’re hurting me,” I said softly.

  Again he turned his head like a dog, listening to something strange. “Come!” He jerked me around the table, toward the outer door. “We must be under the heavens, not under some miserable excuse of mortal dwelling. We must have God as a witness.” Lazrus knocked the door wide with his foot, whirling me through it, and I tried to turn still more in order to spin out of his grasp. He held my hand so tightly, I thought it would pull right off the bone. I landed on the porch on my knees. “No!” he shouted. “Not here! Out under the sky. On the rock cleft for you.” He pointed the pistol toward the new windmill, which was standing on its platform of solid rock. “There, where the water of life flows. Where the fountain everlasting runs, there our blood will mingle through the ages. Think of it, Sarah. We will be linked throughout eternity, and our lives will fill all who drink of this water and taste of this cup!” He dragged me off the porch. I struggled to my feet, stumbling as he pulled me toward the windmill. As I tripped down the steps and landed in the dirt, I saw my old shotgun tucked behind the kitchen door.

  Five paces and three stair steps lay between me and the gun. I fell again, purposely this time. He loosened his hold, and I yanked my hand from his grasp. He tugged at my hair, choking me with the bonnet strings hanging down my back. I yanked the ties loose and slipped from his grasp, rolling in the dirt like a little boy, just beyond his reach. I grunted and scrabbled toward the steps, getting to the top one on my hands and knees as he grabbed a chunk of my skirt and hauled me back into the dirt. He flipped me over, so that I was facing upward. Looming above me, he was a great black shadow that filled half the blue sky, so dark against the light that I couldn’t make out his features. He pointed the pistol at my head, then said, “Not here? Of course. It has to be on the altar. I won’t let him have you, you see. I know what evil lies in women’s souls. They destroy men. Their hearts are wickedness itself, demon-possessed. You have tricked me and lied. And now you plan to toss me aside. I came to you honestly, and yet you seek to cast me away in order to ply your wiles upon another man. Adulterous heart, vile witch. That must be purged, and then we will be one. Don’t you see? One.” Lazrus reached down and lifted me by my arm, more gently this time, setting me on my feet. He didn’t let go as he led me forward. I went two steps, then tore my arm away, racing for the porch. I laid my hands on the shotgun barrel.

  “Aunt Sarah? Aren’t you coming?” Ezra hollered. “We’re getting mighty hungry.”

  Lazrus looked toward the sound. I turned. Lazrus was standing by the windmill. He raised the pistol and drew a bead on Ezra.

  “Drop it,” I said, “or I’ll shoot.”

  “Aunt Sarah!”

  “Stay where you are!” I called.

  Lazrus yelled, “It’s him!”

  “He’s a little boy!” I said.

  As Lazrus raised the pistol again, I leveled my aim at him. Pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I pulled the trigger again, then racked open the chamber. Empty as a cave. Not to have looked! I had to get the rifle that was in the house. Lazrus started walking slowly toward Ezra, who stood in his tracks, just clear of a copse of trees this side of the creek. I dropped the shotgun and tore through the house to the bedroom. The rifle was not to be seen. And though I’d never kept one under the bed, it was the only place I couldn’t see at a glance, so I dropped to my knees heavily. There it was. I opened the chamber: loaded. I ran to the front of the house, which cut off some yards and put me between Lazrus and Ezra. The crazed man advanced on the boy, who at first just stood there, petrified, then turned when he saw me and headed back for the creek. I rushed into the line between the two and faced Lazrus. “Stop, Lazrus,” I called. “It’s me you want.”

  Lazrus pointed the pistol toward me and fired. The shot rang loud in the still air of noon, hit a rock, and pinged. I raised the rifle. “Lazrus!”

  He held out his hands, making his form into a crucifix, and shook his head sadly. “Pierce well,” he said.

  I couldn’t flat-out murder him. I stared down the barrel. “Get off my land.”

  “I cannot.” He raised the pistol to aim again.

  “Aunt Sarah?” a little voice wailed.

  “Stay where you are,” I call
ed. I sighted in on Lazrus; I could see from the angle of his weapon that he’d more likely hit the chicken coop than either Ezra or me. He fired, then pulled the trigger a third time. Nothing happened. That would be the empty chamber I kept under the hammer in case it got bumped accidentally. He must have spun the cartridge. There were three more shots in that pistol.

  “Come to me. Be forever immortal, as I am.” Lazrus aimed closer this time, straight down my rifle barrel, as he hollered, “Today, thou shalt be with me in paradise!” I pulled the trigger. He fired. I felt a whap like the swatting of an insect slap against my leg. Lazrus fell in the dirt, groaning. My first thought was how that old pistol never had much range and that I had him by a hundred yards. I kept a bead on him and moved closer.

  Lazrus bent both his knees, then raised himself to his elbows, the pistol still gripped in his hand. He glowered at me. On his left breast, blood ran from a small dot no bigger than my thimble. “As God is my witness,” he said, and pointed that pistol toward me. I fired again, and he sagged to the ground, moaning pitifully.

  It had been a long time since the days of Comanche attacks. Since the Apaches were all rounded up. I hadn’t pulled a trigger on a man in all those years. “Ezra?” I hollered. “Go get your brother. Stay there until I call you.” Not for the life of me had I ever thought to kill that man. But what makes a person cross the border from lunacy to terror? Where is the line? Instead of rambling around in memories like Granny, what makes a person kill a young couple wandering by and then torture his own flesh to atone for it? I wasn’t sure he was dead. Couldn’t think whether to doctor him or put him down like a rabid skunk. I scrunched down on my knees to wait, the rifle ready in case he stirred again. My left leg was sore—too much gardening. Then I saw a flower of red blooming on my skirt, and I knew. I’d seen people get shot and then go on doing near-miraculous things. Sometimes the doctor hunting the lead caused more pain than the bullet itself. I reckoned I’d have to endure.