John looked from one to the other. “Make it one dollar fifty a scholar,” he said. “I’ll need Miss Canon to assist.”
Three-fourths of the school board looked to William Zook, who took his time with the next puff on his cigar.
“Think we could do that, yes sir,” William said, and they all looked to Agnes. She smiled, raised the hand that held the paring knife in a half-salute. The men shook hands all around, William Zook tossed the last of his cigar into a melting bank of snow where it sizzled, stuck his foot back in the stirrup and grasped the pommel of his saddle. He threw a leg over the old brown mare, and off they went, back to town.
John turned to Agnes and grinned. “Looks like we’re in business.”
When John and Agnes first opened their schoolroom on a late winter morning, they found thirty-odd scholars squirming or sprawling or abiding quietly on scarred oak benches. The Jackson children took their places, the girls still and expectant, James carving at the seat with the point of his arrowhead. Billy, hands jammed in his pockets, stood with Agnes against the wall at the side of the room.
Reuben Bigelow, taking full advantage of the new public education system, sent a whole passel of children to Mr. Jackson’s classroom, probably as much to remove them from the house during the season of enforced idleness as to educate them. An older boy slumped at one end of a bench twirling a whittling knife between his fingers, five stair-step brothers and sisters lined up next to him. A muslin shirt stretched across his broad chest, meaty wrists protruded from unbuttoned cuffs, a thick shock of blond hair slicked to one side. His teeth tumbled one against another like neglected tombstones. He looked to be fifteen or sixteen, so tall that when he’d entered the classroom, he needed to duck his head at the door.
Billy nudged Agnes and nodded toward a lanky, wiry boy lounging against the window sill. “Recognize him?”
She shook her head.
“Bigelow’s boy from the roadhouse. The drunk one.”
“Willard Bigelow.” John stood at the front of the room, reading from a list.
Willard stared at John without moving, said not a word.
John peered at him over his spectacles. “Willard Bigelow.”
“Yeah,” the boy muttered.
“You will answer ‘yes, sir,’” John said. If he remembered Willard from the roadhouse, he showed no sign.
“I ain’t here but to mind the family,” Willard said. His eyes narrowed over cheeks dusted with beard. “I’ll be leaving soon as I know they’re settled.”
“But Wil,” the seated blond giant said. “Pa says you need schooling.” His anxious eyes flitted between Willard and John.
Willard snorted and tossed his head. “Not me.”
John gazed at him for a moment, not in a challenging way, and Willard soon flushed and lowered his eyes.
“Jacob Bigelow.”
Willard’s brother turned red and mumbled, “Yes sir.”
John went to the next. Several names down the list, he called out, “Earl Kunkel.”
Willard Bigelow leaned forward and brayed like a donkey. A titter ran around the room, and a small child in the front row, hand halfway in the air, started, dropped his arm and rounded his shoulders as if to protect himself from a blow.
John scowled. Billy stood, took his hands from his pockets.
Willard sat back and leered. “Donkey’s arse.”
Earl’s ears turned crimson. He stared at the floor.
John jabbed a finger at Willard, then a thumb at the door. “Out.”
Willard stayed put and grinned.
“Out,” John said again.
No movement. Billy tossed Agnes a look, wandered over behind Willard, put a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Jackson said to leave.”
Willard shrugged him off and straightened. He was taller than Billy but he read something in Billy’s face that he didn’t care to deal with. He shrugged, looked casually over at his brother. “C’mon, Jake, let’s go.”
Jacob hissed at him. “Pa’ll skin us alive!”
Willard ignored that. “Let’s git.”
Jacob squinted at John, looked down at his own big hands, hesitated a moment, and then snapped the knife shut. He stood and the two ambled out, taking their time. The children let out a collective breath and wiggled uncomfortably. The Kunkel boy huddled on the bench, staring fixedly at his knees, cheeks wet. John cocked an eyebrow at Agnes. Off to a solid start, she thought.
But the remainder of the day succeeded beautifully. Earl Kunkel slowly relaxed, the children kept to their best behavior. That evening, Reuben Bigelow drove his buckboard into town and closeted himself with John at the house, and the following day, Jake returned to the classroom. The Holman School settled down to work, and Willard disappeared from Lick Creek.
10
March 1853
When John moved his family to town, Tom and Elizabeth settled into lodgings above Mr. Baxter’s haberdashery, leaving room for Agnes to board with the Jacksons in the clapboard house next to the school yard. She shared a cozy chamber under the slanting eaves with Sarah and little Rebecca. Sarah took on the role of teacher’s aide, and they soon dropped into an easy routine. At the end of each school day, they stowed the readers and the geographies on the shelves, washed the slates, swept the floor and banked the fire before leaving for home and dinner. John often stayed late to mark papers, or meet with a client of his burgeoning legal practice. Holt County citizens proved to be a litigious group.
On a blustery afternoon, Mr. Kunkel, Earl’s father, appeared in the schoolhouse door, hat in hand. His scrap with Mr. Bigelow over the ownership of five acres of bottom land that adjoined their two properties was legendary around Lick Creek. He’d had enough of arguing with the pig-headed old codger, he told John, and intended to sue. With clouds boiling low on the western horizon and the lurid light of the setting sun promising a gale, Agnes and Sarah were anxious to be gone. They donned their coats and left John huddled with his client.
They were mere steps from the schoolhouse when a vicious blast of wind whipped plump rain drops under their bonnets, and by the time they’d ducked into the front parlor, the wind gusted so strong the flames in the lamps wavered. The younger children clustered around the table with plates before them as Nancy poked at the cook stove fire. Agnes and Sarah began to shake out their bonnets and cloaks, but before they could hang them on their pegs, Nancy straightened and turned to them, her brow creased and her face pale.
“It’s time,” she said. “Elizabeth’s pains began this morning.” Agnes and Sarah looked at her stupidly. “I kept her here today while Tom went to Forest City. Sarah, I need you to go fetch him, he should be back to Baxter’s by now. And Doctor Norman. Find Doctor Norman.” She went to a window and pulled aside the curtain. “And Agnes, go back to the schoolhouse. Tell John I need him here.” Her hand trembled. “There’s something terribly wrong.”
Agnes caught a glimpse of Elizabeth through the bedroom door, her face gray, mouth twisted. Oh dear God, don’t let her die. Agnes hadn’t prayed since her mother died, and knew that whatever happened would happen, prayer or no, but she thought again, Dear God, don’t let her die.
Sarah dashed out the door, heading to the tailor’s shop, with Agnes right behind her. Halfway to the schoolhouse she realized she’d left her cloak. Thunder rolled overhead, the air fizzed and sputtered with electricity. Agnes threw open the schoolhouse door and called out. John dropped a sheaf of papers and raced back to the house leaving Mr. Kunkel wide-eyed.
Agnes changed into dry clothes and went to the children who’d been left to fend for themselves, the baby fretting like a fledgling swallow. She picked him up and rocked him, watching Nancy dab at her daughter’s cheeks with a cloth. Dear God don’t let her die. Sarah and Tom ducked in from the storm, scattering raindrops and shivering. Tom sank onto a chair at Elizabeth’s bedside and took her
hand. She moaned again, her eyes closed.
“Doctor Norman’s gone,” Sarah said. “Off to Saint Joe for two weeks.” Dear God. “I sent Paul Norman for Doctor Robinson. He’s new. Mrs. Norman said he’d help.” I hope you’ll call on me when the time comes, he had said to Agnes. She remembered his elegant hands and long, strong fingers.
Doctor Robinson either could not be readily found or took care to finish his dinner before braving the storm. The clock struck nine before she heard his knock, muted by the wind, and opened the door to him. Her impression was of blackness emerging from blackness, dark frockcoat smelling of wet wool, hat pulled low over his eyes, head ducked to the wind. All she saw of his face was glistening beard, sparkling in the lamplight with drops of water. His figure filled the doorway.
He shed his hat and coat and surveyed the parlor. Johnny slept on Agnes’s shoulder, the children huddled at the table, schoolbooks open and ignored. John had fidgeted with the fire until they all simmered in the rain-soaked atmosphere like chickens on the boil. The bedroom door stood ajar, and Elizabeth’s moans seeped through.
“Evening, folks,” Doctor Robinson said. He shook hands with John. “Understand there’s a baby on its way.” He set a heavy mahogany box on the floor, its brass fittings catching the lamplight.
Tom stumbled into the parlor, exhaustion lining his face. He ran his fingers through bristly hair. “Robinson,” he said, voice thick with fatigue. “She’s in a bad way.”
The doctor rolled his cuffs to the elbows, poured water from the kettle into the basin and plunged his hands in. “Has the young lady been ill the last few weeks? Confined to her bed?”
“She seemed healthy enough.” Tom dropped into a kitchen chair, rested his forehead on a shaky hand. “She just never took to it. Seemed real unhappy about it.”
“Happens sometimes with the first.” He shook out his hands and took the towel John offered. Agnes’s eyes strayed to the bed in the next room.
Elizabeth cried out, for what seemed like the hundredth time. The bedroom door opened, and the doctor emerged. Sarah had bundled the children off to bed. Nancy and Tom kept watch at the bedside. John had stepped out back for a smoke, one of many he’d indulged in this long evening. Agnes sat alone, watching through the dark hours, counting clock strokes, listening for the strike, half hour, then quarter, then hour then quarter again that marked the seconds of her life, and yet no child, no end to it. In the deepness of night the storm had faded, thunder distant as a dream.
Robinson, shoulders sagging, shirt limp with perspiration, poured coffee from the white-speckled coffeepot. He sat on the stiff settee, leaned forward with hands on knees and took three deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Then he sat back and pulled out a small brown cigar and gestured toward Agnes.
“Do you mind?” The question was not perfunctory. He waited until she shook her head before striking a light.
They sat in silence as he took in the cigar smoke, breathing out through the nose, eyes closed, and his shoulders began to relax.
“I’ll need your help in there.” He took a deep draught of the cigar.
“Of course.”
“Mrs. Jackson’s exhausted, and Mr. Kreek’s worse than useless.” He held the cigar in front of him and studied it, putting one booted foot over the other knee.
“How will it turn out?” she said, confident he knew, that he could foresee such things.
“Mrs. Kreek will make it. The baby, we’ll just have to see.” He sipped coffee. “It’s quite large….”
He stared at the glowing tip of his cigar, his lips moving as if he reviewed what must be done, then knocked away the ash and stood. Elizabeth shrieked again, the sound of a dying rabbit. “We’ll need more cloths, another sheet folded thick. And water.” He went to the stove, opened the door, knocked up the fire and lifted the teakettle. It was full, still warm. “Good.” He disappeared into the bedroom.
For the third time, Agnes turned up the wick on the lamp. There were but three of them in the room, Elizabeth, the doctor, and Agnes. Nancy huddled glassy-eyed on the settee in the parlor. Tom slumped at the kitchen table, head cradled in his hands. Elizabeth’s closed lids lay deep in shadowed pools. Her pale skin put Agnes in mind of her mother when she lay in her casket. The lamp quavered and smoked, the stench of sweat and blood and illness saturated the room. The mahogany chest stood open next to the bed, brass instruments picking up the flash of the flame and reflecting off the walls in eerie patterns. The doctor chose one, impossibly long, with curved blades.
“Sit by her head, please, Miss Canon,” he said. “You will need to hold her shoulders but keep her propped against the pillows. She must be half-reclining.”
She turned her back to him, concentrated on Elizabeth. Sweat steamed on her forehead, and Agnes swabbed it once, left the cloth there, took her shoulders. Elizabeth moaned, her eyes remained closed. The cloth slipped down along her cheek, lay damp against her neck. Her body jerked once, and the doctor muttered. Elizabeth’s lips opened, a silent scream, her face contorted into something hideous, something so unlike Elizabeth, strange and inhuman. The doctor swore softly; it seemed not impiety but a challenge to death. Brass hit against brass as he selected another of those wicked instruments. Tears flowed from under Elizabeth’s lids, and Agnes realized that she was conscious to the pain and the fear. She had hoped she was not. Again brass against brass.
“Now be prepared, please, Miss Canon.” The doctor’s voice was hoarse. Agnes drew in her breath. “Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth,” she whispered. Dear God dear God dear God. Elizabeth moaned then, deep and unnatural, and convulsed. Agnes threw herself across her chest and cradled her. She sagged, wracking breaths heaving, and slipped into unconsciousness.
The doctor sat motionless for moments, then he sighed, a sigh very close to a sob. There was no cry, no whimper, no other sound. The light sputtered and hissed. He and Agnes were alone with that small death, and it filled the space between them.
“Miss Canon,” he said gently.
She lifted herself, took the cloth and laid it over Elizabeth’s forehead.
“You must take the child, please.” He always said please when he gave instructions. “I must see to Mrs. Kreek.” He looked away, then up at Agnes. “A girl.”
He held in his hands a bundle, wrapped in one of Nancy’s towels, a heavy muslin with embroidered flowers at the edges, now thick with blood. Agnes took her and cradled her, bloodying her bodice, choking as she looked at the tiny, still being. The skull was broken, crushed like an eggshell, the marks of forceps clear on the temples. John and Nancy must not see this, nor Tom, nor anyone, until she was cleaned, fixed, prepared. Agnes took her to the basin and began to wash.
11
March 1853
Jabez rocked, the tap of his right boot putting the chair in motion. The rocker sounded a nck nck against the porch boards, regular as the tick of a clock, a soothing click that worked on the rigid muscles throughout his body. Nck. Nck. He concentrated on his breathing, visualized it, the air sucked into his nasal passages, into the lungs, washing over each capillary, bathing the blood, moving from capillary to artery to heart, surging over the body to drench every nerve with tonic like the flow of water through a mighty river system. He closed his eyes and imagined the tingle of the cells as they encountered oxygen-flushed blood and slowly relaxed, sank into repose. Nck. Nck. Then he turned to the muscles and willed them to let go, the pads of his feet, the long soleus of the calf and the thigh, the femoris. The latissimus dorsi stretching from hip to collarbone along the spine took attention. Then the trapezius, the deltoids, the biceps, the fingers. Each digit in turn, smallest, ring, middle, index, thumb.
He took abundant pride in being thus able to control his body. The more he knew about the structure of the human body, the interconnections of muscle and bone, the pathways of feeling and sensation, the mor
e certain he became that he could master the mind as well, that pleasure, pain, the sense of duty, all that enriched life could be controlled and enhanced. He approached the body as a sculptor approached a finely veined block of marble or a potter approached a high-grade porcelain clay.
The rocker moved rhythmically, its nck nck the only sound but for the sough of breeze in the new-hatched leaves of the maples in the square. The storm had hushed the night-speaking crickets and the peepers, and ragged clouds skittered across the sky. He had been summoned from his dinner at the height of the storm to attend one of Doctor Norman’s patients, John Jackson’s daughter, whose pregnancy had often been a topic of discussion between him and his colleague. The young woman had withdrawn from husband and family to a place of deep melancholy, so that the delivery augured poorly from the first. Indeed, given the mind’s influence and power over the body, the pregnancy was doomed from its beginning. And the birth had been difficult, the child unable to free itself, and so he had destroyed it.
He pulled from a vest pocket a Havana cigar and a lucifer match. The light flared inside his cupped hands, and the satisfying smoke wreathed his head and seeped into his brain as well as into his lungs. The child’s head was distended, chin and occiput hung up on the pubic bones. Extracting it alive required ripping open the mother’s belly. He knew of doctors that performed such operations—they called it the Caligula birth for the damage it did to the mother—but he loathed the thought of it. He’d performed the procedure once, long ago, when a young Spanish woman was brought to the army post by a clutch of black-clad old women and a priest. No more than sixteen or seventeen, she’d been in labor for many hours. He’d palpated the young mother’s belly, examined between her legs and found that the head of the child was of a size that nothing short of disembowelment would save it. And so, at the insistence of the priest who declared the child to be the only concern, he disemboweled the young woman. Without laudanum, without opiates, with only a shot of brandy, one for her, one for himself, he extracted the child from the belly of its dying mother. The child lived, at least as far as he saw it, bundled up and spirited away along with the violated body of the child-mother.
Agnes Canon's War Page 6
