The Quilt Walk (7 page)

“How long have you been married?” Ma asked.

“We wed only before we left for Colorado Territory, in Fort Madison, Iowa.”

“Where’s your husband from?” Aunt Catherine asked.

Mrs. Bonner frowned. “I am not just sure. Owen has lived many places, he says. He does not like me to question him. We met in person only the day before the wedding.”

“You are a mail-order bride?” Aunt Catherine asked.

I’d heard about such women. Men advertised in the newspapers for ladies who wanted to get married and go west. If a woman was interested, she wrote to the address in the ad. I’d even read one of those ads in Pa’s paper to Abigail, and we had wondered who would answer it.

“Oh no. I did not answer an advertisement in the newspaper for a wife. I would never do that. Owen wrote to our minister, asking for the name of a woman who would correspond with him with the thought of matrimony, which I believe is entirely proper. And the minister gave the letter to me because, I suppose, I am twenty and eight and was well on my way to becoming a spinster.” She turned to me and added with a little laugh, “That means an old maid.” Then she continued, “Owen wrote such beautiful letters. He said he had business in Colorado Territory near Golden—.”

“Golden?” Ma interrupted.

“Do you know it?”

“Why, we are going to Golden ourselves, Catherine and I. Our husbands are going to build a business block there.”

“Then we shall be friends,” Mrs. Bonner said. “Oh, I am happy.” She stopped a moment and looked at the ground. “That is, if Owen approves. He says he likes to have me to himself.”

“That’s the way of most new husbands,” Aunt Catherine said. “You can get to know him better that way.”

“Yes, I must learn to please him,” Mrs. Bonner said. “He seemed like such a gentle man in his letters.”

“You will tell us if you need anything,” Ma said.

As Ma, Aunt Catherine, and I watched her go, Aunt Catherine said, “I hope we can be her friends. She seems a well-bred person.”

“What happened to her face?” I asked.

“When you’re older—” Ma began, but Aunt Catherine interrupted her.

“Emmy Blue’s out in the world now. She should know about such things.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ma said with a tinge of sadness in her voice.

“Some men are brutes,” Aunt Catherine said, and then added quickly, “but most men are good, like your pa and your uncle. They’d no more lay a hand on us than they would fly over the barn. But there are men, Emmy Blue, who hit their wives.”

I’d never heard of such a thing and was shocked. I couldn’t wait to tell Waxy about that! She’d be as disgusted as I was. When Aunt Catherine had threatened to go back home, Uncle Will had only raised his voice and certainly not his hand. Then I remembered my friend in Quincy. “You mean like when Mr. Pride hit Betsy?” When I’d learned about that, I’d been sick at heart. My pa had never so much as switched me with the cane he used when he was first wounded. He would never do such a thing.

Ma nodded. “They are evil men. I don’t know what makes them that way.”

“Did she do something that made him angry?” I asked.

“I can’t imagine what. Her husband might think of some reason to blame her when things go wrong, and she’ll think it’s her fault. But it won’t be.”

“Why doesn’t she leave?”

“And go where? She’s in a wagon train in the middle of the country,” Aunt Catherine said. “And when she gets to Colorado Territory, what could she do, take in washing?”

“Maybe she could travel with our wagon,” I said.

“Pa wouldn’t want that,” Ma said. “He doesn’t like to interfere with other people. That could cause trouble. He’d say it wasn’t our business.”

The two women were silent for a long time. Then Aunt Catherine said, “Remember what Mrs. Reid told us about sewing, that it helps with troubles? Well I don’t think quilting will help her much.”

More than anything I wanted there to be something that would help Mrs. Bonner.

Chapter Nine

GRANDMA MOUSE’S
SURPRISE

W
hen Pa and Uncle Will returned, Ma told them she had loaned the hammer to Owen Bonner.

“That’s the man who spoke up at the meeting, the one who said all the dogs ought to be shot or left behind,” Uncle Will said. “And the cats, too.”

I gasped, and thought about Skiddles. I’d never let anyone kill Skiddles. I thought Mr. Bonner was a bad man. He was mean to want to kill the dogs and cats, and he was mean to Mrs. Bonner, too.

“We voted him down,” Pa said. “I didn’t like him much. He seemed mighty impressed with himself.”

“We didn’t like him, either, and we’ve never met him,” Ma said, “but his wife is a lovely person. She doesn’t deserve to be treated in a despicable way.”

“I suppose you’ll get to know him later. Perhaps he’s not so bad,” Uncle Will said.

“We’ve already formed our opinion. It’s not likely to change,” Aunt Catherine told him.

“There are some nice people on this train, Meggie. I think you will make friends among them. Emmy Blue will, too,” Pa said.

“It is a good train. Buttermilk John will be a fine scout,” Uncle Will added. “He told us we can camp the way we are tonight, the wagons helter-skelter. But from tomorrow on, we will put them in a circle at night. That way, we’ll be protected if Indians attack.”

“Bonner protested, saying why go to that trouble before we reach Indian country, but John replied that if we are in the habit of forming a corral with the wagons, we can circle quickly if we need to. Besides, the animals and children will be safer inside the circle. There’s less likelihood they’ll run off—the animals or the children.” Pa smiled at me.

It’s too bad Mr. Bonner doesn’t run off, I thought.

Buttermilk John had said we would leave not long after sunup each morning, taking turns at being the lead wagon, since with all the dust the oxen churned up, nobody wanted to be in the rear. But anyone who was not ready to go would have to take the last place.

After our breakfast the next morning, Pa and Uncle Will told us more about the meeting and the men who had attended it, while we returned the breakfast skillet and plates and forks to the wagon.

The men had discussed whether to stop to rest on Sundays. Many wanted to go on in order to get to Denver City as fast as they could, but Buttermilk John had told them that stopping one day each week would allow them to make repairs on their wagons. The women could bake and wash clothes, and the animals would rest. And in the long run, he said, the wagons that stopped for the Sabbath got there just as fast as the ones that went straight through. So, although Mr. Bonner and one or two others had grumbled, the rest of the wagon train had voted to declare Sunday a day of rest.

As we were repacking, Mrs. Bonner returned with the hammer—in two pieces. She could not look Ma in the eye but only muttered. “I am so sorry. Owen said the handle was defective, and it broke. I wish I could sneak into St. Joe and buy you a new one, but that is impossible. I promise I shall replace it once we reach Golden, if Owen will give me my money. After my escapade at the Patee House, Owen insisted that I let him hold on to the money I brought to our marriage, so that I would not be tempted to spend it.”

Pa came up to Mrs. Bonner then and took the hammer. Her head was down, and she stared at the ground. “I am sorry, sir. I never should have requested the loan of the implement. The fault is mine.”

She wasn’t at fault, I thought. It was her husband who had broken the hammer.

Since Pa knew about Mr. Bonner, he took the hammer pieces and said, “Most likely it was indeed defective.”

As we watched Mrs. Bonner walk back to her wagon, Buttermilk John stepped forward. He had heard the conversation. “A hammer’s defective if ye throw it against a rock the size of a bread loaf, which is what Bonner done, the blammity blam fool. This child seen him.” He took the parts of the hammer from Pa. “Nail it back together. Then wrap the handle with wet buckskin, which’ll shrink as it dries and turn hard as wood. I reckon your hammer will be as good as new then.” Buttermilk John handed the hammer parts back to Pa and looked toward the Bonner wagon. Mr. Bonner was standing over his wife, who was stooped beside the campfire. “That one!” Buttermilk John said, shaking his head. “That one’ll bear watching. He’s worthless as a yellow dog.”

That night we sat beside our fire, listening to the sounds of the camp. We had spent our days and nights by ourselves until we crossed the Missouri. Now instead of the noise of animals in the bushes and trees, we heard other people talking, laughing, children yelling. A woman at a campfire near us started to sing the hymn “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” and in a moment, others joined her. My voice isn’t very good, but I sang, too. A man who had brought along a pump organ began to play.

After that song, the organist started “Camptown Races” and was joined by someone playing a mouth harp. We sang half a dozen songs before the women began calling to their children that it was time for bed.

As Aunt Catherine got up to fetch our blankets, Ma asked me, “Haven’t you forgotten something, Emmy Blue?”

I jumped up. “I’ll help,” I said.

“No, not that. Have you forgotten we’ve crossed the Missouri River?”

I frowned, not knowing what she was talking about. How could I forget we had crossed the Missouri?

“Remember Grandma Mouse?”

“Of course I remember Grandma Mouse,” I said. “I think about her every day. I miss her.”

“Didn’t she give you something? She said you could open it once we were across the Missouri.”

And then I remembered the seed sack Grandma Mouse had given me the morning we left home. I reached into my pocket, but the sack wasn’t there. “I don’t have it,” I said with a sad feeling.

“Maybe it’s in the pocket of another dress,” Ma said.

I reached into the pocket of my second dress. The seed sack wasn’t there, either. But I changed the order in which I’d put on my dresses, wearing a different one on top each day. So I checked the third dress, and there was the seed sack! As I drew it out, I thought it might contain a book, but not a book like
The Girls’ Own Book
, I hoped. I didn’t want to read any more about good girls who helped in the kitchen and went right to bed, and bad girls who climbed trees and spilled their milk. If that kind of book was what was in the sack, I hoped Pa would say there wasn’t room for it in the wagon. I wouldn’t mind if she gave me an adventure book, although those were mostly for boys. Perhaps it was a jumping jack or marbles, but I realized the sack was the wrong size and weight for either of those things.

I unknotted the drawstring and opened the sack, turning it upside down so that the contents fell onto my skirt. Our campfire had gone out, and at first I couldn’t see what Grandma had given me. I touched my lap and poked myself. “Ouch,” I said, then felt around with the flat of my hand. I touched the object and held it up. “Scissors,” I said, a dull feeling creeping into my heart. Then I felt an object, and without looking at it, I knew it was a thimble, a small thimble just the right size for my finger.

Something else had fallen out of the sack, but I didn’t pick it up. Aunt Catherine leaned over and took the object. “A bundle of quilt pieces, already cut out,” she said, holding them up to the light of the moon, which had just come out from behind a cloud. She laid them on top of the box that we used as a table, and then peered down at them in the moonlight. “Log Cabin, if I’m not mistaken. Look, Meggie, Grandma Mouse completed one of the blocks to use as a pattern. Isn’t it cunning, just the right size for a doll’s quilt?”

“Waxy already has a quilt that Abigail made for her,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. But I was. Who would think I wanted to make a quilt on our journey to Colorado Territory? Grandma Mouse, that was who. She was trying to turn me into a lady, and I wouldn’t have it!

“Piecing on your own is much more fun than sitting under the table threading needles,” Ma said.

Aunt Catherine laid out the pieces of one square on the box. “Grandma Mouse pinned together the pieces for each square, but I think you could change them. You don’t have to do it her way. You could choose which pieces to put together. Your mother might even give you a scrap of the red calico we bought in St. Joe.”

But it was still quilting, I thought. Even if Ma was a quilter, I didn’t want to be one, not like Grandma Mouse.

“Look, Emmy Blue. See how the pieces fit together. They’re like a puzzle. You like puzzles, don’t you?”

I’d never thought of putting quilt pieces together as being like a puzzle, and I considered that, only slightly more interested now. I still wished Grandma Mouse had given me a book—a good book, one about a girl who ran foot races and played ball.

“We’ll lay them out on the wagon seat in the morning,” Aunt Catherine said. “At least you can fit them together. You won’t have to sew them right away.”

But I knew I would. If Grandma Mouse had given me the quilt pieces, Ma would surely make me stitch them together to form a quilt. I didn’t understand why Ma loved quilting so much.

As I lay in my blankets that night, I knew why Grandmother had given me such a gift. It was because she wanted to turn me into a quilter. That wasn’t much of a present, I decided. I might have to stitch those pieces together, but she’d never make a quilter out of me!