Bone River (27 page)

I went downstairs as if set for battle. I made porridge and coffee and went to milk the cow. The wind was picking up—not the south wind from my dream but a northern one, bending the hemlocks, scattering the rain. The perfect day to be in the barn, dissecting the mummy.

I threw a quick glance at the trunk as I left the barn, ignoring the trepidation that swept me, trying to forget the last time I’d tried to cut into her and what had happened. Superstition and imagination and nothing more. Today would be different. Today I would do what I should have done to begin with, and nothing would stop me.

I poured the milk into the screened pans on the back porch and went in through the door there, nearly stumbling over Daniel, who sat at the table just inside. He glanced up, and suddenly I thought of when I’d seen him last, how I’d run away. I felt myself go hot; I saw him notice it in the moment before he looked away, and I felt the tension rise between us; the air charged and unstable as any storm.

I passed by him quickly, going to the stove, pouring coffee with hands I willed to steady.

He said, “Nightmares again?”

I was startled, once again, by his perceptiveness, alarmed by the things he saw in me. I clung hard to my resolve. “Yes, as it happens. But I think I know the cure.”

“There’s a cure?”

“I’m going to cut the mummy today.”

He went still. Then, “You’re going to
what
?”

“Cut into her. Cut her apart. It’s the only way I can see if she’s been deliberately mummified or if she
was
sacrificed.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do that. You said that she was at peace and you didn’t want to ruin that.”

I winced. “That’s not scientific.”

“What does that matter?”

“I’m an
ethnologist
, Daniel. I’ve delayed too long as it is. There’s no excuse for my not doing it before now.”

“You’re believing what he tells you and not following your own instincts—”

“It’s stupid,” I snapped, turning to look at him. “It’s not logical. These things I feel are ridiculous.”

“Why won’t you trust yourself?”

I thought of my dream, my father’s words, my flaw, and in frustration and desperation, I blurted out the words without thinking. “Because I’m not good enough to trust myself. If I don’t do what needs to be done, then this is all a waste, don’t you understand? I have to prove I can do this or my
life
is a waste, this...this...barrenness and prayers—it’s all pointless.” I was horrified when I realized what I’d said, what I’d told him. I turned back to the stove.

He said quietly, “Perhaps science isn’t the point, Lea.”

I bit my lip against sudden tears. Dear God, I was a mess. I took a deep breath, staring down at the bracelet shivering on my wrist—my other resolution, I remembered. To take it off, to burn the damn thing as Lord Tom wanted.

And then I heard the shout outside.

Daniel said, “What was that?”

The shout came again.

Daniel shoved aside his coffee and rose, frowning. He hurried to the front door, opening it, and I followed him to the porch. From there I could see the plunger near the beach, sails fluttering to slow it. Adam Leach—I recognized the boat.

Daniel went down the stairs and into the yard, and now I heard the shout distinctly, “Schooner’s on its way!”

“The schooner,” I said, and then, “Wave to show him we heard,” and Daniel did, and the sails tightened again; Adam sailed off to tell the others on the bay. I said to Daniel, “We have to hurry. We can’t be late as we were last time.”

He came up the stairs again; together we went into the house, and I remembered my third resolution last night. Now was the opportunity to tell him to go. The schooner was here; after we sold the oysters, he could be on it heading back to San Francisco and his fiancée. I meant to say it. But now, faced with the reality of it, my resolution wavered. I couldn’t say the words. He would want an explanation, and I could not give it to him. I could not voice it, because to voice it made it real. I could not admit to myself why I wanted him to go, and so there was no way to say it.

I went into the house to get my things, and I said nothing of it at all.

I
T WASN’T LONG
before we were in the sloop on our way to the culling bed. We were both soaked through before we reached it, and Daniel’s lips were colorless with cold, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He didn’t complain; together and silently we shoveled oysters into the hold, synchronized, one shovel and then another, working rapidly, sparing only what talk we needed to get the job done. My hands and feet and knees were aching from cold when we were finished, my teeth chattering. We were off, rain spattering in our faces, the wind filling the sails, the water nothing but chop. Daniel sat silently, his hands clenched together, his eyes very blue in the pale of his face, his eyelashes spiky with rain. Like some sculpture, I thought. So still and pale and chiseled and beautiful. I turned away quickly.

I had long since ceased to feel my hands and my feet by the time we got to Bruceport. The schooner was just coming in, men moving about the deck, blurred in the rain. I let the sail go slack and took our place in line—fourth this time. We would sell all the oysters. Good luck, for a change.

I watched the schooner drop anchor, the first plunger scurry up to its side. Daniel said nothing, nor did I as we watched one
boat after another empty its hold, and then it was our turn, and they were lowering the baskets over, and Daniel and I were working side by side, loading them while the rain beat down and the wind began to pick up. He was faster than I was, given how clumsy were my numb hands, and finally he said, “Let me do it, Lea,” and I sat down again, putting my hands beneath my armpits to try to warm them, watching him efficiently and easily complete the job.

“Four hundred!” one of the sailors called over the side, throwing the little bag full of coins. Daniel caught it and handed it to me.

“Let’s go get warm,” he said. “You look like a piece of ice.”

I managed to get the plunger ashore without much trouble, though I could not manage the centerboard and Daniel had to lift it for me so we could beach it, and he was the one who covered the hold with an oilcloth to keep the rain out. Then we trudged to Dunn’s, me clumsy with the cold, tripping over the driftwood strewn about the beach so that I nearly fell, and Daniel grabbed my arm to steady me. He released his hold almost immediately, abruptly enough that it was obvious, and my nervousness settled back. He should be on his way to San Francisco. But at least there would be others in the saloon. We would not be alone.

The saloon was not yet full, as we’d been among the first to sell. There was a table in the corner beside a small cast iron coal stove, and Daniel pointed me toward it and went to the bar. I didn’t argue. I settled onto a bench and leaned toward the warmth. Daniel returned with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses and then went back for two bowls of chowder. I took off my sodden gloves and put my pruney hands around the bowl. I would have jumped into it had it been big enough. Daniel sat down and uncapped the whiskey, pouring some into the glasses, shoving one of them toward me.

I reached into my pocket for the bag of coins, pulling it out, trying to open the drawstring with my numb fingers.

“Leave it,” he said, swallowing his whiskey in one gulp.

“You’ll need to pay—”

“I already did.”

“Then let me count out your share.”

“It will wait. Warm up first. I trust you to remember it.” He touched my glass with the tip of his finger. “Drink up.”

“I don’t drink, remember?”

“I remember that he doesn’t like you to. But he’s not here, and I won’t tell. It will help you get warm.”

I shook my head. “I shouldn’t.”

“I hear you say that too often. Who’s stopping you? Not me.”

“The last time I drank whiskey it was...not good.”

“How so? Did you get drunk and sloppy?”

“Something like that. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember it all that well.” It had been at a dance, and all I remembered of it was how the colors had seemed so vibrant, how everything had swirled together. How I’d danced and laughed, and Junius had pulled me from Duncan Furth’s arms and dragged me home. “I made a scene at a dance. I was a little too...free. Junius took me home and I was sick all over the boat. I don’t hold it well.”

“And he hasn’t let you have a drink since.”

“It’s not like that, Daniel. You think he’s an ogre and—”

He held up a hand to stop me. “You said you wouldn’t make excuses for him. I like it better when you don’t.”

“All right.”

“At least eat the chowder.”

I put the money bag aside and did as he directed. By the time I finished the soup, I was beginning to feel my hands again.

“Thank you for your help today,” I said. “You’re a good worker.”

“So you’ve said. You pay me well enough to be,” he said. He took the last bite of his chowder and pushed the bowl aside.

With deliberate lightness, I said, “How like an oysterman you look. Why, one would think you were born to it. What would your Eleanor think to see you now?”

“I don’t think she would appreciate it.”

“No?”

“No.” He drank his whiskey and grimaced. “This may be the worst whiskey I’ve ever had.”

“Will makes it himself.”

“What does he use, lye?”

“Why wouldn’t she appreciate it?” I asked. “Eleanor, I mean?”

“She has some idea of me as a gentleman poet,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t have quoted Milton to her.”

“I’m certain she found it very romantic.”

His gaze came up. “Why do you say that?”

“Don’t most women find it so?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” His gaze was direct.

I was suddenly flustered. I looked away.

He played with his empty glass, spinning it a little between his fingers. “It’s only that she’s very...naive. I know she cares for me, but she’s a respectable woman from a godly family. Does she really want a man who must work hard for his living?”

“But you’ve elevated yourself already. Surely the newspaper—”

“Yes, the newspaper.” He laughed shortly.

“It’s very impressive, you know, what you’ve done. How you’ve managed things given...” I couldn’t say the words.

“Indeed. Risen from the ashes of poverty.” He lifted the whiskey in a mock toast. But he didn’t drink it. He stared into it. “I won’t be poor again.”

“No, why should you be? What with the oystering money you’ve earned and the newspaper.”

“Yes.” There was something hard in his eyes that I shrank from. “How strange to find that my father will provide after all.”

I was uncomfortable. I had the sense he was talking about something more, something I didn’t know that reminded me of Junius’s warnings. “You’ve earned this, Daniel,” I said quietly. “You’ve worked for it. He respects that, even if he doesn’t say it.”

“I don’t think it’s hard work he respects.”

“Please don’t start this again—”

“I think he takes what he wants. I think he always has.”

“Daniel—”

“And I think I’m more like him than you know.”

He was looking at me so strangely. I shivered—dread again, or a presentiment, but of what I didn’t know, and I couldn’t grab hold of it.

He looked away. The saloon was full now, men pressed into every nook. They brushed up against us on all sides. It was stifling, close with the scent of oysters and mud and sweat, coal smoke, chowder, and whiskey. Like being inside the basket, unable to move, elbows pressed against reeds, suffocating in darkness—

“Leonie? Are you all right?”

I blinked, coming back to myself. He was leaning forward, a look of concern on his face, and I swallowed and said, “I’m fine. It’s only...it’s too hot.” I was sweating. My face felt red and very warm.

“Let’s get out of here.” He drained the last of his whiskey, and then he left the rest of the bottle on the table and rose, holding out his hand to help me to my feet. I grabbed it; his fingers closed warmly around mine, pulling me with him through the crowd while I smiled and said hello to those I knew, but I felt a little light-headed, not quite myself, not until we were outside again on the narrow porch, and then into the street, where there was no shelter, and the rain was coming down hard, puddling the street. It was dusk. Already I heard the music coming from McBride’s, the fiddlers again, and I thought,
no, no dance
at the same time I yearned for it, at the same time my heart leaped at the music.

It was then I realized that Daniel was still holding my hand. I stepped away, disentangling my fingers, not looking at him. “We should go. It will be dark soon, and in the rain it will—”

“You don’t want to go to the dance?” His voice was sharp, hard.

I shook my head. “I think it’s best if we go back home.”

“You want to dance. I know you do.”

“No, I—”

“I won’t even dance with you if you don’t want. All right?”

There it was, the tacit reference to something I did not want to admit, not to him and not to myself. I did not know what to do with it, or what to say.