Charity (18 page)

Gustie sat down on a tree stump. Crow Kills emanated a freshness she could smell and feel even without a breeze, and the cool ground, which in the shade of the cottonwoods bore no underbrush, gave up its earthy fragrance, mixed with the pungency of horse dung. A bird trilled in the branches above them.

“Did you get her wild?”

Jordis interrupted the rhythm of her stroking. She looked across Moon’s back at Gustie and shook her head wryly, “No. I have only seen wild horses in my dreams.”

With what blood she had left, Gustie blushed. Only an idiot could think that Indians were still running free across the plains after herds of wild horses.
My God, could I have said such a stupid thing?
Gustie thought she should just go back to the cabin, crawl under her blanket, and leave Jordis alone.

She was about to do just that when Jordis said, “She was left standing in the sun. The harness had rubbed places raw on her skin. She can not take the same treatment as a dark horse.”

Jordis used both hands now rubbing along Moon’s flank to her hindquarters. Her whole body bent and leaned into the work. “I saw the bruises on her where the harness had rubbed her for too long, and I knew if I took off the saddle I would find sores. I saw the burning around her eyes from the sun. So I untied her and led her to a shed in the back of the building where she could stand in the shade. I gave her water. Then I went into the saloon.”

“Where was this?”

“Wheat Lake. There were a few men in there, but I picked him out easily enough. I said, ‘I am not stealing your horse. She was too hot. I moved her. Gave her water. She is tied out back.’ I shamed him in front of the other men, but I was just a squaw. What could he do to me there? Besides, he saw the knife in my boot. I made sure enough of it was sticking out so they could not miss it. No squaw is worth getting cut for. So he spent the afternoon drinking and came out all full of meanness. He went to an Indian camp over by Campbell Crossing where he thought I came from, I suppose. And he took his meanness out on them. He could have found me easily enough. I was at the agency, just around the corner from the saloon, waiting with Grandmother and everybody else on the Red Sand for our annuities. I hate that. That is why I was in Wheat Lake all day.”

“What did he do? At Campbell Crossing?”

“He slashed a tipi. It fell down and a pole hit a little boy and killed him. They were not even Dakotah. They had nothing to do with me or him or anything. They were just passing through. They took out after him, and I saw them chase him back into town. So I followed. One of them spoke English and told me what he had done. They chased him to the railroad depot, and he did the only thing he could do because he knew they would catch him. He jumped on the train that was just pulling out. He left her standing there all in a lather and exhausted. I saw what they were going to do and I stopped them.”

“What were they going to do? Jump on the train?”

Jordis moved to the other side of Moon and began again stroking her neck. “No. They were going to kill her.”

“Why?” Gustie was shocked.

“Revenge.”

“But the horse didn’t do anything!”

“The horse was his. In a way they would have been killing him. I understand this. But I could not let them kill her.”

“What did you do?”

“I ran in front of her. I said I would fight them. If they killed me the justice was done since this whole thing started with me. I told them that what I did made him mad at Indians. Anyway, if they killed me the justice was done and they could take care of the horse. If I won, I got the horse and they still had a good fight to get rid of some of their feelings. One of them, the dead boy’s older brother, I think, came after me. I kept sidestepping him, and when I pulled my knife his relatives pulled him back, and an older boy came for me.”

“Could they have killed you?”

Jordis nodded. “If they had all jumped me at once. But I fought them one at a time. I fought a couple of them. But they lost heart. They didn’t like fighting a woman. That was part of it. So they just gave up their anger and went home to bury their dead.”

“How did you do it? How did you fight them?”

Jordis paused in her stroking and shrugged her shoulders.

“How did you learn to fight?”

“I started fighting with George when we were children. He taught me and we fought—mock fights, but he was tough and he made me tough. We fought every day. At school I learned to fight for real. Even in the East, I fought. I never started a fight. And I never lost one.” Jordis reached down and pulled a long, slender knife out of her boot. “This helps,” she gave Gustie a slight smile. A thin shaft of light fell through the cottonwood leaves and bounced off its blade. “I have learned not to be where they strike and to cut them when I have to. I have hurt men who have tried to take me. Even here on the reservation. Now they all know. They leave me alone. Even when they are drunk. Grandmother says Dakotah men never used to be like that. Of course, Dakotah women always used to carry butcher knives. I am the only one I know who does any more.” Jordis slid the knife back into her boot and resumed grooming the white horse.

“Little Bull is not like that. He is a good man.”

“Yes. Little Bull is a very good man.”

“You were arguing with him just now.”

“He is angry with me because I will not teach. I will not teach, nor dance. I make him very angry.”

“Dorcas calls you her little wounded bird.”

“Grandmother has her name for everything. To her nothing is just what it is.”

“Dorcas feels the way Little Bull does about your teaching?”

“Not exactly. I do not want to discuss this with you, Gustie.”

The words were spoken softly without anger, but Gustie felt her own blood sting her face as if she had been slapped.

“Why not?”

“Because it has nothing to do with you.”

“I think it does.”

“It does not.”

“Yes, it does. Tell me why you won’t teach.”

“If I have to tell you, you will not understand.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“The white man’s knowledge killed my brother.”

“It didn’t kill you. It didn’t kill Little Bull.”

“It almost killed me. Little Bull was stronger. And luckier.”

“Why did you go on? Why didn’t you just come home after the mission school?”

“I had no home. My mother was dead. George was dead and I had nothing else to do. The new head of the school...the one who replaced Everude, he said the church would pay for my education. He felt guilty, I suppose. So I went East. I did not care.”

“You were a good student.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you a good student? It must have been a lot of work. Why do it?”

“It filled the time.”

“Between fights.”

“Yes. Between fights.”

Gustie was angry, and still she found this conversation funny. Jordis turned and saw the amusement in her eyes and returned it with her own.

“The fighting was easier,” Jordis said.

“I’ll bet it was.”

“Do you ever fight?”

“No. There were times when I should have.”

“I’ll bet there were.”

“It does have to do with me.” Gustie felt a lump growing in her throat.

Jordis turned and faced her.

Gustie pulled the blanket tighter around her, raised her head, and tried to smile. “I am the wasichu...” Gustie looked away at a lacy patch of blue that flickered through the canopy of leaves, “for whom...you will not dance.” Gustie continued to smile, as Jordis heaved herself up on Moon’s back and rode away.

Gustie sat still and released the lump in her throat in a little cry, heard only by the brown birds scratching in the dirt.

She got to her feet and headed back to the cabin. It was time to go back to Charity.

Gustie got up and brushed the hay off her overalls. She was no longer in the mood for demolition. She had to clear away the boards and make sure that nothing was left in here that Biddie might hurt herself on. Her wrists were throbbing wildly.

Red Chokecherries Moon

G
ustie rose before dawn and
went through her morning rituals in the dark. Then, wearing only her shift with a thin shawl over her shoulders, she settled at her table with a cup of dark coffee to which she had added a dollop of thick cream. She lit a candle and within its small circle of light considered the journal lying open before her.

This book, begun only days ago, was the first writing for its own sake she had attempted since Clare’s death. Her old journal ended with a single entry, “My dear seems better today.”

The next day Clare died. Gustie put the book in the bottom of the trunk and had not touched it since. It was full of Clare.

She left this new journal and its blank pages along with her pens and ink lying on the table for many days before she began tentatively writing descriptions of and her reflections on the prairie, the weather, the plants and animals, plus little incidents from her life here.

Each blank page was an empty frame of hope and possibility to be filled with something that always fell short of her aspirations. But the process delighted and satisfied her. Gustie liked the physical act of writing: the feel of the pen in her hand and the sound it made against the paper, how the writing filled the page and brought it life, how her large scrawling hand was always less legible at the end of a page than at the beginning. Once she began, the writing became easier and pages filled faster. Gustie wrote for herself alone, sometimes indulging in flowery descriptions, sometimes recording fragments of observations and memories. She did not write much about people with one exception: Dorcas. She had many pages of notes on Dorcas. She felt it was important to record everything about her.

Gustie had tried to write about Jordis, but she couldn’t find the words to capture Jordis’s spirit, her stature; how the sun rose when she smiled and the clouds roiled when she frowned; the depths of her eyes; how astride the white horse she looked like a centauress. Gustie was embarrassed by such thoughts and found the pen awkward in her hand. On the subject of Jordis, the blank page remained blank. After several attempts she gave up.

Gustie looked at her pocket watch lying on the table and noted the time. The circle of candle light had been swallowed in the ocean of dawn. Outside her window the land was waking up. Colors of sky and earth were distinguishing themselves from the gray wash of twilight. A moth wobbled out from the corner of her window ledge, clumsily spread one wing and another to the warming light. Birds opened their throats to announce themselves to the sun. She closed her journal, drank the rest of her coffee, and went to finish dressing.

The skirt and blouse she planned to wear to the Fourth of July celebration were already draped across the bed. As she pinned up her hair, she considered herself in the mirror. Her body was wraithlike, wearing thin just like her clothes. She found the notion amusing that she and her wardrobe might disappear together. All that would be left would be her watch—which remained the same but for a softer luster than when her father had presented it to her ten years ago—her glasses and a mass of brown hair showing more and more strands of gray.

Before she dressed she must bandage her wounds. She had lately begun to leave the bandages off at night and to replace them lightly every day. She carefully pulled her shift over her head and studied her naked reflection.

The center of each wound was still a furious red, tender, unhealed. Around the edges the skin was knitting itself together in a pebbly formation, pearly white against the pale pink of her undamaged flesh. There would be no zig zag lightning pattern here, no dance of leaves, just this rough whiteness. She looked long at the forming scars and liked them. They gave her courage. They made her feel free.

As Gustie drove up the winding drive to Lena and Will’s house, she was surprised to see another wagon ahead of her. It was not yet six o’clock.

She maneuvered Biddie under the trees by the well and recognized the short, squarish form of Hank Ackerman standing by his wagon talking to Will, who bent his tall frame slightly toward Hank and cocked his head so that his good ear got all of the conversation. Will did not see Gustie at first. She had driven up on his blind and deaf side. When he straightened up to reply to something Hank said, he saw her and waved her over.

Hank touched the brim of his hat with his left hand and grinned. “Morning, Miss Roemer.”

“Morning, Mr. Ackerman. How is Orville?”

“Oh, doing pretty good. I make him do a little reading every night so he doesn’t lose the hang of it. You need anything done around your place, Miss Roemer?”

“I may need a fence.”

“He could do that. Put up a nice one for you.”

Hank grinned and his blue eyes, strikingly pale in his ruddy brown face, lit with pride.

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

Gustie saw the tips of straw in the back of Hank’s wagon shift. She peered over the sides of the wagon. Lying on her side in the straw was a sow with five piglets. Two were sleeping, three were busy with breakfast.

Hank, she could see now, was holding a sixth in the crook of his right arm. He scratched it behind the ears and it smiled a piggy smile, eyes closed in contentment. He put the piglet back down in the straw and it squirmed in among its siblings and began to suckle.

Gustie had never seen such little pigs before. “May I?” she asked.

“Go ahead. She won’t mind. She’s used to it.”

Gustie gently lifted one of the piglets out of the wagon bed and held him in her arms. He folded his tiny hoofed feet under himself and snuggled in, relaxing against the warmth of her body. She was stunned at the baby-ness of him.

“Hank was just sayin’ they’re having big Fourth of July doings over in Wheat Lake, too,” Will said.

“Ja, I thought about takin’ my pigs there instead of here in Charity till I heard the Indians were going to be there. Giving a big pow wow. Then I changed my mind quick. Maybe there is some that finds that heathen squalling and jumpin’ around interesting but not me. I won’t mingle with dog eaters. No sir.”

A small coldness took possession of Gustie’s center. “What?”

“Dog eaters,” Hank explained cheerfully. “They eat dog. Turns my stomach just thinking about it.”

Will said, “Well, we got plenty doing right here in Charity, and you’ll get a good price for your pigs here as much as you would over there. Don’t you worry.”

“You’re probably right.”

Will went on. “Lena’s baking pies enough to feed the county. There’s a band and going to be some horse racing. Old Tom is too old. In his day, boy, he could keep up with the best of ’em. Don’t you worry about that. Later Ike Thorson’s going to play his fiddle and we’ll have a little high stepping.”

Gustie was still cuddling the piglet and running her finger along a soft, pink ear that was sparsely layered with long blond hairs. He peeped up at her through pale lashes, then closed his eyes again in drowsy peacefulness. She asked, “Mr. Ackerman, what are you going to do with these pigs?”

“Well, folks always need a porker or two to fatten up. Will’s right. I’ll get a good price for ’em here as much as Wheat Lake.” He got up into his wagon and picked up the reins. “Want to buy that pig?” He grinned down at Gustie.

“No. Thanks.” She laid the baby pig back in the straw next to his mother.

“I’ll keep after Orville and his readin’. You send for him when you’re ready. He’ll build you a real good fence. He is sure good with his hands and building things.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ackerman. I will.”

As his wagon rumbled down the drive, Hank called over his shoulder, “I’ll fatten him up for you, Will.”

Will nodded, grinned and waved back.

Gustie asked Will, “Aren’t they too young to sell?”

“He sells ’em but they stay with the sow until they’re weaned. People pick the one they want, he tags ’em, and they pick up the pig when it’s ready. He was just letting me have first choice. I drilled him a well last year. He paid half but he’s been short on cash so he’s giving me the rest in pig. Come on in. Lena’s just about got breakfast ready.”

Lena’s house smelled of perking coffee, toast, and frying ham.

“Look who’s here, Duchy!” Will hung his hat on the hook in the shanty before he entered the kitchen.

Lena bustled around her small domain. The table was already set for three. Gustie washed her hands in the sink. “Just sit down now,” Lena commanded. “We’ll eat first. Will has to go to the fair grounds and help stake out the horse race.” She was pouring batter into the frying pan. Gustie served the coffee all around and brought the platter of ham to the table, where a stack of toast was already in place. Will had already helped himself to a slice and was spreading it liberally with butter and chokecherry jam that was so deeply purple it was almost black.

When they were all three seated, Lena bowed her head for a silent grace. Will paused in his chewing and Gustie waited to take her share of the pancakes. When Lena finished her prayer and looked up, Will passed Gustie the meat.

“No, thanks.”

“I thought you liked ham,” Lena said.

“I’m afraid I just lost my taste for it.” Gustie raised her eyebrows and offered a self-deprecating half-smile.

Will chuckled. “Oh, ya, Hank’s pigs. Never seen the little ones before, huh?”

Gustie shook her head.

“They’re sure cute little buggers all right. But they grow up ugly. Mean codgers, too. Hang your leg over the rail of a pig pen, they’ll chew it off as look at’cha.” He chuckled some more over the rim of his coffee cup.

Lena sniffed. “Oh, don’t talk such foolishness. An animal is as good or bad as you treat it. When I was a little bit of a thing, we had a big sow.” Lena took a large bite of pancake. Some syrup began to drip down from the corners of her mouth. She caught the drips with her tongue, dabbed at her chin with her apron, and continued her story. “Named Emma. My Pa always warned me to stay away from Emma. But I didn’t pay any attention to that. I was always crawling around in the barn with the horses and the cows, so I didn’t see any reason not to crawl into the pig pen just the same. And I did—when nobody was looking. One day Pa said he found me...I don’t remember this...he said he found me sitting on her, straddling her you know. She was lying on her side and there I was pouring sand into her ears with a spoon. Didn’t seem to bother the pig. Pa lifted me out of there, and Emma got up and shook her head. All that sand came flying out all over. But Pa figured after that I was more harm to the pig than she to me so that was the end of my playing in the pig pen.”

“Well,” Will was grinning and his mouth was full. “I still say, the best thing about a pig’s the bacon.” Will pushed the plate of pancakes toward her. “Better eat now. The only thing you take with you is what you eat.”

Gustie reached for another piece of toast just as Lena jumped out of her seat, responding to a smell, so faint, still, only the cook would notice, like a mother hearing the least sound from her child. “Oh, oh. My potatoes boiled dry.” She grabbed a pot-holder and swung the heavy pot off the stove and over to the sink. She lifted the cover to inspect the damage.

“Burn ’em?” Asked Will. “Duchy makes good potato salad,” he said to Gustie.

“They’re not too bad, I guess. Most of ’em will do for the salad. The rest I’ll fry up for breakfast tomorrow.” Lena took her place at the table once more. “When the potatoes boil dry it means it’s going to storm,” she said.

Gustie smiled mischievously. “Doesn’t it mean you should have paid closer attention to the potatoes?”

Will laughed, sputtering through a mouthful of coffee, “She’s got you there, Duchy!”

“Nobody likes a smarty-pants.” Lena made a face at Gustie and they all had to laugh.

“I should be back here about noon. You two women be ready?” Will gulped the rest of his coffee. Will lived his simple philosophy, grabbing another piece of toast as he stood up. Gustie was amazed at the quantities of food Will Kaiser could put away in short spans of time.

“I don’t see why not!” Lena took the empty platters and her own plates to the sink. She poured hot water over them from her kettle on the stove. “It doesn’t take five hours just to bake a few pies. Don’t you be late, now. You’ll have to clean up before we go back. You can’t go looking like that. I’ve got your white shirt all clean and pressed for you.”

“Don’t you worry. I won’t be late.”

Will slapped her lightly on the behind and she chased him with her dishrag, swiping him across the back of his neck. He grabbed his hat, running and grinning on the way out.

“That man!” Lena was smiling as she came back into the kitchen.

Gustie carried her own dishes to the sink and was about to start the washing up when Lena stopped her. “Oh, no you don’t. Don’t go getting your bandages wet. I’ll do this. You peel apples. There’s a bucket for the peelings and there’s the bowl for the apples.” She nodded toward the bucket on the floor and the bowl sitting out on the counter.

Gustie tucked her skirt up, put the bucket between her knees and began to peel apples, clumsily, aware that her peelings were thick. They fell heavily, thudding into the bucket. A lot of apple going to waste. But it was the best she could do. She had seen Lena peel apples so fast and with such precision that the peelings floated downward in long translucent curls.

Lena read the dismay on Gustie’s face. “Don’t worry, we’ll take the peelings to Hank’s pig this afternoon. So we get it back in the end.” That didn’t make Gustie feel much better.

When the breakfast dishes were drying on the drain board, Lena began mixing up a bowl of pastry dough. To Gustie’s everlasting wonderment, Lena never measured anything. She dumped the flour in by the handfull, cut in random spoons of lard with a fork, sprinkled just enough water over it all so the pastry formed pea-sized pellets.

“Have you heard anything more from the sheriff or the lawyer?” Gustie had not spoken to Pard Batie herself since her return.

“No. Both of them say they are working on it, but I don’t know what they mean by working. I don’t see either one of ’em doing anything more than they ever did—sitting around, drinking coffee, shooting the breeze,” Lena replied as she scooped out a palm sized ball of dough, shaped it into a smooth round and somewhat flattened shape before applying her rolling pin. Lena put her arms and shoulders into rolling out the crust. Short, even strokes in every direction formed a round pastry. She sifted more flour through her fingers over it and turned it around 180 degrees and vigorously rolled a perfect, thin circle. “Everybody’s talking and seems to think it was some stranger, but I don’t know—there’s enough hard feelings in that family.”