Prairie Widow (5 page)

“Please,” said Jennifer, “I can't stay. I was told that you do some doctoring.”

Lucy stepped up to the wagon, her dark eyes serious. “Is someone sick?”

“My husband. He's got a fever.”

Lucy Baker turned grim. Without another word, she went into her soddy. Jennifer, still sitting on her wagon seat, wondered what to think. Then Lucy's husband came out from behind the building, tucking his shirt into his pants. “Morning, Mrs. Vandermeer.”

Jennifer remembered him, too, from Franz Hoffmann's store. He was the man with the coffee-label patch. Jennifer had thought it rather unfriendly, the way he responded to Bill Wilkes, but he certainly didn't seem unfriendly now. Though his clothes were a bit frayed, he was still an amiable enough looking man, even handsome, with black hair, pale grey eyes, and an apparently steady smile.

Lucy Baker, wearing a red sunbonnet and armed with a satchel, reemerged. “Walter Vandermeer is sick,” she told her husband as she hauled herself up onto Jennifer's wagon.

“Bad?” asked her husband.

“He fainted in the field,” said Jennifer.

“Tell Todd to fetch Nancy and to bring her to Mrs. Vandermeer's house,” said Lucy to her husband. “Come, Mrs. Vandermeer.”

Jennifer flicked the reins, and the ox began to plod.

“You needn't go back through the town first,” said Lucy. “Just cut across that way.” She pointed in a direction off the trail and straight across the sea of grass.

Jennifer did as her neighbor instructed, and the ox pressed into the long stems, the wheels of the wagon turning in the grass like the paddle wheels of a Mississippi riverboat.

Along the way Lucy asked Jennifer about Walter's symptoms. Jennifer told Lucy what she could, and then, for a while, the two women didn't talk. Finally, Jennifer said, “I'm sorry I was so rude to you in Mr. Hoffmann's store.”

“Oh, that's quite all right,” said Lucy. “You're not the first unhappy wife to be dragged out this way by her husband. It must be pretty awful for you.”

“Yes. Awful.”

“You'll get used to it.”

“No,” said Jennifer, shaking her head, “somehow I don't think I will.”

Lucy checked in her satchel—“Where are you from?”

“Ohio.”

Lucy closed her bag. “We passed through Ohio on our way out here. We're from Pennsylvania. Here eight years. Left home right after Seth got back from the War.”

“Eight years! Tell me, did you mind much when your husband took you out here?”

“Mind?” Lucy Baker raised her eyebrows. “Heavens, no. It was my idea.”

By and by, the wagon broke onto the faint trail leading to Jennifer's homestead. Again, the two women didn't say much more until Jennifer spotted her dugout in the shallow rise. “There,” she said with some embarrassment. “That's where I live.”

Soon, she pulled the wagon up in front of her dugout, and Peter opened the door and stepped out.

“How's Poppa?” asked Jennifer, afraid of the answer.

“He doesn't talk,” said Peter, looking very worried. “He just lies there and shivers.”

Lucy Baker lowered herself to the ground, took her satchel from the seat, and marched in. Jennifer followed.

Inside the somber room, Walter lay on his back trembling and sweating profusely. Emma stood by the bed, holding her ceramic-faced doll and watching her Poppa. Lucy approached, removing her bonnet and pulling a high-backed chair with her.

“Are you a doctor?” asked Emma.

“I'll have to do” Lucy reached over and put a hand on Walter's forehead.

“How does he look?” asked Jennifer.

“Like he's come down with the shakes,” said Lucy, opening her satchel. “Heat some water, will you?”

“The shakes,” repeated Jennifer softly as she went to do Lucy's bidding. For the rest of the day, she continued to do whatever Lucy instructed. But mostly, she watched as her neighbor administered to Walter bitter quinine and ginger tea doped with extra vinegar, smeared his chest with plaster of turpentine and lard, bathed his feet in a hot bath, and kept him generally wrapped up to his neck in a blanket. When Nancy Camp arrived, dropped off by Todd Baker, she took over the assisting, and so Jennifer watched from farther off.

“Is Poppa dying?” asked Peter, standing near her.

The thought clutched Jennifer, but she said, “No, of course not. Come on, let's all go out for a while.” And she took Peter and Emma outside.

It was now late afternoon, and the sun was low in the clear blue dome. Emma sat herself on some trampled grass before the dugout with a miniature setting of chairs, table and tea service. She bid Peter to join her and Melissa, her ceramic-faced doll.

Peter, however, didn't want to. He stayed by the dugout door and slumped to the ground, absent-mindedly poking at his shoes with a long grass stem.

Jennifer stood by the door as well, clasping her elbows close to her. But she didn't want her children to see how upset she was getting, so she started to wander off, circling to the rear of the dugout, which meant climbing up the rise. When she reached the top, standing now a few feet from the projecting stove pipe she saw, stretched before her, high ground upon which grew shorter grasses. The tips didn't even reach her knees. Jennifer gazed out across this expanse, dotted here and there by the occasional yellow daisy, and she listened to the somber wind.

She stepped forward, scaring into flight a large grasshopper, which resettled on a stem farther off. Jennifer sighed. Could this really be happening to her? Was she really here? It all seemed like such madness. Only desperate people would come to a place like Kansas. Was it really so bad back home?She continued to walk, the short grasses sweeping her skirt. A mourning dove suddenly broke from cover and flew off aways to drop back down out of sight. Jennifer began to formulate a letter she would send her father. She would describe everything about Kansas. He would then certainly insist she come home. And, if not that, then he would at least be sorry he let his son-in-law take his daughter away. Jennifer would derive some satisfaction in that.

She walked on. She now noticed, a dozen paces ahead, an owl standing on a dirt mound. It was a funny little bird with relatively long legs that no doubt allowed it to see over the grass. The owl looked straight back at Jennifer with amazed, slightly annoyed orange eyes. The two stared at each other for several moments. Jennifer stepped closer, and the owl began bobbing up and down. Jennifer paused, enjoying the comical display. She then resumed walking towards the bird, which, seemingly exasperated, dropped down a hole in the mound. Jennifer stopped. What a strange way for a bird to flee! She considered investigating the hole, but remembered her ailing husband and decided to go back.

When she turned, however, a panic rose in her, for she saw no sign of her homestead. Only open grassland. The pipe had vanished.

Jennifer stood there, scanning the distance, unsure which way to go. Each direction looked the same. Surely, though, if a silly owl could find its hole in all this grass, she could find hers. “Now think,” she whispered. “The sun was in front of you when you walked away from the stove pipe, so now I must keep it behind me.” Jennifer began to walk, keeping the sun to her back or, rather, her elongated shadow before her.

But she proceeded farther than she thought she had come, and the panic returned. She was tempted to call out for help, but what a fool her neighbors would think her then.

Still, let them think it. It was better than remaining out there when the sun set. In the dark she would never find her way home. And then the wolves would come…

Before she could yell however, she saw, several yards to her left, as if rising out of the very ground, Nancy Camp, who was climbing up the rise. “Thank God,” murmured Jennifer, and she hurried over to her neighbor. When she got closer, she once more saw the dark stove pipe. “My husband, is he…”

“He's asleep,” said Nancy. “I'm afraid we must wait a little longer.”

For a moment, the two women stood side by side, silently watching the setting sun. Nancy Camp was slightly taller than Jennifer and not, so thought Jennifer, a particularly pretty woman. Her face was long, her hair, parted in the middle and drawn tightly back, was a brown, mousy color, and her skin, like almost everyone's out there, was weathered—indeed hers seemed to have particularly suffered, since she was of a naturally delicate complexion and better suited for bosky regions.

“I must thank you for coming to my place like this,” said Jennifer. “I don't know what I would have done otherwise.”

“Oh, it's Lucy, really,” said Nancy. “I'm just an extra pair of hands for her.”

“Still, it was nice of you to come.”

Nancy nodded graciously. “You're quite welcome.”

The two women stood quietly once more, watching the western sky turn a pastel pink. Then Jenifer had to ask, “How long have you lived out here?”

“Six years. I'm from Maryland.”

“Do you miss it?”

Nancy seemed reluctant to answer. “Very much.”

“So I'm not the only one.”

Nancy seemed hesitant to continue, but then she did. “I often dream I'm back there on our little, no-account farm.” She grew wistful.

“Then it was your husband's idea to come out here?”

“I'd like to blame him. But, at the time, I thought it was a wonderful idea.”

“And now?”

“Now I'm not so sure.”

The two women grew reflective. Streaks of red appeared in the sky as the sun began to sink in the distant grass.

“Kansas is a strange place,” said Jennifer.

“It struck me that way, too, when I arrived.”

“I just saw an owl,” continued Jennifer, growing excited at having found a sympathetic ear. “When I approached it, it didn't fly away like a normal bird, but dropped down a hole.”

“Yes, that's the way it is out here. With no trees or rocks, creatures tend to hug the ground, or go below it.”

“Like some people.”

“You know,” said Nancy, also apparently appreciating a sympathetic ear, “even after all these years, I find it unnerving at times—like right now—to be the tallest object around.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean,” said Jennifer. “I feel so—exposed.”

“Now, what this prairie needs is a nice, tall church spire!”

“We had a lovely one back home. I used to be able to see it poking up among the tree tops from my upstairs window.”

“Are you a churchgoer?”

Jennifer hesitated. “Not the most conscientious, I'm afraid.”

“Well, my husband, Will, and I read from the Bible each Sunday. You and your family are welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, I'll—keep that in mind.”

“Folks live so far from each other, it's hard to gather for any purpose. It's not natural.”

“I quite agree.”

“At least you have two lovely children to keep you company when your husband is out. Will and I haven't been so lucky, and now that I'm nearing forty, well…”

Jennifer was surprised. Her neighbor looked more like fifty. “Tell me, Mrs. Camp…”

“Nancy, please.”

“… Nancy. Have you ever considered going home? To the East, I mean.”

Nancy stiffened, and Jennifer felt as if she had transgressed. “Yes, I have,” admitted Nancy. “Many times. Will has, too. We've discussed it.”

“But you're still here. Six years, you say.”

“Well, it's not as if we're certain we want to go back. There's nothing there for us, after all. Meanwhile, the years just seem to fly by.”

Jennifer felt sorry for her neighbor. But she was also determined that the same thing not happen to her. Six years is a long time to be in a place like Kansas.

“Well,” said Nancy, turning, “I guess we ought to go back in.”

“Yes, I shouldn't be standing out here like this. Incidentally, it will be getting dark soon. Perhaps you and Lucy could stay the night.”

“Thank you. I think that's Lucy's intention,” said Nancy, stepping awkwardly back down the rise. “She never leaves a patient until she's done.”

Back in the dugout, Lucy Baker had lit some coal oil lamps. She sat by Walter's bedside, wiping his forehead with a rag. Jennifer approached and stood there looking at her sleeping husband. “I can take over for a while,” she said to Lucy.

Lucy looked up, rose, and handed the rag to Jennifer. “Nancy and I will prepare dinner for us all tonight.”

For the next hour, Jennifer sat by her husband, wiping his brow and tightening the blanket, which kept loosening due to his shakes. “Oh, Walter,” she peeped, “don't you wish you were home now?”

Later, Lucy called everyone to the table. “I'm afraid we must stretch the food,” she said. “You're low on many things.”

“We were visited by Indians,” explained Jennifer, taking her seat. “I had to keep feeding them.”

“Yes, they come to my door, too,” said Lucy. “They're from the Osage tribe. It's sad how they go begging.”

“Sad, nothing! They let themselves right in. I thought I was doomed.”

“That's just the Indian way. They don't have the same sense of property as White people. You could just as readily make yourself at home in their tent.”

“I'd hardly do that!”

“Anyway, they're harmless. Believe me, there used to be

a lot more of them when we arrived. The government had originally set aside Kansas for the Indians after they had been pushed out of other areas.”

“Hm! Then by all rights, we shouldn't even be here,” said Jennifer.

“But then it was discovered you could actually raise crops out here, and the Indians were sent packing to reservations in the Oklahoma territory. I imagine if someone finds out Oklahoma is good for something, the government will send the Indians elsewhere.”