Spring for Susannah (19 page)

“Don't you have work to do?”

He dragged himself back to the woodpile, and Jake sneaked in to check for food.

“What do you think, Jake?” Susannah pressed the butter into its mold. “A woman ought to be the light of the home, a beacon of morality for her husband and children. But how can she guide them if her mind is a blank?”

She sat, and Jake put his head on her knee.

“A wife is supposed to support her husband's opinions, but after Father's funeral, when Reverend Mason told me to ‘count it all joy,' Ellen argued with him. Actually argued with her husband! She said if any situation warrants mourning, it would be the death of a loved one. The Reverend said faith requires a higher level of response than wallowing in anguish. Then Ellen reminded him Jesus cried at Lazarus's funeral.”

Susannah found Jake's itchy spot, and the dog's back leg encouraged her efforts. “Could Jesse be right, that it's permissible to discuss issues with one's husband? I wonder.”

The dog sniffed her lap and belly.

“No, there's nothing in my apron. Can you smell the baby already? Do you think I'll be a good mother?” Susannah contrasted her mother's distance and disapproval with Ellen's joy and affection. “I hope I'll be like Ellen.”

Jake licked her hand and wagged his tail.

“Yes, Ellen gives lots of kisses and hugs.” Susannah wrapped her arms around the dog. “And this baby will get plenty from Jesse. He's so full of love. Is it the way he was raised, or does it come from God? And do you think he could love me?”

That evening Jesse interrupted his guitar playing with a loud chord. “I've got it: Darwin!”

Susannah dropped a stitch. “You want to name your baby Darwin?”

He blinked, then burst out laughing. “No! Wouldn't saddle a kid of mine with a moniker like that. I'm asking if you've read
Origin
of the Species
.”

Yes, she had read Darwin's treatise. She had been the only girl in her school to study such a controversial work. Her classmates made it known she was lacking in feminine and Christian virtue, and her mother was furious. She suspected Father had been secretly proud of her, but he only smiled and refused to discuss it when she approached him with the book.

Jesse leaned forward patiently, attentively waiting for her answer. He could hardly fault her for something she did before they married. “Yes, I've read it.”

“No ducking this time. Tell me where you stand.”

Susannah mentally reviewed the stacks of scientific papers in her father's office, the discussions of provident design, lack of intermediate fossil records, geologic imperative for biologic change, natural selection, common ancestors. “Perhaps the best argument against Darwin is found in mathematics: the Law of Probability.”

“I'm getting saddle sore,” Jesse said between songs the next night. “Don't suppose you could make a cushion for this trunk.”

Susannah nodded. “Certainly. Could you please stand for a moment so I can get out my notions box?” She unfurled one of his shirts with half the buttons missing.

“I'll get it.” Laying his guitar on the table, he raised the lid. “No wonder this thing is so heavy. It's full of books.”

“Medical texts. Father hoped I'd become a physician, but the only doctoring I ever did was for Mother.”

Jesse studied her a long moment, his eyes soft. “Guess you did an A-1 job taking care of her.”

Susannah remembered the look of reproach in her mother's eyes, asking why her daughter didn't do something: ease her pain, restore her speech, or the unthinkable, end her suffering. If Jesse had known her then, seen how roughly she handled her mother, heard her snappish responses during the endless nights of interrupted sleep, he wouldn't think so highly of her.

He handed her a tin clicking with buttons. “You'd have made a fine doctor. Why didn't you start school after they died?”

Susannah set her mending in her lap. Jesse thought she was smart enough to be a doctor. Amazing. “It seems like a frustrating profession. There's so little you can do to help, beyond sitting up with someone too restless to die.”

“Yeah. I had enough of that in the War.” Jesse held up a book. “
The Horse and His Diseases
by John E. Potter. Animal doctor, that's you. I'll never forget my little Susannah staring down that burly driver from the threshing crew, all to make four horses more comfortable. You should have gone to veterinary school.”

She glanced at him in surprise. No one, not even her father, had ever expressed this much faith in her abilities. “I would have liked to, but the closest veterinary school is in Ontario, and of course, they don't take women.”

“Ontario? Your pa trained in Canada?”

“No, that school has only been open ten years or so. Father trained in Edinburgh, before he and Mother emigrated.”

“Medical schools take women. Why not vet schools?”

“Look at the trouble I had with the calves. Women aren't strong enough.”

“You're smart enough. Seems what you know is more important than the size of your muscles.” Jesse rooted in the trunk some more and came up with a knapsack stenciled “Michigan Cavalry.” “Your pa's kit.” He pulled out a surgical knife, needles and suture thread, a pair of scissors, and several corked bottles. The heavier farrier tools—hoof knives, chisels, and pincers— were rolled in a pouch made from an old pair of denim pants. “He traveled light.”

“No fleams or patent medicines. He didn't believe in bleeding, purging, or dosing.”

“Bicarbonate of Potash, Black Antimony, Blue Vitriol,” he read from the labeled bottles. “Can't say half these names. You know what this stuff does? Ah, here's one I recognize: ginger.”

She repacked the bag. “Father was experimenting with herbal remedies in animal practice.”

“Hey, what's this?” Jesse pulled a violin case from the trunk. “You've been holding out on me!”

“It's Father's. I don't play well. Ellen packed it.”

Holding the instrument on his lap, he tuned it. “Good, full sound. What do you like to play? Did you bring any music with you? Can you play by ear?”

“Jesse, I don't play well,” she repeated. He handed her the violin and rosined her bow. “We could try a Christmas carol.”

They played “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” as snowflakes hissed on the stovepipe.

“You're doing great! How about ‘Silent Night'?”

Susannah held out her left hand. “It's been so long . . .”

Jesse kissed her reddened fingertips. “So, what do these medical books say about babies?”

“Do you have a specific question?”

“Well . . .” He raised an eyebrow and glanced at the bed. “Is it all right for us to—”

“You know doctors. Some say yes, some say no.” Susannah returned the violin to its case. “There's no scientific evidence either way.”

“Then”—he grinned—“I'd say let's call it a night!”

“It's not polite to stare. Please stop.”

“Never.” Jesse sat in his usual position on the trunk, chin in palm, watching her flip pancakes in the iron skillet.

“Then let's have it out right now.” Plopping onto the stool, Susannah returned his stare. Sunlight echoed off the snow outside and the newly plastered wall, lighting the green and gold sparks in his brown eyes.

“Your pancakes are burning, Mrs. Mason,” he said without blinking.

“That's your breakfast, Mr. Mason.”

Lunging across the table, Jesse kissed her on the nose. “Ha! You blinked!”

“No fair.” Susannah loaded his plate, burnt side up.

“Fair or foul, I must have my morning kiss.” He scooped butter onto the stack. “Just enough snow for tracking. Not too cold.”

Susannah nodded. “Fresh meat would taste good.”

“Your appetite's back. Mind if I go hunting?”

She shook her head and tried to hide her relief. At last she'd have some privacy.

Susannah sorted through the mending pile, choosing Jesse's woolen pants. That man. Whenever he came near, her insides fluttered like cottonwood leaves in a breeze. The way he joked and played made her feel like a child.

A child. Susannah rested her hand on her abdomen. She'd been so awkward when she held Ivar and Marta's baby. Would she feel more confident with her own? No sense worrying over that. Babies come regardless of their mother's lack of ability.

Susannah slipped a finger inside her waistband. Her skirts were still loose, but her basques fit tighter. She sensed a heaviness in her body, as if being with child anchored her to Dakota.

Enough woolgathering. If she kept daydreaming, she'd be totally brainless by the time the baby arrived.

As she turned the pants inside out to locate the split seam, Susannah's mind strayed back to Jesse. He would be a good father, patient and affectionate. No matter how trivial a child's concerns, Jesse would give him his full attention. Perhaps his war memories would stop troubling him, with the baby to focus on. And what a relief it would be to share the limelight with the baby.

It was dusk already and no Jesse. Putting aside the mending, Susannah hefted two buckets of melted snow from the stove and carried them to the stable.

When she raised the first bucket to the water trough, an odd twinge pulled in the small of her back, like a violin string plucked and tightened at the same time. The second bucket tweaked the muscles again. She leaned against the sod wall until the tension eased.

She sank onto the milking stool. The cow lowed and shied away from her cold fingers. “Easy there, Ma Ox. I'm not up to chasing you tonight.” The animal settled. Susannah blinked back her fatigue. She wouldn't wait for Jesse; she'd go to bed as soon as she finished.

She pushed up from the low stool and felt the stable tilt and darken. Milk sloshed over her skirt. Susannah steadied herself against the cow and waited until the dizziness passed. Her fingers found the pulse next to her windpipe: rapid but regular. She glanced around the stable. The oxen had enough hay. Mucking could wait, but eggs should be collected before they froze and cracked. One hand on her back, she made a sweep of the nesting boxes. “Three. Good job, ladies.”