The High Divide (11 page)

“Here,” Eli said, and grabbed hold of the back of Danny's collar as they went.

The wind was bitter, hard from the northeast, and the sleet was coming stronger even as morning started to show through the ragged clouds that tumbled and pitched through the uppermost branches of the trees and along the rooftops. Eli's shoulders and back were already damp, the icy rain penetrating his coat and shirt, and his feet, too, from splashing through puddles. He stopped beneath the canopy of an old boxelder tree that still had its leaves and pulled his brother close. There was a high fence beside them, and behind it a horse flapped its lips and bumped against the boards.

“Where are we going? I'm cold,” Danny said.

“Just let me think.”

“The depot? We're gonna catch the train?”

“No.”

The horse nosed the fence again, snorting, and a gust of wind almost knocked them over. It was too late to go anywhere tonight. They needed someplace to hide for a day at least, until it was safe to jump a train or walk out of town. When the horse bumped against the boards once more, Eli looked behind them at the pitched roof of a barn. “Here we go,” he said, “come on now,” and he started his brother climbing. The fence was six feet high but easy enough to scale, and they dropped down on the other side and scrambled through the muddy lot and let themselves into the barn, where the smell of hay was so sharp that Eli sneezed. He couldn't see a thing, but going up on his toes, he was able to touch the ceiling.

“The haymow,” he said. “That's where we need to be.”

“We do?”

A cow bellowed at them right up close, and from a far corner a sheep bleated irritably. “This is perfect,” Eli said, “you'll see. We'll go up and make ourselves a little hay-fort.”

As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they stepped past the reaching nose of the milk cow and past a stall that held a colossal sow with her rooting brood. Against the west wall they found a ladder of boards that rose into the mow. “Wait,” he told Danny, and he went up the ladder into the high, round-roofed space, dull slices of morning light squeezing in through the siding boards of the east pediment. The rich, dying smell of hay was so strong Eli could feel it between his teeth. The back half of the mow was filled nearly to the rafters.

“Come on,” he said, pulling his brother up through the hole in the floor. “Come on.” He pushed Danny toward the pile of hay, and together they climbed, sinking in up to their knees and then deeper as they struggled upward. The hay was well packed, though, and they were able to reach the top of the pile and then tumble and roll down the other side, up against the barn wall. They took off their pants, coats and shirts and spread them out to dry, and unrolled their blankets and wrapped themselves up.

They were barely settled before a man's voice rang out from below: “There, you old devil, hold still a minute.” A pail clanked. Then the whacking thud of a man's hand against the solid flank of a cow. “What's wrong with you, anyway?” the man shouted. “Hold still now.”

In the silence that followed, Danny whispered, “I don't feel right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm itchy.”

“It's the hay.”

“But my head too, like my skull's getting brittle.”

“Does it hurt yet?”

“No.”

“Look at me,” Eli told him.

Danny turned to him listlessly, his face screwed up tight and his eyes clamped shut. Eli imagined the two of them stuck up here for days, his brother groaning and crying. “You're going to be fine,” he said. “There's not going to be any pain—not this time, do you hear?”

Below, the man wrapped up his morning milking. His boots shuffled against the barn's plank floor, the hinges creaked, and the door slammed against its frame. Eli let out his breath. “What are the songs Mom sings to you?” he asked.

Danny was quiet, thinking. “Sometimes she just tells me stories,” he whispered.

“What stories?”

“Do you know the one about the day I was born?” He smiled, despite himself.

“The warmest day we'd had all spring, I know that. May twentieth.”

“He wanted to take Mom fishing,” Danny said, “remember?”

“Yeah, but he took me too. He drove us south of town, across that pasture and down along the river to Silver Lake, where he borrowed a rowboat from Jebson Mills.” The old bachelor, dead now, had lived for decades in a sod dugout above the water. Ulysses had rowed them across the bay—Eli five years old and Gretta very pregnant—pausing to catch walleyes as they went, four fat ones. Then on Mills Island they'd built a fire on the shore and fried the fish in lard. After, as they lay on the grassy bank in the sun, half asleep, Gretta sat up fast, set her hands on her belly, and said, “Here he comes.”

“Because she knew I was going to be a boy,” Danny said.

“That's right. And Dad had to deliver you himself. I remember climbing up in a burr-oak and covering my ears to block out the sound of her screams. I remember Dad saying, ‘Gretta, I love you.' And when I came back down, he was crouched next to Mom and holding you in both hands. You were squirming like a puppy but still covered with the caul, head to toe. We looked right through it and saw you. Dad used his knife to cut it off.”

“Julius Caesar was born with a caul,” Danny said.

That night when they'd rowed back across the lake, there were four in the boat, not three, and Jebson Mills had counted them a couple of times, pointing with his finger and shaking his head.

“I'm lucky,” Danny said. He was uncurled now and lying on his back, one arm flung out in the hay as he stared up into the rafters of the barn, his eyes unfocused, mouth lax, his breath coming easily. Eli described to him how he'd looked after their father removed the slick membrane—wet hair matted, one eye stuck closed as though in a permanent wink.

“Like a pirate, right?” Danny said.

“Well you sounded like one too. Like a mad one, the way you kept howling.”

“I'm hungry,” Danny said, yawning.

“How is your head?”

Danny had to ponder on this for a time. He touched an ear to one shoulder and then tipped his head the other way. “I'm not sure. I'm tired, though, I know that. I'm real tired.”

“Get some rest then,” Eli said. “That's about all there is to do up here anyway. Sleep for a while. Then we'll see about getting you something to eat.”

Buffalo Bill

D
anny was aware of his brother leaving, rising from beside him and rustling off through the hay—and though he meant to call him back, he couldn't resist the sleep coming on, so sweet in its promise, like a bright fall day that smelled of old grass. All he had to do was walk into it, the sky clear with a big yellow sun and ahead of him a soft dirt path leading to a high plain where the ground moved beneath him.

Mountains rose like purple clouds in the west, and between here and there was a herd of grazing buffalo, thousands of acres of them, black and brown and smelling like dust. In the middle of this mass of life Danny saw a high, pointed tent. He was thinking on how to cross this lake of creatures, how to reach that tent, when a voice came from behind him. He turned. It was Two Blood, wearing a straw hat pulled low on his forehead and peering at Danny through his light-blue eyes. He said, “Aren't you going over there to see him?”

“He's there?” Danny asked.

Two Blood nodded.

“Does he want to see me?”

“Let's go.” Two Blood led the way, the two of them reaching out to touch heads and horns and nappy sides as they went, the animals making room for them to pass.

At the high gray tent, Two Blood drew back a canvas flap. There was a large congregation inside, rapt, heads craning forward, and though Danny expected to see his father at the front, along with Reverend Pearl, instead it was Buffalo Bill with his pointed beard and fringed jacket, standing on a wooden stage. He lifted his rifle and fired into the air at two white doves, which burst into puffs of feathers, one then the other,
bam, bam
. Everybody clapped and cheered. Danny's eyes were drawn to the edge of the stage where a man—his father—lifted two more doves into view, a bird in each hand. He was old-looking, tired, his shoulders thinner than Danny remembered—and when Buffalo Bill shouted
Pull,
Ulysses released the birds, which rose above the stage only to explode, one-two, as the rifle jumped in Bill's hands. Danny ran up through the crowd to the stage, right up close, and waited for his father to spot him. When he did, Danny lifted a hand. His father's eyes were full of tears.

“I didn't want you to see this,” his father said, and reached out to lay a finger alongside his son's cheek.

“It's all right,” Danny told him. Then the tent began to wobble on account of the press of animals outside, and Danny could feel beneath him the heavy movement of their million hooves—and then he was awake, his eyes coming into focus on the boots of his brother, standing above him in the hay.

“Went out and found you some breakfast,” Eli said. “You still hungry?”

All One Thing

H
ome was something that should compass about you like the wind, Gretta thought—you shouldn't have to think about it. And you certainly shouldn't have to build it out of nothing at all, with only love and your bare hands, the way she'd had to do.

Today, though, for all its hard-won familiarity, Sloan's Crossing was strange and cold, the air so thin she found herself taking big lungfuls of it to ward off lightheadedness. She walked with her satchel down Railroad Avenue, feeling more alone than she had on the afternoon her boat landed in New York and she found no one waiting to meet her in that city of peculiar smells and odd-sounding talk—though at least then she'd known herself for a stranger and hadn't been reminded by every tree and lamppost of those she'd lost, or in that case, left behind. For the past two days, in St. Paul and in Minneapolis, she had followed after leads, none of them fruitful. At the office of the Grand Army of the Republic she'd found her husband's name, or former name, and verified his part in the Indian campaigns and his service with Custer's Seventh. She'd also found the name of Ulysses's friend and correspondent, Jim Powers, only to learn the man had been dead for a year, and also several other names, including one she managed to track down, an Indian who had served in Minnesota's Ninth during the Great Rebellion and lived in a rowhouse on Washington Avenue, above the flour mills. He had answered her questions patiently but had no memory of Ulysses. When Gretta described the beaded tobacco pouch, he'd shaken his head and called into the backroom for his wife, who came out and gently escorted Gretta from their home.

The first person she saw after leaving the depot was Mrs. Rolfe, the pastor's wife, walking with an arm around her daughter's shoulder. Gretta slowed her pace to greet her friend, whose eyes brightened before bending away.

“Afternoon,” Gretta said.

The pastor's wife pulled her daughter close and glided on by. Gretta turned to watch their progress down the boardwalk, humiliated though not surprised, the snubbing a corroboration of the shame that had been growing inside her through the night and morning as the train carried her here. At the pharmacy she stopped for ointment. Two women stood just inside the door, heads bent close together, the lawyer's wife, whom Gretta knew only by way of saying hello in the street, and Emma Carlsen, the mother of Danny's friend Peter.

“Hello,” Gretta said.

The two women glanced at one another, then down at the floor.

“I've been gone,” Gretta added.

“So we've heard.” This from Emma, who managed a half smile.

The lawyer's wife muttered something about a pie to bake and headed out the door. Emma hurried to catch up with her.

The druggist prepared the ointment and accepted the fifty-cent payment, cordial as always, though Gretta was aware of his eyes regarding her differently than before, moving to her neck and then farther down as he asked if there was anything else he could do. He was short and slight with a closely trimmed mustache, a man known for his prudent way with money. Evenings, he drove his wife about town in a surrey with flowered draperies.

The way home wasn't long, five blocks, and Gretta walked fast, hoping to get there before she saw anyone else she knew. As she rounded the last corner, something caused her to stop mid-stride. In front of their house, in the place beneath their kitchen window where she always kept a large urn of geraniums, there was nothing, only a bare circle in the grass. The welcome sign above the door that Ulysses had fashioned from a cedar shingle was gone. She hurried forward. Bolted to the doorframe was a new hasp, and hanging from it an iron padlock of the sort Ulysses had clamped onto the trunks they'd shipped from St. Paul after the wedding. Gretta felt the blood drain from her face and reached out to steady herself, laying the flat of her hand against the door. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she didn't allow them to come. For a few moments she stood there, gathering her strength, then she turned on her heel and headed straight back downtown, to Fogarty's office at the rooming house, and knocked on the door.

He opened immediately, as if expecting her, but feigned astonishment all the same, lifting a hand to his mouth. She couldn't help but notice his bare feet, which were pale, glossy, and purple-veined, like tulip bulbs.

“Come in, come in,” he said, his hand spinning like a little wheel.

She stood in place, arms crossed in front of herself. “Are you going to unlock my door for me?”

“Your door?”

“My door, yes.”

“
My
door, you mean to say. And of course I will, as soon as I receive my overdue payment. And additionally, the five dollars you stole from me.”

“You gave me the money of your own free will.”

He laughed. “I did?”

“You said it was mine if I helped you find your keys.”

“But we didn't find them, did we. I had to hire a locksmith and pay him a fortune, in case you're interested. And furthermore, I thought we had an agreement about the rent. Unless my memory fails me, your intention was to go and fetch your errant husband, the assumption being that he would come back with you and present me with said payment.”

She watched him. He rubbed a finger on his lips, thoughtfully, and blinked at her.

He drew a handkerchief, white and neatly pressed, from the inner pocket of his jacket and offered it to her. “You're perspiring,” he said.

“I would like to able to go home, Mr. Fogarty.”

He returned the handkerchief to his jacket. “It's not your home, Mrs. Pope. It's not even your house. And I'm not sure what you'd gain from going inside, since your possessions aren't there. I've had them removed.”

“I'll call Mr. David,” Gretta said, although her spirits were flagging. Lionel David was the local sheriff, whose paycheck came from the town council, on which Mead Fogarty sat.

“Please do. Tell him that you haven't kept up on the note your husband signed. And tell him also, for me, that it's not my inclination to store your possessions free of charge. Best not mention the five dollars you stole, however—he may not have heard about that yet.”

“Where is everything?” Gretta said.

“Oh, it's quite safe. No cause for worry. I moved it all into the building right back there.” He aimed a thumb behind himself. “That old hog shed in the alley. It's dry and locked up tight. You may collect your things now, if you would like to. I'll open it up for you. I can even find someone to help you move it. Then again, if you're still making arrangements and need only a few items to tide you over, that's fine too. You see, I've never been one to hold grudges. And certainly not against you.”

Gretta's impulse was to say,
Yes, open it,
just to exercise a bit of control, but the naked bulge of Fogarty's eyes and the appearance of his bright tongue at the corner of his mouth caused her to change her mind. She turned and walked down the hallway, not stopping at the sound of his voice.

“Please don't underestimate the appeal you hold for me,” he said to her back. “I am not a handsome man, of course, but I can offer you a life. Which is more than you have at the moment.”

She continued down the hall and out the door and back into the street, where the shadows were stretching east and the air was cool on her face. She had a mind to return to her house and break a window to get inside where she might feel safe, at least for a while. Then the knot in her stomach bent her forward to expel the ham sandwich she'd eaten on the train—except it wouldn't come up. Nothing would, although a jabbing pain in her jawbone brought a rush of saliva. Once again she remembered getting off the boat in New York all those years ago and listening to the nonsense of languages as she walked the harbor district, waiting for the man her aunt and uncle had promised would be there to meet her. By the time he finally arrived, it was nearly dark, and she had been approached by two rough boys who told her they'd be glad to help her find a place for the night. One of them she still saw in her dreams, his face like the blade of an ax, his eyes eating her up. A stale, rotten smell clung to him, and he talked with his hands, which looked heavy and purposeful, as if they were meant for prying into and breaking things, each finger a separate threat. She tried to get free of the boys, pretending to know where she was going, stepping aside when they blocked her path, and explaining that she had a friend on the way, but it was only when her uncle's cousin arrived and showed them his pistol that they finally turned and drifted off in the dark.

Now, though, there was no one to save her, no one to go to for help, no one, it seemed, even willing to speak with her in the place she had lived for nearly seventeen years. It was as if she had left Sloan's Crossing as Gretta Pope and returned as somebody else. When she tried to think of who in town was least in Fogarty's debt, Mrs. Peterson came to mind, the dressmaker, a woman who had managed to hold her own among the merchants on Main Street, in part because of the mystery surrounding her husband. Depending on who you listened to, the man was serving time in federal prison, acting in Broadway plays, or piloting a steamship on the Missouri—though people also said he was an invention useful for keeping interested men at arm's length. Several years ago Mrs. Peterson had donated money to the courthouse for a mural commemorating General Stephen Sloan, the town's founder. She was neither a friend nor a peer, it was true, but nonetheless she often hired Gretta for tailoring and hemming jobs. Maybe she would see the similarity in their plights? Gretta approached Mrs. Peterson's Main Street shop and climbed the stairs to the apartment above it.

“I need to see you,” Gretta called, after knocking.

The latch twisted and the door swung in, the woman standing tall and well-arranged in a pleated skirt and tailored jacket, hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was large, its individual features—nose, mouth, eyes, and cheeks—generous and symmetrical.

“I suppose you're entitled to your side of the story,” she said.

“It would help if I knew what the story was.”

“Spare me your self-righteousness. You bear some responsibility too.”

Gretta summoned her courage. “Responsibility for what? You'd think I'm a criminal.”

“Here.” Mrs. Peterson moved Gretta brusquely toward a hard chair at the kitchen table and then took one across from her. She sat straight, her mouth severe. She said, “With a man like Fogarty, it's a grave mistake to put yourself in the position of having to tell him no, and then tell him no. As I suspect you did. Don't you understand that?”

Gretta resented the woman's tone.

“He's got you in his vest pocket, to put it tactfully.”

“What has he been saying?”

“That you offered yourself to him. That you got him drunk, and that before he woke up you had taken his money and fled. He's ashamed, of course—but in a way that lays all the guilt on you. He's getting it both ways, can't you see? He's taken your honor and then doubled his pleasure by confessing himself to a town flattered to be given the privilege of forgiving him. And there's not one thing you can do about it. There's nothing
I
can do about it, for that matter—he owns half the buildings on this street, including the ones on either side of mine. He means to drive you out of town, Gretta. Or else into his arms.”

“I did nothing wrong,” Gretta said.

Mrs. Peterson rolled her eyes then looked away, as if the conversation were over. “You've let Mead Fogarty's manhood become the most interesting subject in town, and that's a fine thing for any man, as long as he's the one telling the story.”

Gretta put her hands on both sides of her head as if to keep her brain from exploding. “Where do I go?” she asked. “What do I do?”

Mrs. Peterson smoothed her dress against her thighs. She lifted her nose and sniffed, as if detecting something unpleasant in the air. When she stood from the table, Gretta stood too, automatically, and then allowed herself to be led to the door and dismissed.

Numbly, bag slung from her shoulder and valise at her side, she walked down the stairs and outside, where the sun was dropping into a bank of orange and purple clouds, pulling with it any warmth it may have lent the day. A shiver passed from the top of her neck to the backs of her knees. With two dollars left in her purse and not a single blood relative in all the North American continent—aside from her own two sons, whose whereabouts were unknown to her—she walked toward the town's least savory hotel, the one favored by railmen and seasonal farm workers. Last year a man had been murdered there, killed for his new suit of clothes by a drifter who was then arrested at the depot, dressed in those clothes. Gretta wasn't thinking about that crime, though. She thought only of a room with four walls to block the view she presented to the town, a room where she could find a way to collect her wits and plan the next hours of the life Mead Fogarty said she didn't have.

But then at the alley beside the newspaper office, she caught a hint of tobacco in the air, and her eyes fell on the yellow window of a converted rail car tucked away between the photography studio and bookkeeping office. It was the home of Two Blood and his wife, Agnes, who had claimed the silver Pullman after the big derailment of seventy-eight and moved it to this small lot sold to them by Fogarty. He'd considered the land unbuildable on account of its dampness. In fact, there was a natural spring here that Two Blood had tapped with a pipe, and now he sold water to residents of the town's east side, where all the wells tasted like rotten eggs.

“Ho,” Two Blood said, appearing in his doorway. He had to stoop in order to fit beneath the metal casing. Beside him, under his raised arm, his wife's face came into view, unlined and fresh despite her long white hair. Agnes had attended Eli's birth and would have helped with Danny's as well, if he hadn't decided to show up early that day on Mills Island. Until the arrival of Dr. Harris from Minneapolis, Agnes had been the town midwife, requiring only tobacco and eggs as payment. She was known for her gentle confidence and for the balm she made that smelled like rancid cheese but worked like nothing else to smooth the way. Dr. Harris had rough hands and made a habit of using steel forceps.