The Last Letter (41 page)

Before she knew it, the wooden boxes were lowered into the gaping earth and she suddenly was awakened by the last time James’ body would be on topsoil. The silence was thick. Greta finally broke the silence as the sound of dirt hitting wood brought tears over Jeanie’s lids. Katherine gripped her around the waist, squeezing her tight.

“We’ll be strong, Mama,” Katherine’s voice floated up into Jeanie’s ears. She looked down to see Katherine’s eyes overflowing with silent tears, but her face conveyed all the strength Jeanie wished she felt herself.

“I’ll take care of you Mama. Yale, Father, Tommy, everyone. I can do it. We are Arthurs. We’re not crying people.”

Jeanie ran her finger down the path of Katherine’s tears that dried in the cold nearly as fast as they fell. She wanted to tell Katherine she was right, that they weren’t crying people, that they were strong, that she just needed time to think, to heal, to get through the next minute, day, week and they’d be fine. But, all Jeanie could do was stare at Katherine’s falling tears, wishing they were indeed, not crying people.

Murmurs from the other mourners grew louder as everyone turned their backs from the tree, the thud of dirt hitting wood. Jeanie heard snippets of conversation—plans to trek to the Missouri River for wood in spring, who would take milk to New Holland to have cheese made, recapping all the places they would be able to locate wild grapes, buffalo berries, cherry trees and gooseberry bushes that summer. And the weather. The way the air felt so calm, what that meant, how to tell what was coming next, the ways the government would create a system to warn about the weather.

Jeanie clasped her ears to shut out the chatter, but she couldn’t shut off her own mind or mouth. “How can you people talk about weather?“ Jeanie stalked over to the group, her voice tightening as it rose. She swung her arms for emphasis. “Weatherweatherweather? I never want to hear the word again! I never want to notice it, to
understand
it. I don’t care what’s happening in the atmosphere and damn you Templeton for making James give a damn about the blasted weather. Do you understand?
Do you understand?”

Jeanie stalked over to Templeton and beat his chest with her fists. “How am I supposed to live when the weather is central to our existence and every time someone mentions it, I think of James, I feel James, I feel him missing.” Jeanie screeched and pounded on Templeton. “How am I supposed to get over something that is as present as the weather? Howhowhow?” Jeanie wrapped her arms around Templeton and then crumbled to the ground, sliding down his body like it were a pole. She balled up on the ground, her face buried in the snow, hoping it would suffocate her.

Templeton squatted down, trying to pull Jeanie up, soothing her with quiet reassurances he didn’t mean to hurt James, and that he was sorry, that…it didn’t matter what he said, Jeanie couldn’t hear him. Other hands fell over her, pulling at her.

“I’m sorry, Jeanie,” Ruthie’s voice infiltrated Jeanie’s ears over all the rest. She looked up from her ball, seeing Ruthie’s face near hers.

“You. Get. Out. Get out! I’ll never forgive you.”

“I’m so sorry, Jeanie. Please accept my apology,” Ruthie said.

Jeanie spit at her, feeling her teeth grind, knowing she looked like a rabid animal. Jeanie watched as Mrs. Hunt pulled Ruthie away, comforting her, telling her that Jeanie’s reaction was typical for a grief-stricken mother, that Jeanie couldn’t have meant what she said.

Jeanie watched as Frank tried to comfort Ruthie, the way Ruthie told Frank to tend his wife, that there was no place for him near her when his wife hurt so. Frank looked down at Jeanie, his face covered in angst, that Jeanie thought was greater at Ruthie’s rejection than at the death of his son. Jeanie hated them all, every one of them. And no one more than herself.

How could she have agreed to go to Dakota Territory? How could her shame at her father’s actions been so great, humiliating, that she gave up everything and only got a dead son in return, the destruction of the only thing that mattered. As angry as she was at Frank, Ruthie and unfairly, Templeton, she was utterly destroyed by her own part in James’ death. No one could be blamed beyond herself.

“This is too utterly, utterly, utterly…“ Jeanie shot to her feet, knocking Templeton back. She took off running for the dugout. She thought momentarily of Yale, that Katherine held her, that she’d need to be fed, then she tore off, knowing Katherine wouldn’t be far behind, that she wouldn’t let anything happen to Yale.

Jeanie burst through the dugout door. Katherine was ten minutes behind.

“Mama?” Katherine put her hand on Jeanie’s back. Jeanie’s posture softened at the touch. She turned from the stove.

“Katherine. I’m sorry. Does Yale need to be fed?” Jeanie ran her hand over Katherine’s bonnet, pulling it off her hair, running her hand down her daughter’s back. Katherine’s face was drawn, sunken with lack of hearty food and sadness for her lost brother and crumbling family.

“You sit, Katherine.” She kissed Katherine’s forehead and cupped her chin, forcing a smile. “Let me take Yale.” Jeanie pulled some pillows from the other bed and built a nest for Katherine to nestle into while Jeanie settled into the rocker to feed Yale. Katherine’s eyes drooped as she watched her mother. Once Yale latched onto Jeanie, Katherine’s eyes shut fully, falling into a snoring sleep.

Jeanie drew back some of Yale’s coverings. The storm had taken its toll on her, too. She seemed as slight as she had when she was born two months premature. Jeanie knew that couldn’t be right, that she had to be at least ten pounds by then, but her legs had grown spindly again, her skin sallow. A swell of fear came over Jeanie, but the feelings dissipated when Jeanie remembered James, that he’d never come back. That was all she could experience at the time, his loss. The loss of James.

“Jeanie?” Frank knelt in front of Jeanie. She shot up straight, she’d fallen asleep while nursing Yale. “Could we make some coffee?”

Jeanie’s eyes were hot and dry, blurred from the aridness. She stared at Frank, not sure if he was seriously waking her up after weeks of sleeplessness to make him coffee.

“You want coffee, Frank?” Jeanie said through clenched teeth. He rocked back on his heels and stood, hands spread.

“I can make it,” he said.

“Oh, no, My,my,my, no. No thank you.” Jeanie rose and put Yale into her cradle. “Is there anything else you could use?”

Frank glanced sideways before locking Jeanie’s gaze. “Well, I uh, my pants are split, and the one pocket’s come apart. Um, that might be nice. I know how you like to feel useful and all.”

Jeanie spilled water into the kettle, dumped in a mix of coffee grinds, herbs and chicory, and lit the stove.

“Is there something else?”

“Well, I’d like for us to make a go—”

“A go? Really? That’s what you’d like?”

“I mean, I love you and I made a mistake, Ruthie made a mistake. She’s so sorry. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for her, smooth things out for her. I hate that woman and she will burn in hell with you.”

Frank’s eyes drooped at the outer edges.

“Why don’t you tend the animals, while I do this. That would be fine,” Jeanie said, slamming a spoon into its proper storage place.

Chapter 20

Jeanie didn’t hear Frank go out the door, but when she turned he was gone. His absence brought extra air into the dugout and Jeanie realized how much she hated Frank, how much she wanted him dead or just gone. She didn’t know how they’d carry on, together, pretending to craft a life, to carry on with roles and expectations, and hopes and dreams. He was the cause of her baby’s death, he betrayed her in every way imaginable, yet she was tethered to him for life.

Divorce was not an option. If she divorced him, there would be no way she could support the children. She’d lose everything—everything that the act of homesteading was supposed to save was now in jeopardy because they taken the risk of running away. Her father, his acts put them on this path, but it was Frank who sealed things up.

Jeanie was enraged again. She paced back and forth. Every so often she stopped pacing to gaze at Katherine or Yale, sleeping peacefully, not aware of the extra layer of pain that sat under the death of James, she tried to find comfort in the sight of them, but couldn’t.

She grabbed three pairs of Frank’s pants and her sewing basket. She started by mending the pocket of one pair of pants, then hours later had mended anything that even hinted it would be a hole in the next year. Frank entered the house, red-faced from his work in the barn.

“Take those off. I’m mending everything now.”

Frank did as he was told then lay next to Katherine. Jeanie sewed in a trance-like state, her hands flying like a machine. Every now and then she’d glance at Katherine and Frank, and the only thing that stopped Jeanie’s sewing was the startling resemblance between Katherine and her father. They could have been twins rather than father and daughter.

The day bled into night and Katherine and Frank slept right through dinner. Jeanie didn’t disturb them, but when Tommy came back from wandering in the land of the Lord as he put it, Jeanie and he slipped into the children’s bedstead for the night. Jeanie hadn’t realized how numb she’d become until they pulled the blanket up over them and the scent of James wafted off the blanket, the smell breaking through the nothingness she’d grown accustomed to, causing her fresh pain she didn’t think possible until it was smothering her.

At daybreak following the funeral, Frank shook Jeanie awake.

“Baby’s cryin.'”

Jeanie oriented herself to where they all were, who was in which bed, and in the midst of the fresh realization that James was dead, Jeanie began her morning chores.

Frank slipped back into bed and Katherine rose, a half-smile over her face. Jeanie’s raised her eyebrows, questioning.

“I feel better, Mama, for this one instant, I felt good enough that a smile popped to my lips. It surprised me, but it was there for a second.”

Jeanie hugged Katherine with one arm and flipped oatcakes over the fire with the other. “Why don’t you brush the horses and then take some of these cakes to the Zurchenko’s,” Jeanie said.

“Okay. That’s good, that’s good.” Katherine sighed as though she’d been waiting for that exact instruction.

Tommy rose within minutes of Katherine leaving. Wordlessly, he shoveled down oatcakes and then pushed out the door, never even looking back at Jeanie. She yelled for him but he was gone so fast that Jeanie wasn’t sure if he didn’t hear her or if he was ignoring her on purpose.

Frank stirred in the bed then reached under it for a small tin of opium that he nibbled on then fell back, his face, ecstatic as far as Jeanie could see. She began to slam her pots and spoons around.

“Blast-it, Jeanie. Could you keep it down a bit?”

“I’m sorry,” Jeanie cocked her head to the side. “Am I disturbing your sleep?”

“I was thinking about that cotton idea we had.”

“We
had?”

“Yes, we are a we. Like it or not. We are. You need me whether you know it or like it or not.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that.”

“Sure about what? I told you the cotton industry is shifting from the southeast to the southwest. We could get in front of the wave and—”

“Listen to me Frank. I can’t handle this or you or your schemes or air castles or air-cotton-plantations. Nothing that you suggest exists in reality unless I have a hand in making it so. So, forget it. I’m not pulling up stakes.”

“You hate it here.”

“I do.”

“So?”

“So what? I’m not leaving James ever.”

“That’s just…“

Jeanie stood over the still reclining Frank. “Do you care a whit for your son?”

“Don’t harry me.”

“Harry you? You’re lucky I don’t pluck you like a prairie chicken then twist off your toes and fingers and feed them to the rattle snakes before I kill you.”

Frank opened his eyes. “I can see this isn’t going to work. I’m leaving, Jeanie. I didn’t hurt our son on purpose, or you. I didn’t. It was simply circumstances. Hundreds,
hundreds
of people died that day and that
has
to be forgiven. You’re my wife and any living you made from your books before is gone so I’m going to leave and give you a moment to consider the intelligence of your recent mind-set. Can’t you feel the bitterness I see in your whole being? Greta has lost too, yet she still has an eye for household cares, yearns for the comfort of Nikolai—”