Tisha (46 page)

Uncle Arthur had already put the next record on and was lowering the needle. The
Home Sweet Home
waltz began to play. Then I saw that there were a whole bunch of people staring at the two of us—Jake Harrington and Rebekah, Ben Norvall and Nancy. They were all smiling. Uncle Arthur gave me a little wink. “We had it all arranged,” Fred said.

His arm slipped around my waist, and like the first time we danced that waltz together the walls of the schoolroom moved right back and everybody disappeared. Even the music didn’t sound the same. To me it wasn’t an old scratchy record playing an old-fashioned waltz, but Paul Whiteman’s full orchestra. I was so far away in my mind that not until the record
was over and everybody began to clap did I realize that no one else had danced. All of them had stopped to watch Fred and me.

Chuck and Ethel were asleep on the bed along with Joan Simpson, so Robert Merriweather stayed with the three of them while we all went over to the roadhouse.

It was almost two in the morning and everybody was just about done eating when a couple of chords sounded on the piano. We all turned around in time to see Joe Temple point a finger at the kitchen area, and while he played a march Maggie Carew came out carrying a huge chocolate cake with a candle in the center. She set it down in front of me. “Good Luck” was written on it in icing. I was too surprised to say a word, even more so when Uncle Arthur walked over with a beautifully wrapped box and handed it to me. “We passed the hat around and got this for ya,” he said. “A little token of our appreciation.”

Inside the box was about the most expensive camera you could buy, all black leather and nickel plate. Everybody clapped and yelled for me to make a speech.

“I wish I could,” I said, “but I’m not very good at making speeches. All I can say is, thanks—I appreciate it.”

“No more than we appreciate you, Teacher,” Ben Norvall said. “There isn’t a soul in this room that doesn’t think you’re a fine honest girl and a true-blue Alaskan to boot.”

Jake Harrington said, “Ben, that’s the first time in all the years I know you that I heard you tell the unvarnished truth.”

Joe started to play
Auld Lang Syne
on the piano, and then Fred and everybody were singing. I never could hear that song without getting a lump in my throat to begin with. By the time they got to the end I was on the point of crying. I wasn’t the only one either. Maggie’s and Nancy’s eyes were wet, and Uncle Arthur burst into tears.

It was almost three in the morning when Fred and I left the roadhouse. We went over to my quarters to
see if everything was all right. Robert was asleep on the couch, Chuck and Ethel on the bed, just as I’d left them, so I tiptoed out and Fred and I went for a walk.

As soon as we were out of sight of the settlement Fred took my hand. The woods were as quiet as if the sun in the sky was just pretending to be there and it was really night.

We talked a little about Eagle and what it would be like living there with Chuck and Ethel. I asked him how he thought the kids there would treat them and he said he didn’t know. A family with three half-Indian children were already living there, he said, but he didn’t know how they got along with the white kids. He said he wanted to come and see me after the freeze-up.

We went on until we came to Fourth of July Pup. Swollen to creek size with runoff, it was too wide to jump across. Before we sat down on the grassy bank we scooped up a drink. The water was cold and sweet, dyed clear amber from roots and dried hillside moss.

“I guess you’re relieved,” I said, lying back. The ground was warm.

“About what?”

“That I’m going.”

“Why should I be?” He lay down on his stomach and leaned on his elbows.

“You won’t have me chasing after you anymore.”

“You didn’t do that,” he said.

“Yes, I did. I’m doing it right now. I’ll be leaving in a few days, so what does it matter? It’s the truth.” He didn’t like hearing that, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have a bit of shame left in me and I was glad of it. He could be a gentleman if he wanted. I was sick of being a lady. “I’ve been chasing after you almost from the time we met.”

That made him squirm. “Anne, if I could give you a home, if I had money enough to take care of you, I’d ask you to marry me right now.”

I felt like growling, or shaking him, doing anything to wake him up, anything to make him realize I didn’t care how much he had or how little, that all I wanted was him. There was no point to it, though. We’d been
through all this before, so I just stared at him long enough until he couldn’t do anything else but kiss me. From then on I went by instinct. I ran my fingers along the back of his neck and played with his hair. My instincts must have been good because he started kissing me in a way he’d never done before. I felt just the slightest bit scared, but his touch was more pleasantly delicious than anything else. He murmured my name and for the first time in my life it didn’t sound plain to me. It sounded lovely, all mixed in with the rush of water running below us and the sweet smell of the earth.

I didn’t want to open my eyes. I wanted to keep them closed and feel him touch me. I realized ever so faintly that I wasn’t too sure of what I was doing, but I didn’t care. Whatever I was doing I was enjoying it And he was too. When I finally did open my eyes and looked into his I loved what I saw. He wasn’t thinking about being noble, or carrying the Holy Grail, or bringing some other kind of prize to me. He was just being
him.
And he wanted
me.
I thought to myself that I sure wished I’d known about this kind of feeling a few months before. At the same time I was glad I hadn’t. I’d have been a goner. He said, “Anne,” his voice husky and deep, and I could smell that wonderful odor of wood smoke coming from him. My fingers went to his lips. “I want to say something to you,” I told him.

He waited while I got it all straight in my mind, and I said, “I don’t know what it is you think you have to have before you want to keep company with me, but you just remember this. I love you. I won’t be chasing after you anymore because we’re going to be far away from each other, but some day, when you get ready, you better come and marry me. Because I’m never going to marry anybody else. I mean that, Fred Purdy. If you don’t marry me some day I’m going to be an old maid.”

“No you won’t,” he said.

“Is that a promise?”

“That’s a promise.”

“You better not break it.”

“You better not break your promise either,” he said.

A little while later we started to walk back arm in arm, stopping every so often to linger and embrace. We went on that way until we came in sight of the settlement, then we let each other go.

That’s how Fred and I parted those many years ago, with the promise that one day we’d be married. Thinking about that promise now, I almost have to smile. Trying to keep it was like making a trip by dog sled in a snowstorm: you know where you want to go, but you can’t be sure how long it’s going to take or where you’ll wind up along the way.

Fred and I didn’t get married until over ten years later, on September 4, 1938. By that time Chuck had graduated from high school, Ethel had entered it, and I’d adopted three more children.

It was worth all the waiting, though. We had a grand life together. Fred mined in the summer, and in the winter sometimes we stayed home, sometimes we packed up the family and went Outside. We did whatever we liked. One winter, maybe the finest we ever spent, we took on the job as teacher and custodian in an Indian village. As for children, Fred loved them as much as I did, so we went ahead and adopted four more.

I’m 67 years old now. Fred passed away ten years ago, and although I’ve since gotten over the sharp pain of losing him, I still miss him badly at times, mostly when there’s a gentle rain falling. I think of it falling
so quietly all over the hills, soaking into the ground to bring out new life, and it’s hard for me to accept that I’m never going to see him again or hear that wonderful laugh of his. It’s as hard as trying to imagine springtime without the sound of birds.

Occasionally I look back on those early years we spent without each other and I feel a little cheated. Then I think about the 28 wonderful years we had together. Everytime I do I realize how fortunate I’ve been, because as much as I love children and sunlight, I know that the sun would never have shone as brightly for me, nor children’s smiles seemed so lovely, had I spent those years without Fred.

—Anne Hobbs Purdy
Chicken, Alaska    

R
OBERT
S
PECHT
was born and brought up in New York City. A late starter, he graduated from
CCNY
at the age of thirty-two after winning top awards in both short story and essay competitions. Soon afterward he headed for California, where he became an editor in the Los Angeles offices of a major book publishing firm. It was then that he met the heroine of this book and became fascinated by her story. Not until years later, however, until after he became a free-lance writer, was he able to sit down and devote his full energies to writing it. Now a screenwriter, he lives in Malibu with his wife and two children—and two horses, three dogs, three cats, assorted chickens, two tortoises, an ever-changing population of guppies and a guinea pig named Munch.