A Sweetness to the Soul (47 page)

“But think on it,” I persisted, hanging onto my idea. “About teaching Peter writing. Maybe in the winter. And Alice can learn too. You could include George and that chore boy you just hired, John Suhr. Lord knows the boarding school doesn’t teach the Indians any real skills. Only how to sew and seed. Who knows what might come of Alice and Peter’s boy spending time together.”

“No scheming,” he said. “But I’ll think on it. Where would I be without ye?” He didn’t wait for a response, just leaned over me, closed the drawers in his desk, placed the jade tea-kettle ink well over my papers signaling an end to the discussion. Then, for that evening at least, he kissed me out of my scheming.

Alice’s presence added brightness to each day. As she began to trust that we would not put her out, she behaved more like a child, resisting some, acting like she did not hear or didn’t understand when we wanted her to help with laundry or gather eggs. Still, she sometimes surprised me with her tanned hand slipping into mine as I stood at the dinner bell to call the men. She was someone I sponged time with.

Sunmiet’s people and their seasons formed a frame around our picture of life at the falls. In the spring, I watched the Indians fish, traded beef for salmon, new cloth for plump huckleberries. Sunmiet shared her children with me and giggled when she announced still another on the way.

And on Sundays, Joseph and Alice and I sometimes made the long trip to the Congregational church in The Dalles where Thomas Condon preached (avoiding the Methodist church of my mother). There, I let in the peacefulness of God’s promises as I sat between two that I loved, nestled among my family.

Work on the Bakeoven grade begun in the spring after our move proved the most demanding of the road work. The Indian crews
gathered daily to create the picture Joseph carried in his head. Day after day, the men walked and rode up the steep ridges, tethered their horses, and began chopping and pounding and hand-carrying rocks. With pick axes, they cut trails into the steep ridges, widened them, reinforced the lower banks of the rugged road with sagebrush and rocks. From a distance, the road appeared like a fingerswipe in chocolate frosting following the dips and curves of the steep ravines arching ever higher out of sight.

The biggest challenge had been slicing through a lava outcropping thirty feet thick and twenty-four feet high that ran from the top of the ridge to the river’s edge and stood between my husband and his plan. Sweating men chipped and hammered for months to carve a slice through the Clarno lava rocks wide enough for wagons and stages to run through. A remarkable feat, everyone said when it was finished and the men moved to another challenge.

But Joseph knew the real push forward would come with the redoing of the bridge.

The May day in 1873 when we began widening and reinforcing Sherar’s Bridge, making it safe enough to transport stagecoaches and large freighters, herds of cattle and sheep, and any other thing the inventors and investors of the West could think to move, proved doubly memorable. In the midst of the chaos and scattered intentions of twenty men and horses attempting something dangerous and new, Sung-li chose the day to display his true colors.

Joseph and I had planned this day for months.

Milled lumber from Tygh Valley stood in stacks near the water’s edge, having arrived with great difficulty and care down the twisting road past our old homestead, across the creek to the falls. Up Buck Hollow, Peter’s crews had marked four huge pine trees with trunks so thick it took three men to reach around them. Weeks earlier, they chopped them down, stripped them of their bark and with teams of horses, dragged them down the creek, across the mouth, and then along the pitted lava shelves that marked the steep and treacherous gorge along the river.

The morning of Sung-li’s indiscretion found Peter’s crew already sweating in the May canyon heat as they worked to bring the four logs into two giant “A” shapes. When the A-frames were nailed in place and reinforced with rawhide straps and ties, the horse teams stomped nervously as they backed up to the edge of the river. While some steadied the teams, other men eased the frame across the roaring rapids, lowering it like a chair standing on one leg then slowly dropped to straddle spilled water.

The air fairly prickled with shouting, yelling, signaling with hands, the smell of men and animals mixed with spring breezes under a perfect blue sky. Joseph moved here and there as delighted as a boy with some new toy. He was always happiest when building, converting his ideas into real. Peter spoke rapidly in Sahaptin, switching in a flash to English as was needed, keeping everyone in stride until a leg of the brace dropped over with a solid “thud!” and the first “A” supporting Sherar’s Bridge rose up from either side along with the cheers of men.

Teams of men steadied the big logs while others dug into what little earth there was, strapped coils of rawhide and hemp around nubby rocks and then the braces to secure the frames. James, one of Peter’s crew, volunteered to be lowered out over the roaring rapids. “Like fishing!” James said, smiling. With a rope around his middle, his friends lowered him down the side of the steep gorge, and held the ropes while he secured the bottom of the braces to the rock outcroppings.

Sunmiet’s people had arrived from their place up Buck Hollow and despite the salmon run, they too became involved in the bridge excitement, standing, watching, being enlisted with brawn or brains as the situation demanded.

With a shout of success, the men hauled James up and applauded, another step finished. We were another day closer to a bridge wide enough for stages, sturdy enough to secure our dreams.

Sung-li had the meal prepared as planned. Pans of fresh bread heaped on the plank tables we’d set out in front of the inn, accompanied
by chicken fried to crisp, bowls of mashed potatoes draped in melted butter, leafy lettuce picked by Alice from the early garden and slabs of salt pork, fresh roasted salmon, and dried apricots we’d revived with spring water. A spice cake with fresh sweetened cream globbed on top became dessert. Jugs of tea cooled in a river pool washed the full meal down. Alice and I swirled around, pouring tea, serving, refilling platters, rushing back and forth from the outdoor table to the kitchen, catching in snatches the chatter of the men. The kelpie lay tangled in feet beneath the table, snoring until Joseph gently pushed him with his foot and the men laughed about the sounds and smells of growing old.

Inspired by their morning success, the crew took little time to digest their food, wanting to see both “A” frames set before the sun did. They returned quickly to the bridge.

“Sung-li not hot water plates,” Alice said quietly to me as we cleared the dishes. She spoke to the side of my face, rarely giving me the pleasure of seeing her eyes.

“Hot water plates?” I asked, confused by the concern in Alice’s voice. “What’s your meaning, dear?”

“No hot water. On plates. Like Missus say.” She motioned washing dishes and left out the hot steaming I required after every meal. With so many different people eating, I insisted that each plate be squeaky clean, so no one would complain of illness taken from our inn. Sung-li knew it was how I wanted the dishes handled. Why had he picked this day to challenge it? Well, there was nothing to be done for it.

“Finish clearing things here,” I said and walked inside.

It’s funny how events crystallize in your mind. The house was cool, a little dark, and smelled of spice. I could hear Sung-li humming in the kitchen as I walked toward the closed door. I picture him standing at the cutting board, head bent to his chopping block. Spiders and other frying pans rested in their places. Knives, cleavers, herbs, and garlic all hung from the ceiling. It was my kitchen, I reminded myself.

Sung-li did not look up when I entered. He continued to chop onions with his favorite cleaver, a large steel blade one that he’d brought with him from the mines. He did not stop humming. “Sung-li,” I said in my firmest voice. “Please look at me.”

He did not stop humming.

I decided to press my point to the top of his braid bent before me. “It has come to my attention that you did not steam the plates. Is that so?” I clasped my hands in front of me, for courage, resisted wiping their moistness on my white apron.

He did not stop humming.

“This is a significant matter, Sung-li,” I said, getting rational, ignoring the pounding in my heart. “It is required. I know you understand that. If you are too busy, I can have Alice help you, but the plates cannot be simply rinsed and put away. People will become ill. Do you understand? I need you to look at me, now, Sung-li. And steam the plates.”

He ignored me.

“This instant.”

With that, he stopped his humming. Slowly, his eyes lifted to mine like a snake raising its head over the edge of a rock, seeking, searching its prey. “It is woman’s work,” he said, his voice a seething whisper, “so do it.”

“We’ll not have that kind of manner in this house,” I said, my breathing becoming shallow. “You know the requirements. Please proceed.” When he simply stood, boldly staring, I thought I’d up the ante, much as I preferred to keep it just between us. “Shall I request Mr. Sherar’s presence?”

Sung-li smiled at that, seemingly pleased about where he’d taken this disagreement. He said nothing; started to hum. “Well!” I said, exasperated, and turned on my heels. I strode through the door, angered that I had to seek help from my husband, that I couldn’t deal with this cook without him. I didn’t notice where I stepped and so ran straight into Joseph.

“Alice says you need me,” he said. “What’s it about?” He looked
over my head at Sung-li standing, cleaver in hand, sections of onions lying in piles on the block.

I felt like Rachel tattling to Papa and it angered me more. I took a breath. “Sung-li refuses to steam the plates,” I said, facing our cook.

Joseph walked closer to Sung-li, towering over the small man. “No need for this,” he said, his voice gentle.

Something in Sung-li’s eyes forewarned me. Or perhaps it was the glint of the sunlight on the steel cleaver. Maybe that he stopped humming. I shouted “Joseph!” and shoved his shoulder just as the cleaver sailed through the air, slammed into the door, between and behind us.

Joseph lunged across the butcher block for the man, grabbing at his arm. Sung-li had already slipped around the block holding now a long butcher knife in his hand. “I do nothing,” Sung-li hissed. He held the knife at his waist, his elbow set to thrust. He slithered his way around the block toward my husband, his eyes glinting, his mouth a sneer. Joseph kept a step or two beyond him, moving, saying quietly, “This is no way, Sung-li.”

Too busy, Sung-li did not see me slip my hand beneath my skirts to reach the pistol I still kept with me. I set my feet, held the gun with both hands pointed directly at Sung-li’s face. “Put it down,” I said in my firmest, loudest voice. Both men startled, stared.

“Good, Janie!” my husband said, recovering quickly. To Sung-li he said, “Jig’s up. She’s not afraid to use it. Put the knife down.”

Sung-li hesitated just an instant, shifted his weight toward me and that was enough. I took aim, shot. Even then I wondered about the blast in so closed a space, the mess I’d make.

The smell of gun powder filled the room accompanied by a momentary loss of sound, my ears reacting to the explosion in the kitchen, the clatter of shattered plates. Through the smoke, I watched Sung-li stare in wide-eyed surprise while Joseph sprang forward to disarm him.

The room was suddenly filled with men; Alice hovered near my side. Joseph pushed Sung-li out the door, handing him, unhurt,
subdued to Peter, shouting orders, “Take him into The Dalles to his relatives. Send two or three along with him! Don’t go alone! Get his things—but make sure all the knives stay here.”

Then he turned to me, took the anniversary pistol from my fingers, wrapped his big arm around me, pulled me to his shoulder. “It’s the first time I’ve actually shot at a person,” I said. “I wasn’t really aiming at him, just beyond his head, to scare him.”

“That ye did!” Joseph said, as he gently patted my arm, “Among others.” We stared at the splintered ironstone plates that lay like shards of old pottery scattered across the floor. Through the hole in the cupboard, we could see outside light. The dust of gunpowder settled around us. Looking at the broken dishes Joseph said, “It does seem a drastic way to steam the plates.”

“Yes. Well. My oldest daughter was never known for doing things as everyone else,” a cool voice behind us said. We turned. There the last person I ever expected to see in my kitchen filled the doorway. And behind her stood the lovely Ella.

B
RIDGES

A
lice. Please show Miss Turner and her companion to the parlor,” I said, my voice sounding to my ears as though coming from far away. “Let them know we’ll be right along.” I couldn’t actually see their faces, the back light from the room keeping them dark, but I imagined them perusing my home and did not want them wondering about the state of my kitchen. “And then, if you would, dear, please tend to the kitchen. Do you have any questions?” I asked, buying time, nervously filling space with my words. Alice shook her head and her slender form slipped past me showing my mother and Ella to the horsehair sofa in the parlor. Then she rushed back past Joseph and me, disappeared into the kitchen.