The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (27 page)

Only Tom acted in a natural way, teasing Luke that he had seen no fields plowed in circles on our place this year. Then he inquired of me if I would knit him a pair of mittens in exchange for one day’s straight plowing with Luke. I replied pertly that if I were to knit the mittens for him, I should expect a day’s help in the kitchen for them. The lady homesteaders laughed, but others seemed disappointed that I was able to hold up my head.

The drive home was melancholy, for I remembered the same ride with Johnnie in happier times, his sweet voice repeating the Sabbath songs just sung. By the time we reached home, I had a headache, and I went to bed at once, a scarf tied tightly about my forehead. Luke prepared dinner without complaint, though I did not eat a morsel. He reached for me in the night, and I was shocked that he would think of his own gratification at such a time. How could he ever again be my Darling Boy?

April 10, 1868. Prairie Home.

I shall make a greater effort to become the old Mattie, for I do not care for cheerlessness and self-pity, particularly in Self. I have concluded that even if I no longer care to be a wife to Luke, there is no other choice open to me. I will not burden those at home by returning to Fort Madison, and I could not earn my keep, even as a teacher, in Denver or any other place. So I must go on and make the best of it.

Having reached that decision, I concluded to resume my domestic duties with enthusiasm. This morning, I looked about the little house and found it in a disgraceful state of untidiness, so I set out at once to give it a good airing. I hung bedding and clothing in the sunshine, then cleaned cupboard and blackened stove. When Luke came in for his dinner, I told him I had taken the grass from the tick and made twists for the stove with it, and unless he wanted to sleep in the oven, he must bring new grass before bedtime. He seemed much pleased with my sally, and he brought it at once.

I did not rest in the afternoon, but swept the dirt floor with my sagebrush broom, then washed it, though I could wash the floor all the way to China before I got it clean. I intend to make a jelly cake for dinner, but I cannot go back into the house until the floor is dried hard. So I sit on the bench in the spring sunshine to record these words, having conveniently placed journal in pocket before completing my housekeeping tasks. Tomorrow, I shall undertake the washing.

April 11, 1868. Prairie Home.

Luke was much pleased with the jelly cake, but I could not eat it, for my state of sadness had returned. I was not fit company. One moment, I am industrious and cheerful, the next, overcome with lassitude. It is an alternative to anger, which I keep under control, sometimes only with great effort. I have just completed the wash and am fatigued from the heavy work of lifting and scrubbing. I dropped one of Luke’s shirts on the ground and cried when faced with having to begin on it again. I shall be sorely tried on my resolve to take up housewifely responsibilities cheerfully.

My mood improved when Tom called with the first dandelion of the season, which he presented to me with as much flourish as if it had been a dozen roses. He stayed to supper, making it seem like old times. Moses urges Tom to give up the land and take his chance in the gold camps. I advised him he is more farmer than miner and said we should miss him keenly if he left. Tom says he gives a change more thought than he had expected.

Luke has asked whether I want him to remove Johnnie’s bed, which takes up much space in our cramped house, but I cannot yet bear to see the room without it and the little Postage Stamp quilt Baby loved so much. I waited until Luke had gone out before sitting down on the little fellow’s tick and giving way to tears.

April 15, 1868. Prairie Home.

Luke proposes to add a wooden floor to our soddy, saying we have lived long enough as “cavemen.” When the harvest is over, he will cut sod to add a second room. He asked what I would think of writing home for a slip of honeysuckle to plant beside it.

Here is an odd thing: We have never again talked of Persia, except for Luke saying he had burned her letters and all other reminders of her. Luke has put her out of his mind. I wish I could do the same. I think I can forgive him the adultry, but will I ever overcome the greater betrayal of the private part of me?

The yellow rose beside the house made it through the winter and is sending out green leaves.

April 20, 1868. Prairie Home.

On impulse, Luke announced he would drive to Mingo and invited me to accompany him. As he has not been to town since his trip with Johnnie, he has much to accomplish there, including the purchase of lumber for our floor. I have not seen Mingo in many months and thought the air would do me good. But upon reflection, I declined, for I am not yet up to an examination by townspeople who know of Persia. Luke left very late, after dinner, just as large flakes of snow began to fall. I have heard of these heavy spring storms, called “willow-benders” in Colorado—though not here on the plains, as there are no big willow trees. So I begged Luke to postpone the trip. He replied his mind was made up, but that if the storm turned bad, he would respect it by seeking a bed in town. He inquired whether I would be safe if left to myself overnight. He does not remember that he was not concerned about leaving his wife alone for many nights two years ago, when he returned to Fort Madison.

I believe a night alone will be good for both of us, for we have been too much in each other’s company. Still, I do not like being by myself in this blizzard, which puts me quite as much on edge as the thunderstorms of summer.

April 21, 1868. Prairie Home.

Hearing a noise without and thinking Luke had braved the heavy storm after all, I threw open the door, to discover Tom, covered with snow and nearly frozen. I helped him into the house, ordering him to remove his wet clothing while I put his horse into the barn.

Upon return, I found Tom wrapped in a blanket, his clothes spread over the stove to dry. As he was chilled and I feared he would take a fever, I got out the little supply of medicinal whiskey Mr. Bondurant had given us and poured a dram into a teacup. On impulse, I poured some for Self, and using the old chipped cups, we toasted each other with as much style as if we were drinking from the finest crystal.

Tom and Mr. Bondurant had been on the road home from Mingo, when they encountered Luke on his way there. The storm being very bad, Husband had already concluded to spend the night in town and requested that one of them inform me of his plans. I told Tom he should not have taken the trouble but that I was pleased he had done so, for I was glad of his company. The storm had affected my nerves, and I was in need of companionship. “I am greatly afraid of thunder,” I told him, then laughed at myself, for there is not much thunder in a blizzard.

“I suppose we’re all afraid of something, even when our brains tell us it makes no sense,” he said, to my surprise, for it is my experience that men do not show much sympathy for feminine weakness.

Tom’s clothing needed time to dry, and I knew he was hungry after his long, cold ride for my sake. So I got out the waffle iron to make a treat, remembering from Tom’s visits during the days Luke was in Fort Madison that waffles were his favorite. Preparing the familiar supper brought to mind those happier days of two years ago. I had not been in such high spirits since before Sallie’s death, as we chattered of all manner of things, settling several questions of social and political importance. As we dined, Tom became serious, saying he had almost concluded to join Moses in Middle Swan, a gold camp on the Swan River, high in the Rocky Mountains.

“O, Tom, I could not bear it if you left. I have no close friend here but you,” I told him. “Why would you go?”

I thought Tom would respond with a sally, as he often does in order to avoid serious discussions, but instead, he was silent for a moment, as if thinking over his reply. Then he said, “How could I not go? It’s not easy to batch. I can’t stand the loneliness. Sometimes, it is so still at my place that I think the world around me has died, and I talk to myself out loud just to hear the sound of a human voice. I’m surprised I made it through this winter, and I know I can’t spend another alone.”

“Why, you’re not alone, Tom. You have us, and I need you more than ever now.”

“That’s why I’ve stayed so long. Ever since Mrs. Talmadge’s first visit, when I saw how things stood with Luke, I knew you needed me. But there is nothing I can do for you now, and I cannot bear to see you so unhappy. Don’t you know the truth of my feelings?”

Until that instant, I had thought of Tom as only a dear friend. But as I looked at him over the teacup, I saw a different man, one who had come to my support again and again when I had been neglected by Husband. I could not think how to reply.

“I can see you didn’t know. Well, that’s no surprise to me. You are too fine to think me capable of any but the most respectable feelings for you. Now that you see how it is, you know I cannot stay.” Tom rose and came to my side, and before I could stop him, he had knelt beside me, his arms around me, his face against me. I stroked his hair, which is not coarse and honey-colored like Luke’s, but fine and almost black, with threads of gray running through it. “Say you care a little for me, Mattie.”

“Of course I do. You have been so good to me.”

“Say I mean more than that.” Tom stood and pulled me to my feet, his arms around me. “I think of this when I cannot sleep,” he said, and kissed me with far greater tenderness than Luke ever had. He kissed my neck and my eyes and the top of my head, and as he did, I felt the sorrow and pain of the last few weeks slip from my body. I held tight to him as he pushed me gently to the bed.

I was loved better last night than in three years of marriage, finding satisfaction in union that I did not know was available to me. For a few hours, there was neither sadness nor guilt, but only love, and when it was done, I felt as if my body and soul were whole once more.

Tom rode off before dawn into a starry night clear of snow. As he left, he asked me to go with him to the Swan River. He says his mind is made up, for after the night, he has no choice but to leave. If I remain with Luke, Tom does not want to be about, and if we are to be together, as he hopes, it cannot be here. So there is another course open to me, after all, one I never dreamed of.

I no longer love Luke, and I care for Tom very much, but do I love him enough to live my life under the condemnation of others? Could Tom and I find happiness when we have acted contrary to all moral dictates? Was my union with him one of love, or was it a way of seeking to even the score with Luke? There is no one whose advice I can ask, so I write all down in my precious book, hoping, as I do so, that I can see my way to a decision.

The sun had not long broken the horizon when Mr. Bondurant shouted from without, inquiring how we had weathered the storm. I quickly put away my journal and opened the door, replying I had been warm and snug.

“The trip home must have pret’ near used up your husband,” he said.

“No, he spent the night in Mingo. Tom came by to tell me before going back into the storm. I hope he is safely home,” I replied brazenly. Tom and I had agreed to say he had stopped for only a few minutes.

Mr. Bondurant eyed me strangely, then turned toward the barn, where a single set of tracks made by Tom’s horse led from its door to our house and thence to the horizon. “I’ll check on the livestock.” Mr. Bondurant urged his horse forward, riding over the tracks as if to obliterate them.

When he had finished and returned to the house, he said not a single word about the tracks, but sat down to a breakfast of “slap-jacks,” as he calls them, and talked about the storm. By the time he left, the sun was hard at work melting the snow, and the telltale prints were gone.

I am confident Mr. Bondurant will never reveal what he saw, but he forced me into deception, and so that is what things have come to. Now I wonder how I shall face Luke.

May 12, 1868. Prairie Home.

As the weather has been poor, Luke is much underfoot, giving me no time to be alone with journal or thoughts. I maintain a calm surface, but I am in turmoil within. I tell myself what I did was recompense for Luke’s perfidy, but a woman’s lapse from virtue always seems the greater sin. Luke knows nothing of my wrongdoing, does not even suspect it.

Tom has visited twice, and he was so agitated and pale that Luke remarked on it. Husband stayed by Tom’s side during both visits, giving us two only a few precious minutes together.

“Luke isn’t worthy of you,” Tom whispered, but I put my finger to his lips, for I would not let him speak ill of Luke, even under the circumstances. So Tom inquired if I was all right and whether Luke knew what had happened between us.

“Yes to the first, no to the second,” I replied.

“I will never forgive myself for the wrong I did you.”

Luke returned just then, so I could not reply.

May 16, 1868. Prairie Home.

When I heard the horse riding hard, I thought Tom had come again, but it was Mr. Bondurant, who tied his animal to our hitching rail and burst through the door. Skipping the formalities, he blurted out, “Tom’s gone. He’s riding to Denver to join up with Moses. Then them two and Jessie heads for the gold fields. The durn fool. I told him he ought not to go until he sold out, but no, by ginger, he were in a hurry and said he’d made up his mind.”

“Without telling us? Without saying farewell?” I asked, for I could not believe what I had heard.

“He’s some pumpkins, Tom is. He told me to say it for him.”

“Tom’s been strange lately, but it’s not like him to act impulsively. He’s always been a cautious man,” Luke said.

I did not hear Mr. Bondurant’s reply, for I went outside to sit on the bench, as I was greatly confused, wondering whether Tom thought my lack of a reply to his proposal meant I had turned him down. Perhaps he had not meant his declaration of love after all and had spoken only in the heat of passion.

I sat impatiently, hoping Tom had given Mr. Bondurant a message to be delivered to me, and when at last he came without, I whispered, “Is there a word for me?”