The Personal History of Rachel DuPree (29 page)

Startled, I tried to smile and think of something to say. “Much obliged for the hospitality,” I managed to say. As soon as the words were out, I felt lost and homesick in that strange town. I didn’t know the Butlers. I didn’t know anybody. Isaac was a stranger; even I was a stranger in my beautiful dress. I should be cooking breakfast at the boardinghouse. I should be going home tonight to my parents. I should be sleeping beside Sue tonight, not by this man who somehow had become my husband.

Iris Butler said, “You could stand a washing up. Come on.” I followed her upstairs, and she took me to a bedroom that had a damp smell. She told me that most Negroes that passed through town stayed a night or two with them but Isaac was an old friend and the room was free. The bed, I saw, sagged in the middle, and its spread might have been white a long time ago. “Got you a pitcher of water, a towel too,” Iris said, nodding to the washstand beside the bed. “Breakfast’ll be ready when you are.” She started to turn away but then she stopped. “That’s one fine dress,” she said, her eyes sweeping up and down my figure. She studied me like a man might. My cheeks turned hot. “Isaac did good for himself,” she said. “But he always did have an eye for such things.”

“Oh,” I said, and then I stumbled toward the washstand, feeling faint, not liking the meaning behind her words.

I washed up as best as I could, the cool water in the pitcher perking me up. I told myself that all men had an eye for women and that Isaac was no different. I dried my face and neck with the towel that Iris had laid out, trying not to notice that someone had used it before me. Instead, I reminded myself that I might be wearing a plum satin dress, but I was just the kitchen help. Isaac had married me only so he could stake a claim in my name. That was all I was to him, just a claim.

My hands shaking, I took off my hat and fixed my hair. I gathered my courage, went downstairs, and found the three of them at the kitchen table eating. I sat down with them and picked at the eggs and bacon. Isaac, Zeb, and Iris talked about the army days at Fort Robinson. Zeb and Iris had been married for five years when Zeb joined up, and Iris earned extra money by doing laundry for one of the officers and his family. The three of them laughed over the times that they’d had at the fort. They clicked their tongues and shook their heads when talking about the people they once knew. I felt far away from them all; I didn’t belong. I kept a smile, though, and laughed when they did. But I was alone in that room with those people. I didn’t like the Butlers, and I didn’t know what to make of Isaac. Laughing and joshing, he had become as rough cut as Zeb and Iris.

Iris washed the dishes, and I dried as the men talked about the homesteads Isaac had staked in our names. “That’s wild country out there,” Zeb said. “It’s going to be hard to make a go of it. Most folks don’t last a winter. DuPree, you sure about this?”

“Hush,” Iris said, glancing at me. “Zeb, these two are worn out, and I’ll be late for work if I don’t hurry up. As for you, Old Lady Chapman is sure to be looking for you with a list of chores a mile long.” Her hands made a shooing motion at Isaac and me. “Now you two go on. Make yourselves at home. Me and Zeb’ll be gone the better part of the day. Be close to suppertime before we get home.”

When Zeb thought I weren’t looking, he winked at Isaac. “That’s right,” he said, grinning. “Won’t be nobody to bother you all day.”

My belly tightened. Alone with Isaac. “I’ll have supper started,” I said to Iris, my voice sounding tinny in my ears, my hands gripping the dish towel.

“I bet you will,” Zeb said. He laughed hard and Iris did too. The coarseness of their meaning made me burn with shame and confusion. My eyes down, I twisted the dish towel even tighter.

“Zeb,” Isaac said, a note of warning in his voice. Zeb and Iris didn’t seem to hear. Still laughing, they made a big show of leaving, slamming the door behind them, calling out good-bye too loud.

When they were gone, Isaac said, “Put down that towel.” I did.

“You all right?” he said.

I couldn’t look at him. I didn’t want to be alone with him in the Butlers’ house. It felt dirty to me; I wanted to scrub the floors, I wanted to wash the bedclothes, I wanted to get back on the train and go home.

“Zeb,” Isaac said. “He—”

I looked up at him. His tone told me that he didn’t like what Zeb had said. The sick feeling in my belly eased. Isaac was a gentleman; he was a better cut than Zeb. He understood my shame; he wasn’t going to push. He was going to give me time. “Yes,” I said, relieved. “I’m all right.”

His eyes darted past the kitchen to the stairs that went up to the bedroom. I took it to mean that he thought I should have a little rest. I smiled my gratitude and began walking that way. Isaac followed and that surprised me. I stopped and looked back at him.

I was wrong. There was expectation in Isaac’s eyes. I was his wife, and I had told him that I was all right.

The house was quiet with the Butlers gone. The wood floors creaked and each stair step groaned as we climbed them. My dress rustled, and I held the skirt to keep from tripping. I went into the narrow bedroom where I’d washed up earlier and stared at the bright red wallpaper roses that swirled and climbed up the walls. Mama would call it trashy. Sunlight flooded in the eastward window, showing dirty streaks. The room was too bright but the window didn’t have a shade. My back to him, I listened as Isaac closed the door behind him, the latch catching with a click.

He put his pocket watch on the dresser beside me. I heard him take off his jacket and work his arms out of his suspenders. I stood frozen, my back to him, my breath held.

“Turn around,” Isaac said.

I couldn’t get my feet to move.

“Damn,” he said. He let out a whistle of air. “You don’t know anything about this. Do you?”

Still not looking at him, I shook my head.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five.” I heard the surprise in his voice. Then he said, “You don’t have to—it isn’t part of our deal.”

For two months I had thought about what it would be like when me and Isaac were alone. It had made me shake with excitement. But in that strange room in a strange town, I was scared. I didn’t really know what to expect past a kiss. But I wanted Isaac to keep me, and I had only a year to prove myself. Every day mattered. That day most of all.

Over my shoulder, I said, “My buttons. I can’t reach them.”

I stood without moving while Isaac undid all thirty-four buttons. I kept my eyes fixed on his pocket watch on the dresser, my heart pounding to the jerky tick of the second hand. The shock of Isaac’s touch made my skin sing. He didn’t seem to notice the gooseflesh on my neck. He didn’t rush; he took his time, careful not to tear the satin.

Years later, in the Badlands waiting on a baby that had to get itself born, I let myself cry.
Isaac,
I thought.
You never hurt my flesh. Only my heart.
After a while my tears ran out. I put the wedding dress away, blew out the lantern, and got into bed.

 

 

 

Early in the night, my water broke. It wasn’t much more than a slow trickle. I got up and cleaned up as best as I could and then went back to bed. From time to time the baby pulled me awake, but not all that often and not with any kind of pattern. When the parlor clock chimed five times, I got out of bed and sat in my rocker to help ease the pinching ache in my back. I hadn’t had a labor pain for a long while, and I told myself that was good. As soon as it lightened up a bit, I’d send John for Isaac. That way John could meet him halfway, hurry him along.

When I woke John an hour later and told him what I wanted him to do, he said, “I’ll run the whole way to Mr. McKee’s.”

“No. You’ll wear out too quick. Walk. Promise me.”

I told him to get two cold biscuits for his breakfast and to take Rounder with him. Then I went back to my bedroom and sat in the rocker. Mary, in her white nightdress, came to my open door. “Mama?”

“The baby’s holding off.”

“That’s good, real good.”

“Go on and see to the girls. I hear Emma fussing.”

She nodded.

“And close my door. Don’t let anybody in.” I didn’t want them seeing me when the pains came.

The bedroom turned airless and dark with the door closed even though the small window above the bed was open. I stayed in my rocker, finding the bed too soft. I tried not to think about John on the road with only Rounder to give him courage. I tried not to think about why the labor pains weren’t coming like they should. Instead, I listened to the morning sounds as the house woke up. It soothed me to hear the clinking of pots and crockery as Mary got breakfast. These were good sounds and as familiar as the voices of our children.

A pain kicked my belly. I buckled and bit my lip to keep from crying out. Tears ran down my cheeks and it wasn’t just because of the pain. I was glad. The baby was doing what it should, and Isaac and John were likely just down the road a short ways.

I was half asleep when Mary brought me a biscuit and a cup of water. Rousing myself, I said, “The girls, they asking for me?”

“They’re in the kitchen; they’re being good. Told them you have a bellyache. They’re getting restless, though. Think it’d be all right if I took them to get cow chips?”

“Is the wind blowing hard?”

“Some.”

“Make them wear their bandannas.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep a tight eye on them, don’t let them out of your sight.”

“I won’t.”

“What time is it?”

“About half past eight.”

What was keeping Isaac and John? I said, “When the wheelbarrow’s half full, come in and see if I need you. I likely won’t, but do it anyway.”

The morning wore on and I kept thinking about Isaac and John, worrying about why they weren’t home yet. Once a pain hit so hard that a knife twisting in my spine couldn’t have hurt worse. I stuffed one of the rags in my mouth to keep from hollering. When the pain passed, I felt washed out and used up. My head ached like something was squeezing the top. Sweat ran from my hair.

Isaac,
I kept thinking.
Get home.

The pains were coming more often, and if Isaac were with me, he’d have his watch in hand. He’d know to the minute—to the very second even—the spacing of the pains. He’d be making bets on the exact time of the birth.

If he were here, Isaac would cheer up the children with a game. He’d make pebbles in his hand disappear and then show up behind their ears. “Magic,” he’d say. “Just call me Merlin.” Then he’d be back with me in time for the next pain, saying how everything was going just like it should.

I closed my eyes. My headache was searing hot. I wanted my mother. She’d hold my hand and tell me that I was doing all right. I rubbed my forehead, recalling what Mrs. Fills the Pipe said about aspirin curing headaches. “Mary,” I called out. “Get me an aspirin, would you?” Then I remembered that Mary was outside and couldn’t hear me.

All at once, I heard Isaac say my name. He was sitting on the unmade bed; he had his pocket watch. “You can do it,” he said, his eyes shining. “You’re that kind of woman.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

And then Isaac quoted Paul Laurence Dunbar, the famous Negro poet that we both thought so much of.

I smiled at him. Isaac hadn’t quoted this poem in years. He called this particular one a teasing poem. He took to reciting it after we’d danced in the street to the mandolin music. “Jump back, honey, jump back,” he’d say, and the gleam in his eye made me reach for his hand and put it to my heart so he could feel that it beat fast just for him.

I breathed in the sour smell of Isaac’s sweat. I felt his hand on my arm, shaking me a little. “Mama?” somebody said. “You all right?”

Startled, I roused myself. It was Mary. “Where’s Isaac?” I said.

She shook her head.

“Where’d he go? He was right here. On the bed.”

“No, Mama, you’ve been dreaming.”

I moaned.

“What’s wrong?” Mary said, her voice high. “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should be in the bed.”

“No.”

She leaned closer like she couldn’t hear me.

I said, “Sitting up is best, that’s what Isaac says. It’s how the Indians do.”

“But you’re not an Indian.”

I sucked in my breath, put the rag in my mouth, and bit down. “Mama!” Mary said. She patted my back, her fingers nervous as they skimmed the surface of the birthing gown like she was afraid she would hurt me even worse.

When the pain eased, I took the rag from my mouth. I tried to smile for Mary. She was scared, tears running down her cheeks, her lips pressed so tight that they had disappeared.

I licked my lips, tasting blood. My mouth was so dry. I said, “The girls?”

“Don’t die, Mama.” Mary was on her knees beside me trying to put her arms around me.

“The girls?”

“They’re in their room; they’re all right.”

“Isaac?”

“He’s coming, Mama. I know he is.”

A stab of pain shot through my head. I heard Mary crying. “Get a pillowcase,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

“What?”

“Hang it on the clothesline.”

She wiped her eyes, brightening some. “I will, Mama. I’ll do it right now,” and then she was gone. Flying something white by itself was a call for help. All homesteaders knew that, but I had forgotten until that moment.