What Once We Loved (27 page)

Mariah and Lura and Sarah took the ox wagon into town with a list of the staples they needed to survive the winter. Additional flour, salt, lard, chickens if they could be had, alum, saleratus for raising dough and onions, lemons, oranges, apples, raisins, figs, or any other fruits or vegetables—dried or otherwise—they could muster in town or anywhere in between. “Pick up some cough syrup and whiskey, too,” Matthew said. “For medicinal purposes.”

They were also to bring back sacks of grain for the horses, nails and
hammers, shakes already made, if available. Poverty Flat had provided much while they lived there and had come already furnished. Now they were starting from scratch. “I'll start us an account at the mercantile,” Lura said, and Matthew nodded yes before Ruth could protest.

“You can keep track,” he told her. “I know you want to do it all on your own.”

“Don't you want to go along, Jessie?” Ruth asked. “Sarah and Mariah are going. Lots of interesting things to see. Might be awhile before we get back into Jacksonville again.”

The girl shook her head. “I want to stay with you,” she said.

“I'll be working. Got lots to do. Boys'll be splitting rails yet this afternoon. We'll need to be sweeping out the cobwebs and piling in all the bedding we took out of the wagon. Are you up to that? “

“I know it,” she said, that little chin jutting out.

“You can help then,” Ruth said, and they waved Lura and the girls off.

“What about the Indians, Mommy?” Jessie asked when they carried in the blankets and a stack of flannel sheets.

Ruth turned to see if they had visitors, then remembered. “Were you listening to Matthew talk about that?” she said. Jessie nodded. “Well, don't you worry He wouldn't have let his mama and sister go off with your sister, Sarah, if there was any real danger. Besides, that Lura, she's a good shot. She could protect herself.”

“But what about us?”

“Us? We're fine,” she said. “Come here.” Ruth pulled her daughter to her, felt again that rapid heart rate. “We're fine. We're just fine. We're home. See? This is our place. You don't have to be afraid here.” She had to remember to tell Matthew not to bring up frightening things in front of this fractured child. “Your mama's got her whip, and your brothers can shoot a rifle. And Matthew, I'm sure he knows how to take care of people.”

“But what can I do if something happens? What will I do?” She started to cry.

“You're safe here, Jessie. We'll keep you safe. Don't you think we can?” “But what will I do?” She almost screamed it now, her breathing coming fast. She was going into one of those fits.

“You'll be fine. You're with me. I'll keep you safe.” It was more than a promise—it was her prayer.

Tipton did slip out, just to stand in front of the cabin, her pink cashmere wrapped around her. It was getting dark, and Nehemiah hadn't yet come back. In the distance, she heard drums and high-pitched singing. How close were those Indians? She looked south, toward the bay. Sometimes sound carried farther than she would have imagined, but she thought she might even see firelight flickering at the shore. She looked up behind the house. Timbered trees and vines clung there, tree stumps twice as tall as she. She thought if she stood up on one, she might be able to see farther. But there wasn't any way to climb them. And besides, it was probably nothing. There was some dance this time of year when the Indians were said to gather. A Nay-dosh, they called it. Funny how it came almost at the same time as their Advent season, getting ready for Christmas. That was probably all it was.

She walked back in and lit the candles in all the windows. It was a still night. Nehemiah would like coming home to the light shining. She'd fallen asleep when he arrived, rolling a barrel. “Where have you been?” she said. “I was…worried.” “Worried? I'm sorry, Tip—Mrs. Kossuth. I went to the warehouse, and the
Columbia
came in. There was a barrel for you from Shasta City. I thought you'd want it, so I stayed late to check everything in yet tonight. You were worried?” he repeated.

“I read the
Herald”
she said. “And I heard the drumming.” “Now, nothing for you to worry your pretty head about. I think it's just that winter dancing gathering. A celebration. You were worried,” he
said again, as though she'd just told him he was the handsomest man on earth.

They opened the barrel, unleashing the scent of mint and wood smoke. “Its the quilt,” she said. “I won the first year. I cant believe Mazy got it finished. She must have had help. Lots of it!” She spread the quilt over her lap and ran her small hand over the stitching, liking the contrast of a new satiny piece next to the roughness of a worn piece of wool. She read Mazy s letter and got the news. And when her husbands eyelids dropped, she pulled her cashmere shawl around his shoulders and let him sleep.

She carried the quilt into the bedroom and looked at each block, each story blending the past with the present. They were like photographs almost, catching each event of the past, yet somehow changed when seen in this present, each observer creating something new from it.

She found Mazy s block: a log house with a black dog before it. Of course. Then her eye caught Ruths quilt block about “telling the truth.” Had she been telling herself the truth? About this…baby? Something in the stories gave her courage to look into her past and remind herself. Since Tyrell s death, the time when she'd felt the strongest was when she'd thought she was the weakest. She'd washed clothes and boiled shirts. There'd been dignity in those tasks, that was a truth. She'd tended to her mother, met all their needs, and hadn't sold herself in the process as some women like Esty Williams had. Had Adora appreciated her determination? No. That was true too. Yet she'd felt a little righteous about being the one to do it, rather than her brother, Charles. Dear Charles.

And if she was totally truthful, she'd accepted Nehemiah's marriage offer as a way to set her and her mother on a safe and steady course for their lives. She'd done all that for nothing. Simply to please a woman who couldn't be pleased. She'd come to Nehemiah falsely, and he was a good man.

Maybe God was punishing her now for her less-than-humble
thoughts. Maybe that was why God had given her a gentle man who went away often and allowed her to become with child before she'd grown up herself.

That was another truth. She was with child. No amount of walking or cleansing could wash away her tender breasts, her burgeoning waistline, and the ache in the back of her legs. Now the question was whether to tell Nehemiah the truth.

Surely he'd be happy. But it would also set their lives on a course that Tipton had come to falsely. She'd married him for the wrong reasons. And they were both suffering. Into that, she'd add a third being who would grow up as the offspring of confusion. How could any good come ofthat—this mess she'd created? She needed to go away, that was what she needed.

No wind rattled the shutters. The storms that had shut down all the coast's mining activities leaving the miners in town, spending freely in Crescent City, had ceased for the night. But she could still hear the drums. She pictured the faces of the angry men she'd seen in town.

The paper had called the men “exterminators.” They would rid the country of Indians. “There've been some uprisings of late, but mostly Indians defending themselves,” Nehemiah had told her when he came back. “That fellow named Tipsey keeps his people riled up and yet in hand. Just get through the winter now and we'll be all right, I think. They're just celebrating. No reason for the exterminators to interfere.”

She picked up the pistol he'd given her for when he was away. She'd expected the stock to feel like a snake, be cold and slimy, but the wood felt warm in her hands, firm. And when she'd later commented about it, Nehemiah said, “Snakes are warm-blooded, too. They're quite fascinating. They molt, you know. Give up their entire skin every year. Most vulnerable then, to predators, though they have few. I have a book on them here somewhere, if you'd like to read more. Can never know too much.” Always teaching. That was their marriage: Him always teaching, her a student who didn't like paying attention.

11

Oltipa Taylor laid her hand on her husbands damp head. She'd just washed his face with a brew of laurel leaves, hoping it would soothe away the headache he complained of. David s head nestled into her lap as she sat. Oltipa drifted the backs of her fingers across his forehead like a dragonfly skirting the water. She loved this David Taylor. It was not the love she'd shared with the father of her son. That love had been fiery, made full following the union of their Wintu families. But this love had been plucked from the strands of a broken dream, formed anew through one stranger's helping of another. This love had been sewn into the fabric of a friendship until finally, now, it was a filling-up love of a husband to a wife.

Still, she could not seem to comfort him after his time with the Randolph man. She grimaced with even the thought of that one. She shook her head. David sighed. “You feel better now, na?” she asked.

“A little,” he said. He opened his eyes to stare at her. “Doesn't pound quite so much.”

“You think of the Randolph man?”

He nodded. “And…the restlessness of people like the exterminators, people like that.” He pinched his eyes closed. “Worried more about them right now. You won't be safe here. I don't know how to make that different.”

He lay silent a long time, and she wondered if he would talk further.
She liked this talking thing he did, this speaking of his heart. The father of her son had never done this thing. Perhaps he had thought it made him weak. She did not find it weak to make such talk. A heart that could be shared must be strong to risk such wrenching and giving away and yet remain whole.

“I felt so stupid,” David Taylor said. “He made me ornery. I lost my temper.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Didn't avenge you or Ben or Ruth neither. Made things worse. The man looked even more mean-spirited, if that's possible. Arrogant and pitiful all at once.”

“I do not know this word,
arrow-gant.”

“Scrappy and acting bigger than he really is. Like he doesn't have a bone of regret over what he did to you and Jessie and Ben.”

“Nothing whips him still?”

David snorted. “Nothing whips him. That's right. I wouldn't put it past him to just show up here. Try to right what he thinks went wrong.” He pressed her hand against his eyes, held it there. She could feel the throbbing at the side of his head.

“It is no good to poke at a fire gone out,” she said.

He lay thinking, she decided. He thought of things often, turning them around and around the way the dog turned before it plopped down to sleep. It had been weeks since he'd gone, and still he let this Randolph man sting at their family like a hungry wasp. She wished she could take away his worry, take away his head pain, give him new things to think of. “You make yourself weary,” she said. “Old wounds need wrapping, tied tight in rawhide so they do not get out to spoil what lies around them. They heal then. Leave no scar.”

He opened one eye and cocked his head a bit to look at her. “Well, aren't you the wise one,” he said. His face held a smile.

“I only want what is good for you, David Taylor.”

He reached up and pulled her head, rubbed her nose with his. “And that's just one reason why I love you,” he whispered. “Only one of many.” He kissed her then, held the back of her head with his hand.

Oltipa heard the dog squeal. “Put the
sookoo
down,” she told Ben, breaking the kiss with David. “Come. Sit beside me now, na?” She patted beside her as she moved out from under David s head still in her lap. She laid his head gently on the furred hide, and the dog hopped up onto the bed. Ben whimpered, but Oltipa gave him her silencing look.

“Bens feeling left out,” David said. “Takes it out on the dog.”

Oltipa nodded, not liking the biting tone in his voice. She wished the tension between him and her son could be lessened. Perhaps if he could have more time with Ben, more time to play as he once talked of. He worked always, keeping them safe. She worried that he worked too much; worried that the boy could be taken. He needed her, needed her. Now, even more.