A Sweetness to the Soul (26 page)

He considered leaving his vest somewhere in a clearing, hoping the dog might come to it. He decided better to simply make a camp, a small fire, and spend the night himself, continue looking in the morning.

That’s when he heard the ruckus.

Night always asked to stay up late in the summer of the mountains, and now, just enough pale light gave Joseph hope that he could see something, see well enough to shoot if necessary, depending on what he found beyond the tangles.

Easing himself through the thicket, barely aware of his horse’s agitation, he let his eyes adjust to the growing dark, focused on the growling, a kind of hissing whine, hoping his scent would scare off whatever Bandit had attracted.

“Bandit,” he said, speaking quietly when he spied the dog, neck hair bristling. “Easy, Bandit,” he said, stepping back, his arms clear of the buckbrush, his eyes moving upward to the low branches of a Hackberry tree growing crookedly from the side of a rocky ledge. “Easy, Bandit,” he repeated when he spied Bandit’s challenge hunched on the branch, taut muscles, claws and jaws poised for disaster. “Easy, Bandit,” he whispered bringing the Sharps to his shoulder taking aim at the cat.

The blast echoed through the still night and Joseph swore he saw the cougar drop before the red lichen gave way at his feet crumbling the side of the ridge with an avalanche of rock.

Joseph fell as in slow motion, a kind of stillness filling up his soul despite the roar of rock that seemed to flow like an ocean wave around him, drowning him, taking his breath. A hundred thoughts rushed through his head at once, not jumbled, not sequential, wondering if he hit it, if he’d die, what’s the purpose in it all.

Then the thud, the crack of bones, the air pushed out from lungs, the rush of dust so thick he could not catch his breath, the sense of being driven into earth and rock like a spear spiked into soil; the knowledge that he lived followed by the pain, searing, piercing pain. Then silence.

It has always been my feeling that people truly bonded felt a special sense together: that parents knew when their children hurt though they were out of sight; that good friends often posted letters to each other on the same day though they lived a thousand miles apart. But when I learned of the day of Joseph’s fall, I could recall no sense of him at all. And so I have concluded that while I may have intuition about which wrangler plans to want his pay cut earlier than most or which friend is now with child, I am not clairvoyant. Joseph’s falling taught me that.

I celebrated my fourteenth birthday on the eleventh of October, Joseph’s fateful day, and had a fine day of it at that. Mama let me
have a party after church and Luther came, and others whom I would go to school with when it began later that month. Lodenma brought along her Beatrice and her youngest, William. Her husband “jawed” with Papa, and Mama engaged her with talk of recipes and wish book items from the catalog. Luther’s mother was there, still repeating the ends of phrases of whatever Mama said, her head bobbing in agreement. We were joined later by Papa’s partner, J. W. Case. Mama was civil to him, I noticed, but then, she always was at her entertaining best.

Lodenma and I talked a while of growing up. Maybe it was knowing Sunmiet was married and already with child that set me thinking in those terms. Maybe it was seeing Mr. Case and knowing he was packing into Canyon City which put the Californian into my growing-up thoughts.

Lodenma wanted no talk of her marriage; she wanted to be a child again and perhaps later, talk of mine.

So we played stick ball, over Mama’s protest. Our dresses flounced, scaring up our pantaloons as we ran the bases having hit the leather ball stuffed tight with coarse horse hair. The boys shouted as much for our running, I think, as in surprise that we could hit the ball!

Luther looked on in open admiration when I struck the leather and hiked my skirts up, not afraid to run, slide into base, and dirty up the satin bow that bounced behind me. I was amazed I could run and breathe at the same time!

“I think he fancies you,” Lodenma said, breathless as our team moved out to catch the hits of Luther’s team.

“Luther?” I asked.

“Do you like him or not?”

“I have to think on it,” I said, hoisting my bow around to the back.

Luther was still a kind boy, gentle. I’d even grown fond of him though that was not a word I would have used just then. He was comfortable, like a brother. Even the kiss he’d stolen earlier in the
summer had seemed a simple thing, friendly, without intention. I had been talking about Mama’s new modified poke bonnet, fashion being something that, oddly, seemed to interest Luther. I used my hands to describe it in the air. He’d stepped closer—I thought to better see—bent his face to mine and kissed me. I simply kept on talking, never missed a word. We both just acted as though two other people had entered our bodies for the moment and done something neither he nor I knew anything about.

“You’d best think hard and fast,” Lodenma said, interrupting my thoughts. “I hear your papa’s been talking with Luther’s papa and an agreement’s being hatched sure as the crickets’ll sing tonight.”

I felt my chest tighten and the bee sting in my stomach. “I’ll tell them I’m too young,” I said. “Not ready.”

“You’ll tell your papa plenty from what I hear,” she answered as we separated in the outfield. Then over her shoulder added, “It won’t make no difference once he decides you’re old enough. And you are fourteen. Isn’t that what this day’s all about?”

I watched Luther as he came up to bat. Lanky, his feet still looking like the anchors of an unsturdy ship, he settled himself into the ground, stepping his feet up and down, two or three times. He pulled on his hat, taking it off, putting it on. He lifted the bat, pointed it to the sky then down to the ground, once, twice, three times, his routine so excruciatingly predictable even Smithson, his friend finally yelled, “Hurry it, Luther, we’ve not got ’til spring!”

And in that moment, of watching this boy-man do each thing the same, perform each routine predictably with no hope of surprise, repeating his life the way his mother repeated her phrases, I gave up “comfortable” in my mind. I didn’t know what I preferred instead, but “comfortable Luther” wasn’t it.

I thought of the studious George, Sunmiet’s friend, his curious, searching mind and liked the memory. Koosh, the brother of Standing Tall, came to mind, too. He had danced an owl dance with me at Sunmiet’s wedding and I remember looking up at him, felt the firmness of his hand around my waist, the confidence of a young
man asking a non-Indian to share his steps in front of elders who might not approve of his decision. Both were much more interesting than Luther, it seemed to me, though much less likely to share my life.

I even thought of Standing Tall, his wild impulsiveness and daring and his protective ways and wondered if that’s what Sunmiet found appealing enough, after all, to marry him. Or did she do so mostly because her parents had it all planned out?

And, of course, I considered the tall Californian, who seemed to blend all those qualities of the young men I had encountered who had the added advantage of making me feel older, wiser, and sassier, all at the same time.

The game over, Lodenma walked with me, arm through mine, to the house where Mama served a light cake. Called “angel food” she’d drizzled maple syrup frosting over it, receiving “oohs and ahs” just as she planned, taking some attention from my day as she often did.

Still it would have been the perfect day—a girl does not turn fourteen but once—if not for Papa’s announcement.

Joseph’s view came through eyes caked with dust and shrouded with pain. Heeled into the avalanche of rock like shoots waiting to be planted, he was upright, at an angle, all except his head entombed in chunks of granite and branches and black dirt and chalky dust.

He breathed even, uncluttered except for pressure of the tightness of his new-sprung tomb. He could move his head left and right without much pain. The fingers of both his hands wiggled though buried beside him. His legs were the worry. He could move his toes on the right leg. But even the thought of moving his left leg sent pain racing up his thigh and back to an explosion inside his head. So, the left leg was damaged and then for just a fleeting moment he wondered why it mattered since he’d probably not be freed of his surprise sepulcher before dying anyway.

From high above him, thirty feet or more, on what was left of the ledge, he heard Bandit bark. He could not see the dog and efforts to move his head around that far produced a numbing he did not want to repeat. He tried his voice. “Bandit!” Coughing up dust, he tried again. “Bandit! Here boy!” It was a whisper.

He could hear the little dog whimpering and didn’t know if it was pain or being so far away from his master that brought the sounds. He called again and heard skittering sounds, then silence. Looking out from his forced grave, Joseph tried to orient himself. Too dark. He felt shivery though the night had not yet cooled. The injuries, he concluded, his body already shutting down. Through the limited dusk light, he made out the forms of trees, shrubs. He saw no evidence of his horse and hoped the ledge break had been far enough out that the horse was safe and perhaps even now on its way back into the livery at Canyon City. Someone might come looking for him, trail him back, if his route was noticed and a good tracker available. He didn’t see the carcass of the cat but it, like Joseph, could well be buried beneath the avalanche of rock. Taking a last look around before darkness settled, he remembered Peter’s Indian word for “help me”:
páwapaatam
. He couldn’t believe he remembered it! Little good it did him. No one to hear it, his voice too parched to speak it. It was amazing he should even recall it. He wondered if he’d be alive in the morning.

He told me later that he prayed. I don’t know what it is about a man that makes him hesitate to say he prays, like not wanting to admit he needs instruction when he does. Anyway, he remembered a psalm: “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord … Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down for the Lord upholds him with His hand.” And a verse from Chronicles pierced his thoughts and became his prayer. “It’s your battle. You know I’m here. You know why. And if I’m to be still here in the morning, then make there be a way to get me out,” he bargained. “Otherwise, I’d appreciate a speedy trip to heaven’s gate.”

His eyelids were heavy. His whole body shook with cold chills,
keeping blessed sleep from him. He heard rustling to his left, scraping sounds, and then light pressure as he smelled the breath of the kelpie, close.

The dog licked his face, laid down, became a muffler of fur curled around Joseph’s head and neck. “Keep me warm, huh, Bandit,” Joseph coughed. “We’ll see who wakes up first on the wrong side of the bed.” The kelpie whined and panted then fell asleep. Warmed, Joseph stole his own fitful sleep from the silence.

“We’ve some special presents for you, Janie,” Papa said, all expansive on my birthday, happy with the growing evening and his limited imbibing. He stood beside Luther in the comfort of the main room as we circled the leftover cake. Luther’s face was reddening and I stole a look at Lodenma, whose wink at me caught my breath up short. Not
now!
I thought.
Not him!
I prayed all the while noting that even the announcement of my destiny with Luther seemed destined to be predictable.

“Janie,” Papa said. “This here’s an important day for you. Turning fourteen, having your friends around you.” He patted Luther on the back, looked around at Lodenma and others gathered there; J. W., too. “And I have the privilege of making it even more special.” He smiled at me, pulled me closer to him, hugging me.

“J. W.?” Papa said inviting his partner forward. “Would you like to propose a toast on this occasion?”

J. W. grinned. He had legs so bowed a pig could run through them without touching either side. Those legs took him now to the front. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “Everyone got their ginger ale? Good.”

Papa smiled and looked out over the gathering, prolonging my worst fears. “Go ahead,” he encouraged.

J. W. cleared his throat once or twice and, considering the looks on people’s faces, committed some social impropriety when he began
his toast with: “Here’s to swimmin’ with bowlegged women and divin’—”

“No no no!” Papa sputtered. The men chuckled, Mama looked aghast, Lodenma blushed, and J. W. just seemed perplexed.

“Never mind, J. W.,” Papa continued, more formal. “My girl here, is just as sweet as any future bride to be,” he said to me, patting my shoulder. My friends and the others gathered, chuckled, seemed to know what was coming.

“Today,” he continued, “someone has asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage. He noted that she is a fine young woman, which she is.” People murmured politely. “Her skills with mules are without equal. She sets a fine table and she has weathered well these hot Oregon days to be the fine-looking young woman she is.” Everyone applauded politely to my growing embarrassment. “And I’ve consented to this offer of marriage.” I looked across Papa at Mama standing on the other side of him, just beyond Luther. She brushed at the folds in her skirt ignoring my stare. Luther wore a dazed look, like he didn’t know why he was standing there so close to J. W. and Papa, who continued.

“He has offered to look after our only girl.” He choked a bit on
only
. “He’s promised to keep her not too far from her mother’s house. He brings his considerable resources to this marriage bed, and I believe my daughter will be well tended.”

Considerable resources? Luther didn’t have that much nor did his parents, I didn’t think. But before I had the opportunity to sort that out, Papa sorted first.

“With great pleasure I announce the betrothal of my daughter, Jane, to my good friend and partner, J. W. Case. J. W.?” he finished, turning the stunned silence over to him.

Mr. Case held a glass of ginger ale in his hand and I noticed, idly as he lifted his glass to me, that he had dirt beneath his nails. I wondered what the “J. W.” stood for, what on earth this could mean?