Bittersweet (15 page)

Calliope was bustling with people and wagons when Sarah reached the edge of town. A band of boys had collected in front of the Beards’ house and played at hitting a fist-sized rock with sticks, whooping and swooping at it as though they were mounted on swift ponies. A wagon lumbered down the middle of the street and another, its team unhitched, awaited repairs in front of the blacksmith’s shop.

Sarah stood by the side of the road, the weight of her outsized garments and the wind bearing her down until it seemed she would fall. She looked from the boys at their game to Imogene’s door, to the wagon driver with his children on the seat beside him. The town was too full of eyes. Losing her courage, she crawled on her hands and knees up the dirt embankment and into the underbrush until she was out of sight.

It was after sunset when she ventured from her hiding place. A cloud cover had blown in, obscuring the early stars and warming the evening. She had secreted herself less than a quarter-mile from the school buildings, and although she was stiff from the cold and confused with fever, she was there in a few minutes. Imogene had the door open and was out on the steps at the first sound of her tread.

Sarah stopped at the foot of the walk, a dark shape swaying in the last light. Imogene ran to her, arms outstretched, ready to catch her if she fell.

“Don’t touch me!” Sarah croaked. “Please, God, don’t touch me!” Her frightened eyes darted to the windows of the neighboring houses, but they were all closely draped to keep out the night air. Imogene dropped her arms as though she had been struck, and abruptly returned to the house, leaving Sarah to follow unaided.

The place was a jumble of crates and boxes. Some were half-filled, piled on top of others already sealed and labeled. A trunk took up the middle of the floor, its lid propped open. Sarah’s clothes, dry but for the seams, hung from a line stretched from the mantel to the peg by the door. The desk was covered with old letters sorted into untidy stacks.

Imogene threaded her way through the confusion and poked up the fire. The door shut softly and Imogene put the poker away. When she turned to Sarah, the anger and hurt were gone from her face. “I’ve been so worried. I woke up and you were gone.”

Sarah hadn’t come into the room, but stood with her back to the door. “You’re packing,” she said. “You’re leaving. You’re going to leave me.” With startling energy, she grabbed things from the trunk and hurled them to the floor. She pulled the boxes of letters from the desk and dumped them over. “You sneaked all the boxes in. You were getting everything ready to go when I wasn’t here.” She laughed as tears poured down her cheeks, and collapsed in the mess she had made. Imogene fell to her knees and tried to gather the young woman into her arms, but Sarah flailed at her. “You’re leaving me!” she cried. “You’re going away.”

“No, my dear. No. Not now, not ever.” Sarah wouldn’t be comforted, but continued to cry.

Imogene left her and ran into the bedroom. She jerked a hatbox from the closet shelf and reached behind it to pull out a metal box the size of a book. She ran her hand down the length of the shelf, dislodging some half-dozen boxes and a lamp chimney that shattered when it hit the floor. Finally her fingers found what they were looking for: a small key on a nail driven into the back of the closet. Haste making her fumble, she unlocked the box and hurried back into the other room. Sarah still lay amid the clothing and papers.

Imogene knelt in front of her and spilled the contents of the box onto the floor between them. Coins rolled off under the chairs. The
cat, perched on the mantel, roused herself to chase one but it settled quickly and she lost interest. Bills tumbled out in a heap. Imogene picked up a fistful and pressed them into Sarah’s hand, folding the narrow fingers around them. “The money left from the sale of my house. Take it.” She pushed another handful of money into the pocket of Sarah’s coat. “Everything I have is yours.” She unpinned the silver brooch that closed the collar of her dress and pinned it on Sarah’s bodice. “Everything. I won’t ever leave you.” Sarah stopped crying, her interest caught like a child’s. “I would never hurt you,” Imogene said. “I love you. You needn’t earn it or even deserve it, it’s just there. No matter what you do, it won’t change. If I never saw you for a hundred years. It just is.”

“Like air?”

Imogene smiled at her. “Like air.”

Sarah sat up, both hands full of money, money spilling from her pockets, her tangled hair falling over her face. Imogene held out her hands and Sarah put the money aside to take them. “I’d like to go to sleep now,” she said. “I’m real tired.”

Imogene helped her to bed.

“Will you unpack?”

Imogene settled the covers over the girl’s shoulders and tucked them smooth. “You sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”

SARAH WAS SLEEPING FITFULLY, ROCKING HER HEAD BACK AND FORTH
against the pillow. Occasionally her hands jerked and she’d cry out.

Already awake and dressed, Imogene stood by the bedside. She laid her hand on the girl’s forehead, and for a moment Sarah was still. Then, quietly, Imogene left her.

Yesterday’s bitter wind had blown itself out and the weather was mild. Imogene unbuttoned her wrap and stood for a long moment on the front steps, the sun on her face, her head to one side, listening. Birds rustled in the lilac bushes in front of the school, their subdued twittering and stirring deepening the stillness of the morning. No tardy children hurried down the main street, none of the righteous scuffled before the school door in celebration of a last minute’s freedom. With a sudden spasm, Imogene straightened her shoulders. “Bash on regardless,” she said, and smiled crookedly.

The sound of a hammer’s clanging rang from Hugh Rorvak’s forge; Imogene turned her steps toward the smithy. Sweat rolled down the blacksmith’s temples and darkened his collarless shirt. With iron tongs he held a red-hot crescent against the anvil. His hammer, swinging in short, regular arcs, pounded the end of it flat. At the back of the shop, where it opened into the stable, Clay Beard stooped, his back to a sorrel mare, holding her hoof between his thighs, plying a three-cornered rasp.

Imogene’s shadow fell across the door and Clay looked up, smiling and gesturing a greeting with the file, before bending to his task again. Hugh Rorvak had seen her as she walked up from the street, and looked away without acknowledging her. She waited quietly just outside the door for him to finish shaping the wagon shoe. For fifteen minutes he worked on, heating the metal, pounding. Occasionally he looked her way from under lowered lids and, finding her still there, worked with renewed vigor. At last he plunged the metal into a tub of water. A hiss, a cloud of steam, and the pounding of the smithy was exorcised for a moment. He pulled the metal shoe for the wheel of a wagon from the black water and held it over a wooden wheel propped against the wall; it fit close. Imogene started to speak but he turned his back, reaching down another piece of metal for the forge, and she ran out of patience. Stepping over the threshold she said, “Excuse me, Mr. Rorvak, I’ve come to hire a wagon.”

With unnecessary clatter he hefted the tongs over the lip of the furnace. “Got none. They all been let.”

“What about that one?” She put herself between him and his anvil. Forcing his attention, she indicated a small wagon visible through the stable door.

The blacksmith never looked where she was pointing. “It’s busted. Nobody can take it.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“All been spoke for.” He pulled the iron from the forge. One end glowed a dull red. “Better stand back. You’ll get yourself bad burned.”

Imogene retreated toward the door. “Is there nothing you can let me have? It’ll only be for an hour or so in the evening.”

“Sorry.”

Imogene watched him as he laid the metal on the anvil. He seemed to feel her eyes on his back. “Sorry,” he said again.

Clay hailed her as she crossed the stableyard, motioning her to him. “Didn’t mean to go flapping my arms at you like that,” he apologized. “I was afraid Mr. Rorvak’d see us together if I was to come over to you.”

“That wouldn’t do, would it?” Imogene said sarcastically.

“No, ma’am. Wouldn’t do at all. You be needing a wagon?”

“Yes.”

“That one there,” he jerked his chin at the wagon Imogene had
pointed out to the blacksmith, “ain’t hardly broke. Mr. Rorvak’ll be up to the mine late this afternoon. Maybe five, six o’clock, I could bring it by. I’d like to do it for you, ma’am. And little Mrs. Ebbitt.”

Imogene’s eyes softened and she laid a hand on Clay’s arm. Hard muscles met her gloved fingers. “Thank you, Clay, you’re very good. But won’t you lose your situation here?”

“I’m not smart, Miss Grelznik, but I’m real strong. Stronger even than Mr. Rorvak. When comes something he can’t lift, he calls for me. But I’m not so smart and maybe I don’t know no better’n to let you have that wagon for a bit.” He tapped his temple with a sooty forefinger, and a look as close to cunning as he could muster sparkled in his guileless blue eyes.

Imogene laughed. “Thank you, Clay. You are a strong man.” Bright blue skirts and running steps caught Imogene’s eye. Her hand fell from Clay’s arm as a gawky girl in her early teens flitted from the side door of the Beards’ house and down the street. She was wearing a blue-checkered dress and carrying an armload of clothes. Imogene looked from the girl to Clay. “Your sister, Jillian, is wearing Sarah’s dress.”

Clay shifted uncomfortably. He stared at the ground and squeezed his cloth cap in both hands. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ebbitt brought ’em before dawn this morning. Gave them to Ma to give out. Said there was no sense decent women going cold. Ma saved some things for the girls, but they’re pretty little yet. And Karen, though I see her pretty as she ever was, well, she likes her food and she’s not the little spit of a thing Sarah Ebbitt was.”

“Is.”

“Anyway, Ma’s given the dresses and whatnot to folks as can use ’em.”

Imogene inhaled slowly through pinched nostrils. She sucked in her cheeks and nodded to herself. “The baby?”

“Ma’s looking after him.”

The clash of the smith’s hammer stopped and Clay looked nervously over his shoulder. “It won’t do to have Hugh see us talking, he’ll sure tell me how I can’t let you have that wagon, and as it ain’t mine, I couldn’t take it then.” Clay put on the cap he’d been mangling, and hurried back into the stable.

In the street, people turned away, whispering, as Imogene passed. It was after ten o’clock when she reached home. As he
opened the door, Sarah flew at her, Imogene’s voluminous nightgown trailing over her hands, the hem dragging on the floor.

“Where were you?” she wailed. “Where’ve you been?” Laundry, strung across the room on a makeshift clothesline, got in her way and she became entangled in the line. “You left me alone!” Sarah cried, and broke into noisy sobs.

Imogene went to cradle her in her arms, but she threw her hands up, warding the schoolteacher off. “Don’t touch me.” Then, “You left me alone!”

The schoolteacher caught her by the shoulders and shook her. When the frenzied look left her eyes, Imogene held her close and Sarah clung to her.

“You left me alone,” Sarah said again, when she’d quieted. They were sitting together on the hearth, Sarah resting her head on Imogene’s shoulder.

“I had to. I’ve got to take care of us now, don’t I? I wanted to let you sleep. You feel a little cooler now than you did this morning. Would you like something to eat?” Sarah shook her head. “Maybe you’ll feel like eating a little something tonight.”

“Maybe.”

Imogene stroked her hair. “Where’s the cat?”

“I put her out.”

“We’ll have to find something to carry her in. Why don’t you go lie down now, I can finish up here. Clay’s coming by for us around five o’clock.”

Sarah raised her eyes. “Why?”

“We’ve got to leave Calliope,” Imogene said gently. “We can’t stay here now.”

“We can’t leave. Matthew…Mam…my clothes…”

Imogene took her hands.

Sarah jerked free. “No! My baby, I can’t leave him. He’s so little. No!” The thin arms flapped in the big sleeves, and a look of determination flitted across the small face.

Imogene caught her and forced her to be still. “Listen to me. We can’t stay here. I can’t work here, and I must make a living for both of us. They won’t let us stay.”

“You go,” Sarah cried. “You go. I can stay here. I’ll live here and I’ll take in wash, or cook maybe. I’ll—” She broke off and hid her face in the folds of the nightdress.

“You can’t live here anymore. This is school property, Sarah.”
As gently as she could, Imogene said, “You have nothing. Even Matthew is not yours. He’s Sam Ebbitt’s boy. If we could find him, steal him away, then he, too, would have nothing. Sam will let you go—he’ll never let his son go. He’d hunt you down. You don’t want that for Mattie. Nothing is yours.”

“You’re lying!” Sarah cried.

“Nothing,” Imogene went on inexorably. “You haven’t even a change of clothes. I saw that girl Jillian wearing one of your dresses this morning. Sam’s given them away.”

“They’re mine!” came the muffled cry.

“No, they aren’t. They belong to Sam. Even what you had before you were married. It all belongs to Sam. If he wanted, he could have you arrested and sent to jail for stealing the clothes you had on your back when you ran away. That’s the law. It’s all Sam’s.” Imogene pulled Sarah’s shirtwaist from the clothesline. “This is his.” She jerked the skirt and draped it over the rocking chair. “And these.” She snatched up Sarah’s underthings from where they’d been heaped when Imogene changed her bandages the night before. “These are his stockings.”

Sarah held up the frilled pantalets and smiled a little. “These are Sam’s pantalets?”

“That’s my girl. We’re going to be all right. You’ll see.” Imogene hugged her. “You go rest. I’ll finish up here and wake you so we can get ready ourselves.” She helped Sarah to her feet. “It will be all right. I promise.” Sarah didn’t move. “The leaving is for Mattie as much as for you,” Imogene said, and the girl allowed herself to be led.

While Sarah slept, Imogene packed, parceling the scattered bits of her life into boxes and closing them up with itemized lists carefully pasted to their lids. Then, mopping, dusting, scrubbing, she worked her way from room to room, cleaning away the last traces of her residency. When the house was bare but for the molehill of her possessions piled near the door, and the rooms smelled of soap and water—the homier smells of coffee and lavender having been washed away—Imogene carried in the bathtub. She filled it half-full of cold water and put the kettle on to heat. The water began to boil and she went to wake Sarah.

Groggy and feverish, Sarah shambled out of the bedroom, guided by Imogene’s steady hand. The tub of water waited before the fire, cold and uninviting. Sarah looked from it to Imogene.

“I’ll pull the curtains so you can undress, then in you go.” Imogene smiled reassuringly.

“It’s only April.”

“April’s a good month for bathing.”

“It’s still winter outside.” As if to corroborate Sarah’s sentiments, wind rattled the window glass.

“It’s much warmer today. Almost spring. Best bathe now while the afternoon sun is at its warmest.”

“Washing too much is unhealthful. Mam says.” The unanswerable authority called down, Sarah turned for the bedroom.

“Nonsense. In you go.” Imogene closed the drapes and poured boiling water into the tub, great clouds of steam engulfing her.

Sarah allowed herself to be led to the tub and sat limp and unprotesting in the water, her legs crossed tailor-fashion. Warm water cascaded over her neck and shoulders. She winced as it found the lash cuts.

“I’ll be as easy as I can,” Imogene promised. “I have some ointment that will help, but I’ve got to clean the wounds first.” Blood—dried, broken open, and dried again—scabbed over most of the slender back. Pus gathered at the torn edges, and the narrow strips of flesh between the slashes were beginning to show an angry red. “You’ve not tended to yourself and I’ve been remiss. Running about, you’ve opened these a dozen times.”

“I had to look for Matthew.” Her son’s name dulled Sarah’s eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks. Imogene said nothing.

Deftly she swabbed the cuts clean, dabbing at the torn skin with a soft paste of soap. That done, she began the task of shampooing the fine blond hair. It fell, lank and wet, below Sarah’s waist. Gathering it up and rolling it into a knot, Imogene squeezed the excess water out and secured it with pins from her own hair. “There. That will hold it for the time being.” She handed Sarah the bar of soap. “You get soaped up; I’ll get the rinse water.” Sarah held the soap but made no effort to clean herself.

“Sarah!” An edge of fear sharpened Imogene’s voice, and slowly Sarah looked up. “Don’t think about it, Sarah. There’s nothing to be gained. Try not to think. Oh, Sarah, I am so terribly sorry,” Imogene whispered, her eyes full of the fragile, uncomplaining girl. Sarah started to rub the soap against her skin. “That’s right. I’ll get the rinsewater before you get a chill.”

Wrapped in a blanket, Sarah sat near the fire while Imogene brushed her hair dry.

“Where are we going to go?” she said, breaking a long silence.

Imogene leaned over the back of the rocker to catch the barely audible sound. “Hmmm? Where? Reno. It’s in the Nevada Territory. The state. It’s a state now. Nevada.” She kept her voice cheerful and light.

“Nevada,” Sarah repeated hollowly, and Imogene laughed.

“You make it sound as though it were Hong Kong or Calais. It’s not so far. The railroad runs right to it.” She hesitated for a moment. “An old friend of mine lives there with her husband. She said they had need of schoolteachers.” She reached into her pocket and took out the letter she had taken from her piles of correspondence—the letter William Utterback had given her to read on the trail two and a half years before. She glanced quickly at the first page:
17 September 1873. Dear Mr. Utterback
, the letter began. Imogene put that sheet back into her pocket and handed Sarah the page beginning,
There’s a dearth of teachers here, and new people arrive to stay every day
…