Mud Creek (22 page)

“Where is the bread?”

“There isn’t any,” Helen claimed.

“Liar. You baked yesterday.” Violet leaned in and hissed, “Where is it?”

“We’re out,” Helen insisted.

Violet studied Helen’s eyes, and Helen could never fool her sister.

“You’re hiding it,” Violet said. “Oh, for pity’s sake, you’re hiding the bread. Tell me why!”

Helen could have spun a story about shortage and hardship, but any moral justification would be lost on Violet.

“I had to start locking it away,” Helen said.

“Why?”

“It seems someone is pilfering more than their share. Late at night, someone is sneaking in here and eating.”

Helen glared at Violet, her intense gaze apprising Violet that there were no secrets in the house. It was too small, and they were crammed together.

Food was scarce. They weren’t starving, but Helen had to watch every single scrap she put on a plate.

Albert understood, Carl and Robert understood. Violet did not understand, and she constantly complained.

It wasn’t a coincidence that food was missing in the morning. Helen kept a careful count of what they had, of what remained, and Violet slept downstairs by herself.

“Someone is
stealing
food?” Violet sneered. “Who would be that stupid?”

“I agree. Who would be?”

“There are only five of us. The person has to realize he’ll get caught.”

“The person certainly should.”

“I bet it’s Albert,” Violet cunningly said.

“Albert, really?”

“He’s so pompous, and with Walt dead, he lords himself over everybody. He makes all of us suffer and cut back, and then, he creeps in and stuffs himself.”

Albert worked like a dog, in bitter conditions, so he was worn down and thin as a rail. But he never demanded or expected a larger portion of food. At meals, Helen always tried to slip him an extra bite, and he wouldn’t let her.

Her husband had many faults, but in his command that they eat less, he’d been particularly egalitarian. It was awful of Violet to insult him.

“I’ve heard enough from you for one afternoon,” Helen said.

“I won’t shut up until you tell me where you hid the bread.”

“There is no bread, and we won’t have more until I bake some tomorrow.”

“As if I’d believe you.”

“Why must you be so difficult?”

Helen didn’t need to ask the question for she knew the answer. Violet was simply an unhappy, peculiar, ill female, and it was pointless to hope she would change.

“Supper isn’t for hours yet,” Violet griped.

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re being deliberately cruel.” It was Violet’s regular harangue, that Helen didn’t love her anymore, that Helen was cruel.

Helen had stopped listening.

“I wish the weather was nicer,” Helen rudely stated. “I liked it better around here when you walked in the pasture all day.”

“And I liked it better when you weren’t such a condescending witch.”

Violet flounced into the front room, leaving Helen by herself in the kitchen. But the house was too small to ever be truly alone. There was no privacy.

She fought off a shiver. It was so cold outside, and the house so poorly built, that frigid air blew in the windows and under the doors. Occasionally, snowflakes drifted in the rooms, and unless Helen had the stove lit in order to cook on it, she could see her breath.

She’d been so miserably uncomfortable that she’d relinquished her women’s clothes. Cotton skirts, lace stockings, and heeled shoes were ridiculously impractical.

Besides her freezing in the unfeasible apparel, her main chore was to keep a path shoveled to the outhouse and chicken coop. As the piles of snow rose higher and higher, she hadn’t been able to accomplish even the most elemental task.

Instead, she’d started wearing a pair of Robert’s long-johns, an old pair of Arthur’s dungarees, his wool-lined boots, his coat with the goose down lining.

She hadn’t asked Albert’s permission or opinion, and when he’d initially observed the masculine attire, he’d tried to protest, and she’d actually told him to mind his own business. He hadn’t raised the issue again.

She peered out the window to the graveyard on the hill—as Florence used to when she obsessed over her dead babies.

Helen chuckled to herself, wondering if she’d eventually grow just as mad. The root causes were all there: the isolation, the drain on her time and energy, the husband who was overbearing and vindictive.

Her only blessing was the fact that she wasn’t pregnant. Even though Albert had rejoined her in her bed, he couldn’t perform his manly obligation. The first few nights, they’d forced themselves through the frustrating ordeal, and finally, he’d given up.

If she’d had to worry about childbirth and childrearing on top of every other burden, she couldn’t predict how she’d react. Ha! Maybe she’d take a knife to herself so she’d be sent away to a quiet hospital where she could be warm and fed! Maybe Florence was on to something!

Choices, choices,
Helen mused.

Though she’d had the perfect chance to ride away with James, she’d been too afraid to seize it. She’d persuaded herself that she’d done the right and noble thing, but she was never sure.

When she could have altered her fate, she’d picked duty over happiness, duty over pleasure, duty over an easier life. She’d stayed with her family, so she shouldn’t regret, yet she felt that she’d failed a test or missed an important fork in the road.

And apparently, her cowardice had irked James.

Since he’d trotted off without her, she hadn’t seen him again. November and December had passed. A miserable Christmas had come and gone. Ten weeks had trudged by, and he hadn’t visited.

Not to check on her. Not to drop off food. Not to ask how they were faring.

He had his own large ranch, with chores and responsibilities that didn’t include her. He probably never thought about her, at all, so why pine away over him? Why mourn and lament? What was the point?

Violet popped into the doorway, interrupting her futile reverie.

As if Violet could read Helen’s mind, she said, “James Blaylock hasn’t stopped by lately.”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Helen shifted around on her chair, her expression blank, providing no hint of how her hearing James’s name had caused a fluttering in her chest.

Violet’s speaking of him wasn’t an accident. She was never innocent or amiable. She always had an ulterior motive, and if she was eager to talk about James, there was likely a malicious purpose.

“I think he’s sweet on you,” Violet declared.

“Mr. Blaylock?” Helen laughed. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I’ve noticed how he watches you.”

“How he
watches
me? You have the strangest imagination.”

“Albert’s jealous of him. Were you aware of that?”

“I couldn’t guess why he would be.”

“Maybe because you like Mr. Blaylock, too.”

Helen sighed with exasperation. “I won’t listen to this kind of nonsense.”

“I know a secret,” Violet bragged.

“I’m sure you do.” Helen spun away, refusing to play any games.

“Remember that day after Walt’s funeral, when Albert suddenly rode into Mud Creek?”

“It’s been awhile, but yes, I remember.”

Albert never went to Mud Creek. There was no money to buy anything, and it was bitterly cold. The chance of the wind kicking up, of getting caught in a blizzard out on the road, was too much of a risk. Yet, he’d traipsed off to town without a word of explanation to anybody.

“He didn’t go to Mud Creek,” Violet said.

“Where did he go?”

“To Blaylock’s house.”

Helen frowned. “He can’t stand the man. Why would he?”

“For
some
reason, he’s convinced Blaylock is smitten—even if you don’t agree.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Violet?”

“He leveled his shotgun at Blaylock and warned him never to show his sorry face over here again.”

“He did not,” Helen scoffed.

“He told Blaylock that if he came sniffing after you, he’d set the law on him for alienation of affection. He said a husband has rights, that another man can’t interfere with his marriage.”

Helen blanched with dismay. Albert was a bully, but also a coward. She simply couldn’t imagine him mustering the nerve to confront James over any issue.

But James hadn’t stopped by since the funeral. Had Albert noticed her fondness? She thought she’d been circumspect, that she’d concealed her emotions, but had she somehow given herself away?

Her cheeks flushed with shame. If Albert had threatened James, she’d just die!

“First of all,” she snapped at Violet, “I don’t believe you for a minute.”

“Believe me or don’t. I don’t care.”

“And second, even if such a squalid episode had actually occurred, how would you have heard about it?”

“Albert drinks at night, Helen, after you go to bed. He chugs whiskey like a sailor.”

“He…what?”

“He can’t hold his liquor; he’s sloppy about it. He talks too much.”

The damage done, her poison dart shot with glaring accuracy, Violet whirled away and waltzed off to the front room.

Helen sat, dumbly frozen in her spot.

Had the distasteful encounter really transpired? Would Albert have behaved so boorishly? James was the only neighbor still willing to visit. Were they not allowed to have even that small contact with the rest of the world?

Far off in the distance, Albert was riding in the pasture, and she was overcome by the need to learn the truth.

She tugged on a second coat, one of Walt’s that was bigger so it fit over the one she always wore. She pulled on a wool hat, a muffler, gloves and mittens both, then stepped outside.

The air was bitingly cold, the snow heavy and deep. She plodded through it, skirting drifts, slowly approaching Albert. He saw her, and he turned his horse and came toward her. He was mounted, the fence between them, while Helen stood shivering.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, curious over her arduous trek.

There was no good way to begin the conversation, so she bluntly inquired, “Did you go over to Mr. Blaylock’s place and speak to him about me?”

He hesitated, then glanced away. “Why would I do that?”

“Did you?”

“No,” he replied, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Don’t lie to me!” she demanded.

“Who’s lying? I told you I didn’t.”

“Violet said you bragged about it to her.”

“Well then, it must be true.”

“She claims you drink at night, that you tell her things you shouldn’t.”

He peered off to the shimmering buttes on the horizon, and she figured he was choosing his words, deciding what to admit and what to deny.

“Do you sit at night,” Helen pressed, “swilling whiskey with my sister?”

“I might.” He yanked his gaze back to hers. “What business is it of yours? You’re my wife, not my nanny.”

“Violet was right, wasn’t she?” Helen snorted with disgust. “You threatened Mr. Blaylock.”

“What if I did?” Albert sneered. “He deserved it.”

“Oh, Albert…”

“The two of you were out on the road after Pa’s funeral. I won’t allow him to look at you that way.”

“I was walking him to the gate. I was grateful for his help with the burial.”

“You’re not to speak to him ever again,” Albert warned. “Do you hear me, Helen?” She didn’t answer, and he shouted, his voice ringing across the snowy prairie, “Do you hear me!”

She stared up at him, thinking how petty he was, how ordinary and insignificant.

She was an adulteress in her heart, and she harbored great shame over that fact. But she could have left Albert, and she hadn’t. Despite his moods and temper and rages, she’d remained with him.

Her choice suddenly seemed so idiotic. Why had she stayed? Where was the benefit?

“He was our only friend,” she said.

“He’s a cad and a bounder, who was coveting another man’s wife.
My
wife, and I won’t stand for it. He’ll not show his face here again—or he’ll be sorry.”

Helen whipped away and staggered back to the house.

*    *    *    *

A knock sounded on the front door.

It was such an unusual occurrence that, at first, no one reacted. Who would knock? In the nine months Helen had lived on the ranch, it hadn’t previously happened.

They were all—unhappily—gathered in the front room. It was an unbearable January morning. The sun was so low in the sky that it had barely crested the eastern horizon. The temperature had plummeted, the wind increasing. Visibility was dropping, and a full-blown blizzard would develop as the hours dragged on.

Albert, Carl, and Robert had attempted their chores, but the dire conditions had forced them to quit.

Albert was pacing. Violet was on a blanket by the stove and reading a catalog that she’d perused a hundred times before. Helen had been rushing around, the two boys pitching in to make preparations in case they were trapped inside for days.

The rapping thudded again, and they all froze with surprise.

Carl frowned. “Is someone at the door?”

“I think so,” Robert replied. He went over and pulled it open. When he discovered who had arrived, he murmured, “My goodness.”

It was the young twins, Edith and Evelyn Henderson. Helen hadn’t seen them since the barn raising when their mother and stepfather had departed in a huff.

She took a quick peek into the yard. There was a single horse they must have ridden, but there were no adults with them. They lived six or seven miles to the west. What could have brought them so far—alone—in such inclement weather?

“Edith? Evelyn?” Helen scowled. “What on earth are you doing here?”

In unison, they cried, “Helen! Helen!”

“Come on in,” Robert told them, “and hurry! We’re letting out all the warm air.”

They stumbled across the threshold as Helen extended her arms to them. They lunged for her and snuggled themselves to her waist, as if holding on for dear life.

“What is it?” she inquired. “Where is your mother? Is everything all right at home?”

“Everything is terrible!”

Looking exhausted and petrified, they both began to weep inconsolably.