Prairie Widow (12 page)

But what really stole Jennifer's attention was that all-encompassing blue sky. Something so enormous seemed fraught with menace. “There's no telling what'll fall out of a Kansas sky.” That's what Bill Wilkes had said.

So, in the short time she had been in Kansas, she had tried learning to read the sky's mood, which was made apparent by its complexion. Sometimes, the sky looked ashen, which meant it might loose a fine all-day rain. Sometimes, it was sickly pale, and that meant a still, muggy day. Sometimes, it was dark and low, and that meant, of course, that something was about to fall out of it with a vengeance, like rain, or that hail.

Then, too, different parts of the sky might be in different shades, betokening the coming or retreating of storms, or of the sun. Jennifer had come to like dawn and dusk, for that's when the sky showed the rest of its palette: the reds, pinks, and purples.

Jennifer looked up and noted that the last of the straggling clouds had drifted on. The sky now was blue and uninterrupted. Only a lone, distant turkey vulture, a mere speck, marred the dome. It occurred to Jennifer that if she could see the vulture, the vulture could see her, her children, and Joseph: four specks on the prairie.

Yet, in the face of all the enormity, one of those specks, Emma, played with her toy tea service on some flattened grass. “Would you like more muffins?” she asked Melissa, who was sitting on a little chair.

Jennifer watched her daughter, who seemed so much more resilient than Peter about their Poppa's death. Or was it merely some form of blissful innocence? How much more capable did Emma seem than either her brother or her mother to live contentedly in her own imagination. Here she was, after all, in the midst of a grassy wilderness, and yet she played with her make-believe tea service as if she were in the parlor back home.

Jennifer was envious. But then she said to herself, “I can play house, too.”

And so, as soon as the mud was dry, Jennifer had everyone move all the possessions back into the dugout. With everything squeezed into place, she stood by the door and thought hard. “You know, I have much red calico,” she said as everyone else was getting ready to go outside again. “I could use it to cover these ugly walls.”

“Can I help?” asked Emma, growing excited at the project.

“Of course,” said Jennifer, sitting herself down at die table to think of other ideas—none of which was likely to make her stay in Kansas enjoyable, but which might at least make it tolerable.

* * *

By Monday morning, the first day of school, Jennifer had managed to cover a portion of her dugout walls with different strips of calico, some red and some blue. The dugout seemed so much improved by these modest decorations that, while not especially proud, Jennifer was not ashamed to receive her neighbors' children.

There were, including Peter and Emma, seventeen children in her newly bedecked dugout that morning. The youngest among them—Mary Baker—was six years old, and the oldest, as it happened, was Todd Baker, who was sixteen. Some of the children had arrived by horse, but most had walked, covering many miles.

As they all crowded into the cramped, murky room, each student approached Jennifer with a gift—or rather her payment—before finding some spot to sit or stand. “My maw said to give you this oil,” grumbled Todd, presenting a small tin before shuffling off into a corner to join his brother and sister, clearly annoyed at having to be inside on such a sunny day.

“Here's combread for you, Mrs. Vandermeer,” said a little, dark-skinned, black girl, holding the unwrapped loaf in one hand and her younger brother's hand in the other.

“My mother baked (his chicken pie for you,” said one of two red-haired twin boys, the other grabbing a chair from a girl at the table.

“My pa said he'll bring you some flour when he gets the wheat milled,” said a little blonde girl in pigtails.

“My fotter und mutter vant me to invite you to dinner,” said a sandy-haired boy.

Jennifer accepted all these items graciously and placed them where she could among the dugout's clutter. With her students settled down, she took a moment to note them all. Some, like the twin boys, their red hair slicked back, were dressed in their Sunday best. Most, however, were in patched-together clothing and barefoot. She was surprisingly calm standing before them all. Except for some whispering, and for one boy tugging at the pigtails of the blonde girl, the children were well-behaved. Perhaps their parents had threatened to whump them if they weren't, or perhaps they were slightly awed at being in a schoolhouse, even one as humble as this. Only one boy made Jennifer nervous. He was a dark, beady-eyed child who stood at the rear of the room and rocked from side to side, grunting every so often. The other children didn't seem to mind him.

“I think,” started Jennifer—but she had to stop to clear her throat. “I think we ought to begin by introducing ourselves. As most of you already know, my name is Mrs. Vandermeer.” Jennifer paused. “Um, now why don't each of you tell us your name—and where you're from?”

Each student took a turn telling the class his or her name, and where he or she came from. The blonde girl with the pigtails was named Clara Anderson, and she was from Illinois; the dark-skinned black girl was named Laura Franklin, her brother, Jonathan, and her family was from a Virginia plantation; the twin boys were Michael and James McCormick, and they were from Boston and, before that, Ireland; the sandy-haired boy was Rolf Meyer, and he was from Bavaria; and so on and so forth. Only two children didn't do as they were asked: the beady-eyed boy, whose name was Jeffrey Hodge, wasn't sure what state his parents came from; and Peter, who, still so sad, refused to speak.

Jennifer was angry with her uncooperative son, but she didn't push the issue. There was a more pressing problem. So involved had she been in sprucing up her dugout that she hadn't given much thought to how she was going to conduct her class. And Lucy had not come up with a blackboard. It was only now that Jennifer realized what a handicap that was going to be. Indeed, for a painfully long second or two, she wasn't sure how she was to continue. But then she saw her broom leaning against the wall, and she took it. “Our first lesson will be in Geography.”

The room fell silent, except for someone's loud and resigned groan.

Jennifer positioned herself by the door where there was some space, and, using the broom's handle, she began to etch something in the dirt. All the children leaned forward to see. “These are the states between Kansas and Ohio,” said Jennifer.

“Where's Ireland?” asked one of the McCormick twins.

“We won't concern ourselves with that today,” said Jennifer.

When she had exhausted what she knew about the region under discussion, Jennifer turned the broom around and erased the map. It was all awkward, this teaching business, and Jennifer wasn't sure she was going about it quite right. The time seemed to pass very slowly. According to the mantel clock sitting on the bureau only fifteen minutes had gone by, and already she had nothing further to say about Geography. So she turned to ciphering, writing the numbers on the floor with the broom handle. But the students became bored and restless after so many minutes. The beady-eyed boy, Jeffrey, groaned loudly and began rocking more violently.

How long was she supposed to hold class anyway? And even if she did keep the students busy for several hours, they would be back the next day! Then the day after! And the day after that! And on and on!…

Jennifer spent the rest of the morning using the McGuffey readers. She had only seven copies, and some were in bad condition, being a couple of decades old. But they were more useful than the Bibles some students had brought, since there were too many versions of the Word, a couple being in German.

When, at last, by morning's end, Jennifer had taught all she had to teach, she dismissed her students. They slammed their books closed and, squealing, pushing, and teasing each other, they burst forth from the dugout like seeds of a ripe pod.

“Come back next Monday!” called Jennifer as they dispersed across the tall grass. She needed time to better plan her next class.

Emma, meanwhile, waved good-bye to the boys and girls, delighted at having had so many children visit her in her home. “Bye, Mary! Bye, Rolf! Bye Jeremy!…”

As the children heard their names, they each turned and waved back, even the beady-eyed boy, who tried to return her call: “Bah, Emma!”

Peter, however, had no part in this. Instead, he walked off alone into the grass and sat down, vanishing.

Jennifer almost got angry at him again, but she quickly saddened. It broke her heart to see him in class with all the other children, most of whom—including Emma—seemed impatient for class to end just so they could talk and play together. Peter barely acknowledged them. He just stood in his corner, his distant blue eyes avoiding contact with those around him. If another child whispered something in his ear, he turned his head away.

That night, after dinner, Jennifer said to him, “Peter, I miss Poppa too, but at least I'm talking.”

Peter didn't answer. He sat in a corner and sullenly pretended to be reading one of the books.

“You know, the other children will start to make fun of you if you're not friendlier.”

Peter remained tight-jawed. He stared blankly at the pages before him, and only the heavy rise and fall of his chest indicated that some upsetting thought was floating through his young mind.

“Is there nothing I can do to make you feel better?” asked Jennifer, standing several feet away on the ciphers still etched into the floor.

Peter's resolute mouth began to tremble, but he said nothing. Jennifer took a step toward her son. She prayed he might run into her arms. She wanted so badly to hold him. But he was a stubborn little boy. Indeed, reflected Jennifer, he was perhaps being as stubbornly silent as she herself had been on the journey out there.

“You know, you're making me and Emma sad,” said Jennifer. “Is that what you want?”

Peter flipped a page. His eyes didn't even follow it.

“See here, young man,” tried Jennifer more sternly, her hands resting on her hips, “I will not put up with this silence in my house! While you are living under my roof, you must…”

But she couldn't finish her sentence. She saw such unhappiness and pain upon the face of her son that she felt her throat tighten and tears well up in her eyes. Without another word, she turned and hurried outside so her children wouldn't see her cry, and she walked up the rise to the rear of the dugout so that they would not hear her, either. When, upon looking back, she could barely see the stove pipe in the ground, she went no farther, and she tossed herself onto the grass. There she curled like a doe on the ground that radiated from her to that great encircling horizon. The darkened blue dome reigned overhead, its western edge tinted with the pastel colors of a half-submerged sun painting the underside of some clouds. Jennifer buried her head and sobbed, her plaintive call mixing with the evening chirping of crickets and the staccato call of dickcissals. “I taught him well…”

Finally, her tears slowing, Jennifer raised her head to look back at the stove pipe for reassurance. But what she saw, stretched out across the sunset-reddened grass, was the enlongated shadow of a person. She turned quickly and squinted into the setting sun's oncoming rays, which were eclipsed by the silhouette of a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and great, bushy side-whiskers.

“Hello, Mrs. Vandermeer.” A sonorous voice came from the silhouette.

Jennifer raised one hand to shield out the sun, and she could just make out the mutton-chopped visage of Bill Wilkes. He stooped down so that their faces were close. His form still blocked part of the sun, so that a halo formed around him.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

Jennifer began to raise herself from the ground, and Wilkes helped her to her feet. “Excuse me,” said Jennifer, embarrassed. “It's been a difficult day.”

“You know, you ought to be careful at this hour. The rattlers become active at dusk.” Jennifer quickly scanned the grass around her. “Come on,” said Wilkes, “let's head back to your dugout.” He offered Jennifer his arm. He patted Jennifer's hand. “I thought I lost you there a moment. I saw you run up here while I was still on the trail, but when I got here, you were nowhere in sight—until I nearly tripped over you.”

The two came to the stove pipe and stopped. Feeling somewhat reassured by the tall, handsome man, Jennifer turned to watch the last wisps of color on the western horizon get quenched by the deepening night. “You know, back home, I never noticed the sunsets. I must say, they are pretty.”

Wilkes, his hold on Jennifer's arm weakened by her turn, released her. “Well, I reckon you have sunsets enough back in Ohio.”

Jennifer laughed. “I suppose we do—my, you do tend to catch me when I'm indisposed. The last time, my husband was afraid you'd find a good joke in my refusing to leave the wagon.”

“No, you were unhappy. That's understandable.” Wilkes stepped closer to Jennifer, trying to steal her attention from the sunset. “A lady of your obvious refinement is best suited for the East.”

Jennifer turned to Wilkes—his face, whiskers and all, were growing faint in the darkness—and she smiled. “You're kind to say so.”

“I mean it. Leave this prairie for those people better off in it—people who have little stake in the east, who have little to lose by coming out here.”

“That's exactly the way I feel, Mr. Wilkes.”

“Really? Well, I heard you were planning to stay—that you'd be teaching school here, or some such nonsense.”

Jennifer tightened. She clasped her arms. “I do believe the evenings are getting chillier,” she said, glassy-eyed.

“Mrs. Vandermeer, I'll be frank with you. This isn't entirely a social visit. As land agent, I'm obliged to find out if you plan on staying on your property. Other folks can use it if you're not going to.”