Spring for Susannah (26 page)
“Ten. A sewing machine?”
“Absolutely. Give me the pencil. You're skipping stuff.” He paused to add up the costs. “Plenty left over. Let's see a photographer, get our wedding picture taken so I can show you off.”
“Dressed like this?”
“Clothing store before photographer. We'll visit the bookstore in Moorhead. Get a matched team of horses, harnesses, saddles. Dinner at the Headquarters Hotel. New shoes for both of us.”
“A bookstore!”
The list covered the envelope by the time the train screeched into Fargo. Ten whitewashed buildings, most two stories tall, faced the tracks across Front Street.
Jesse whistled. “When I came through here in '71, it was only a row of tents for the surveyors and a stack of lumber for the hotel. Crossed the river on a ferry. They were calling it Centralia.”
Susannah shook her head. “That's funny. I was just thinking it hadn't changed at all since last summer. In fact, it seems quieter. Maybe just the time of day.” The late afternoon sun slanted across the rutted mud. Susannah lifted her skirts. “Wonder which one is the bank.”
“Let's start at this end of town and work our way east. We'll find it.” Jesse grasped her elbow to steady her. “If I'd known they were paving their streets with manure, I'd have brought a load from our stable. Aren't you glad you didn't change into fancy clothes?”
A team of gray coursers pulled a red, white, and blue striped democrat wagon around the corner of the adjacent hotel.
“Welcome to Fargo!” The balding driver guided his team toward them. The horses strained against the firmly held reins. “My team hates this gumbo too. Give them their head and they'd be out of town, rolling in the grass in no time. Can I give you antelopers a ride?” Throwing the brake with his foot, he extended his arm. “Jasper Chapin, proprietor of the Headquarters Hotel.”
Jesse shook his hand. “Jesse and Susannah Mason, homesteaders from south of Worthington.”
Maybe it was his portly physique or his jovial manner, but Mr. Chapin reminded Susannah of Saint Nicholasâor at least a slightly inebriated Saint Nick.
“If you could point us in the direction of a bank, we'd appreciate it,” Jesse said.
“Don't have a bank yet.” He nodded at a building across the street. Block letters rising two feet tall above the second story windows proclaimed E. S. Tyler & Co. “Evan's been stuck with the job ever since he bought a safe.”
“Much obliged.” Jesse stepped away from the wagon.
The heavyset man squinted at Susannah. “I never forget a pretty face. You're the little lady come out from Detroit last summer. Ordered soup for dinner, toast for breakfast. Didn't finish either. Got my cook all worried. I was sure the wind would blow you back to Michigan. Well, you're looking mighty fine. And this must be the lucky bridegroom.”
His gaze shifted back to Jesse. “Mason, eh? Take off your hat a minute, son. With a proboscis like yours, you've got to be kin to Shep Mason out of Genesee County, New York.”
“That would be my grandfather. Got out of the sheep business. Did better with Holsteins. You from New York?”
“Native of Genesee County. Worked a farm down to Jamestown 'til I left in '52. Tell you what, get your banking done, come back to my hotel. Give me another chance to put on a feed.” Mr. Chapin released the brake. The wagon slogged down the road to the rhythm of the horses' sucking hooves.
Jesse clamped her hand between his elbow and his side. Quiet laughter rumbled his rib cage.
“What's an anteloper?” She scraped her shoes on the edge of the wooden sidewalk.
“Someone who eats antelopeâa name obviously given by a city dweller who's never tried hunting one.” He opened the door and waved her in with a flourish. “Mrs. Mason.”
The grocery and dry goods store was the Roses' establishment multiplied ten times. Where the Worthington store had one brand of peaches, Mr. Tyler had three, in a variety of sizes. Mrs. Rose offered dried apples. Mr. Tyler had fresh apples
and
oranges. Bolts of fabric were stacked to the ceiling, in colors from buff to mahogany, lilac to plum. Patterns of plaid, brocade, pinstripes, florals, even florals with stripes. Muslin, grenadine, cambric, poplin, calico, twill. The glass cabinet in front of the shelves displayed a rainbow of ribbons, braids, lace, and buttons. E. S. Tyler stocked not just J. P. Coats thread but Clark's Spool Cotton and Milward's needles. Oh, the dresses she'd make!
“May I help you?” A lanky man wiped his hands on his white apron.
“We were told you could cash this for us.” Jesse handed him the transfer paper.
The storekeeper sucked in his upper lip, bristling the hairs of his mustache. He consulted a handwritten list posted over the safe, then turned back to Jesse.
“Afraid I'm the bearer of bad news. This transfer was drawn on one of the banks that closed. It's no good.”
“No good? The bank closed?”
The edges of Susannah's vision went dark. Jesse braced her shoulders. “Breathe,” he ordered in an undertone.
“Last September Jay Cooke's bank in Philadelphia failed. It threw the railroad into receivership, put people out of work, and closed banks across the country. Newspapers are calling it âthe Panic of '73.' Business has been slow ever since.” The storekeeper returned the paper. “If I were you, I'd write Detroit, see if the bank reopened and will issue a new transfer. I'll be glad to give you credit. Your wife looks like she'd take home my entire yard goods department. And you're welcome to a cup of coffee, on the house.”
“Thanks, but we'd better find a place to stay the night.”
“Try the Sherman House. Less expensive than Chapin'sâer, the Headquarters Hotel. Ask for a room in the back; they're a dollar less. Good luck to you.”
The door of the store thudded behind them.
Jesse tightened his grip. “Sorry about your shopping trip.”
The wooden sidewalk tilted like the deck of a boat. “I feel like our feet have been kicked out from under us. All our dreams. Please write to Matt. Maybe he can find out where our money is. It must be somewhere. How can a bank close like that?”
Jesse shoved the envelope into his pocket. “Guess we'll have to work for our dreams, like we planned.”
“I have the money I brought from Michigan, almost four dollars. Do you think it will be enough for a room?”
“Keep your purse closed. I'll take care of it.”
They crossed a vacant lot and climbed up on the next section of sidewalk. “Hey, here's a doctor.”
Could this day get any worse? Susannah planted her feet. “No.”
“Don't be stubborn.”
“We can't afford this.”
“I can't afford to lose you.” Jesse tightened his grip and steered her into the empty waiting room. “Hello!” he hollered.
“Out on a call.” Susannah bolted for the door. Jesse blocked her escape.
From the back room came a cough, followed by a cadaverous man with sunken eyes and a sallow complexion. “Homesteaders, I presume.”
“I'm Jesse Mason and this is my wife, Susannah. Are you the doctor?”
“Only one in town. You look healthier than the usual dullards around here. What's the problem?”
“Susannah had a miscarriage this winterâ”
The doctor interrupted. “Lost a lot of blood, almost died. It was her first pregnancy, and you want to know if you'll ever get any children out of her.” He tipped his head back to peer at her through his spectacles. “Needs to gain weight. Silence!” He pinched her wrist in his clammy fingertips and timed her pulse with his pocket watch. With a grunt he dropped her wrist and addressed her for the first time. “Take a seat, Mrs. Mason. Mr. Mason, come with me.”
The door to the back room shut in her face. Susannah removed her hat and pressed her ear to the wall. The plaster was paper-thin, and she could hear every word.
“Shouldn't my wifeâ” Jesse began.
“This isn't a matter for mixed company. Sit down. Women like your wife are totally unsuited for the homesteading life, Mr. Mason, and certainly too frail to bear children. How many did her mother have? Probably died giving birth. You'd best ship her back where she came from and try again with another woman, this time with bigger bones.”
A chair scraped. “No.”
“Sit down. Don't get hysterical on me. There are some fine organizations in the States looking for homes for orphans. You may be able to adopt some older children to help around the farm, keep your wife alive.”
A drawer screeched and, after an interval of coughing, he continued. “Now, about your manly needs. I assume you have been abstaining since the incident. You may certainly continue to do so and be nominated for sainthood. But there are other options. There is some objection to dissemination of this information, but since you're determined to continue this marriage and endanger the life of this woman, I feel an obligation to advise you. This information is confidential. You will not tell anyone where you learned of it.”
He cleared his throat and went on, speaking quickly. “First, spilling the seed, leaving before the gospel. Requires optimal timing and self-control. Some object to this based on an obscure passage in the Old Testament. Second, rhythm. Women are most fertile just before they bleed. You'll need a calendar. Third, sponge, size of a green walnut. Fourth, douche. You've got vinegar out in your hovel. Tell her to use it. Fifth, French letter. You were a soldier, so you're already familiar with these. Here's a package to get you started. Stop by whenever you're in town and I'll sell you some more. That will be one dollar.”
He coughed again. “None of these methods is entirely reliable. Should an unfortunate accident occur, bring her into town. I'll do what I can. No guarantees.”
Two chairs scraped the floor. Susannah tiptoed to the window and pretended to study the hotel down the street. The doctor frowned at her. She glared back, hiding her fists in the folds of her skirt.
“That will be all, Mr. Mason.”
Without speaking, Jesse escorted Susannah toward the Sherman House.
When they were out of earshot of the office, he turned to look at her. “You heard?”
“Every word.”
“That's a relief. I was afraid I'd have to explain it, and I didn't understand half what he said.”
Susannah bristled. Had she ever been so angry? “How dare he speak to us that way! We should have changed clothes. He thinks we're ignorant country yokels he can push around. My father treated animals with more dignity. Where did he go to medical school, anyway? Did he have a certificate on the wall? Jesse?”
Jesse appeared to be inspecting the leaves overhead. The last rays of sun outlined his heaving Adam's apple. “No children. He said we can't have any children.” He pulled her to his chest, tipping her hat back and wetting the top of her head with his tears.
“What does he know?”
“He knew you were an only child. Maybe your pa slept in his office becauseâ”
“No, my parents just didn't get along. Mother never mentioned any difficulty giving birth.”
“He knew I'd been a soldier.”
“You and every other man your age. He can make lucky guesses. That doesn't make him a good doctor. He can't even cure his own cough. Come on, let's go have twelve children and outlive the fool by fifty years.”
Jesse blinked. “Twelve children?”
“Not all at once, of course.” Susannah dried his face with her handkerchief. “Unless you're going to ship me back.”
“Never!” He tightened his hold.
Her anger boiled dry, bringing other emotions to the surface. “In my head, I know men and women all over the world do it,” she whispered, “but in my heart, what we do together is special, private, even holy. Is it blasphemous to say that? The way that sawbones talked made it seem so vile.”
“He was pretty crude. Probably an army doctor.” Jesse pulled the package from his pocket. “Should we give this a try?”
“Jesse Mason, put that away! If someone saw you, who knows what they'd think!” A furious blush heated her face. She glanced around. The stable yard was empty. “Let's go to the hotel.”
“What a day.” He started toward the entrance, then turned to her. His palm cupped her cheek, holding her as if she were made of glass. “Tell me again,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
All right, Lord, as long as Susannah's
by my side, I don't mind.
W
atch it,” Ivar warned as Jesse shinned from the wagon onto the roof of Fourth Siding's shed.
“I built it. Guess I know how to stand on it.” He balanced on the peak and squinted off to the north.
“Any sign of life?” Susannah stood, more to relieve her sore backside than from hope of seeing anyone. If Jesse ever did get some money, she hoped he would spend it on a buckboard.
Fourth Siding's population remained unchanged since her arrival nine months ago, but the early spring prairie grass held a hopefulness, the promise of good to come.
“They're northeast about half a mile.” Jesse swung back into the wagon and Ivar headed the oxen away from the tracks.
Last Sunday Jesse had read aloud the winter's accumulation of newspapers. The
Fargo Express
reported the birth of twins on February 28 to an Irish-American couple at Fourth Siding. At Marta's insistence, the Volds and Masons were attempting to find the family today. As they bounced over the prairie, the Norwegian woman wrapped one arm around Sara and the other around an iron kettle.
A strip of plowed ground gave the first indication of the homestead. The wagon almost ran over the house, dug into a draw.
“Where's their dog?” Susannah asked. “And their cow?”
“Hello the house!”
The door opened a crack, revealing an ancient muzzleloader and two dark eyes.
