Spring for Susannah (28 page)
The Norwegian grunted.
Sees-the-Tatanka picked up the Bible and noted its similarity to the one “Black Gown” read. Jesse launched into a discussion of the differences between Catholics and Protestants.
Susannah stopped him. “Mademoiselle didn't cover theological terminology. I don't know the French words for sacrament, pope, saints, or half the other things you said. And I'm not sure he's interested.”
The Indian's eyes had glazed over, but he brightened as Jesse reached for the guitar.
“All right then, interpret âJesus Loves Me.'”
This was the first English hymn Ivar and Marta had learned. All four voices joined in, with percussion provided by Sara's clapping.
Sees-the-Tatanka leaned back on one elbow, grinning. When they finished, he cried,
“Encore! Encore!”
By the third time, the Indian added his bass to the chorus. Lifting his head on the final note, he blurted in French, “If I don't get home before the new moon, my wife will have me sleeping with the dogs.” He bounded up the hill, his voice echoing off the riverbanks: “The Bible tells me so.”
Susannah collapsed against Marta. “At least he left without our scalps.”
“Seemed like a regular fellow.” Jesse corked his canteen.
“Regular fellow? Where were you in '62 when his kind massacred hundreds in Minnesota?”
“Another massacre. Antietam.”
Ivar grunted, then grabbed his daughter as she tried to crawl away. “The extra sandwichâdid you know we'd half a guest today?”
“No. He ate Susannah's.” Jesse finally turned from the northern horizon where Sees-the-Tatanka disappeared. “Come on, Sacajawea, let's go home and get some food in you.”
Ivar frowned. “Yes. I want to check my stock.”
Jesse led the way out of the valley. “If we had the orphanage letter ready, Sees-the-Tatanka could have taken it to town for us. That'd ruffle Mrs. Rose's feathers, an Indian in her store. Give her something to cackle about. Well, better he skirts town. Mac's trapped with Indians, so he's all right. But some of the boys in the section house subscribe to Sheridan's notion: The only good Indian'sâ”
“Could we please stop a minute? My knees are knocking.” Susannah fanned herself with her handkerchief. “I guess once a coward, always a coward.”
“Coward? Who?”
“Me. I was terrified.” She leaned against Jesse.
He gripped her shoulders, dropping his head low to look her in the eye. “With the newspapers screaming âMassacre!' âScalping!' every other column, only a fool wouldn't be afraid. Susannah, you're no fool and you're no coward.” He hugged her. “Think back to your French class, the girl who sat in front of you.”
“Marie Goodman.”
“Ah yes, baker's daughter, clotheshorse. What would Mademoiselle Marie say to Sees-the-Tatanka?”
“She'd run. And scream.”
“And get her two dozen petticoats caught in the underbrush.” Jesse held her hand as they crossed the ridge. “And what about the girl behind you?”
“Elizabeth Van Meter. She would have the vapors. She actually did faint once, when a bee flew into the classroom.”
“And the girl between Marie and Elizabeth?”
“Susannah Underhill. She wouldn't have said a thing.”
Jesse lifted an eyebrow. “Do I need to preach a second sermon today?”
Hey, I could use that army of angels about now . . .
S
usannah watched her husband cross the partially cut field, vaulting piles of mown oats. Jesse drew energy from the wind, boundless, unpredictable, vigorous energy. His vitality nourished her, strengthened her, opened her to accept his love.
Love. It still amazed her that he thought she was worth loving. And if he loved her, maybe God could love her too.
Jesse tucked his work gloves into his waistband and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. She loved his hands: strong, masculine hands, with dark hair curling over the backs. She liked the angle of his knuckles, the way his palm curved when he held a tool, the sureness in his fingers when he played guitar. And especially, she liked his touch. In his hands she felt treasured, valued.
He removed his hat, letting the breeze dry the sweat from his head. The sun showed the deep lines etched by the War, sculpting a face more interesting than handsome, a face to study for the rest of her life.
His warm smile of greeting froze. He leaned on the long handle of the cradle, studying the cumulus-flecked sky.
“What's wrong?” Susannah set the lunch basket and canteen at the end of the row.
“The air smells funny. I'd say we're in for a storm.”
“Maybe that's why the chickens were so noisy this morning.” Susannah settled onto the grass and opened the lunch basket. “Hope it holds off a few hours so I can work on the garden. The beans, carrots, and cucumbers are ready for picking.”
“You know that's not what we need to talk about.” Jesse folded his long legs, bringing his face level with Susannah's.
She met his intense gaze. “Can't we try again? I'm strong enough to carry two buckets from the spring to the house without stopping. I've gained so much weight, I've had to let out my waistbands.”
“So to keep you healthy, we're not even going to consider it.” He made a circular motion with his sandwich, tallying the drooping heads of grain. Every morning a brief thunderstorm heralded the dawn, keeping the fields well watered. “Even with the drop in prices, the oats alone will bring in enough for the house lumber. We'll buy the barn lumber and a team with the wheat. If we write to the orphanages now, we can have a family before winter. Think of it, Susannah, children around the house for Christmas. Some little girl who's never opened a gift or a boy who's never gotten an orange in his stocking. Maybe a brother and sister. We'll have room.”
“Could we get a little one, a playmate for Sara?”
“A little one with an older brother or sister.” Jesse uncorked the canteen, washing the dust from his face with a palmful of water. He squinted over Susannah's head, cocking his head toward an unheard sound.
“We can't take an older child. Not until there's a school.”
“Plenty of people, most not half as smart as you, teach their own children. Besides, the Roses have a flock of kids and so does that new family north of the tracks. We'll be getting a teacher soon enough.”
All the color drained from his face. He didn't breathe for several moments, then his voice came out in a hoarse cry. “Oh perdition! No! Not again!”
The day dimmed with unnatural suddenness, swifter than the darkening of an impending storm. Susannah looked up, expecting to see an eclipse. A huge black insect flew past her face. She swatted it. One landed on her shoulder, another on her arm. Revulsion shuddered down her spine.
“Get the laundry! I'll get the stock!” Jesse shoved the lunch basket at her. “Susannah, now!”
Grasshoppers whirled across the sky, filling the air with their shrill roar.
“The oats?”
“Too late!” Cradle swinging from his shoulder, Jesse sprinted for the stable.
A curtain of black-winged insects dropped over her, clinging to her clothes, tangling in her hair. A scream rose in her throat.
Grasshoppers hit her face, beating, clawing, scratching. She couldn't see through the mass of insects. She had to move, get the laundry, get inside. She took a step. Their bodies crunched beneath her shoes. Others crawled up her legs. She swatted, gently at first, not wanting their crushed bodies on hers, then harder, not caring, just wanting the biting, scratching, and crawling to stop.
Susannah fought her way down into the draw. She gave up trying not to step on the hoppers; they left no part of the ground uncovered. Crawling bodies blackened the laundry, too, and clung to the fabric as she gathered it. She shook them off and stumbled into the soddy, slamming the door and collapsing onto the stool.
The crackling and chewing followed her inside. “Not in my house!” She yanked on work gloves, opened one of the stove lids, and began chasing grasshoppers. Shirts, drawers, sheets, and rags were laced with holes and noxious bugs. Something pinched her leg. She shook her skirts, searching through each petticoat. One screeched in her ear. She raked her fingers down her scalp, unraveling her braid, ripping hair from her head. “Ow! You evil monsters! Go away!”
Grasshoppers hit the window and roof like hail and marched in under the door. “Screaming doesn't help. Calm down. Think. Mrs. Child recommends turpentine, but we don't have any. Spearmint repels ants, and marigold works for potato beetles. What works on grasshoppers?” Susannah snatched the saltshaker from the shelf and sprinkled the doorsill. They kept coming. She tried pepper, but they were not impressed. Kerosene was far too risky. But what about . . .
Jake and Jesse arrived in a stampede of insects, knocking Susannah backward as they scrambled through the door.
Jesse sniffed and made a face. “What's going on?”
“Ellen's perfume seems to be repelling the grasshoppers.”
He collapsed sideways onto the bed. “We'll have the best-smelling hoppers in the territory,” he mumbled.
The dog shook, scattering insects throughout the room. Susannah raced to capture the invaders. “How long will this last?”
“Until they've eaten everything.” His words tolled heavy with finality.
“Everything?” The garden? The herbs from the seeds Ellen sent? The flowers?
“Yes, everything.” Jesse covered his eyes with his forearm. He sounded hollow, defeated. “How much food do we have left?”
Susannah checked the shelves. “The brine barrel is a quarter full. We have a pound of bacon, one can of peaches, a half pound of coffee beans, almost two pounds of cornmeal, and nearly five pounds of flour. Hey, they're eating through the flour sack! Into the fire with you. The root cellar is pretty empty, just some dried plums.” Of course provisions ran low right before harvest. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I'll set fires tonight, but it won't help. Might as well try to fence the wind.”
At dawn, Susannah armored herself in her husband's canvas pants, belted with rope and tucked into socks. She pushed her gloves into her sleeves and pinned on a hat with a veil. With a prayer for courage, she stepped into Dakota's version of the Inferno. Despite smoldering piles in every field, the grasshopper population seemed as great as ever. The chirr from millions of chomping jaws and beating wings continued like the noise of a demonic machine. Jesse, his face black with smoke and despair, stood at the edge of what had been his wheat field. His posture sagged; only his clothes and the rake held him upright. Susannah's steps crunched on insect bodies. “Jesse? Are you all right?”
A tremor ran through him. “The field will have to be burned next spring to kill off the eggs. Or planted late, after they hatch.”
“We can do that.” She slid her palm under his elbow to steady him. “This smell has turned my stomach, but I'll fix breakfast for you. Would you like your grasshoppers poached, fried, or on toast?”
He pulled away. “Susannah, there's nothing funny about this. We're out of food, out of money, and there's no railroad jobs like in '72.”
She retreated a step. “Mr. Rose will let you open an account. You're a good customer.”
His spine stiffened. “Once a man gets into debt, he never gets out. I've never owed anyone and don't intend to start now.”
“There's the egg money and what I brought with me. Maybe ten dollars.”
He didn't seem to hear her. “If I can find a buyer for the calves, I'll order grain from Fargo. Grasshoppers haven't hit there yet, so the price should still be low.” At last he looked up. “Where did you get that hat?”
“It's my mourning bonnet.”
“Funeral for our homestead.”
She took his hand. He didn't return her squeeze. “Come on. I'll fix you a bath and even scrub your back.”
