Spring for Susannah (29 page)

The next morning, while Jesse slept, Susannah went out to see what she could do for the stock. The chickens seemed content, lethargic even, from feasting on the grasshoppers, but the oxen snorted their agitation.

A bobbing mass of insects clogged the creek. Susannah found a couple of tree branches broken from the weight of the infestation and anchored the ends in the mud on either bank, crossing them in the middle to form a dam. The insects piled up against the sticks, and on the downstream side patches of open water appeared, allowing the oxen to drink.

When she returned to the soddy, she opened the door to find Jesse sitting at the table staring at the kerosene lamp. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past two days. New wrinkles cut a path down the side of his face.

Susannah slid onto the trunk next to him and stroked his back with slow, even pressure, as if he were a wounded animal. “Did you sleep at all?”

Jesse picked up the leather drawstring purse at his elbow and tossed it across the table. It landed with a soft clink on the back page of the
Fargo Express
, the listing of current prices. Penciled calculations covered the newspaper's margins.

“Thought I'd have smooth sailing once I gave up drinking. Thought I could support a wife and children. Thought I was working hard enough, praying hard enough.” He reached for the Bible, opening to a place bookmarked by his ledger. “‘But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.'”

He slammed the book shut and hit the table with his palm. “I want to take care of my family. What am I doing wrong?”

Susannah clutched her arms against a sudden chill. She had never seen Jesse so beaten down. “Didn't you tell me God would provide? Where's the verse about how He clothes the lilies and feeds the birds?”

“In the same chapter telling us to give alms. But I can't provide for you, much less help the poor. Maybe our Promised Land is somewhere else. Maybe we should do a Prodigal Son, go back to New York, see if my brother-in-law needs a hired hand.” He ground his forehead into his fist. “I'm getting too old to start over. Nothing to show for all these years of hard work.”

Susannah clenched her hands. If only she had money. “What about selling the calves? Or the chickens? Maybe Matt's found my inheritance.”

He wasn't listening. “I'll go to Fargo, see if I can pick up enough work to get us through the winter.”

“Fargo? But the animals—”

He pushed past her, almost knocking over the table. “You know more about them than I do.”

“Wait. You're leaving me?”

“I don't have a choice. If it's just me, I can sleep in a barn, not pay for a hotel room. You stay here and keep the homestead going, keep the claim jumpers out. Not that anyone'd want this place—”

“There must be another way. Perhaps Mr. McFadgen—”

“I'll write every week, send you all the money I can.” He stomped around the soddy, stuffing pants and shirts into his knapsack. “I'll be back soon as I earn enough to get us through.”

“What about trapping?”

“I won't let you starve.” He reached for her, pulling her to his shoulder. “I'll leave Jake and the shotgun. You'll be all right.”

Overnight the wind picked up, taking the grasshoppers with it. The destruction reminded Susannah of Mathew Brady's photographs of the South after the War. No leaf, no plant in the garden had escaped. Not a stalk of wheat or oats remained. Flat clouds covered the sky like a granite slab over a grave.

On their ride to town, Susannah held back from telling Jesse how much she'd miss him. She wouldn't admit how worried she was, wouldn't ask what they'd do if he didn't find work.

Jesse didn't speak until they arrived at the Volds'. “Something's wrong. No smoke from the stovepipe and the oxen aren't picketed.”

“Marta? Ivar?” Swarms of flies covered the house, as thick as yesterday's grasshoppers. Ignoring Jesse's warning about disease, Susannah jumped from the wagon and yanked open the door. Just as quickly she shut it, gasping for fresh air. Mastering her stomach and swatting flies, she stepped over the threshold. “Hello?” She threaded her way past a full chamber pot and bucket and a dead animal that on closer inspection turned out to be a pile of used diapers.

“Ja,”
Ivar answered from the bed. “We half been up all night. Spoiled sausage. New people north of the tracks bring it. Marta and Sara sleep just now.” Ivar nodded at the baby curled between him and his wife. “How is it you happen to come?”

“We're on our way to Worthington.” Susannah touched his forehead. Cool. “Shall I ask Jesse to order grain for you too?”

Ivar groaned. “The grasshoppers.
Ja
, I need grain.”

She found Jesse watering Ivar's oxen. As she had at their own homestead, she built a brush dam upstream to filter the creek of dead grasshoppers.

“Susannah, you're too smart for this life.” Jesse nodded toward the soddy. “How are they?”

“It's been a rough night.” She filled a bucket with the water, coffee brown from grasshopper excrement. “They're dehydrated, weak. I should stay, make sure they get back on their feet.”

For a moment he climbed out of his pain, his hazel eyes studying hers. “Don't catch it. I won't be here to take care of you.”

“It's not contagious. It was bad meat.” Susannah laid her palm on his cheek, its stubble testifying to Jesse's low spirits. “How can I bear a day apart from you?”

A hint of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Better to say good-bye here without Mrs. Rose looking on. I'll have one of the boys bring the wagon back.” He pulled her to his chest with painful fierceness. “I promise you. It won't be our animals and furniture getting auctioned off, us getting driven into Fargo, begging on the streets. I won't let it.”

She watched until the wagon disappeared over the rise. “Hurry home.”

The last load of diapers flapped on the clothesline, and Ivar and Marta sat at the table sipping ginger tea, when the wagon rattled into the draw. Susannah tucked the clean sheets around the mattress and went out to meet it. The wagon was empty.

“Bye!”

A hundred yards away a boy, one of the Roses, leaped like a jackrabbit through the big bluestem toward the north. Susannah stretched to peer into the wagon box. Empty. The wind crackled a paper rolled up in the rifle scabbard. She flattened the brown scrap and held the pencil-scribbled words to the sunlight.

Mac says carpenters needed over to Jamestown. —J.M.

She had allowed herself to hope that Jesse wouldn't have to go, that somehow God would come through for them. And now that hope shattered in her chest and pierced her heart.

The wind swirled a dust devil across the empty field. A killdeer crested the hill on its toothpick legs, then flapped away with a plaintive call. She dried a tear she didn't remember crying.

Ivar staggered from the soddy and propped himself on the box of the wagon. “Where is Jesse?”

Susannah focused on the smoke from the stovepipe vanishing into the overcast. She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Gone to Jamestown. To look for work.”

“Grasshoppers. We won't be able to send money to Norway this year. My brother was hoping to emigrate.” Ivar launched into Norwegian, a stream of words Susannah didn't understand but knew Marta would have disapproved of. The man raged on, trying to wall off his distress with fury. Finally he ran out of steam and switched back to English. “There's work in Jamestown?”

“He hopes.”

Ivar kicked at the dirt. “He ever tell you how he came to Dakota? His little sister married and he decided he wasn't needed at home. So he hopped the train west. Didn't come to his senses until he hit Chicago.”

“Sometimes he thinks he's still fighting the War,” she said.

Ivar nodded, grim. “That's why so many of us drink.”

Alcohol. Something else to worry about. If only she'd brought a dowry, something more than four dollars. If only—

No. Jesse had told her to stop taking the blame for everything. She didn't know who to blame for the grasshoppers, but they weren't her fault.

The sun teased the horizon. This was no time to dissolve into a puddle. Jesse was counting on her. Susannah stomped over to the clothesline and yanked down the laundry. “I'd best be going. Keep Sara on ginger tea for tonight. Sweeten it with honey or white sugar but not brown.”

Ivar followed her to the end of the clothesline. “You cannot go back to Jesse's by yourself. You must stay here.”

“And learn to swear in Norwegian?” Susannah shoved the stack of diapers at him. Much as she liked the Volds, she had no intention of squeezing in with them. She needed time alone, time to cry and scream and, if possible, think. “I'll bring in your oxen.”

“I'm sorry about swearing.” Ivar balanced the diapers. “You cannot go. Is not safe for a woman alone. We make room for you.”

Susannah jerked up the picket pins and herded Ivar's team to the creek. “I've got cattle, chickens, and a dog to care for.”

“You charmed the moccasins off Sees-the-Tatanka, but maybe you not so lucky with the next Indian. What if he doesn't know French? Or won't let you talk before scalping you?”

She stopped at the clear space below her makeshift dam. “Jesse took his Winchester but left me the shotgun.”

Ivar watched her shovel out the area upstream. “What's this?” He tapped his boot against the branches.

“I tried it on our creek. The water may not taste better, but at least you don't have to chew it.”

He watched a few minutes before turning back to the soddy. “Go back to Jesse's, then. You don't need my help.”

When she came in sight of the homestead, Jake appeared and joined Susannah on the wagon seat. She put her arm around the dog's neck. “I'm glad of your company.”

The oxen slowed to a stop by the shed. “All right, show me how to unhitch the team,” she said to Jake. The dog just grinned at her and panted. “I see. You'd rather sit up here and watch me make mistakes. Sure, you've got the best seat in the house.”

Susannah climbed down and unfastened the bows. With a grunt she lifted the yoke, found it too heavy, and returned it to its position. She changed her grip, lugged it over the back of one animal and the horns of the other, and eased the weight onto her shoulder. She stepped into something slippery and her feet shot out from under her. She landed hard. The yoke whacked her ear and thudded onto her shoulder. The world darkened and spun.

“Darn it! Now
I'm
swearing.” Susannah rubbed her sore head. “Jesse,” she yelled at the setting sun, “you get back here right now! I came out here to marry a safe, dependable farmer, not an itinerant carpenter. This is not fair! You can't leave just as I find I can't live without you.”

Despite her best efforts, the tears came. “I can't do this by myself. God, I need help!”