The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (26 page)

The revelation made me feel faint, and I would have crumpled had not a strong hand reached out to support me—Tom’s hand. I turned, to see Tom standing next to me, Luke behind him. Both had heard Missus’s words.

I looked to Luke to deny them, praying he would say something to make my belief groundless, but he would not meet my eyes. Instead, Luke muttered some excuse about accompanying Mr. Bondurant on an errand that would not wait. Not giving me a chance to protest, he went to the barn for Traveler and was off.

“Is she right?” I asked Tom when the two of us were alone.

“She is a gossip. You know she is up to no good. Goddamn her. It is not right at such a time!”

“If Missus knows, everyone does. You’ve been to Mingo a dozen times since then. You knew.”

“Mattie, it’s between you and Luke, and none of my business. Whatever Luke did, Mrs. Smith is right. He’s been punished beyond measure. He’s lost his son.”

“My son. I did nothing, but I lost my son, too, and my husband, as well.”

“No,” Tom said. “You didn’t lose him. He came back to you, didn’t he?”

“Came back! Came back!” I screamed. “My son is dead. I have no use for the one who is responsible for that. I don’t want Luke back. How could I? He should have gone with Persia. If he had, Johnnie would be alive.”

“You don’t know that. You will never know that. Luke needs you more than ever.”

“But I no longer need him.”

The words that flew out of my mouth stunned me, and I believe they did Tom, too, for instead of arguing, he led me into the house, ordering me to sit whilst he fixed tea.

“Do all in town know?” I asked.

Tom searched the shelf for the good tea. “There is not one in Mingo who thinks Luke other than a fool, for everyone admires you, not Mrs. Talmadge, myself most of all,” he said in way of reply.

When he had finished with the tea, Tom set a cup before me and sat down with his own. “A terrible thing has happened to you, Mattie, and I worry for fear it will destroy you, just the way this place destroys every woman of breeding who comes here. You must stand by Luke. He is all you have.”

But I do not have Luke. I have nothing. By betraying me and taking my most precious possession, my husband has destroyed all feeling I have for him.

Tom offered to stay until Luke returned, but, pleading my weary state, for I have not slept a night through since Johnnie took ill, I begged him to return to his homestead. Tom understood, and as I promised I would go directly to bed, he withdrew.

I cannot go to bed, however, because so many questions about Luke and Johnnie and Persia crowd into my mind. How could he marry me and take me to this place when it was Persia he loved? Why did Luke try to take my dear boy from his mother? Does he wish I had died with Sallie so that he and Persia and Johnnie could be together? I must have the answers. I tell all to my book to keep from falling asleep, for I intend to have it out with Luke before the day is ended.

It has been many hours since Luke left, and he is yet away. Perhaps he only pretended to accompany Mr. Bondurant home and in truth has left to join Persia. A moment ago, as I rose to wash the teacups, I put my hand upon the hot stove and did not feel the the heat until I smelled the flesh burn. Am I devoid of all feelings? Did all my love die with Johnnie?

March 20, 1868. Prairie Home.

I have slept for more than eighteen hours, a sleep harder than any I ever had. The clap of doom could not have opened my eyes. Yet, when I awakened, the events of the previous day were as clear in my mind as if they had happened only minutes before. Perhaps it would be better if I did not remember them so well. But I do not want to forget, so I confide all here.

Luke returned not long after I had set aside my journal, finding me seated at table, reading my Bible, which I had turned to in search of calm. He said as he entered the room that he was surprised to see me awake. I deserved rest after the many hours I had spent at Johnnie’s side, Husband declared with a solicitousness he has rarely shown toward me before.

“Do you truly believe I would sleep just yet?” I asked, not getting up, but closing the pages of the Holy Book.

Luke removed his coat and took his time hanging it on its peg. “I suppose not.”

“There is food on the stove if you are hungry. Our neighbors were very kind.” I did not offer to bring the food to him, however.

“No, I’m not hungry.” Luke shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if waiting for an invitation to join me. He appeared not to know how to proceed, wanting me to take the lead. “Shall I get a plate for you?” he asked at length, but I did not reply.

I had thought of nothing but Luke and Johnnie and Persia in the hours I had been alone. Still, I did not know how to proceed. So I was silent for some minutes before asking, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“There is a great deal to talk about, and I must know it all,” I replied hotly. “I have the right to question you, and you must answer truthfully.”

I thought Luke would disagree, for he will not be told what to do, but instead, he took his seat at table across from me and responded at once. I am sure that in the previous hours, he had given much thought to this interview and wanted it finished as quickly as possible. “I said there is nothing to talk about because it is done. I waited for Persia in Mingo. She wrote from Denver, where they had gone in February, that she intended to leave Mr. Talmadge. It was a poor match. She was returning to Fort Madison.”

“Was it your intention to go with her?”

“Affairs between Persia and me are done with, Mattie.” Luke’s face was drawn, and he looked much older.

“That is not the answer to my question.”

“I do not want to hurt you.”

“You are late in deciding that, for you have already done so.” I was surprised that I could speak with such force to one who had so recently been the center of my universe. “I want the truth, plain spoken, though it is painful to both of us.”

As he thought over my words, Luke got up from his chair and went to the stove, cutting himself a piece of johnnycake. With his back to me, he said in a rush of words, “Yes, I suppose I did plan to go with her. You don’t understand how close Persia and I were. It was thoughts of her that got me through my injuries at Shiloh. Ever since I was a boy, I’d planned to marry her. I never thought otherwise until I’d filed on the homestead and returned to Fort Madison. While I was away, Persia had turned into a belle and a flirt. She said mine was not the only offer of marriage she had received. There were a dozen others. She had not made up her mind which one to accept but knew one thing: The man she married must provide her with fine clothes and a brick house, not calico and a dirt shack on the prairie.”

Luke turned back to me, and I could tell by his face how much Persia’s words had hurt him, but his pain was as nothing to my own. “I did not understand then that Persia was teasing, that her answer was only part of the bargaining that takes place between man and woman. I believed it was final. I knew I needed a wife here, because I did not care to live alone. So when Abner confided his intention to propose to you, I considered you myself and found you to be suitable. Persia was always jealous of you—your wit, your cleverness. I suppose a part of it was to cause her pain.” Luke sat down again. “There, I’ve said it as plain as I can. I did not believe asking you to marry me was wrong, because I thought I would be a good husband.” Instead of eating the corn bread, he set it on the table and picked at the crumbs that fell from it.

“You married me for spite of Persia, then? You never cared for me?”

“That’s not altogether right.”

“What part of it is wrong?”

“I wouldn’t have married you if I hadn’t had some feelings for you. I did not misuse you.” Luke looked up from the crumbs. “It is not easy for me to say these things to you.”

I knew that to be true, for Luke dislikes speaking of his feelings, but I did not care. “Cry shame! Do you think it is easy for me to hear them?” In fact, I did not want to continue the conversation, but I knew I must have it all. “When did you determine to leave me for her?”

Luke shifted in his chair and looked about the room, his eyes stopping on Johnnie’s little bed before they returned to me. “We spoke of it when I was in Fort Madison, but I would not abandon you in your condition. I’m not altogether devoid of conscience, Mattie. I hope you will believe that. We talked of it in Denver, too, but Persia would have nothing of it then, for she was enjoying Mr. Talmadge’s money.”

“Did you commit adultery there?”

Luke did not reply to the question, but his face flushed and he looked away, and I had my answer. “You said to me once you wanted a house with a veranda here, where we could sit on a swing when we were old. I told Persia—”

“You told Persia!” I interrupted with a cry of anguish. With that fresh revelation, I slumped down in the chair, pulling my elbows tight against me, drawing inward. Luke had told Persia the things I had said to him in love. Had he told her my hopes and dreams, too? What else had he revealed to her—my headaches, my fear of storms, my weakness for bonnets? Had he confided how I had initiated the marriage act and that I liked it when he fitted himself to my back and put his hands on my breasts? I burned with the shame of it. Luke had betrayed not just my body but my soul, and the latter, I think, was worse.

I was silent while I collected myself, then forced myself to continue with the interrogation. “You have been corresponding with each other since the beginning, since our arrival here. It was the reason for your frequent trips to Mingo. You went for her letters.” These were not questions, but statements.

Luke nodded. “Persia wrote a few weeks ago, saying she had reconsidered, that she would desert Mr. Talmadge. He appears to be a kind man, but he is a cruel husband. It was my intention to leave with her, not for Fort Madison, but for Oregon or California. The homestead would be yours. I’d planned to put it in a letter to you.” Luke broke off a piece of the bread and chewed it, but his mouth was dry, and it took him a long time to swallow. He got up and poured himself a cup of the cold coffee that was left from morning and gulped it down.

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

“Persia refused to take Johnnie with us. She didn’t want him.”

“Not want Johnnie!” I could not believe my ears. How could Persia not want my precious little boy? I understood my husband far better than she, for I knew Luke loved Johnnie above all others, even Persia, and would never give him up.

“When she said it, I was glad.” Luke set down the cup and looked at me, his eyes glittering.

I stared at him without comprehension.

“Don’t you see? The scales fell from my eyes, and for the first time, I saw Persia as she is, foolish and vain, not fit to make a home here or to raise Johnnie or to overcome hardships without complaint, as you have. She is as shallow as the Platte. Why, it was as plain to me as anything, and plainer still that I didn’t love Persia. She was part of all that I chose to leave behind in Iowa. I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before. I had come to love you and did not even know it. When I realized that, I wanted to set out for home immediately and would have, but I couldn’t leave Persia alone in Mingo. The stage had been damaged on the road, so I was forced to wait until it was repaired and on its way.”

Luke set down the cup and came to me, standing by my side and looking down at me. “I was determined that things between us would be different. I have not been a good or affectionate husband, but I mean for that to change. You’ll see, Mattie. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? I love you, dear.”

For three years, I had waited for Luke to say those words, but they meant nothing to me. My heart was stony against him. Luke reached for my hand, but I drew it away. “It is too late,” I told him.

Now that all had been said, I felt a weariness so great that I did not know if I could take the few steps to the bed. As I rose, Luke put his arm about my waist and led me across the room. He helped me remove my dress and put on my nightgown. I do not know if he slept beside me last night, because I was asleep the instant I lay down, and when I awoke, he was gone, whether to the barn for chores or for good, I do not know. It does not matter.

March 29, 1868. Prairie Home.

Tom or Mr. Bondurant calls every day. I appreciate their attempts to cheer me, but I do not respond well. Tom says they fear I shall fall into melancholia over Johnnie’s death, and perhaps he is right. Luke has begun the spring plowing. I envy him his work. There is little for me to do except for cooking and washing, which are performed in a dreamlike state.

Sometimes I see Johnnie as plain as life and reach out for him, only to break into weeping with the realization he is gone forever. O, my poor boy!

I spend much time contemplating my future. If Luke had gone away with Persia, I should have returned to Fort Madison. All there would know I was a scorned woman. Still, I would have begun a new life among those who care for me. Society does not think much of a woman who has been deserted, but it is far less kind to a one who is herself the deserter. So I could not leave Luke, no matter the reason, for I should be an even greater embarrassment to family and friends. O, that Luke had come to his senses just a few weeks earlier! Johnnie would be alive, and we would be the happiest of families. I brood on how to repay the bitterness he has brought me.

April 7, 1868. Prairie Home.

Luke inquired whether I would attend Sabbath service on Sunday last, and upon reflection, I concluded it was a good idea, for I have not left our homestead in weeks, and I felt the companionship of others, along with the worship of God, would lift the spirits of both Husband and Self.

That was not to be, however, for the instant I arrived, I perceived all were watching us with curiosity, as Persia’s arrival and departure were common knowledge. A few, such as the lady homesteaders, of whom I am quite fond, showed heartfelt sympathy for my loss of Johnnie and were anxious to know if they could do something for me. Others, however, looked at me with less or more pity, which I cannot abide.