The Last Letter (23 page)

Ruthie stood and Jeanie rested her hands on the sewing in her lap then rubbed her belly as another contraction pulled. “I suppose you’re right,” Jeanie said. “I’ve been so busy with everything, the fire, rebuilding, I don’t have the time to muse about the state of my unborn. But you’re right.”

Ruthie glanced away from Jeanie’s gaze then found it again. “Could I feel the baby?” Ruthie reached toward Jeanie’s belly but pulled her hand back as though about to touch hot metal. She nearly tripped backward. “I’m sorry. That was ill-mannered to say the least.”

Jeanie leaned forward and reached for Ruthie’s hand. “No, it’s fine. I hadn’t realized how little I thought about this baby. How long it’s been since I spoke of him or her.” Jeanie pulled Ruthie’s hand to her belly. “I haven’t felt the baby move yet, but he’s in there, I know that. My shape has gone to jelly faster than with the other pregnancies.”

“I know how hard it’s been for you. With the lost children, and your father,” Ruthie said.

Jeanie stiffened. Ruthie pulled her hand back and rocked back on her heels, staring at Jeanie.

“It’s hard for us women here on the prairie,” Ruthie said. “Don’t be angry at Frank for telling us. Well, he told Lutie who told me. I’m afraid she’s as loose with her lips as she is with her thoughts and her…well, Lutie is Lutie, but this time, she was right in telling me. This way we can help you. You’re better off me knowing the difficulties you’ve suffered than you are Lutie. Lutie can be, well, she can be Lutie, which is to say—”

“Oh, I think the picture of Lutie is quite clear,” Jeanie said.

Jeanie jammed her needle through the material, tearing it back up, her pace choppier than before. “But, I’m afraid there’s not much to say about the past. Hard as it might be, it’s exactly that, past. And I’m not about to linger in thought or deed because things didn’t progress as I’d expected back in Des Moines.”

Ruthie stalked back to the stove where she stirred the pot, her back to Jeanie. Jeanie stopped stitching, slouched with a sigh and in the distance between them, she felt grateful for Ruthie. She’d obviously come that day to help because she recognized something in Frank that no one else did. As much as it embarrassed Jeanie that her family failures were known to anyone on the prairie—the place she’d hoped to be able to fully ignore the past—she felt comfort in knowing someone else cared. That she’d met this wonderful woman.

“Thank you Ruthie.”

Ruthie didn’t turn from the stew. “You’re welcome.”

Jeanie settled into her sewing again, satisfied with her new friendship. Ruthie turned and stared at Jeanie, still stirring the pot. Even in the poor light Jeanie could see Ruthie’s eyes glisten with rising tears. She pushed a trickle from one eye away, and the other dripped onto the collar of her dress.

“Are you crying?” Jeanie said.

Ruthie turned away and shook her head.

“Good, because there’s no room for tears on the prairie, in life, anywhere. So let today be the last of the tears for you and me.” And with that, Jeanie rose from her chair, gave Ruthie a quick hug from behind then ordered her to set the table.

Dinner was pleasant with Ruthie and Lutie filling the evening with enough storytelling for ten times the number of people as themselves. Really, it was Lutie telling stories with Ruthie correcting nearly every word and detail, but the interaction allowed Jeanie the opportunity to sit quietly, eating, savoring the moment with her children.

James attempted several times to include what he’d learned about weather indications from Templeton, but Lutie stamped over his yarns with hers and Frank never stepped in to make room for James’s thoughts. James, always respectful, kept his silence, but Jeanie didn’t miss his intermittent, uncharacteristic eye rolls and crooked, sarcastic smiles as Lutie blathered about nothing.

Even realizing it was probably just James’s verging on adolescent chemistry—still on the side of boyhood—that allowed him to put aside Lutie’s charms, Jeanie hoped somehow this meant James would be immune to surface trappings. Perhaps one day he’d meet someone like Ruthie, whose beauty was trapped inside her—someone not stunning on the outside, but clearly sturdy and capable.

Katherine and Tommy sat on either side of Jeanie, gobbling their stew and cakes before rambling off to play atop the dugout. Frank had James feed and water the horses and head to the well for more while the adults savored coffee in the sun which was not yet low enough to classify as setting, but low enough that the burn of midday was gone.

The Moores helped clean up the dishes and for a moment Jeanie felt like a wealthy woman—the one she’d been before the fall of her family in Des Moines. Soon after that, Ruthie and Lutie mounted their horses and bolted into the horizon for home. Lutie’s laughter rang over the plain as her hair bounced behind her.

It was not quite dark when Frank pulled back the bed covers and fell onto the bedstead for what looked to be the night.

“Frank. Could you check on the children? They can’t wander about the prairie with the sun setting. You know once it hits a certain point, the light goes from adequate to gone in seconds.” Jeanie stood with her hands on her hips, her body tense with anxiety, resentment that she had to remind Frank of these facts.

“Ah they’re fine. What
I
want is one of our good old-fashioned discussions about life and love and dreams.” Frank looked up from his recline, eyes nearly closed, his face slack—still looking like him but not exactly. And for a moment, seeing him like that, a flash of her father hit her—his face when he would be in the middle of his opiate high. But that would be impossible. For Frank knew what opium did to people, even the ones who weren’t the eaters, and though Jeanie admitted more readily than ever to Frank’s shortcomings, she knew he would never betray her with the very drug of her father’s undoing.

“Frank. This is hardly the time or place for the building of air castles.”

Frank leaned up on his elbow and extended his hand to Jeanie.

“You
used
to fully appreciate my dreams. I think an air castle or two would suit you at this point in time. We’ve had a hard time of it and I’ve decided that raising sheep, selling the fleece, having the yarn for you to make clothing and—”

“I think prairie fever has sapped your brains,” Jeanie said. She slung the words hoping they stung him in his numbed state.

“Don’t you think that’d be fantastic? To have that type of business to tend?”

“You want my advice about sheep-raising in this part of the state? This land is too flat, where it is not bottom land it is only gentle undulations and you know sheep are very subject to foot-rot—so in wet seasons they would be in great danger on land of this kind which is not sufficiently drained. So, no. Tending sheep would be foolhardy.”

Frank stared at Jeanie, his jaw slack, eyes lifeless. Jeanie knew she’d hurt him and in doing so she didn’t feel the satisfaction she’d thought she would. She felt lethal, as rotten as he was lazy. Frank must have felt it too, and like she’d fatally wounded him, his eyes closed with the sound of air rushing in and out of his tight windpipes scratchy and loud, telling Jeanie he’d gone from hurt to asleep.

She finally headed out to corral the children. She wished she had an answer for what was happening between Frank and her. She’d felt this confusion before, but in Des Moines, she’d always occupied herself with a project or writing or the house, and in time, the angst between her and Frank would right itself.

Now, she kept wondering what it would be like if Frank were gone. But, there was no room for her to entertain the notion of leaving Frank. Or to entertain his shortcomings for she had to live with them no matter what. Yet there they were, her misgivings.

She was becoming surer that none of the work she did would infuse Frank with what was now missing from his soul—its color, its life, ambition. What was there now, on his good days, appeared full of plans and life and goodness, but it was mere covering for the pit that lay underneath.

These dark brooding moods never led to tangible progress. They yielded only trouble. Frank’s energy was absorbed by thoughts alone with nothing left for solid action of any value. Yet there he was in Jeanie’s life forever. She tried to envision their relationship as a mansion with many rooms and doors.

If their marriage was the entirety of the home, she could cordon off segments of who they were, shutting doors, enclosing his weaknesses inside so that the integrity of the house wasn’t compromised, but nothing was left out, either. She could keep everything, good and bad and only open a particular door when necessary. She was strong enough for that, she was sure.

It was early September, two months since the fire and the point when the Darlington Township cooperative redefined its goals and responsibilities. Jeanie had become comfortable with her role on the prairie (not be confused with her
liking
her role on the prairie), with the way her family fit into its landscape, that almost without thought, she allowed James to go his way in the morning—to Templeton’s, and Tommy to go his—to the Moore’s, Hunt’s, or Zurchenkos as each day determined.

That day Katherine would stay with Jeanie, learning the trades of womanhood. For Jeanie, that meant the obvious tasks—housekeeping and sewing, but she also charged each child with study of some sort. Even on the days Ruthie was not available to teach, the Arthurs were required to learn. Whether it was reading classic literature or studying the way the planets aligned above them, or the playing of an instrument, each child was charged with some aspect of learning.

On this particular day, Jeanie saw Frank off to Templeton’s with James. The group had decided that storing the wood at Templeton’s would ensure its safety. What they really meant was they felt more comfortable with Frank having to report somewhere to hold up his end of the cooperative as it didn’t take long for the conglomeration of people to realize Frank needed to be held accountable by outside measures. Even the doughy Mr. Hunt could manage his end of the bargain (whatever odds and ends needed to be managed with an extra set of willing hands) without anyone having to prod or suggest he take to his work.

Frank had gone willingly about his work at Templeton’s for two weeks before injuring his thumb. It was true that an infection flamed his nail with crimson pussy drainage. And it took two trips to Yankton to see a doctor to clear things up, but Jeanie couldn’t help being impatient with the injury.

She felt a mixture of relief and sadness that other people noticed Frank’s inclination toward air castles rather than solid objects, but boy when he finished a piece of furniture for someone, they swooned and soon forgot Frank’s habits. He was that good when he did the work.

There wasn’t a furniture maker in the land—machine or human who could top Frank’s work. If only he’d had the gumption and follow-through of Jeanie, they’d have fewer worries. But when Jeanie stopped to consider the state of their lives, she nearly flew with joy that there were people in the world—the neighbors—that saw Frank’s goodness amidst his unreliability and that they were there to help.

With everyone in his useful position that day, Jeanie felt particularly cheerful. She’d finally found some gratitude in the fact that she’d only pulled one trunk of fabric out of the dugout the day of the fire—that only one had perished. It was her favorite cache—the burned fabric—but still the fabric in the other trunk, wasn’t terrible.

She’d completed two sets of shirts for each man of Darlington Township as well as one pair of wool nether-garments for each. For Ruthie, she’d sewn a tasteful gown in the richest, green wool she had. It actually was a mix of greens, but so subtle, that unless you were standing within inches of it, the material just appeared a captivating, tree-green.

For Greta, Jeanie needed to use extra material to allow for her height. Though, not needing to allow for decorative but useless crinoline, Jeanie didn’t need to double the material used on the dress. So, Jeanie parted with one of her favorite bolts of materials—the red wool that, back in Des Moines, the use of it would take on the look of material that sat in the sun and grew tired and not suitable for city dress. But on the prairie, the mellow red looked appropriate and as though it might have sprung from the earth itself.