The Last Letter (28 page)

Ruthie’s voice startled Jeanie. “He stopped by as he always does, milked the cows, emptied the chamber pots, and accompanied me to the well for water and then without any warning at all, he just took to the bed.”

“I’m sorry, Ruthie. He should have gone home,” Jeanie was embarrassed by the supreme inconvenience of Frank, that it was now something the neighbors had to experience firsthand.

“Frank.” Jeanie shook him about the arms, squeezing his biceps. She looked around the room searching for evidence of what he’d been up to.

“What the devil are you doing sleeping like this? Like a… Blame-it, Frank Arthur.” Jeanie shook the mattress, trying to stir him. Suddenly, images of her own father slammed into her mind. She remembered his daytime naps. How she’d always stopped at his house to make him tea for when he was ready to rise. She leaned on the mattress mid-push, chest heaving for air as she put it all together.

It wasn’t until her father was dead that she realized what had caused his need to nap during the day. Opium. But Frank wasn’t that stupid. Mrs. Hunt might be a user, but certainly Frank knew better, he’d seen the damage such use could do to people and their families. She shoved his shoulder again, attempting to stir him. Nothing. Fueled by anger, Jeanie slammed the mattress one more time then tore around the room, opening drawers, trudging into the necessary, back to the kitchen, tossing bottles aside, searching for laudanum, opium seeds, Dover’s, anything that would explain his behavior.

Jeanie broke a bottle then finally realized she’d lost control, that she was humiliating herself. Falling apart in front of Ruthie and Lutie would only send out the scent of a wounded animal, a boon for predatory women like Lutie clearly was. Jeanie couldn’t believe she had tried to help her, given her the benefit of the doubt. And Frank. How could he?

She realized her anger was lost on him and rather than debase herself further she would leave him there like the slug he was. She stomped to the front door.

Frank’s voice, thin, limp, pained, came from behind Jeanie. She turned slowly. Frank stood in the doorway, gripping the door-jambs, his head lolling forward. His eyes were unfocused. “Jeanie? I just, I am, I’m…“

Jeanie stalked across the floor, hands balled at her sides, mind twisting around different tracks of thought. She wanted to rail on him, tell him she hated him, while another track was aware they were being watched, she couldn’t just fall into hysterics.

“I’m sorry…just sick. Can’t swallow. Need some laudanum.”

Jeanie clenched her jaw, stunned that he would breathe those words to her.

She slapped his shoulder so hard her hand stung. Then without even realizing what she was doing, she immediately slapped his cheek, causing his head to bounce over and up, his jaw moving in slow motion.

The noise echoed off the bare, wood walls. She drew back, covering her mouth with her stinging hand. She’d rarely raised her voice at anyone, certainly didn’t go about hitting people.

She whispered, her throat tightening around the words. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve turned me into a horrible woman. I’ll never forgive you.” Frank backed into the bedroom and closed the door on Jeanie’s face, quietly, but sending a signal that the feeling was shared.

Jeanie turned to see Ruthie wringing her apron, nearly tearing if from her waist. Jeanie avoided her gaze and felt the weight of her utter collapse of manners.

Jeanie drew deep breaths, staving off the anger that crushed her insides as she decided what sort of illness would cause her to take to her bed. No! What event would cause her to take to an unmarried man’s bed while her husband broke his backside to run their household? The only illness she could name was death itself. She plastered a mask of nonchalance on her face before meeting the gaze of the sisters.

“Well. I’m sorry for Frank’s taking to your bed. But I hope that’s the only impropriety happening here. I trust that Frank is not contemplating the nature of your beauty, Lutie.”

Lutie’s jaw dropped and her eyes narrowed.

“Why no. No, of course not.” She cowered back from Jeanie.

“Because I think I said before, and I want to emphasize, I won’t tolerate such things, I married that man and sloth-like or not, he is the head of our family and I will not—”

“I think we understand,” Ruthie said. She stuck her chin in the air a bit, sticking up for her sister. It’s not that there was any real proof of an affair, but something made Jeanie understand there was one. A feeling under one’s skin wouldn’t really suffice as reason enough to accuse a woman of sexually gratifying herself with another’s husband. But, she couldn’t stop herself.

Jeanie lifted her chin and looked down her nose, infusing her expression with all the snobbery that’d coursed through her blood since birth, the sneer that she’d checked and restrained since the first time her innocent wielding of smugness left a peer weeping in a heap. Jeanie never used her former position as a tool of derision and she was surprised at how easily she did it then. She left the Moore home having shamed Lutie so greatly that her sister grimaced with a sour look of anger on Lutie’s behalf. Jeanie understood. She would have probably done the same if she had a sister to defend.

Outside, her calm restored, Jeanie mounted Summer without so much as a fingertip lift from her children who were scattered, playing in the Moore’s vacuous garden. She took off for home without even looking back for them. What was she doing? What was happening to her? How could she have hit her husband?

Mentally, as hard as it was to know he wasn’t the man she’d married, not recognizing her own self was harder. How could she have reacted that way? What was next? Hitting her children? Would the Moores talk? Why did that matter? Talk or not, it didn’t change the fact she’d hit another human in a fit of anger she’d never felt before.

She tried to sort through the events she’d experienced. Was it just that Frank might be using opium or was there an affair? She couldn’t imagine that Lutie could look at Jeanie in the eye, so matter-of-fact if she were bedding Frank. Ruthie seemed more unsettled by the situation than Lutie was and perhaps that said it all. Knowing that Lutie could carry on with Jeanie as though simply borrowing her damask napkins instead of her lazy husband had clearly taken its toll on Ruthie.

At that thought Jeanie let a grunt into the prairie. Blinded by tears and groaning frustration, she beat across the naked land wondering how she could have agreed to come to the prairie. She’d had no choice. Her husband made the decision and she was duty-bound to live up to his decisions.

In addition, living naked—with her former society knowing the details of her economic and social downfall—in the town of Des Moines would have meant stark, shame. Unlike on the prairie where barrenness was the norm for all who lived there, Jeanie had not thought she could live with being the one to strip her children of all they knew while still living in the place they once had everything. But still, she should have known Frank’s weaknesses would be exploited in a place where nothing could be depended upon.

The land atop the dugout came into view. Jeanie clasped her chest with one hand. She was trapped. She had to find a way to live with her life as it was, not as she wanted it to be. She tried to call up the feelings she once had for Frank, the love that had been sparked by what at times was his goodness, his passion for her when he was in the mood to feel it. She wanted to pretend her life had not taken this turn it had into the home of the Lutie Moore.

And, as Summer trotted up to the stake where Jeanie would tie her, she knew that it was that original attachment to Frank—the nearly childish one that tethered their foolish hearts—
it
was the trust that wouldn’t allow her to push him away. Underneath all his shortcomings was a man with untouched strengths. No! She told herself to wise up, to grow up.

Oh my,
she thought. The prairie had ripped the shroud off that lie! She had to face facts. Frank was not the man she’d thought he was when they married, no matter what his talents and gifts. And living where every inch of the day was a struggle, where Jeanie couldn’t cover up his shortcomings, finally made that clear. Trouble was, no matter how inept Frank was, he was her husband, owner of everything hers, and she couldn’t live without him—socially or otherwise. It wasn’t done, wasn’t permitted, not really, not for a woman with children.

Jeanie dismounted Summer and patted her side as she surrendered and recommitted to her life and her plan to make it as she desired. She had no choice. She stared into the horizon, seeing her future as one with the prairie as much as the line of sky that met the earth was. She had no choice but to force herself back into love with Frank, to at the very least, search for the goodness that was once there in him. She’d make herself see it. She could do it. “If a woman is unhappy in her marriage, she has only herself to blame,” Jeanie said aloud. “If I want life to be a certain way, I have to make it so. I can do this. I can do this.”

“Jeanie?” Templeton’s voice came from below the dugout, startling her.

She dabbed at her sodden hairline with her sleeve then with shaking hands, smoothed back the tendrils that escaped her hat. Had he heard? Jeanie’s heart clenched then released leaving her lightheaded.

“Mr. Templeton?” Jeanie removed Summer’s bridle and put the feedbag to her face before refilling the trough with water. By then Templeton was behind her.

“It’s me,” Templeton said.

Jeanie turned.

“Well, yes, it is. Aren’t you early? You’re due from the rails in two days.”

Templeton removed his hat and looked down at it in his hands. “Yes, yes, well the opportunity presented itself and that’s not important. What’s important is that I’ve made it here with money in hand, and then I saw you lighting out over the plain and I thought, well, I overheard you, but, well, I know what’s polite in terms of society, but I, I just.”

“Spit it out, Templeton. I’ve come to agree with Greta that the prairie holds no sentiment for manners beyond the most basic.” Jeanie brushed Summer hard, using the action as a means for not having to look Templeton in the eye.

“Yes, yes, I suppose but it’s that I can’t discern whether this observation fits into that category of base or basic—”

“Out with it Templeton. I’m not in the mood for discretion,” Jeanie said. She knelt beside Summer and ran her hand down her leg, causing her to lift her hoof so she could dig the pebbles from her shoe. She only felt comfortable having something to do while they had this conversation. She wasn’t sure she could stand still, looking Templeton in the eye and discussing such matters. She stole a glance at him then couldn’t look away. She stopped brushing.

“I suppose I’m asking this to make sure you have what you need. That Frank’s able to…well, I’ve noticed that he sometimes… Now don’t look away, Jeanie. You deserve to have certain aspects of your marriage upheld, no matter the circumstances or where you hang your hat—in the bustling city or dead prairie—”

Jeanie felt the rest of her strength leave and had no choice but to balance with her hands on the ground, the dirt, under her nails. Templeton latched his forearms under her arms and lifted her to standing. He leaned her against the post and grabbed the brush from the ground and put it in its holder. Jeanie straightened and wiped her hands over her skirt.

“Templeton, if it’s our small purse or lack of production in the area of plowing or carpentry or, well, whatever may be at hand for Frank and what he can provide, let me put your mind to rest by saying if it were only wealth I wanted why I would prefer working for it myself than to be indebted to any man merely for financing.”

Templeton grabbed for Jeanie’s hand. She pulled it away.

“We get what we deserve, don’t we, really? And what use is money without love? I am sure it cannot be enjoyed. And, Frank and I love each other as though still poppy-minded fifteen-year-old lovers we were twelve years ago. Templeton, you do not know what a woman can do for the man she loves, nor do you know of the greatness and worth of her love.” Jeanie’s throat caught on her words. She stared at her feet. Templeton cleared his throat and began to speak, but Jeanie cut him off, meeting his hard gaze with hers.

“Frank is not like other men, I grant you. But he will find his path, his success and when he does, I’ll be standing there with him, basking in the fact we found it
our
way.” Jeanie didn’t believe one word she said, but for her, each utterance built an invisible wall between Templeton and that kept her from jumping into his arms, begging him to take her away, to hide them all from Frank and this awful land.

Templeton threw his hand into the air. “Stop talking.”

Jeanie glanced away then fell back into Templeton’s mesmerizing gaze. In that visual embrace, she felt a tide of emotion push through her, surprising her so much that it couldn’t be followed by anything but tears.

Clearly, Templeton hadn’t believed her speech. The thought that her loyalty was built of fine dirt that dissolved in the wind made her bury her face in her hands. She tried to suck back her sobs. When she couldn’t stop them, she shuddered and shook, wanting to curl up on the ground and be absorbed right into it, disappearing like the healthy crops had done. Where was the unexpected prairie fire to eat her alive, or the grasshoppers to munch her clean, taking her out of existence?

Bawling like a child, she felt released from tension that had gripped her for months. “I hit Frank, just now at the Moores, I’m falling apart, beating people. This is
not
who I am!” She felt Templeton’s arms around her as he pulled her into his chest. She could smell his clean shirt mixed with fresh perspiration as he smoothed the back of her hair like she would have done for someone who needed it. His fingers released her hair from her bun and she felt the length of it drop down her back. Templeton pulled it gently making her turn her face up to him.

Her hands moved from her face to his shirt, where she dug into it, kneading the cotton, she opened her eyes only enough to see his face lower onto hers, his eyes finding her soul, making her feel the way she had when she’d written sugary letters to Frank. His lips met hers. The soft kiss grew harder, as their bodies seemed to coax one another into perfect symmetry.