Where the Broken Heart Still Beats (17 page)

Cynthia Ann was silent. What could she possibly say to these white women that they could begin to understand?

Lucy would understand, but Lucy was far away, almost as impossibly far away as the People. Sadly Cynthia Ann acknowledged to herself that she might never see any of them again. But at least she had Prairie Flower, and someday Prairie Flower would return to the People.

A year has gone by since I came back from Uncle Silas's, and a difficult year it has been for us all. Weeks pass in which we hear from no one and struggle along here in isolation, but yesterday Grandfather returned from Fort Worth bringing three letters. What an occasion! One was from Papa, from which we learned that he is now serving in Virginia. He claims that he is well and sends love to all of us. It was good to have the sight of his handwriting, but how much better it would be to have sight of
him.

A second letter was from Jedediah, which Martha carried off to read alone. This is the first she has heard from him in nearly two months, and she has been quite beside herself with worry. He was sorely wounded, he writes, and his left leg had to be amputated at the knee. He has been lying in a hospital somewhere in Tennessee, out of his head with fever, but he is mending now and expects to be sent home to us soon. Martha cried and cried when she read about his wound, but now she is grateful to learn that he is alive and will be returning. Ben says that they will make a good pair, he with one arm, Jed with one leg.

The third letter came from Orlena O'Quinn, Cynthia Ann's sister in Van Zandt County. She writes that Cynthia Ann decided to leave Silas's place because of problems with his wife, Mary, and has been living with her and her husband, Ruff O'Quinn, at Slater's Creek since last September. Actually she had little to say about Cynthia Ann. Most of the letter is about Prairie Flower, who has captivated everyone. She says that a couple named Cates drives over from Ben Wheeler every Sunday afternoon to take Prairie Flower visiting with them around the countryside.

Orlena says they are rather well-to-do—Mr. Cates owns a salt mine—and they have provided the little girl with lovely clothes. This in itself is amazing considering that most of us here are ragged and making do with patches, and now patches on top of patches, a result of that Northern blockade. Grandfather believes that both Mr. O'Quinn and Mr. Cates are wealthy enough to have paid men to take their places in the army and are content to stay at home and let others fight in their stead. (Grandfather says it costs dearly to do so.) Much as we miss him, I am more proud than ever of Papa.

Prairie Flower "speaks beautifully," Orlena writes, which means, I suppose, that she has learned English well. I am certain that Cynthia Ann is unhappy about this because I know she was trying to teach the little girl her Indian tongue so that she would never forget her Comanche people.

Poor Cynthia Ann! I do still miss her, although I suppose it is for the best that she is safe with her sister, rather than sharing our dangers. There have been so many Indian raids that we have been advised to fort up, to band together and erect a stockade to protect ourselves. The Bigelows, who have been living in Jed and Martha's cabin, have been afraid to try to rebuild their burned-out home. Now that Jed is coming back, I imagine they will soon make other arrangements.

Every time there is a report of another raid, of more homes and fields destroyed, more horses stolen, I wonder: Is it Quanah? Is he the leader of these savage bands?

I worry about this because my brother Ben has sworn a solemn oath that although he was not fit to be a soldier, he can still be an Indian fighter, and he will not rest until he has rid the frontier of the Comanche leader. I fear that the leader he intends to kill is Cynthia Ann's son.

"I don't know what ails her," Mrs. Cates said worriedly, untying Prairie Flower's bonnet. "She was fine while we were at my sister's, but just now when we were on our way to the Nelsons' she complained of a headache and said her stomach hurt. I thought she was just tired, but now I'm not sure."

Prairie Flower gazed up at her mother with eyes bright with fever. "I take her," Cynthia Ann said and picked her up. The little girl, normally so quick and energetic, sagged into her mother's arms.

"I sick," she whispered and laid her face close to her mother's neck. Cynthia Ann could feel the heat of her skin. She carried her to the buffalo robe in the corner of the cabin. Soon the child was asleep, but it was not her usual calm, peaceful sleep. She tossed restlessly.

Cynthia Ann stayed awake all night, bathing Prairie Flower's feverish face with cool water and trying to get her to take sips of a tea that Orlena brewed. She would waken for brief periods and then drift off to sleep again.

The days passed in a blur for Cynthia Ann. She never left her child's side, dozing fitfully herself on the buffalo robe, always alert when Prairie Flower made the slightest movement.

The days turned into weeks, which slipped by one after the other. Cynthia Ann knew that a week had passed when Mr. and Mrs. Cates came and sat with her beside Prairie Flower's bed. Twice they brought a doctor who examined the sick child and shook his head. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, "but there's nothing I can do."

Several times, a preacher stopped by, and the family knelt in a circle around the little girl, praying for an end to her illness. Cynthia Ann merely stared past them at her daughter.

The nights lengthened. Winter came. The child grew weaker, racked with fever and chills, tormented by a cough that gave her no rest. Her breathing became more ragged.

If she dies,
Cynthia Ann told herself,
then I die too; I have no more reason to live.

Late one night Cynthia Ann, exhausted, drifted into a restless doze. She awoke with a start. The small body next to hers lay still, at peace.

Cynthia Ann's wail pierced the gloomy silence of the cabin. In an instant, Orlena and Ruff were beside her. "Dead," she said, feeling as though her chest might explode with the pain.

Of course they would not listen to her, how it should be done. They refused her pleas to let her prepare the body properly, in the way of the People: her little knees tucked up against her chest, her eyes sealed with clay, and the body then wrapped in a blanket. Instead they dressed Prairie Flower in one of her new dresses, made from one of Amelia Cates's silk taffeta gowns, and laid her small body in a wooden box. Mr. and Mrs. Cates drove Cynthia Ann and the box with the body of Prairie Flower to a small cemetery near Ben Wheeler, Orlena and Ruff O'Quinn followed in their wagon. Silas met them there; one of Ruff's slaves had ridden over to tell them what had happened, and Silas came alone. He approached Cynthia Ann apologetically.

"Mary sends her sympathy," he said gruffly. "But she couldn't come. She's not been well since the baby was born, I'm sorry to say."

Cynthia Ann turned away.

They should have taken the wooden box to a cave or a natural crevice among the rocks and left it there. Instead, they dug a hole in the ground, lowered the box into the hole, and shoveled dirt on top of it. And they insisted that the preacher had to come along and read from that Bible and say all those things over the small, wasted body that meant nothing. Nothing at all.

Why is it that every good thing that happens always comes mixed with something bad?

Papa returned from the war last week, so thin his tattered uniform hung on him like a rag on a stick. We are all very happy to have him home again in one piece, but I did not recognize him at first; the war has aged him so. He was accompanied by a man from Van Zandt County who served with him, Mr. George Shipley. Mr. Shipley is a friend of Orlena O'Quinn, Cynthia Ann's sister, and he brought with him tragic news: Prairie Flower is dead.

At first I could not stop crying, although Mama and Grandfather and the others try to comfort me, saying it is God's will and all for the best. This may be true, but I know that Cynthia Ann must be inconsolable. We all felt so sad, even Mama, who has not wasted any affection on Prairie Flower or her mother.

According to Mr. Shipley, Cynthia Ann was better off with Orlena and Ruff than she had been with Mary and Silas, and Prairie Flower was loved by all. But last fall Prairie Flower took sick, and despite the efforts of everyone, she died in December.

When he saw how I grieved, Mr. Shipley took the time to talk to me and to give me details that he had learned from his sister. It seems his sister is the same Mrs. Cates that Orlena mentioned in her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Cates had become quite attached to Prairie Flower and they were as saddened by the child's death as they might have been by the death of one of their own.

"How is Cynthia Ann?" I asked. "Has she accepted this cruel blow?"

He shook his head. "It was as though she had lost her senses," he said. "My sister said she wailed and keened until they couldn't stand to hear it anymore. She smeared her face with soot from the chimney and hacked off her hair. She cut her arms until they bled so much that she fainted. Orlena hid the knives and scissors, but that did not stop her from using sharp stones. It went on for days like that, they said, and then for weeks. She wouldn't speak the child's name. She couldn't bear to be anyplace that the child had been. She burned the toys Prairie Flower loved to play with, even the ragged little doll you made for her, Lucy."

I could hardly speak. "Where is she now?" I whispered.

"Ruff O'Quinn finally suggested that she go to stay at a sawmill he owns about twenty-five miles from his farm. There's a little cabin on the property, and nobody around to bother her. They thought it would give her time to get over this."

"And she's there now? All alone?"

Mr. Shipley nodded. "Once a week Mr. Cates or Mr. O'Quinn goes down to visit her and make sure she has what she needs. I don't think there's anything more anyone can do."

When I trusted myself to speak, I told Mr. Shipley about my conversations with Cynthia Ann, and how I had helped her find our language again and even to learn to read and write a few words. Then I confided to him my "promiss" that she would someday be reunited with her son Quanah.

He smiled at me, a kindly smile. "That was quite a promise," he said. "You make promises that are hard to keep. Quanah is a dangerous fellow. They say he's joined the Quahadas, probably the fiercest of the Comanche bands."

"But she was his mother," I insisted. "He would never have harmed her!"

"It's not his mother I was thinking about," Mr. Shipley replied.

Mr. Shipley remained here for several days, but yesterday he left to return to his family in Ben Wheeler. (He is a widower whose wife died while he was serving with the cavalry, and his children are staying with his brother and sister-in-law.) He made it a point to speak to me privately before he left.

"You were a good friend to her when she needed a friend, Lucy. Maybe her only friend, the only one to listen to her. Life often takes away from us the thing we love best, and if we're lucky, we get something to take its place. I think your grandfather and everyone else meant well by bringing Cynthia Ann and Prairie Flower here. But they weren't meant to be among us. We—I mean all of us white people—took away her life as a Comanche, but what we had to offer her instead was not what she wanted. Or maybe she just didn't know
how
to want it. But you understood, Lucy."

I thanked George Shipley for that. It was helpful to me, and I was frankly sorry to see him go, although he has invited me to come to visit Mr. and Mrs. Cates to learn more about Prairie Flower's last days and to visit Cynthia Ann. Perhaps she will talk to me, and I can reassure her that I have not forgotten my "promiss."

I told him that I would, as soon as it becomes easier to travel. Promises get harder and harder to keep as we struggle here simply to survive this dreadful war. We seem in no great danger from the Blue Coats, but raids from the north by the Indians are increasing and shortages are worsening.

The worst privation, from my point of view, is that we have no paper. This little journal is nearly filled, although I have been taking care that every page has been used to the utmost, and as it is impossible for me to obtain another. The fate of the Parker family will no longer be recorded by me.

Dear Lucy,

I am sorry that circumstances have prevented your visit here, for now I must write the sad news that your cousin, Cynthia Ann Parker, passed from this earth Saturday a week ago. Our neighbors Joe and Bob Pagitt made her a decent coffin, and Mrs. Pagitt, who was so fond of little Tecks Ann, saw that she was decently prepared for burial. I went with them to the Foster Cemetery, some distance to the south of here, and we laid her to rest. The doctor says it was "la grippe," others say she starved herself to death. It is my belief that she died of a broken heart. A pity you never got to see her, for I am certain a visit of yours would have helped her. I am told she spoke kindly of you.

Forgive this poor writing paper, it was all I had. Conditions are no better here than in the past, and we can only pray for the end. My warmest regards to your family. I hope that your father is once again enjoying civilian life.

Yours sincerely,
George Shipley

Helping to go through the effects of my late grandfather, Isaac D. Parker, who died one week ago today at the age of ninety, I found the journal to which this note is hereby attached. It is the journal I kept during my girlhood, in a book given to me on my twelfth birthday, June 8, 1860, until the pages were filled the summer of 1864. During those difficult years of the War between the States, this journal was at times my only friend and confidante, and as I reread those pages I am once again moved to tears at the hardships we endured. We being my grandfather, my parents, my brothers and sisters, and most especially my cousin, Cynthia Ann Parker, whose life is chronicled in those pages.