4
Jennie pondered Lucinda’s reluctance to face facts, not yet willing to face her own. Like most women with children in this state, Lucinda was dependent upon the man she married. Women were at the largess of fathers and brothers, husbands and sons, to take care of them. It had been the way of things since Adam and Eve. But when rum—or an injury or old age or the lust for gold—kept a man from doing his duty to his family, a woman might be left destitute, unable to pay for medicine for her children or suffering from infections of childbirth, still required to take in laundry, tailor clothes by candlelight, welcome boarders even if their presence interfered with daily life.
Children, too, Jennie thought, were engaged too early with household tasks and chores, forcing them to think their births were welcomed for the extra hands they’d someday bring to the tasks of living rather than the mere joy of their creation. Jennie’s parents had left no such thoughts to linger in their offspring’s minds: Jennie and her siblings were loved as they said God loved, loved before they knew those smiling faces, loved each of them already.
But the Lichtenthalers did not drink, so their minds and hearts were not impaired by liquored thinking. Jennie had never tasted brew, and she was certain Lucinda hadn’t either. But even she who sometimes missed the meanings of glances or subtle words, even she could see that Joseph Sloan had a problem. Her usually clear-headed sister could not.
Both Charles and Joseph arrived home later than usual that evening. Charles’s tired hands shook at the washbasin as he prepared to clean up. They were in the bedroom and it was before supper.
“George came by today.” Jennie brought fresh water for the pitcher.
Charles wiped his face with the towel. “Where’s he been off to?”
“Here and there. We spoke more of a task I put to him.”
“And that is?” Charles spoke through a towel drying his face.
“He’s going to build me a distillery so I can make my own oils and ointments. I can stop having them ordered. It’ll save us money and—”
“A still, you say. I wonder what your father might think of that.”
“Papa? Why should he say anything. It’s for my plants. I’ll be able to use them more freely and know when they’re harvested and have purer oils. I can treat people more effectively. And I can set aside the money so one day—” Jennie took a breath. “So one day we can have our own home. I think we’d have more peace then, the three of us. Don’t you?”
Charles looked at her in the mirror over the washstand. A more handsome man did not exist in the territory. Clear, lake-blue eyes like jewels in a sculpted crown. A dark mustache, cheekbones like a rock edge, full lips that, when warm against her throat, caused her limbs to shiver. “Who do you want to treat?”
“The cuts and bruises of children. Coughs and colds. Spider bites. Remember how that basil soothed your wasp sting? I think you fell in love with me that day.”
He smiled. Is a side of his face droopier . . . ? Jennie continued, “Some plants bring on breast milk for babies, and others, like periwinkle, can help headaches. I’d combine what I know of oils and herbs and offer more healing ointments that way.” She hesitated. Moving forward required risk. “Some oils cleanse the liver, for those who consume too many spirits, maybe even calm the hunger that takes a man to drink.”
His lake-blue eyes narrowed.
Her heart beat faster. “It’s Joseph I’m worried about. And your prisoners.”
Charles wiped his beardless face, holding her green eyes in the mirror as he tossed the towel aside. “Keep a man from drink, you say.”
“It’s possible. I’d like to try.”
He turned around to face her, his shoulders lifted, hands at his hips, elbows pointing left and right. He was physically strong, a necessity for managing prisoners. For the first time, Jennie noticed the beginnings of a belly peering over his duck pants waistband. “What does George think it would take to make the still?”
He’s going to have a serious conversation with me! “Brass tubing or rubber, a large crock to catch the oils, another for the waste. A place to heat the plants. Ideally, I’ll grow my own.”
“You’ll need a drying shed of some kind if you do that.”
“Yes. That’s right.” Joy bubbled up. Could this be something she and her husband would share? Charles did deserve to live outside the shadow of his boss. “And a smaller hut where I can build a fire and distill my lavender and rosemary and all the others. Could you . . . would you help build it?”
“And when not in use, such a still would find itself suitable use for corn or barley.”
“There’s no healing from corn. Barley eases stomachaches. Oh . . .”
“So you say. I’ll have to thank your dear brother when the time is right.”
“It’s for herbs, healing plants.” Jennie held her fingertips to her lips, her hands as though in prayer. “I want to sell them. I’ll need to keep them pure. We couldn’t contaminate the distillery with—”
“If it has other uses, we’d be fools not to take advantage.”
“But he’s making it for me.” Her heart plunged like a butter churn, thumping faster.
“I am still the head of the household. You’ll do as I say.”
Her capacity to anticipate and keep discipline over her tongue took flight. “No. Sloan is the head of this household and he has a liquor problem and I won’t let my still feed that.”
With one stride Charles reached her, grabbed her arms, shook her, his breath hot against her face. Are those spirits on his breath? “In this room, I am the head of my family. In this house, in this town, in this land, I am the head of you.”
He tossed her back with such force, she hit the side of the oak dresser. It felt as though a mule had struck. She gasped but did not cry out. A broken rib. He’d never been such a volcano, now twice in one week? What was she doing to him? And then the flash of Einsicht: it was liquor driving this wedge between them, not anything she had done.
“Supper must be ready. I’ll tell Lucinda you’ll be down shortly.”
“You say.” He sat on the chair and reached for a copy of the National Police Gazette, scanning its pages that held lurid stories of crimes, criminals, and arrests.
He’d say she stumbled and she had. She’d been as blind as Lucinda. But she could see now, though physical pain cut down what she could do with her improved vision.
“What on earth happened?” Lucinda tugged the strips of cloth around Jennie’s ribs.
She thought about tightening her corset so her sister need not know, but her wincing would alert her sister. It was after supper, and Joseph and Charles had left, saying there was a required meeting back at the prison. Discoloration spread across Jennie’s side.
“You’re becoming clumsy of late. First that split lip and now this.”
Lucinda deserved the truth. “It was Charles. I disagreed with him.”
Lucinda pulled back, her hands still on the bandages. Jennie smelled wild onion on her breath. Her voice held softness. “It’s not a woman’s place to challenge her husband. I’d think you’d know that.”
“Oh, Lucinda. Mama and Papa disagreed about things, but Papa never laid a hand on Mama. Not ever. And I’d wager our brothers never put a finger of harm against their wives either.”
“Charles is very patient with you. We all are.”
“I know . . . I’m slow about some things. But I don’t think anyone deserves to be struck, not even a child needing discipline. And I’m no child.” Jennie stopped Lucinda’s hand, held it. “He’d been drinking, Lucinda. My husband had liquor on his breath.”
“Nonsense. The men don’t do that.” She pulled away.
“Lucinda. Joseph drinks too.”
“Have you seen him? No. He works hard. He drinks sarsaparilla. A beer now and then when the water gets contaminated, but not hard liquor. He told me so. It’s one of the worries at that place, keeping water available for the men, preventing people who visit from bringing in liquor and”—she lowered her voice—“cocaine. But no, he doesn’t drink. And I don’t believe Charles does either. You upset him. And then you stumbled. That’s all.”
How did one disagree with someone so certain, a perspective filtered by her love for her husband but one that put blinders on her eyes? Or perhaps Lucinda couldn’t see a way out if she acknowledged what was true. But Jennie could. If they had their own home, Charles would be all right. This new behavior—and Jennie was certain it was new—could be pruned. What would thrive would be a flourishing family. She’d show Lucinda how things could change and then maybe her sister could face facts.
Charles didn’t come home that night, returning after work the next day, eyes cast down, contrite. They ate a quiet supper and later, in their bedroom with Dougie playing outside with his slingshot, sunset yet to come, Charles said, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”
“Where did you and Joseph stay the night?”
“The barn.” She hadn’t heard them out there. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Jennie. It’s like I’ve got a volcano inside and I never know when it’s going to explode. I take the liquor, I do.” He hung his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “It calms me, kills the headaches. But then, I don’t seem to have a way to take just enough. I thirst for more and then there’s no more calm.”
“Would you try black currant seeds? It could help your thirst.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He lay down on the bed then, his hand over his brow. “I can’t remember things I used to. I keep thinking someone’s behind me when they’re not. Crazy thinking. So I take a snort, and for a while, I’m sharp again. And I tell myself I won’t repeat that. Never do it again. Not lash out at you. Not rough up a prisoner. Not tip liquor to my lips. But then I do.”
“We have nothing to lose by trying the black currant. I’ve read of its use.”
“You’ve found books about that?”
“George loaned me a tome on oriental medicine.”
“Take you years to read through one, wouldn’t it.” His words stung, and she wondered if he felt deceived by marrying a woman not always quick in her thoughts. But she didn’t apologize. What was, was. She’d make room for a cure of currants.
Building the drying shed became a family affair like the raising of a barn. Joseph had approved the structure; George and her father pounded nails instead of pegs. DW and William and their families came by to work, and even Charles helped set the ridge beam. Her sisters-in-law and Lucinda baked fresh bread, and Jennie found herself singing as she brought out trays of cold ham, venison, and cheeses to the table set beneath the pines. These people, her family, did this for her. Charles likely only wanted access to the still, but she hoped he’d see her family’s contribution to this effort as legitimizing her plan, a goal that would help them leave one day to find their own home, build a drying shed on their property.
How easily she slipped back into fanciful thinking.
Children and dogs rushed around the builders. Jennie’s mother brought peach pies and cobblers, and Jennie’s brother William and his wife and children carried pails of cream the women whipped to top the desserts. They couldn’t stay long, as their cows needed milking twice a day. It wasn’t exactly a barn raising but similar, with its satisfying outcome.
Jennie treasured the frame structure that had a fireplace at one end and lengths of rope so she could attach lavender or belladonna from the rafters. She’d be careful with the latter as it contained poison; but used correctly, it could help a new mother with painful breastfeeding or a child’s ear infections or even relieve boils. For drying roots, her brothers built shelves with little troughs so air could circulate around them but keep the tubers from rolling off onto the swept dirt floor. Now they awaited the arrival of the distillery.
George brought the contraption out on a fine August afternoon, shiny and complete. He’d alerted her father and William, who stood ready to help. Her garden flourished, and before long Jennie would be harvesting pumpkins and beans. And from the herb quarter, lavender and violet. This Willamette Valley soil allowed nearly anything to grow. She could almost plant pennies and harvest dollars.
The distillery would lodge at the far end of the drying shed.
It was a Saturday and Charles had been splitting wood for winter’s use. He’d struck the axe into a log round before entering, sweat beaded on the dark hair of his forearms. “It probably could have used a separate building. Joseph and I talked about that, just haven’t gotten it put up yet.”
Jennie had heard nothing of these discussions.
“We built the drying shed large enough to house the distillery,” George countered.
“Well, things change, don’t they? Just unload it here for now. I’ll assemble it later. No need to trouble yourself further, Brother.” He leaned against the center column of the shed, arms crossed.
George looked at Jennie and shrugged. “My work here is finished then. Until you complete yours, Charley. I’ll come back and set it up. Do you have a sassafras, Sister? Let’s let the man to his work.”
“I’m sure Joseph and I can manage the distillery. But you’ve done a fine job with it. Many thanks.” Charles slapped George on the back.
George stiffened.
“I’d like it set up now. In the shed.” Jennie made herself sound firm. “Later, when you’ve had time to build a separate structure, we could move it but it’s here now. It has a place. It was built for this.”
Her father chimed in. “It won’t take long to set up, Charley.”
George patted the container like it was a friendly horse. He signaled Jennie’s father and William to help him lift the tubes and glass onto the metal shelf he’d set into the fireplace. “It’s too bad we don’t have one of Bunsen’s burning devices,” he grunted. “Much more efficient.”
Jennie moved closer to her husband, who stood with hands on his hips, chastened by her family’s listening to her request instead of his. “They want to help,” she said. “And it would be good to see if it works while George is here so he can fix it if needed.” Dougie leaned against her knees and she pointed for him to watch what the men were doing. “They aren’t trying to defy you,” she told her husband quietly.
“You say.”
Charles spun around then and headed toward the house, the shadow of the tree leaves like stripes across his back. Dougie broke from her hold and trotted after his father. She was torn between the happiness of her idea moving forward, her family’s loving support, and an ache for choosing that over soothing her husband, watching her son seek after him. She was selfish and yet felt affirmed that what she did, she did for Charles and Dougie too.
She watched the installation, the distillery’s twists and curls of tubing were a metaphor for her life. Even the essencier, the part that separated the treasured oils from the waste, reflected her efforts to sort out what mattered from the unessential that could tangle up her days.