8
New Year’s, 1867. A fat doe on porcelain legs stared at her as Jennie headed toward the quiet of the drying shed where the distillery had continued to do its work. It darted away as she opened the door. She began to think of “last times.” The “last time” she’d bring in wood to Lucinda’s home. The “last time” she’d distill rosemary in this drying shed. The last time I’ll be in the room where baby Ariyah died. Going back in memory moved her forward, helped her say good-bye.
Lucinda and Joseph seemed to know that change was in the wind. The men came home each day from work without any evidence of spirits, the tension that had once urged her to seek another place to live had dissipated like steam. If anything, they all laughed more and told stories. The men stopping sharing horrible things their prisoners had done, relating instead funny incidents featuring the cook or one of the delivery drivers. Charles even acted out a few scenarios. The children giggled, even little sober-faced Dougie. Maybe they didn’t have to move after all? Why was it that once a decision had been made, hesitation came to call. Perhaps it was the mind’s reluctance to make a major change.
February came with rain and spits of snow and wind. They’d set March as moving month, but the roof still needed repairs. Charles had worked on it, at least that was where he said he’d been. They lay in the bedroom curled beneath the down comforter. Charles whispered, the lantern flickering with the draft.
“I’ve found someone to give me a stake.” His blue eyes looked black in the lamplight.
“Who?”
“It came to me. Like a bolt of lightning. On Christmas Day. I’ll ask the Reverend.”
Her mind tangled. “Reverend?”
“Reverend Parrish, your father’s friend. He gave land for the Willamette University and he’s helping fund it. And a few days ago, the Weekly Enterprise reported that his wife donated ten acres to the Oregon Children’s Aid Society, and last week that she gave another ten acres to the future orphan home. They are land-rich people, those Parrishes. And generous.”
“I doubt poor pastors and part-time Indian agents have much to call their own. My father certainly doesn’t.”
“You say. Parrish’s wife does, then. Did, until she gave away twenty acres like that.” He snapped his fingers. “They had to have been here in 1850 when they could claim 320 acres, both husband and wife, and the woman got to keep the land in her name.” Jennie and Charles had married too late to take advantage of Oregon’s allowing women to receive government property in their own name. Her mother owned private land, but that didn’t mean she had cash on hand to loan to someone else.
“They may not have cash.”
“Look, Jennie.” He got up on one elbow. “Parrish has to have money he needs to invest. And I’m the perfect investment.” Charles kissed her nose as punctuation, laid back down.
“Not yet. I figured you should come along. He must be a bit of a bleeding heart, pastoring and all, plus working with Indians like he does. I’ve heard he’s a natural diplomat with those heathens.”
Jennie frowned at the word he’d chosen to refer to the bands of people displaced by all the settlers.
“And his wife giving away land for children’s causes, they’re both generous souls.” He folded his hands over his chest. “You can play on his emotional side. A young wife and mother, wanting to help her husband get a good start in life, move out from the malaise of doing public work in a prison, a man who wants to make it on his own. You’re living in a small house hardly habitable. But working through it for your husband. And your boy. Grieving the loss of a baby.” Jennie winced. “And her husband wants to make good for her too. I think it’s a stalwart plan.”
“You say.”
“But don’t wear your pearls.”
“It breaks my heart.” Lucinda put all her weight into the hot irons that smoothed the sheets, then folded them over her arm.
“Mine too.” Jennie took the linens and with quilts and other bedding, put them into the trunk Charles hauled down from the attic. They’d told the Sloans of their plans after the evening meal. Her nieces took it the best, asking if they could come and visit soon.
“Then why go if your heart is broken? Haven’t you been happy here? I apologize for being demanding at times.”
“You aren’t.” Jennie stopped and sat beside her. “I think it’s time we did things on our own, with Charles and I forming a family life outside of his work. Imagine what it would be like to have a supervisor all day and then come home and live in his house. I mean, if he did have a disagreement at the prison, he’d have to evaluate whether Joseph would be upset there and at home.”
“Joseph is very fair.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t. But—”
“Things have been so good here. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
Jennie held her tongue, didn’t share her pangs of worry over how their presence might have kept Lucinda’s own family pot from boiling over. “I won’t be that far away. We can still butcher hogs together and stitch and I’ll share my oils. You know that.”
Lucinda cried now, soft shakes of her shoulders.
Jennie put her arms around her and held her. “I’ll always be there for you and for the girls. I will. We will. It’s just that—”
“I’ve looked after you, Jennie. We’ve lived together our whole lives.”
“I guess we have.”
“You needed me.”
“I did. And now I need you in a new way. To wish me well as I take this next step for my family.”
“Who will discipline Dougie?”
Jennie kept her voice light. “I’ll have to, won’t I? And I will. That boy means the world to me and I wouldn’t do anything I thought would harm him. You’ve been a good teacher.”
“Will you be . . . safe with Charles?”
“Charles has apologized. And I should have been watching Dougie that day. I was distracted with the distillery. I’m as much to blame as Charles.”
Lucinda wiped at her eyes with the edge of her apron.
Jennie’s glasses had steamed up too with tears. “Let’s not go backward. We’re looking forward. It’s going to be all right. You and Joseph will be fine.”
“I’m not worried about us.” She stiffened, then stood. “Let me clean your eyeglass lenses. They’re cloudy as pea soup.”
They were settled in their new home by the first of March, the promise of spring like a fresh breeze pushed aside the web they’d been under for so long. Charles said their move would be good evidence for when they approached Reverend Parrish. He hadn’t let go of that plan. His attitude was one of energy. He built the drying shed and the Sloans helped move the distillery into it one day in April. Charles helped clear a plot for Jennie’s plants, shored up the lean-to, and led home a cow. He didn’t seem to mind walking to work. She’d never seen him this . . . engaged is the word she called it. She didn’t begrudge him an occasional time after work with Joseph, as he never came home with the scent of brew on his breath. It was the calmest period of their lives, an interlude reminding her of Divine gifts of uplifted spirits promising strength to draw on when the turmoil returns.
“I’ll care for him, Mama.”
“I’m not sure a porcupine baby is a good playmate, Dougie.”
He held the helpless thing in his tiny palm. Dougie had already named the little animal “Quilton,” a blend of quilt and quills, the latter soft as lamb, arched over Quilton’s small back. Jennie didn’t think Charles would approve, but he surprised her.
“He needs a pal. Sloans kept that dog of theirs, but it rarely got off the chain and never could be trusted to run with a boy. This’ll be good for Douglas.”
The day proved eventful for Jennie too.
“Today,” Charles said, “I’ve arranged for us to meet with Reverend Parrish.”
“But I’ve made soap and I’ve got to get a cage of some sort ready for the porcupine.” The May day wore flouncy clouds and waved warm air through the clothes she’d hung on the line. Square molds of soap covered the table in the drying shed, the scent of lavender strong.
Charles laughed and swung her around. “Put that little porcupine in a crate, comb Dougie’s hair, and plant a hat on your head and you’ll be fine. You don’t want to look too perfect. We’re appealing to his good nature, remember. And his wife’s.” He swatted at her behind. “Hurry up now.”
She did as bid, exchanged her drab wrapper for more festive hoops and skirts, dabbed rose water on her neck, then called to Dougie from the back porch. Charles held out clean pants for Dougie to put on.
“No. I want to stay here with Quilton.”
“We’ll get a sweet later. Come on for now. Papa says.”
“I learned today that his wife isn’t feeling well.” Charles said it as though he reported on the weather.
“Mrs. Parrish?” Jennie stopped dabbing a wet cloth on a stain on her skirt as Charles adjusted his son’s galluses over his small shoulders. “We shouldn’t intrude then, Charles. This isn’t a good time.”
“Best time is when people are vulnerable. We can’t delay. We need to dance while the music plays. More people are coming west and they’ll need land. I’m the one to sell it to them, but I have to own it first. Hurry along. They’re waiting for us.”
She didn’t like his comment about vulnerability, felt more uneasy about asking for money. She went out of obedience to her husband.