13
She told Ariyah that she and Charles were having marital discord and asked to be relieved of standing beside her as her matron of honor. How could she witness in public when her own marriage had disintegrated like a love letter left outside in the Willamette Valley rain?
“Oh, Jennie, I will miss having you there beside me. You’ll still sign as witness though? It’s a short ceremony.”
“I’d start crying and ruin things. This is your day.” Jennie hugged her friend, held her. “It needs to be filled with happiness.”
“Everyone cries at weddings.” The women wiped at damp eyes. “You’ll there, that’s what matters. And you’ll wear the dress, yes?”
Jennie nodded. After the wedding, she’d rework it and sell it to help pay off the debt.
Jennie and Douglas slipped into the ceremony on a September day, and she prayed for God’s blessing and a long life of love for Peleg and Ariyah, prayed for wisdom and answers.
Ariyah’s home was decorated with gladiolas and greens from the Parrish gardens. The Parrishes were there, among the happy attendees. Mrs. Parrish clung to her husband’s arm for support; she carried a cane. Her mustard-colored dress enhanced dark blue eyes that sparkled, promising a recovery. Jennie said as much to her and she smiled.
“I’m regaining my vigor in time for the rainy season to begin.” Her voice was breathy and close up Jennie could see by her eyes that she still suffered.
Mr. Parrish patted her hand laced through his. “She insisted we come. We take what we can get, right, Pet?”
His intimate name for her in this public place surprised Jennie and she could tell he hadn’t realized he’d said it. They had eyes only for each other and Jennie felt an ache inside for what she’d missed—would be missing.
“Where is Mr. Pickett today?”
“Here,” Dougie answered. He’d found the Parrishes in the crowd just as she had.
Mr. Parrish looked down at him, and with his arm not occupied with Mrs. Parrish, he reached out to shake Dougie’s hand. “So you are.”
Dougie beamed and moved his small paw up and down, as though he pumped the well handle.
“My mistake. We look forward to seeing you again soon at Mr. Chen’s kitchen, don’t we, Elizabeth?”
“Tell Mr. and Mrs. Parrish you’d like that.” Jennie urged his good behavior.
“Can we go tomorrow?” Dougie looked up to laughter as Jennie said, “Perhaps Monday might be more agreeable.”
She needed to see the Parrishes and tell them some of what had transpired, but there was still so much uncertainty. Did Charles intend making payments? Would he contribute to her support? Could she stop the proceedings of the divorce?
“Monday it is. I’ll have Chen bake extras.”
“It’s so good to see you out and about, Mrs. Parrish.”
“Elizabeth, please.”
A breathy voice. She wondered if she had a lung disease or was simply weak from having come through a demanding ailment.
“Elizabeth.” Jennie curtsied. Something about her demeanor invited respect. “We’ll come by midday on Monday.”
They both nodded, then Mr. Parrish walked his wife away. Jennie was grateful neither had commented on Charles’s absence.
Her father wasn’t so subtle. “Where’s Pickett? I hear he isn’t working at the prison anymore.”
“Hello, Daddy. He’s . . . occupied, with new ventures.”
“Is he now? And how are you doing, Dougie?” He lifted the boy into his arms, exaggerating the effort. “Won’t be long and I won’t be able to do this, you’re getting so big.”
“Don’t drop me.”
“Got a good grip on you. Soon, you’ll be carrying me.” He rubbed Dougie’s nose with his own. Dougie leaned his head into his grandfather’s neck.
“I can carry Quilton, but not you, Paw-Paw.”
“Quilton? Have I met Quilton?” He frowned. “Who is this Quilton fellow?”
“He’s a por-co-pine.”
“A porcupine. Well. Something innovative. Like father, like son, eh?” He winked at Jennie. “What does Quilton do with his quills?”
Douglas looked thoughtful as he held onto his grandfather’s neck, his small fingers gripping. “They sleep on him. He holds his bowl up for milk in the morning, doesn’t he, Mama?”
“He does do that. It’s the cutest thing to see.”
“I’ll stop by one day to gawk. Oh, there’s the bride signaling me.” He set Dougie down and Dougie hugged his legs before running off toward the table covered with food and where other short-pants-and-gallus-clad boys plucked away at Norwegian Omelettes. “I’ve got to make this marriage official.” He started away, then turned back. “You don’t look well, Jane. Eyes are puffy. Everything all right?”
“Fine, Daddy,” she lied. “All the gladiolas, I suspect.”
“Never knew them to bother you.”
“I’m getting older, more things irritate.”
“Getting older. You’re twenty-three. Still a child.” His eyes were filled with such compassion she nearly told him everything.
“Go do your duty.” She patted his shoulder.
“You have to sign as a witness. Come along.” He took her elbow, waved to Ariyah across the room that they were on their way.
It pleased her that her father knew her age, though that day she felt much older than twenty-three.
A narrow staircase that challenged women’s wire hoops led to Ariyah’s third-floor ballroom, where hired servers had already carried trays of sweet treats and apple punch up the stairs. No alcohol. Jennie let the music comfort, reluctant to end the day escaping from her uncertain world. When an unknown gentleman bowed before her asking for a dance, she knew it was time to leave. They never should have come up to the dance floor without an escort. Tongues would wag. She found Douglas as he pushed a bigger boy who pushed back. “Time to leave,” she said.
He sulked, and as they reached the staircase, he raced down and out the door before she’d barely settled her hoopskirts to whisper across the landing. A servant helped her with her cape taken from the coat closet, and Jennie caught up with her son, who was hiding behind a potted plant. She gripped his hand. “Let’s go home.”
He pulled.
“Maybe Papa’s back.” That calmed him and they marched in the early twilight, dodging oak leaves scattered on the path.
The evening laid its quilt on the shrubs they passed, muffling bird sounds, so only the click of their shoes broke the silence. In the yard, Jennie noticed that both buggies were gone, and she hoped Charles had taken them to sell. But that also meant he likely wasn’t home.
“Where is everything?” His little voice expressed surprise.
“I . . . I don’t know.” She scanned the room. No tables or chairs, no beds, no doughboy, no paintings, no mirror. A single oil lamp sat on the floor next to an open trunk where her clothes and Dougie’s spilled out. Quilton occupied his cage beside it. The rodent’s toenails scratched as he pulled himself up on the tin slats and made a plaintive cry.
Douglas stomped toward Quilton’s cage, took the animal out, and stroked the quills.
“You made Papa mad and he took everything—except me. Why didn’t he take me?”
“I did not make your father angry. I—” She swirled in the room, unable to believe her eyes. How could I have missed Charles’s anger? Only outrage or disdain would lead him to do this, strip their home of not only himself but everyday things. Why?
“My horses!” Dougie ran into the only other room, came back out, frantic. It must be empty too. He rummaged in the trunk, the only place to look. Jennie’s hands shook.
“Your hobby horse might still be in the barn,” Jennie said. “Let’s go look there.”
“You sold my horses!”
“I didn’t. I—”
Even then she didn’t want to blame Charles. She fought back tears. The night Charles had left, she cried, but knowing she needed to look presentable for the wedding, she’d put slices of cucumber on her eyes at sunrise, going over all that Charles had said, wondering what she might do that could change his mind. The slices were on the floor where the bed had once been.
“Let’s go look in the barn.”
“No. Don’t want your help.”
He ran out to the yard, disappeared inside the building. She let him, her head swirling, breath coming short. The distillery. She picked up her skirt and rushed into the drying shed. The plants bobbed their heads, most harvested already. Bottles of oils sat undisturbed. She spoke a silent prayer of gratitude. But the distillery was gone.
Dougie pranced out of the barn on his hobby horse beneath the full moon. For the moment, placated. Jennie stepped into the barn. It, too, was empty of even the nicker of a horse.
Back in the house, Jennie walked toward the flat-topped trunk with the name PICKETT stenciled on the side. The words had faded and Charles had told her he’d brought it with him from Virginia. She realized how little she really knew of him when they married. A carpenter. A state employee. A charmer. But where had he really come from? She lifted Dougie’s shirts and pants, stacked them in the open lid, until she had everything out. Or thought she did.
At the bottom of the trunk lay two blankets, folded, cradling a narrow piece of paper tied with a blue ribbon. It was a trifold official-looking document.
JANE E. PICKETT. With shaking hands, she opened it. She read and reread. Am I reading this correctly? Charles had been granted a divorce, giving full custody of Douglas to her. All back in July. The 29th, to be exact. She’d been a divorced woman since July? How could she not have known?