24
Small fluffy clouds like distant sheep bounced across a blue sky, while robins pulled at earthworms on the edges of the Thompson garden. The happy couple spoke their vows under a canopy of vines. The trio of Josiah, Jennie, and Douglas (accompanied by Van) left the following day for their honeymoon to the Oregon coastal town of Astoria where Josiah had once served as missionary to the Clatsop and Chinook.
They traveled up the Willamette by ship. Josiah had many friends in the Clatsop region, and the Indians came out to greet them at the old fort when they visited there one day. Lewis and Clark had wintered at that site. How the Indians knew of their arrival was a mystery to Jennie, but there were gifts of cedar baskets and dried salmon and a necklace of shells for both Douglas and Jennie. Josiah spoke to them in their languages as Jennie watched, their round faces attentive. One man looked at her and grinned, then spoke words that made Josiah’s cheeks turn red. Men talk.
Clatsop women had carried the gifts, and now they fingered the ribbon on Jennie’s hat, pointed at the light blue linen skirt, the belt that lined her narrow waist, giggling as Jennie turned to let them see her bustle. They wore calico dresses and were rounder people than Jennie. A soft pair of moccasins arrived in her hand, but she couldn’t see by whom. Jennie smelled the smoked leather, held them to her heart, and thanked them all. She loved the scent of wood smoke carried on the hide and the smiles, oh the welcoming smiles.
Other friends of Josiah’s feted them, spoiled them with gifts, and Jennie thought that some of the things of Elizabeth’s they’d winnowed might well have come from the generous hearts of people like these. The Owens family, who had named a son after Josiah, asked them to their homestead nestled beside cleared ground where ocean winds had toppled trees, and Jennie was glad she had a wool cape to ward off the bursts of cold. Over steamed sturgeon and an early salmon, spring greens, potatoes, and a berry pie, Mrs. Owens spoke of their daughter Bethina living in southern Oregon.
“She always wanted to be a doctor, but she owns a hat shop in Roseburg. She had to find a way to support her boy.”
Jennie waited until their ride back to their boardinghouse for more details from Josiah.
“Bethina’s marriage ended in divorce,” Josiah said. Douglas slept between them in the livery carriage they’d rented. “She was married at fourteen. Too young.” He shook his head. “Married her father’s farmhand. Her father picked him. As a family friend and their pastor, I tried to dissuade it. Bethina had a natural talent in the healing arts, not unlike yours, Jennie. And she always wanted to be a doctor.”
“It must have been difficult to divorce when her husband had been handpicked by her father.”
“It took courage.” Jennie hadn’t thought of a divorced woman as demonstrating courage. Maybe Charles had done her a favor divorcing her, not making Jennie and Douglas live through his downfall. Any claim less than adultery would not have granted a divorce to her, and even then, there’d have been the humiliation of testifying in court about his lapses. She caressed Douglas’s sleepy head, felt the ring beneath her gloved hands. Custody would have gone to Charles. Bethina’s having custody meant there must have been very hard times with her husband.
People did have to give up dreams. Bethina made hats now. Jennie had a husband and child to take care of, threads of a new life to weave.
Douglas found the ocean beach a great place of joy. He threw rocks, made a fort out of driftwood. Josiah and “Mr. Pickett,” as Douglas wanted to be called, got on well enough. Jennie hoped he’d one day let himself be called Douglas by Josiah, maybe even one day “son.” They were at the place where the Columbia River met the Pacific. Jennie had Van on a leash and wished she could put Douglas on one too, as Josiah said there were “sneaker waves” at the coast that could rush in so quickly and pull out so fiercely that if one lost their balance they could be taken out to sea.
“Grown men,” he said. “If it ever happens, swim parallel to the shore until you’re past the pull, then head inland but do so quickly. The water’s very cold.”
“We’d best stay far away then. Neither Douglas nor I can swim.”
“I can, Mama. Paw-Paw taught me.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.” What must Josiah think of a mother who knows so little of her son?
They started back from the water, their feet leaving wet imprints in the sand. Jennie had pulled her skirt up into the waistband and carried her shoes. Josiah had his arm around her middle and reached to take her burden. He leaned to kiss her and she blushed even though they were the only three on this section of the shore.
Jennie called for Douglas, who instead of hurrying toward them ran in the opposite direction. Van barked at him. “Van wants to run with you.” The wind pushed back against Jennie’s words.
Douglas stopped, held his arms out as though to call the dog, and Jennie let him loose to run to Douglas, which he did, dragging the leash behind him. But instead of picking the spaniel up, Douglas kicked him. The little dog yelped and flew toward an incoming wave.
“Douglas!” Jennie shouted.
Josiah left her side and fast-walked toward Douglas, his rolled-up britches revealing his white ankles. He splashed on the way to pluck the drenched dog tumbled forward by an incoming wave. Van’s wet tail snuck between his legs and Jennie couldn’t hear if he whimpered.
Josiah reached Douglas, who had moved inland, head bowed. Josiah squatted down, and she saw Douglas wince in anticipation of a blow, the way he had when they’d lived with the Sloans, when his father had lived with them. None came.
“The dog did you no harm, Mr. Pickett,” Josiah said as Jennie approached, his voice strong but calm. “He means to be your friend. If you’re upset, you can speak of it to me or to your mother. But never harm Van again or any sentient being.” She wondered if Douglas would remember the fox and when they’d first discussed that “sentient” word.
Without apparent anger, Josiah handed the shivering dog to Jennie. Douglas was fortunate Josiah had reached him before Jennie did. “Nor harm anyone else,” Josiah continued. “Not yourself either, and you do harm to yourself when you hurt another.”
Douglas lowered his eyes.
“I know you are capable of kindness. That is what I wish to see. Maybe you’re cold. We’ve been on the beach so long. But words are the way to make a change. And look, Van squirms to be with you even when you’ve hurt him. He forgives.”
“What do you have to say for yourself, young man? What you did was—” Jennie tried to think of anything that might have triggered her son’s cruel behavior. She couldn’t. “You say you’re sorry.” He reached for Van, but Jennie didn’t release him.
“Let him think about it,” Josiah said, standing. He touched Jennie’s arm and Jennie wondered if that sort of easy manner and calm wisdom had been what the Indians had come to love about this man she’d married. “Let’s build a driftwood fire. We’ll warm up and I think there might be clams we can dig. Have you ever done that, Mr. Pickett?”
Douglas shook his head.
“I suspect your mother hasn’t either. Let’s find ourselves a shovel—after we get that fire going.” He put his hand out and Douglas took it.
Van wiggled down and Jennie held his leash. The dog trotted ahead, uninjured and once again jumped up against the back of Douglas’s legs, then scampered back to Jennie. So forgiving, that dog.
Later that evening they ate the steamed clams the boardinghouse cook prepared. The clamming had gone well and Jennie had heard Douglas squeal with laughter as the tiny hole in the sand gave way to dinner. He’d worn rubber boots to do the digging, and Jennie watched him run along the beach leaving tracks with Van close behind him. A boy and his dog. Yes, that was what he had needed. Now, Van lay beneath the serving table and Douglas leaned over, patted the spaniel. “I’m sorry.”
Relief she didn’t know she longed for washed over her.