MARIAH
My brother, Charles, he who had been known to dither for fifteen minutes deciding whether or not to toast his bread in the morning, seemed more than ready to rush headlong into marriage. To be fair, Katrina was the driving force, declaring she wanted to be fully wed and established in their new home before the full force of winter.
“And by that,” she’d said, cupping her hand to the side of her mouth, “I mean I hope to be with child and spend the worst of the winter sitting under a quilt and getting fat.”
I’m not sure why she dropped her voice to a whisper and assumed such a conspiratorial air when she told me this. We were alone in my kitchen, drinking tea while Charles fiddled with something or another in the shop. Still, I acted appropriately shocked at her boldness and matched her giggle.
Moments like this made it difficult to remember that she was two years younger than I. She was the essence of what it meant to grow up as someone’s treasure—an adoring mother, doting father, and a household designed to be a shelter from any discomfort. I’d bet my soul Katrina Rose had never been hungry or cold or alone. Hers had always been a life of ribbons and silk stockings. New dresses every season. From what I’d noticed this summer, she owned multiple parasols, each with tassels and a bone handle. And though I could rattle off his good qualities at the drop of one of her feathered hats, I could not quite grasp how she had come to fall in love with my brother.
But she had, and the more I tried to cover that tiny grain of jealousy with disingenuous smiles and false enthusiasm, the more it became my own private, bitter pearl.
They chose the last Saturday in August as the date for their wedding—early enough in the harvest that people would sacrifice a day of work to attend the nuptials and far enough away to plan a true social event.
“Don’t know who she’s trying to impress,” Charles told me one night over one of our increasingly rare suppers alone. “Seems to me we could stand up in her folks’ parlor and make it official.”
Neither of us had ever been to a wedding, but I’d read enough about them in books to know they could be an all-consuming passion for a woman. “I’m sure she has many friends with whom she wants to share the day,” I said. “You’re the groom. All you have to do is show up.” Or not, I wanted to add. Increasingly, my sweet brother seemed to have been swept up in a tide, and I wondered more than once if he knew exactly where he would be washed ashore.
As for me, I lived that summer as a captive of courtship.
The week following Charles and Katrina’s announced engagement, Merrill Gowan arrived for our Thursday Supper (as I had begrudgingly come to call it) with a fresh shave, a recent haircut, and a shirt that bore faint scorch marks on one sleeve.
“Is Oscar not with you?” I asked, standing to my toes to look over his shoulder.
“He is not,” Merrill said, entering my home with more authority than he had a right to assume. “I hired him to help clear the last acres I need for planting and sent him on.”
“Sent him on?” I didn’t mean to mock, but he spoke as if Oscar were some sort of troublesome vagrant, which irritated me.
“He’s not a serious man, Mariah. He’d rather play baseball than work. And for all that, he’d rather work for someone else than own his own land and farm it. He’s a boy.”
I laughed. “He’s the same age as you. Or, I think he is. How old are you? I have no idea.”
“I’m twenty-five.”
To that, I’m ashamed to say, I laughed again. He had the face, physique, and manner of a man ten years older, at least. My mind scrambled for something to say that would belie the rudeness of my response, but finding nothing, I awkwardly reined in my outburst and walked into the kitchen, knowing he would follow.
As we ate, he monopolized the conversation with his accomplishments. His acres and crops and profits. I listened, making sounds of approval where appropriate, resisting the urge to remind him that, save for the clearing of the acreage with the help of Oscar Garland, all of his success came by way of inheritance, not labor. He told me (again) how his house had five bedrooms, plus a parlor and dining room—far too large for a bachelor’s rattling.
“All the more places for your hired help to sleep,” I said. “Come harvest. Better than making them bunk in the barn.”
“I won’t be hiring Garland,” he said. “I need workers who are more—”
“Serious?”
“For lack of a better word.”
“Oh Mr. Gowan. There is always a better word.”
Other women—silly women like Katrina—might have been flattered at the idea of one man’s jealousy of another, but I was not. I might have been if I had any reason to believe that Oscar was off brooding, plotting some way to pay a calling of his own, but surely he knew he need only step onto my porch to be invited in. There were enough girls in De Smet to keep him company, no need for him to travel seven miles to see me.
I changed the topic then, bringing us to talk about the heat and wind and weather—very nearly the same conversation we had every week. I asked if he had ever seen the ocean, and he said he hadn’t but that the shores of Lake Michigan were no poor substitute. I told him I’d recently read a novel by Jules Verne about an adventure in a submarine with great sea monsters and a mysterious captain. He said he saw no use for novels and had little time to read, given the work he must do daily on his farm.
And then we finished our meal in silence.
I’d barely cleared our dishes when I turned from the sink to find him directly in front of me, droplets of sweat on his brow that had nothing to do with the long-cold stove.
“Mariah.” He pronounced my name as if he’d been practicing it in front of a mirror for an hour. Each syllable heavy with intent. I could not back away, and to dodge to the left or the right seemed … comical. I wrapped my hands in the dish towel to ward off his touch. Subconsciously, my breathing synced with his, and for what seemed an eternity, the only sound was the ticking clock and our labored exhalations. His fueled by passion; mine, fear—not for my safety but for my person. He engulfed me, making it impossible not only for me to move but to think—to form any thought other than No.
“Mr. Gowan,” I said finally, “if you’ll step aside, please. I’d like to clean the table.”
He only repeated my name and stepped closer. I never had a mother to warn me about such things, but, like most women, I carried with me a keen sense that men moved through this world with the assumption that any and all in it was theirs for the taking. Including women. And, like most women, I found myself squelching the survival instinct that wanted me to stomp on his toes or kick his shin (or higher, if need be) to initiate my escape. One never knew what retribution a physical attack could inspire. All this left me with a woman’s greatest weapon: deception.
“Mr. Gowan, I asked Charles to come home early this evening. The handle on the oven door—”
“You don’t need to be afraid of me, Mariah.”
“Then step back, please?”
He complied but not without taking my rag-wrapped hands in his, creating both more space between us and none at all.
He lowered his eyes, shuffled his feet, then looked up again, fortified. “What I am about to ask will not be a surprise to you.”
“Then, please, Mr. Gowan, don’t ask.”
He plowed on as if I hadn’t spoken. “We have shown ourselves to be well-suited.”
“We have shared six meals together.”
“Which I have enjoyed, both the food and the conversation.”
I had to bite my lip to stop myself from thanking him. Or to return the compliment. I would not give him an inch or a word. I didn’t need to. He uncovered my hands and brought them within inches of his lips. “I believe you have too.”
Do not kiss me. Do not kiss me. The command rolled through my mind like a log let loose down a hill, but I spoke it only with a silent, narrow-eyed glare. Rage at the injustice of this helplessness—knowing he was in my kitchen, my home, at my invitation—brought a flush to my cheeks that I feared he would misinterpret. I could not stay silent.
“I have come to find you an unexpected friend,” I said. A peace offering.
“You know I want to be more than that.” He bent his head, and with only a fraction of space and time to react, I squeezed his fingers and turned my arms into resistant pillars of stone.
“I am sorry if I gave you the impression that I return those feelings. But I assure you, I do not.”
“You might. In time.”
The thread of hope in his voice almost tied itself to my resolve, ready to yank it away. This was not a moment for subtlety or even kindness. I owed him nothing. I worked my hands out of his grip, stepped to the side, and said, “That is not how I wish to spend my time.”
“How? Living in a fine home? Being a farmer’s wife?”
“Being your wife. Being anybody’s wife whom I do not love. Don’t I deserve the same happiness that my brother has?”
“I could make you happy.”
“No, Mr. Gowan. I don’t think you ever could.”
That was the death blow, and I watched him deflate before my eyes. His shoulders rounded, his head drooped, and his lips remained parted as if waiting for the next thing to say. Every womanly instinct within me wanted to reach out, to stroke his cheek and apologize and tell him that he would be fine. He would recover and see—someday—that this was the best thing. I wanted to heap blame for his sadness upon myself, take that burden in the belief that, as a woman, I could carry his weight as well as my own. Oh, I was tempted, but I held firm and resumed my chore, giving wide berth around him as I took the coffee cups from the table and set them on the sideboard, lest he try again to trap me at the sink.
He asked, “What will you do?”
“What will I do when?”
“After Charles and Katrina marry. And they want to make a home together. Who will take care of you?”
I made a dark, bitter sound. “I suppose it would surprise you to know that I have been taking care of him all these years. It’s Katrina who should be worried.”
“You’ll be alone.”
“I’ll have my brother, as I always have. Plus, a new sister. I’ll be far from alone.” But even as I spoke, my confidence waned. I’d already lost my brother. Maybe not his physical presence, but his affection and attention were already divided and not by equal measure. I took a deep, restorative breath. “Goodness, the time. It’s late.”
Merrill said nothing in direct response but offered a resigned, sad smile and made his shuffling way through the shop to the front door, not stopping until he was at the hook where I’d hung his hat. He took it and turned it over and over in his hands. “I’m going to ask you one more time—”
“Please don’t—”
“And then I won’t ask you again. Will you marry me, Mariah? Will you come to my home and make it yours? Will you be my wife?”
“No,” I said, my hand gripping the handle of the door. “And no. And no.” I intended my response to be a bit of a joke, but he had none of it.
“Then I guess I can assume this was my last supper here?”
“I think that would be best.”
Merrill leaned forward one more time, in the least menacing way possible, and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. “You know, he doesn’t love you either.”
I felt my face burst into flame and only wished that I had burned him.
“Oscar, I mean,” he said, as if I needed elaboration. “All that time at my house—four days, I think—and he didn’t mention you once. If you think he is the better way to spend your time, I’m afraid it’s going to be a waste.”
If you had asked me earlier that afternoon if Merrill Gowan had the wherewithal to plunge a dagger into my heart and leave me bleeding on the floor, I would have laughed at the notion and deemed it as likely as a horse sprouting wings. But then, for who knows how long, I stood in my brother’s dark, empty workshop with no recollection of the moment when I found myself alone. I was too shocked to cry. Too shocked and too practical. I hadn’t earned the privilege of being destroyed by what I knew to be the truth. I was a woman divided, half of me mooning with childish infatuation and half of me already withered and alone, with nothing left to knit my two selves together.
I was still standing there when Charles found me. He’d come in through the kitchen, as he always did. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to pick up an abandoned project and work late into the night.
“Mariah? Sister?” His voice was muffled by the ache pounding in my head. I felt too brittle to even turn my face to acknowledge him. He continued saying my name until he was right in front of me. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” I said, my tone too flat to convince either of us.
“D—Did Gowan do something? Something … untoward?”
I knew Merrill’s proposal would not fit my brother’s definition of untoward, and I felt a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“No, Brother. Nothing like that.”
“Did he … say anything?”
He looked so flummoxed, so rumpled and uncomfortable, I once again wondered how Katrina Rose, she of the flitting tongue and bouncing curls, claimed him as the love of her life. I looped my arm in his. “Remind me never to tell you a secret. You are incapable of keeping them. Now, since you are here, come help me with the dishes.”
He stepped with me but protested, “What secret? What did I say?”
“Tell me, did Merrill Gowan tell you what his intentions were tonight?”
“You mean, did he ask for my blessing?”
By now we were in the kitchen where I tasked him with shaving soap into the basin while I scraped the plates into the bucket by the door. I straightened. “Blessing?”
“He’s a good man. He wanted to make sure that I approved.”
At that moment, I could have shattered the plate to the floor but chose instead to grip it until my knuckles turned white. I was so tired of hearing about what a good man he was. Would Charles have thought him a good man an hour before when, in this very spot, he loomed over me against my wishes? Or later, when he chose the cruelest words to crush my spirit? Was he a good man for seeking my brother’s approval before my own?
Of course, I asked him none of these questions. Only, “And do you?”
“He’s a g—”
“Don’t!” I dropped the plate in the tub, heedless of the splashing water. “Don’t tell me again that he is a good man. I don’t want to hear it. I do not love him, Charles. As well-intentioned as you were to bring him to me, I do not love him.”
“But he loves you.”
“Really? Did he say so?”
“Not in so many words. Men don’t say such things. But I’m sure he does.”
“No.” I shook my head to double my response. “No, he doesn’t love me. Men do say such things to women.”
“So that’s it? You won’t marry him?”
“I won’t,” I said, my voice gentle now but freighted with finality.
We didn’t speak for a while as he rolled up his sleeves and plunged his hands into the soapy water. He ran the dishrag over a plate, and when he handed it over to me to rinse and dry, I thanked myself for preserving it from being a scattering of shards on the floor.
“I don’t suppose you’ll be doing dishes with Katrina Rose once you’re married,” I said, putting the plate on the shelf.
“Why not? We intend to eat.”
“I have a feeling she is going to pride herself on being the perfect wife. She’ll dote on you.”
“That’ll be fun. I’ve never been doted on before.”
I smacked his elbow with the rolled-up towel, thankful for the lighter mood. “Something we haven’t talked about, though. Are you planning to live here?”
“Yes. At first. For a while, at least. But then eventually we will want something bigger. Away from the shop, I mean. A house in town but not here. It’s not really suitable for a family.”
His answer held an unfamiliar quality. These were Katrina’s words, not his own. I was glad to have something to busy ourselves so we didn’t have to look directly at each other.
“But you,” he said, “you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Forever, even, if you’re not going to get married. Katrina won’t mind.”
“Oh, Katrina won’t mind if I continue to live in my own home?”
“I didn’t mean—”
I laid my hand on his sleeve, stopping him before he could apologize. “It’s fine.” The look of relief on his face melted me, and I wanted to end the day free of rancor. “Tell you what. How about I put on some tea and we have some bread and butter and jam for dessert and read some more of the Jules Verne novel?”
“The one about the submarine?”
“Yes. I’ve read on ahead, but I’ll gladly go back.”
“That sounds fine.”
“Good. You put on the water. I’ll go fetch the book.”
I took a stub of candle, even though I often navigated the house in darkness. Part of me knew Charles was only indulging me, but our nightly reading had been the ritual that bound us together, distracting us from the saddest chapters in our lives. It had always been an escape, and tonight it was no different, only we were escaping all the good that had come our way. However begrudging, I had to admit that his upcoming marriage to Katrina was an unexpected miracle, and—in the life of any other girl—Merrill’s proposal would be seen as a blessing.
Upstairs I found the book, marked my place, and then skimmed for the chapter where Captain Nemo is introduced. That would be exciting. Back downstairs, the kettle was hissing and a stack of bread sat directly on the table. No plates.
“I didn’t want to dirty dishes again,” Charles said, “except the cups. And the knife.”
“Good idea.” I sat down, grabbed a piece of bread, and took the lid off the butter dish. “What do you think happened to all of our belongings?”
He furrowed his brow. “What belongings?”
“From the cabin. On the homestead with Pa. We had dishes, you know. And a good skillet and a big stew pot. And cups and saucers. Do you remember the pattern?”
He shook his head. “I never thought about it.”
“Me either. At least not often. But maybe the upcoming wedding is making me nostalgic.” Plus—I did not say aloud—I’m sure Katrina will be wanting her own things. What will happen to these?
“I suppose whoever got the land got the cabin and just … used them.”
I smeared a bit of jam atop the butter. It was the last of the good plum jam, put up by Merrill’s aunt, and if there were an infinite supply, I might have been more easily persuaded to marry him just for that. “I guess men don’t tend to get sentimental about plates.”
He chuckled. “I guess we don’t.”
I read the adventures of the Nautilus until deep into the night, until we lost count of the number of the clock’s chimes. I read for Charles’s sake, and he listened for mine. As I closed the book at the end of a chapter, I wondered if it had always been so. Had he always been more capable than I’d assumed? Did he wander through novels of adventure as a mere indulgence?
“It’s a good story,” he said, as if reading my thoughts and sensing my need for reassurance.
“It is. I only hope we’ll be able to finish it before the wedding.”
“If not, then after. There’ll still be evenings for reading.”
“There will,” I said. As far as I knew, it was the first lie we ever told each other.