Authors: Joyce Wright
F
eather didn’t ask why she wasn’t sharing her mother’s bed that night as she did every other night. The women had made a fuss over her and her doll and Jeanne said they wanted her all to themselves this last night. Before she left, Jeanne went to Salome. “I have a good feeling about him,” she said.
Kenyon Larkin was outside, seeing to his horses. When he returned, he would enter the bedroom where she and John had been man and wife for happy years. Salome was reluctant at the thought of undressing in front of him, so she’d quickly taken off her dress and undergarments and donned a nightgown. She was covered from neck to toe in white cotton, but she recognized her duty and would do it.
“I hope so. He was kind to think of Feather and buy her a doll.”
“There’s kindness in him. He looks hard-edged, but you can bet that his wife treated him right and he’ll be looking for that again, just as your John was good to you. You can always tell when a man’s been used to a good wife. She leaves her mark on him. It’s a good brand. It makes him notice what it takes to make a house a home. I’d lay odds that the first Mrs. Larkin took good care of her husband and he took good care of her.”
“If they loved each other, I’m sure they did. John loved me and took good care of me.”
“If you had been washed away in the flood, you’d want a happy home for Feather, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, certainly, but that’s not an easy question.”
“No, it’s not. The living have to give up their hold on the dead and let them lie in peace. If John lived and you died, he’d need to do the same thing you’re doing now. He’d have to give up his hold on you---hush now, don’t cry; you know I’m speaking true—he’d have to give up his hold on you so that he could make a life for Feather with someone who would be a good mother to her. You know that. You’ve known loss in your life. When you came here, you were just a scared kid who’d seen your parents die. We both know what that kind of death is like. You can let death win, or you can live. You can’t do both, Salome. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll do my best,” Salome said.
“Make sure your best is everything you have to give,” Jeanne said, wiping away the traces of tears on Salome’s cheeks. She gestured to the bed. “You know that when marriage works, it’s good here.”
Salome blushed, remembering the bliss of John’s arms around her and the passion that had flared between the two of them. She didn’t want to surrender that to another man. “I’m not looking for that,” she said.
“There’s no reason to seek long, cold nights,” Jeanne said tartly. “Believe me. A loving man in your bed is a good man in every other room in the house. Don’t forget that.”
Jeanne was a wise woman who didn’t mince words and didn’t sweeten them either. Salome knew her story; it was not unlike her own. She’d been widowed by an Indian war party in northern Texas that had killed her entire family; she’d survived only because she had been away at her sister’s at the time, helping to deliver a baby. She’d returned home to a scene so grotesque that she thought she’d lose her mind. She’d found her husband, and her children, and the town after the Indian attack, but she’d said to Salome, “God witness, I wish I hadn’t. I’d rather remember them they were, not as they were left.”
Jeanne patted Salome’s cold cheek. “You’re too young to give up,” she said. “Take what God is giving you. Your daughter has.”
“I don’t want her to forget her father.”
“She won’t, not with you there to remind her of him and what he was like. But you don’t want her to live fatherless either and she’s already started on that path. Let her travel it.”
There was a noise at the door, a touch on the doorknob then nothing. Salome hurried to get under the covers.
Jeanne went to the bedroom door. “Goodnight, Mr. Larkin,” she said as she opened the door to let him in.
“Thank you for the eats, they tasted fine.”
She grinned. “My pleasure, Mr. Larkin. Salome is precious to us and we all wanted to make sure she had a fit wedding.”
He nodded. “Goodnight,” he answered, looking after her as she departed as if he was not ready to be alone with his wife.
He doused the light in the lamp while the woman watched him with anxious eyes. He didn’t want to take off his clothes in full view. Carefully, his back to her, he removed his trousers and then his shirt. Still wearing his union suit, he lifted the sheets and eased into the bed. Although the bed wasn’t wide, there was a generous length of unoccupied space in the middle because his wife was as far away from his side of the bed as she could be.
He was grateful for the darkness and the shelter it brought. But it was still hot, the humidity of the season bringing with it the hovering air that made bedcovering unnecessary and unwelcome. Finally he tossed the covers off his body.
“I’ve never gotten used to the heat,” he said.
A surreptitious rustling of the sheets told him that she was doing the same thing.
“You’re not from Texas?” she asked. “I thought not, from your speech.”
“Yours, either. Where were you from before you came here?”
“My folks were from Ohio,” she said.
“Were?”
“They were killed heading West. Comanche.”
“You survived.” She was lucky. He’d seen what remained after a Comanche war party had been through.
“The army found me and brought me here. I was twelve.”
“I served in Comanche territory with the army.”
“You didn’t go back to where you were from?”
“Indiana. No. I’d been gone too long. After my folks died, I joined the army.”
“Did you fight in the war?”
He nodded, then realized that she couldn’t see his movements in the dark room. “With Sherman.”
There was silence for a spell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the comfortable silence of a married couple sharing thoughts at the end of their day, but the tension between two married strangers had eased a bit as they shared some of their stories. Neither divulged emotional details of what the events had done to them, but it was enough for now to know this much.
“Your little girl. Feather,” he said after a bit. “Her father was an Indian.”
“Caddo.”
He nodded. “Peaceable tribe.”
“The name for Texas comes from the Caddo word for friend,” she said.
“Is that so? I didn’t know that.” Lorna must not have known that either or she would have told him. She was a great one for knowing little things like the stories about flowers and the names of the stars.
“My husband was the schoolmaster here. John Cloud Feather Gascoigne.”
“Feather is named for him.”
“Yes. He didn’t want her to have an Indian name, though. His mother was Indian and Spanish, his father a Creole from Louisiana. I was the one who named her Feather.”
“I like it,” he said, surprised at himself. He’d never heard it before for a girl’s name, but he reckoned that not every girl had to be named Ann or Susannah or Mary.
“Was Lorna your wife’s name?”
He nodded, then answered when he realized again that the darkness concealed his response. “Lorna, yes.”
There was silence again. He felt the movement of the bed and realized that she was not so far away as she had been. “Thank you for giving her the doll,” she said.
He could feel the cotton of her nightgown against his arm, a light, delicate reminder of her presence and the reason that two strangers were sharing a bed. It wasn’t intrusive. He sensed a stirring within him, those familiar physical reactions that had been dead and dormant since Lorna’s passing. He didn’t know if he wanted those feelings to be resurrected or not, but his body wasn’t asking what he wanted anymore and he reached for her in the darkness. He realized then that there was light in the room after all; her hair spread out on the pillow like golden sunshine, gleaming even in the dark night. When they touched each other, it was with tenderness and recognition for what the other had lost. Their joining was a coming together of two people who had given love passionately and completely, but not to each other. But it was more than either had expected or even guessed that they sought.
K
enyon Larkin was eager to get home. The hands would take care of the cattle and the land, but he wasn’t one to wander. Salome was up early and dressed before he rose, with breakfast ready when he left the bedroom.
He sat down to a plate of bacon and eggs. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m going to get Feather up and dressed. I’ll pack food so that we can stop and I’ll have something then.”
“We can wait long enough for the two of you to eat. I reckon another thirty minutes won’t matter.”
Feather came to the table first, her doll in one hand, her other hand rubbing her eyes.
“Morning,” he greeted.
She nodded in silence. Salome appeared soon after, a small pile of folded clothes in her hand. She put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her daughter, then sat down herself to eat.
Feather yawned. “It’s still dark,” she mumbled.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” Salome said. “Eat up. It’s a long way to Beulah Land.”
“’Beulah Land, I’m longing for you,’” Feather began to sing. “’And some day on thee I’ll stand. There my home shall be eternal. Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land.’”
“Feather, hush, you’ll wake everyone else up!” Salome scolded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Larkin. That’s a favorite hymn of hers.”
“My wife was partial to it,” he said, and didn’t realize that he’d spoken aloud until Salome smiled.
“John, too. He had a great singing voice, that’s where Feather gets it from.”
“I can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” Kenyon confessed.
“Me either,” she said.
They smiled at each other, the closeness of their wedding night having built a bridge to the morning, one in which the husband and wife they’d lost were welcome at the breakfast table. It was, Kenyon thought, the damnedest thing, but it was as if he felt Lorna’s cheerful presence in the room with them.
Father Diego and Jeanne were at the wagon when Kenyon and Salome went outside. Kenyon was carrying the sleeping Feather in his arms.
“Here are a few things for the trip,” Jeanne said. “There’s some food, and then some house presents. There will be a bit of Santa Teresa at your table when you eat,” she said smiling.
Jeanne kissed Salome goodbye. “I think maybe you listened to what I said,” she told Salome in a knowing voice while Kenyon made up a bed in the wagon for Feather to sleep on. “I figured your best would be good enough.”
“Jeanne . . . thank you.” Salome hugged the older woman. “Please write. Father Diego will help you.”
Jeanne’s answering embrace enveloped Salome. “Let us know how you be,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be here, but you’ll hear from us.”
Father Diego prayed over them before they left. Kenyon didn’t object; if it made Salome feel more peaceful about leaving the people and home she knew, it was good. If she still believed in God after He’d let her husband die, Kenyon wasn’t for taking that comfort away. He almost wished he had something like it.
They journeyed in silence for awhile, the morning quiet soothing. Gradually, the signature of the day began to come forth and the darkness slowly faded.
“Salome,” he said, speaking softly so that he wouldn’t awaken the child in the wagon, comfortably nestled on a heap of blankets between the purchases he’d bought at the general store before arriving in Santa Teresa and the baskets from the mission community. “That’s a Bible name.”
He remembered a sermon that the preacher in Beulah Land had delivered, thundering against the dance hall girls at the saloon, describing them as hellbound Salomes who would demand that the local cowboys fall into sin as surely as Salome had demanded the head of John the Baptist on the platter. It had been highly entertaining and he remembered telling Lorna after the service ended that with Preacher Wilkins, there was no need to go to a saloon; he felt as if he’d already been there, spent the night, and awakened with his head throbbing and his pockets empty. The name had stayed in his mind; it was funny to think that his wife was named Salome.
“My folks called me Sally. Salome was a family name. It’s in the Bible, but Mother was always quick to tell people that there were other Salomes, too. Mother didn’t approve of dancing.”
“A lot of people don’t approve. I don’t see any harm in it myself.”
“Neither do I.”
“I’m not much good at it.”
“John was a better dancer than I am. I didn’t learn when I was young and by the time I was old enough, I was the one stepping on his feet.”
They laughed, each one fondly recalling other dances with those lost partners.
“Is Kenyon a family name? I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It was my mother’s maiden name. She set a powerful store by being a Kenyon of Kenyon County. I remember my grandfather; he never smiled. I guess I come by my solemn looks honestly.”
She turned her head to face him. “I don’t think you’re solemn,” she said. “Serious maybe, but not solemn.”
That sounded like something Lorna would have said. She liked a man to be serious, she’d told him when they were courting. It meant he had moral weight to him and he wasn’t just a flutter of a man who would chase a girl and then leave her.
Before long, Feather awoke and Kenyon pulled the wagon to the roadside so that they could all attend to private needs of nature. Under the shade of the pine trees, they settled down to eat lunch; sandwiches of salted beef made with fresh bread; pickles; and peach pie from the wedding feast. Salome and Feather went to the creek to wash the dishes they’d used while Kenyon watered the horses. When they returned to the wagon, Feather climbed into the seat and sat between them.
Although the distance was the same as it had been riding there, Kenyon found that the return journey went quicker, and they pulled into the ranch at dusk. He suspected that maybe the first trip had taken long because he’d been so uneasy in his mind about the decision he’d made. Now that it was made and they were wedded, he was eager for Salome and Feather to see their new home.
He’d built the ranch house himself. He was no great carpenter, but he’d learned the trade from his father and the house was solidly built. It wasn’t a big house, but it could be added onto as needed. He hoped there might be a need; Feather would have a room to herself, but if there were other children, he’d need to be getting his hammer out again. The prospect gave him a sense of anticipation and he cautioned himself against it. There was no use hoping for children if they weren’t going to come.
Both Salome and Feather exclaimed over the shrubs and bushes in the yard which kept the front of the house cool. The rose verbena was in bloom and already attracting the butterflies and bees. The Rose of Sharon wouldn’t blossom until later, but when it did, its petals would hang fragrantly on the heavy summer air.
“Did Lorna plant all these?” Salome asked after Kenyon had helped her down from the wagon. Feather, as soon as he put her on the ground, had raced over to the flowers to touch them and smell them.
He nodded. “She liked to have flowers year round, or as close to it as possible. They need some tending,” he admitted. “I haven’t done much with them.”
“Feather and I will see that they’re back to looking fine again. I’m fond of flowers. She chose well.”
He didn’t answer. He liked the thought that the flowers, Lorna’s flowers, would be taken care of by someone who appreciated them as she had done. He had expected that he’d resent seeing someone else in Lorna’s flower garden but his thoughts had changed on that score. Salome keeping up what Lorna had done was going to make this her home, he realized. But that was as it should be. He hadn’t known that a man could love one woman and learn to love another and find peace in his heart. But human beings were curious creatures. If he lived a dozen lifetimes, he’d never understand the way men and women thought, but somehow, they kept the world turning.
Salome made supper although it was late, because they were hungry. Feather eagerly accepted the task of gathering the eggs from the chicken coop and soon the kitchen told the tale of what Salome was frying up in the skillet. Kenyon had second helpings of the fried eggs and beef that she set on his plate. Feather was so tired that she nearly fell asleep as she ate. When she had finished, Kenyon carried her to her bedroom.
“Will she be frightened?” he asked as Salome unbraided the child’s long, black hair. “She can sleep with us if it’ll make her sleep sound.”
Salome shook her head. “She’ll do all right. She’s so tired I doubt if she’ll wake before sun-up.”
Kenyon unloaded the wagon while Salome washed the supper dishes. It was dark by the time they were finished with their work. Kenyon, carrying a candlestick, led the way to the bedroom.
“You’ll be able to see better in the morning,” he told her. “I expect you’ll find some dust.”
She smiled. “I expect I will.”
There was a breeze coming through the open window. He hated shutting it but he didn’t want the night insects coming in. When he turned from the window, Salome was standing there, facing him.
“Will you help with my buttons?” she asked him hesitantly, turning around so that that he could unfasten her dress.
He unbuttoned the first button and touched her skin. He stood that way for a few long, portentous seconds before he unbuttoned the second one, baring more of her back as he progressed. The texture of her back and her underclothes stirred him into desire and he knew, this time for sure, that the woman in front of him was not afraid or unwilling or unsure. He didn’t know much more than that, but he knew that the woman in his arms, and then in his bed, was Salome, his wife.