Laura's Shadow, page 13
I watched my brother dance. When had he learned to dance? His movements were as smooth as could be expected, his suit a shameful sight after a long day, though Katrina looked none the worse for wear. Their eyes never strayed from each other; their smiles intermittently sweet and shy. The rich supper roiled in my stomach as I remembered days from our childhood sitting at a dark table while he pointed out phantoms in the window so he could sneak food from his plate and put it on mine. I thought of the frigid night we spent with our father’s cold, dead body, distracting ourselves with selections from our shared McGuffey reader. I wondered if Katrina would know when to leave him to his thoughts and when to gently nudge him to speak. If she would know how to read for him without shaming him, if she would let his coffee cool before serving it to him, if she would walk out in the dead of night to look at a star, or if she would listen to see if a clock’s ticking was just right.
Midway through the song, Katrina’s parents took to the lawn and showed what it looked like to marry well and live long. Their steps were confident enough to allow them to speak small bits to one another—words lost to all of us looking on but understandable all the same. At some point they changed partners, Katrina moving lovingly into her father’s arms while her mother made little attempt to hide her dissatisfaction with her new partner. Charles soldiered on, though, and a movement to my left caught my attention. Merrill was standing. He was walking my way. I was a capable dancer, my feet even then shuffling in time to the song. I took a final, bracing sip of champagne and waited for some sort of touch to my arm, my shoulder. But there was nothing. I kept my face forward but slid my eyes to see him take the hand of the cousin and lead her away from the table. The onset of twilight hid the burn of shame on my face. As Merrill and the cousin took their first steps, a host of other couples joined them while the friend and I looked on.
But that was only the first song of the evening. I did dance at my brother’s wedding—twice with Oscar Garland. The first was a square dance wherein we did more stumbling and laughing over missed steps than actual dancing. The second, though, was a drawn-out waltz. I felt his hand through the structure of the dress; with the other, he held the back of my hand against his palm. His shirt was of fine quality, and I’d managed somehow to slip my fingers beneath his suspenders and wondered how I would ever get them out without him noticing.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much experience dancing,” I said as a means to excuse the weakness I felt in every muscle in my body.
“That’s all right. I reckon I have experience enough for both of us.”
And then he led me, tiny pressure points against my waist, directing me front and back. Left and right. My feet responded, but my mind refused to budge from this moment. Oscar’s face framed by a star-filled sky. The rumble in his chest as he hummed the tune. I remembered how Mr. and Mrs. Rose talked to each other as they danced, how it made them look so comfortable and aligned.
“The man playing violin,” I said, once I felt secure in our steps, “he looks familiar, but I cannot place his name. Do you know him?”
“That’s Charles Ingalls,” he said, a new, hard set to his jaw.
“That’s right.” I remembered him then, a man quite prominent in De Smet. My mouth seemed determined to outrun my mind, and I heard myself saying, “His daughter was my teacher.”
He gave me a weak smile that barely lifted the corner of his moustache. “Seems I remember hearing something about that.” Then he moved his gaze above my head, not up into the stars, but beyond and beneath them.
“I’m sorry.” I dipped my head to escape his scrutiny and felt my brow brush against his shirt. I left it there one step longer than I should have before pulling back. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories again on such a joyous occasion.”
If he sensed any irony in my statement, he gave no sign. “That’s all right. I have plenty of good memories too.”
“Did you love her?”
Oscar’s steps were measured perfection, but at that moment we were jostled by another couple, tipsier and less talented. By the time we’d laughed and apologized and found our steps again, I hoped my question got lost in the tangle.
It hadn’t.
“I thought I maybe did,” he said, smoothing over our interruption. “But not enough to put up a fight for her. Almanzo was my friend. That mattered more. Besides, I take responsibility that they started courting in the first place. I dared him to ask to walk her home, and he did.”
“You dared him?”
“Actually, I had it in mind for him to ask another girl, but fate would have it he got it wrong. Anyway, they both seemed inclined to marry, so they were better off with each other, I reckon.”
“And you are not so inclined? To marry?”
He smiled, big enough to rival the brightness of the moon. “No woman’s been able to catch me yet.”
I was about to ask how many had tried, but Laura’s father trailed out the final note of the waltz and we stepped apart to join our fellow dancers in applause. When the clapping died down, we heard the first sound of the far-off train, and the crowd erupted in whoops of joy. As Katrina rushed off to change out of her wedding dress and into something better suited for travel, the musicians declared enough time for one last song. I looked to Oscar but then felt another’s touch on my arm.
“She’s all yours, my friend,” Oscar said, and I turned to see the achingly familiar face of my brother.
We danced, well-matched in our artlessness, and for the first time that day, I felt tears pooling in my eyes before streaming—unchecked—down my face.
“Oh Sister,” he said, wiping them with the cuff of his sleeve. His suit, rumpled as it was and bearing the stains of everything from gravy to frosting, was apparently perfect for a night’s journey on a train.
“I’ve never said goodbye to you. Ever.”
“I’m coming back, you know. We’re only staying away a week. And then I’ll be home.”
“It won’t be the same.”
“No, it won’t.”
And there we gave up every pretense of dancing, and he folded us up together while I sobbed into his shoulder. I missed him so much already, as if the closeness of the moment made me realize how far away he’d be not just in the week to come but forever. In a night, the entirety of my family was being ripped away, like the agonizing moment of pulling a leech from your flesh.
“I don’t want to go to the train,” I said, swallowing great sobs between my words. “I can’t stand around waving and cheering and sending you off.”
“That’s fine,” he said, patting my back as if I were a child stepping out of a tantrum. “It’s a longer walk home from the station anyway. Should I ask Merrill to walk you?”
“No.” I pushed myself away, hoping he didn’t notice the tiny wobble to my step. “I’ve walked myself home from church more than once. I think I know the way.”
“Never at night. Never this late at night and never after a few glasses of champagne. I’d feel better if someone walked with you.”
Before I could answer, the crowd rushed away from us, their commotion stirred by Katrina’s arrival on the church steps.
I nudged Charles. “Go. I think you’re supposed to be there with her.”
He hesitated before kissing my cheek—a rare show of affection that said everything I needed to hear—and rushing to the church steps at a gallop. The crowd gathered, then parted, making a pathway lit by lanterns held aloft. With absolutely no attention turned my way, I stepped back, away from the light, feeling for the moment the church lawn gave way to a pebbled path. At this point, my brother and his wife, their entourage and guests would turn left to make their way to the train station. I turned right and began my journey home.
The thoughts of the looming, empty house bothered me far more than the summer night darkness that swallowed me. In my mind, I knew I faced a few turns and the town would appear around a bend, nestled in a shallow prairie valley. I would smell the livery first, then—if anybody had bothered to light them—the towering streetlights would beckon and guide me to my front door.
At the first sound of footsteps behind me, I reasoned that somebody else, like me, realized their attendance in the crowd would not be missed and had decided to cut out for home. I did not turn to greet them, nor did I slow my step. My thoughts remained mired in my own self-pity until I heard them increase in rapidity, eventually a full-out run. Then I heard my name.
“Miss Patterson! Mariah!”
Still, I did not stop, and in no time Oscar Garland fell in step beside me, barely winded from his run.
“Did my brother send you?”
“Charles? No. But I thought I should tell you that you missed the bouquet toss.”
“That’s fine.” I held out my tattered silk roses. “I’ll have this one forever as a souvenir.”
“Since I’m here, I may as well see you home.”
His tone barely met the requirements of a gentlemanly offer, but I allowed my silence to masquerade as acceptance. Our steps were well matched, and we assumed a comfortable stroll.
“You didn’t want to see them to the station?” I asked.
“I’ve seen people get on trains before.”
“Charles and I said our goodbyes,” I said, feeling obligated to explain my exit. “You know, this is the first wedding I’ve ever been to.”
“Really? I’ve been to a few. They aren’t always this grand.”
“Grand. That’s a good word for it. I had a grand time.”
“I was watching you. That didn’t always seem to be the case.”
“There were isolated moments of grand,” I said, while my mind fizzed with the idea of him watching me.
We came to the final bend that led into the first of our town’s three streets. It was dark and quiet but familiar, and I told him I’d be fine to walk unaccompanied from here.
“Your brother would never forgive me,” Oscar said. He touched my elbow as if to guide me but did not take another step. I knew instinctively that he would only do so at my express invitation. An uninvited but not unfamiliar desire rose up, managing to snake its way up my spine, gliding along my sweat-slicked flesh.
“Are you staying in town?” I asked, feeling my way through uncharted conversation. “Surely you’re not heading back to De Smet this late?”
“I didn’t give it a lot of thought.” He wasn’t gripping my arm, merely cupped my elbow in his palm, but even through the voluminous sleeve, I felt the stroke of his thumb. “I have my horse boarding at the livery. Figured I know enough people to find a bed for the night. Or a barn.”
“You can stay with me.” I said it before thinking, unless I’d been thinking it all along, dreading this night—this first night—all alone.
“I don’t know that it would be a good idea, Mariah. People might think—”
“People wouldn’t think anything. I’m not the sort of person people think about.”
He stepped back, dropped his touch, and cocked his head, bemused. “You know, I once had a lady friend of mine tell me that all the girls in town had a saying. Two things every woman knows: Don’t walk out in a snowstorm, and don’t catch yourself alone with Cap Garland.”
I thought back to our conversation about his heroic feat. “Is that something you claim?”
He turned shy. “Let’s just say I’m no more a scoundrel than I am a hero.”
“Well, I’ve never had a group of lady friends to tell me anything,” I said, amazed at the strength behind my words. “And the only time I’ve ever walked out into a snowstorm is when Laura Ingalls told me to.”
“You ought to forget her.”
“Why? You haven’t.”
“I bear no grudge.”
“Don’t you?”
I wasn’t trying to achieve a note of finality, but I suppose I did, because Oscar said nothing. I walked, and he followed. We walked, turned a corner, walked, turned another, encountering no one in the street, and if anyone spied us from behind their candle-lit windows, they called nothing out in greeting.
“You can stay in Charles’s room,” I said when we got to the shop. “I made him clean it this morning.” I was tall enough to reach the spare key in its hiding place above the door if I stood on my toes but availed myself of Oscar’s shoulder for balance. Flat-footed, I opened the door with a steady hand and led him inside, where total darkness engulfed us. The familiar jingle of the closing door—Charles had finally fixed it as a parting gift to me—was the only sound other than our breathing. One step, and we were as close as we’d been when we danced. Now our bodies moved together in a decidedly different way as I felt the touch of his lips to mine, the silk of his moustache grazing my cheek. I offered no resistance, but my inexperience was an obstacle to overcome. He nudged me closer, pulled away and began again, and by the time I fully understood what it meant to kiss a man, I gave myself over until he consumed every bit of the woman I’d been until that moment.
Finally, I pulled away, my hands gripping his suspenders to keep me upright. By then, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I could no longer bear to be here in the middle of my brother’s workshop with nothing more than a window shade to hide my intent.
“Come upstairs with me,” I said in a voice I hardly recognized as my own.
“Mariah, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
He was right. I didn’t. Not completely, anyway. But I knew I did not want to be alone in that house that night, and I knew that whatever feeling of shame awaited in the morning couldn’t be worse than the sadness that gripped me in the night. I didn’t answer. Instead, I made my way to Charles’s work counter, drew a match from the box he kept on the top shelf behind it, and struck it. So much light from such a small flame, and Oscar came to life within it. I had no candle nearby, nor lamp, but the matchstick was long, and I knew from countless other nights that with my hand cupped round to guard it, the flame would last until I reached my room. I hadn’t taken three steps before I felt him following me, and when I finally touched the flame to the lamp beside my bed, I turned to find him standing in my doorway.
I think he might have stood there all night, and I too immobile, if I hadn’t asked him in, saying, “I need your help with my dress.”
“You—what?”
I went to him and turned my back. “All the buttons. I can’t reach them.”
I don’t know how long we stood there. He remained on the other side of the door, so not even his shadow stretched across my wall. He didn’t step across the threshold, but neither did he turn away, though Charles’s room was across the hall, its door open and inviting. Finally, I reached back and slipped the loop of string from the top button, the one entangled in the strands of hair that escaped the confines of my crown. I unfastened the second, then the third, and then I felt his fingers rough against my own. One by one, each button released, down to the point at the small of my back. While he worked, I took the pins from my hair and felt the single plait fall between my shoulder blades. He took it, moved it aside, and planted a kiss in the curve of my neck.
All day long I’d imagined I was melting—under Katrina’s scrutiny, under the sun, under the soaring rafters of the church. Not until this moment did I know what it truly meant to lose all form and function of mind and body. I felt the fabric of my dress slip from my shoulders as he turned me.
“I said I wasn’t a scoundrel, but I’m no saint, either.”
“I don’t want either.”
“What do you want?”
I hooked my fingers under his suspenders and backed into my room. “Something for myself. Just once.”
He followed. “I don’t want you to think”—he closed his eyes, opened them, and started again. “I’ve no intentions of marrying you.”
“I know.”
“You’re a fine woman, and you’ll find a man of your own someday. But it won’t be me. I don’t love you.”
I touched his face, placing my fingers against his lips. “I know.” All my life I’d been living on scraps and donations and things that other people left behind. Somehow it was easier knowing he loved someone else, knowing he was capable of love, at least. It gave me an ugly hope.
Stepping back, I held out my hands in a gesture that, under any other circumstances, would look like some sort of supplication. I indicated the row of tiny buttons on my sleeves. “These too. Please?”
And with his lips pressed to my pulse, he obliged.
CHAPTER 9
TRIXIE
Trixie tucked the book under one of the window seat’s pillows, and after a quick check to see that GG was still sleeping, ran down the stairs and out the front door, meeting her mother at the foot of the front steps.
“Where’s my car?”
“See?” Eugenie said. “I told you she’d have a fit straight off.”
“I’m not having a fit,” Trixie said. “Why should I be having a fit?”
“Calm down,” her mother said. “Think about the child.” This she said out of the corner of her mouth.
Samantha poked half of her body through the open car window. “Is she having a fit?”
“Everything’s going to be fine, darling,” Alma said, though Trixie couldn’t tell if the reassurance was meant for her or the six-year-old.
“What’s going to be fine, Mom?”
“Justus McCready said it happens all the time and wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
“Justus McCready?”
“Mechanic,” Grandma said. She walked up the steps, straight past Alma and Trixie. “Said it was the starter. Just went out.” She punctuated her statement with the closing of the screen door, never looking back.
Her head still floating with disjointed pieces, Trixie once again focused on her mother.
Alma sighed. “We got in the car after church, and it wouldn’t start. Dead. Not even a click. Mr. McCready was right there. He gave it a look over and—whatever Mother said. He’s being kind enough to order the part today but won’t be able to start work until tomorrow. Which is still incredibly generous of him. He’s not even charging for the tow.”
