This Road We Traveled Page 5

  The child nodded.

  “Good. My father had shown me how to slow down by dragging my toe, and I did that as I approached what I knew to be a nubbin-infused part of the lake and pushed off to my left. Everything was a dance and I stopped myself as three skaters swished by. Then, watching them wing past me, while simply standing, I fell over.”

  Sarelia gasped.

  “I heard the bone crack and wailed with the pain. Alvin had seen me fall and he shouted to my father, who skated over and swished to a stop, pushing up tiny beads of ice as he bent. ‘Can you get up, Tabby? Where does it hurt?’

  “I pointed to my ankle, and when he lifted me, the weight of the boot and skate felt like a horse pulled against it. ‘It’s worse, Papa,’ I told him.

  “He lifted my leg to bear the weight as he skated me to the warming house, where my mother sat beside a fire. I saw the look pass between them, and then she began to remove the skate, my foot already swelling tight against the bindings. ‘This will hurt now. Be strong.’ Papa eased the boot off as best he could, but I remember the pain as searing, almost causing me to swoon. Or maybe it was the smell of blood. Was this the biggest challenge of my life?

  “My father proved to be my wings that day as he whisked me to the carriage and then his surgical office. I tried to see my foot, but my coat and my father’s back as he bent over me severed my view. He would try to set the bone, the sharp one sticking out. I could view it with my stocking cut off and the blood washed away. The throbbing was like a woodpecker thumping on a tree. My mother administered the laudanum and I felt lifted away from the present moment as a leaf is levitated by a calming breeze.” Tabby floated her fingers into the air to demonstrate. “I had momentary wings. The sensation kept me from the knowledge I would come to later, that my first experience with skates upon my feet would be my last.”

  “Oh, Gramo. That must have hurt soooo much.”

  “That it did. And the accident marked a turning point for my father. His usual demeanor of happiness and hope faded as red dye over time weeps into black.” Tabby’s fingertips brushed Sarelia’s braids. “Perhaps seeing me every day and his not being able to fix me up as good as new proved torturous. Once I heard him tell my mother that he had ‘botched the repair.’ But I told him that broken things can be patched up, not as good as new, maybe. But useful. My father blamed himself. I had done that as well, thinking if only I had done something differently, the accident wouldn’t have happened. But that’s what accidents are, for the most part: unplanned. We can only imagine how to pick up the pieces and wing anew through the sky, reaching higher.” She smiled at her grandchild. “Always reach higher, Sarelia Lucia, push yourself beyond what you think it is you are limited to and let God surprise you with the result.”

  “All right, Gramo. I’ll keep reaching higher. Like to your cookie jar? It’s too high on the shelf for me.”

  Tabby tweaked Sarelia’s cheek, then pointed to a stool. “Sometimes we have to use tools to help us.” Something she needed to remember herself.

  7

  The Reality of Things

  Virgilia’s enthusiasm began to wane the second day out. Holding Beatrice in her cage on her lap, being squeezed in the stuffy stage between her grandmother and an oversized man who fluffed out his suit coat as though it was a skirt, the dust and chicken smell all sucked at her usually positive spirit. The man snored as he snoozed (how anyone could was beyond her), often dropping his head onto her shoulder. He kept his vest and jacket unbuttoned. Well, it was pretty hot inside so maybe that made sense, but the women had to keep their corsets on and dress buttons all the way to their throats. She waved a handkerchief to stir the stale air, giving rise to an errant chicken feather. No summer dresses for this kind of travel. Across from her sat a young woman with a swaddled baby and a man who didn’t talk to the woman but smiled at the infant now and then. Maybe her husband? A brother? Virgilia let her mind imagine scenarios about the others on the stage. Wanted for murder and they’ve hidden out in remote Missouri. Running from a domineering brother. Traveling to reunite with her husband, bringing their child. Virgilia liked that scenario best. She dozed, though rest was only tolerable. Her chin dropping onto the cage woke her with a start.

  But there were lessons here. The way her grandmother made friends with everyone, for example. She complimented people, like how careful the mom was with her baby or how the fluffy man had so politely helped her grandmother up onto the stage and didn’t mind that she had to lay her hickory walking stick down so their feet rolled across it while they rode along. She never complained about the stage conditions nor the food nor the tattered beds, though one night they did request a change, as Virgilia saw bugs crawling on the graying white sheet. They considered letting Beatrice from her cage to consume the problem. If complimenting people was all it took to warm them up, then maybe Virgilia herself could find a way to have reasonable conversations with strangers, boys included, and maybe one day she’d make a friend of someone new.

  The second best part of the trip was anticipation, a foray into the future. She’d see Pherne, her cousin, once they arrived. She hadn’t had a letter from her for a long time, but they were family, so Virgilia was certain they would fit together like hands to a glove. There’d be new routines, different paths to walk, and fresh ideas to ponder.

  “I think we should arrive tomorrow at Vibbard,” her grandmother told her as they settled into bed, their fifth night out.

  “Will we have to rent a buggy to go to Uncle’s farm?”

  “Possibly. But maybe we can walk it. You know, if Manthano will have me, I’ll likely not return to St. Charles.”

  “You won’t?” That possibility had not occurred to her. “I’d . . . I’d go back alone?”

  “You’ll do fine. I’ve watched you. You’re kind and gracious and smart and know when to be quiet.”

  “But I haven’t ever, I mean, what if we’re robbed? Or what if I miss the stage while I’m tending to my dailies? Or what if—”

  “Living in the what-ifs is dangerous. Those are good questions to ask in the planning of a thing. I’m sure your uncle Orus asked himself, ‘What if my mother was to join us?’ He obviously didn’t like the answer. But once you’ve decided, well then, you can’t keep worrying about what lies ahead. It will rob you, Virgilia. You must take each moment, find the good in it, and be grateful.”

  Virgilia shook out her petticoat to be worn in the morning. “But bad things do happen, Gramo.” She thought of Oliver and of her grandmother’s foot that stumbled her so.

  “They surely do. But worrying about them doesn’t stop them, now does it?” Her gramo squinted at her through round eyeglasses. “What is it you’re afraid of?”

  Virgilia looked at her shoes. “Snakes and loneliness and sickness and . . . snakes.”

  “Snakes? Well, facing that fear will only make you stronger. As for sickness and dying, they happen to us all. No sense worrying them sooner.” She plumped her pillow. “And loneliness, well, that’s where your imagination comes in. You have to build yourself a ladder to take yourself out of sadness or grief or fear. Each rung lifting into better light.”

  “Like Jacob’s ladder?”

  “Something like that. Now, Child, we best get some rest.”

  Virgilia lay quiet beside her grandmother, trying not to move or upset her sleep. Imagination. She hadn’t considered it a rung of a ladder, something she could draw on to change the circumstances she found herself in. She’d build a ladder with courage as a rung. Maybe kindness would lift her higher too. It was the image she fell asleep pondering.

  When they arrived at the stage stop in Ray County, there were no buggies to rent and the stage manager told them it wasn’t a far walk to the “Brown Plantation.” So walk they did, leaving their bags and Beatrice (with a fresh pan of water) at the stage stop until they could be sent for. Dust wisped over their shoes as they trekked along the boardwalk. Quail chattered. Virgilia slowed her pace to her grandmother’s. It was near
ly dusk when they saw the house on a hill described to them, scrub oak and cherry trees clustered in plots that Virgilia’s uncle must have planted with an eye for design. He’d set the house within them, the white pillars like steamboat stacks announcing their importance. A winding drive led up the hill, where Virgilia helped her grandmother use the stile to climb over the fence. Dogs barked. Her grandmother’s breathing sounded labored.

  “Why don’t I go on ahead, Gramo. You rest here.”

  “I’m good. I am.” But the woman leaned against her walking stick. “Yes, you go ahead as you offered to. I’ll be along.”

  Virgilia hesitated. “They have slaves, Papa said. Should I speak to them?”

  “Of course, Child. They’re people like us. Tell them we’re kin and ask for your aunt and uncle.” Her grandmother panted in the early-evening heat, and the soft breeze moving the cottonwood trees didn’t cool even with the spring nearby. She adjusted her crocheted collar, brushing at the dust.

  “I’ll ask for Pherne if Aunt Catherine isn’t about.” Virgilia straightened her bonnet and admired the leafless path and white pillars on the porch. She could do this, meet strangers, introduce herself. She had courage.

  The house wasn’t on a high stone foundation the way St. Charles homes were. No fears of flooding here. The mansion looked south over a river, a tributary to the Missouri. As she approached, a dark-skinned man dressed in a fine suit of clothes stepped out on the porch. His presence and the imposing structure started to steal her confidence.

  “Good evening, sir. You’re looking very dapper this evening. What a fine suit.”

  “May I help you, miss?”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m Virgilia Pringle, Mr. Manthano Brown’s niece. That’s his mother.” She turned and pointed toward her grandmother, who had begun the slow trek up the driveway.

  “I’ll tell them you’re here, miss.” He bowed to her and started to walk inside.

  Virgilia licked her dry lips, excitement growing as she anticipated seeing her relatives, sleeping in a comfortable bed, and best of all, giggling and sharing secrets with Pherne.

  “Is Pherne here?” The words blurted out.

  The porch man, or whatever he was, had already turned away but stopped and came back. “Mrs. Bain no longer lives here. She’s married and lives in Camden. I’ll tell the Browns that you are here.”

  “Married?”

  “That’s what that man said. Pherne’s only sixteen, a year younger than me, Gramo. And she hadn’t even written about it.”

  “Nor included any of us in her wedding festivities, either.” Tabby wondered how Manthano’s family had become so estranged. “Maybe there’s a good reason they didn’t invite the rest of the clan.” Tabby had her own disappointment with that news, surprised at how the slight of not being included stung. She loved occasions and a granddaughter’s wedding would have been one. “I’m sure there’s a good reason.”

  A smallish black boy lit lanterns along the railing as dusk whispered in. Then a tall, handsome man with trimmed sideburns and a smooth face stepped onto the newly whitewashed porch. “A good reason for what, Mother?”

  “A good reason why it’s been so long since I’ve put my arms around my son.”

  He bent to help her up the steps, taking her hand, then motioned them inside without coming into the open arms she offered to hug him with. Moths flickered at the lights; tiny bugs alighted on her shoulder, then flitted away. Tabby straightened her back.

  “Do you recognize your niece Virgilia?”

  “I see resemblance to my sister now that you say it. That honey-colored hair and eyes as blue as cornflowers. Do you have dimples when you smile? How did you get here, Mother?”

  “We walked. From the stage house.” She caught her breath at the top of the stairs.

  “You should have sent word instead of that hard walk. I’ll send Tom to get your things.”

  “We’re here now.”

  “We’re finishing our supper. I assume you have not eaten?”

  “We have not eaten.”

  “Come along then.”

  The welcome from Manthano had not been warm, but then she had expected nothing more. Somewhere along the journey of their lives this son had chosen to set himself away and apart. He liked making his own shadow rather than trying to shine within his brother’s. Or his mother’s. But it had been years since she’d seen him. She would have liked holding her son for a moment.

  Five children looked up as Tabby and Virgilia entered the large room where Manthano’s second wife, Catherine, sat at the head of the table, her chair pushed back to accommodate her pending childbirth. So many lanterns lit the room there were no shadows at all, even in the corners.

  “You remember my wife, Catherine. And children, here are your grandmother and cousin Virgilia.” Each of the children stood, said their name with a “Welcome,” and the girls curtsied their respect.

  “I’ll have ham brought in and cheese.” He motioned to the black woman who had begun clearing the table. “We have bread from today. Will that suffice?”

  Catherine spoke then, her voice husky with fatigue. “We want you to have more than sufficient, Mother Brown.” She scowled at her husband. “Sweets are in order, don’t you think, children? To honor the occasion? Would you like peppermints, Virgilia?” The girl nodded and Catherine smiled. “You are welcome here. Forgive my not rising. I am . . . well, you see.” She cast her eyes toward her stomach.

  A few “yes, ma’am” and “Sweets!” rose up from the children, who eased their formality as they made room for Virgilia on the bench, and Manthano brought a chair for Tabby.

  “What brings you, Mother?”

  “Oh, our business can wait until morning, Son. Let’s enjoy this family time, shall we? Catherine, I was sad to learn of your boy’s passing last year. A great loss when a child cannot thrive.”

  Catherine nodded, and for a moment Tabby wondered if she should have mentioned the death of a child while another waited to enter this world. But Orus had said she expected, though grief still hovered from their baby not surviving a year. There’d been no letters telling of the birth or the death that followed, the news only coming because Orus had stopped at Manthano’s on the way back.

  “Thank you for the condolences. We should have written, but . . .”

  “You had enough on your plate.” Tabby patted Catherine’s back, felt her slender shoulder bones. She said to her son, “You might have written, though. You haven’t forgotten how, have you, Son?”

  Why she jabbed at him she didn’t know. He’d been a good student as a child, but he didn’t like to either read or write. He had a head for numbers, which explained in part his present prosperity.

  “I imagine Orus has told you of our plans to head to Oregon next year?” Manthano said then.

  Tabby heard Virgilia gasp. She almost did herself. “You’re going to Oregon too?”

  “You know Orus. He convinces, says I can have a larger farm there and without the moral puzzle of keeping slaves. If you came hoping I’d encourage you to go as well, you are mistaken, Mother. You’re frail, and from all I hear, the trip is so demanding you would likely not survive. For once, perhaps you should listen to others.”

  “Orus did not tell me you were thinking of leaving Missouri too.”

  “Perhaps he picked up on Catherine’s reluctance, but we have worked that through.”

  Tabby watched a slight narrowing of Catherine’s eyes as though she might object but kept silent. “I . . . I had no idea you would make such a large change. You have so much here. The farm. Your boot-making business in town.”

  “We have had words over it.” Catherine passed honeyed butter to Virgilia.

  “I imagine you have. Goodness, Manthano, if you’re worrying about me not being able to make the trek, what of your wife? New mothers will have a challenge as well, I would think.”

  “She is willing and will be rested from the arrival of our next child due anytime. It will be a new start for us.
”

  “Yes, yes it will.”

  His mind was made up. Unless Virgil listened to his wife’s reluctance, by this time next year all Tabby’s children would be on that trail west, all but “this old folk.” The ache she’d been carrying grew deeper. They were all leaving. Why hadn’t Orus told her that? Well, maybe it hadn’t been decided when he’d come through. But now, well, she would be left with none of her children? Unless Virgil listened to Pherne and stayed behind.

  “I see your shoe is in need of repair, Mother. I’ll take it tomorrow and remake it myself.”

  “I’d be grateful.” A small gesture of healing in this fractured relationship, even if it was just to fix a shoe.

  Virgilia didn’t know if her family had made that decision to go or stay, but she had hoped if they didn’t, that Gramo would keep her small feet right under the table next door rather than at Uncle Manthano’s, so far away. With her uncle’s announcement that his family planned to join Orus, she didn’t know what her gramo would do. She’d seen how surprised Gramo was when that branch of the Brown tree said they’d be heading west and that both her uncles now thought Gramo’s old and broken limbs weren’t up to the journey. Virgilia had listened at her uncle’s office door later. He’d been adamant, saying his mother needed to learn to accept “the reality of things.”

  “The reality of things is that you are elderly. You are lame. You are frail, and your going would put your life at risk as well as others who might have to slow down for you. Don’t be foolish, Mother.”

  “What life will I have if my entire family leaves me behind?”