The Memory Weaver Page 8

  “Got you to call me Andrew ’stead of Mr. Warren.”

  “Mr. Warren is proper. My mother never used my father’s Christian name, and you, well, for you, Mr. Warren is fitting.” I gathered my skirts and knitted shawl to slip around him. I didn’t like him just showing up, pressing his luck against my father seeing us. Our breaths were puffs of white against the crisp air. Lately we’d agreed to meet away from here, when my father was at the post office.

  “As it happens, I haven’t come to see you.” He grabbed my elbow, gentle but with purpose. He leaned in to kiss me and I let him. “I’ve come to see your pa about that baptism. Need to get that out of the way if we’re to wed when you turn seventeen. You haven’t changed your mind.”

  “I haven’t. Neither have I told my father.” I paused. “Are you really going to ask for a baptism?”

  “I am.”

  The horses stomped in their stalls. I could hear the crunch of their teeth grinding at the rye grass in their mangers. “I wonder if going forward on Sunday might be . . . better.” My father wouldn’t refuse him then. Who knew how he’d respond to a “drunk” with the two of them alone. I’m not sure why I thought my father would deny anyone, but Mr. Warren might be different in his eyes as I’d mentioned him again.

  “In front of everyone? Naw. I’ll have enough to stand for on Saturday nights with my card partners teasing that I must have done something religious to get you to marry me at last.”

  It was the first time I realized that cards might be a part of his thinking after we married, after he chose the faith.

  “You won’t be seeking such things once you have the spirit of the Lord inside you. He meets all needs.”

  Mr. Warren put his arm around my waist, pulled me to him. “Not all a man’s needs. Even your father has a second wife with spit and fire to her and surely there’s no finer man of God than him.”

  I hadn’t thought about my father’s “needs” in that way nor that Rachel had both spit and fire. She was comely and the harsher life here had required taking in and hemming her dresses. But my father had married Rachel to take care of us. He had married her the very day she’d stepped off the ship in Vancouver, took her to Forest Grove, then spent the night somewhere. He brought her home already his wife so there’d be no “talk” of impropriety. No, he married her for us and it was his bad fortune that she had so few abilities to care for herself, let alone four children. But then why did he keep her? It was a question I would ponder later, after I convinced Mr. Warren to wait. I needed more weeks to prepare my father.

  In May, I overheard Mr. Blakely ask my father my question at Brown and Blakely’s store. I stood as in a pool of still water between the aisles of crockery and tin candleholders, certain that the men weren’t aware that I was there. A slender Kalapuya Indian man carried fish in to Mr. Blakely, and after he left Mr. Blakely asked my father, “Can you make things work, then, Reverend?”

  I wasn’t sure at first what they talked of.

  “Rachel’s a good woman.”

  So Rachel’s lack of domestic skills was food for gossipy tongues. She was so unbeguiling, expressing her lacks through comments about how strange it is that “bluing turns sheets white” or wondering aloud “why people sing songs to the butter churn.” She didn’t know that the chant tells the churner when the dasher should go up or down. No one wished her ill will, but Mr. Blakely’s question while my father sorted mail was one I had asked of myself.

  “Can I make things work?” My father repeated his friend’s question, the shif-shif of letters being posted a backdrop to my beating heart. “I have to make things work. That’s what marriage vows mean. I made my bed, now I’m meant to sleep in it. Even if Rachel has no knowledge of how to clean the cords or pluck ducks for feathers or even sew the tick up.”

  Mr. Blakely laughed. “Well, I imagine she warms that bed good.”

  My father coughed. “She’s learning domestic skills. Eliza’s teaching her. It’s good training for Eliza’s own house one day. I once thought I’d send Eliza for more schooling. Her mother wanted that. To go back East or back to Tualatin Academy. But Rachel’s not ready yet to handle what needs doing. Oh, I can leave her alone enough to take Eliza with me to start that new church south of here. Not sure when Rachel will be ready for that. Travel’s hard on her. So—” He must have leaned across the counter as his voice got louder and I heard the slap of a post. “Can’t let Eliza go until there’s someone to take over, and until then, I can make it work.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Neither man spoke after that, each returned to his labor. Birds chirped and I heard the swooshing sound of Mr. Blakely winding string onto the roll he’d later use to wrap paper around the dry goods bought by the women of Brownsville. It was 1854, spring. My mother’d been gone three and one-half years.

  It came to me that what my father wanted in this second marriage was someone to care for his children, not a workmate as my mother had been, not a companion. He had me for that. He wanted a mother for us, a noble cause. But when he saw his new wife couldn’t be that, he was willing to sacrifice my future education, my mother’s dream for me, willing to say to himself it was fine to keep me home until his children were raised, to keep my life as his companion in the work. There’d be no path for him to give his consent to marriage for me, not to Mr. Warren or any young man. Not until Millie and Martha Jane were old enough to be married and on their own and that was ten years away, at least. Millie, the youngest, was only seven.

  I shivered, standing in the aisles. My gloved fingers turned cold.

  My father might have thought that Rachel would learn how to wash the bed ropes every spring or how to gather straw for the tick or how to get that stove temperature right to boil eggs and pay attention long enough the eggshells didn’t burn on one side and pop out on the other in a scorched and waterless pan. No, this was as it would be, whether by Rachel’s stubborn design not to learn new things or the privileged life she had before when someone else did everything for her. I saw my future laid out before me, a hostage to my father’s wishes.

  A drunkard, my father had called Mr. Warren. Well, I could handle that. I too could “make things work.”

  8

  Making Things Work

  I sought him out. Mr. Warren no longer worked at the docks in Oregon City. Instead he’d begun repairing the log house on the donation land claim he’d purchased for us or was paying on, at least. We’d spoken of a December wedding, but that was too long to wait. I imagined him being injured. Maybe falling from the roof he patched with new shakes. There were rattlesnakes in the hills behind the farmstead. One might creep in at night and strike. Measles. Had he been exposed to measles? I certainly had, at Waiilatpu that year. I imagined him getting the speckled disease and then like the Indians sweating in their lodges before plunging into cold rivers and their deaths. I remembered how Dr. Whitman had tried to warn the Cayuse about not sweating, not jumping in the rivers. They had not listened and blamed him for killing their own while the “whites” survived. If I imagined Mr. Warren taking such a cure, then he would not do it. It made perfect sense to me. Imagine the worst; control the future.

  “Mr. Warren!” I shouted, not seeing him on the roof as I rode up. “Are you about?”

  I waited in the quiet, slipped off Nellie, and led her to the hitching post. Moss covered the overhang on the wooden porch I stepped up on. “Mr. Warren? Are you here?” The quiet left unease. Inside, the house was empty but for a small table, two chairs, a cot, and some empty bottles in the corner. Beer? Whiskey? More likely elixirs. My foot caught on a raised portion of the floor. Creak, creak . . .

  I am back at Waiilatpu, back seeing the floor where Nancy Osborne and her family hid, that place they snuck out from when they escaped that night. I see shadows move in the darkness and much later hear a Cayuse say, “Spalding’s dead.” My body is numb. I hear nothing; all is quiet. I don’t remember anything after slipping to the floor and falling asleep. Hands touch my
shoulders and I scream.

  “Whoa! It’s just me. A nice surprise having you here.”

  “Andrew? Oh! I . . . yes, I thought I’d see your progress.” My heart pounded and my breathing turned shallow. “Please, please don’t do that. Don’t startle me.”

  “Sorry. Are you checking up on me? I’ll be ready by Christmas. Don’t you worry.”

  I looked into his brown eyes the color of soft fur. Could I find safety there? I wasn’t certain. I plunged in anyway. “Let’s not wait until Christmas. I think we should go this month, this day even, to the judge in Oregon City. Speak our vows and claim each other forever.”

  “Not a church weddin’? Don’t think your father would approve of that, darlin’.” His Missouri history sometimes showed up in his words. “Besides, I haven’t spoken my promise to you yet, about the faith.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “I guess I do. But ’Liza, you wanted everything correct and proper and I’m willing. We can do this in the church—”

  “Belief is enough. You are a part of the faith. Baptism can come any time after, by a minister in Oregon City if need be.” I’d just thought of that.

  “Your pa would want you to wait.”

  “Yes, until forever.”

  “That’s true. Very true.” He stroked my arm.

  “He wants me to look after the girls. And teach Rachel Jane all about keeping house, cooking, raising children.” I fiddled with the ties on his shirt. “We can bring my sisters here, after we’re married, Henry too, can’t we? Let my father cook for her. Rachel can go with him to hand out paper tracts when he speaks at churches here and there. That’s the life he wants.” She couldn’t carry a tune in a butter churn but so be it. I took a breath.

  “Wait, ’Liza. Eliza.” He held my shoulders at arm’s length, bent down to look at my eyes beneath my bonnet. He pushed my poke off, untied the ribbon at my throat, then tossed it with one hand onto the cot. Beside another pile of bottles. I turned my attention back to him.

  “Are you backing out, Mr. Warren?” I hadn’t imagined him doing that. Why hadn’t I imagined that, to keep it from happening?

  “No, no.” He took me into his arms then, kissed the top of my head. “No. I’m grateful as a man can be that you would want to hurry our promises along. The house isn’t ready but if you are, we can make do. We could have Hugh Brown marry us, right here. He’s a JP.”

  “No. Away from here. And about the children? My brother and sisters? You told me they could come live with us.”

  “We can cross that bridge after we’ve crossed this river. Let’s plan for tomorrow. Will you tell your father?”

  “Not until after I’m Mrs. Andrew Warren.”

  We made arrangements to meet the following day and I rode home. I sliced ham from our smokehouse, remembering that Mr. Warren said that’s where he’d been when I rode up, in a smokehouse; so we’d have pork at least, and smoked salmon when the fish made their run up the Calapooia. I didn’t hear any chickens, so maybe my father would eventually give me the loan of one or two laying hens or Nancy’s family might let us buy one. I thought of Nancy, wished I could include her on this special day, but it wouldn’t be wise to tell anyone. While I organized in my mind what I could pack and take with me, I cut up last year’s potatoes into grease I put in the spider, then set the three-legged skillet on one of the stove’s eyes to heat. Millie and Martha played with the stocking dolls Rachel had knitted them. I had one too, stuffed with duck feathers inside a tiny sack, a miniature bed tick with arms and legs attached. The limbs flapped around, but the center, like my resolve, was firm. I touched the leather purse at my waist. The ring was in there. Did I dare to use it?

  In that lull before my father stopped his lesson preparation and I served supper, I carried a bag of my clothing wrapped inside one of my mother’s quilts out into the barn. Nellie nickered and I spoke softly to her of my plans. Horses know how to keep secrets.

  That evening, everyone ate well and seemed especially jovial. My brother even commented on the great taste of the dumplings, something he rarely did. I wondered if he knew, but didn’t see how he could. I listened with attentive ears to the conversations: Rachel’s nasal Boston tone, my father’s clipped responses to simple questions followed by lengthy answers when an issue of principle or justice or the Indians or the legal status of colored people in Oregon came up. The little girls giggled when I told them of a rabbit Yaka had chased and how the dog’s tongue hung off to the side of his mouth. I breathed my family in, aware that this was the last evening I would have as Eliza Spalding, their older sister. After this I would be forever Mrs. Andrew Warren. I would make things work.

  That night, I whispered the Lord’s Prayer three times as I crawled onto my straw-filled tick, slipped under the quilt, pushing Martha a little from the middle. She sprawled in her sleep. I wondered if Mr. Warren slept face up or down, feet straight or curled against the cool. The last thing I did that evening before I tried to sleep was imagine the terrible things that might happen in the morning: Andrew changes his mind. My father discovers my quilted bag in the barn. Millie, Martha, and Henry come down with fevers. Rachel has a stomach complaint I couldn’t cure with asafetida or valerian. Nellie gets loose. Yaka dies. Andrew isn’t there when I arrive in the morning.

  My eyes flew open, wide awake. A full moon shone through the window. A rushing in my head and heart pressed my eyes as though someone had thrown cold water on my face. A need to do this now, before it could be stopped. I wondered why I waited.

  So I didn’t.

  Nellie nickered when I entered the barn, the moon beaming streams of pale light through the cracks in the barn wall. The smell of hay comforted. “We’re going for a night ride.” I whispered the words. I knew the river would be fordable and I wouldn’t need to wake Kirk’s ferryman. I also didn’t want to take the new covered bridge, as Nellie’s hooves echoed in the structure. She didn’t like it either. The plodding of Nellie through the stream might wake the ferryman, but I doubted it. Even if he heard it he’d have no reason for alarm. And the moon would light my path.

  I saddled Nellie, tied the quilt rolled up behind the saddle, found the stump I used to mount, slipped my leg onto the knee brace of the sidesaddle, leaned down to push the door open, rode through. I eased the door closed, though couldn’t reach to hook it shut. I hoped the wind wouldn’t blow it open or my father would see it early and notice Nellie—and then me—gone. I wanted as much lead time as I could manage.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  I twisted my head. “Henry Hart. What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I guess I’m old enough to be up before sunrise.”

  “It’s a long way ’til then. Go back to bed.”

  “Heading to Andrew’s, are you? I could ride with you, keep you company.”

  “Oh Henry Hart, I’d love your company, but this time, this is, well, it’s a secret, but I’ll share it with you. Promise you won’t tell Father for at least a week. Promise?”

  He nodded his head. “You’re getting married.”

  “How did you know that?” I hadn’t imagined Henry interfering. He pointed his chin toward the bedroll. “I didn’t figure you’d spend the night ’less you were proper married.”

  “We will be soon enough. And I’ll be back. We’re going to live north of here, but a little ways, and I can see you often.”

  “I’d like that.” His next words startled. “I’m lonely, ’Liza. I miss our trips, you and Father and I, to Fort Vancouver and Spokane. I miss Mama and Timothy and Matilda and Joseph and even sneaky Mr. Craig. I miss them all.” His voice broke. “And I miss you, even though you’re here.”

  In that moment I knew I missed that Lapwai life too. All those people who had been so much a part of what we did, all the Nez Perce who welcomed my parents and the Jesus books, who sang the songs we loved. I missed them all despite their betrayal. And oh, how I missed our mother.

  I dismounted and took my brother in my arms
. “I’m not abandoning you, I’m not. I’ll be back.” I held him as a puppy clings to comfort.

  “It won’t be the same, it won’t. Everything’s changed.” He’d had no part in either the massacre or the hostage stalemate that went on for four weeks and I’d thought him unscathed by the ordeal. But he’d seen my father arrive, feet bloodied, near death; he’d been there when Mr. Cranfield brought the original news of all the Whitmans’ deaths, and my own, in error; he’d been rushed upriver by the Nez Perce, then to Spokane, and then on to Fort Vancouver where they waited while the British negotiated the release of the captives, then overland to Tualatin Plains and finally to Brownsville, disrupted like an acorn bounced along by grazing hogs or cattle. He’d suffered too.

  “You’re right, it won’t be the same. But we can make something new between us, new memories that aren’t hurtful and all wrapped up in Mama’s dying and Rachel coming and all that sadness . . . before.” I felt him sob against me, swallowed grief that shook his shoulders. “Shh, shh now, it will be all right.” I held him away, looked into his tear-spilled eyes. “We’ll be all right. All of us. I’ll see to that. You can come and live with us, Mr. Warren and me. Would you like that?” I hadn’t gotten Mr. Warren’s approval for the offer, but I hoped it would bring small comfort to my brother at this moment.

  He thumbed his eyes. “He’s all right, I guess. But I’m not sure Father will be all right without you here.”

  “Father will do fine.” I said the words to convince myself as much as Henry.

  He nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I’d better go back in.”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t want the others to come trotting out here. I’d never get off. Lend me your hand, will you?”

  My brother formed a cup of his palms and I stepped in as he lifted me upward toward Nellie’s saddle. He stepped back as thunder rumbled.

  “I won’t forget you, Henry. I won’t.”