The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton (48 page)

And then she, too, began to weep, putting her hands over her face and sobbing.

It astonished me that I had lost every single thing, including, at the moment, my very name and history. Right beside me, practically right in the room with me, was the other life that I had not managed to live, a common mode of existence, the natural extension of my first twenty-one years, the very easiest thing to go on with, it must be said. And yet I had gotten onto a different track entirely, and I had followed it to this room, among these strangers. She hadn’t said the wrong things, because nothing she might have said could have lessened my astonishment. I sat up and took a sip of the tea, and I was reminded how, when I got to Kansas City and woke up that first morning in the Humphry House, I had been so afraid, and it was a bite of something in my mouth that had gotten me over my fear. I took another sip. The tea was warm and bitter. I wondered what it would enable me to go on to. After drinking it, I took up the napkin and dried my tears.

"Oh, my goodness!" Helen sat up and took a deep breath. "Well, I am sorry for you, Louisa, and you may stay here as long as you care to, and you don’t have to tell me a thing about yourself, though of course I am dying of curiosity. This toast is told! Shall I have Delia make some more?"

"Who is Delia?"

"You haven’t met her. She’s the cook. I don’t know what she was doing when you came yesterday. More than likely, she was down in the cellar, looking things over. She’s a terrible one for hoarding, you know. She’s always making more jam and more jam and telling Ike to plant more potatoes and turnips and such. She’s scared to death we’ll starve someday. Why, this winter—when it was so cold?—we were fairly bursting, she made us eat so much at every meal. She kept saying, ’You thin out, you gon’ die, missy!’ And she will never thin out herself! She doesn’t say any of that to Lorna, though. No one tells Lorna what to do except Papa. When I was a girl, she had a husband come, you know, they had a ceremony and everything, even though Papa said no good would come of it, and he didn’t hold with servants getting married. Her husband was Jake Taler, whose owner made rope in Independence, and Jake got around some. I saw him myself, two or three times, but Jake didn’t tell her what to do, either. She told him what to do! I must say I am a bit afraid of Lorna myself."

"What happened to him?" I was much interested in the fates of husbands.

"Oh, I don’t know. I was only a girl. It was before Mama died, even. It was Mama who persuaded Papa to let them have the ceremony. He got sold. Papa said he was worth too much money to stay around here. This country don’t support a lot of niggers. That’s what Papa says. Let me get you more toast."

She stood and picked up the tray, then walked out of the room.

Things went on like this for another day, as the men turned out to be delayed. Helen confided to me that she was very glad to see me, as she had had no one to talk to in weeks—her two friends who lived but a short ride away were gone to Saint Louis for the summer and wouldn’t be back until the middle of September. Her sister Minna was up in Booneville at her aunt and uncle’s farm, preparing for her October wedding to the mysterious Mr. Oates, said to be from Virginia. Mr. Oates had purchased a farm between Booneville and Lexington, and wanted to be married from there, and her older sister Bella had moved to Saint Louis two years before, after her own wedding. She, Helen, was the last one left unmarried, and though she had two local suitors, neither one interested her, but she supposed she was going to have to take one or the other in the end, unless the influx of real cavaliers, who were coming in to "deal with those abolitionists," should supply the area with superior possibilities.

From time to time, Lorna came in, and it was she who tended to me. She was utterly strict in her nursing. She gave me strengthening broths and teas, changed the bed linen, changed my nightdress, bathed me, especially my feet, which after two days out of my boots were considerably swollen and covered with blisters. She pricked each blister with a needle and squeezed out the water, then swabbed my feet with an infusion of witch hazel. After that she dusted them with fine cornmeal. The degree of refreshment afforded me by this procedure cannot be described. She and Helen washed my hair. I lay on my back across the bed (the sheets and the counterpane pulled back), with Lorna supporting me under the neck and Helen pouring warm water through my short hair, then rubbing my scalp with a fragrant soft soap, then more water to rinse. It had been maybe a year since I had bathed in warm water. Lorna carried it up, pitcher after pitcher, an endless supply. Then Helen brought in towels and gently, oh so gently, patted and kneaded the strands dry, commenting all the time on my hair’s thickness and weight and color.

I said, "I suppose it came six or eight inches past my waist before I cut it off."

"I know it was splendid," exclaimed Helen. "I don’t see how you brought yourself to give it up!"

"It was a great deal of trouble. I haven’t missed it."

"But to do away with one’s beauty like that!" She looked at me. "I mean..."

"When my husband was killed, that did away with my beauty, because he was the only man who ever found me beautiful." Saying this gave me a pang, but it was a delicious pang—I had been avoiding thoughts of Thomas since first awakening in this room.

"My goodness," said Helen. "That is the saddest thing I ever heard any woman say!"

"Is it?" I said. I thought "They shot my husband" was sadder.

And Helen said, "Lorna told me some men shot your husband." She was sitting behind me, lifting the short strands of hair off my neck and fluffing them. Then she ran her fingers from the back of my neck upward, lifting. Well, it was as sad to hear it as to say it. She said, "Was it ... ? What was it ... ?"

"It was as if they took everything inside me and gave it a cruel half twist and then left it that way. I just felt it from head to toe."

"Oh, my goodness!"

"My husband was a great reader. Often, he read aloud to me, and I loved his voice; it was so thoughtful and deep, and it filled our little place right up. But even more than that, I loved to watch him read silently. He was terribly absorbed. I never got over the pleasure of seeing him absorbed in something he loved to do." As I said these things, which I had never said before about Thomas, I realized how true they were. "Many things amused him. He had a little smile, which was almost not a smile but a very private look, that showed he was watching something or someone. I loved that look. He was a good man. And he aspired to be a good man, too."

"Oh, Louisa! What was his name?"

I almost said Charles, but that disguise seemed a betrayal, and what would it hurt to tell the truth? I said, "Thomas."

"Were you together for many years?"

"A few months. Ten months. This time last year, I hardly knew him."

"Was he from around here, then? We know everyone down to Blue Springs, but I’ve never seen you before. But if you’re from over by Lexington, perhaps Papa knows your people."

She said this brightly, and I drew back, remembering where I was and who she was. I said, "He was from Kentuck. Round about Frankfort, I believe." Oh, Thomas! My sailmaking, oceangoing Bay State man! Perhaps it was I who would end up betraying you the most! I said, "I can’t talk about it anymore. It hurts me to talk about it."

The day passed away, and Lorna allowed me to have a bit of supper— pieces of boiled chicken and some bread with blackberry jam on it, a sliced-up peach. She said, "You color is much bettah. You done got ovah dis thang pretty quick, I mus’ say." She seemed suspicious.

"I doubt if I’ve hardly begun to get over it."

"If you a woman, you got to git ovah one thang aftah another, so you bettah start right quick."

"Helen said you had a husband."

"Still do, but I ain’ seen ’im now fa seven yeah. He done got sold to Arkinsaw dese seven yeah ago." She spoke matter-of-factly. "He send me word from time to time." She smiled in spite of herself. "But you got your reasons ’at you ain’ talkin’, an’ I got mine, and I ain’ talkin’, neider." She took up the tray and the dishes from my supper and left the room. She came back a bit later with a candle and her sewing and, while I dozed, sat beside me, turning the cuffs of someone’s white shirt. Helen came in—I heard her light, sympathetic voice in my sleep—and then she went out. Sometime later, I woke up, woke up completely, and sat up in bed. I guess that it was fairly late, as Lorna had fallen asleep in her chair without blowing out the candle, which had burnt down almost to the holder. The shirt she was sewing lay in her lap, and she still held her needle in her fingers, though her thimble had fallen to the floor and was rolling about—most likely the noise had awakened me. I got up to blow out the candle—I had a horror of candles burning when everyone was sleeping and always had; there were too many stories of inadvertent tragedy—but I paused to gaze at Lorna, partly because when she was awake she seemed to repel your gaze or turn it away, as if you had no right to peruse her; and it was with some trepidation that I perused her now, fearful that she would wake up and punish me. She was of medium height, smaller than she seemed, broad-shouldered and large-busted. The white kerchief around her head set off her dark skin like a frame. She was not beautiful—perhaps she was too old for that, being past thirty, no doubt, but her face was utterly distinctive, with a high forehead and prominent cheekbones, a strong chin. Where Helen’s visage reminded you of silk, Lorna’s reminded you of stone, of something smooth and cool and impenetrable. Only her lashes, which were long where they lay against her cheeks, had a beauty to them. And her hands, too. Her hands were as lovely as they felt, slender and strong and, even in repose, full of their long history of getting things done. I blew out the candle and returned to my bed, where I lay for a long time wondering how soon I could get away from this farm and what I would do then. Soon enough, my present feeling of enforced leisure would give way to something else. It frightened me that for the first time in many months, I had no idea what that would be.

At any rate, they would not allow me to get up the next day, either, even though my strength was returning as impatience and irritability. For one thing, I knew my case was out there across the road, thrust under the hay. Without it, I hadn’t even a dress to wear—my old brown dress that I had come to Kansas in was what I had left, since I had cut off the skirt of my cream-colored figured muslin—nor did I have Thomas’s books that I had saved, nor did I have my pistol or my rounds of ammunition. Helen was tiny—her nightdress stopped just below my knees. My guess was that the papa was a small man, too, and so there would be no stealing of clothes. When Lorna came in with my breakfast, I said, "What did you do with my things I was wearing?"

"De girl done laundered dat shirt and dem stockin’s. Dem boots waren’t worth savin’; you done walked right through dey soles. Missy Helen kep’ you watch fo’ ya. I don’ know what you gone do about a dress. You bigger dan everbody round heah."

"I’ve got a dress, but it’s in my case that I put under the hay across the road. Can you get it for me?"

"We done had a terrible rain since den—"

She saw my face fall.

"But maybe de hay save it." She stared at me, then she shook her head and exclaimed, "I don’ know wheah you come from, missy. You come outta some dream, seems to me."

"I came from Kansas." That I should not have said.

Lorna’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. She lowered her voice. "Well, dat’s a red-hot word round heah dat you don’t want to be sayin’ when Massa Richard come back. Massa Richard is death on Kansas. Ta heah him tell it, Kansas war stolen right away from him. Oh, he gits hot on de subjec’ and starts runnin’ his hands ovah his pistols lak he cain’ wait to shoot someone. Dey all feel dat, so you bettah jes’ not say de word. I say you is from Saint Louis or someplace lak dat."

"Palmyra?"

Now Lorna stared at me again, just for the smallest second, then she said, "Sure ’nuf. Palmyra is all right."

"When is Master Richard coming back?"

"I guess tonight. Delia, she makin’ a good hot supper fo’ him and dem others. Zak had to kill her four chickens, an’ she makin’ dumplin’s."

My mouth began to water right then, so I sat up and ate my breakfast. I could see out the windows from there, so when, a few moments later, I discerned Lorna and Helen making their way across the lawn to the road, I could only smile. I got up and watched them. They came to the road, crossed it, and were hidden by trees. After that, they were gone for what seemed like a long time, but then they reappeared. Lorna was carrying my case, which even from this distance looked considerably the worse for wear, and Helen was talking to her. Halfway up the lawn, Helen, grinning, ran to the house with the news. I got back into my bed, and she burst into the room. "We found it! Oh, Louisa, I was so afraid for you! You never know who is walking along that road; it’s a very well-traveled road. I was saying to Lorna that I despaired of finding it, and then what would you do? I couldn’t have told you! But we did find it, and it isn’t too wet, you’ll see." She ran out of the room and called down the stairs, then came back in. "And it’s heavy! I can’t believe you carried it all this way from—from— well, from wherever!"

I couldn’t remember where I had told Helen I was from, but then Lorna carried in my case, which was certainly battered and sodden. She set it on the floor, then she and Helen stepped back and looked at me expectantly. Obviously, I was to open it.

"Mercy!" said Helen. "I hope your things aren’t ruined! Last year, Minna and I went to an outdoor party, and we got caught in a terrible storm and had to cross the muckiest field! Oh, my goodness, our dresses were just black halfway up the skirt, and worse! And our bonnets! We’d only worn them that once! We were so downcast, but Lorna and Delia managed..."

Reader, I opened it.

There, on the top, were Thomas’s three books that I had saved—Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the Emerson essays, and a book called The Bigelow Papers, by Mr. Lowell. With them was my own fat volume, Miss Beecher’s housekeeping manual. I lifted them out and saw that Helen was looking at them, but I looked quickly away from her and didn’t see her reaction to them, if she had one. Underneath them was my brown woolen dress, quite damp and ill-smelling. Its color had leached out onto the things below—my bloomer, my shoes, and such. No shawl. Ah, yes, in my haste to depart the Missouri Rose, I had left my shawl behind, with my hair wrapped inside it. There really wasn’t much in my bag, and so we got very quickly to the pistol and the rounds of ammunition. Helen’s eyes got wide, and I saw she was having a good look. Lorna picked up my woolen dress and said, "Dis is a heavy thang! Ain’ you got no summer dress? You gone expire in dis thang, round heah."