The Staircase (13 page)

"You poor child, of course not. You had a terrible day. Tell me, have you any news?"

"Of what?"

"Delvina. They won't let me see her. And I probably couldn't get out of this chair, anyway. They say she is dying."

"She can't be!" Why I said such, I didn't know. Certainly women died all the time from having babies. But why hadn't the other girls told me?
Silly,
I thought.
They don't care if Delvina is dying. They care only about their stupid miracle.

Mrs. Lacey took my hand in both of hers. "She lost a lot of blood. I'm so worried they'll blame Lozen. But she did her best. She wasn't supposed to deliver babies, you know. She had no license. But who else was there to help her? Only Jesse James, and what does he know?"

I blinked. "Jesse James?"

"Yes, of course. He kept watch. That's what Delvina told
me. Oh, I must tell him to be careful. I'll leave a note for him today. If the authorities go after Lozen, they'll be on his scent."

Was she beset with her fancies again? I looked at her. The eyes that gazed back were rheumy, red rimmed. She was sickly. The night air and the excitement of last evening had set her back.

"You must do some favors for me today, dear, will you?"

"Of course," I said abstractedly.

"First you must try to get into the sickroom and see Delvina. I hear the Bishop is coming from his farm tonight to baptize the baby."

"The baby! Is it well? And is it a boy or a girl?"

"A darling little baby girl. And well. The baptism will be a precaution. I wish you to bring Delvina this and let me know how she is doing." She held out a soft, warm shawl, so delicate in weave and color that it looked like an angel's wing.

"I'll do my best," I promised.

"And you must take this note and leave it under a stone on top of the cubicle that holds the lantern for my son." She handed me a piece of folded vellum.

"You're not going to the cemetery this afternoon?" I asked.

"I want to, child. But I'm considerably weakened from this neuralgia. So you must be my emissary. The note is for Jesse James. Let no one see it. It will warn him that the authorities may be about, and he must stay away from the fort."

I didn't, for a moment, believe that Jesse James was at the fort. Or even in New Mexico. But I promised to do it.

"Make sure my son's lantern is lit," she instructed. "Don't wait about for Jesse. He won't come out if you're there, much as you admire him. Just leave the note. I don't think you'll see
Lozen at all, of course. Now give me one of those powders Sister Roberta left for me and some water. There's a good girl. I don't know what I'd do without you, Lizzy."

I gave her the powder and water, covered her with an afghan, and straightened the hops-filled pillow. Then I kissed her forehead. "I'll be by to see you later," I said.

THE CHAPEL WAS DESERTED.
There was a note tacked on the door by Mother Magdalena. "By order of the Mother Superior: The carpenter is working inside. If you wish to pray, slip in silently and stay in the front pews. Please do not approach him. He is very shy, and his work must proceed without interruption."

I slipped in silently. But I did not go into the front pews. I walked down the center aisle toward the back. The scene was strange. I don't know what I expected, but not this. All around where the staircase would be, he had already removed some church pews, leaving others behind the area still standing. There were candles, in all manner of holders, lit in profusion where he was working. They cast a wondrous glow. And there were tubs of water in which sat his wood.

"Hello," I said.

He turned and smiled. He had already sawed some wood, and sawdust was sprinkled on the floor. "Can I fetch you anything?" I asked.

"No, no, I have all I need, thank you."

"Are you still sleeping in the barn?"

He nodded. "I have a nice, cozy corner. And they feed me in great plenty."

"Oh, I'm so glad. But how can you do all this without a helper?"

"Oh, I've been a carpenter for years. We work best alone."

"Tools," I said. "They have tools here. I saw them in the shed. If you need any, I'm sure you have only to ask."

"Thank you, but my hammer, T square, and saw will suffice." He stopped working then and looked at me. I thought he appeared to be a bit younger this morning. "You are the only girl who has bothered to come and inquire of my needs. The others rush in here and out."

"Mother Magdalena has told people not to bother you. I'm disobeying her by talking to you," I admitted.

"The others stare and point at me. I hear their whispers. 'We prayed for Saint Joseph to send us a miracle, and look what we got. A broken-down old man. He couldn't make a staircase in a hundred years.'"

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's because they made a novena to Saint Joseph. Now it is over and they await a miracle. And they think Saint Joseph will be insulted if you do the work while they are waiting for him to respond."

He looked at me. "And you? You don't await this miracle?"

"No. I'm afraid I haven't time for miracles. Or the heart, anymore."

"It is always good to believe."

"It's also good to get to the task and try to make things happen yourself. Isn't it?"

"A little of both is the answer, I think," he said. And then he went back to his work, measuring.

"My father always said a person makes his own luck." I shocked myself as those words came off my tongue. I had not spoken to anyone of my father since he left me.

"Your father must be a good man."

I blushed. "He lost an arm in the war. But he can do most everything with one arm. Only he left me here and went on to Colorado."

"And you are sad to be left."

"I'm angry. He didn't even say good-bye. He sneaked off in the middle of the night."

The carpenter was wiping some wood he'd taken out of the tub, rubbing it tenderly. And for a moment he did not answer. I felt embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have told you that."

He nodded slowly. "The most difficult thing in the world is to be a parent."

"Are you a father?"

"I had a child. Yes."

"Where is he now?"

"Soon we must let our children go," he said. "To find their way in the world. This is more difficult even than being a parent."

He spoke in riddles, it seemed. Well, he was old. Old people do that. Look at Mrs. Lacey. Anyway, I couldn't linger. I told him if there was anything he needed, he should ask me. "I feel responsible for you," I said, "because I brought you here."

He smiled and said what needs he had were few.

I left him there with his tubs of wood and his candlelight. As much as I hated the other girls for what they were doing, going to the Bishop to have the beggar man removed, he worried me. He could never make that staircase. One man with three tools? He needed a helper. He needed better lighting and more tools. Perhaps I shouldn't have brought him
here. Still, I hoped the Bishop wouldn't dismiss him. At least he was trying. Nobody else had come up with a solution, had they?

Saint Joseph, indeed. I rushed down the hall. I had some letters to write.

THEY WOULDN'T LET ME
in to see Delvina, either. The nuns barred my way. One guarded the door of the small sickroom while others rushed in and out with piles of soiled linen and basins of hot water, murmuring, "Not now, not now."

I stood there stupidly with the soft, warm shawl, so delicate in weave and color that it looked like an angel's wing. As Sister Catherine came out I glimpsed the scene inside. Sister Roberta was taking the baby from Delvina and saying something to her in Spanish. "
La veremos dentro de poco.
"

Sister Catherine went back in. I handed the shawl to her. She nodded and took it, and I went to my room. When the door closed behind Sister Catherine, I heard the nuns praying.

I POSTED TWO LETTERS
on my way to Fort Marcy that afternoon:

Dear Uncle William:

I am sending this to Fort Bent because there is every likeli
hood that is where you are. By now Daddy has written to you of my dear mamas death. Oh, Uncle William, how I wish I were with you at home in Independence, instead of languishing here in this terrible place.

I know you mourn Mama, but let me tell you, mourning does not help. It only makes the spirit more destitute. If it did help, I would stand at the topmost part of Fort Marcy here in Santa Fe and howl my grief out like a wolf. As it is I cry every night in chapel, and when I am finished crying I still have the miseries, only worse. I don't know how to remedy the situation. And I am surrounded by Catholics who talk only about "offering it up," like Mama's death was some kind of an Indian sacrifice.

They do not understand, of course, all these prissy little girls and nuns. How could they? They surround themselves with reminders of death, in their statues. Their dead saints are all bleeding and suffering. And since Mama wasn't eaten by lions or beheaded, with her head put on a platter like Saint John the Baptist, they likely think her death not important, I suppose.

I hate them all. Except maybe Sister Roberta, who takes up for me when I get into trouble, who listens to me when I talk, and hikes up her skirts to ride a horse, and her sleeves to work with her plants. At least she is a human being and a friend.

Elinora, the Bishop's niece, was disagreeable on the whole trip and continues to be a plague to me here. Although her uncle, the Bishop, is a kindly and dear man, he can be more stern than you when provoked. I have another friend here, too. Her name is Mrs. Lacey, and she lost her son in the war. One of my chores each day is to go with her to the cemetery at Fort Marcy to visit her son's grave. She is very wealthy and has given money for the construction of their new chapel, and so the nuns take care of her
and abide her peculiarities. But she is crazy as a booty owl, Uncle William. Yet I regard her in great esteem and betimes think her the most sane one here. This afternoon she is sickly, so I am to make the trip to the cemetery for her. Fort Marcy is like no fort you have ever seen. It is on the wane, in ruins and very spooky. But I like to go there just the same.

Did Daddy write to you since that time on the Trail? Did he tell you how he ran off in the middle of the night and left me without even saying good-bye? I cried so. And I have not heard from him since and probably won't ever again. But I don't care. I want to come home, Uncle William. If you make arrangements for me to do so, I can live in the house in Independence and run it for you. I know how. I am growing up by leaps and bounds. I have all kinds of chores here, which I carry out diligently, and am doing well with my lessons.

I am sorry to write to you with such a sad catalog of concerns. I know you do not want me to be pouting and complaining. I have some projects here now that I must see through, of course, but which will be brought to a conclusion soon, so if you could find it in your heart to send for me, I would be ready. There are wagons leaving here all the time to go back north. I am sure the nuns could find me a good family to travel with.

Ben is very healthy, and I ride him every day, but he doesn't get the chance to run much. The Bishop has offered me a kitten, since I miss my cats so, and I think I shall accept his offer. I have never forgotten what you taught me, Uncle William. I have seized many an argument by the tail and acted with righteous indignation when caught in the wrong. And it did rock people off their feet, especially Mother Magdalena.

Oh, Uncle William, I wish you could meet Mother Magdalena. You need to be loaded for bear to go up against her. Also,
I have tried to keep my anger, like a fire in the wind. Because it is safer than feeling anything else. It keeps me strong.

I cannot conclude this without earnestly entreating you not to think me deficient in courage or spirit because I wish to come home. Please write to me soon.

Affectionately, your loving niece,
Lizzy

Dear Cassie:

You must think me a very fickle friend, indeed, for not writing, but I have scarce had a moment since Daddy left me at this school in Santa Fe. I suppose that if you saw Uncle William at all and inquired after me you know that. Oh, Cassie, I miss you so! I miss my school and our afternoon rides, with me on Ben and you on Susie. That world seems so far away now—it is as if I never walked the streets of Independence, and it is the only home I have known before this.

Yes, my dear mama is dead. Do you remember how we'd come in from our afternoon rides and she'd have fresh muffins and warm cocoa for us in the cold weather? Oh, I long for her. Be good to your own mama, Cassie, no matter how stern she gets when you forget to do your chores.

I suppose she will soon have the baby. Oh, you are so lucky! There was a new baby just born here in Santa Fe, and I got to know the woman. She had it alone, at the fort, and we brought her and the baby back. She ran from her husband because he beats her. And now she may be dying. How can people not appreciate what they have, Cassie?

Sometimes I think if I can close my eyes, I can he back in our kitchen in Independence, and my own mama will be there. It seems impossible to think of her gone. Where is she? I know I
am supposed to think she is in heaven, hut how can she he when she is so needed here? My daddy will never be able to carry on alone, little as I care about him, and surely I will become even more of a ruffian without her.

I am already well on my way here in this convent, surrounded by lily-livered girls whose every dream is to see visions of Saint Joseph or the Virgin. Elinora turned out to be as much of a plague as you said she would be and now says she wants to be a nun. But I know she is doing it for her own ends, which I cannot explain now but will tell you in the future.

The school principal is Mother Magdalena, who is mean and unfair and often at odds with the Bishop. She already switched me for something I did not do. But I have a friend in the Bishop. He has a beautiful white cat that just had kittens, and he offered me one. And I have another friend in Mrs. Lacey, an elderly lady it is my job to help care for.

I still ride Ben every day. I haven't time now to explain it all, only to say please forgive my tardiness in not writing and know that I think of you all the time. How are my cats? I know you are taking good care of them for me. I miss them so.

Cassie, because I don't know if I shall ever hear from Daddy again, I have written to ask Uncle William to send for me. I am sure I will be back in Independence next summer.

I must finish now because I have a pressing chore this afternoon. I will write again soon.

Your ever dear friend,
Lizzy