The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [113]
“Oh no, I …”
“I’m practically your brother,” he said. “Now just do it.”
I sat and unlaced the hooks. “I’m looking after her,” I said. “The doctor says it’s likely her heart’s not working well enough to move everything through her body, so water settles in her feet, maybe her lungs. That all affects her thinking too.”
“She has someone good to care for her,” he said. He sat down on the stuffed hassock and lifted my foot, careful to keep my skirts chastely near my ankle. The massage felt wonderful, though I worried about my feet bearing smells. “You need someone to take care of you, though. And so do I.” His eyes met mine.
“Surely you meet lovely women all the time,” I told him. “You could find one willing to look after you.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” he said. “Did you know that Cleopatra bathed in wine?”
“That’s fascinating. No, I didn’t know that.”
“Picked that tidbit up in Egypt.”
“You’re full of delightful trivia.”
“You see? Who is there that understands what I do better than you?”
“Olea. And Louise,” I said. “And dozens you must meet in your travels.”
“None as comfortable as you, Clara. I truly mean that. And none with such beautiful feet as you either.” He grinned. “I’ve checked.”
“People change,” I said. I thanked him and pulled my feet up under my skirts as I sat on the divan. He took a chair, sighed. “If we spent more time together,” I said, “you might discover whatever it was I did that made Olea want to separate herself from me.”
“There are always strains in families, Clara. The cleavage remains unless someone is willing to risk hurt feelings to bridge the chasm.”
“That’s why you keep bringing up us.” I smiled.
“For that, yes, and because I know the three of you would be happier under the same roof. But one of you has to be brave enough to take the first step. Louise would benefit from it, don’t you think? Do it for her.”
Fur ranching became an idea left on the back of the stove to simmer. Farming of another kind consumed me the rest of the year as we planted our wheat. I made visits to my land along the Spokane River, checked on my rentals driving Louise with Lucky in the backseat. At home in Coulee City, Louise and I planted a big garden. Turning dirt calmed Louise, and I found I liked the weeding, tending, and then the harvest. We dried fruit, canned beets and beans to have a taste of summer every winter. Louise remained about the same, but I couldn’t see myself risking her well-being for the bustle and uncertainties of fur ranching. Gradually I came to accept that I was never going to be the grand success I thought I’d be one day, that I was just an ordinary woman separated from her family of birth, teamed up with a kind older woman who needed me. Could the two of us really be the family God formed in the heart of exile?
The wheat yield in 1912 proved light. None of us ranchers who chatted at the feed mill thought it was a pattern. “It’ll be better next year,” we told ourselves.
Storm clouds gathered but misted over us instead of dropping the cleansing, soaking rains we so badly needed for our dryland crop. We had more insects each year too, which lowered the yield. The newspapers carried no new information about selling bonds to build the reclamation dam for irrigating our coulee lands. I read that drought spread in the plains states too. We all depended on the rain. Another year like this one, and we’d be unable even to buy seed.
That same year, the train changed its schedule, not coming as often round the Big Bend, as we locals called our little coulee town. Our boarders left, and we found no one to replace them except occasional visitors riding or driving through. I heard from two of the Spokane renters that they were leaving town, their jobs having disappeared. I advertised for others but paid the mortgage for several months without benefit of the rent. It was a great