The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [102]
“Yes,” Isaac said, his voice snapping. “You do. You’re my wife. I won’t have people thinking otherwise.”
Stung, I took a step back. The jeweler made a soothing sound in his throat. “If I might suggest,” he said. He held up the thin band, the one that would wear out too soon, the one that looked to be the cheapest of the three.
“No,” Isaac said. He pointed to the in-between band, the one that I wanted. “This one,” he said to the jeweler, not looking at me.
“Yes,” the jeweler said. “Excellent choice, excellent.” He held it up in the light as if expecting to see something wrong with it. When he didn’t, he polished it on the square of black material. He handed it to Isaac. “She’s your bride,” he said.
Isaac started to give me the band, and then he stopped as if understanding what the jeweler meant. He picked up my left hand. I held my breath as he worked the wedding band down my finger. It was like I was getting married for the second time that day. When the band was in place, I thought I felt Isaac give my hand a little squeeze before letting go. I stared at the band, the gold so bright that I went woozy from the beauty of it and from all that had happened that morning.
“Congratulations and best wishes,” the jeweler said. I looked up and smiled at him. He didn’t seem to see; he was leaning close to Isaac, saying, “Now if you’d care to step this way.”
It was me what did the stepping away. I went to the front of the shop while Isaac paid. I stood by the window and looked at my hand. I hardly knew it. I felt grand; I felt like a lady. But for all that, I wished that Isaac had bought the band to please me. I wished that he bought it because he cared a little for me. But he hadn’t. I put my glove back on.
Years later, my band was worn and scratched. My knuckles were swollen from all the years of hard work. It’d be hard work getting it off if the time came.
I held my baby boy to me one last time and kissed his cold cheeks and his closed eyes. I held him out to Mrs. Fills the Pipe. She took him from me and as she did, our arms tangled. She leaned closer to me over the bed to keep from dropping him. I shifted my baby’s weight to her, and it was at that moment that we both looked into each other’s eyes.
Her eyes were black like my mother’s. Her skin was brown like Alise’s. Her face was tired and sad like mine. Her sister-in-law was dying but she’d helped me because Mary asked her to. Mrs. Fills the Pipe kept my children from losing their mama. All that from an agency Indian.
Isaac hated Indians but that didn’t make it right. It didn’t mean that I had to. It didn’t mean I had to hold on to grievances that were never mine.
I couldn’t find those words, though, not to say them out loud. Instead I tried to say it with my eyes. Her eyes, looking into mine, went soft. I believed she understood.
She turned away then and put the baby in the cradle and pulled the cheesecloth over it. She went to the door and opened it.
“Mrs. Fills the Pipe?”
She stopped. I’m leaving, I wanted to say to her. For my children, the living ones. If it was just me, I’d stay the winter, I’d see to this baby. I’d put out food, I’d look for him to play tricks. But I can’t let another one die here. I can’t let the Badlands swallow another child.
Mrs. Fills the Pipe stood waiting in the doorway, her head turned away as if listening to something outside. She shifted her hip liked it ached. Her mind, I saw, was on the road, on her hurry to get her nephews back to their mother before she died. I said, “Thank you.”
She put her hand up, her way of saying good-bye, and then she was gone.
A lantern’s light jittered, throwing a nervous shadow on the bedroom wall, but it was the wind’s whistle that woke me up, and in that moment all that I had lost came back to me. The hurt of it choked my chest, making it hard to breathe. Then I saw Isaac asleep in