The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [111]
“But Mama,” John said, standing in front of me, his eyes nearly level with mine. He pulled his scarf down below his chin. “Daddy told me to see to the ranch; that’s what he said. Daddy didn’t say anything about going to Chicago. I promised him.”
I shook my head.
“Mama! I promised! I can’t go, I don’t want to!”
A knot tightened my throat so I couldn’t hardly swallow. Mary said, “Where are we going to sleep, Mama, when we get there?”
“Family,” I said. “We’ll stay with family.”
“Grandma Reeves?” she said.
“Yes.”
John said, “And Grandma DuPree?” I started to shake my head but saw that the troubled look in John’s eyes had changed to excitement. This was the grandmother what sent a book after the birth of each baby. This was the one what owned property. This was his daddy’s mother.
“Her too,” I said, not meeting his eyes.
Then all at once, Liz and Alise got excited about getting on a train, and everybody was talking too loud and I told them, my voice harsh, “That’s enough!” They backed away from me, stung, and I thought of the letter I had written Isaac and how that meant I couldn’t back out now. And what about the letter Charlie Johnston gave me? I put Emma down and drew open the drawstrings to my handbag. Making sure the children couldn’t see, I pulled the letter out a few inches. I didn’t know the hand. I angled the letter a little. The postmark was blurry.
I tucked the letter back in my handbag and drew the strings. I cocked my head; I didn’t hear the train. I didn’t know what to make of the letter, but I did know that it wasn’t mine to keep. I would have Charlie Johnston send it on to Isaac in Lead. There was time, the train was still minutes away.
“Wait here,” I told the children. “Don’t any of you move. I’ll be back.”
“Mama!” Liz said.
“I’ll be back,” and I walked away from them, heading back to the dry-goods store, my eyes straight ahead, pretending the saloon wasn’t there, pretending that people weren’t watching me from their windows. With each step I thought about how I was leaving, how I was doing right by my children, how I was giving them a chance to see that there was something bigger than the Badlands. I thought about the six tickets in my handbag and how they were next to the letter somebody had written Isaac. The letter couldn’t be from his mother; she never answered Isaac’s letters. She only sent a book when a child was born, and Baby Ralph had been born dead. I couldn’t begin to think who had written Isaac. Charlie Johnston had said something about letters flying back and forth. All at once that struck me as peculiar.
Just before getting to the dry-goods store, I stepped into the tight alley that ran between it and the bank. There was something odd about the letter. The wind, trapped between the low buildings, blew all the harder. My dress and coat flapped; the brim of my hat lifted. I put my back to the wind. I tightened the hat strings under my chin and inched off my gloves and put them in my pocket, afraid they might blow away. The letter wasn’t my business; I shouldn’t be doing this, I told myself as I carefully opened my handbag, scared the wind might catch the tickets. I got out the letter, gripping it hard, and drew the bag’s strings tight. The letter wasn’t mine to read. Isaac wouldn’t like it. I almost laughed. Reading Isaac’s letter was a small thing when put alongside of me selling my wedding band and using that money to take the children to Chicago.
The sky was gray and low, and the light was dim in the alley. I ran my fingernail under the flap of the envelope, thinking that I could open it and then reseal it. I worked the flap loose, tearing it just a little on one end. With both hands, I held out the letter. I skipped down to the signature. Zeb Butler. My heart pounded. Zeb Butler in Sioux Falls what rented rooms, Zeb Butler what knew most of the Negroes in the Dakotas and beyond.
Isaac DuPree
It is nevr to soon. Lincoln Phillips in N.Dakota is willing to meet you. He has no