The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [24]
He was proud of me for marrying Isaac. He’d said so from the start. “You’re making something of yourself. Didn’t I always say that you would?” he had said. “You’re the smart one—you’re getting out of this stinking city.”
“You will too,” I said.
After the ceremony, I kissed Dad good-bye. “I’m proud of you, girl,” he said, and this brought tears to my eyes. Up until that day, he had made out like he was glad Isaac hadn’t come for me. He hadn’t had anything good to say about Isaac DuPree. He didn’t care that Isaac DuPree came from a good family. In his day, Dad had said more than once, a man paid at least one visit to a woman’s parents before proposing marriage.
I kissed Dad again. When I hugged Johnny, I whispered, “Come see me—us—in South Dakota.”
“When you get yourself a piano in your parlor,” he said, “I’ll be on the next train out. I’ll play for the cows.”
“See you real soon then.”
An hour later me and Isaac boarded the 10:10 A.M. and began our journey to South Dakota.
5
ROUNDER
South Dakota. The land of opportunity. But that was before the drought, that was before me and Isaac put a child in the well. That was before we did it the second time. The second time, Liz screamed when Isaac told her he needed her. She screamed until I put my hand over her mouth and held her lips together. It was wrong what we were doing to her, but Isaac was right about the horses and Jerseybell. They had to be watered.
Like before, I latched Alise and Emma in their room. I went with the others to the well, none of us saying anything as we walked against the wind. Isaac carried Liz, who cried into his shoulder, her arms around his neck. At the well we knew what to do, we knew what to expect, and that made it all the worse. We were getting used to doing this thing. We were giving in to it.
Afterward, Isaac watered our four horses and then hitched two of them, Bucky and Beaut, to the wagon. He was holding true to his promise to get supplies, and John was going with him.
Me and the girls—I had to make Liz—went down the rise to the barn to see them off. John waited on the buckboard, all grins. It had been a good while since he’d been to Scenic; it had been Mary’s turn the last time. I gave Isaac a small cloth bag. “Soda biscuits and a can of pears,” I said. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“It’s enough.” He quickly touched my arm and then he hoisted himself to the top of the wheel. The wagon rocking some, Isaac settled on the buckboard, finding the worn spots where he always sat. He took the reins from John and giddyupped the horses. Creaking, the wagon lurched, and they pulled away, Rounder lagging behind them likely as hot, thirsty, and hungry as any of us.
Me and the girls stood watching on the hard dirt road that ran along the bottom of the rise. We wore our bandannas tight over our noses. The wind blew so hard that the three little girls fastened themselves to my legs to stay upright. Even Mary leaned into me. Isaac sent Rounder back home, and we waved good-bye until the wagon and horses were nothing but an unsettled cloud of dust.
Standing on the road, I felt peculiar and unseated. During our first years in the Badlands I always went to town with Isaac. I didn’t want to be left by myself. I went even after Mary and Isaac Two were born. But when John came along it was too much to pack up the children and travel all those miles. The road was rough and pitted and made the babies cry. So I stayed home and worried. I’d worry that Isaac’d get caught up in a storm, or that a horse would kick him in the head, or that he’d get lost somehow and I would never see him again. I missed him so much that I’d cry over the least little thing. A meadowlark