The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [87]
John was going to buck me. He wouldn’t want to go to Chicago, not for anything. I looked off toward Grindstone Butte. A ten-year-old boy could run off and hide there. In the canyons too. I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for him. I tightened my grip on the washtub handle. I was going to lose John.
Don’t think about it, not right now, I told myself as me and the girls stood on the porch ready to see Isaac and John off to the McKees’ place. I handed John the cloth sack we used for carrying lunches. I said, “Give this to Mrs. McKee.” He squinted at me, the midafternoon sun in his face, his eyes only a few inches lower than mine. I wanted to put my arms around him and hold him close. Instead, I said, “It’s a few biscuits for their trip east.”
I took the letter from my right apron pocket and gave it to Isaac. “For Mindy. I had to say good-bye.”
“When’d you write this?” he said.
“Last night. Couldn’t sleep.”
The other letter, the one in my left pocket, was big and heavy. My nerve buckled. If Isaac knew what my words said, he’d see me for what I was: a woman what had gone against him. He wouldn’t do like most men. He wouldn’t hit me; he wouldn’t even yell all that much. What he’d do would be worse. He’d take on a hardness—it’d make me wither up inside. He’d turn his voice cold and tell me to go on, get out, if that was what I wanted. Go to your mama. Our bargain ended long ago. You got your year; I got my land.
I put my hand in my left pocket. My fingers froze up. Take the little girls while you’re at it, I imagined Isaac saying. But not John. Or Mary. I get them, not you. Understand?
I did. But I had to try. I couldn’t let our children freeze to death, I couldn’t let them starve, not without a fight. I was doing right even if it felt wrong, even if it made me sick. I drew in some air and pulled out the letter. I held it out to Isaac, wishing my hand wouldn’t shake so. “It’s to Mama,” I said. “Thought Mindy’d be willing.” I stopped, my mouth filled with cotton. I worked up some spit. “Maybe she could post it. Before getting on the train.”
Isaac studied the envelope, his eyebrows raised. I said, “It’s about Johnny,” and that was some true.
“She’ll be glad to get it,” he said. He put both letters in his knapsack. I let out some air, relieved. Isaac rolled his shoulders like he was trying to get rid of an ache. He was sore, I knew, from sawing Jerseybell. Then too, just three days ago, there had been the hard walk home in the rain and mud. For a moment I wanted to put my hand on his arm and tell him I was grateful for all that he did. For a moment I wanted to say I was sorry for how it was all turning out. Instead, I thought of our children, hardened my heart, and looked past him.
“Rounder,” Isaac commanded. “Stay home. Be on guard.” The dog’s tail drooped, but he came to my side. I put my hand behind his ears and watched Isaac and John walk off, tears coming to my eyes as the Chicago-bound letter started on its way to my mother.
Me and Mary got busy with laundry as soon as they were out of eyeshot. We made a fire outside and had just gotten the kettle of water to a strong boil when Rounder sat up, ears perked. He let out a loud bark and shot off down the rise, running toward the two people—Isaac and John, as it turned out—that were walking back up the road toward the house.
My insides went weak. Isaac had turned back. He had read my letter.
Mary and the girls ran down the rise to meet them, calling to them. I stepped back to the porch and leaned against the railing, drawing in big gasps of air. A sob rolled up from the bottom of my throat. Isaac, I thought. Don’t do what you mean to do.
“Mama!” John hollered.