A substitute kindergarten teaching job was the professional version of a fully flaccid penis. Humiliation incarnate. But a real-life cowboy?That,I thought with surprise,I can work with.
Caleb didn’t have to be good at farming. He didn’t need a strong work ethic or even a working knowledge of how to keep farm animals alive. He just had to learn how to pretend.
A chorus of angels sangHallelujahin my mind.
23
What was itmy mother used to say about those days of yore?
The pioneer days were not for the faint of heart. Think how brave yourgreat-great-great-grandparents had to be. Imagine facing down Indians with arrows, defending your cattle fromwolves—
No, not that part. The other part. The part where she’d had just a little bit too much to drink at the Christmas Eve church mixer and was pink-cheeked and misty-eyed, kicking off her boots and crawling under the covers with us, her breath sweet-sour with vermouth.
The winters were long, girls. Very long. Long, long, long. The nights seemed to last forever, and thesnowstorms—like you wouldn’t believe. They had to rely on the food they’dstored from the earlier seasons, and sometimes resources would become scarce.
My sister, at this point, would usually butt in. “What would they do if they couldn’t find food, Mama?”
“They would eat their dogs,” I would say with authority. “And if they had no dogs, they would eat each other.”
“Natalie!” My mother would give my sister a reassuring look. “They never ate each other.” And as my sister and I stuck out our tongues at each other behind her back, she would go on:No, they always found a solution before it came to something like that. They were so plucky and brave, and do you know what helped them stay alive, more than anything? Trust. Trust in each other, and trust in the Lord.
And then she would turn out the light, and the three of us would fall asleep in bed together, dreaming of the frontier.
“You can untie me now,” I say.
It’s late evening. The children are gathered around the fire. Abel is sharpening a knife and talking quietly about battle tactics to Noah, who is idly poking a stick around in the fire, listening thoughtfully, nodding occasionally, like a little hardened war general, the flame reflected in the whites of his eyes.If they came from higher ground, we would take up defensive positions by the barn …
Maeve is sitting in Mary’s lap, and Mary is brushing her hair with a needle comb. Old Caleb is sitting on a chair, watching me with a look of complete and total distrust.
“Please,” I say again. “Untie me.”
Mary stops combing Maeve’s hair and looks to Old Caleb, who is still staring at me. He gives me a long, appraising look. Burps. Says, “You’re not going to run away?”
“No. I’m not going to run away.”
At this point, it hardly feels like a concession. I have a foot that is literally hanging on by a thread. The rest of my body is torn and bruised and beaten, and I’m so tired that I have worried, on several occasions in the last few hours, that I might fall asleep sitting up. At the same time, I am facing another night of sleeplessness. I can feel it coming, my eyes threatening to roll back in their sockets at the promise of another long, cold night in this Hellish place, no one to keep me warm, nothing to keep me safe from my wild, roving mind. At the very least, I would like to be free of these fabric chains.
Old Caleb unties me. I twitch at the feel of his rough, calloused fingers on my skin. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. He simply says, “Mary?”
Five minutes later, I’m sitting closer to the fire, massaging my one good foot, when Mary comes to me with a mug. “To help you sleep.”
I sniff the mug. The liquid smells cold and bitter. Completely different from what she gave me for my fever. I look at Mary. Herexpression is calm. “It will make the bad feelings go away,” she says. “Trust me.”
Trust me.
Another peace offering.
Except I don’t trust her. Not even a little bit. I don’t trust anyone in this house, least of all myself.
“Go ahead,” Mary says softly. “Drink it.” She’s looking at me now with pity, like I’m the most wretched, helpless person on the planet.
My gaze wanders past Mary, across the kitchen—this is my kitchen; this is not mykitchen—and then past each of the children’s sleepy firelit faces—these are my children; these are not mychildren—and then comes to rest on Old Caleb’s face.This is my husband. This is not my husband.
I feel like I have been dropped into an unfinished pencil sketch of a maze. No way out. Except, of course, for sleep. The briefest of exits.
I bring the cup to my lips and drink it all, quickly, gagging a little bit at the taste. Then I let Mary guide me to my bedroom, her arm hoisting me up by the armpits, taking the brunt of my weight. She tucks me into bed and stands there, silent, while I turn away from her. “There, there,” Maeve says from the doorway. “Sleepy time for Mama.”
My eyelids flutter shut.
