The Buffalo Soldier

  Nevertheless she did dial Terry’s number once more, deciding in the end that even if they never saw each other again, he had a right to know. He was, after all, the father.

  She leaned against the dark paneling on the wall by the pay phone and looked down at her black-and-white cowboy boots. She wondered if her feet would get too big for them soon. The toes were pointy and they’d always been a tight fit, and she recalled hearing somewhere that the feet of pregnant women often swelled. Or was it the ankles?

  Either way, she might soon have to give up the boots.

  At least she would if she decided to keep the baby.

  State police.

  The sound of the dispatcher’s voice instantly pulled her away from her boots.

  Hi. Is Sergeant Sheldon in, please?

  I’m sorry, he’s not. Would you like to speak with another trooper?

  No, that’s okay. This isn’t an emergency.

  May I take a message? Or would you like his voice mail?

  No, thank you, she said, and quickly hung up. She considered whether her call had been traced—automatically, perhaps—as she had worried both times she phoned earlier, but she didn’t think she’d ever been on the line long enough. And when she thought about it, she decided that the worst that would happen is that they would trace one or both of those first two calls to the general store where she worked, tell Terry, and he’d know that she was trying to reach him.

  Hell, he probably knew now! What other woman was calling him and not leaving her name?

  A thought crossed her mind and she wished that it hadn’t. Maybe Laura wanted out of the marriage. It was possible. If Terry was so unhappy that he’d come on to some woman in the general store near the family deer camp, maybe Laura was miserable, too. Terry certainly hadn’t made his wife out to be a real joy to be around. Not a bad person. Probably a very good one, in fact. Just not a particularly happy one. Maybe, Phoebe thought, she’d be doing everyone a colossal favor if she broke up that marriage.

  She didn’t seriously believe that for a second, and she scolded herself for even allowing such a notion to enter her head. It was one thing to make a mistake one night; it was quite another to allow that mistake to become life-changing.

  But hadn’t it become life-changing already? She was pregnant, for God’s sake, she was—and the words hit her with scatological clarity—knocked up!

  Back outside in the crisp air, she decided to head up the street to the sporting goods store. Her brother was giving his kids snowmobiles for Christmas, a pair of small Z-120s. They didn’t go very fast and they didn’t make much noise—they were designed for children—but they still looked like crafts from a George Lucas movie: sharp and sleek and low to the ground. They were both green, and her sister-in-law had christened them “the twin iguanas.” Phoebe was hoping to find some snowmobile accessories for the children at the store. A Tek vest, maybe. Perhaps some special gloves.

  A part of her couldn’t believe that she was tacitly condoning the notion that her eight-year-old niece and her six-year-old nephew were about to start riding snowmobiles. Lord knew she would never allow this child of hers to climb onto a snowmobile in elementary school—at least not when the child was in the first or third grade. Sixth grade, maybe. But not until then.

  What in the name of heaven was Wallace thinking?

  She tried to remember how old her brothers were when they first started riding, and she guessed they’d been in junior high school.

  The salesperson at the store was another woman her age, and she held up the orange safety vests against her own chest so Phoebe could see how small and cute they were—as if she were showing her customer a knit sweater for a toddler. Phoebe was surprised by how little each vest was: The protective shoulder pads looked tiny.

  She could see clearly now that everything was going to remind her of the fact that she was pregnant and there was something inside her that was alive. She wondered if there was a purpose here—whether it was all just a series of flukes, or whether it was a signal of some consequence that she was meant now to become a mother.

  THE BAKERY IN Montpelier was busy even though the real lunch rush was still an hour away. It was popular because it was known for offering its sandwiches on homemade flatbread, and it took Phoebe a moment to find Terry in the maze of crowded tables and the small crush at the counter. When she saw him he smiled, but he didn’t stand. She figured he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than was necessary. He’d taken a table in the rear of the restaurant, by the doorway that led to a corridor with a bathroom at the far end.

  Oh, good, she said, you got us a table near the bathroom. Pregnant women like that.

  She’d meant the remark to be funny, but instantly his face grew stern and she saw how tired he was. She’d given him the news that she was pregnant over the telephone the day before, and she found herself wondering just how much sleep he had gotten last night.

  A joke, she said quickly, draping her parka over the chair as she sat down.

  Ah.

  You have bags under your eyes. How are you?

  I should be asking you that, he said. He was wearing his uniform, and it was perfectly pressed: Even the green pants had a precise, daggerlike crease.

  Oh, I’m fine. It’s still so early, I haven’t even had morning sickness yet.

  There was a porcelain mug on the table with a dark brown ring at the bottom.

  You’ve been here awhile, haven’t you? she said.

  Not too long. What would you like?

  Maybe some tea, she said.

  You should eat something, too.

  Surprise me.

  She watched him stand to go to the counter, his eyes scanning the room as if he wanted to make sure there wasn’t a soul in the place who he knew, and then she noticed something she found interesting: When he got to the glass counter, everyone around him gave him a little extra space, as if his body exuded a bubble. She wondered if it was because of his gun or his uniform or both. This was a pretty crunchy crowd in here—a lot of women in sandals and thick socks, a good number of the men sporting small earrings—and so it may just have been a general distaste for authority.

  She decided he looked cute in his uniform, a bit like a little boy playing dress-up. She understood the handgun was real, but his badge and his boots and those pants—spinach green with yellow piping up the side—struck her as the sort of thing a toy store might sell to a ten-year-old who wanted to masquerade as a soldier. Even his necktie was green, and she wondered if there was any other organization or business on the planet that would make a green necktie a mandatory part of a uniform. Maybe the Royal Order of Leprechauns, if there was such a thing, and she found herself smiling at the idea.

  When he returned to the table, he brought with him a couple of warm scones on glass plates, and a handful of single-serve packs of butter and jelly. Then he went back for her tea.

  This should work for eleven A.M., he said when he finally sat down.

  When she smelled the food, she realized how hungry she was and eagerly began to butter the scone.

  So, he said, doing the same. A baby.

  She nodded. I almost didn’t call you, you know.

  Uh-huh, he said, and he rolled his eyes in a way that she thought was meant to be good-natured. But then you got past it, and tried me at least four times—at least four times that I know of.

  One time I hung up before anyone answered, she admitted. So I guess the grand total was five. But I really did give serious thought to never telling you. Even now I’m not completely sure why I did and we’re talking right now.

  Well, maybe because you figure I’m the father. Isn’t that reason enough?

  I don’t figure you’re the father. I know you’re the father. I told you that on the phone.

  I understand that.

  But you doubt me?

  Matter of fact, I don’t. I believe you.

  God. What kind of a person must you think I am? she said, her voice
little more than a mumble. Why would I—

  Phoebe, I just said I believe you. Okay?

  Okay. Thank you. The thing is, I almost wish I hadn’t called you. Your knowing would make some sense if we were...involved. But we’re not. The reality is that we had a night together in a trailer. And while it was very pleasant, it’s not exactly a solid foundation for a...a long-term relationship. We barely know each other, right? I mean, I don’t even know if I’m going to keep this child. I still haven’t decided if that’s a real option.

  He reached for his mug, forgetting for a moment that it was empty. I am sick about this, you know, he said. You understand that, don’t you?

  I do.

  Aren’t you? His eyes looked almost pleading. Suddenly she wanted to reach across the table and take one of his hands in hers, but she didn’t dare.

  I was. When I first realized I might be pregnant, I assumed I’d get an abortion and no one would ever be the wiser. I’d even made up my mind to use the Planned Parenthood down in Hanover, where there wasn’t a prayer in hell I’d be recognized.

  And then?

  Well, to be honest, I started to think I might make a good mom and I could afford to raise this little person inside me. At least I think I can.

  You sound like you’ve already made up your mind.

  Not completely. All I meant is that I went from thinking I’d get an abortion, to not getting an abortion because I realized I might actually want this baby.

  Imagine that—wanting a baby.

  You know what I mean.

  Certainly I do.

  But if I do decide to become a mom—and it’s true that I am leaning that way right this second—I want you to understand that you don’t ever have to be involved in any way, shape, or form. I don’t ever have to see you again, no one would ever have to know who the father was. You didn’t ask for this—

  Neither did you.

  No, of course not. But it just might be something I want.

  And if I wanted to be involved? What then? This is, after all, my son or daughter, too.

  She washed down a bite of her scone with a long sip of her tea. Maybe that’s why I phoned, she said. I don’t know. But I do think it’s the same part of me that might want this baby that led me to call you.

  He nodded, and then said in a tone that was so controlled it was almost hurtful, Understand that involvement would never mean leaving my wife. Is that clear?

  I don’t expect you to leave her, she said, and she hoped she didn’t sound defensive. She was surprised by how much his two short sentences had wounded her. I thought I’d made that clear.

  She’s fragile, he went on, his voice softening. This is a woman who lost both her children. You simply cannot know how awful something like that is until you’ve lived through it. That’s a fact. It’s been two years, and it’s only now that she’s beginning to come out of it.

  I appreciate that, she said. And I know it hasn’t been easy for you, either.

  He took a deep breath that seemed to signal his agreement, but he didn’t say a word.

  So, my sense is, I should finish my scone and move on, she said. And I’m okay with that, Terry. Honest. I’m okay.

  I didn’t say I didn’t want to see you again, he said, and he sounded slightly exasperated. I didn’t say I wanted you and this baby out of my life. I simply said I’m not going to leave Laura, and I need for you to understand that.

  Another one of those unattractive thoughts crossed her mind: In truth I am here because some maternal instinct inside me wants to do whatever I can to ensure that this baby has a father. I’m here because I want to make this man leave this bakery with me. Isn’t that why I was so careful with my lipstick this morning, and why I spent so much time brushing my hair? Isn’t that why I wore a skirt and a tight denim blouse with a few buttons I could leave undone?

  Her tummy was still flat, and she knew it would remain so for at least another month or two.

  I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, she said. I want you to be happy. I want your wife to be happy. I want your foster kid to be happy.

  Alfred. The boy’s name is Alfred.

  I’m sorry. Alfred. I want you all to be happy, that’s all I meant.

  Thank you.

  And that’s all I would want for this baby, too. I simply want it to be happy. To make other people happy, to have a good life. A joyful life. That’s all. I don’t know about the rest, I don’t have any specifics.

  He stretched his legs straight out to the side of the table and folded his arms across his chest, the bottom of his badge disappearing behind his balled fist. When do you think you’ll know?

  About what, the baby?

  About whether you’re going to keep it.

  Well, you tell me, Terry: What do you want me to do? What would you prefer happened?

  I’m going to give you an unfair answer—and understand that I know it’s unfair. Okay?

  She shrugged. She knew she’d asked her question more out of curiosity than anything else. She wanted to see how he’d respond.

  I think you should keep it, he said. Sometimes...sometimes you don’t know how precious something is to you until it’s disappeared and you can’t get it back.

  She was surprised and moved by his answer. In some ways her life would have been easier if he’d said she should get an abortion. Then she could have told him, yes, she probably would, leave him at the bakery, and do whatever she liked.

  Do you believe that even if it means I have to raise this child completely on my own? she asked.

  Even then. But it won’t come to that.

  An absurd thought crossed her mind, and she started to giggle. Well, if you’re not going to leave your wife, she said, then I just guess that means you’re about to go Mormon on me!

  He looked at her, momentarily perplexed, but then he understood the reference. I don’t believe polygamy is legal even in Utah, he said. And it sure as hell isn’t legal in Vermont.

  A little commune action, then, she said, and she could tell that her giggles were going to grow. She tried to rein them in, but it was clear her emotions were beyond her control. We’ll churn a little butter, we’ll drink a little Chianti. Spend all kinds of time naked. There used to be hippie communes all over my corner of the Northeast Kingdom, you know—before I was born, of course, she added, but he couldn’t possibly have understood the last part of her sentence because of the way her great gulps of laughter were swallowing her words. She was laughing loudly, embarrassingly loud, but she couldn’t stop herself. People at the tables around them were starting to turn toward her, their faces transforming quickly from benign curiosity to concern when they saw the wrought-up, vaguely insane cast to her face. She felt her eyes starting to water and she wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her cheeks, shaking her head all the while. When she opened her eyes, she could see that Terry was red, and staring down into his empty glass plate. He’d brought his legs back in under the table.

  I’ve never even met your wife, she said, and her voice, muddled by laughter and tears, sounded to her like a toddler’s in the midst of a tantrum. What do you think, Terry, would we get along?

  He looked up at her. Phoebe, come on.

  Seriously, me and Laura? How would we do?

  Phoebe...

  She sniffed deeply, and a tiny squeal of a hiccup was the last sound that she made. Suddenly the place seemed eerily silent to her.

  Let’s get out of here, he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Yup, let’s, she agreed, and they stood up together, put on their coats, and started toward the bakery’s front door. As they were walking through the small restaurant, she wondered where they would go once they were outside in the crisp December air, and she realized that she hadn’t a clue.

  “In addition, the detachment returned with three Indian children. Apparently, their father was among the marauders.”

  CAPTAIN ANDREW HITCHENS,

  TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES
CAVALRY,

  REPORT TO THE POST ADJUTANT,

  MAY 11, 1876

  Alfred

  He awoke and tried hard to resist the urge to climb out from under the heavy quilt Terry’s mother had made and switch on either the lamp by the window or the one by the door. It was quarter to twelve, and for a brief moment he thought that Terry or Laura might still be awake. The idea offered him comfort: He wasn’t afraid in the dark when those two were reading or watching TV. But as he listened carefully, he decided the house was completely still and the grown-ups were sound asleep. He was alone.

  No, he wasn’t alone—and that was the problem. At least he didn’t believe that he was. He opened his eyes, his body otherwise still, and scanned the bedroom. He was on his side, his back to the window, his vision the door and the closet and the desk. He half-expected to see there one—or both—of the girls. He half-expected one of the girls to ask him what he was doing in her bed.

  But he saw no one there in the dark, and once again he shut his eyes. For a brief moment he imagined he was buffalo soldier George Rowe, half-asleep somewhere in West Texas, confident even though it was night and his detachment was far from its fort. Rowe was disciplined and sharp; he didn’t care that he was an outsider. He’d won a medal. He was Alfred’s favorite of the black men he’d met in the book.

  In his mind, he traced the outlines of the boulders and scrub pine that might have surrounded Rowe’s camp, and then slowly watched as those shapes were transformed into the more familiar contours of the furniture in his room and the objects that sat upon them. He burrowed into the closet, envisioning exactly what was there on the floor. His backpack. The photo album. Food.