Becca had not come home with hope, nor was she happy to be where she was. It was only that she had to go somewhere, in view of Zeke’s behaviour; go somewhere, or rise up some night and kill him.
She left, but the leaving brought her no peace. Despite her anger, she could not stop worrying about her husband. He had made too many enemies with his vain, reckless behaviour. Probably one of the Becks would kill him, or one of the Squirrels. It occurred to her often that she might never see Zeke Proctor alive again, in which case she would have to live out her life feeling all the bad feelings she had in her breast the day she left the farm and walked to the jail.
“I hear the triplets,” Zeke said, to break the silence. He was becoming a little vexed at Becca, for keeping him standing outside for such a long time. It was drizzling, and he was hungry.
“Where’s Liza, then?” he asked.
“She’s gone to Ned’s and Jewel’s,” Becca told him.
Becca felt annoyed with Zeke for coming to where she was and stirring up her feelings. The feelings were so heavy and muddy it made her tired just to carry them inside her. It was hard even to stand there and talk to him, with her feelings so heavy and sloughlike.
“How’s Old Ma?” Zeke asked, endeavouring to hold his temper so as not to make a bad situation worse.
“Her brain’s clouded up,” Becca said, looking at the fresh bloodstain on Zeke’s shirt. There was old blood beneath the new blood, which made her wonder if maybe she was guessing wrong. Maybe the wound was serious; her own Uncle Perry had died of a gut wound, incurred in an argument over hounds. Zeke’s wound might fester; he might even die, in which case she would have a load on her conscience even heavier than the load of feelings in her breast now.
He was her husband, after all. There he stood—filthy, hungry, and shot—wanting and expecting that she would be a wife again. He looked so weary and so pitiful that her feelings quickened a little. She had not yet lost the habit of having him for a husband. Such a habit was hard to break, though she believed she ought to break it. Zeke
Proctor had too strong a will. She could live with him, or leave him, but she could never change him. If she gave in and went back to him, there might be a little happiness come from it; the triplets would have their father at home again, and there might be some possibility of getting them under control, too. Liza would come back, and they could live in their own house. Perhaps with luck, she could even conceive again and feel the joy of fresh motherhood once more. Zeke wanted more children. He told her that over and over, in their private moments. Even with the triplets, Zeke and Becca were well behind Zeke’s father, who had fourteen children in all.
“Let’s fan the fire,” he said, when he came to her. “Let’s fan the fire and get us some more tots.” It was one of the things that had made her start feeling hopeless. Becca was nearly forty, and she had almost died giving birth to the triplets. She feared she might never really recover from the birth of the triplets, as it was. Zeke must know she would be lucky to have one more baby, let alone a dozen.
But Zeke only knew what he wanted. He did not know how tired she felt, or how hard it was to drag herself out of bed at night, if one of the triplets had a nightmare, or ran a bad fever. Her body might accept one more child, but if Zeke Proctor really meant to match his father, he would have to do the matching with another woman.
Zeke would find them, too, once he got what he wanted of her for a few months, or a few years, at best. He would go on being vain, and reckless; he would find willing women to slip off with; there would be more of the same hurts she had already felt. Only she would be older when they came, and even more tired than she was now.
Becca would share chores and duties, but she did not intend to share her man. If it came to a point where she had to leave again, she would be doing it with such a weakened spirit that she might give up the ghost before her triplets were full raised.
“Bec, it’s drizzling, I’d like to come in, if you don’t mind,” Zeke proposed. “I would not have thought you’d keep me standing out in the wet like this.”
Becca heard the throb of anger in his voice. But she had a throb in her, too, and she immediately let him know it.
“Don’t crowd me, Zeke. I was not expecting to see you today,” Becca told him. “I have to think a minute about what’s right.”
“Dern your goddamn thinking, and dern you!” Zeke said, his temper bursting. “We’re man and wife, that’s what’s right. We took vows!”
“Yes, and you broke them!” Becca reminded him. “I doubt you reminded yourself of them vows when you slipped off with that woman you went and killed.”
“Shut up about her, she’s dead and that’s that,” Zeke said. “I’ve done been tried and acquitted for that.”
“By a jury, maybe, but you ain’t married to a jury,” Becca told him. “I’m your wife, and I ain’t acquitted you.”
Zeke raised a hand, with thoughts of slapping Becca for her insolence. But then his strength suddenly left him, as it had in the courtroom and again when the Squirrels ran him down. He dropped his hand and tried to make it over to a stump a few yards away, but his legs went rubbery before he made it to the stump. The best he could do was sit down on the ground, although the rain was making shallow puddles all around him.
Becca had just put up her hand to ward off the smack, when Zeke suddenly went white. To her amazement, he took a few steps back and then sat down in the mud. Anger had been rising in her, but the sight of Zeke getting his pants all wet in the mud turned it to concern, a concern her better judgment could not smother. She ran to him and felt his forehead, which was clammy.
“Zeke, is it a chill?” she asked.
“I don’t know, honey . . . I been getting spells . . . ,” he said, in a confused state.
Becca reproached herself for being so stiff, but before she could say anything more, she heard the triplets shriek. They had caught sight of their pa and were racing up from the pond, yelling like little banshees.
“Why, here come the tykes,” Zeke said, weakly. “I wonder if I could hire a buggy somewhere around here?”
“Why a buggy?” Becca asked. Then Lem’s old hound came dashing out of the cabin, and headed for the woods.
“Where’s that hound off to?” Zeke asked, surprised.
“He don’t like the triplets, they’ve been tryin’ to set him on fire,” Becca said. “If they can catch him asleep by the fire-place, they stick his tail in the coals.”
Zeke had a chuckle about that. The triplets’ tendency to mischief had always amused him. A moment later, the triplets themselves swarmed over him like three puppies. Becca had put clean clothes on them that morning, but in no time they were muddier than their father. Zeke seemed to recover a little energy, and with her help he was able to stand and hobble to the cabin. He held Minnie in his arms; she would not be put down. Becca helped him, but she felt confused and distant—she almost wished Zeke had smacked her before he got weak. He probably wants a buggy so he can take us home, she thought. Now the children were part of it, and there was no easy way she could draw back, though it was not finished. She had made no promises. The sight of little Minnie, so happy to see her father, made Becca want to cry. The two girls were digging their hands in his pockets. Zeke had promised them each a penny when they got inside.
As soon as they walked in the cabin, Old Ma began to cackle.
“Sam Houston’s come,” she said to Zeke. “Howdy, Sam.”
“Ma, it’s Zeke,” Becca said. Long ago in girlhood, her mother had ridden in a wagon with Sam Houston. Now she had got Zeke muddled up with him in her cloudy old mind.
They had been getting by with firelight in order to save kerosene, and as a result it was rather dim in the cabin. Becca got the lantern and lit it; then she stirred up the cookstove. She needed hot water and better light so she could clean her husband’s wound.
Zeke saw Lem, sitting in his chair by the fire, his pet skunk in his lap. Lem was pale from staying indoors
all his life. He was a huge, clammy man who did not seem to belong either to the daylight or to the dark.
“Hello, Lem. I see you still got your skunk,” Zeke said, in an effort to make a little conversation. Lem did not answer. He kept on stroking his skunk.
Lem did not trust Zeke. Once he had a dream, and in the dream Zeke stole his skunk and sold it. He knew Zeke was not Sam Houston, which was what Old Ma thought, and he meant to keep an eye on him. The triplets were hard enough on his skunk. He did not mean to get friendly with a man who had stolen his skunk and sold it, even if it did happen in a dream.
8
WHEN JEWEL TOLD NED A BABY WAS COMING, HE WAS OVERJOYED. They were in bed when Jewel shyly broke the news. Ned immediately embarrassed her by pulling up her gown and looking at her belly, though so far there was not much to see.
“At least I can listen, I might hear him move,” Ned said, putting an ear against her belly, which embarrassed Jewel even more, mainly because it was broad daylight and her sister Liza was visiting.
“You don’t know that it’s a him,” she said, trying to make him get his head off her belly. “It might be a her.”
“Nope, it’s a boy,” Ned said, wishing Liza were not downstairs making corncakes. He would have liked to stay abed with Jewel for a while, to celebrate the big news, but he knew she would not allow it— not with her sister apt to call breakfast at any moment.
“It could be a girl,” Jewel said again. In her own secret thinking about the child inside her, she had only seen it as a little black-haired girl. She had even imagined her big brown eyes. But Ned immediately pronounced it to be a boy. It dampened her happiness for a moment, mainly because it reminded her that she and Ned did not always want the same things. Now if she did have a girl, it would mean she had disappointed her husband. It reminded her that nothing was really simple in life, not even having a child by your own husband.
Ned saw a cloud pass across Jewel’s expression. It occurred to him that he might have been too blunt in expressing his conviction that the child would be a boy, though he had only said what he believed. In his mind, the child was already a boy—a lively little boy who would soon be hunting squirrels with him, or helping him snare wild turkeys. The business seemed simple to him: first a boy, to carry on the name, and then some girls to help Jewel with the chores, if Jewel wanted girls.
“It’s just our first one, Jewel,” he said. “We can keep on and have a few girls, too, if you’re set on girls.”
“Get your head off my stomach, Liza might come in,” Jewel said. The first little cloud across her happiness had swiftly been followed by another, the second cloud being the knowledge that she and Ned were not properly married yet. Ned had thought that Preacher Williams would be preaching on the Mountain the Sunday he brought Jewel home to live with him, but Preacher Williams had grown a tumour in his stomach and gone west to the Choctaw lands in search of a famous healer who was said to be able to coax out tumours.
She and Ned had gone along from week to week and month to month, expecting either the old preacher or a new one to show up at the little log church on the Mountain. But then word came that Preacher Williams had gone too late to the Choctaw lands. Despite the Indian healer’s skill, the tumour had killed Preacher Williams, and so far no new preacher had replaced him on the arduous Cherokee circuit.
It was not a case, either, of Ned Christie simply taking for granted what was already his—he was anxious as Jewel for them to be formally married, in front of proper witnesses. After all, he was a senator, and he had both his reputation and Jewel’s to think of. He spoke often of going to find a preacher, but the violent business with Zeke had intervened. Jewel did not hold it against him; the fact was, they lived in a place where preachers were scarce. But now that the child was in her, she felt they had to hurry and marry properly. She did not want to be one of those women who simply rode off one day with some man who wanted her to spend a lifetime having children by him. It was the lot of many women in the Going Snake District, but her mother had taught her better—and she expected better.
“The corncakes are cooked,” Liza yelled up the stairs. “You’re near out of molasses, did you know?”
“Why, I could just lick you, you’re sweet as molasses,” Ned whispered to Jewel. He still had his face on her belly, pretending to be listening for the baby.
“Stop it, Ned—get up!” Jewel said. “This baby’s gonna be coming by winter. We got to work harder at finding us a preacher.”
Jewel rolled out of bed. It was the only way to stop Ned, once he was feeling private about her. She skipped on down the stairs before he could grab her, as he was prone to do when in such a mood.
Ned felt Jewel had drawn away from him because of the baby in her, though it could have been because of Liza, who had already been visiting three days and ought to be getting on back home—at least in his view, she ought to. He realized that Jewel got lonesome for her folks and needed a visit now and then. Three days was a long enough visit in his book; a husband and wife needed the house to themselves. His own father had discouraged lengthy visits on the part of relatives, and he meant to do the same in his home.
What Jewel said about the preacher was true. It had occurred to him at times like this morning that the reason Jewel was often so shy with him, not willing to be private with him in the daylight, was because they were not properly married. A good marriage ceremony might correct that, and it was the right thing to do, in any event.
He got up from the bed and reluctantly put his pants on, wondering what to do about the preacher. Of course preachers were thick in
Arkansas; he could always put Jewel on the mule and head for Fort Smith, where a marriage could be accomplished promptly. The problem with that was he might end up getting arrested before he got married. There had been no response from the white law to the shootout in the courthouse, though everyone knew a response would come, and very soon. Rumour on the Mountain had it that Judge Parker was assembling a posse of marshals to descend on Tahlequah and arrest everybody connected with the shooting. A visit to Fort Smith to get married might end with a hanging, if he was not cautious.
The word from Tuxie Miller, who had seen Zeke after he returned home with Becca, was that Zeke was so apprehensive about the arrival of the white law that he planned to go on the scout the very next day.
“Tuxie said Zeke was coming here to see me,” Ned told Jewel, after they sat down at the breakfast table. “He said he thinks I ought to go on the scout, too. He thinks the white law will be showing up soon, and I expect he’s right.”
Jewel had been sitting at the table staring out the front door, a cup of chicory coffee steaming in front of her. When Ned said the part about going on the scout with her father, Jewel came to attention.
“No. I can’t spare you, Ned, not with the baby coming!” she blurted, with such exceptional vehemence that both Liza and Ned were startled. Jewel was glaring at both of them, the anger in her eyes as exceptional as the force in her voice.
“Don’t jump on me, Jewel, I’m just trying to do the sensible thing,” Ned explained. “I won’t be no good to you or the baby, if I’m hung.”
“You ain’t going on the scout. Pa can, if he wants to,” Jewel said. “I won’t be staying up here on this hill alone no more than I have already.”
Ned hardly knew what to think about Jewel’s little outburst. He had no immediate plans to go on the scout, but the fact was it often seemed the most sensible practice when the white law was aroused. He himself had never been required to do it, but for many Cherokees occasional periods on the scout were an inconvenient fact of life. Though he did his best to keep Jewel well cared for and happy, it was not for her to tell him what he could and could not do in cases where self-preservation was the issue. His own father had to stay on the scout for six months once, as the result of an accidental killing.
“There’s nothing to fear on this hill, Jewel,” he said, trying to keep his tone mild. “We’ve got good bars on
the doors. I doubt even a bear could break in, unless it was a mighty big one.”
“I won’t have you going, Ned!” Jewel burst out again, so upset at the thought of him leaving that she could not subdue her feelings. She was not going to have him leaving, not with the baby coming.
“That business in the courthouse was not your fault,” she added. “We’ve got a child coming—I’ve got to have you home!”
Ned was astonished by Jewel’s bold defiance. It was bad behaviour, made worse by the fact that her sister was sitting there hearing it. Liza was a blabbermouth, too. Soon it would be all over the District that Ned Christie’s wife would not let him loose from her apron strings. He wanted to get up and give Jewel a good shaking, but he restrained himself.
“Jewel, you hush that talk, and hush it now!” Ned demanded. “The baby ain’t due for six months. I can’t be staying home every minute of my life just because you’re going to have a baby once the frost falls.”
Ned thought his command would cow her, but instead, it seemed to make her more defiant. Jewel was so mad he scarcely recognized her. The mild, shy eyes that he had come to love were blazing at him. Before he could move, or try to calm her, Jewel grabbed the full cup of chicory coffee and flung it at him. Most of the coffee splashed on Liza, scalding her.
“Ow, Sis, you’ve burnt me!” Liza yelled, jumping up from the table in order to shake the hot coffee off her clothes.
Ned realized he had a wild woman on his hands. His quiet Jewel had suddenly become a wildcat. He leaped around the table, meaning to shake her until she came to her senses, but Jewel was so angry she started to punch him. Ned would have laughed, if she had not looked so crazy. Instead of shaking her, he swept her off her feet, and carried her back upstairs to the big loft room where they slept.