“David Carson? Come forward, please.”
He took a deep breath. He faced the judge. His big moment.
“Are you David Carson of Scotland?” The judge motioned him forward.
“No sir. Of Ireland, North Carolina, and Missouri.”
“Hmmm.” Conversation with the bailiff. Then, “There seems to be some irregularity.”
Davey traced his fingers around his hat brim. “Lookee, your honor. Myself applied four years ago, nearly five.” He tried to keep his voice calm. “What’s irregular?”
“We have no record of your application.”
“Then how’d you come to have me be here, sir?”
The judge said something to his bailiff that Davey couldn’t hear, turned back. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. There’s another David Carson who made the request and whose papers are ready for signature. In error we’ve notified you.”
“But me application, surely it’s there and processed.” He knew he sounded whiney, desperate even.
“Are you certain you submitted the proper papers?”
He couldn’t lose his temper. “On me mother’s grave, I swear.”
“Well, you’re not the correct David Carson.”
“But I applied. You have to have a record.”
The judge raised a warning eyebrow. “All I know to do is to have you start over. I’ll have the clerk provide you with an application and perhaps we can expedite your final papers.”
“And when then would me papers be ready?”
The judge leaned into this clerk who whispered.
“I’d say in a year or so. Maybe two.”
“Sir. But—”
“Patience is a virtue, Mr. Carson. We have dozens of people awaiting papers in this county alone.”
“I’m hoping to head for Oregon next spring.”
“You’re fortunate that the court has the applications here. As I said, we’ll move as quickly as we can. Next case?”
Outside Davey found himself tearing up. Two years. He’d either be long gone or they’d have to wait to leave. He needed to be a citizen in order to apply for that land. What right did the courts have to tell him to wait when he’d done everything right. He bent to scratch Rothwell’s sharp-pointed ears, mounted Fergus. The horse grunted with Davey’s weight. Courts and papers. They’re as unreliable as the weather.
No snow covered the ground but the cold bit Letitia’s face as they rode Davey’s horse, Fergus, to the Hawkinses’ to celebrate Christmas Day. Letitia wore a coat of beaver skins, one Davey had made for her from prime hides he’d trapped and kept. It was his Christmas gift to her. She’d given him a watch paid for with her butter and milk money. They’d exchanged their gifts on Christmas Eve, the memory of the evening in front of the hearth warming her still. Davey read the Scripture from what he called his Family Book, though it seemed to her sometimes he told the story more than read the words. Then they spoke of hopefulness in Oregon, of the trials and joys of making a new way in a new land. That’s what Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus had done.
“You’re a citizen now,” Letitia said, allowing pride to enter her voice. “Did you write that in the Family Book?” He shook his head. “I keep your papers safe with mine.”
“Oh, no need for that. I could lose mine and the courthouse would have a copy. No, nothing to be concerned about.” He picked at mud on his boot.
“Maybe you could write out our agreement? Mark that in the book.”
“I’ll get to that agreement before long, but you have my word.”
“Yes, suh,” she said. “I have your word, but it won’t be no good if you is dead and I’s still livin’.”
“Me mother used to say ‘The Lord takes care of the sparrow, he’ll surely take care of you.’ That’s what we got to remember, not worry so much about papers.”
He could be so loving, but he also dismissed her worries if they didn’t settle in with his own.
“You like a river,” Letitia said. “Ain’t no good to push.”
He’d patted her hand. “That’s exactly so.”
She couldn’t push him, but she didn’t have to like riding along on his raft waiting for him to shoot them through the rapids.
Once they arrived at the Hawkinses’ log home, that quiet world of Christmas Eve and a cold ride swirled into Christmas Day and a frenzy of offspring, food, and festivities. Children laughed and scampered, showing their Christmas gifts, pulling from their Christmas stockings one precious orange each. Letitia wondered where Nancy Hawkins had gotten such fruit. Young Edward gripped a wooden toy in his small hand, showing it to Letitia and saying “Mine!” as Letitia removed her coat. Maryanne stirred up biscuits while four-year-old Laura watched baby Nancy Jane as she slept on the nearby bed, Laura matching the cadence of her breath.
While Nancy and Letitia cooked beef roasts the Carsons brought and Nancy stewed four chickens and started the puddings, the men—including eleven-year-old Samuel—spoke of nothing but Oregon: who else was going, what weapons they’d take, who might be named captains or lieutenants, and all other issues of “heading west.”
“I’ve heard that citizenship applications are backed up.” Doc Hawkins tapped new tobacco into his clay pipe.
“Mr. Carson a citizen now.” Letitia surprised herself by speaking up.
“Good for him. We’ll all be seeking land.”
“Is there an alternative for getting land? For those not so fortunate?” Davey said.
“Perhaps they could show they’d applied. Maybe have witnesses to how long they’d been in the states before coming to Oregon.” Doc Hawkins lit a pipe, the scent unsettling Letitia’s breakfast. “Not sure how strict they’ll be. Canadians have a say, I hear. Two Canadians voted for the provisional government last year and it only won by two votes!”
They spoke then of the arrangements planned, how the groups would be set up as military units with captains and lieutenants and what-not, discussions that Letitia let fly over her without taking hold.
“The way I see it, once the captains and lieutenants get named, the real work of managing begins.” Davey lifted an arm for a small Hawkins child to scoot under as the children raced around the table until their mother shooed them away. Letitia gave the children popped corn to string as the scent of roasted meat filled the small cabin. Logs cracked in the fireplace.
“The whining,” Davey continued, “—and there will be whining—may be silenced by a captain’s command, but like a summer stream, the whining goes underground. Shows up weeks later somewhere else but with a full head of steam.”
“We need to get organized early, so we can head out before other groups,” Doc Hawkins said.
“But not before the grass grows on the prairies for the oxen and mules,” Nancy called over her shoulder as she cut up the two berry pies Letitia had brought.
“Who are you women talking to?” Doc Hawkins winked at Davey, and Letitia could tell he was pleased his wife was a partner in this western venture.
“Letitia hears all the chatter when she delivers butter,” Nancy said. “Seems like the whole journey will be like balancing three children on your knees. Leave later so you can cross after the rivers have gone down but then wander in the dust of the earlier groups and no forage for your animals. And all along musing at length if the Indians will harass. Isn’t that right, Letitia?”
Letitia smiled, pleased that what she shared was considered of value. “Gettin’ along make the difference. How people settle their squabbles, make their peace, that what matter. ’Cause they is always problems.”
Davey looked up at her from his hickory rocker and said, “In Oregon, we’ll settle issues with fewer courts.” Doc Hawkins’s pipe smoke drifted up to punctuate his words. “Men ought to be skilled at negotiating with their neighbors with goodwill. After all, comes a time when every neighbor needs help without the residue of some old issue a judge ruled on smearing the need or the fixing of it.”
Letitia took the now cut-up pies
and put them on the windowsill, then helped Nancy lug a large crockery full of sauerkraut from the lean-to in the back before Doc saw their efforts and, with Samuel, helped bring the pot to the stove. The men left to look at the wagon Doc had purchased from the colonists at Bethel. At the barn they fed the Hawkinses’s dog, Rufus. Rothwell hadn’t been permitted to come.
Inside, the chatter of the Hawkins children pleased Letitia. She could see how the older ones helped the younger children. If she had more than one child, Letitia decided, she would raise them to be kind to each other and nip in the bud any signs of domineering spirits. She felt her child quicken in her womb and turned so as not to smile too broadly in her joy. She hadn’t told Nancy yet; wasn’t sure how people would take this union, especially with a child. It could be seen as something more and, for some, offensive.
The men returned from their wagon foray even more enthused. Davey pushed wood into the fireplace while Nancy stepped to the bed to nurse Nancy Jane, and in the lull Doc gathered his children to read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke, his offspring like dumplings cuddled together in a stew. He kept his eyes open while he read, unlike Davey. The Hawkinses gave her hope for what lay ahead for her and Davey. She knew spirit moments were rare and could be whisked away in a second. But for now she remembered Davey’s words about the sparrow and she savored like a good stew this feeding of the soul within the gathering of friends.
After they ate, Davey offered to go home and milk Charity. “Doc here says we should stay the night and add to the game-playing. We’ll sing some songs for the children maybe. I ’spect they’d like hearing your fine clear voice, Tish.”
“Been a time since I sang ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’”
“Samuel, you go along and help Mr. Carson. By the time you boys are back those pies will be warmed at the hearth and be mighty tasty.” This from the doctor.
“Lookee, I can do it alone. Bring my Irish whistle back and teach you a jig.”
“I’d like to come, Mr. Carson. I got all my chores done. I can keep Rothwell company if nothin’ else.”
“Well, all right, son. We’ll make a fast return. Don’t you kids eat up those pies!” He shook his finger at them and they giggled. Letitia liked the way he’d called Samuel son and how he teased with the girls. Before long he’d have one of his own to use those words with.
The doctor went out to milk and then feed the chickens and the hogs. He came in brushing a light drizzle from his wool coat. Letitia sat in the rocker cuddling Edward as he slept, a blanket across his small body, though he still held his wooden wagon. Across from her Nancy rocked her youngest as both women took a needed rest before the final pie serving and whipping up the cream. Water heated on the stove for washing dishes later. Ah the joy of rest.
Doc settled down in front of the fireplace when they heard a tap at the door.
“Wonder what Davey forgot.” Doc looked at his watch and frowned. “He couldn’t be back already.”
“I hope no one needs your doctoring tonight,” his wife said.
Doc Hawkins eased his tall, skinny body to the door. “Can I help you?” A youngish man in his early twenties stepped inside at Doc’s invitation, a fine rain drizzled on his hat that he now removed. His face was beardless and he had a hint of red in his full head of hair that curled tight from the outside mists. Letitia tensed her shoulders even before he spoke.
“I’m looking for David Carson.”
“Oh, you just missed him. He’s gone home to milk his cow and check on his stock, but he’ll be back before long. Warm yourself by the fire. What’s your business with Mr. Carson on this Holy Day, if I might ask?”
Letitia could tell by his gaze focused on the doctor that he didn’t see the women. He was that kind of man. “My business? Well, he’s my pa and I’ve come to take him home.”
9
Stepping Up, Stepping Over
Letitia’s stomach lurched. Edward, curled on her lap, shifted his weight with the unsettling and awoke.
“Didn’t know he had kin in these parts.” Doc motioned to the bench, for the man to sit, but he stood, continued to fill the room.
“I ’spect he doesn’t know I’m in these parts. Haven’t been before. David Carson,” he said holding out his hand to the doctor. “Folks back home in North Carolina call me Junior.”
Her mind swirled like leaves caught in a whirlpool, spinning, spinning, with nowhere to go. He carried on a conversation with the Hawkins pair but she heard little of it. Davey has a son? Why had he not told her? Could this “Junior” be a fraud? No, the reddish hair, the shorter legs and long torso, those blue eyes, they all spoke of Davey Carson. She’d thought she was giving him a family. He already had one.
Maybe Junior was the reason Davey failed to put his words into writing. He didn’t want to leave everything to her and their children. He’d have to divide it, give portions to this son. Or all of it to Junior. And what about Junior’s mother? The room felt stifling now. The smells of roasted meat or berry pies made her queasy. She put Edward down on his mat. “I needs to step outside.”
“Are you all right?” Nancy’s voice held warmth.
“No. Yes, ma’am. I needs air. Excuse me, suh.” She had to walk past Junior, couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Watch it, girl.”
She brushed his shoulder as he’d failed to move when she’d excused herself to leave.
She heard the doctor’s “Here, here now. She’s our guest,” but she kept going, wouldn’t let someone’s defense remove the sting of betrayal.
Outside she headed for the privy, the cool air making her cough. Raindrops mingled with her tears. She had created a dream out of nothing. How could he take care of her if he also had another family to care for? Maybe he’d abandoned them. This son said he’d come to take him home. Davey never spoke of a wife, not a word. She should have expected it. She was too happy and see where it took her.
How I miss this?
She went from blaming Davey to blaming herself, her own stupidity. Her eyes were blinded by belief in love, in a man’s offer of security. His brother’s words came back, carrying a disappointment of some kind. She ought to have known better. The cut-out in the privy door that she stared through was of a goat’s head. She was a goat for thinking her life could be anything but loveless, hard, and alone.
“Letitia?” It was Nancy. “There you are. I checked the little house. You can’t stay in the barn. It’s shivering weather out here.” Nancy pulled the heavy door behind her, hung the candle lantern on a nail, casting shadows over Letitia. She bent to where Letitia sat curled in the empty stall. Mules nickered at the woman’s voice.
“I . . . I be all right.”
“Goodness. You’ve been gone so long.”
“Maybe ate too much.”
A pause and then, “You didn’t know. About the son.”
She felt the tears come then. Nancy nestled beside her. “It’s a dastardly thing, it is. But men . . . they can be dense as oxen. What is so essential to our very being they look upon as pure surprise. ‘That bothered you?’ or ‘You wanted me to say what?’ I swear we may as well be chickens to them sometimes clucking around, pecking at making their lives better while they act like we don’t even exist. Yet they love us, dear and tender.”
“Not all.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen the way Mr. Carson looks at you. He adores you, Letitia. This . . . this hurt, it will pass. Has to. For your child’s sake.”
She knows.
“I . . . needs more time. Here.”
“Don’t get too chilled. I’ll get a quilt. Take my shawl.”
Nancy wrapped the knitting around her shoulders like a blessing, spreading it over Letitia’s knees. “It will be all right.” She patted Letitia’s knees. “This hurt will pass.”
Letitia nodded, let herself be taken into the warm words of this good woman. “I needs . . .” She couldn’t say what she needed.
Nancy left, returned moments later with the quilt, tuc
ked it around Letitia. She patted Letitia’s shoulder and left.
In the flickering light she saw the quilt pattern, a wedding ring quilt. Ain’t that a funny thing. A wedding ring quilt worn on the night her wedding promises fell apart. The cold didn’t deaden the comforting smells of the mules and horses chewing at their troughs nor the sound of the barn door creaking open.
“Tish? Lookee here. You come inside now.”
She stiffened.
“You’ll catch your death. You got to worry over our wee one, so you come on now.”
She sat quiet as snow falling. She heard his feet shuffle and then he squatted next to her.
“I brought your coat.”
“Got a quilt. A wedding ring quilt. Not that it matter to you.” She wanted to hurt him the way Davey Junior had cut into her. Girl. He’d called her girl. And he’d come to take his father home.
She couldn’t stay there all night, she knew that. But she didn’t want to go home with Davey Carson, either. “You best head back, be with your son. He here to take you home, he say. Where home be, Mr. Carson? Not the property down this road.”
“My home is with you, Tish. It is.”
“Maybe Doc Hawkins let me spend the night right here. I come get my things in the morning.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t go away. We’re wed, fair and square. Besides, Junior won’t take up much room. He can use the larder or the barn. His showing up was as much a surprise to me as to you.”
She hissed, “You at least know he alive.”
“You need your coat.”
He tried to push it around behind her back but she resisted. Accepting anything from him would turn the tide of her anger and she wasn’t ready to let it go. She pushed back against the stall boards.
“Not for me, now. For our wee one.”
Her baby, yes. Her shoulders sank.
“I am sorry, Tish. Mrs. Carson. I ought to have told you. But his mother died years ago and he’s been on his own for ten years or more since I’ve seen him. I . . . went a little crazy when his mother passed. Came to Platte County, started over.” He hung his head. “Should have told you.”