No Eye Can See by Jane Kirkpatrick
Ruth felt like a chunk of winter hail, hard and cold and sharp with no hope of melting. She bumped into things in the house, picked up Jessies clothing and brought it to her face to inhale the scent of her. She tried not to ignore the others, now that all of them were back. She told Ned he looked healthy, and he did, not as chubby as he'd been. He'd stretched up. Stood almost to her shoulder. She remembered to thank Jason for helping Matthew, for graining the horses, for bringing in venison, for working beside him like a man. Especially after the other drovers down from Oregon had scattered into the gold fields, except for Joe Pepin, always loyal to the Schmidtke family. It was nice to have Sarah around again too. Even Suzanne and her little ones gave them all a distraction while she waited for Mazy to return. Lura didn't bother as she had either; the woman calmed some with the presence of her capable son.
It was Jessie's absence she mourned. She'd never gotten to tell Jessie the story, the whole story. She'd told her nothing at all. And now, it might be too late.
Ruth hung Jessie's jumper on the wall hook, fingered the bar of soap Jessie had made. Her eyes watered. She needed to finish the drawing of the girl. Zane's she'd completed, had printed, and given to the postman. Jessie's face she found harder to draw. She had not sketched it enough, had not really seen the child. Her child. She hadn't gotten to know her. She felt weepy again. At times, she couldn't seem to stop sobbing. She was an ice crystal waiting to shatter against a child's grinding stone.
She looked around. She controlled nothing in the end: not her life, not her feelings, not her future. At least Zane Randolph no longer controlled her thoughts. They were only of Jessie and her prayer that the girl still lived.
Oltipa's dress dried into twists of wrinkles that looked as though she'd just wrung the water out. She brushed at her skirt, the flounce at the bottom half torn off. My Jessie's thin nightdress exposed cut knees. The gown was smudged with dirt and ripped from a bad fall she'd taken. But they were heading back. Going home. Oltipa allowed her heart to sing with the flush of reunion.
She finished ripping off the bottom of her flounce, then undid My Jessie's hair, running her fingers through it to get some of the snarls and twigs out. She did the same with her own, then twisted it with the blue calico on top of her head. “Just like David Taylor show me,” she told My Jessie.
“He your man?” My Jessie asked.
“My man,” she said. She tied the remainder of the flounce into a scarf she held with a knot at the back of her neck. She would not look Wintu as she walked back, but like one of David Taylor's people. The child with her would protect her too. Hard to believe that a small child could lend a woman her dignity, but Oltipa welcomed it on this journey. Walking beside this white child she would not be whisked away as a slave. In her grass dress here on this trail she would have stood out. So it was good, though she did not know it then, to be dressed in David's gift when the Randolph man took her. And she was there for My Jessie, showing her berries and roots they washed down with spring water, provided to keep them alive. Who could know what was ahead? Who could see far down the trail?
When they heard a rider, Oltipa pulled My Jessie off to the side, peered to see if one was David Taylor, waited until the man passed, then kept on, steady, sure, heading home.
No dog barked as they approached the cabin a day later. No wind moved the dried leaves. The tin wash pan hanging on the log end had not been moved. An ax still creased the splitting log.
And then she heard it.
At first, Oltipa thought it was a bird, and then she thought the stream rippled, singing over rocks. But it rose higher, lifted like a hawk, and then she saw them and she knew a sound so deep, so filled with joy. A greater treasure than just arriving home—the laughter of her son riding high on David Taylors shoulders.
She was a woman split by a sharp whip, cut down the middle. Two children she had failed to protect. Two children, gone because of what she'd done or failed to do. Ruth heard voices outside, children chattering. Pig barked. She cupped her hands in the basin, flushed the cool water onto her swollen eyes. Would she ever feel whole again? Would the tear in her heart ever heal? Now she could hear laughter. Would she ever take a full breath again? Squeals and shouts, then, “Auntie, Auntie, come quick!”
Ruth sighed and stepped to the doorway. She watched Matthew moving from the barn, his long strides taking him swiftly toward a wagon bringing visitors. As though dreaming, she gazed as Matthew pulled a child from the wagon, hair twisted in blue calico on top of her head. She wore a thin nightdress, like Jessie s. And then she knew. Jessie! My Jessie! Her heart felt whole enough she could run.
Mazy'd seen the plat of the claim bearing Jeremy Benjamin Taylor's name. One afternoon, she rode there, coming over the ridge on Ink, seeing the cabin that Jeremy had built. Her heart thudded like a butter churn, and she blinked back tears. Part of her felt as though she eavesdropped on another persons life. But this was part of her life, her coming to terms with the past. She wasn't sure how she'd tell him, almost wished the boy wasn't there, so she could wander about and sense her husband's other life, try to understand what drove him.
Smoke rose from the chimney. He'd built a good hearth, it looked like. Perhaps he had planned to stay, to bring his family here one day. Not a good place for milk cows, though, with the steep ridges and no place to raise hay.
Then she'd arrived, slipped off the mule and tied it to the corral. A small dog with black feathery feet stood at the door announcing her with a high-pitched bark.
“What is it, Chance?” the man said, and Mazy looked up to see what her husband must have looked like all those years before. Brown curls around a slender, handsome face, thin lips, softer though, more prone to smile. Blue eyes with warmth coming through the curious. “Can I help you?” he asked. He rolled his sleeves down as he talked and stepped off the porch. He was taller than Jeremy'd been, finer boned, but with wide hands. Now she saw a woman come around behind him. She looked native and carried a chubby baby on her hip.
Mazy blinked back tears, not wanting to make a fool of herself, wishing now she'd done this another way, maybe asked her mother to come with her. She had not told her mother yet. Didn't know why she waited.
“I'm sorry,” she started, then stopped. “I didn't want to intrude, but I'm looking for David Taylor,” she said.
“That's me,” he said. His hands were on his hips now, his head canted to the side. “Do I know you?”
“No. My name is Mazy…Bacon, but we have family…in common.”
They invited her in, and she eased into her story, told him of her farm in Wisconsin, the cows and how she'd brought them west with her husband who had died along the trail. Mazy watched his eyes for recognition, noticed how he protected the boy as he bounced the baby on his knee. David expressed sympathy for her loss, and she nodded, smiled at the child whose round face and dark eyes heavily favored his mother.
But then Mazy spoke of their arrival here, that she sold milk in Shasta, and that her mother ran the Popover. “I know your mother,” he said, and Mazy smiled. “She was very helpful.”
For a moment more he seemed to think that was why she'd come, to bring some bridge of commerce around a bakery or dairy, or to simply pass an afternoon with a new friend, not to lift a burden she had carried, not to set her own past free.
Finally she said, “David, I know some things about your father.”
“My father?” he said. “How could you?”
“When he left here those years ago, he came to Wisconsin. He bought a farm and cows.”
David stared at her, his face as still as winter snows covering cold ground. The boy stopped pulling at David's ear and looked at the man. David took Bens tiny hand inside his own, his fingers gently rubbing the child's fist. “It's all right, fella,” he said. The woman noticed something too and came forward, her hands on his shoulder, pressed her dark fingers at the red of David's shirt.
“My father lived in Wisconsin? When? He left here, said he'd be back. Nev
“He went on east. He never mentioned his family here. And I married him.”
David's mouth dropped. He ran his finger through his hair. They talked longer then, and Mazy found a comfort in the boy she'd never known with his father. Someone tender and authentic sat across from her, hands now wrapped around a tin cup, a man strong and kind whom she might be pleased to call her kin.
“I have a gift for you too,” she said. She pulled a paper from her reticule. “The cow, one cow at least, is yours. As half the estate. And these glasses, they were your fathers.”
Mazy stood then, watching Davids silence. “I'd like to bring my mother out, have her meet Oltipa, seeing how she hasn't yet.”
“Yes,” he said. “Bring everyone, your friends.” He looked shyly at Oltipa. “We'll have a gathering. Never had one here, have we, Oltipa? That's what a home's for, isn't it? I met a few of the women, when we took Jessie back. Lura and her child, again, the blind woman and her dog.”
“Pig,” Mazy said. “He used to be mine.”
“Yes, let's get your mother out to meet her…grandson. Sort of. I guess,” he said and laughed. “Maybe even great-grandson, except I'm not Ben's father.”
“You're more father than you know,” Mazy said. She watched, surprised when he handed the boy to her. She held Ben and blinked back tears. The child reached up to touch her face, and it came to her then: She had come to put her past to rest and found instead the threads that wove her future.
Ruth wondered if she should tell the children with the others around. Suzanne hadn't left yet. She and Seth were sorting through her theater props, from what Ruth could tell. Esty had arrived that afternoon, too. And Lura and Mariah were talking decisions with Matthew, using Ruth's place as home base. With her luck, about the time she planned to tell the children, Adora and Charles would appear. She wondered if Tipton and her mother corresponded or if their relationship was forever severed by hurt feelings and betrayal.
She wouldn't let that happen in her family, not anymore. These women were almost like sisters. Not that she'd ever had one. But it was how she imagined sisters would be, people who shared, who disagreed, who encouraged, who loved despite how different from each other they might be. Blood tied sisters together, though, so no matter what was exposed, it would be understood if not accepted, believed if not honored. At least that was her image of sisters. She couldn't be sure if such allegiance lived within Lura and Suzanne, even Elizabeth and Mazy.
Ned sang after their supper of fresh corn on the cob and venison stewed with potatoes in the cast-iron pot. Suzanne strummed the harp, and Lura clapped her hands in time. Even Mariah looked refreshed, smiling between Jessie and Sarah, a big sister to those two. Jessie was still a pistol with her easy sass, but she stayed close to Ruth. And more than once, when Ruth turned around, there the girl stood, breathing fast, her face white as stone, her eyes as though she'd seen the devil. Ruth always bent to hold her then, whispered, “Its not happening now. You're safe, you're home,” until she heard her daughter's heartbeat come to quiet, steady, and her breathing calm. She had to do something more, though. Tell them the truth.
If they were family, Ruth thought, if they were people she'd come to care for and was willing to accommodate for, stretch a bit from what she really wanted in their time of need, could secrets then be shared? This was risk, greater than driving a herd of horses across the plains, greater even than facing Zane. It was the risk of being herself, edging toward being someone different, someone a little more willing to expose and hope she could endure the result. She didn't want to curl up like a caterpillar every time someone chose to touch her.
They finished the song. Joe always stayed at the barn, but the rest were there in the cabin. Matthew sat rubbing oil into a bridle. The children played quack, as Matthew called it. She'd heard it as blindman's bluff and wondered that they didn't fall over each other trying to make their escapes. The laughter filled her. It was a perfect scene, Ruth decided. A fireplace flickering with low embers left over from cooking. She smelled the scent of herbs in soap, Jessie's cake now on the wash-stand. Brought in to comfort Clayton, the cat purred quietly at his stroke; Pig lay beside Suzanne, his ears alert, his eyes poised at the cat. A hearth. The focus of home. She wished she could paint it instead of talking of what she knew she would. Her heart pounded and her mouth felt dry. She cleared her throat when the game ended. “I have something I want to tell.”
“You look so serious, Auntie Ruth,” Ned said.
“Is it bad news?” Lura asked. She had her pipe out but just chewed on it with no tobacco lit. “I can't take any more bad news. Just let it ride until after we go to bed if that's what it is.”
Ruth shook her head. “You'll have to be the judge of how bad it is or not. It's meant for good, even though…” she hesitated, took a deep breath. “Even though Zane Randolph would have it another way.”
“Who is that Zane Randolph, anyway?” Mariah asked.
“That snake is my dad,” Jessie said.
Ruth gasped. “You knew?” Her mouth dropped open. “You knew that Zane Randolph was your…father? Who told you?”
“He did. Kind of. He called me ‘his Jessie.’ I didn't like it, but I knew I was anyway. Before I mashed his toe.”
“Guess I told first,” Jason said quietly.
“How did you know?” Ruth said, turning on him.
“I asked Mama who that was when you wrote his name on that sign. Where people decide if they're going north or south,” Jason said. “You said his family was heading to Oregon.”
“And she told you,” Ruth exhaled.
“Well, you told a lie there,” Jason said, not looking at Ruth. “And I wondered who his family was, and Mama told. Said you were married to him. And one reason we were heading west was so you could be free of him. Start over the way other folks do.” He looked up at her then. “She told me not to tell. But I told Ned and I guess Lura overheard it, and then pretty soon I was just saying it to Jessie. She had a right to know.”
Ruth shook her head as though to clear it of…exclusion, she thought it was. Everyone else knew and didn't want to tell her.
Jason lowered his head. “I didn't mean any harm.”
“You had no right,” Ruth said then, a kind of hot betrayal pushing up against her throat. They had carried on without her. She felt her nose sting, her eyes itch. “None of you had the right,” she whispered. “It was my story to tell.”
“I didn't know,” Suzanne told her, reaching out and patting her hand on Ruths. Ruth allowed it, brushed at her eyes.
“It wasn't like we was talking behind your back,” Jason said. “Just helped me know why you were so grum and edgy sometimes, why you kept going, going. Helped me not be so mad when you left us just before Mama died. Mama said it was you trying to keep your head clear about what mattered even when things swirled all around you.”
“She said to keep you in our prayers,” Sarah said.
“And that what mattered to you was keeping me safe,” Jessie said. “ ‘Cause you hadn't been able to do that for my brother. Did he really do that? My dad?”
“Don't call him that, Jessie.” Ruth softened her voice. “He is not a good man, and that is mine to carry, that I fell in love with him and allowed him to cower me and hurt others through it. Yes, he is the man who fathered you, but he is not nor will he ever be your dad.’ Your dad—Jed—cared about you, encouraged you, guided you. That man did none of that, not an ounce. And I won't have you believing he contributed to who you are or who you might become. You'll make better choices.”
She knew her words were racing, running together. She caught Matthew's eye. He looked up at her, a wash of care across his face. She couldn't stop. “My brother was your dad. My brother and Betha raised you best they knew how.”
“Why didn't you take me and move away?” Jessie asked.
Here came the dreaded question.
“Why'd you leave me behind?”
“It was the best cho
Lura stood up and lit the lamps, and the light reflected on the pools in Jessies eyes. Ruth rose, went to the girl sitting beside Mariah, her arms hunched forward, hands clasped between her knees. “And then later, I knew he would come after me, and I thought to keep you safe, away. It was always to keep you safe.”
“That why you just kinda settled here but not really, like you was always waiting to go away?” Jason asked.
“I was frightened,” Ruth whispered. “That I couldn't love you enough, that I couldn't keep you safe. And frightened that I still allowed myself to love that man despite what he had done.”
Ruth wiped at the girls cheeks with her fingertips. “And do you now?” Jessie asked.
Ruth shook her head. “Do I love you now? More than anything in the world. Do I think I can keep you safe? Yes. That's why I chose to tell you—though you already knew.” Ruth shook her head. She reached for the girl then, and Jessie held her, the thin arms like spiders legs clinging to her neck.
“But do you love Da—that man?” Jessie whispered.
“No, not anymore. Not anymore. Your Aunt Mazy said once that when we women cared about ourselves enough we'd stop trying to fill the empty spaces with men who only know how to hurt us. She said we wouldn't bind ourselves to men for the wrong reasons then. I think I'm moving there.” She caught Matthews eye and he winked.
Ruth released her daughter, looked around the room. “All this time of keeping it a secret, and everyone already knew.” She saw no judgment in their eyes, nothing but acceptance. “So here's the other news. We're leaving here. He'll be back—I know he will. So we're going north.”