Papa took the best shovel so I clattered around the lean-to looking for the other one. I found it, my hand on the splintery handle, and took it up that hill, tripping over the frozen mud.
At first there was only the metal punch of the shovel and Papa grunting. But the closer I got, the more it sounded like talking and then I had to stop because of the words he was saying and I heard how he didn’t want no audience, not for anything in the world. Not with the things he was saying.
‘God. Damn. You.’ After every word, the shovel pounded the ground. ‘Why can’t you keep to yourself! And what kind of God would? What kind of God, damn it! Taking all my sons! All my sons! Leaving me nothing but daughters!’
I should’ve stayed looking out that window. My heart was near to breaking, but that made me freeze right through. I listened too long and then I left Papa on that hill and took my shovel back to the lean-to. In the barn the horses and the cows were all waiting the same as before.
I threw down enough hay to keep them still and got to work milking. My head against warm cow flank, short hair drying my wet face. The metal pail rang with hot milk and the long scruffy barn cat came running, winding himself around my legs, hoping for the first squirts but we all hope for things we don’t get.
When I finished the first cow I dragged my stool to the next. The cat came too; he just wouldn’t give up but I wouldn’t give in neither, not even when he bit my leg through Papa’s old work pants. I kicked that cat but he kept coming back for more, and I wondered how he could be so stupid to keep trying the same thing.
I milked every last cow, trying to forget everything but the hair smoothing my cheek, the rubbery teats in my hand, the cat twining my legs.
But I ain’t ever forgotten. All I can think is the hard work I’ve done and how it’s never enough. Not ever.
I SPEND THE last few days with Jeremiah organizing and packing things for him while he works the farm with his brothers. The last night we practice one more time in the big bed. Feeling Jeremiah’s seed spilling from me, I think maybe Betsy was right, maybe I should have thought more about getting a baby on me, on having something of Jeremiah’s to keep while he’s gone, but it’s too late for that now, the moon only a sliver in the sky.
In the morning, I wake to Jeremiah getting out of bed to stoke the fire. Watching his back as he leaves our room, I swallow back the tears.
When he comes back, he holds out a thin parcel, folded in his Mama’s parchment paper and tied with a blue grosgrain ribbon.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, sitting up, gathering the quilt to my chest.
‘Open it,’ he says.
I undo the ribbon and as Jeremiah looks on, I tie my hair back with it, all the time watching him, memorizing the lines of his face.
‘You are the slowest,’ he says, shaking his head at me.
I carefully unfold the parchment. The packet inside reads The United States and Territories. I wonder how Jeremiah can smile like that.
‘It’s a map. So you can follow where I am.’ He taps the word Territories with his finger. ‘And remember where we’re going.’
It is nice, but I can’t get any words out and that is what does it then. I reach to put that map on the bedside table, so Jeremiah won’t see the tears get to welling, but I don’t hide it good enough.
‘Let’s forget all about everything. Make our last morning nice.’ And then he leans across the bed to kiss me.
‘You can’t leave yet,’ I say, and pull him to me, kissing him until his breath comes fast.
‘I’ve got to chop some more wood,’ he says, breaking away.
‘You ain’t got to do that.’
‘I want you to be provisioned,’ he says.
‘There’s other things I can’t do by myself …’
‘I won’t be easy if that woodbox ain’t full,’ he says, sliding away from me.
‘Then I’ll come help—’
‘No, you stay here,’ he says. ‘Get a nice supper on … and then maybe …’ He opens his mouth like there is more he wants to say, but he turns around quick and heads for the door.
WHEN I STOP hearing the ax, I start supper like a good wife does, setting the table with our two plates and the gingham napkins from my hope chest, laying out the big spoons, buttering thick slices of bread. I’ve just got the pea soup boiling when the door bangs.
I say, ‘Oh, but it’s not ready yet!’
Only when I turn around, it ain’t Jeremiah standing there, it’s Timmy O’Malley, the littlest one, holding another folded paper out at me.
‘From Jeremiah,’ he says, and then he runs out the door before I can even ask a thing.
My hands shake, unfolding that paper. It is crisp and white as laundry from the line. Inside is Jeremiah’s bad penmanship that schooling ain’t never made nice. That writing makes me want to take my pea soup and scald him with it, throw the whole pot at his head.
February 19, 1862