Too Soon a Woman.docx
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Too Soon a Woman.docx
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TooSoonaWoman
TooSoonaWoman
DorothyM.Johnson
Weleftthehomeplacebehind,milebyslowmile,headingforthemountains,acrosstheprairiewherethewindblewforever.
Atfirsttherewerefourofuswiththeone-horsewagonanditsskimpyload.PaandIwalked,becauseIwasabigboyofeleven.Mytwolittlesistersrompedandtrotteduntiltheygottiredandhadtobeboostedupintothewagonbed.
ThatwasnocoveredConestoga,likePa’sfolkscameWestin,butjustanoldfarmwagon,drawnbyonewearyhorse,creakingandrumblingwestwardtothemountains,towardthelittlewoodstownwherePathoughthehadanoldunclewhoownedalittletwo-bitsawmill.
TwoweekswehadbeenmovingwhenwepickedupMary,whohadrunawayfromsomewherethatshewouldn’ttell.Padidn’twantheralong,butshestooduptohimwithnofearinhervoice.
“I’drathergowithafamilyandlookafterkids,”shesaid,“butIain’tgoingback.Ifyouwon’ttakeme,I’lltravelwithanywagonthatwill.”
Pascowledather,andherwideblueeyesstaredback.
“Howoldareyou?
”hedemanded.
“Eighteen,”shesaid.“There’steamsterscomethiswaysometimes.I’drathergowithyoufolks.ButIwon’tgoback.”
“We’reprid’nearoutofgrub,”myfathertoldher.“We’recleanoutofmoney.IgotallIcanhandlewithouttakinganybodyelse.”Heturnedawayasifhehatedthesightofher.“You’llhavetowalk,”hesaid.
Soshewentalongwithusandlookedafterthelittlegirls,butPawouldn’ttalktoher.
Ontheprairie,thewindblew.Butinthemountains,therewasrain.Whenwestoppedatlittletimberclaimsalongtheway,thehomesteaderssaidithadrainedallsummer.Cropsamongtheblackenedstumpswererottedandspoiled.Therewasnocheeranywhere,andlittlehospitality.Thepeoplewetalkedtowerepastworrying.Theywerescaredanddesperate.
SowasPa.Hetraveledtwiceasfareachdayasthewagon,rangingthroughthewoodswithhisrifle,butheneversawgame.Hehadbeendependingonvenison,butwenevergotanyexceptasagrudginggiftfromthehomesteaders.
Hebroughtinaporcupineonce,andthatwasfatmeatandgood.Maryroasteditinchunksoverthefire,halfcryingwiththesmoke.PaandIriggedupthetarpsheetforsheltertokeeptherainfromputtingthefirecleanout.
Theporcupinewaslonggone,exceptforsomeofthetried-outfatthatMaryhadsaved,whenwecametoanold,emptycabin.Pasaidwe’dhavetostop.Thehorsewasworeout,couldn’tpullanymoreupthosegradesonthedeep-ruttedroadsinthemountains.
Atthecabin,atleasttherewasshelter.Wehadafewpotatoesleftandsomecornmeal.Therewasacreekthatprobablyhadfishinit,ifapersoncouldcatchthem.Patrieditforhalfadaybeforehegaveup.TothisdayIdon’tcareforfishing.Iremembermyfather’ssunkeneyesinhisgaunt,grimface.
HetookMaryandmeoutsidethecabintotalk.Raindrippedonusfrombranchesoverhead.
“IthinkIknowwhereweare,”hesaid.“IcalculatetogettooldJohn’sandbackinaboutfourdays.There’llbegrubinthetown,andthey’llletmehavesomewhetheroldJohn’sstillthereornot.”
Helookedatme.“Youdolikeshetellsyou,”hewarned.ItwasthefirsttimehehadadmittedMarywasonearthsincewepickedheruptwoweeksbefore.
“You’remypardner,”hesaidtome,“butitmightbeshe’sgotmorebrains.Youmindwhatshesays.”
Heburstoutwithbitterness,“Thereain’tanythinggoodleftintheworld,orpeopletocareifyouliveordie.ButI’llgetgrubinthetownandcomebackwithit.”
Hetookadeepbreathandadded,“Ifyougettooall-firedhungry,butcherthehorse.It’llbebetterthanstarvin’.”
Hekissedthelittlegirlsgoodbyeandploddedoffthroughthewoodswithoneblanketandtherifle.
Thecabinwasmoldyandhadnofloor.Wekeptafiregoingunderaholeintheroof,soitwasfullofblindingsmoke,butwehadtokeepthefiresoastodryoutthewood.
Thethirdnightwelostthehorse.Abearscaredhim.Weheardtheracket,andMaryandIranout,butwecouldn’tseeanythinginthepitchdark.
IngraydaylightIwentlookingforhim,andImusthavewalkedfifteenmiles.ItseemedlikeIhadtohavethathorseatthecabinwhenPacameorhe’dwhipme.IgotplumblosttwoorthreetimesandthoughtmaybeIwasgoingtodietherealoneandnobodywouldeverknowit,butIfoundthewaybacktotheclearing.
Thatwasthefourthday,andPadidn’tcome.Thatwasthedayweateupthelastofthegrub.
Thefifthday,Marywentlookingforthehorse.Mysisterswhimpered,huddledinaquiltbythefire,becausetheywerescaredandhungry.
Ineverdidgetdriedout,alwayshavingtobringinmoredampwoodandgoingouttoyelltoseeifMarywouldhearmeandnotgetlost.ButIcouldn’tcrylikethelittlegirlsdid,becauseIwasabigboy,elevenyearsold.
Itwasneardarkwhentherewasananswertomyyelling,andMarycameintotheclearing.
Marydidn’thavethehorse—weneversawhidenorhairofthatoldhorseagain—butshewascarryingsomethingbigandwhitethatlookedlikeapumpkinwithnocolortoit.
Shedidn’tsayanything,justlookedaroundandsawPawasn’tthereyet,attheendofthefifthday.
“What’sthatthing?
”mysisterElizabethdemanded.
“Mushroom,”Maryanswered.“Ibetitheftstenpounds.”
“Whatareyougoingtodowithitnow?
”Isneered.“Playfootballhere?
”
“Eatit—maybe,”shesaid,puttingitinacorner.Herwethairhungoverhershoulders.Shehuddledbythefire.
MysisterSarahbegantowhimperagain.“I’mhungry!
”shekeptsaying.
“Mushroomsain’tgoodeating,”Isaid.“Theycankillyou.”
“Maybe,”Maryanswered.“Maybetheycan.Idon’tsetuptoknowallabouteverything,likesomepeople.”
“What’sthatmarkonyourshoulder?
”Iaskedher.“Youtoreyourdressonthebrush.”
“Whatdoyouthinkitis?
”shesaid,herheadbowedinthesmoke.
“Lookslikescars,”Iguessed.
“’Tisscars.Theywhippedme.Nowmindyourownbusiness.Iwanttothink.”
Elizabethwhimpered,“Whydon’tPacomeback?
”
“He’scoming,”Marypromised.“Can’tcomeinthedark.Yourpa’lltakecareofyousoon’shecan.”
Shegotupandrummagedaroundinthegrubbox.
“Nothingtherebutemptydishes,”Igrowled.“Iftherewasanything,we’dknowit.”
Marystoodup.Shewasholdingthecanwiththeporcupinegrease.
“I’mgoingtohavesomethingtoeat,”shesaidcoolly.“Youkidscan’thaveanyyet.AndIdon’twantanysqualling,mind.”
Itwasacruelthing,whatshedidthen.Sheslicedthatbig,solidmushroomandheatedgreaseinapan.
Thesmellofitbroughtthelittlegirlsoutoftheirquilt,butshetoldthemtogobackinsofierceavoicethattheyobeyed.
Theycriedtobreakyourheart.
Ididn’tcry.Iwatched,hatingher.
IenduredthesmellofthemushroomfryingaslongasIcould.ThenIsaid,“Givemesome.”
“Tomorrow,”Maryanswered.“Tomorrow,maybe.Butnottonight.”Sheturnedtomewithasharpcommand:
“Don’tbotherme!
Justleavemebe.”
Sheknelttherebythefireandfinishedfryingthesliceofmushroom.
IfI’dhadPa’srifle,I’dhavebeenwillingtokillherrightthenandthere.
Shedidn’teatrightaway.Shelookedatthebrown,friedsliceforawhileandsaid,“Bytomorrowmorning,Iguessyoucantellwhetheryouwantany.”
Thelittlegirlsstaredatherassheate.Sarahwaschewinganoldleatherglove.
WhenMarycrawledintothequiltswiththem,theymovedawayasfarastheycouldget.
Iwassoscaredthatmystomachheaved,emptyasitwas.
Marydidn’tstayinthequiltslong.Shetookadrinkoutofthewaterbucketandsatdownbythefireandlookedthroughthesmokeatme.
Shesaidinalowvoice,“Idon’tknowhowitwillbeifit’spoison.Justdothebestyoucanwiththegirls.Becauseyourpawillcomeback,youknow....Youbettergotobed.I’mgoingtositup.”
Andsowouldyousitup.Ifitmightbeyourlastnightonearthandthepainofdeathmightseizeyouatanymoment,youwouldsitupbythesmokyfire,wideawake,rememberingwhateveryouhadtoremember,savoringlife.
Wesatinsilenceafterthegirlshadgonetosleep.OnceIasked,“Howlongdoesittake?
”
“Ineverheard,”sheanswered.“Don’tthinkaboutit.”
Isleptafterawhile,withmychinonmychest.MaybePeterdozedthatwayatGethsemaneastheLordkneltpraying.
Mary’smovingaroundbroughtmewideawake.Theblackofnightwasfading.
“Iguessit’sallright,”Marysaid.“I’dbeabletotellbynow,wouldn’tI?
”
Iansweredgruffly,“Idon’tknow.”
Marystoodinthedoorwayforawhile,lookingoutatthedrippingworldasifshefounditbeautiful.Thenshefriedslicesofthemushroomwhilethelittlegirlsdancedwithanxiety.
Wefeasted,wethree,mysistersandI,untilMaryruled,“That’llholdyou,”andwouldnotcookanymore.Shedidn’ttouchanyofthemushroomherself.
Thatwasastrangedayinthemoldycabin.Marylaughedandwasgay;shetoldstories,andweplayed“Who’sGottheThimble?
”withapinecone.
Intheafternoonweheardashout,andmysistersscreamedandIranaheadofthemacrosstheclearing.
Therainhadstopped.Myfathercameplungingoutofthewoodsleadingapackhorse—andwellIrememberthetreasuresoffoodinthatpack.
Heglancedatusanxiouslyashetoreattheropesthatboundthepack.
“Where’stheotherone?
”hedemanded.
Marycameoutofthecabinthen,walkingsedately.Asshecametowardus,thesunbegantoshine.
Mystepmotherwasawonderfulwoman.
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