FR E E DO M R I VE R S BO O KS

A N O V E L B Y

A L B E R T O R I O S A R I A S

COPYRIGHT 2011 BY ALBERTO RIOS ARIAS

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book,

“A DEATH FOR BEAUTY OR, AN IMMORTAL”

may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher:

Freedom Rivers Books __________

Reprint rights, motion picture rights, excerpts:

Please e-mail author at: ariosjr@writing.com

ISBN: 978-0578-01958-1 FICTION / Historical

Subjects: History/Kansas/Fiction

Fiction / Literary Fiction / General

Fiction / Psychological American Civil War

Mother and daughter relationships Oregon Trail, Sioux Indians

Miracles / Families /Infidelity

Book and Jacket design: ARJ

Printed in the U.S.A.

FIRST EDITION

For my dear children, whose life inspired these words.

P R O L O G U E

A P a r a b l e Little Box Elder Creek, Wyoming, 1863

I REMEMBER THE DAY we were born. I remember the day we died. Two days I can no longer forget.

I was born with sad Irish eyes, the chocolate-stained skin of Mexican mulatto, choked by my umbilical cord and unable to take a deep breath, my brain deprived of oxygen. Perinatal Hypoxia, Grandma Hattie, confirmed. My sister did not make it, and I almost died. I was a late talker too and when I finally had spoken my first words, they seemed very peculiar indeed, until now.

My mama, before loving me, she learned to despise me in a flash, straight from the womb. She’s the one with mixed blood, the mixed-up religion. She always prayed for a boy, but unblessed to birth one that survived. Therefore, mama filled my empty life with longing for love since my unfortunate birth, until the wolves of the fields and the birds of the air carried out their ravenous deeds upon me.

When I breathed no more, they had found my body hollow to the bone. My golden hair, cut away. Soldiers had dug a shallow grave and heaped large white rocks over me.

After a time, they took me from the heap of rocks, buried me again in the white of the year. I felt the snow

melting upon me, cascading in dizzy loops until it had covered my soul and quenched my longing for something in the universe I could not name.

In that instant, all I could hear was the infectious laughter of two little boys and a girl, but I could not see them. I could not find them and I feared I’d lost my way forever.

Yet they had vanished to the far side of paradise. These are their solitary voices:

MY NAME IS CHRISTIAN, my brother is Alexander, and the youngest, and an unknown sister remains nameless. Our favorite game is to form a circle, hold hands, and spin around until we fall from our laughter.

Once upon what seemed like a dream, we chased each other until we came across a road that wanders in different directions.

One of the paths was narrow and treacherous, the other, which we took, was wide-open to the sun, but it led into a dark forest. It was a labyrinth of prickly vines and poisonous flowers and we held hands as we stumbled our way through it, our eyes wide-open, mystified, trying to find our way, but we could not.

After a time, we thought we had figured out the maze and that at long last we would be free, but when we reached the end, there was no way out. Trapped without a clear path back to where our journey had begun such a short time ago.

We never dreamed our lives would end like this. Our short lives, up against a blind alley with nowhere else to turn, nothing more to live for.

Although in the end, it had surely been a bad dream, a frightening nightmare for the whole world to behold.

Yet to us, it always seemed like we were the lucky ones, for we died at birth.

We had never been born, after all.

Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live. —Norman Cousins

HE SOUND RUMBLED THROUGH THE AIR LIKE A stampede of wild horses, warning what was yet to come. The winds echoed in her mind like an open

wound—a wound so deep that only death could heal it. She could feel the storm approaching from the east, the

rising heat, the smell of rain. She saw the natural order of things gathering. Death comes like salvation, unexpectedly. But her life was slow and deliberate. A life bound by swirling untruths—dark, unanswered prayers.

Virginia Mae Mercy always dreamed of starting over somewhere else. Now that her husband died, everything else stood still too, and if she needed a little push to get on with her life, that’s when the whirlwinds seemed imbued with divine purpose.

She tried to lock down the storm shelter, but within seconds, she lay in a cornfield searching for her little girl. The storm had torn off the shelter doors, snatching them up in a flash. They landed acres away but somehow survived, falling close together, bruised and hallucinating.

Two signs from above were enough. Last month, the first sign had come in the unlikely form

of a telegram. She’d sensed it coming. Confederate soldiers had killed her husband in battle, or so they thought. That shocker was still under investigation, and the disorienting malaise from the recent storm, was finally beginning to fade.

Virginia never understood life’s storms. Not hers. But if there was one defining moment in her mind that crystallized and spoke to her sensibilities, this was it. She wished she could understand eternal matters too, a lifetime of prayers that until recently had gone unanswered.

Yet it was the earthly things that often made her breathe a little heavier, made her heart beat a little faster. In reflection, she feared the sudden horror of dying alone and her childhood premonitions about a fragile life in Geneva, Kansas, how dangerous life really was.

It certainly was a dangerous summer. The summer of 1863, the year Samuel L. Clemens became Mark Twain, President Lincoln proclaimed the end of slavery, and America reeled in the midst of the Civil War.

Unrelated events, but Virginia’s life reeled with the dangers of war and inclement weather had to offer. North of her homestead, Quantrill’s Raiders attacked the pro-Union town of Lawrence in August, burning the city down to gray ashes, notwithstanding the storms.

Despite the calamity of civil war and whirlwinds, the killings they wrought and the lives they changed, Geneva Township always managed to look like a Marcus Ward Christmas card during the snow season. By summer, the tall overgrowth seemed ambitious enough to hide all things sinister.

At least things appeared that way to Virginia. Luckily, her farmhouse and barn had survived the storm, and by evening, she sat quietly in her parlor knitting socks for the soldiers as if nothing had happened. Although every now and then, she’d look out the window, making sure with every glance the tranquil landscape she’d seen only moments ago hadn’t changed.

Yet to her, the hot and stormy season in Geneva felt

more like the end of the world instead of the end of summer, and not just because of the war or the whirlwinds. Virginia certainly lived like a widow to prove it.

As a dedicated volunteer of the Socks for Soldiers effort, Virginia loved knitting socks for The Sanitary Commission. While knitting, she’d often watch the sunset, mumbling to herself something about the odd shadows in the fields. There was something about all the color changes in the sky that intrigued her. She wished she could change her past as easily as the sun changed everything before her.

She once wished her husband dead or whooshed away, hoping that might change her future too. After he disappeared and they found his remains, a telegram from the Provost Marshal’s office reminded her how prophetic life could be, or maybe how fair God really was.

Although, the events surrounding his death startled her still, especially since she’d never seen the mangled body of a Union soldier, aglow with morning sunlight. The body lay at the outskirts of town but it wasn’t just any dead man, it was the remains of Private Steppenship, a missing U.S. Cavalry soldier, and her husband.

DISPATCHED DAYS BEFORE, a sergeant made his way to Geneva in the pre-dawn hours from the Marshal’s office out of Fort Leavenworth. He rode south, plodding across the county line at that lonesome hour when gray images of the world slowly emerged from darkness.

It was that promising moment, just before the sunrise imposed its long shadows across the landscape, when the sergeant was always hard-pressed to believe in something. If not in God, then he at least believed in some mysterious power far greater than he was. Even his horse seemed to know someone watched over them this early. Both beast and rider, with a unity of mind one could only describe as purposeful. After days of journey, the sergeant finally met with troops and they showed him the gruesome carcass they’d come across days before.

“Very well, gentlemen, I’ve seen enough. We’ll meet back

here first thing in the morning,” he said. The sergeant bunked with the troops, falling asleep to rumbling thunder. He woke to silent flashes of lightning at the horizon by morning. After a hot tin of Arbuckle’s, he rode out alone on a narrow trail with a crude map in hand and soon made his way to Virginia’s old farmhouse, which sat in the midst of a cornfield.

IT ALL BEGAN with a strange knock, the unfamiliar sound of her doorknocker—a cast iron horseshoe—pounding the front door. She thought there was trouble because nobody she knew ever used that doorknocker before. As usual, she’d fallen asleep in her rocking chair after a long night of knitting.

Virginia hadn’t slept much that night and when she suddenly opened her eyes, sunlight brightened the small room. Roosters called in the distance. Startled, Virginia looked out the window but only saw a shadowy figure.

“Who’s there?” she said, approaching the door. “It’s Sergeant Kelly,” a voice boomed. “Sorry to trouble

you this early, Mrs. Mercy but I’d like you to make identification.”

“Sergeant Kelly?” “Yes, ma’am, I’m with the Provost Marshal’s Office.” Virginia barely opened the door and could only see a

sliver of the man behind it. “Of course,” she said, “the telegram.” The sergeant removed his hat and looked over Virginia’s

shoulder into the house. He saw partially packed boxes and sealed wooden crates.

“I’m packing for a trip,” Virginia said. The sergeant nodded and smiled politely.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am. You can follow me, whenever you’re ready,” he said.

“I’ll saddle my horse.” “I don’t mind helping.” “It’s all right, thank you. I’ll need a minute.” “Take your time, ma’am.”

Virginia bundled up against the morning chill, hurried to the barn and saddled her horse. “Good girl,” she said, nervously petting her mare.

They rode out side by side. “Why the early rush?” she asked. “Captain thinks it’s foul play. He’s trying to gather clues

while the trail’s still hot. We found a pair of trousers by the riverbed, tattered to shreds. What do you know, Mrs. Mercy?”

Virginia hesitated. “I’m not so sure, sergeant.” “What I thought,” he said. The sergeant whipped the reins and spurred his horse.

Virginia followed behind him just as the sun rose over the eastern hills of Allen County. The sergeant quickly took the lead, leaving Virginia well behind and then turned his horse to see what the problem was. Virginia approached at a slow trot.

“What’s wrong?” said the sergeant. “Forgive me. I’m with child.” The sergeant quickly averted his glance and rode away at

a slower pace. After they’d ridden for several miles, they arrived at the scene of the crime where a handful of soldiers surrounded the carcass. The soldiers were smoking and throwing rocks at ravenous birds.

Virginia dismounted but clung to her horse, covering her face, trying to diminish the sight of the remains, a dangling mass of flesh and bone, unrecognizable as human save for the standard issue cavalry boot, which hung loosely from a severed foot. The head and arms were missing too and so was the other leg. A short length of rope hung from the only boot. Buzzards had stripped the torso clean to the bleach white of its ribcage.

“Remove the boot, private,” said Sergeant Kelly to one of the soldiers. The soldier looked at the sergeant with trepidation. The sergeant fired a shot in the air, scattering the vultures.

“Use your pocketknife,” the sergeant said. The soldier sliced down the length of the boot, which came apart. Ironically, there was no sock on the foot, but Virginia immediately recognized the hefty toes that sprung out and she could make out a familiar birthmark on the ankle, a brown mark in the shape of a bird.

“Jesus, that’s him,” Virginia mumbled. “Ma’am?” “That’s him—my husband, Birdy,” she said and dropped

where she stood.

WHEN VIRGINIA GOT HOME, her help was on the back porch sweeping away a batch of leaves that always swirled and settled in the same corner over night.

“Good morning Lily,” Virginia said. Lily looked at her in wonderment. “My goodness, you awright, dear?” Virginia glanced at Lily without answering and fetched a

pail of water for her horse. “I’ll be fine,” she finally said. “I’ll take my bath now, if

you please, then I’ve got more packing to do.” “Right away, ma’am,” said Lily, as if Virginia’s sudden

return to her daily routine had set-off in earnest, the proper start to their morning. Even the chickens stopped digging and pecking and cocked their heads, eyeballing Virginia up the porch steps. She shooed them away and they fluttered off cackling.

“Your water been boiling,” Lily said, rushing to fill the metal washtub, pouring huge pails of hot water. The washroom was dark and quiet, where Virginia undressed behind a curtained partition. She caressed her belly pensively. The washtub was set in a corner of the small dressing room where its only light came from a small open window, which framed a swing in the distance.

“In a little minute, got to cool it down some more,” said Lily, who seemed overly eager to oblige Virginia, almost as if she knew her days for hire were numbered.

“No hurry,” said Virginia, “everything else will have to

wait for once. We can get back to our knitting later.” “Yes ma’am. I done started another pair of socks just like

the pattern say. It’s a new day, yes indeed. Praise the Lord.” “I’m coming out,” said Virginia. “Got my eyes closed, Miss V. The water feel real good. I

laid out your bottles too.” “You’re the best part of my day,” Virginia said, slowly

getting into the tub. “Sit for a spell.” Lily bashfully sat nearby on a winged chair, barely fitting in it.

“I’m in,” Virginia said. “You can look now.” “How’s the water … feel good?” Lily said, looking

between her fingers. “My God, I’m not sure how I feel yet. I’m queasy.” “Gonna take some time. Time the best medicine for

what ailing you.” “Good heavens, folk die every day, don’t they?” said

Virginia. “Nobody close to my heart though. It’s so nice going to sleep without all the snoring. But this kind of thing might get me right back to church.”

“That choir misses you, child. Ain’t a Sunday go by they don’t wish for another soprano good as you,” Lily said.

Virginia nodded. “Wish I would’ve never left.” “It like my pa used to say, long as you alive, ain’t never

too late,” said Lily. “A spiritual man,” Virginia said. “A Baptist preacher. Had all us baptized every birthday

till we came of age, just so it would sink in, he’d tease us. Big Mama loved him so, and he loved her right back till the day he up and died. She never loved no other man again.”

“I’ll bet you were just as lucky that way,” said Virginia. “You so right, always count my blessin’ that way. But my

man died sickly, and I ain’t come across no better.” Virginia didn’t know what to say. “It be awright, darlin.” “The water’s not warm enough. Can you pour another

hot pail, honey?” “Yes, ma’am, got another’n heatin’ away.”

Lily went out to the kitchen and promptly fetched another pail of hot water. She balanced the full pail without spilling a drop along the way, pouring it in by Virginia’s feet.

“Careful now, here it come,” she said. “Oh my gosh, that’s enough.” “Ooh, I warned you, Miss V.” “My goodness, you should try this some time, it feels so

good.” “I bet it do,” said Lily with sudden childlike laughter. “It’s all the little things that keep us going,” Virginia said. “Sure seem like it, but more evil than good come our

way. Ever time you turn around, you step right into some horseshit,” Lily said chuckling. “Pa had a saying for that too, if you don’t step in it, won’t be none to get out of, he’d always say.”

“Well I’ll be darned,” Virginia said, “all this time, I thought it was just me.”

“It be that way for ever’body, all the time,” praised Lily. “That ole devil never sleep.”

“I’d sure like to know,” said Virginia. “It be just like I say, the wicked one make ever’body life

sour to the bone.” “I wonder what it’s like?” “You keep that ole devil behind you ...” “No, Lily, I mean what’s it like?” “Beg your pardon, ma’am?” Virginia grabbed a small aromatic bottle and poured a

short splash into her warm water. “What’s it like to really be loved by a faithful man?” “My goodness,” said Lily, adjusting herself. “I not sure

what to say,” she whispered. “The truth,” said Virginia. “Truth is, I don’t know. Must be ever’thing. Must be all

they is,” whispered Lily. “Nothin’ else really matter.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, they continued their volunteer work in earnest. They’d sit facing each other in rocking chairs like grandmothers, knitting and chatting. Knitting was the only

thing Virginia really enjoyed. “It’s 24 stitches in each needle, leg 13 inches, a quarter of the feet, 10½ inches, and one quarter 9½ inches,” she’d remind Lily, “that’s the pattern,” she’d say.

Virginia often imagined the kind of soldier who wore a pair of her knitted socks.

“I’m on my last pair of “large,” said Virginia. “You partial to big boys aren’t you?” said Lily. “I’ve known a lot of short men with big feet.” Lily glanced over the rim of her glasses. “That rule don’t always work, does it?” “Tall or short, you never know.” Between giggles, Virginia often wondered what the

soldier’s reaction was to their socks without holes. She imagined the army would fill footlockers with knitted socks and they grabbed whatever they wanted. Maybe it was a free-for-all in the mess hall or at the field hospitals.

Knitting socks was like religion to Virginia, maybe her only religion, where instead of praying over rosary beads, she’d pray for a faithful man with every stitch.

THE FIRST MORNING of the wake was foggy as though someone had specially ordered the fog. Despite threatening clouds, not a drop of rain had fallen all summer. The Allen County Cemetery, also known as “the bone orchard,” was beyond dry, with an unquenchable thirst, as if it could drink its dead, and Virginia was surely among its walking dead.

She approached the casket with a white rose in hand, spat on the rose and tossed it upon the casket, finally realizing he’d actually died. Although to most folk, he was a dead man long before the wake, and suddenly his body became an indelible part of the dusty frontier—clouds of amber dust.

To her surprise, Virginia never thought saying goodbye to Birdy would be just as easy as wishing him dead. When they’d met, he was clean-shaven, sharply dressed, and well mannered. At a glance, she could have easily mistaken him for a gentleman of the first water, from out-of-town at that.

A stranger who’d rolled into Geneva like western tumbleweed. The day they killed him, Virginia could hardly sleep, not as much from sorrow, as from unexpected gratification.

Birdy’s sister prayed into the dawn over his surprisingly small pine coffin for such a large man. Someone had nailed it shut and placed it sideways, smack in the center of her parlor, as if large crowds would surround it, but only Virginia had come.

“Sorry, Birdy, you got what you deserved,” Virginia whispered.

After a short vigil, Birdy’s sister decided to get on with it and carted his childlike casket to the cemetery. Two gravediggers showed up at her doorstep in a buckboard wagon pulled by an old mule and took the casket.

That afternoon, Virginia found herself gazing into the cemetery’s hollows. Suddenly everything felt so close and so immense to her. Burials had always frightened her, but none more than this. All that was left of the deceased was what the U.S. Cavalry had recovered, something not quite human, not altogether animal, a trampled effigy of whom she once knew as her drunken, foolish husband.

Everyone knew him as Birdy. Daniel Steppinship was his real name. He was the kind of person most folk couldn’t befriend; a prankster who annoyed just about everybody he met.

Once, he hid a mouse inside a soldier’s haversack—a fellow cook. When the cook searched for one of his dainty cigarettes, the mouse jumped right into his lap. By nightfall, that unfortunate mouse ended up as part of Private Steppinship’s supper. To the shrill laughter coming from his entire squadron, the imbecile said it was the tastiest piece of venison he ever had.

Birdy had that effect on most people, and soon enough someone else had it in for him, and on a hot summer afternoon, just when larvae-infested swamps were hatching with mosquito and scuttle-fly began buzzing in swarms searching for anything dead, the Dogmen butchered him

under a steaming July sun. God had apparently answered Virginia’s prayers, or so

she thought. Although he finally got what he had coming, and she just couldn’t see it any other way. “When you wrong someone,” Virginia often said, “the universe always finds a way to right it. So let God’s justice roll down like waters, because sooner or later, we all must pay the ultimate price.”

BIRDY’S DEATH, his murder actually, an event Virginia had wished for on more than one occasion, triggered something inside her that magnified her fear of dying with the ferocity of an immortal angel.

In her quest for immortality, Virginia experimented with all sorts of formulas. She was organizing dozens of glass flasks and tinctures filled with elixirs and herbs when she heard banging on the back door: sarsaparilla, chamomile, witch hazel, sage, milk thistle, and even rare Angelica’s, lined the shelves of her kitchen cabinets.

She ignored the knocking but then heard her mother calling impatiently, so she finally answered the door.

“Mama?” “Goodness, why did you lock the door, Ginny?” said her

mother, Hattie. “Trying to keep vermin out.” “My goodness. Are you all right?” “I can smell you from here,” said Virginia. “These aromas are intoxicating,” Hattie said. “Shouldn’t hurt you none then.” “You all alone? Where’s that child?” “Out playing.” “Where’s Lily?” “She probably saw you coming.” “Would be nice if you bonded with your mother like you

do with the help.” “Hand me that book.” “The Epic of Gilgamesh?”

I’m using these larger bottles as bookends for the herbals.”

“What’s gotten into you? You should be in bed.” “It’s my morning ritual. Then I do it again just before

bedtime too. I run a steamy bath filled with three parts chamomile and one-part eucalyptus oil.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind.” “Don’t fret about the help. She’s leaving.” “I’ve heard you humming to the gods too.” “To God, not the gods.” “I can’t imagine you two parting company,” Hattie said. “I can’t afford her any more.” “Looks like Birdy poisoned you for good.” “No more than I poisoned him.” Once out of her bath, Virginia would apply generous

amounts of aloe creams to her skin and meticulously brushed her teeth and her long auburn hair. Although Virginia was of Irish paternal ancestry, her maternal grandmother was of Mexican descent, an odd ethnic mix, bestowing Virginia with tan skin, but bright green eyes. Even in her Amish-like dress, she rivaled the goddess Athena.

Her cleansing ritual always inspired Virginia to make entries into her journal, which she kept faithfully.

Hattie, suspicious of such rituals and all the excessive pampering, always advised her otherwise.

“What’s all the fuss about for heaven’s sake?” “We’re all going to die anyway,” Hattie said. To which Virginia replied, “I just can’t imagine myself dead.”

“Well, you ought to get used to the idea because I don’t know of any immortals. Careful of the myths you read.” Virginia’s response always came with a customary roll of her eyes, “I just might be the first immortal,” she said.

“For God’s sake, life is hard enough, who needs more sacrifices? More punishment,” said Hattie.

“I’m only giving up toxic things, like fat, young guns, and foolish men,” said Virginia. Anything that shortens my life. God only knows how much knitting I’ve got to do. Except

for that, what’s so exciting about life around here anyway? Nothing but tedious chores all day and sometimes not even the joy of knitting socks is enough.”

Their small talk continued. Small talk that in fact was very big, at least to Virginia. Nothing was more important to her than finding the one thing, the one man who would make her happy the rest of her life. She often wondered if God let some people die young just to teach others the importance of living.

“Every person’s death is like a nail in my own coffin,” Virginia said.

Hattie, “Everybody’s a little toxic.” “You’re the most toxic woman I know,” said Virginia. “Maybe so, but I bet I’m the happiest too.” Virginia shook her head. “Don’t start about Lily’s happiness.” Virginia gave her a strange look. “She don’t count. Black folk are always making joyful

noises,” said Hattie. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.” “You have something more important to do than cutting

up that meat?” “I might,” said Virginia. “Don’t let me stop you. Where are your good knives?” “Use the one I left on the table. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Virginia opened her journal and scribbled something about Birdy while her mother prepared food in the kitchen.

“This rump is tough as leather. Must’ve been an old bull,” said Hattie.

Virginia began jotting down some details: Just before a summer squall had befallen the bone orchard, she

wrote: if truth be told, it was during the bright of the year when my husband was laid to rest, what was left of him.

“You helping me or not?” asked her mother. “Be right there,” Virginia said. “Which knife are you using, Mama?” “The butcher knife, I said.”

Cheyenne Dogmen scalped him. First, a lancing blow to the head with a tomahawk, then a deep cut into his skull with a scalping knife, in the traditional manner, carving along the hairline around the ears and around the back of the head.

“For heavens sake, Ginny.” “What?” With a knee between the shoulders, the warrior then grasped

Birdy’s hair with both hands, pulled from back to front and tore it off in one piece.

“When was the last time you sharpened this knife?” asked Hattie.

“The one with the oak handle?” “Heck if I know what the handle’s made of,” said Hattie. A screeching death-whoop followed, with the bloody trophy of hair

displayed high on horseback for all to see. “It’s a bloody mess,” Hattie lamented. Whitestone, the half-breed, told me more disturbing details, as if the

deed was not complete until he’d done so, she wrote. Birdy’s slaughter was especially merciless—she continued—and

for the Dogmen, scalping him was just the beginning. Warriors tied a noose at his feet, fastened the rope to a wild mustang, and slashed the horse’s rump spooking the animal across the open plains dragging Birdy in tow inside a cloud of dust.

“Use the one with the black handle, Mama.” “I can’t find it.” By the time the Cavalry had found his body, Birdy’s head was

missing and his arms were nothing more than bloody stumps, his flesh worn down to the white of his bones.

Soldiers identified him by his name, which I’d sown inside the waistband of his army trousers. Wolves had disemboweled him, devoured his organs, and buzzards had scavenged most of his torso, leaving what vaguely resembled the carcass of a large salmon.

“Virginia Mae, please.” “I’m ill, Mama.” Everything felt upside down in Virginia’s womb, where a

drowning infant kicked. This unfortunate child, barely seven months inside her was desperate for a way out. Virginia wasn’t sure of the man who’d fathered him—her husband,

her pastor, or her papa. “What’s wrong, Ginny?” Virginia went pale. Hattie helped her to the bedroom.

Huge drops of scattered rain began pounding the roof. Virginia curled into bed with a regrettable disposition, pushing, panting, and screaming. Hattie, undaunted, layered the bed with towels, as she’d done many times before. Virginia looked about the bedroom, trying to find something to ease her mind, anything familiar.

She gazed at the mantel with its family heirlooms decisively in place. A daguerreotype with stoic faces of Virginia and Birdy, a Victorian clock, and a music box that suddenly played the last notes of Stephen Foster’s Beautiful Dreamer when the door slammed shut. Pastor Wakefield had let himself in.

Hattie, with anxiety building in her eyes, “Could be twins, I don’t have much time, Mr. Wakefield. Maybe I can still save this one. I had a feeling it would come early. Her feet started swelling last week. Now they look like hams.”

Flustered, Hattie crossed herself proceeding with the task like a priest about to perform an exorcism.

“Goodbye, Mr. Wakefield,” Hattie said. “Close the windows on your way out. Among other things, it appears this drought is over. On your side, Virginia Mae, bend your knees to your chest and take a deep breath. Come on Ginny, don’t go limp on me now. We’ve been through this before.”

Virginia, with her eyes fixed on her mother, wanted to tell how Birdy had died. How he died, not in a courageous battle against Confederate soldiers, but in a squabble with Cheyenne Indians who scalped him and desecrated his body. She wanted to tell how she hated him for his disloyalty, the anguish, and the godforsaken child she was about to bear in his name. Virginia broke into a cold sweat.

“You’ll have to grin and bear it,” said Hattie. “I’ve only got a trace of chloroform left.” She moistened a small towel with chloroform and held it briefly to Virginia’s nose.

“Breathe easy, Ginny.”

Virginia inhaled the vapors and her thoughts drifted dreamlike. Like most of the mistakes in her past, it started with an admirer, Pastor Wakefield. She remembered the night when she’d found herself with him inside the sacristy of her church, in the throes of something unholy.

“What have I done now? God forgive me,” she said. Virginia felt so abandoned she could hardly breathe.

Hattie pleaded with her. “Breathe Ginny, breathe deep and push hard with this contraction. Lord, they’re about two minutes apart. Give me a good push with the next one, honey. That’s it.”

“Hurry, Mama, it hurts.” “Hush! What did you expect? The baby’s head is out;

now push for God’s sake.” “I’m trying!” “Well, try harder. Come on, Ginny, push hard. It’s stuck.

Lord only knows who in God’s name he looks like.” “Something’s wrong,” said Virginia. “What’s the matter?” “I feel another one.” “Push hard. What the heck is that?” “Twins …” “They’re stuck and one is breech!” “Mama?” “Stop pushing for God’s sake!” “Make up your mind! You want me to push or not? Is

one a boy?” “Well, he’s got a sack the size of a kumquat, for heaven’s

sake. Just breathe easy until I can get his arms straight. I’ll let you know when you can push again.”

Mr. Wakefield cringed at all the commotion. He paced about the porch, peeking inside, trying to catch a glimpse of the wailing newborn. He watched the black, cumulous clouds in the distance loom closer; a thunderstorm approached from the south. Lightning flickered over the landscape and he could hear thunder starting to rumble.

Hattie finally delivered both infants, but the second did not cry. She spanked him, but he didn’t make a sound. The second child was stillborn.

Virginia didn’t dare touch him, as if to deny herself the sadness. Hattie had not yet cut its twisted, blue umbilical cord from around its neck, when Virginia had already begun to mourn him.

Suddenly, the heavens opened with a downpour that sounded like war. Virginia seemed to be losing everything. In a dark corner, a young girl hid trembling. A disheveled spirit who’d almost died at birth 8 years before.

This sickly child, who’d twice overcome death, was now a mysterious little girl with secrets of her own. A solitary child whose first sin on Earth was she’d been born a girl.

Like a trifling creature cast down from heavenly places, condemned to live in a world that did not know how to love her, this side of paradise.

Virginia had named her, Triste.

Death sets a thing significant.

The eye had hurried by, except a perished creature entreat us tenderly,

to ponder little workmanships…

EMILY DICKINSON [1830-1886]

HEN HATTIE OPENED VIRGINIA’S BEDROOM DOOR, A

chill came over her. To her, it felt like a funeral in there. All of a sudden, her mind flashed back to the

night Virginia was born. That same eerie feeling hit her, like a burning shot of poison in the pit of her stomach.

“What’s the matter? You’re scaring the piss out of me,” said Hattie. “Is something wrong, honey? Look at me. What happened for the love of God?”

It was the twilight hour and Virginia’s bedroom was as dark as a moonless night except for the flickering of the candle flame by her window. The flame bent, twisted, and bounced in an anxious dance to the wind that gently blew the curtains inside the room. Suddenly the flame blew out. Tendrils of smoke scented the air and Virginia’s sobbing had turned to groaning—the unmistakable sound of agony and repentance.

Hattie stood listening by the bedroom door, but crept inside with a lantern, set it on the table and sat next to

Virginia. Virginia sobbed, exhaling with a low moan that Hattie could barely hear.

“Alexander,” Hattie heard her murmur. Virginia lay balled up in her bed, covered head to toe

with the newborn cradled in her arms. He was lifeless. She was lifeless too, and not a gleam in her eyes. She stared hollow, seemingly into distant space, as if resigned to find the infant’s life somewhere in God’s vast and unforgiving universe.

“My boy, Mama. Why did he have to die too? You said he was going to be all right.”

“Don’t say it. My God, what happened to little Alexander?”

“He’s not breathing. I thought he was asleep. I think I’m going to die too.”

“I told you he was sickly. He was a courageous boy, Ginny. It’s going to be all right. Lord, I’m so sorry, honey.”

Virginia moaned like a wounded dog. “How could you, Mama? Why do you always say it’s

going to be all right? You always say it’s going to be all right, but nothing ever is.”

“Virginia Mae, death is like … another beginning. There’s no other way to look at it. One life ends, another begins, but in a different way. It hardens you. It changes everything.”

“I’m toxic. That’s what’s wrong with me,” said Virginia. “There’s a little something wrong with all of us. No one

is perfect. Don’t beat yourself over it.” “Don’t you dare say that what happened to me was a

little something,” said Virginia. “It’s a life. Three lives to be exact and one godforsaken retarded so far. It’s all I got, and even she was not expected to live this long. A bastard child. Another unborn girl child and now two dead boys. Everything has gone to hell since Birdy died. It’s awful. It’s an awful life, and I’m tired of living it.”

“My goodness, Virginia Mae, are you done? Good heavens, you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“My granddaughter a bastard child? Why would you say such a thing?”

“God knows the truth,” said Virginia. “Lord, if you only knew,” said Hattie. “Knew what?” “Never mind.” “Where are you going, Mama?” “I’ve got a small wooden box.” “Mama?” Hattie hesitated, drawing a deep breath. “Not yet,” said Virginia. “How long are you going to cling to that poor infant?

Give him to me for God’s sake, I’ve been through the same thing. Pray for this poor child’s soul.”

“No. He’s already immortal. He’s in eternity.” “I reckon we’re tied for first place,” Ginny. “Sweet Jesus, don’t cry, Mama.” “Only God knows all their names,” said Hattie.

HERE WAS A BLIND , PRIMAL URGE WHEN IT had begun. Confusion. A dark denial that emerged after the birth of a child nobody wanted to love.

Into that altered world, Triste was born. Virginia’s firstborn had survived a difficult birth. She was

now 8, born with a slow brain, but especially precocious despite her illness.

She certainly sensed, even at an early age, the answers to her very uncertain life, except for one. A secret her mother would never tell, and no one but God ever knew it. Likewise, Triste had a secret of her own and she would never tell a soul, not even her mother.

She never knew she was supposed to. A WHITE HOMING PIGEON landed on Triste’s shoulder, as she played with her dog, Rusty, by the barn. Tied to one of the pigeon’s legs was a small brown leather satchel. Triste smiled, put her finger out and the bird perched. Rusty barked and sniffed at the pigeon while Triste managed to remove the satchel—filled with blueberries—from its leg and put the pigeon back on her shoulder.

“Triste!” her mother called from the house. Triste quickly ran inside the barn instead. Atop a shelf, there was a ceramic crock with blueberries and a small cookie jar. She took out a cookie, crumbled it, and filled the satchel, tying it back onto the pigeon’s leg.

She rushed over to a stall and pet a small pony. “I love you, Teddy,” she said. She fed him some berries and ran out of the barn. The

homing pigeon flew away. “Triste!” Her mother called out again. She ran to her mother with Rusty nipping at her heels. “I told you I need help out here,” said Virginia. “Teddy was hungry.” “We’re all going to be hungry if we don’t get these beans in

the ground.” “Yes ma’am.” Virginia’s trauma over Birdy’s death and her trauma over

burying yet another male child had faded. As if layers of agony peeled away like dead skin, revealing something new yet something already familiar to her—a sickly female child wearing britches in the form of a tomboy—Triste.

“You’ve got the aim of a blind woman. For heaven’s sake, Triste, make sure the beans land inside the hole. You’re covering up nothing but dirt.”

“Yes, ma’am.” “Lord, depending on you we’ll never harvest a batch of

green beans, and don’t throw so many in a bunch. Spread them out some more. How many times do I have to tell you that? Shake your tail young lady. All this hoeing is breaking my back. Not to mention all the darn blisters on my hands.”

Virginia moaned with her back against the burning sun. Her frail figure in dark silhouette leaned over the hoe’s handle. She examined her hands, wiping the sweat off her brow.

Their long shadows stretched across the fields towards the cabin, its logs gleamed with morning sunlight. Their big red barn sat under the shade of quiet oak trees. It seemed like the promising start of another day on the Mercy’s farm, despite the lack of help. After Birdy died, Virginia had to let her servant go. All the work seemed to double, especially inside the house.

“Stings like all heck,” she said.

“Your turn; and don’t make the trench too deep, hear. “Mama … I tired.” “You think I’m fresh as a morning rose? Hush yourself and

dig for a change. You’ve got to learn to survive out here. My mama always said you could never count on a man, except for him to fail you every time. Now I know she was right.”

“You been in the woods again?” “No, Mama.” “Don’t lie to me. You’ve got blueberry stains all over your

clothes. You want to get eaten by wolves? I’m tired of telling you child, stay out of those woods, hear.”

“Life is no picnic, sweetie. There’s danger everywhere. Your thoughts can be dangerous, and that reminds me, there’s a picnic at the church this Sunday. I wasn’t invited, but I think I’m sure as heck going to be there. Your Grandma Hattie will come and stay with you. You remember to behave yourself, hear.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

TRISTE RAN OUT of the barn as if she’d just seen a ghost. She looked back towards the house, it was getting dark.

“Let’s go, Rusty,” she said, with sourdough cookies in both hands. Rusty barked and sniffed at her hands and she told him to be quiet. They snuck into the forest. There was no clear path that led anywhere inside the woods. A thick wall of oak trees, towering cottonwoods and dense bushes lined its edge, but beyond them, the forest opened up with nooks and hideaways everywhere. To Triste, the massive trees looked more like tall, leafy umbrellas. She could barely see the sky from under there.

Rusty licked his chops and wagged his tail. He barked again. “Shh, quiet Rusty!” She gave him a cookie and he sat and begged for more. “Goo’boy.” She gave him two more cookies and he ran into the woods

and disappeared. “Rusty!” Triste was suddenly all alone. She looked up at the canopy

of leaves, listened to every sound. Woodpeckers drilled, the Meadowlark’s warbled songs echoed from treetops, tiny sparrows swooped by. Dry leaves rustled underfoot, but no

critters in sight. Every step she took was a mystery to her. She planted her footsteps, carefully; one in front of the other with her legs held tight, trying to control the sudden urge to urinate. Her heart panted.

She’d seen the white pigeon flying in this direction before and tried following it. Where does it go? she thought. Where does it live? Triste snuck deeper into the woods, pulling away vines that in some places were threaded like spider webs and parted prickly branches that blocked her way to a clearing yards ahead. But it was getting awfully dark in there. She looked back, as if to track her coming in, but already she couldn’t find anything to clue her way out.

“Ruuustyyy?” She called for her dog and looked around but didn’t see or

hear him coming. Suddenly a flock of birds fluttered nearby. Pigeons. They soared towards a small opening above the treetops and disappeared. She traced their flight back down and found a small birdcage on the ground. Its door, flung wide-open, swung ajar. The cage was crudely handmade from twigs and tied with thin, leafy vines. As if the pigeons themselves had built the cage like a giant nest. It was empty.

Triste heard leaves rustle near the cage and thought it was a wolf. She’d seen a small shadowy figure vanish and heard something close. It sounded like a door, or a hatch slammed shut. She crept closer and looked to the ground searching for any movement. Nothing moved. She couldn’t see a hatch or a secret door. There was nothing but thatch and small bushes surrounding the cage. Triste wasn’t sure what she’d just seen.

“Don’t be a’scared,” she said. “It only be me, Triste. I take your cookies for you. Where you are Phineas Baily? I don’t see you.”

Triste approached the birdcage and reached for it when Rusty suddenly barked and began to sniff and dig around the thatch.

“What you find?” Rusty barked, circling the cage. “Where he is, Rusty?” Gunshots rang out and Triste looked in their direction,

startled. “Rusty!”

She dropped the cookies and took off frantically trying to find her way out of the forest and tripped over a log. Rusty stopped, licked her face, and ran off again. Triste quickly got to her feet looked back at the birdcage and followed Rusty back to the barn.

The crown of the setting sun had just disappeared at the horizon when they’d found their way out just before dark. They ran towards the house and under the flickering light from a lantern on the back porch, Triste found Grandma Hattie, snoozing in a rocking chair with an open book on her lap.

Triste snuck inside the house into her bedroom just as the sun hid behind the western hills of Allen County. It had suddenly turned dark, the temperature dropped to a chill and the summer night came to life with the screeching of cricket, hooting owl, and the howling of wolves out of the forest.

Triste settled into her bed and Rusty jumped and curled up beside her. Her breathing calmed into a quiet rhythm. She pet Rusty and talked to him as if he could understand every word she said. He licked her hands.

“You see him, Rusty?” Rusty woofed. “That little man a’scared a you.” Rusty whined. “Don’t worry, he not hurt you. He the one that send us

blueberries. His bird know how to fly to the barn. He smart. Rusty licked her again. “He my friend too, Rusty. He Baby Finny, he say his name

to me one day, Phineas Baily.” Rusty woofed and dangled his tongue from the side of his

mouth, panting. “You smelled him?” Ruuugh! “I not a’scared a him.” She pet her dog and fought the urge to sleep. Hattie peeked

inside her room. “Triste?” Rusty looked up, whimpering and wagging his tail, and

lowered his head submissively. Hattie quieted Rusty with a wave of her hand before he woke Triste.

“Triste, are you awake?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said without looking. “Are you hungry, child?” She nodded. “I’ll bring you something to eat, honey. Don’t fall asleep.” Triste stared out the window into the dark, mesmerized how

tall trees swayed and leaves rustled to swirling gusts of wind coming out of the south. As if the sole responsibility of nightfall were to transform daylight into a forbidden time for every human being on Earth, everything nocturnal seemed in control of all things large and small in the world.

Mysterious things she could not see. Things she could only feel.

F R E E D O M R I V E R S B O O K S TM