Chapter 9: Adieu, Adios, Aloha…Goodbye?
And now we come to one of the longest and truly most trying times of my life.
Unlike the months and years after Jasper's "death," I wasn't miserable. Well, not miserable in the same way. I was definitely miserable, because I was denied the thing I wanted the most, but it wasn't like the crippling grief I'd experienced then, before I knew that Jasper was, indeed, still alive. In a way, at least.
You see, I had months to go before I turned sixteen. And sixteen was the age, at that time in Texas, when a child was considered an adult, and could marry without her family's consent. This was particularly important to me, because I wanted to marry Will with every fiber of my being, as soon as possible. Actually, I could have happily done without the ceremony and just run away with him to live in sin…but Will, it turned out, was a stickler for conventions and honor. Darn him. He refused to go beyond kissing and mild petting until we were legally wed.
He told me we could get married before I turned sixteen if I let him ask my parents for my hand. It was done in those days: I knew girls from church who had gotten married at fourteen, and they hadn't even been "in the family way" at the time, no shotgun wedding. Children grew up faster then, and I faster than most, given my unusual nature. I argued this passionately with my beau. I laid out the points in favor of this in all their logical splendor. I would have made a lawyer proud. But he didn't bend. He either wanted their permission to wed, or we had to wait. He kept pushing for asking them. I considered. For about thirty seconds. And then I discarded the idea.
You see, I knew my parents. The chances of my parents granting that proposal were slim and none; actually, to the contrary, there was an excellent chance that, if Will did go and plight his troth in the honorable fashion, poor naïve man, that they'd bundle me off to Chicago on the next train north, damn the actual date classes would start. Or, even more likely, they'd ship me back East to live with Mama's kin, who wouldn't let me see the light of day for however long it would take to get me to forget William Standing Bear.
Which would be forever. I'd never forget him.
So I decided I should wait. A few months of denial of the flesh as opposed to a lifetime of deprivation? I'll take the seven months, thank you very much.
School was scheduled to start at the end of August, which gave me another three months at home. Then, I had another five months until March, when my birthday rolled around again. Never had minutes, hours, days, weeks, months mattered so much.
What was I to do once August came? Was I to go to school and play the good girl, until March came? I contemplated the possibility and choked on it. There was no way I could bear it, being cooped up with a bunch of stuffed-shirt pretentious little misses for so long. I'd get sent home. I'd make a scandal without wanting to. I'd cause problems without meaning to.
Now, there's an idea! Perhaps I should go, and let them send me home!
I made the mistake of mentioning this idea to Will, during one of our Sunday rendezvous. We had a rhythm, a pattern: every Friday, like clockwork, I'd go and check the apple tree by the front gate, to see if the fruit were ripe yet. And there it would be, waiting for me: a note, tucked into the little hollow in the twisted bole of that tree, the hollow that Jasper and I had discovered years ago, and used to hide candy in, candy stolen from the kitchen beneath Mama Dina's benevolent eye.
I was like a child again, when I found those notes. I had no idea when he put them there, or how he got there. Houston was a good thirty miles away, a great distance back then, a day trip, really. But the notes were always there, and I'd snatch them up greedily, like a child with sweets, and seek out a quiet place to enjoy the words.
He'd write to me of his week, what interesting things he'd done, his thoughts and dreams of me. He'd tell me stories, old Lakota legends. He was teaching me about his people, so that when we were husband and wife and one day we had our own babies, I could tell them the stories of their forefathers, as his mother had whispered them to him as an infant, like his grandfather had told him as a child.
I thought about this, about carrying and bearing his children, and shivered in anticipation: he entrusted me with his heritage, with who he was, completely. It didn't matter that I wasn't the Indian girl his Ma had imagined him with, I was perfect for him, he said, with complete assurance. So I read and reread those notes, those stories. I committed them to memory, so I could recite them to our children perfectly. I practiced the strange words and phrases in the Lakota language, trying to make them perfect. And I tried not to imagine how those children might be conceived, because those months until March were trickling by like cold molasses on a December morning.
And at the end of the note, he'd tell me when and where to meet him on Sunday, if he could get away. Sometimes he couldn't, and I'd pass the day disconsolate and weeping in my room, feeling his absence like a part of my own body, my arm or leg, was missing. I fancied he felt the same, because the next time we'd see each other his passion would be particularly intense. He'd grab me up and hold me so tightly, as if he'd been afraid of never touching me again, and I knew he loved me, truly.
That particular Sunday, when I mentioned my idea about being bad and getting kicked out of school, I lay against his chest and ran my fingers through his hair. He normally wore it pulled back and tucked up under his hat, as to not offend the whites, but when we were together, I made him take off that darn hat and loose the thong that bound his hair, so dark and silky and beautiful. I prayed that our children would inherit that beautiful hair, because mine was a lovely color, sure, but it was unruly and coarse and wild.
"I was thinking, maybe I'd just be bad and make them send me back here. Then Mama and Papa would be glad to get rid of me, right?"
Will stiffened beneath me, his hand coming up to take mine. "Sweetheart, you must never do anything so contrary or mean-spirited."
I shrugged. "Why should I care what they think? They just want to keep us apart!"
Will took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. "Virginia Whitlock, you are above that. If you must go to school, you must go to school. You must present your best face, prove that your parents raised you with honor, and not disgrace them. It's not as if they're sending you to a torture chamber."
I pouted. "But we'd be apart!" I touched his nose, our special gesture. "Chicago is a long way away, you know."
Will smiled and it melted my pout. "Never. I'll follow you wherever you go. I can't be separated from you for too long, or I'll go mad." He brushed the hair back from my forehead and kissed me gently. "I will be there. And when you're sixteen, if you are ready, we will be married."
I slipped my hands up under his shirt and thrilled at the sensation of the hard muscles of his stomach and chest beneath my fingers; he shivered and closed his eyes involuntarily. "I'm ready now," I hissed.
And I was. Wanton little hussy that I'd become, all I wanted was his weight upon me, his lips against my ear as he made love to me, my fingernails digging into the flesh of his shoulders with uncontrolled passion. I had never known what lovemaking might be like before, but I envisioned it now, with him, I saw it and longed for it. Our bodies were meant to be together, we were yin and yang, puzzle pieces destined to fit together perfectly.
"Stop it now. You know better," he gasped breathlessly. "That's not fair, Ginny. Stop."
So I did, and I pouted again. He was always trying to be honorable, for both of us. I couldn't fault him for it, it just showed what a strong and fine man he was. But it sure was frustrating, though.
"So you will go to school. And when it is time, I will be there. Agreed?"
I pouted again. Then he played dirty, something he didn't do often. He reserved those times, like a card shark hoarding an ace up his sleeve. Will kissed my neck, his tongue tracing a line down my throat, a line of fire and ice that set every tiny piece of me to trembling and screaming. "Agreed?"
"Agreed!" I choked out, pressing myself against him, my legs around his waist, pressing my body, that hot pulsing center, against his hip until I thought I might burst. He kissed me then, deep and fiery and completely perfect, and pulled away, leaving me aching and empty.
"I'll hold you to that, Virginia Whitlock. I don't take promises lightly."
I lay there gasping for air like a fish out of water, my entire body aching for fulfillment. His beautiful face hovered over mine, those rosy lips and dark eyes so seductive. His hard and manly body so close, so close to being mine.
"Dirty fighter."
He chuckled and kissed my cheek, but it was a chaste kiss this time, no passion but loving. "Absolutely. One day you'll thank me, though, I think."
He was right. When we did finally consummate our love, as husband and wife, it was something both spectacularly physical and spiritual. Then, I was glad that we had waited, despite what my body told me during those long months of deprivation.
But at that moment, feeling like every nerve ending in my body was on fire? No, I wasn't glad at all.
So I applied myself during the week to finishing the ugly uniforms, waiting for my Sunday to see my love. I made sure I spent time with my mother and father, because I knew the time was coming very soon when they would likely disown me for the man I chose to marry, and I must hoard up those moments of their love and approval. When August rolled around I was prepared, my trunks packed, as if I were eager to embark on that adventure of higher learning. Mama was so thrilled that I'd seemingly accepted her decision, Papa too, and I couldn't disabuse them of it.
It just wasn't fair. The minutes dragged by eternally when I wasn't with Will. But when we were together, hours flew by like seconds.
Before I knew it, it was August. That was a hot one, one of the hottest Augusts I remembered. Perhaps it was Texas bidding me farewell. The grass died and turned to brittle yellow spears, the wind suffocating and full of blowing dust, because it hadn't rained in weeks. The sky was a colorless blank slate, no clouds offering shade or the promise of rain. I sat at my window and watched it all, thinking it looked like my heart felt at the prospect of leaving my family, my Will.
It still hadn't truly clicked in me, what he'd said about being there for me. I assumed he'd write. But letters weren't good enough. I wanted him. Yes, I was fifteen, but I was an old fifteen, and I was ready to be acknowledged as the woman I felt like I already was inside. I wanted to make a home with my man, have children, make a life together. I didn't want to go to some stodgy finishing school, where I would be valued for how good my posture was or how tight I could draw my corset, or how intricate my useless embroidery was.
Will laughed at me when I talked about how much I hated the idea of school, but it was a sympathetic laugh. He'd been there, he knew what it was like to be in a place where you weren't allowed to be yourself, when you were punished for doing what comes naturally, where everything is about changing you into someone you're not. He'd take me in his arms and kiss my forehead and tell me that I'd be fine, that I'd have them all eating out of my hand before I even turned around twice. And at least there I wouldn't be beaten, as he had. He never brought that last part up, because it hurt him, but I always thought about it when he spoke of school.
But all the sweet and comforting words in the world couldn't change the fact that I just plain didn't want to go.
I felt a bit strange about not wanting to take a trip, go on a voyage, go somewhere besides the few square miles that had been my entire world for more than fifteen years. I'd always wanted to wander, hadn't I? I'd always wanted to see new things; I'd been the child spinning the globe and letting my finger find the random destination to dream about. Now I had a grand adventure before me, if you could take away the fact that a school was at the other end of the trip, and I should have been excited. The independent and forward-thinking young woman I'd always tried to be protested my sudden shift of priorities: I was changing everything I was for a man!
But oh, what a man! The new, sloppily-silly-in-love part of me sighed.
But still! That other, older part of me snapped. A man!
My whisperers grumbled in agreement.
And it was all me, it wasn't him at all. Will was all for me going to school, he encouraged me to be adventurous and accept the trip for what it was, he said: an opportunity. He wasn't trying to get me to stay home. He was the one telling me to be honorable and wise and patient.
Drat. So I couldn't blame him. I only had myself to look to for betraying myself. So I tried to be more resolute and accepting of the inevitable, and not dread.
Then the last night I'd sleep in my own bed came, because the next morning I'd be on my way north, into the great unknown. My bags were all packed, my steamer trunk full and tied carefully closed, my traveling clothes laid out neatly for me in the morning. Mama Dina fixed my favorite meal and I had to put on a brave face for everyone over the lovely supper.
They'd gone all out for my final night at home, the dining room table covered with the lovely damask cloth, and the silver candlesticks had been brought out and topped with new, sweet-smelling beeswax tapers. Mama and Papa were already at the table when I came into the dining room, dragging my feet, and they rose to greet me with excited smiles. Papa came around and pulled out my chair for me, like a beau, and scooted me in, dropping a kiss onto the crown of my head. Mama reached across the table, deftly avoiding all the silver and the candles, putting her cool little hand over mine and squeezing it for a moment.
Mama Dina served the meal with much ceremony and then left us alone, backing out the doors and closing them quietly behind her. But before she disappeared she shot me a warning look and gave me a stern little nod, and I knew exactly what she meant: be good!
So I tried on a smile, and it just didn't seem to fit my face. Then I looked at my parents, who looked so proud and happy their faces practically glowed…and I found the smile fit a bit better. A bit. A tiny bit.
I tried to eat, to show them that I was happy, at least a little, and so Mama Dina didn't feel bad about the food. But the roasted chicken and chestnut stuffing had no flavor to me. I swallowed and it lay in my stomach like a rock. Mama and Papa kept trying to keep the small talk flowing, but the awkward silences began lengthening, until finally we were all staring at each other helplessly over the melting vanilla ice cream atop the blackberry cobbler.
"Well." Papa cleared his throat and pushed back his chair, tossing his napkin down. "I think I have something that'll make you feel a bit better, sweetheart." He went to the sideboard and pulled out a wrapped package, which he set down next to my plate. "Go ahead, Ginny. Open it up."
I sighed and touched the paper. Normally, I love a good gift, but I knew it had something to do with the trip, and I just had a hard time mustering up anything resembling enthusiasm.
It was Saturday. And instead of meeting Will the next day, I'd be on a train heading north. I hadn't seen him the previous Sunday, either, he'd been too busy with work. And now…now there was no telling when I'd see him again. The childish and insecure part of me, the part new to love and unsure about how to act, wondered if perhaps this was on purpose: did he not want to see me again? Was him skipping last Sunday a way to make it easier for me to leave? Providing distance?
"Virginia! Wake up!" Mama's voice jolted me out of my reverie. "Open your father's present, darling."
I nodded dumbly and forced my fingers to move, to tear open the gay silver paper and reveal what was inside.
"Oh!" I gasped in surprise despite myself, when I realized what was inside.
It was a traveling writing desk, the bottom padded with deep blue velvet to be able to rest comfortably on my thighs as I wrote, the wood of it a dark, silky-smooth maple. The hinges were bright brass and made no noise when I opened the top, revealing the inside, which was also lined with the same blue velvet. I gasped again. Tucked neatly into their depressions was a beautiful set of silver pens, and all the things one might need to write comfortably in those days: the little knife for paring down quill nibs, inkpot carefully sealed, a small bag of fine sand to blot the drying ink, a chamois cloth for wiping down the silver barrels of the pens.
And a sheaf of beautiful paper tied in a deep blue silk ribbon, each page printed with my initials in lovely scrollwork lettering, and matching envelopes. I felt the pressure of tears behind my eyes and had to blink furiously to keep them from spilling over and falling into that writing desk and spoiling any of the precious pieces of paper. I knew this had cost a great deal of money, but more than anything, I was stunned with how appropriate it was, how much thought Papa had put into it.
"Thank you, Papa," I finally whispered, hesitantly touching the things inside. "Thank you so much!"
Papa cleared his throat again gruffly, and he blinked a few times as well, his dark blue eyes (my eyes...Jasper's eyes…before) too shiny. "Well. Ahem. Well, you're welcome."
Mama clapped her hands happily, and her smile was dazzling, a real smile, like from the times of my early childhood when she'd been so much more carefree. "My turn now!" she cried, waving Papa over to help her up. Her hip had been bothering her terribly lately, and she needed help getting in and out of beds and chairs, and her times in the garden were much more abbreviated.
He gently tugged her out of her chair and she leaned on his arm as she, too, went to the sideboard. She took something small out of a drawer and then limped over to sit down next to me, placing the tiny box in my lap.
"You have become exceedingly difficult to give gifts to, Virginia. This is one of many gifts, actually, but this one actually was easier to wrap. Go ahead, open it."
I smiled wryly: yes, I was a hard person for her to give gifts to. No one else had a difficult time, no one who knew me in the slightest, that is. Her problem was that she wanted to give such "feminine" gifts, and those kinds of things weren't what I normally enjoyed getting. After all, how many monogrammed handkerchiefs or ridiculous feathered hats does one need?
I knew what was in the small box; it was jewelry of some kind. I glanced down at my hand: I was wearing her sapphire ring, a tribute to her and my last night at home. I rarely wore it otherwise, because such a beautiful and delicate piece of jewelry is best left unworn when one is occupied with cooking, cleaning, and doing farm chores.
I opened the box and smiled, truly pleased, dazzled by the beauty I saw. The earrings would match the ring perfectly: star sapphire teardrops. They gleamed richly, like the sea, against the black velvet, and I loved them, impractical as they were. I knew they were like my eyes; Will had told me often enough, the few times I'd worn my ring around him.
"Thank you, Mama," I said quietly, and then I suffered her to put them into my ears. She fussed with my hair for a moment, then sat back and sighed, shaking her head slightly, her own pale blue eyes teary.
"Virginia Lucille, if you ever took the time to do something with yourself you'd be stunning."
Papa grunted irritably. "She is stunning anyway, Margaret."
Mama rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean, Jasper Charles," she replied quietly, and she reached out to touch my cheek. "But I suppose that a lack of vanity is preferable to too much vanity, eh, darling?"
"Absolutely." And he put his big, warm hand on my shoulder.
For that moment, everything was wonderful. I felt so safe and loved there between them. I knew, despite her failures, Mama tried very hard to make me happy—she just tried in ways that she knew and was comfortable with. She didn't understand what a very different creature I was from her. But that didn't matter. She was better, Papa was better, and somewhere, Jasper was alive, in a manner of speaking. Our family was whole, albeit in a strange way.
Mama wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. "Of course, as I said, there is more, Virginia. You'll find a new coat and gloves in your trunk, and a new muff and warm scarf, for the winter will be cold. Be sure you use them, I hate to think of what your skin will be like after exposure to those winds and the cold…You never think about those things…"
It was my turn to roll my eyes. She continued breezily.
"And also, you'll find the books you'll need for your studies, of course. I know you'll do well."
I nodded. I never had problems with schoolwork, it came almost too easily. And I was a tiny bit excited by the prospect of proper lessons in a proper school, something I'd never had before.
Papa glanced at the clock: almost eight. "Probably time for you to be thinking about bedtime, sweetheart. Three in the morning will come early. You have to be on the train at eight, so you'll be leaving by five. Big John will be taking you down."
I stared at him. "You're not going?"
He shook his head. "No, I have to be here. I have a meeting with a very important cattle dealer tomorrow. He's passing through from Amarillo especially to meet with me, to discuss those new Herefords. I'm sorry, darling."
"And Mama?"
Mama shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Virginia, but there's no way I can make that trip, bouncing around like a seed in a pod on that wagon seat. My hip would be in pieces by the time we got there."
I felt the tears threaten again, my chest tight and my heart pounding. So I was going to be sent off alone. Well, not alone: Big John wasn't nobody. He'd be good company on the road. He'd been like a father to me, like Mama Dina had been like a mother to me. So he was good enough. Mama and Papa had their reasons for staying home, it had nothing to do with rejecting me, or being glad I was leaving.
Right?
Finally I nodded and went to get up, but Papa's gallantry wouldn't permit it: he had to scoot my chair out for me, helping me up and tucking my new desk under my arm. He kissed my cheek, his whiskers tickling me. "Goodnight, Virginia."
I kissed him back, then Mama, and then I left them in the dining room. Each step was so hard, I fought my tears every inch, struggling to keep my back ramrod-straight until I had found the quiet safety of my own room. Then, my back against the closed door, I let them come.
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, and I buried my face in my arms, my new desk beside me on the floor. It was real, I was going away. I felt like I'd never come back again. I was wrong about that, but not by much. I'd never sleep in that house again.
I have no idea how long I stayed there, crying. But eventually a cautious tap on my door stirred me, and I had to get up, my joints complaining from being still so long. Wiping my eyes with the back of my arm, I opened the door a crack, pretty sure who it was. Only one person would tap like that.
Mama Dina's dark eyes gleamed at me. "Can I come in?" she whispered.
"Of course! Don't be silly!" I threw the door open and let her in. We sat down on my bed, and she clucked at my tears, reaching up to wipe one away with her thumb.
"I knows you're sad, baby. But it's for the best, y'know. You stays here an' you'll get stuck here. There's more for you out there, and you gots t' go get it."
She opened her arms wide, inviting me in. I needed no more than that; I fell into those arms and I hugged her so tight she gave a little laughing breathless gasp. I closed my eyes and buried my face in her neck, and I lost myself in the scent and feel of her, so familiar and comforting. She was like the bedrock of my world, the foundation: without her, I felt I might tilt over and slide into oblivion.
"I'm g-going to m-miss y-you!"
She chuckled and nodded against my hair, her hands stoking my back. "I know. Me too." She sighed. "I don't know what I'm gonna do without your help! I'm getting' too old t'handle it all on m'own!"
I snorted. She looked no older than she had when I was five. There was no grey in her black hair, her face was unlined. "Well, I'm sure Mama would let you hire someone else to help."
Mama Dina pushed me back, holding me at arm's length as she inspected me. Her eyes traveled over every part of my face, as if she was memorizing me. "You be good now, y'hear? Make me proud."
I nodded. I would.
"Well, I s'pose your ma an' pa gave you your other presents, so I'll give you this now." She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew something, which she pressed carefully into my palm. "Thought you might like this. So's you don't forget us."
It was a picture of her and John, probably on their wedding day: they were younger and grinning, and she wore a white dress. They were beautiful together. "Oh, Mama Dina…" I frowned. "Like I'd ever forget you!"
She smiled sadly, knuckling a tear away at the corner of her own eye. "I know. But I still want you t'have it."
I got up and picked up my new writing desk, opening the lid. I got a pot of paste from my nightstand and coated the back of the photograph with it, and then I carefully fixed the picture to the inside of the lid, so that every time I opened it I'd see them. "There."
Mama Dina got up and hugged me again. "Be good," she whispered again, and I heard her voice break. Then she was gone, and her cinnamon and cloves scent lingered behind.
"Oh, hell's bells, this is hard," I muttered. I sat and touched the photo again. So young and so handsome, the both of them. Then I remembered something and I went back to my nightstand, pulling out a heavy history book. I kept it there for a reason: I kept my photographs and special things, precious few that there were, between the pages of the book to keep them flat. And, sometimes, when I was having particular trouble sleeping, I would read a few pages…and it would put me out like a blown-out candle.
Here was Mama and Papa on their wedding day, too. I marveled at how young they were, and especially how much Papa looked like Jasper. And there was a photo taken shortly before Jasper left, the two of us posing together. Here also were Jasper's letters: the one he'd left me the night he left, and the ones he'd written me while in the army. I took them all and put them in my desk, gluing the pictures to the inside of the desk lid next to Mama Dina and John's picture. At least I'd take them with me wherever I went, and I could write them, and see their faces while I did so.
I glanced at the clock, and felt my stomach sink with dread: it was after eleven. I only had four hours to sleep. And although I was exhausted, I knew if I lay down to try to sleep I'd simply stare at the ceiling, my stomach in knots and my mind a thorny tangle of conflicting thoughts. But I needed to at least try, if only for the sake of appearances, just in case one of my parents happened to come and check on me. I didn't want the lecture.
So I got up and wearily went through the ritual of letting down my hair, brushing it the hundred strokes Mama insisted on, till it hung in a heavy, shining curtain down my back. I undid all the buttons and snaps and ties of my clothing, sliding a nightgown over my head, rinsing my face and scrubbing my teeth with salt and soda. Then I sat down on my bed to re-plait my hair, since I could never sleep with it down: it was past my behind now, I could sit on it. It'd get terribly tangled if I left it unbound.
As I sat there and mechanically twisted my hair into braids, I started remembering. I looked around the room, the room which had been mine since my birth, and I remembered how it looked when I'd been an infant, so small, not knowing the words for anything, a helpless little thing who was far too aware for her age. I remembered Mama and Papa…and Jasper. I remembered learning the names for things. I remembered hearing my whisperers for the first time, and how special I had felt when I understood what was happening.
I felt a cool rustle in the fabric of reality and for just a moment, I felt something on my forehead, like a pair of lips pressed against the skin there. A ghostly kiss. A blessing, a warding, a wish for the best. I wondered suddenly: would my whisperers follow me north? Or would they stay here, or disperse to other places, and I might find a new set of them at my destination? I never understood how it worked. I knew some of them had things they had to accomplish before going to their final judgment and destination. Some were just confused. And others simply felt like hanging around for a while, keeping me company. They came and went, always welcome and friendly and helpful. I knew there were others out there, unfriendly and angry ones, but the helpful ones stayed close and protected me from them, for which I was glad.
You have a very special mind, Virginia Whitlock. It must be protected.
I nodded absently, my fingers still busy with the braiding. Thank you, I thought back, not feeling like speaking. Suddenly I was tired, I felt like I might actually be able to sleep, and I was impossibly grateful for that: I didn't want to think and feel anymore for a while. I just silently prayed that I wouldn't have bad dreams.
Once I had finished tying up my hair, I blew out the candles and lay down, pulling my quilt up around my shoulders and hugging Jasper's pillow tight against my chest. I planned on tucking it into my bags the next morning, because there was no way I would go so far away without something of him to take with me.
My room was dark and cool, the moonlight slanting through the window all silvery and magical, casting mysterious shadows on the floor. I had left the window open to let in the breeze, and it curled around me, stirring the little strands of hair that had escaped my braids and tickling my neck, but it felt like a delicious caress against my skin, that sweet breeze. All the heat of the day had dissipated and the night was clear and beautiful, I could see the stars glimmering in the sky, so close I could almost believe I could reach up and touch them.
And I slept.
***
WPOV:
I don't know why I did it. All the logic in the world told me that sneaking into her room was a horrible idea. Not only did I run an excellent chance of being caught and probably shot by her father or, worse, discovered by Big John…I also didn't know if I could keep myself to my promise, that I would remain true and we would wait to be together as man and woman until we'd been married.
But I still did it. I pressed Rabbit to his utmost, as I always did when I was on my way to the Whitlock farm, leaning low over his neck and whispering encouragement into his ear, and we flew over the land like his namesake, barely touching the ground. The trip back was always slower, sadder, but the way to her home was fast, fueled by my excitement at being able to see her again.
The morning of her birthday, my world had changed completely. Totally. I'd gone from being an island unto myself to being part of something. Something had happened inside me, something completely against my will but completely welcome. Something completely irrevocable.
She'd come around the corner of the barn on that white horse, and it was like the universe shifted. When I looked into those dark blue eyes the first time, something changed in me. It was like I'd been turned upside down and shaken by a giant, and when I had regained my bearings and righted myself, suddenly this woman, this beautiful girl with her freckles and flyaway golden hair, was the center of the universe, and I was just a planet floating helplessly in her orbit. I wasn't me anymore, I wasn't just Will. I was her Will.
I would do anything for her. I didn't even know her name, but I'd lay down gladly and die for her. I'd give her anything, endure anything, if it spared her a moment of pain or sadness. She was beautiful, backlit by the fierce morning sunlight, her hair a halo of gold around her lovely face, sitting on that pretty white mare as regally as a queen and as easily as if she'd been born to the saddle.
Oh, I loved her. I loved Virginia Whitlock. Immediately. And somehow, some way, amazing and wondrous and improbable as it was, she somehow loved me back.
I saw her eyes widen when she realized I was there. I heard her gasp and the hissing intake of surprised breath, I even heard her heartbeat speed up, and I watched her bite her lower lip in the most endearing and alluring way I'd never imagined possible.
Then, when I'd had the courage to actually ask her if I might see her again, and she'd said yes, I knew that it was truly fate. She felt it, too. She felt that crazy, impossible connection, too. Perhaps not like I did, it wasn't bred into her like it was in me, but it didn't matter: if she was willing to gift me with even a second of her time, if she felt even an ounce of the vastness of the love I felt for her, it was worth it.
I knew what had happened to me when I saw her. I knew it because my grandfather had told me about when it had happened to him, when he'd first seen my grandmother. He told me this happens when one of our men, one of the Protectors, finds their true other half, the best one for them in all the world: we're captured by them, held fast by some otherworldly force, made a prisoner to the whim of some woman. They even call it that: Capturing. He said he was entangled in the net of her long hair. But he'd grinned when he told me about it, and I knew he never regretted a second of his "imprisonment," because they'd still acted like lovesick teenagers at the ages of eighty and seventy-six. I'd envied that and hoped for it for myself. But when it did happen to me, and it happened with an Anglo girl, I was shocked.
But I didn't care. I knew I could bring her back to my people and they'd accept her. They knew the look a man who's been captured gets. And somehow I also knew that Virginia Whitlock was special enough that they'd accept her even if she hadn't captured me.
And then, when I had first touched her, helping her up after she'd spilled the corn for the chickens…I don't think the center of the sun is quite so hot. I was consumed by it, by the heat of her skin against mine. It was an exquisite, agonizing burn that I wished would never end. When our hands parted again, I felt the lack of it like a sick aching hole within me.
And then, to kiss her the first time…and every time thereafter…I just don't have words.
It took all of my self-control to behave myself. I knew that what we had was special and deserved to be treated as such. I also knew she was younger than me, and she needed some time to mature and reach the age among her people where she'd be counted as an adult and free to make her own decisions. My honor was strong, it begged and raged, telling me to go directly to her father and tell him that I wanted to marry his daughter, and that I would even if he said no: I wanted to give him my face and let him see that I was a man of integrity, and that I would and could provide for and protect his daughter, his only living child. That I'd worship her every day of our lives together. That I'd adore her and treat her as she deserved to be treated.
But my woman said no, and I trusted her, even though I hated being so deceitful. I didn't want to marry her secretly. I wanted the whole world to know. But I also know she had her reasons. She'd told me of the sickness that had spread through her family after her brother had gone, how her mother had gone into the darkness of despair and clawed her way back out again, how her father had sought solace at the bottom of a bottle of poison. And since I had seen those things myself, seen strong women driven mad by grief when their children died and seen brave men drown their pain in the white man's liquor, I couldn't judge. So I held my tongue. But soon, soon, she'd been sixteen and we could do what we wanted. I counted the days.
As I rode through the cool darkness of the night, watching the horizon for the white blur of her home, I remembered.
I remembered my Ma putting me on that train to school, weeping. She'd been so thin, so sad, begging me to be a good boy and make her proud. I imagined Ginny had been going through some similar things that night, the last night home with her family.
I remembered the school. The darkness and hunger, the fear and suspicion of others, never knowing who might tell on you for speaking in your own language for a better meal or a thicker blanket. I remembered the beatings, and I still bore the cane marks on the backs of my thighs and lower back. I dreaded Ginny seeing those eventually, I knew she'd weep and her heart would break for me again, and I hated making her pity me. I hated causing her pain.
I remembered hearing that my Ma was dead. That I was an orphan. That I was all alone in the world. I knew I could go back home and my aunties and uncles would be happy to have me, my cousins would swarm around me and want me to be part of their gang…but I had felt a tug elsewhere. Something was drawing me. And even though I was motherless, fatherless, something told me that it'd be all right in the end. And when I first laid eyes on my future, on the center of my universe, and felt the heat of what my grandfather had told me about when I was a small boy, burning me alive, I knew what it was. And it was all right.
Finally, ahead of me, the farmhouse appeared in the darkness, white against the black sky. I reined Rabbit in and dodged to the east, where I followed the path down to the creek bottom. I tethered Rabbit to a tree, close to the creek so he could drink, and I took his saddle off and hung it from a nearby branch, rubbing his sweaty back down with handfuls of grass. Grandfather and Pa had taught me well: care for your horse before yourself, for when you are hurt or exhausted, your horse, your friend and comrade, will carry you home.
"Relax for a while, boy," I murmured to him in Lakota, patting his neck; he huffed and lipped my palm, then nudged me in the chest with his forehead: go! And go I did. Up the trail and into the wide open hills again, heading for the house at a ground-eating pace that came easily to me.
Grandfather had warned me that there might come a time when I suddenly shot up in height and breadth, when I'd feel hot and feverish and shake uncontrollably, and that at those times it was the Protector in me, manifesting himself. I had to be very careful, I had to take myself away from people until I'd gained some control, but when I'd finished the transition I would be a formidable opponent to my people's foes. I'd grown taller and bigger, yes, but I hadn't experienced the fevers and fits of temper. I wondered about that, did it mean I wasn't one of them?
No, I'd realized. It wasn't necessary yet, if ever it would be. Grandfather said the Protectors came when the Enemy came. And since there were no Enemies around right then, my potential didn't manifest. But I had, naturally, the superior height and build, the endurance of a natural athlete, the reactions and instincts of a born warrior.
Protectors hadn't been needed in some time, since Grandfather's youth. He'd told me a story, of how the Elders had called a council in the face of the knowledge they were going to eventually be moved out of their lands by the Anglos. How they'd done the unimaginable: they'd called upon one of the Enemy itself, someone they knew was true and honorable, despite being an Enemy. How they'd asked him to watch over their lands, until the time came for the People to come home again. And he'd agreed, strangely. They called him the Guardian, and said he spoke nothing but the truth and knew it when he was lied to. Since our people prize honesty and honor above all, they honored the Guardian. Supposedly he was still watching over the Black Hills and the Badlands now, waiting for us to return and release him from his pledge.
Then the house was looming above me, huge and white and silent, and I looked up and saw my love's window, open, two floors up. It was an easy matter to climb up the trellis, among the fragrant bougainvillea and roses and honeysuckle, easy to climb over the windowsill and lower myself to the floor in her room.
She was sleeping.
She lay curled up on her side, her long lashes casting dark shadows against the smooth curve of her cheek, her hands clasped below her chin like a child praying. Her golden hair, tucked up in braids, was turned silver in the moonlight, which streamed into the room like a blessing, casting everything in a shimmering light or velvety shadow.
I couldn't move, struck deaf and dumb and turned to a statue by her beauty. A lump formed in my throat, I could barely breathe or swallow. My mind raced forward to the time when I'd be able to open my eyes and see her like this beside me, when she'd be completely mine, and I'd be able to reach up and undo those braids and let her long golden hair entangle me in its net.
Ever since I'd first seen her, when the universe had turned inside out and upside down, when we were apart my whole body and soul ached miserably. It was like she was part of me, and when we weren't together my being missed her, begged for her. Every minute apart was agony. But I was working hard, working extra, saving up money for our future together, getting through every day one at a time. I lived for those Sundays. I couldn't miss another one.
Then she sighed in her sleep, and she smiled, a tiny little smile, and I heard her murmur my name. "Will," she said softly, and I'd never heard my name sound so sweet.
My knees gave way, almost tumbling me to the ground. I had to go closer. I knelt by the bed and watched her breathe, her chest rising gently as she inhaled and exhaled, her lips still curved in that small, private smile, and I knew she dreamed of me.
I couldn't help myself. I leaned forward and I kissed her, gently, not wanting to wake her. I lost myself for a moment in the softness of her lips, in the smell of her, something like jasmine and violets and vanilla.
"Oh!" she gasped, her eyes opening to mine in surprise. "I'm dreaming!"
I touched the tip of her nose. "No. I'm here with you. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Just for a moment, so I can kiss you goodnight and send you to dream about me again." I was very proud of that sentence; Grandfather had always told me I had a way with words.
Ginny smiled, her arms coming up to twine around my neck, pulling me close against her, which did things to my body that were directly contrary to the keeping of my vow to wait until we were formally married. "I don't want to sleep. I want you," she whispered, her voice light as a feather against my ear.
I had to fight very hard against myself, biting down on my tongue so hard I saw sparks from the pain, but it gave me the strength to pull back and not slip under the blanket and make her completely mine. "Ginny…please. I…I just wanted to tell you goodbye before you leave in the morning. I know I missed last Sunday, and I didn't want you to go off without me seeing you again."
Instantly her mood changed, like a cloud covering the sun and casting everything into shadow. "I thought you might not want to see me again."
My heart stuttered, I was stunned. "Why wouldn't I want to see you again?"
She closed her eyes, and I saw the glimmer of tears between her eyelashes. "I don't know. But you missed last week, and then you're always telling me you want me to go to school and such…I thought maybe you'd been wanting to get rid of me."
My whole body went cold with shock. I grabbed her arms just above the elbow and hauled her up into a sitting position; she kept her eyes closed, her face falling to the side as if she didn't want to see me. I gave her a little shake, which made her gasp, her eyes flying open again, and her unshed tears fell to her cheeks, where the moonlight turned them to diamonds. "Never, ever, think that!" I said fiercely, perhaps too fiercely, because she trembled. "It's killing me to think about being apart from you!"
She stared at me, her eyes huge and miserable. "Really?"
I let her arms go to cradle her face between my hands, my big hands that could have crushed her so easily. She sighed and leaned into my touch trustingly, her eyelids heavy. "Really," I murmured, my lips inches from hers. "Really, really."
Then she kissed me, and I lost control for a moment. Before we realized it she was pinned to the bed beneath me, and she had kicked the blankets off, her nightgown hitching up to show her creamy white thighs, her bare legs wrapping around my waist and pulling me closer to her, her fingers clawing at my back and burying themselves in my hair… I felt her heart beat against mine, her ragged breathing matching my own as we pressed into each other, the blood raging and pulsing through our veins like wildfire.
"Will!" she moaned into my ear, and I thought I might fly to pieces, my need for her was so intense. "Now! Please!"
Oh, God, how I wanted to. She was so ready, so was I, and I knew this was the last time we'd be able to be like that for a long time…My body screamed for it, so did hers, and that insidious physical part of me urged me. Why wait? What difference does it make, a few months, a piece of paper and a ring? Why wait, she's here, she wants you, you want her…
No.
And for some reason, incongruously, I saw Grandfather in my mind. Now, if there was ever an inappropriate time to see your grandfather, it's when you're halfway to making love with your woman. Talk about feeling exposed.
I heard his voice when he said "No." I almost expected to open my eyes and see him standing beside us, his buffalo robe pooling around his feet, the wrinkles in his leathery old face picked out sternly by the moonlight.
You must honor your woman, grandson. She's no random tumble in the grass. Honor her. I heard his voice, so clear and achingly familiar.
And strangely, I felt Ginny freeze beneath me at his words, and I felt her head turn and look to the right of us, toward the window where I imagined Grandfather standing, and I knew what was going on. She's seeing him, hearing him. He's here. Really here.
How embarrassing!
I kept my eyes closed, but I sent a silent acquiescence to the old man, and I suppose it was enough because he must have vanished, since Ginny sighed and turned her face back to mine. Her kiss was chaste, and I felt a twin surge of relief and regret as she unwound her legs from around my waist. "I think we should calm down, sweetheart," she breathed. "Your family seems to think so, at least."
I felt the laugh building up deep down and let it out, bubbling up from inside me like a geyser, and I let it out, muffling the sound against her pillow. She laughed with me, beneath me, and the shaking of our bodies as we each laughed made it harder to think. Finally I had to roll off her, pulling the quilts back up to cover her again, and I lay down next to her, holding her tight against my chest, but separated by the blanket.
"Tell me a story, Will." Her voice was a bit sleepy, soft and muffled against my chest.
"What do you want to hear?" I asked, stroking the wild hairs back from her forehead. She has this wondrous curling blonde hair that refuses to stay bound. "The fox story? The moon and the sun's argument?"
She shook her head. "No. Something different. Something…something about love."
I thought for a moment, casting back in my memories for all the tales Grandfather had drilled into my head over those years of my childhood. "All right," I whispered. "I'll tell you a story, then. The story of the bashful courtship."
She shivered a little against me and sighed. "That sounds lovely."
So I reached back into my memories and I tried to tell it as Grandfather had told it, his old voice deep and sure and strong like a rushing river.
"A young man lived with his grandmother. He was a good hunter and wished to marry. He knew a girl who was a good moccasin maker, who was the most beautiful girl in the village and whom he had long looked upon with longing, but she belonged to a great family. He wondered how he could win her.
"One day she passed the tent on her way to get water at the river. His grandmother was at work in the tepee wearing a pair of old worn-out sloppy moccasins. The young man sprang to his feet, an idea coming to him. 'Quick, grandmother -- let me have those old sloppy moccasins you have on your feet!' he cried.
"'My old moccasins, what do you want of them?' cried the astonished woman.
"'Never mind! Quick! I can't stop to talk!' answered the grandson as he caught up the old moccasins the old lady had doffed, and put them on. He threw a robe over his shoulders, slipped through the door, and hastened to the watering place. The girl had just arrived with her bucket.
"'Let me fill your bucket for you,' said the young man.
"'Oh, no, I can do it.' The beautiful girl said to him, shyly.
"'Oh, let me, I can go in the mud. You surely don't want to soil your moccasins,' and taking the bucket he slipped in the mud, taking care to push his sloppy old moccasins out so the girl could see them. She giggled outright.
"'My, what old moccasins you have,' she cried, quite taken with the handsome young man and his light heart.
"'Yes, I have nobody to make me a new pair,' he answered sadly.
"'Why don't you get your grandmother to make you a new pair?' the girl asked, puzzled.
"'She's old and blind and can't make them any longer. That's why I want you,' he answered, hoping she'd hear what he wasn't saying with his words.
"'Oh, you're fooling me. You aren't speaking the truth.' The girl was indignant but fascinated: she'd seen the youth before, too, and had wondered if she could ever be courageous enough to speak to him.
"'Yes, I am. If you don't believe -- come with me now!'
"The girl looked down; so did the youth. They both knew what was before them: if she went with him, they were promised to one another. At last he said softly:
"'Well, which is it? Shall I take up your bucket, or will you go with me?' He wanted her to go with him, into the forest, where he would make her his wife.
"And she answered, still more softly: 'I guess I'll go with you!'
"The girl's aunt came down to the river, wondering what kept her niece so long. In the mud she found two pairs of moccasin tracks close together; at the edge of the water stood an empty bucket."
I felt her shiver again, and heard her giggle. "So then…what you want is someone to make you moccasins?"
I chuckled into her hair. "I know you hate to sew. And I wear boots now."
"But I should know how to make moccasins."
"No, not necessarily. I don't care about that. You're good enough, moccasins or no moccasins."
She yawned. "But your family will expect me to make moccasins, right?"
I considered it. "Well, honestly, they'd be surprised if you did, sweetheart. They don't expect much from Anglo girls except silly things like embroidery and poetry."
Ginny shuddered. "God forbid." Then she pulled back and looked at me, her eyes huge and deep, the moonlight painting her all silver. "Just you wait. I'll make a mean pair of moccasins one day. And then they'll know you made the right choice."
I tightened my grip on her. "I'm sure you will."
We lay there in silence for a long time, and I thought she'd drifted into sleep again, until she suddenly whispered, "So, all it took was them walking into the forest together to be married?"
I sighed. "Well, there's more to it than that, of course. But it's the declaration of intent."
She squirmed against me. "Too bad there's no forests anywhere near here."
"Naughty girl. Go to sleep now. You have to get up in less than two hours."
She yawned. "Don't wanna. You're going to be gone when I wake up. And I don't want to leave you."
"Shhh." I kissed her forehead. She had no idea, truly no idea, what I was planning, and it delighted me. She was normally so perceptive that I never succeeded in surprising her. "Sleep."
"Okay." And she did. I was amused at how quickly she faded away, her breathing deepening, even a tiny snore drifting up to my ears.
I lay there for the remaining hours and watched her sleep. I was tired, too; I'd worked a ten-hour day at Gibson's, up since before dawn, then helped around the house with Mrs. Gibson (since I lived in their home I tried to be as helpful as possible), then sneaking out with Rabbit to make the long ride to see Ginny. But it didn't matter. It was worth it, to watch her sleep, to watch the blood pulse delicately at her neck, to hear her murmur in her dreams, which I knew were of me.
Three o'clock came too soon. I heard the grandfather clock in the sitting room downstairs chime the hour, the sound reaching ghostly arms up to where we lay together, warm and drowsy, in her bed. It was time to go. I knew I had to do it before she woke: I didn't think I'd have the strength to leave her, if I had to look her in the eyes and see her tears.
And I didn't want her to see mine.
So I gently untwined myself from her, and I kissed her forehead. "I love you, Virginia Whitlock. I'll see you soon," I whispered, and tore myself away, ducking under the window and over the sill, dropping down the two stories easily to the ground below.
Just in time. Above me I heard her door open, heard the woman she called Mama Dina whispering to her to wake up. Saw the glow of the candle that she surely sat by my love's bed. Then I heard Ginny sigh wistfully, and knew she woke and knew I wasn't there, and that she missed me.
I hid in the shadows when she leaned out the window and looked for me. She sighed again, and the sound came out all broken, and I knew she was crying. It took every ounce of willpower I had to not climb back up that trellis and take her in my arms again, she was crying!
Be patient, grandson…and granddaughter.
I closed my eyes and I felt his presence, like I heard his voice. All right, grandfather.
When I was sure she was gone from the window I ran off to liberate Rabbit. I had a long way to go.
***
GPOV:
It was agonizing getting myself ready, watching Big John lug my things down the stairs and loading them onto the wagon. He hauled me up into the seat next to him and draped a blanket around my shoulders. "Here now, Miss Ginny. You jus' lean up on me an' sleep if'n you wants."
Mama Dina handed up a warm jug, full of coffee, I assumed. "Here you go, baby." Then she turned her huge, wise, catlike eyes on me, and her hand found mine under the blanket. "You be good, sweetie. And we'll see you soon."
I nodded numbly. It was so cold, the stars were almost gone, the moon set, the wind bone-chilling as it swept around us and under the blanket. But that didn't matter: the cold inside me was worse, the cold emptiness I felt at leaving. At leaving my Will behind.
John clucked at the horses and tapped the reins, and we rattled off into the chilly pre-dawn air. I turned my head to watch the house disappear behind me, blending into the distance as we went. Finally it was gone, and the prairie rolled on endlessly, featureless and blank ahead of and behind us.
The long trip down to Houston passed in an instant, it seemed. It couldn't be possible that all those miles had whirled by, and then John was handing me up into the train, a sad smile on his face as he waved goodbye. It didn't seem possible that I was sitting there and watching the depot fall behind, watching John become a speck in the distance. Watching the hills fly by in a haze as the dawn touched the horizon. Watching Texas pass by, and watching my life change as I left everything and everyone I knew and loved behind me.
And then I saw him.
He was riding hard, trying to keep up with the train as it gained speed. Bent low over Rabbit's neck, he was waving at me frantically.
Will.
I pressed my hand against the window glass, and I felt my joy bubbling up inside me like a hot spring, warm and comforting. Something healed in my chest, the pain eased, because I saw his face, his smile, and I knew he loved me, and that it would all be all right.
"I love you!" he yelled, whipping the hat from his head and throwing it up into the air, where the wind caught it and sent it sailing. "I love you, Virginia Whitlock!"
"I love you, too, William Standing Bear," I whispered, pressing my lips to the glass.
Then the train was just too fast, and he began falling behind. Rabbit was tiring. He stopped and watched me go, waving still. He disappeared in the distance after a few minutes, but I kept my face and hands pressed to the cold glass, willing him to appear again. But eventually I knew it was silly. I was so tired. I needed sleep. And I wanted the hours and miles to pass as quickly as possible.
I sat back and closed my eyes, and I imagined him. His dark, dancing eyes, his wicked-sweet grin, the warm gentleness of his touch. He loved me. I loved him. I just had to endure a few months. That was possible. A few months, and we'd be together.
Forever, my whisperers murmured, and I was comforted by their familiar presence. Just be patient.
I relaxed and slept, and my dreams were of him, and the future, and it was good.
