Miriam Chandler
As I said, Mrs. Chandler had already see me at my worst, that being after my wife died and I fell into despair. She had softly knocked on the bedroom door and then entered despite the fact I hadn't responded. She stood before me, her image fading in the dying daylight, and said she wished she had been able to do more. That was the first time I truly looked at her. I realized that the few times I had come across her, she had dropped her face as if afraid to draw attention to herself, afraid I would see something there. Since her husband had so horribly died, she was always in black. And with dispassionate interest, I considered that Mrs. Chandler was a truly beautiful woman, lovelier than my deceased wife. And she was always composed and quiet but this time, she looked me in the eye.
Don't think I was already lusting after another woman—I wasn't, but Mrs. Chandler's skin was pale and smooth like alabaster. Her hair was raven black and her eyes were of a deep hazel with flecks of gold and there was something—exotic about her face with the high cheekbones but yet, her face was full—like a child's. I imagined how she would be nude with her rounded buttocks in my hands as I traced her throat with my tongue. It was a fleeting image, only a few seconds, but the image and the urge stayed with me. Human beings are full of contradictions. At such a sad time, I could still imagine being with a beautiful woman.
But I sat with no response. Mrs. Chandler finally asked if there was anything else she could do for me before she left? She'd told me the body had been prepared for burial and she had dressed my wife appropriately—my father had chosen the dress. I had been unable to do so—it seemed such a trivial thing, I told my father—pick anything. But I was a coward-couldn't bring myself to look at my dead wife's things—to touch them. It ended up there wasn't a viewing; her skin was still covered with the rash of measles and people would stay away, afraid of lurking contagion. That's the way things had been around Virginia City—quick burials and few mourners. But when I looked in the coffin at my wife's still body lying on the smooth coverlet, she was wearing a dark green dress with pink trim, one my father had seen her wear to church many times.
Mrs. Chandler repeated her question. "Is there anything else I can do, Mr. Cartwright, to relieve your burden?"
I took an intake of breath and I recall I shuddered slightly as I released it. "No. Nothing." I considered how odd it would be if I had told her, "Yes. You can lie down on this bed and let me toss up your skirts and bury my face between your thighs? That would ease my burden significantly." Would she gasp and run away? Would she tell my father and everyone she met after, that Adam Cartwright was mad? Or would she smile, not having been with a man for so long, and comply?
But I never said it and she still stood before me. "Your son is with his Uncle Joseph and his family. The undertaker is coming this afternoon with the coffin and your father is staying to meet him. The doctor has already gone and will file the proper papers. May I bring you some coffee? Something to eat?"
I shook my head. I wanted to be left alone and yet, having her close was a comfort. I would have liked for her to just sit with me in the fading light so that I would hear her slight breathing and have the animal comfort of another body in the same space but I quickly dismissed it; it was a foolish idea and I was no child. I had dealt with death many times before. During the war, having joined the Union army two years before Lee's surrender—I witnessed deaths more dreadful than anyone could imagine. And I had seen horrors as a prisoner of war in Andersonville that I still couldn't verbalize but this—this death was the most difficult for me. I think Mrs. Chandler understood that. She had lost her husband to disease and I wondered how she had handled it—if she had collapsed and wept, howled with despair, gnashed her teeth and raked her pale flesh with her nails. But I didn't think so. I imagine his death was something she had expected at some time during the war and even though he survived the many battles, I think she'd lived with it for so long that when it finally came, it just seemed due course; if nothing else, I felt Mrs. Chandler was a realist.
"Perhaps you'd like a brandy or a whiskey, Mr. Cartwright? Or to talk? I can get your father for you. He's worried about you—greatly concerned since you turned him away earlier. He's suffering as well, you know. A parent suffers to see their child in pain and although you may not think of yourself that way, you are his child. And he also grieves for the loss of his daughter."
I was tempted to turn on her—I wanted to lash out-but stopped myself. "Whiskey. If you'd bring me a bottle…I'd appreciate it."
She nodded and in a few minutes, Mrs. Chandler returned to the room with a bottle of Kentucky bourbon and a glass. She handed them to me and I noticed her elegant almond-shaped fingernails.
"Won't you stay? Have a drink with me?" I asked. "You can have the glass—I'll drink from the bottle." I held it up and smiled.
But Mrs. Chandler politely demurred. I suddenly asked her to sit—to stay for a bit and she agreed. She sat stiff-backed on the upholstered, flowered chair in the corner of the small guest bedroom while I sat on the bed and drank too much and talked about my wife and my son and wondered how I could go on without the woman I loved. And as I became drunker, I began to weep and eventually I deteriorated into a sloppy, sodden drunk. Mrs. Chandler rose and sat next to me on the edge of the bed and spoke about the mysterious ways of the Lord and that life was for the living. I remember I cursed and told her that I had no use for mere platitudes—they meant nothing.
"You have no idea," I accused her, "what it's like to lose the person you had planned to spend the rest of your life with, the person you had chosen to love, the one person in this goddamn world to share your miseries and joys with you!"
If I hadn't drunk so much whiskey, I never would have said what I did. But I remembered again that she was a widow, although I had never thought much of her husband—he had been an angry man who blamed others for his misfortunes.
"I'm sorry. I spoke without thinking," I muttered in an inept attempt to apologize. But I knew that once words are said, there is no taking them back.
"No, you're right, Mr. Cartwright." She rose from the bed. "I don't know what it's like to lose all that you mentioned. But you have my sympathies nevertheless." And Mrs. Chandler turned and left the room. What she'd said stayed with me and it was that one confession of hers that made me examine things—and look at her in a new light. As I said, she's a realist.
I know that I might be confusing you because my story isn't a straight line—from beginning to end-but memory is odd. One thing I say reminds me of something I'd almost forgotten. So in order for you to have the actual story, well, one thing leads to another in what seems to be a convoluted pattern. Just bear with me—it all comes out.
You might wonder what Mrs. Chandler was doing in my house, in the bedroom with me, but it was all on the up-and-up. Dr. Martin had been stretched thin with all the infected and it wasn't unusual for him to have a patient die each day—sometimes two or three and many of them children. But he had said when checking on my son that when adults caught measles, it was often worse. And then about a week later, after it was obvious my son was rebounding, I came up behind my weary wife to embrace her and kiss her neck. I saw a slight rash behind her ears and on her neck. I couldn't breathe; it was as if she had been marked for death and what Dr. Martin had said kept running through my head—that when adults caught the measles it was often worse.
And it was worse.
I was desperate. My wife told me to stay away from her—begged me not to come into our bedroom but I knew she was raging with fever and I had to do something. I wouldn't be allowed into town—I knew that-but I had to get the doctor for my wife, so I stood on the outskirts of town, holding my son in my arms, and swore to one of the posted deputies that I wouldn't enter but that my wife was ill. I needed the doctor at my house. Sam Farrow was the deputy—the blacksmith, and he was sympathetic.
"Adam I wish I could do more for you but I got orders. I'll get your message to Doc but I can't let you into town, especially now that you got the measles for sure at your place."
"Sam, she'll die. I need Doc to come now." Asher had become fussy, rubbing his eyes, and twisting in my arms.
"Adam, we got people dyin' right and left. My apprentice, Jack—he died last night and I been scared of comin' down with it myself. Doc's been run ragged, he just goes from house to house. Don't think he's slept more'n an hour since this thing started, but I'll get word to him. You best just get back into that buckboard and head home. And word of caution—stay away from your family. You don't want to spread it to them."
So, reluctantly, I did what Sam said and went back to my house and despite my wife's protests, took her in cool water to drink and a wet cloth for her forehead. But the doctor didn't come—couldn't come. Instead he sent Mrs. Chandler to nurse my wife. She said she'd had the measles as a child and seemed immune to the disease and had helped nurse others in town. Mrs. Chandler told me to stay away from the sick room; I protested but she insisted. After all, I had to tend to Asher as she reminded me; he was better but not well.
"Mr. Cartwright, please. Your wife is contagious. I'll do my best to keep down her fever, but you need to do your part and help your son. He's just a baby and if, God forbid, your wife should pass, he should have at least one parent."
I didn't know how to react to such bluntness but Mrs. Chandler was blunt, honest and to the point. And I appreciated it. She brought the monsters out in the open and made me face them.
For almost a week, I was alone with my son. Mrs. Chandler would leave the sick room for water and clean cloths. She would wash the infected ones in hot water outside, the steam rising into the cold air. I would watch her from the window as she scrubbed the cloths she had used to cool my wife's feverish forehead, and then hang them to dry; in the mornings, they would be frozen stiff and when I asked her about it, she said that she believed that extremes, both hot and cold, killed whatever it was that caused the measles or anything else. I noticed she also tied a cloth around her face covering her nose and mouth while in with my wife. She believed, she said, that a miasma was in the air around an ill person and the cloth behaved as a barrier to keep the effluence out.
Mrs. Chandler was exhausted by her duties and I could see the dark circles under her eyes. And one afternoon, when she completed the daily washing of the sick room materials, she sat down on a stump in the yard by the bench that held the wash tub and I could tell she was undone. I watched her weep but felt no need to comfort her; she wouldn't have accepted it and to have the husband of her patient do so would have caused her to run from the house. She would mistake it for lust—and she might not have been wrong.
I kept my distance from Mrs. Chandler and hoped that my wife would recover. But in the evenings, Mrs. Chandler would make a bone broth for my wife who took only a spoonful or two at best. All I could cook was eggs and bacon and Asher wasn't eager to eat them for breakfast and dinner. Mrs. Chandler barely ate anything and tried to keep things tidy. She would say when I told her that she was doing too much, that uncleanliness bred disease and therefore, she had me wash Asher's clothes and napkins every day. Usually it was Mrs. Peterson who kept house for us but since the outbreak, she had stayed away—there was a plague on our house.
But the third day, Mrs. Chandler made a huge pot of bean soup seasoned with onions, garlic, hog back and fried greens. And she baked a huge batch of biscuits. The whole house smelled like a home again, the savory odor of beans, pork and onions wafting from the kitchen. And that night, Asher and I ate like kings.
"Thank you," I told Mrs. Chandler. "That is the best bean soup I've had—I think ever." It's amazing how a full belly changes one's outlook on the world. Suddenly I had new hope that my wife would recover and I could get back to my life. You know what a foolish notion that was-hope is a bitch.
"I'm glad you liked it," she said, blushing like a young girl. "It was my husband's favorite; I could make it with my eyes closed." And she smiled—for the first time. It was a brittle smile.
And then, as you know, I buried my wife and tried to continue living. Only my brothers, father, and Mrs. Chandler attended the burial. Hoss' wife Millie stayed at home with their boys; she and most others feared that even though my wife's body was in a casket hastily delivered by the undertaker, the corpse may still exude disease. No one from town could attend had they wanted due to the quarantine and many had their own family funerals to attend. I wanted to thank Mrs. Chandler again for all she had done and for her kindness to me and to Asher, who I held during the service presided over by my father, but she left so quickly that I never had the chance.
Almost two years went by and Mrs. Chandler passed wordlessly through my life but every so often as I lay unable to sleep, I would think of my wife and miss her in our bed. All I ever had to do was reach over and pull her to me, begin to kiss her and she would respond even if it was midnight. But she wasn't there anymore. And then I would groan. I would try to think of anything else—anything—the next day's work, the books, the timbering-anything else. It rarely worked so many a night I'd consider visiting a brothel —and I would think of Mrs. Chandler living on the edge of town and how no one would know if I visited her, if I spent nights with her legs locked around my waist as I was buried deep inside her.
And I began to think of her more and more and she became the woman in my masturbatory scenarios. As stupid as it may sound, I felt I was unfaithful to my wife by imagining another woman ministering to my needs—but it didn't stop me. I would think about Mrs. Chandler's mouth, how smooth her lips on me would be, and the pressure of her tongue. And afterwards, when I lay spent, I would wonder what kind of man I was; the war and death had changed me to such a degree that even I didn't recognize myself. All those things I swore I would never do when I was younger and idealistic, well, I've done them and that's just the way things are.
Once the measles epidemic passed and normal life returned, church services began again and I would see Mrs. Chandler at service. I would tip my hat and she would offer a small nod and after a while, it was a nod and a smile but that was the as far as our interactions went. I can't say I had my mind on God or anything else holy or divine—except Mrs. Chandler's divine beauty and her rosy lips and white hands.
But the seasons passed and then one fall when Asher just turned 4 years, I asked Mrs. Chandler to the Harvest Dance, a street dance. The townspeople decorated a whole section of the main thoroughfare with ribbons and crepe paper streamers, bushel baskets of Indian corn, multi-colored gourds and pine cones. Chinese lanterns were strung across the streets to be lit when dusk set in. Citizens who played instruments formed a small orchestra of sorts and the deputy mayor called the square dances. I had been asked once to play the guitar with the "band" but declined; at the time I was too busy courting a pretty girl, Mary Delany, who later married a no account who passed through town; Mary took off with him. But back then, she was free and I wanted to dance with Mary and sequester us in some corner to woo her with sweet words and steal more than one kiss.
Mrs. Chandler accepted my invitation to the dance, the first one I would attend since my wife's passing. As to whether or not she ever attended such goings-on, I didn't know, but as I had dressed that evening, I found myself whistling. I realized my heart was lighter and I was actually looking forward to the music and the joy of dancing and holding a woman in my arms—especially her. It had been so long since I had felt the warmth of a woman's body pressed against mine; I wanted the escape of it all. I felt eager as a randy youth, but as I adjusted my tie, there was no escaping I was a man growing older every day, my hair greyer with every passing hour it seemed. There were deep creases in my forehead and lines about my eyes and I saw what Mrs. Chandler would see—a sad, aging man who hadn't truly smiled in years.
I knocked on her door. The house was a sad thing—in need of paint and minor repairs. I waited and then the door opened. To my pleasant surprise, she wasn't wearing black but a deep-rose colored dress and a small pearl drop in each earlobe. She looked flushed and nervous like a young girl.
"Please, come in, Mr. Cartwright." She stepped back into the parlor and I followed, closing the door behind me. I found I was anxious and as I helped her with her shawl, I looked at the back of her exposed neck, her dark hair piled on her head and the skin was pure, smooth. There was no rash as there had been on my wife. I hadn't even thought of that moment in so long—and I dismissed it as Mrs. Chandler turned to thank me. I think I smiled at her, so happy—so very happy to be in the company of a woman.
That dance was the beginning of our relationship, although when I took her home, she gave me no chance to try for a kiss—not that I had intended to, but it was awkward nonetheless.
"Good night, Mr. Cartwright. Thank you for a lovely evening." She had unlocked her front door, taking that courtesy away from me, and stood in the open doorway.
"Thank you, Mrs. Chandler. Perhaps I can see you again, that is if you're so inclined."
"Yes. I think I'd like that. Thank you again. Goodnight."
And she softly closed the door in my face. I waited for a few moments and no light went on downstairs. But as I walked away, I turned and saw an upstairs window glowing. Mrs. Candler must have gone straight upstairs and it was only 9:00 in the evening. It made me wonder about her life, how empty it might be. A widow who had lived alone for as long as she had must see each day yawning before her to be filled and then her life shortened by each sunset. But that was how it was for me, and perhaps I was only assuming she was the same as I. For all I knew, she was relieved that I was gone and that she was now alone.
I courted her for almost a whole year and she never called me "Adam" and I never called her by "Miriam." My family thought it odd but somehow it seemed proper since she and I had never even exchanged a kiss although I found I thought of her every night, wondered what she looked like without the draping of clothes and how she would respond in the act of love. My muted lust and loss of desire for a woman that had gripped me when I was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of my wife had come raging back that night of the dance and I was like a stallion, eager to cover the mare who waited, trembling to be taken.
