“Are you sick?” I ask. My mother began acting strange when she knew she was going to die.
“I’m not sick.”
We are silent, standing among the harnesses and yokes, the reins and the riggings, my hands on my hips, his curled into big white-knuckled fists on the counter of the establishment he raised from the ground. I watched him do it. I admired that. I admire him, much of the time. But the rest of my feelings are knotted and frayed like an old rope, and I won’t be unraveling them here and now, with him looking on. Not even with this new revelation. Especially not with this new revelation.
With a ragged inhale and a curt nod, I open the door and walk out, shutting it quietly behind me.
I don’t go home to Jennie right away. My innards are twisted and my chest is hot. My father has a way of slicing me open and making me study my own inner workings, as if repeated examination will help me better understand him. I do not believe he loved my mother—I am not sure he is capable of the emotion—but that he even spoke the words is beyond comprehension. I am convinced once more that he is ill, terminally so, and stands at the edge of a gangplank, a sword at his back, like Shakespeare’s Pericles, which Jennie read aloud. The heat in my chest scurries down my arms and tickles my palms. I stop abruptly, hating that he has made me care.
I have halted directly in the path of a small child, and he stops, befuddled.
“Pardon me, mister.”
The boy steps back, peering up at me, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun. His hat falls off his head as he cranes his neck to meet my gaze. He has a shock of reddish-brown hair that stands up in all directions. A boy behind him stoops to pick up the rumpled felt hat, setting it atop the smaller boy’s woolly head. The hat is too large, and his unkempt hair reminds me of my task. I turn back toward my father’s store, toward Jennie and her shears, but the boy’s mother is not far behind him, and she stops in front of me, a third son bringing up the rear.
“Mr. Lowry.” The woman sticks her hand toward mine, her other palm resting on the swell of her impossibly large abdomen. Her bonnet shades green eyes, and I shake her small, rough hand, distracted by their color. It is the second time today I have been greeted by name by a green-eyed female I do not know. But this woman’s eyes are faded. Everything about her is faded—her dress, her bonnet, her skin, her smile—and her weariness is palpable. The boys cluster around her, and they all look too much alike, too much like the woman, not to be her children. The smallest boy with the reddish mop and the too-big hat begins to chatter excitedly.
“We’re the Mays. We’re traveling west with Mr. Abbott. Shoving off tomorrow. We bought mules from your pa, Mr. Lowry. Ma said I could name them. Mr. Lowry said I should name them something easy and sharp, like a command. So I figure I’d name ’em Trick and Tumble, ’cause the one is naughty and the other is clumsy. Pa said you’re a mule skinner. I’m gonna be a mule skinner one day too. I’m gonna have corrals full of ’em. Webb May Mules is what I’ll call my breeding farm, but don’t worry, Mr. Lowry. I won’t put you and your pa outa business, ’cause I’m not stayin’ in St. Joe. I’m going to California.”
I nod once, but I have not hidden my surprise, and the woman smiles wearily.
“You were in the back paddock yesterday when we purchased the mules. We saw you, but you did not see us. Your father told us you would be traveling with our wagon train. Forgive us for the poor introduction.”
The tallest boy, probably fifteen or sixteen years old, sticks out his hand. “I’m Wyatt May, Mr. Lowry.” He seems earnest, and the timbre of his voice is that of a man, though he still looks like a boy. The voice changes first. It did for me. One day I woke to a toad in my throat that mimicked my father every time I opened my mouth.
“I’m Will,” the middle-size boy says. I will never remember their names, but I nod in greeting.
“I met . . . Naomi,” I offer. I remember her name well enough. As soon as I speak, I wish I hadn’t. To call her by her first name is too familiar, but her family doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“She’s always wanderin’ off,” the littlest boy says. What was his name? Wyatt? No. Webb. Webb May Mules. “She’s probably drawin’ somethin’ somewhere. She wouldn’t make a good mule skinner. She’s as stubborn as the mules, Pa says. But a mule man’s gotta be patient, right, Mr. Lowry?”
“You don’t know where Naomi is now, do you?” Mrs. May asks.
“No, ma’am. It was nigh on an hour ago.” The crush of people is almost stifling, and the disquietude from the conversation with my father becomes fear for the missing Naomi. “But when you find her . . . you should tell her not to go off on her own. St. Joseph is full of rough men and strangers.”
“She’s probably buyin’ paper, Ma. Paper and pencils,” the oldest boy chimes in.
“There’s a general store beside the post where one can buy such things,” I say.
“Rough men and strangers,” Mrs. May repeats, and her eyes rove the crowds. “We feel fortunate to have you traveling with the company, Mr. Lowry. Someone so experienced on the trail will be greatly appreciated.”
“I’m only going as far as Fort Kearny, ma’am.”
She studies me soberly for a moment. “I think you’ll find that’s not far enough, Mr. Lowry.”
It is an odd thing to say, especially considering how difficult those first two hundred miles are on most families. Wet, windy, endless. I feel bad for the woman, for what she is about to endure.
“Pa says it’s two thousand miles to California,” Wyatt, says, somber.
I nod. The family stares at me, chins tipped up, eyes wide, waiting for me to say more. They are a strange bunch. I amend the word immediately. Not strange. Frank. Forthright. They don’t lower their eyes or shift away like they aren’t certain whether they want to be seen with me.
“We meet again, Mr. Lowry,” a cheerful voice calls out. Naomi May, a brown paper parcel in her arms, skips over the rutted street, sidestepping man and beast as she approaches. I look away when she stops at my side as though we are old friends. She doesn’t loop her hand through my arm or brush against me as some women do, wearing innocence on their faces and conniving in their hearts.
“Miss May,” I say, suddenly winded.
“Her name is Mrs. Caldwell, Mr. Lowry,” Webb informs me. “But we just call her Naomi.”
I ignore the sinking sensation in my belly and step back, my gaze swinging back to the elder Mrs. May.
“When do you cross?” I ask, keeping my gaze on the older woman.
“The line is so long . . . but I think Mr. May has secured us a ride across on a scow.” The groove between Mrs. May’s eyes deepens.
“I saw a boat capsize yesterday, Mr. Lowry! The wagon and the people all went into the water,” Webb crows like he enjoyed the show.
“Don’t try to cross on the scows. If you don’t have anyone who knows the river, don’t swim your animals across. Go to Decker’s Ferry. It’s a bit of a battle to get to it through the trees, but there’ll be a pasture and a place for you on the other side to wait until your company has arrived—Whitehead’s Trading Post too, in case there are things you need once you’ve crossed,” I say.