The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (27 page)

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We set out on the Manannah road, I still dressed as a man, but now known to be a woman. I liked it.

“How is my dear Cleopatra?” I asked.

“Oh, she rules the house,” said Noah. “The hardest part in living with her is that when I’m deciding what to have for dinner, I end up thinking about what she might like.”

I laughed. “Have they built the new capital?”

“Well, they built another cabin. But other than that, all that’s there are thousands of stakes with colored ribbons. Looks like flowers in a meadow when you first see it.”

Noah was in his own gleeful mood. He began to recount the trial, as though I hadn’t been there. He remembered the county attorney as an amusing villain. I forced a laugh or two.

“You had us all fooled,” he said.

“I didn’t fool you.”

“Well, you did for a while. Then Owen came by and insisted you were twenty. Something wasn’t right. And as soon as I thought it, I knew it was true.”

“So you just made up that girl cousin of yours?”

“No, you do remind me of my cousin. But you’re right. I did mention her just to see what you’d say. You were light on your feet, but it didn’t matter.”

“But you didn’t let on about it to Owen.”

“Nah, I just wanted to help. To tell you the truth, I still feel that way.” Noah stopped walking and turned to me. “Now, as you know, Lucy Ann, I am married. But if I wasn’t, I would have you for a wife, if you would have me.”

Noah searched my eyes, and I felt at once that his invitation was more than just suppose—his wife was never coming west. And neither was George Slater. And who was going to care anyway? Out here you could be a soiled dove one year, a farmer’s wife the next and not have to sit in the back pew. I could live as Noah’s wife. I could be Noah’s wife. It was, in many ways, the perfect answer. I didn’t want to be alone forever, and here was a man who loved me and who wanted to be with me, strange as I was. I was very fond of Noah and greatly enjoyed his company. And beyond that, I loved him. I did. I may not have known it until that very moment, but at that moment I did know it. I loved him. A woman might live five lifetimes and not meet an offer of such promise.

I trembled as the truth moved closer. I was unmasked as a man but still in disguise. I had traded Joseph for Mrs. Slater, but Mrs. Slater was further from the truth, because I didn’t want to be with a man. I wanted to be with Lydia—or someone like her or someone like Jenny Lindross. So in that way, I was, as Lucy Ann, more the deceiver than I was before. And if I were to live as Noah’s wife, I would have to play a deceiver’s part every day for the rest of my life. I could not honestly lie down with him, so how could I marry him?

“Oh, Noah,” I said, feeling my eyes water, “if I could be anyone’s wife, I would be yours. But I can’t. This may be hard to understand, but please try. I am more Joseph than I am the woman you might think you see. You were deceived once already. I could not do that to you again.”

I watched as my words fell upon him like blows. I moved forward and gave him a clumsy kiss on the brow. “Noah, you have been the best friend I could ever have.” This made me feel worse. I realized that nothing I could say would make him or me feel better. He had offered me his life—his very life—and words in return seemed like coins. I was breaking his heart. But better to break it once than to do it slowly over years.

Noah nodded as though he understood. He was considerate even in his pain. “If you would like,” he offered, “I could stay with you until things settle down.” It was a gallant, generous offer, and deep inside I wanted him to stay with me. But I said that I needed to be by myself. I think he suspected that I was lying, but he was in no position to insist. Just ahead of us on the road, a rough track branched off and went south, not the easiest path to Kandiyohi, but Noah decided to take it. He turned to me with a pained smile. “Good-bye, Joseph.”

I should have gone to him and thrown my arms around him and held him as hard as I could, so he would know that I loved him, but I felt awkward and afraid. I stood where I was as he walked down the track. Even after he was out of sight, I fought the urge to run after him.

Walking west by myself, I tried to think of how things might be for me now in Minnesota. I should be happy. They had tried to take my land but failed. I still had my farm and what was left of my ambition. And why couldn’t it work? If Mr. Smith was right, Willie was gone for good. Perhaps the people of Manannah and those of Forest City would come to accept me as a woman. Why not? Then I wondered if there were other women like me, women who wanted to be with women. There had to be. Maybe many. But how to find each other?

Perhaps my story—a woman put on trial for wearing men’s clothes—would be retold in the newspapers, like the story of the attack upon Mrs. Swisshelm. Women who were like me might read it and take it for their beacon. They would find their way to my farm. We might become a family and, later, a community, like the Bois Brûlés. Then perhaps many would find their way to our village. And like the Bois Brûlés, we would work hard and act honestly toward all. And like the Bois Brûlés, we would wear bright colors, play music, and dance. These thoughts gave me some comfort as I walked alone toward my land and a new life.

When Willie’s place came into view, my stomach turned. I thought about leaving the road and finding my way along the river. But I kept on, and there were no signs of life around the cabin and no horses. I felt a relief that came with a great tiredness. I thought of my bed.

My cabin lay in a hollow behind a grove of trees, so I could not see it until I gained the small hill to the east. When I reached the heights, I looked down and saw burnt logs and rafters still smoking.

As though in a dream, I walked closer. The shed was in ruins, and the chickens lay dead in the yard. I went to where the cabin had been and looked at the burned remains. There, along the back wall, was the charred neck of what had once been my violin.

   PART III   

For seven years she roamed the mountains of Delaware, Sullivan and Ulster Counties. She lived in huts and hovels that she threw up with logs and bark, and appeared at the settlements only to dispose of skins or game to get ammunition and supplies.

—Frank P. Woodward,
Wayne Independent
, Oct. 19, 1928, describing Lucy Lobdell’s whereabouts in the 1860s

A
VOICE INSIDE my head begged me to turn back—had been begging all afternoon. But I hadn’t listened to it, and now I stood before a white clapboard house. The elm tree in the back was larger than I remembered, but the crooked porch was much the same. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the side door. It opened to reveal a great turnip of a woman, none too pleased for being disturbed. “What do you want?”

I stood straight, as though that would hide my rags. “I would like to speak to the master of the house.”

The woman grew larger still. “I am the master of this poorhouse,” she said. “The men’s beds are all taken, and we don’t give handouts.”

“I’m not looking for food,” I said, hungry as a stray.

“Well, what then?”

“I’m asking after a girl who lives here.”

“And who is that?”

I paused, barely able to manage the words. “Helen Slater.”

The woman seemed briefly startled. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “And what would your business with her be?”

The answer to that question was a box of stones that I had to lift and hand to her. “I am her mother.”

The woman gave her head a quick shake, having supposed me to be a drunkard and a man. I thought she was going to tell me to go away, but she moved aside. “Come in.”

The room smelled of soap and hot water, as two women were washing clothes in a tub off to the side. I was led past them, down a hall and into a parlor. The woman closed the door behind us and folded her arms. “I am Mrs. Florence McNee, resident housemaster. Who are you?”

“Lucy Ann Slater,” I said, with a slight stumble. I hadn’t called myself that in a long time. It didn’t sound right. I tried again. “Mrs. Lucy Ann Slater.”

“And you say Helen is your daughter?”

I nodded. “Does she still live here?”

The woman shook her head. “No. She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“To Pennsylvania. A farmer took her.”

“A farmer?” I said, unsure. “And he will marry her?”

“No, dear,” she said, seeming more kind. “He took her to live with his family. She will be his daughter. A good man, I think, or I wouldn’t have let her go.”

My feelings ran in all directions. I was glad that Helen was safe, pained to my soul that I wouldn’t see her, and relieved that I wouldn’t have to. Yes, I felt that as well. It had taken strength to set aside my fears and come in search of her, but those fears hadn’t gone away. I looked back at Mrs. McNee. “When did she leave?”

The woman took a long breath. “Just a month ago.”

Could this be? After years apart, had I missed my daughter by a matter of days? If true, there was only one way it could have come about. God had sent a Pennsylvania man to save my daughter from me. What other explanation?

The tears began. I hadn’t cried for seven years, since the day I’d been attacked by Willie McAllister. But once that dam broke, the feelings that poured through were not just for the loss of Helen, but for everything—all my troubles at home, and those in Minnesota, and after that, the cold years alone in the woods. And then I must have fallen, for suddenly I was on the floor looking up at Mrs. McNee who was kneeling over me. Others were in the room. “Joan, heat water for a bath. Audrey, help me take her clothes.”

“Shall I boil them?”

“Burn them.”

A little later, I was in a warm tub. Mrs. McNee took a coarse cloth to me and then told me to lie with my head back. “There’s no help for it,” she said, taking a scissors and cutting my hair down to the scalp.

Once bathed and shorn, I was put into a nightshirt and led upstairs. I fell into a sleep that went on for a day. When I finally woke, I found myself in a real bed with ticking and sheets. I wasn’t awake but a short time when Mrs. NcNee came into the room. She took the chair by the bed and patted my hand. I supposed she was there to say that it was time for me to leave, but she just sat there and looked out the window.

“I was married when I was sixteen,” she said at last. “A year later I had a daughter, but I lost her when she was two. Scarlet fever. Everyone said it was God’s will, but I could see no purpose to it. I cursed God and haven’t been to church since. Then my husband died when his wagon turned over.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, about your little girl,” I said, not knowing why she was telling me these things. “And about your husband.”

Mrs. McNee gave a nod to accept my regrets, but she had more to say. “You should know that in Helen I found the daughter that had been taken from me. I did not want to let her go, but I believed she’d have a better life on Mr. Fortnam’s farm. I miss her terribly. Then you arrive, and I don’t know what to make of it.”

I didn’t know what to make of it either. Here was a woman who had seen Helen grow. Had given her love and been the mother I had not been. “I haven’t seen Helen since she was small,” I said.

I thought those words would condemn me in Mrs. McNee’s eyes, but instead she smiled kindly. “Then let me tell you. Your daughter is as warm as the sun in the morning. Funny, brave, and kind.”

Your daughter.
Suddenly, I saw my little girl on the grass outside our house on Basket Creek, all of ten months, standing up and with shrieks of delight, taking her first steps. “Yes,” I said, “she was like that, even as a little one.”

There was a worried look behind Mrs. McNee’s smile. “There’s something you should know.” I was afraid of it, but I met her eyes. “Helen thinks you’re dead.”

“And well she might,” I whispered. What I would not explain was that I had been sick, sick for years, a fever of the mind. I had lived in huts in the woods, not much better than an animal. I didn’t talk to anyone. I certainly didn’t write letters. I didn’t see or hear from my sisters, and that would have been near impossible, for how were they to know what state or county I was in, or even if I were still alive? It was all my doing, not theirs. I went into the woods, because it was that or be put in a cage. Later, when I was better, I did not want to be seen by anyone who had known me before. I was ashamed. I thought it best for all if I just stayed dead. But none of this I wanted to share with Mrs. McNee. She accepted my silence, stood, and ran the wrinkles out of her dress. “You can stay here, if you want.”

I was weak and had no prospects. “Thank you,” I said. “Yes. At least for a time.”

“You know, of course, that everyone here works, from sunup to sunset—six days a week.”

“I’ll do anything,” I said. “I’m good with an axe, and I can hunt.”

Mrs. McNee looked amused. “Well, perhaps a wild boar for Christmas would be a treat. But first we must get you dressed. There’s a room downstairs where we have some clothes. Why don’t you go with Audrey and find a fresh dress to wear?”

“I don’t want a dress.” The words were out before I could grab them. But how to explain? “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just I wouldn’t know how to wear one. It’s been ten years.”

Mrs. McNee thought for a moment. “You can wear what clothes you like so long as you don’t dishonor this house. Do you want to be called Lucy or Mrs. Slater?”

“Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’d liked to be called Joseph.” And why did I have say that? It was the last straw, for sure—I’d be on the road within the hour.

The housemaster was not pleased and looked at me hard. “But you told me that your name was Lucy, Lucy Slater.”

“It
was
Lucy,” I said, almost pleading. “But it isn’t now. Most people just call me Joe.”

Mrs. McNee raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Lord knows I don’t give people their names. Folks here can call you what they like or what you like—that’s between you and them. And you can tell people about Helen or not. I haven’t said a thing, and it won’t come from me. I know a lot of things that I keep to myself. As for us, it’s your conduct that’s my concern. Live honestly here and we’ll be fine.”