The Staircase (15 page)

A twenty-dollar gold piece! Was there to be no end to this day and what it would bring me?

This was the gold piece that Mrs. Lacey said had been given to Delvina by Jesse James.

I SAT QUIETLY
in my room on my bed, fingering the gold coin. Was it from Jesse James? I was starting to get like Mrs. Lacey, I thought. It was a beautiful coin, and there seemed to be some magic in the thought that it could be from Jesse James. But then I minded that Delvina's husband had been a thief. And likely it was part of some illegal bounty.

I'd been excused from the supper table to read my father's letter. It sat now like some dead thing in my lap.

"Dear Lizzy," he'd written. How could he call me "dear"? He'd left me, abandoned me just when I needed him most, and now he wrote endearments. I'd always thought it was stupid to begin letters by calling the other person "dear."

Men did it to each other in letters about business. I'd seen Uncle William receive letters from some bedraggled, worn-down fur trapper, that began with "dear."

My father was on his way to Texas.

At the outset on the Gila Trail, on his way to Colorado, he'd met a drover who worked for the Santa Gertrudis Ranch
in Texas, owned by a man named King. The drover had just returned from driving a herd of cattle north, to the Plains. He'd told my father how King needed good men on his ranch, which was the biggest in the Southwest, and how my father, having once run a plantation, would find good-paying work. My father immediately abandoned his Colorado idea and started for Texas.

"Especially, he needs a foreman," my father wrote. "Texas is sending millions of cattle to eastern markets. This man King has six hundred thousand acres and he needs someone to hire and oversee responsible men to take a market-ready herd of some five thousand steers to Kansas. I can earn over five thousand dollars a year."

It was all about money, profits, and the market for cattle.

There was only one line about me, and no sentiments at all about leaving me.

"I know you will do well at school," he ended, "and, after your education, come to live with me at the Santa Gertrudis Ranch. If I get the job, I am to have my own small hacienda."

Tears rolled down my face as I sat with the letter in my lap and wondered what the market would be like, when I was finished with my education, for a daughter who hated her father, yet yearned for him at the same time.

I PUT A SHAWL
on and went to the barn to feed Ben his supper. Ben always comforted me. I fed him, and the fragrance of the oats becalmed me. Watching Ben eat did, too. It was such a simple, yet certain act, with no trickery attached to it. Animals had such faith, I decided. More than we humans had. Yet they were so dependent on us. Without our food, our care,
they couldn't live. So then, to Ben, I was sort of a god. But he never doubted me.

"Oh, Ben," I told him, "I don't know what to do. Daddy wrote and didn't even say he was sorry he left us. Now he wants me to write back. How can I? And what do I do about the note for Elinora? Do I give it to her or not?"

"Is the coffin all right?"

I turned, startled. He stood there, the carpenter-beggar, eyes hopeful. "I made it in such a hurry for the woman. Is it all right?"

"Yes," I said. "It is fine."

"It is so sad about the woman dying."

"Yes. It seems there's been nothing but death all around since I left Independence."

"It is all around us, always. Every day could be the last for any of us. The trick is to know it, and enjoy each day, even with all its troubles."

"Why did they set you to making a coffin when you have such work on the staircase?" I asked carefully.

"The Bishop has requested I leave off on the staircase for a while. He said some of the girls want to wait, to give Saint Joseph a chance at his miracle. They made a pilgrimage to the Bishop's farm today to lay this request at his feet."

The farm was six miles away. And they'd been driven there by Gregorio. Hardly a pilgrimage. But I kept silent.

"They begged the Bishop to wait at least a week," he went on. "Apparently he thinks he should do this, to give their faith a chance. Also, it seems one of them has a calling to become a nun. And she beseeched him. And he feels, in respect for her calling, he should honor her wishes."

So Elinora had gotten her way in all things, even convincing her uncle that her "calling" was real.

"But then the staircase will never be finished by Christmas. You could not possibly get it done!"

He smiled. "I got a coffin done this afternoon, didn't I?" Then he grew sober. "But waiting idly is not a good idea. I must find other work so I can eat."

"Wouldn't they let you stay on and feed you?"

"I couldn't do that," he said. "I couldn't accept food for nothing, no."

I cast my eyes around the barn, the soft sweetness of the lantern light on the hay, the cows and mules and horses munching. "Oh, I feel so terrible."

"Well," he said, "perhaps Saint Joseph will work his miracle yet. But enough talk of my troubles.
You
seem troubled. I heard you talking to the horse. Perhaps I can help."

I blushed. "I always talk to Ben. He listens."

He nodded. "You heard from your father, then?"

I remembered that I'd told him about Daddy one time in the chapel. And how kind he'd been. Hadn't he said he was a father, too?

"Yes," I allowed. "He wrote to me. But it was a terrible letter. All he talked about was this ranch in Texas where he is going to find work. And how much money he would earn. And the price of cattle. He didn't even say he was sorry for leaving me here. And now he wants me to write to him. And I can't find it in my heart to do so."

Again he nodded. His eyes, which I'd thought of as old, seemed young and hopeful of a sudden. "Fathers always worry about finding work. It is a great burden. Sometimes the work seems more important to the family than they are. It is not so."

What did he know about that? A beggar man. But I did not want to be unkind. "Still, I don't want to write to him," I said.

"He will wait for your letter."

"As I have waited for him here. For him to say he is sorry he had to leave me. But he never said it."

"For some men it is a difficult thing to say. They talk all around it. They wash it over because they don't know what words to put on the hurt they have done."

"Did you hurt your family?"

He sighed. "Only by leaving them."

"You left your family, too?"

"The time came when I had to."

"Nobody ever has to leave if they don't want to," I said. "Not unless they die. Like my mother. And Delvina. I know you are a kind man. And I know I mustn't pry. But how can I write to my father? He'll think I put no store on the fact that he left me."

"He knows what he has done. Fathers always know. And we all carry guilt with us. It's part of being human. Likely he waits for your forgiveness. You don't have to say you forgive him, if you don't wish to. A letter would be enough."

"I don't know," I said haltingly.

"Think on it," he said. "Life is so brief. Often we wait too long to say things."

I nodded, agreeing. "There were things I never got to say to my mother."

"We all have such things inside."

"Yes." I twisted the end of my apron in my lap. "There is something else perhaps you could help me with. Since we're talking."

"Of course," he said.

"But I must swear you to secrecy. You must promise not to tell anyone."

"I promise," he said.

"I have a note here for Elinora. You know Elinora? The Bishop's grandniece?"

"The girl who was with you the night we met."

"Well, I don't know if I should give her the note or not."

"And why is this?"

I looked into his gentle face. His eyes seemed luminous. And encouraging.
He doesn't know Elinora is the one who wants to become a nun,
I thought.
So it's all right to tell him.
"Because it would bring harm to her. You see, it's from a young man from the boys school. He wants her to meet him tonight. He says they've been meeting. I think Elinora is too young for this. Oh, I know I'm not the one to say. But it would hurt her uncle, the Bishop, terribly. And he is such a good man."

He pondered the matter a bit. He sat down on a bale of hay.

"I'm afraid she's going to run away with this young man," I went on. "I wish I myself could tell her to stop seeing him. But she doesn't like me."

"But it would seem that if the contents of the note would do Elinora harm, you should go to someone who would try to keep her from harm."

"I couldn't go to the Bishop," I said. "I wouldn't want to hurt him."

His eyes sought mine. Held mine, as if there was more in the words he was about to say than their meaning. "Then why not give it to Mother Magdalena?" he suggested. "Surely she loves Elinora enough to decide if the Bishop should be told."

It came to me then. Yes! Perfect. Give it to Mother Magdalena! She would tell the Bishop, if even to shove under his nose what his niece was up to.

Furthermore, the Bishop would then know Elinora was lying about being a nun. And he would take back his order about waiting on the staircase.

Oh, I must do it. Quickly. Now. Or we would lose this dear man. "When are you leaving?" I asked.

"Tomorrow night. I must tidy up the chapel before I go."

I thanked him effusively and departed. I am afraid I left him there openmouthed and thinking I lacked in adequate manners. I went out into the night. From the chapel I could hear singing. It drifted out on the cold, clear air. The funeral service was starting. I must attend. I looked up. There in the eastern sky was rising a big balloon of a moon. A Comanche moon.

JUST AS I SLIPPED
into the back of the church for the funeral mass, the Bishop was making an announcement.

He asked for a volunteer to stay home from the cemetery to mind the baby, who they had christened Elena. I raised my hand. "Good," he said. "Mother Magdalena will be here, in her office, if you need anything."

I knew I must act quickly. In my pocket was the note from Abeyta to Elinora, and I knew that if I did not soon put it into Mother Magdalena's hands, Elinora would slip away from the funeral procession this night to meet Abeyta under the Comanche moon. And quickly forget about being a bride of Christ.

I determined that I would have time after mass. It would take a while for the procession to assemble. But then the fates were with me. Before mass ended, the wet nurse the nuns had hired to feed the baby, Teresa Espinosa, appeared in the doorway holding the child. She had her own newborn at home, I presumed, or she would not be able to nurse this child. Likely she must leave.

Mother Magdalena left her pew, genuflected, and gestured that I should go with her. Eagerly I did so. And out in the hall they handed me the baby.

Little Elena was a cunning babe, with a round lively face and eyes that seemed to look right at you as if she knew what you were thinking.

Go now,
those eyes seemed to say.
Don't let anything stop you.

So as the wet nurse slipped out the door in the church vestibule, Mother Magdalena walked out into the deserted, candlelit hall, and I followed her, the baby a warm, comforting assurance in my arms. "Ma'am?"

She turned. "What is it, Lizzy? Don't feel up to the task?"

I balanced Elena in one arm and fished in my apron pocket for the note. I held it out for her. "I think you ought to see this, ma'am."

She nodded, and I quickly covered the steps between us. She took the note, read it, and peered at me.

"Where did you get this?"

"I don't like betraying a confidence," I said. "It isn't in me."

"I didn't ask you that."

I cuddled Elena, for support. "From Abeyta. He stopped me in the street this afternoon. I didn't know what to do. But I'm afraid for Elinora. Please don't punish her."

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Lizzy."

"No, ma'am."

"Just attend to that baby. She should sleep. Her cradle is in the kitchen, for now, where it is warm. Don't leave her for a second until the other nuns return."

"Yes, ma'am."

She walked past me, to the church door. She opened it and
went inside. I hurried to the kitchen, where I found Ramona punching some dough for bread, which would be left to rise overnight. I set Elena in her cradle, smiled at Ramona, and went to peek out the door into the hallway.

The funeral procession was coming down the hall. First came the Bishop with his oversize crucifix, then the altar boys with lit candles. Then the pallbearers, one of whom was Gregorio, carrying Delvina's closed coffin. Next came the members of the congregation. All were carrying small lit candles, eager to see the ceremony through, eager to go to the cemetery. I thought it morbid. But these people fed on such things.

At the end of the procession were the nuns. As they closed the door to the chapel, I saw a protesting Elinora, led by Mother Magdalena.

The others filed out the front of the convent into the night of the Comanche moon. Elinora was pulled by Mother Magdalena into her office, and the door closed with a menacing thud.

IN THE MIDDLE OF
all the confusion of the past two days, I had a pleasant thing happen to me. When the Bishop went to his farm, Sister Roberta had allowed me into his study to pick out my kitten.

There were four kittens, all soft as down; all with tiny mewing, helpless voices; all cuddled in my hands when I held them. It was a very difficult choice, especially since I could scarce tell them apart.

But there was one with a small bit of amber color on its left paw. It was the most cunning thing, that kitten. I chose it for my very own, and on that night of the funeral took it to my
room with me for the first time. I cuddled it in my bed. It was so warm and fluffy, and the way it purred reminded me so of my own cats that I have to confess, I betrayed the Cheyenne and Blackfoot part of me and cried.

I named it Cleo, since it was a girl. I knew my Cleo back in Independence wouldn't mind a bit. Might be she'd even feel flattered. "When I go back to Independence, I'm taking you with me," I told her. She understood. She even licked my nose with her warm, rough tongue.