Walk on Earth a Stranger
Page 75

“Lee,” Widow Joyner says calmly. Then frantically: “Lee!”
I run to the back of the wagon and peer inside. Her face is sheened in sweat that makes her look almost blue in the waning light. She pants like a dog in the desert, and a huge wet stain spreads out on the feather mattress beneath her.
“I can’t hold off any longer,” she says. “This baby wants to come right now.”
A whip cracks in the distance, and someone yells, “Haw!” I peer through the gloom toward the front of the wagon train.
Frank Dilley and the Missouri men are leaving without us.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Hold on,” I tell her.
Her hand darts out, and she plucks weakly at my sleeve. “Don’t go.”
The wagon already smells peculiar, and it feels too hot inside, too small. “I have to tell everyone,” I insist.
“Lee, please.”
My voice wavers as I say, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Our three wagons are pulled together in a little triangle. “It’s her time,” I say, confirming what everyone already guessed.
Ahead of us, the Missouri wagons slow. But they don’t stop. Frank Dilley strides over to our group, thumbs stuck in his waistband. He squirts tobacco onto the ground at my feet.
“We can’t wait,” he says. “You’re better off leaving her behind with one of your horses. Take her little ones and go on without her.”
Major Craven shuffles forward and brandishes his crutch. “You think we should put her down too? Like you wanted to do to me?”
“We aren’t asking you to stay behind, Frank,” I say quickly. It’s not my place to speak for the group, but I can’t stand one more moment with him. “You do what you need to do, and we’ll do what we need to do.”
“This is good-bye, then,” he says. He takes one good last look at me, slowly from head to toe, which gives me an unpleasant shiver. “Though I suspect our paths will cross again. If you ever make it to California.”
As he strides away, he circles his hand in the air and shouts, “Wagons, roll out!”
Reverend Lowrey has been short on words around me lately, but he’s the first to speak now. “I came west to minister, so that the light of Christ might shine upon these miners, calling them unto salvation. God wills that I follow. But know that I will be praying for His blessing on the Widow Joyner as I go.”
He doesn’t give us any chance to argue. He hurries over to his own wagon, snaps his whipping stick over the oxen, and heads off after the Missouri men.
That leaves Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman and all their children. Mr. Hoffman’s hat is crumpled in his hand. “I’m so very sorry,” he says.
“Vati, bitte,” Therese pleads, and I don’t know how anyone can say no to those big blue eyes. She puts her hands on Doreen’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of her sister’s head. “We should help those who have helped us,” she murmurs.
“Es tut mir sehr leid,” her father answers.
Everyone looks to me for a reply. Somehow, I’ve become the official spokesman for the Joyners.
The Hoffmans’ oxen are weak. Any delay puts them in danger of not making it across. “You must go, for the sake of your little ones.”
He nods, and I know that he was going to go anyway, regardless of anything we said. He herds all his children toward their wagon. At the last second, Therese runs back to us. She throws her arms around Jefferson, who hugs her fiercely. She grabs me next, squeezing like she can’t bear to let go. I cling to her, unable to say “good-bye” or “good luck” or even “be safe” because of the tightness in my throat.
She steps back, blinking away tears. “I will be very angry if I don’t see you in California.”
Therese darts away before we can respond, and I barely glimpse Mrs. Hoffman and Therese looking back over their shoulders before darkness swallows the whole family.
A moan drifts out of the wagon.
“Coming, Mrs. Joyner!” I holler.
Quickly, the six of us gather around—Major Craven, the college men, Jefferson, and me. “As much as I hate to admit it,” I say. “Frank had a good point.”
“On the top of his head,” Jefferson says.
“There too,” I say. “But about the other thing. Leave the Major’s tent behind, along with Peony and all the supplies she can carry. You fellows take Andy and Olive and the wagon and go on with the others. I’ll stay with her until the baby comes, and then we’ll catch up with you.”
I startle at their response, which is a single, unified chorus of “No!”
“She may need my help,” Jasper adds.
“I’m not leaving you,” Jefferson says. “Never again.”
“Leah!” she calls from the wagon.
I hesitate, unsure whether to argue sense into these fool men or run to Mrs. Joyner’s aid.
“Go,” Jefferson says. “We’ll take care of things here.”
I run to the wagon.
I climb inside to find the children clinging to their mother. Olive holds her mother’s hand, as if in comfort, but her lower lip quivers when she sees me. Andy’s face is swollen, and wetness streaks his cheeks. “Is Ma going to die too?” he asks, his right hand clutching my locket.
“Please,” Mrs. Joyner says. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Olive is easily led to the back of the wagon, but Andy has to be peeled free. “Jefferson,” I call.
All five men come running.
“Keep the children busy,” I order. “Make sure they get something to eat and maybe put them to sleep in the tent.”
The Major hobbles forward. “Come here, soldier,” he says to Andy. He braces himself against the wagon and lifts the boy by the armpits. “Let’s teach your big sister to make quick bread. Your ma is going to need it.”
The other men linger, as if eager for something to do.
“Go away,” I say, and they slink reluctantly into the darkness.
Mrs. Joyner sags into the soaked feather bed with relief.
“We’ll get you cleaned up,” I say, grabbing her hand. The wagon smells of blood and urine and sweat. “Then Jasper can come deliver the baby.”
She shakes her head. “It has to be you.”
“Me?”
“It was supposed to be Aunt Tildy. She was going to help me. . . . You’re the only other woman here.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a wave of pain takes her. Her eyes squeeze shut as her torso lifts from the bed. The last time I brought a baby into the world, she mooed, and I named her Gladiola, and she gave us milk a few years later. Surely this won’t be too different?
Mrs. Joyner collapses when the pain leaves her. “Promise me, Lee,” she whispers.
“Promise what?”
“Promise you’ll look after my children. Make sure they know how much their ma loved them.”
I lost my own mother less than eight months ago. Mrs. Joyner was already with child then. It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.
“Nothing is going to happen to you, Mrs. Joyner.”
“Becky,” she says. “Please call me Becky.”
“All right,” I say. “Becky.”