Caroline: Little House, Revisited(14)
Her smile crept into the dark. “Rest yourself, Charles.” She felt the brush of his whiskers against her fingertips before he floated her hand back down to her. The wisp of movement carried her back to the bunkhouse without another murmur.
The girls did not stir at the clack of the latch. Mary lay with her rag doll up under her chin, her arms folded close as hens’ wings around her calico darling. Caroline let her shawl back down to her shoulders and carried the scrap bag to the bunk nearest the hearth. Loosening the drawstring, she unfurled the bag into her lap. It was not a sack, but rather a circle of denim that would spread itself flat with the cord fully unlaced. Seven deep pockets, each holding one color, pinwheeled from a center humped with plain cuttings of flannel, buckram, and the like. Caroline chose two remnants of muslin to veil the windows, then felt her way into the pocket of browns until she found a swatch of felt, small and nearly triangular. A few nips with the scissors would turn it into a shawl for Nettie. She laid it on a bunk with their wraps, then bolstered the fire with slim maple logs before finally undressing.
She found herself standing before the hearth in the place where her rocking chair would be, were this their own fireplace. Without it she was not sure how to settle the day’s many layers into herself. She turned to the straw tick, hunkered on the floor like a patchwork raft. The coverlet puffed softly up and down over Mary and Laura. Caroline watched them as she had that morning. Their tempo was so like a hymn, a strand of scripture encircled her.
Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy Holy Spirit from me.
With all that the day’s travel had wrought, and all that the days still to come would bring, she had never felt so keenly beholden to the Lord’s mercy. Caroline knelt where she stood. Her chin tipped down to meet her folded hands.
No prayer came to her. Eyes closed, she wavered like a solitary taper until in place of her own words of praise or supplication, a fragment of the 24th Psalm rose through her voice.
Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in his holy place?
He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.
He shall receive the blessing from the Lord . . .
Caroline’s brow furrowed and her heart pressed forward as she pledged the words into her clasped hands. It had not the usual shape of a prayer, but it was no less binding; she would do all that she could to keep her family within the sight of Providence.
The straw tick whispered around her as it always did, raising tufts of fragrance as she shifted into place beside Mary and Laura. In the anonymous room, the bedding smelled more of home than the cabin itself had. Traces of kerosene and rosemary mingled with something so familiar Caroline could not name it. Caroline wondered if it was the girls themselves. She had not slept alongside either of her daughters since Laura was weaned, yet their nearness saturated her with comfort.
Her hands slipped under the covers and met at the low mound of her navel. Soft creaks and burbles turned beneath them, as though her supper still simmered there. No swish or flutter. Perhaps, if she could not yet feel the small creature inside, she need not worry over whether it was sensible to the jostling wagon or the flood tides of her emotions. Within its cushion of waters, perhaps it felt nothing at all. Caroline shut her eyes and imagined herself enveloped in such a warm and fluid cradle—every sound and movement diluted, graceful. If she could not shelter herself from this journey’s vagaries, there was some satisfaction at least in knowing she was a shield for the budding child. Beside her, the rise and fall of her daughters’ breaths led her gently toward sleep.
A sound like the crack of gunfire shot through Caroline’s consciousness. Motionless in the vibrating air, Caroline groped with her senses for her bearings. Nothing fit. The ceiling above her was peaked rather than flat, the bed too near the floor.
The tiny muscles along her ears strained into the silence. Only the dwindling embers whispered to themselves. No voices. Not a whicker from the horses; no movement behind her makeshift curtains.
Another shot brought her to her elbows. The sound seemed to cleave the air. It stretched too long and deep for the pop of a bullet, yet she could make room in her mind for nothing else. Caroline sat up and patted her hands across the straw tick, searching for the fiddle box. “Charles?” she called in a whisper. Beside her, Laura stirred.
The latch rattled. Caroline froze. Bolts of alarm unrolled into her thighs and down the backs of her arms.
The door seemed to peel open. “It’s the ice cracking on the lake,” Charles’s voice said. Thankfulness loosened her so thoroughly, she could do nothing but spread herself back over the mattress. Charles came to the hearth and nudged another length of hardwood into the fire behind her.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked.
With a creak of leather, he squatted down and leaned over to kiss her, whiskers softly caressing her skin. “That’ll help,” he said. He stood and went out, easing the door shut behind him.
Caroline laid her forearms across her ribs. Each crack of the ice scored a cold line across the hollow places in her body, like a blade that would not cut. The sharpness of the sound almost tickled down in her depths.
At the next report, Laura gasped. Caroline rolled to her shoulder. Laura’s eyes were casting about the room, desperate to light on something she recognized. Caroline leaned into her view. Their gazes met, and Caroline saw her daughter’s face curve with comfort. A pool of warmth opened behind Caroline’s heart as she watched. She glided her fingertips over the peak of Laura’s cheek. The baby roundness that had faded from Mary’s face still lingered in Laura’s.