Caroline: Little House, Revisited(45)
“Must be the outskirts of Independence,” Charles said.
Town. Caroline’s heart began to patter.
Laura pulled herself up by the back of the spring seat. “Where, Pa?”
Like Laura, Caroline wanted to stand up in her seat to see this town, this place so fresh it had not earned itself a spot of ink on the map. Caroline had only half believed it would be here at all. She took hold of the outermost wagon bow and stretched her tired back out long and tall, tipping her chin toward the horizon. The smell of the river skimmed past her nostrils, a clean, silvery scent.
Somewhere just beyond the river were people, supplies, news. Perhaps, Caroline thought breathlessly before she could help herself, perhaps a letter. There had been waysides and whistle stops all along the road, but all that had mattered about them was how much they charged for feed, or how many miles’ travel they signified.
“This is the last town before the Indian Territory?” Caroline asked.
“So far as I can tell. Map’s no help for that anymore. I expect it’ll be the last town between us and the Territory, anyway,” Charles said.
She had known the answer before asking. Today or tomorrow they would drive past the rim of the nation. No matter how far beyond Charles drove, this town would belong to them, and they to it, and so Caroline was anxious to learn what kind of a place it was, what kind of people inhabited it. She gave the wagon bow another gentle pull, craning as far as she could toward those haystacks without betraying her impatience. This once, she would not mind strange faces looking at her. What would they see in her, she wondered, what would the people of Independence expect of a woman come to claim a quarter section with her husband? Perhaps she would surprise them. Perhaps she would surprise herself.
The Verdigris was high enough to lap at the underside of the wagon bed, but calm, and they forded the river easily. With a snort and a splash from Pet and Patty the wagon emerged from the screen of willows and the western bank came into view.
Had she been standing, Caroline would have sat right back down again. The haystacks were the town—little half-breed buildings, timber on the bottom, hay on top, no larger than sheds. Caroline felt the wagon bow slip through her hand as she sank into the shell of her corset. How could anyone properly call this place a town?
Charles pulled up before one of the hay shanties. A faded sign in front announced Bred and Pize for Saile huar. Caroline winced at the attempt. This place was not fresh, but raw.
Charles ducked through the low door and in a few minutes brought out a loaf wrapped in an old sheet of newsprint. “Here’s a treat for you, Caroline. Light bread.”
It felt a trifle heavy to go by the lofty name of light bread, but it was warm and smelled of yeast, so she unwrapped it and sliced it thickly.
“‘Immigration still continues to pour in,’” Charles read from the paper as she waited for the molasses to find its way from the bottom of the jug. “‘As many as twenty claims have been taken in this vicinity in one day. At that rate every quarter will have an occupant by spring.’” His face sobered some. “Sounds like we didn’t get here any too soon. I’d better inquire at the land office for the best prospects.”
He did not wait to eat his dinner, but drove with his bread in one hand and the reins in the other past the clusters of hay-topped sheds toward what Caroline had taken for a house and barn from the riverbank. They stopped between the two, and she saw that the pair of buildings comprised the whole of Independence’s business district. A double-log structure, the hotel, proclaimed itself the Judson House. The store with its sawn-board walls and shingled roof looked like it might just fit inside their house in Wisconsin. Size notwithstanding, it was by far the neatest, most sturdily built place in town, and it bore its few months’ weathering almost boastfully. The proud little building was already the matron of Main Street, Caroline mused, a grande dame in her graying boards and shining glass windows.
It was a fanciful idea, something like Laura might come up with, and Caroline felt it nudging her impressions of Independence into a more charitable light. The town was undeniably raw, but it did not intend to remain so. This was a place still becoming itself.
“Huh,” Charles said, looking the street up and down. “Maybe the land office is sharing quarters with the store. Ought to stock up either way,” he said. “I’m short of tobacco and I better get more powder and shot while I have the chance. What else do we need?”
Caroline weighed each dwindling sack in her mind. “We still have plenty of beans and dried apples. The cornmeal, flour, and sugar are all low, especially the meal. Coffee. Some fresh salt pork or bacon would be nice. Molasses. And maybe, if they have any—” she stopped. “No, never mind that.” He had already treated her to the light bread.
“What? There can’t be a thing in this town that’s too good for you.” His eyes twinkled, and Caroline felt the quick bloom of pleasure warm her face. She wished she were not so prone to blushing at his flattery. He could turn her ears halfway to red talking that way, and he knew it. “Tell me or I’ll have to guess,” he teased, and Caroline’s earlobes tingled. The man had no mercy.
If she told him now it would sound silly. And if she did not, Caroline knew he would buy her something far too extravagant. Tins of oysters or a yard of fancy trim to make over her old apron. She looked up from her folded hands. “Pickles. Just a small jar of cucumber pickles.”