Caroline: Little House, Revisited(9)
It struck her that her body was behaving as though she could taste that vest and feel the pattern augering into her stomach. Caroline balked at the senselessness of it; she would not let such a thing as a swath of cloth take command of her. She set her jaw, refusing to acknowledge the saliva pooling under her tongue, but the queasiness that had overcome her before the stove was already at her throat. Senseless or not, she must put something between her eyes and her stomach.
“Mary, Laura, it’s time for dinner.” They half turned, reluctant to obey. She knew they wanted to stand at the counter to see their two sticks of candy paid for, but that could not be helped. It did not matter now what she looked at. Another minute and she would be sick where she stood. She swept forward and took them by the wrists. “Come, girls. Pa will bring your sweets.”
Out in the wagon, she unwrapped the bundle of bread and plunged her teeth into a slice as the girls gawked at her. The first bite worked quick as a sponge. Her stomach grumbled for more. It was not garish smells or sights that set her senses raving, Caroline realized as she parceled out portions of bread and molasses to Mary and Laura, but hunger. She would have to guard against that on the road.
Cold stiffened the molasses so that it clung to their teeth in thin strands. Laura slipped a fingernail underneath a brown festoon and tried to pry it loose from her slice.
“Laura,” Mary said with a shake of her head.
“It looks like lace,” Laura protested. “It’s too pretty to eat.”
Laura’s scolding melted on Caroline’s tongue. They had never noticed before the care she took drizzling the molasses. Perhaps for a treat she would try spelling out their names. She imagined her wrist guiding the graceful flow of the syrup, the smiles of her daughters as they watched their names drawn out in curls of sweetness. It was the kind of frivolity her own mother could never spare time nor money for, yet practical, too—it was high time both of them began learning their letters.
“Ma,” Mary insisted, pointing at Laura. “Look.”
Caroline’s hand blanketed Mary’s. “It’s very rude to point,” she reminded. “Now finish your dinner nicely, girls, so you may have your candy,” she said.
The back of the wagon jolted under a hundredweight of flour. “All stocked up and cash to spare,” Charles announced. “Where are all those empty sacks, Caroline?” he asked, shifting through the crates and bundles.
“Leave that to me, Charles,” Caroline said. “You must have something to eat before loading all those provisions.”
Too eager to sit, Charles leaned over the front of the wagon box, joking with the girls while Caroline unrolled the sacks and threaded her stoutest needle. She slit open the unbolted flour, cornmeal, beans, and brown sugar and filled a ten pound sack from each to round out her crate of daily supplies.
When the corners were sewn shut again she held the canvas mouths of the biggest sacks wide for Charles to lower the dry goods in, then quickly folded the edges together and basted each one shut. Mary and Laura knelt backward on the spring seat, watching as they sucked their sticks of candy. Their curled fists were like bright berries in their red yarn mittens.
“Did you get the pepper and saleratus?” Caroline asked.
“In my pockets,” Charles said. “Bought myself a gutta-percha poncho,” he added as he heaved one hundredweight and then another of cornmeal. “There’s bound to be rain somewhere between here and Kansas.” Caroline nodded. “And the Colt revolver.”
Her mind veered around this news, as though she might avoid the logical progression of thoughts: The pistol could not have cost under fifteen dollars. Charles would not have spent such a sum without a reason.
“Caroline?”
“Whatever you think is necessary, Charles.”
Charles cinched the wagon cover down in back, leaving only a peephole against the cold.
“Have all you need, Ingalls?” Elisha Richards asked, stepping out to the hitching post to help unbuckle the horses’ nose bags.
“And some to spare,” Charles answered. “Anything else, Caroline?” She shook her head. The wagon box was packed tight as brown sugar. Anything else would have to ride in their laps.
“Good luck to you, then. It’s been my pleasure trading with you.” Caroline ventured a glance at the storekeeper’s vest as the two men shook hands. Her eyes still had no appetite for it, but the garment claimed no sway over the rest of her. Richards nodded at Caroline as Charles swung himself up over the wheel. “Take care of yourselves and those fine girls.”
The compliment touched Caroline squarely at the base of her throat. A small rush of pride ironed out her shoulders and trickled down her core. She bowled her hands together in her lap, as though they might catch the runoff. Behind them, a whorl of warmth embraced her womb—not the child, but the space it occupied suddenly making itself known. It was enough to remind her that she was more than a passenger.
“Thank you, Mr. Richards,” she said.
The road ran straight out onto the lake, narrowing between a pair of slump-shouldered snowdrifts. Away from the plowed track, the ice looked tired, blotched here and there with a sweaty sheen where snow had melted.
“Charles?” Caroline asked, laying a hand on his wrist.
He stayed the team. “Pay no mind to the snowmelt,” he said. “Ice’ll be at its thickest here, where the snow’s been plowed, so long as they’ve kept it bare all winter.” Charles stood up to survey the track. The hills two miles distant seemed no more than waist high. “Looks clear as far as I can see.” He gave the reins a gentle slap, and the wagon dipped from the creaking snow.