Caroline: Little House, Revisited(92)

“Open the square package,” Charles said over the girls’ heads.

It was wrapped so neatly, with its crisply folded corners and a knot of white string. Her first thought was of a book, or writing paper—extravagances that made no sense. She lifted it and the weight puzzled her. Even Charles’s big green book was not so heavy.

“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t drop it.”

A thrill went through her, of delight and dread as she understood. It could be only one thing. “Oh, Charles,” she gasped, aghast at the expense, “you didn’t.” She laid it back down on the table, fearful now of damaging what must be inside.

“Open it,” he insisted.

Caroline untied the string and folded back the paper. Eight panes of window glass.

She could not keep the figures from chalking themselves up in her mind. Eight panes of glass could not be less than twelve dollars back East. But here—a place where white sugar went for a dollar a pound? No, she assured herself. That was why Charles had driven forty miles to Oswego. That was why she and the girls had spent four days alone on the high prairie. He had saved the overland freight, at least. Still, the cost amounted to no less than the equivalent of nine and a half acres. The single square pane in her hands represented more land than it took to hold the house and stable and well. It was a foolish, frivolous thing to do with so much money.

But gracious, it was beautiful, that glass. Clear and cool and smooth, and ever so faintly blue, like ice. Caroline lifted the top pane to the firelight, and the edges seemed to glow. She put a hand to her chest, to keep from floating away. Four panes for the east, four for the west. He had bought her sunlight and moonlight, sunrises and sunsets. She would be able to see clear to the creek road and the bluffs beyond, all winter long. Come spring she could look out at her kitchen garden and see Charles working the fields of sod potatoes and corn.

He should not have done it. Every cent he had saved by going to Oswego had surely gone into this glass. Caroline could not get air enough into her to properly thank him.





Twenty-Six




Had she known how many Indians she would see through those window panes, Caroline thought as she glanced toward the Indian trail for the dozenth time that day, she might have quelled her delight. She tried to tell herself that it was only the novelty of looking through the glass that made her more aware of the passing barebacked riders, but that was as good as a lie. She told herself that the way they rode, without ever so much as glancing askance at the cabin, there was nothing to worry over. But that did not feel much like the truth, either. They might as well have turned their heads away entirely, they pointed their eyes so resolutely forward. I refuse to see you, that posture proclaimed.

It seemed an indecent thing to envy an Indian, but Caroline did. No matter how she tried, she could not replicate their willful indifference. Every Osage on that trail claimed her attention. And Jack—Jack plain hated to see an Indian pass. All day long he snarled and barked and scrabbled against his chain, until the bare ground was scored with slashes. Charles had to nearly drag the bulldog in for his dinner, he was so reluctant to leave the trail unguarded.

“I can’t say I blame him,” Caroline said. “I declare, Indians are getting so thick around here that I can’t look up without seeing one.”

Charles leaned down at the window to survey the trail. It ran almost through the dooryard before angling away to the northeast. “I wouldn’t have built the house so close if I’d known it’s a highroad. Looked like nobody’d ridden it in months when we got here. They must not use it, spring and summer.”

Caroline would not say that she did not mind. But there was no use in complaining, either. “That can’t be helped now,” she said. She put a bowl of jackrabbit vitals on the floor for Jack, then dredged the remaining pieces with flour, salt, and pepper. The lard in the skillet had begun to crackle. She turned, lifting the plate of meat, and nearly dropped it.

An Indian stood in the doorway. “Goodness,” she gasped. Jack looked up from his bowl and lunged. His jowls were bloodied with jackrabbit, his teeth bared. Charles leapt forward and snatched the dog back by the collar. The Indian had not moved one step, but Caroline saw him draw himself up, his chin and chest both lifting in a kind of internal backing away. “Ho-wah,” he said.

“How!” Charles answered.

The Indian seemed to smother a smirk at Charles’s reply and stepped into the house. He was tall, taller yet than Charles, so that he reached up to gently bend back the feathers on his scalp lock as he crossed the threshold. He walked the length of the house and squatted down beside the fire as though he’d been invited. Charles pulled his belt from its loops and used it to buckle Jack to the bedpost by his collar. Then Charles squatted down alongside the hearth. The two men said nothing. Behind them, the melted lard gave a pop. Mary and Laura sat on their little bed with their backs against the wall, watching.

Caroline stood completely still for a moment before she realized that she was not frightened. She was not entirely at ease, but she was not afraid. In fact, she thought, having the Indian in the house was not so very different from sitting down to milk a new cow for the first time. Caroline had the same sense now of being nominally in charge and at the same time acutely aware of her own physical disadvantage. If the man poised on her hearth had a mind to, he could spring up and harm any one of them. Yet if he had a mind to, he gave no indication of it. The silence between Charles and the Indian seemed almost amicable, and gradually Caroline understood that if she did not carry on with her task, her hesitation would tip their tentative accord out of balance.