Where the Lost Wander(6)

“I loved her,” my father says, in a voice that does not sound like his own, and I am pulled back from thoughts of seeking acceptance with bags of flour and our exodus to St. Joe.

“What?”

“I loved her,” my father repeats. He’s set the pencil down, and his hands are splayed on the ledger, like a startled cat trying to find his balance. I think he might be ill . . . or drunk, though he doesn’t really appear to be either.

“Who?” I ask, though I suddenly know exactly who. I reach for the door.

His eyes spark, and his mouth hardens. He thinks I am mocking him, but I am too discomfited for scorn.

“Mary,” he answers.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” I blurt, and again my feelings shock me. I sound angry. Uncertain. My father has never talked about my Indian mother. Not even once. I don’t know what has inspired him to do so now.

“It is what I know,” he responds. “I know you think I’m a son of a bitch. And I am. But I’m not . . . guilty of everything you imagine I am guilty of.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I hiss. I don’t believe him, and I don’t want to leave St. Joe with this conversation between us.

“Mary did not like her life with me. When she wanted to leave, I let her go. And I will let you go too. But you need to know I did not force her. Ever. Not at any time. And I would have cared for her all the days of her life had she let me. I did not know about you until she brought you to me—and Jennie—eight years later.”

I don’t know what to say. My mind is empty, but my heart weighs a thousand pounds.

“Every time you leave, I wish I’d told you. I promised myself I wouldn’t let you go again without making it clear,” he says.

“Are you sick?” I ask. My mother began acting strange when she knew she was going to die.

“I’m not sick.”

We are silent, standing among the harnesses and yokes, the reins and the riggings, my hands on my hips, his curled into big white-knuckled fists on the counter of the establishment he raised from the ground. I watched him do it. I admired that. I admire him, much of the time. But the rest of my feelings are knotted and frayed like an old rope, and I won’t be unraveling them here and now, with him looking on. Not even with this new revelation. Especially not with this new revelation.

With a ragged inhale and a curt nod, I open the door and walk out, shutting it quietly behind me.



I don’t go home to Jennie right away. My innards are twisted and my chest is hot. My father has a way of slicing me open and making me study my own inner workings, as if repeated examination will help me better understand him. I do not believe he loved my mother—I am not sure he is capable of the emotion—but that he even spoke the words is beyond comprehension. I am convinced once more that he is ill, terminally so, and stands at the edge of a gangplank, a sword at his back, like Shakespeare’s Pericles, which Jennie read aloud. The heat in my chest scurries down my arms and tickles my palms. I stop abruptly, hating that he has made me care.

I have halted directly in the path of a small child, and he stops, befuddled.

“Pardon me, mister.”

The boy steps back, peering up at me, eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun. His hat falls off his head as he cranes his neck to meet my gaze. He has a shock of reddish-brown hair that stands up in all directions. A boy behind him stoops to pick up the rumpled felt hat, setting it atop the smaller boy’s woolly head. The hat is too large, and his unkempt hair reminds me of my task. I turn back toward my father’s store, toward Jennie and her shears, but the boy’s mother is not far behind him, and she stops in front of me, a third son bringing up the rear.

“Mr. Lowry.” The woman sticks her hand toward mine, her other palm resting on the swell of her impossibly large abdomen. Her bonnet shades green eyes, and I shake her small, rough hand, distracted by their color. It is the second time today I have been greeted by name by a green-eyed female I do not know. But this woman’s eyes are faded. Everything about her is faded—her dress, her bonnet, her skin, her smile—and her weariness is palpable. The boys cluster around her, and they all look too much alike, too much like the woman, not to be her children. The smallest boy with the reddish mop and the too-big hat begins to chatter excitedly.

“We’re the Mays. We’re traveling west with Mr. Abbott. Shoving off tomorrow. We bought mules from your pa, Mr. Lowry. Ma said I could name them. Mr. Lowry said I should name them something easy and sharp, like a command. So I figure I’d name ’em Trick and Tumble, ’cause the one is naughty and the other is clumsy. Pa said you’re a mule skinner. I’m gonna be a mule skinner one day too. I’m gonna have corrals full of ’em. Webb May Mules is what I’ll call my breeding farm, but don’t worry, Mr. Lowry. I won’t put you and your pa outa business, ’cause I’m not stayin’ in St. Joe. I’m going to California.”

I nod once, but I have not hidden my surprise, and the woman smiles wearily.

“You were in the back paddock yesterday when we purchased the mules. We saw you, but you did not see us. Your father told us you would be traveling with our wagon train. Forgive us for the poor introduction.”

The tallest boy, probably fifteen or sixteen years old, sticks out his hand. “I’m Wyatt May, Mr. Lowry.” He seems earnest, and the timbre of his voice is that of a man, though he still looks like a boy. The voice changes first. It did for me. One day I woke to a toad in my throat that mimicked my father every time I opened my mouth.