‘I don’t know how Jeremiah came to break the brush harrow’s tines,’ James sighs, and looks at Jeremiah. ‘It can’t be mended.’
‘We’ve got to have one,’ Jesse says, like he has eaten something sour.
‘Of course we do,’ James answers quick. ‘I ain’t saying we’ll do without, but who knows with the war where we’ll be able to find a new one.’
‘This is not the time or place to speak of this,’ Jeremiah’s Ma says, her voice sharp and her back straight, and the table goes quiet again. Jeremiah keeps eating, his eyes on his plate. When the bowls of food are passed again, his Ma watches and only the men take more food.
The ladies all stand and so I do too. We take our plates to the kitchen, and even the children get quieter when we come in. I wonder where it is that Jeremiah has learned to talk, has learned to smile. Jeremiah’s Ma sets Sarah and Alice to washing and me to drying while she clears more plates. When she comes back, she stands next to me and it don’t matter that she is short and thin, I fold myself inward.
‘I know what your father would say, but what is it you do best, Rosetta?’ Jeremiah’s Ma asks, her voice quiet but firm.
I have not said a word since we came through the door of this house, I have only nodded my head and smiled. I look at this woman, at Jeremiah’s Ma, and clear my throat.
‘I can do most anything needs doing,’ I say, my voice too loud. ‘I can tend animals, milk cows, help with slaughtering. I can work a kitchen garden if you have one. I like to help my Papa with harvesting, mending fences.’
‘Our menfolk do most those things. What of household tasks?’ she asks. ‘I don’t recall you at any of the church quilting bees, not since you were a child.’
I think on Jeremiah, how he promised our own farm, and then steel myself and say, ‘My Mama taught me to sew a fair seam. I can make soap and do the wash.’
‘I see,’ she says, because she has heard and seen things about me. Because I am a disappointment already.
I LAY WITH my head resting on Jeremiah’s shoulder, breathing his smell, nicer than anything I ever dreamed back in the bed I shared with Betsy. But even with his hand petting down my hair, I can’t stop from wishing Jeremiah ain’t ever brought news of this war to us. My heart nearly stopped that Saturday in April when Jeremiah came banging on our door, shouting, ‘They’ve gone and done it! They’ve fired on Fort Sumter!’
Papa dropped the ear of seed corn he was husking, all the blood drained from his face, but before he could even go to Mama, she was already crying, ‘No, it can’t be true! It just can’t! Oh my poor sister, down there in the thick of it!’
I reach a hand to Jeremiah’s cheek, turning him toward me in bed. ‘Why you want to fight for the Union so bad, anyway?’
‘I don’t know … Don’t you think loyalty ought to mean something?’
‘But what about Nebraska? Don’t you want a farm no more? You said—’
‘It’s all to get that farm, Rosetta! It’s the best way—’
‘You could do that right here—you could hire yourself out. There’s no good farmhands left—’
‘That ain’t it—my brothers—my Ma would never let me—Besides, I’ve got a hankering to see something different than the haunches of a plow horse. It’s only for this little bit—’
‘Can’t I go with you?’
‘No,’ he says, but he pulls me tighter against him.
‘Sure I can,’ I tell him, my voice small.
‘What would you do?’
‘What would I do here?’ I ask. ‘Can’t I do the same anywhere?’
‘You can’t,’ he says, running his fingers down my back.
‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘What if I want to see something more of this world too?’
‘A wife’s got to stay home,’ he says, his voice getting louder.
‘I don’t want to stay here without you,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to be all alone.’
‘You won’t be all alone.’
I wrap my arms around him. ‘What if I just up and follow you?’
He laughs and kisses the top of my head. ‘Stone Lady,’ he says, teasing me. ‘So stubborn.’ He turns on his side, his head propped on his hand, his fingers sliding down my cheek to jaw to bosom. ‘You ain’t really serious about coming.’
‘Why can’t I be?’
‘A wife stays, Rosetta,’ he says, his mouth set. ‘It ain’t a nice life. You’ve got a life here.’
‘And you don’t?’ I ask. ‘Your folks don’t want me here.’
‘That ain’t true,’ he says.
‘It is. Your Ma don’t like me. You can’t go off so soon and us only fresh married.’
‘You knew about this,’ he says. ‘This was the plan.’
‘But it ain’t a good plan! I don’t like you being gone.’
‘It’s the fastest way to get enough money for our farm,’ he says.
‘I could earn money maybe,’ I say, ‘get us our farm sooner. Work as a laundress. Or a nurse.’
‘I ain’t having my wife washing other men’s underthings. Or worse.’
‘When the fighting starts you can send me home.’