“Yes,” I say cautiously, glancing around. This is the worst time to draw attention to ourselves, with the fort a holler away. The place is probably crawling with soldiers, same as Fort Kearny. Yet, I can think of no better way to cheer up Andy than with that cure-all that knows no cultural bounds: music. A few people are setting up tents in the distance, but they’re probably too far to hear.
“Ain’t every day you come across a piano on the prairie.”
I hesitate. “All right, sister.”
We drag discarded barrels over to the piano and hunker down. My skills with the ivory keys are not great, but I pick out a tune, one of Father’s favorites about a cat and a banjo. Soon, Andy starts humming along. I play the final note, and someone clears his throat right behind us.
We jump to our feet and turn around to find a man, his face grizzled and sweaty under an unusual cap with a flat top and visor. I have seen such a cap before, in our safe at the Whistle. It belonged to Pépère, a relic from his days in the French Army.
I gulp. I’ve heard of foreigners hiring themselves to police the frontier, since no one else wants to do it.
“Jean Michel,” he says a heavy accent.
Definitely French. I lick my lips, casting sideways glances around for an escape route. Surely if he were a soldier, he would have immediately stated his rank. Plus, he is not wearing a uniform, but tweed trousers and a linen shirt.
The man’s cap dips toward the piano. “Zat was my mother’s.”
My ears redden, but the rest of me sinks back into my boots. He is only an emigrant, not a soldier. “Pardonez-moi.”
He smiles, showing us the space between his top teeth. “Pas de problème. Ees good to hear her sing one last time.”
He throws out a few more questions in French, which I answer using manly grunts and some of his native tongue. Andy goes mute.
“We are here for one week already,” he says, waving toward the nearest wagon circle. “Half want to go, half want to stay. Dinner ees for our last night as one group. Big fun. Would you join us? Bring your friends.” Jean Michel heads back to his caravan.
French party. Dare we attend? It would be a dream come true for Cay. Those French lessons would finally pay off. It would just be a few hours, and I owe him. Andy’s kneading her scar again, her gaze far away. Maybe a celebration would be good for us all.
29
THE BOYS RETURN FROM THE FORT WITH NEW SUPPLIES. They visited the barber and now look more like chicos than hombres, especially with Peety whirling around in his new boots.
Cay paws at his cheeks. My eyes cut to West’s fair complexion, which, now stripped of its shadow, seems to glow. I can’t help smiling at how healthy he looks. His eyes immediately shift elsewhere, like two billiard balls moved by my cue.
Andy pulls out her journal. “So how much we spend?”
“Twenty-seven,” says Cay, handing her the change.
We tell the boys about our dinner date, but for Cay, we might as well have told him the circus was in town. “Real Frenchies?” He puffs out his chest and checks to see that his muscles still work. “Sammy, Andito, I owe you big.”
I help him review some phrases he thinks might be useful like Entre deux coeurs qui s’aiment, nul besoin de paroles (“Two hearts in love need no words”), and Voulez-vous m’épouser? (“Will you marry me?”).
Within the French wagon circle, our hosts have arranged chairs and tables with wildflowers and candles, even toile tablecloths.
“They do things up fancy here,” Andy murmurs to me.
While Jean Michel introduces us to the other French families, I try to stand in the back with Andy, but the boys need me to translate. So I tuck in my round parts and cross my arms over my chest like a seasoned boy. Half the families do speak some English, and we gravitate toward these folks.
My presence does not cause the stir it usually does, a fact that puzzles as much as relieves me. People are friendly to Andy, too, shaking her hand, and clapping her on the back. The boys drift toward a flock of girls.
A round woman with a chunky braid wrapping her head hands us wet cloths scented with lemon. “Madame Moreau,” she introduces herself as we wipe our hands on the cloths. The ruffles on her blouse flap as she switches her attention between Andy and me.
She settles on me. “In France, we had lots of Chinois.”
“Why did you come to America?” I ask.
“After Napoleon, our farmland ees destroyed. We heard about ze good chances here.” She raises her hand toward two girls sitting with Cay. “My Mathilde, her cousin Sophie, zey like everything américain.”
Both play with their hair. Mathilde strokes her own thick braid and her cousin Sophie slings around the dark ringlets framing her face. Crocheted caps droop over the girls’ eyes and frilly lace adorns their pinafores. Like Cay and West, the only physical similarity lies in their smile.
While Madame Moreau engages Andy, I watch a man in a buckskin coat converse with West nearby. West’s eyes drift to me and then snap back to his company. But the man waves me over.
“Burl Johnson,” he says, as his meaty hand swallows mine. The lapels of his buckskin are trimmed with thick beaver fur. “You people put me out of work.”
“Oh?”
“You and your Silk Road,” he says, tapping tobacco onto a square of paper and rolling it into a cigarette. “Beaver used to be fashionable.”
Finally, I catch on. “You’re a trapper.”
“Was. Now I work here. Lots of us became wagon leaders ’cause we know the terrain.”
West rubs at his face, probably desperate to escape this conversation and, more important, me. I twist at my shirt hem. I will tell him tonight, when I can catch him alone.
Johnson lights the quirley, then hands it to West. “Real men smoke Virginia leaf, none of that Mexican weed.”
West studies the cigarette for a moment. I’ve never seen him smoke, but he takes it and inhales a long drag, blowing the smoke to one side.
Johnson rolls another, but I don’t notice until he strikes the match. “Here you go, China boy.”
“Oh—no—I couldn’t,” I stammer as he pokes the cigarette between my lips. I try not to breathe.
He frowns at me and my frozen mouth. “Inhale. You gotta taste it.”
“Those Virginians sure know how to spank a man,” says West, watching me from behind the film of smoke stinging my eyes. He sucks hard on his quirley, then throws it to the dirt half-smoked and crushes it with the toe of his boot. I hiccup in a bit of the smoke. The fumes fill my lungs like hot vinegar, and I cough them back out in a panic. I might as well stick my head in an oven full of old boots.
Johnson laughs and claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome to America. Truth is, I don’t blame you too much for your silkworms. Beaver population just ain’t what it used to be. Now all you find in the Haystacks are criminals.”
“Haystacks?” I ask.
“The mountain range of the Yellow River.”
My hacking masks my alarm. I look around for Andy. She’s still talking with Madame Moreau.
“Hey, translator, get your tail over here!” Cay yells at me from the opposite direction.
Still coughing, I hurry away from Johnson and West.