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  That was his sin, not hers. No. She wouldn’t think of him anymore. She’d detached from him already and this final burst of emotion broke the clasp to the things that had once defined their lives. The fit was the last indulgence she’d allow herself. For she had much work to do.

  There was Frank. She would deal with him. And, she would never let her children suffer as she had. Coming to know her father was not the man she thought was worse than everything they lost. Jeanie would protect her children from that fate if it was the last thing she managed in her dreary new life.

  Jeanie nodded and blew her nose into her skirt. She could survive and do it well. This would be better—creating a life with the things they could do best—his carpentry skills, her writing, a garden, corn, eventually livestock. She began to feel her burden lift. They had the ability to create something rather than just take things and shift them around an enormous house until achieving the appropriate look.

  This prairie life would be better. It would mean something. They were the artists of their existence and in that endeavor, Jeanie plumped up, feeling optimism rush back in. Like she had felt when she bought a new flow-blue vase, when she wrote books that enticed people to recite her sentences back to her. Once they’d created a home, a life, from the ground up, no one could take it from them. And she would begin again, her writing, her life as it was. Only better.

  Determined, Jeanie began to empty the wagon, laying its contents outside the dugout. She scampered down the tongue of the wagon, carrying clothing, a set of tin dinnerware and inexpensive silverware, mismatched tea cups and their chamber pot—the only remaining relative of their Blue Italian china. She dragged one of two pine hope chests into the dugout that Frank had taken out of the wagon earlier.

  The first chest held the makings of optimism. Her fabric, silver scissors and thimbles, darning egg, paper, pens, some of Frank’s tools, and the letters Frank and she’d written in the year of their engagement—the things she didn’t part with to raise the funds to make this trip. It also held four tin plates, saucers, and three more cups, the skillet, a coffee pot, and a cook pot.

  Next she yanked the faded green trunk that was filled to bursting with books—the books no one in Des Moines saw as valuable, apparently. Jeanie lost her grip on it several times as she dragged it and it scraped down the back of her leg. Outside the dugout, she popped the lid and stared inside. She ran her hand over the leather tomes. Of all of Frank and her discussions about what to leave behind, what they didn’t haggle over were the items that would lend their life a kernel of standing. Yes, they’d be plowing the earth and living inside it like prairie dogs, but from the innards of the earth would burst life as they remembered it.

  Jeanie sat beside the trunk, running her fingers over the embossed title—An American Family in Paris—and stared at the opening of the dugout, its door standing off to the side. Chills crept through her body, raising the hair on her arms, turning the sweat she’d worked up frigid. What’s the matter with a little dirt? Thousands of people started their homesteads with a dugout. It’s only temporary. But the Hendersons…what happened…put the Hendersons out of your mind. Indians live in dugouts by design. Steel yourself, woman. Toughen-upToughen-upToughen-up.

  Clearing her throat she stood, closed the chest, and dragged it into the dugout. For the first time she was in the dirty tunnel by herself. Her eyes adjusted to its darkness—like dusk in her home in Des Moines. The smell—grassy, but sweet and peppery—made her hold her breath. She forced a deeper breath and told herself that smelling a little of it at a time might actually suit her and perhaps she’d grow to crave the scent.

  The coolness provided by the earth made her teeth chatter. She closed her eyes and the dugout’s filth and life filled her. Life will be good again. I will love Frank again. She remembered their sappy love letters. She’d once been utter mush in his hands. She could be that in love again. She would make it so, make them happy, make them rich again.

  “What a bunch of horseshit,” Jeanie said out loud. “Horseshit. Horseshit. Horseshit. I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life.” Jeanie wiped her hands on her skirts and went to the sole window in the shelter and lifted the gnarled, faded gingham curtain from the wooden slat that held it. It fell apart in her fingers.

  The red fabric that hung from the ceiling near the back of the dugout met the same fate as the curtain. It offered privacy to whoever would be using the chamber pot or getting dressed. And, she imagined, for when Frank and she were in the frame of mind and body to engage in adult pursuits. She shook off the thought of being intimate so close to other living breathing people—children of all things—but she knew she’d heard the stories, that it was what homesteading required.

  Inside the hovel she’d lost all sense of time as she’d not yet become accustomed to what the sun’s movements over the home meant. But, hours must have passed as she fitted the window with snowy, percale curtains, tied back in a way that if she didn’t look too close she might be fooled into thinking the view offered there was that of the rolling farms of Des Moines.

  She’d replaced the red privacy curtain with white linen that billowed bright and clean, its hem barely brushed the dirt floor, but still instantly accepted the dusty molecules, browning the fresh fabric. If Jeanie looked at that in the right way, the dirt could be deemed a nice border lining the hem like grosgrain ribbon might. She’d decided to accept illusion over reality when it came to making their home.

  “What a load of horseshit. I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life.”

  But she did admire her handy work. The way the simple curtains brought their own light into the dark space as well as any candle, oil lamp or electricity like they’d had in Des Moines. It’s okay, she told herself. This was the place where she could marry prairie shanty squalor with society class then tell the world about it.

  “Haute Hovel,” Jeanie did a little jig, laughing at her joke, taken with the same force of hilarity that she’d been swept up in tears. “Yes, Haute Hovel. I can see the headlines now. ‘All it takes to transform your pile of shit into Haute Hovel are a few of Mrs. Arthur’s carefully placed designs.'”

  She spun around the space then shook her head as she assessed the next job to tackle. If her old friends in Des Moines had swooned at the success of her writing and home-keeping prowess they would take to their graves over the unnamed, potential successes that lay right there in front of her. Written in the dirt.

  The next right thing. That was it! Jeanie automatically reached for the lost chatelaine then rummaged through one trunk finding paper and a pen. Right there, inspiration burst from her pores with the filthy sweat. At that moment it didn’t matter that Darlington Township may never be vibrant enough to support a newspaper or progressive enough to hire a woman writer. At that moment only the possibilities counted. With a glance at the notepaper, Jeanie’s hand flew across it. “One never knows the intangible ways a home-maker can influence her family simply by being capable. There is power in wielding the matters of ordinary life as though a tool. At some point, every homemaker will feel its glory, but to get there one must first do the next, right thing. That’s all life requires.”

  Jeanie tapped the paper with the pencil then dropped them into the book trunk. Yes, that was it. That was exactly what she needed to do. The next right thing.

  Jeanie sighed deeply, still lost in the insane laughter that kept ripping through her. She stretched and touched the dirt ceiling. Dirt rained from above, tickling her scalp. She shuddered telling herself never to touch the filthy ceiling if she wanted to ever be clean at all. More dirt sprinkled over her scalp and shoulders. She looked up. Fine dirt filled her eyes and mouth. Chunks of earth followed as she squinted away, shaking her head, spitting and choking. She swiped at her eyes, hacking with cough.

  Hands on knees, Jeanie’s coughs cleared her throat of its dirty film.

  Positioned there, breathing heavy, something like a bundle of rope fell onto her back. She shot to standi
ng and turned. Through tearing eyes she saw two snakes wrapped around each other as though trying to untangle themselves, but not able to do so. She hugged herself and backed toward the curtained off section of the room, fighting her dirt-filled eyes from closing. The frantic sound of their rattles was matched by her staccato breath.

  The sight of them tangling themselves around each other, as confused as she was nearly made her pass out.

  All at once they unleashed themselves from each other and coiled, staring at her, heads bobbing. Jeanie had no way of knowing where everyone was and when they’d be back to help her. All she knew was as frightened as she felt, there was no way she’d wait. She wiped her tearing eyes with the backs of her hands.

  She reached below her and lifted the book-trunk lid and pulled out the one on the top, closest to her. She lobbed A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream. It landed in front of the pair, causing a swell of dirt that did not hide the snakes’ offense at being confronted. Jeanie could not afford to be bitten. Though death would end her problems, she couldn’t bear leaving her children behind. The snakes were peeved, hissing and rattling, but not scared.

  Next, Jeanie pulled An American Family in Paris from the trunk. She swallowed and chucked it. The burst of dirt from its landing nearly on their faces followed by their angry hisses ignited a series of chills through her body. Third, her own book—a collection of her columns—Living the Gracious Way. It landed in front of the snakes causing them to bob and spit at her.

  Jeanie needed a stick, something to coax them out. Inside the curtained off section was the broom. She grabbed it and held the bristle end first, trying to move them out, but they just wrapped themselves around the broom and headed upward toward her hands. With that, she tossed the broom to the side and dashed out, drowning in chilly fear. Outside under the naked sun, she shivered as the rays warmed her sweaty body.

  “Hey mom, everyone’s on the way!” Tommy’s muffled voice came from above the dugout.

  “Oh, Tommy!” Jeanie said. “Thank sweet heaven, you’re back! You’re safe! I’m just about—” Jeanie ran over the side of the dugout to its top toward her boy.

  “We’re going to have a party. Father says it’ll be just like back home,” Tommy said. He was only ten, but he was particularly incapable of using his manners or noticing when he should be asking a question instead of rattling off his own agenda.

  When she reached the top, Tommy had already fled back into the grasses, hollering at no one and playing a solitary game of cowboys and Indians. Frank must be nearby. He couldn’t have let Tommy just wander over the plains. She was eager to see all her children familiar with the land, too, but this was extreme. Where was he?

  Jeanie moved slowly across the top of the dugout, kicking at the grass with the toe of her boot here, then the heel there, searching for a weakness in the sod where the snakes might have burrowed into what she was forced to think of as her roof. She couldn’t see anything besides the very tip of the stovepipe.

  It was covered with crosshatched metal fixture that allowed the smoke out, but should have kept critters from getting in. Jeanie bent over it, peering into it, wondering if snakes could make themselves the size of pencils to gain access through things like that. Clearly, there were holes somewhere. James came up behind her and put his arm around her shoulders. “What’s the matter, Mama? You look spooked. You should sit.”

  Jeanie straightened and smiled at James’ concern and cradled his cheek in her hand for a moment before adjusting his hat. She’d never been an overly affectionate mother. She hadn’t realized that until the past few days, when she couldn’t keep from touching her children, their faces, arms, hugging them, smelling them, causing them to draw back before submitting to the extra affection. It was as though losing so much of their lives illuminated the only things that were still there—the living, breathing human beings she should have been more drawn to in the first place.

  “James. Get the second wagon sheet from the floorboards. And the hoe. That should do it,” Jeanie said.

  James’ eyes widened then squinted. “What’s going on, Mama?”

  “Snakes. They have some of the rattler variety in the house or whatever that thing we’re standing on is and as much as I attempt to support your father and all his endeavors, I will not share space with snakes. So, after I kill the two in the dugout, we’re going to line the ceiling with the wagon sheet so they can’t enter by way of dropping in like packages of explosives, scaring the life out of your mother.”

  “Mama, it’s okay. It’s—”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “He’s on his way. Said he’d help the Misses Lutie and Ruthie Moore with their chores so they can come to dinner. They don’t have men folk with them. Except for Mr. Templeton. Apparently he’s taken an interest in one of them, visiting sometimes, but neither show interest in him. Much as I could tell. They didn’t even look at him. Or as Father said, they don’t show interest in a man on account of them wanting to prove up their homesteads before getting married. So the land’s in their names, not some man’s.”

  Jeanie stopped looking for snakes. Surprised not only by James’s unusual blathering, but by the content of his news. “Is that what your father reported to you? They want their own land?”

  “I heard the report right from the sisters Moore themselves. And Miss Lutie is a divorcee.”

  “A divorcee? That can’t be right.”

  “A divorcee, right.”

  “Stop saying that word. It’s awful.”

  “Miss Lutie Moore didn’t seem to think the word was awful. She near sang it out to the clouds, you know being a women’s rights advocate and all.”

  Jeanie grabbed at her throat that was tensing as her eyes watered.

  James stepped toward her and took her hand away from her throat. “Are you crying, Mama? What’s the matter? You don’t have to worry about Father helping the Moore women too often. They don’t want help from us men for the most part. They’re earnest about women’s rights. Suffrage and all it entails.”

  Jeanie wiped her face with her sleeve. “I’m not crying. It’s from the ceiling—the dirt—it fell into my eyes like salt from a shaker. I must look a terrible mess. You go on and get that wagon sheet and hoe.” She shooed him with her hand. James nodded and was down the hill and at the wagon, hauling out supplies so fast that until that moment she hadn’t realized exactly how close he was to being a man.

  “Women’s rights advocates,” she said. “Right here in Darlington Township. Imagine that.”

  “Ma? The snakes?”

  “Oh, yes of course.”

  Tommy barreled over the top of the house, slamming into James.

  “Cut it out, Tommy.” James swatted at his brother’s hat, knocking it off his head.

  “Can I help with the snakes?” Tommy grinned, his expression full of interest.

  “You’re too young,” James said heading down the side of the dugout.

  “Am not.” Tommy threw his arms around himself, mouth twisting in irritation. “Am I, Mama?”

  Jeanie took off Tommy’s hat, smoothed his hair back and studied his face. She lifted his chin. “Don’t go anywhere near that dugout door. Those snakes will kill you. Like the Shofeld boy last year. Remember that? The swelling, the death? Don’t go near it.”

  Tommy shook his head and Jeanie smoothed his hair back again. She didn’t want Tommy involved in the removal of snakes. Not because he would be frightened or any less capable than Jeanie herself, but Tommy moved like a tornado—plowing over this, plundering that, interested in the inner-workings of everything, so much so he preferred the insides of everything out.

  James shared Tommy’s curiosity for everything, but Jeanie couldn’t risk either one being bitten. Even in a land where children had adult responsibilities at times, Jeanie had to protect her boys. Not that she wanted to do this duty herself. But she had as much to learn as the children about being self-sufficient. Lack of money and service people taught you that lesson f
airly quick.

  “You can both watch from across the way. Thank goodness Katherine’s with your father. Be ready to move out of the way. This isn’t a game.”

  “We have rattlesnake antidote, right? We wouldn’t light out for the prairie without that, would we?”

  Jeanie stopped and sealed that thought in her mind. Be sure to find rattlesnake antidote. Where? Who knew? She wanted to be back in her family home, safe from beasts, feeling cool breezes lift errant hairs off her neck, while she wrote at her fine mahogany desk, hearing the children’s voices lift and fade through the open windows.

  “We’ll get some Tommy. We definitely will.”

  Jeanie stalked the door, taking a few practice swings with the hoe, cursing their situation, and her always missing-when-needed husband. Jeanie shivered despite the heat and wanted to run from the dugout and allow her nearly-a-man son James to stab and kill the rattlers, but she couldn’t do that. Two weeks before she would have paid the help to do such things, but now, it was she who had to grow up and take control of their life whether she wanted to or not.

  She took a deep breath and crept into the hovel, ears straining for the tell-tale rattle. Like a trained snakes-woman, if there were such a thing, Jeanie gritted her teeth and goaded the pair of snakes into a corner, then stabbed at them with cold, silent calculation Jeanie imagined only a person possessing great hate and a black, shallow soul could deliver. Somehow demure, ladylike Jeanie found that place inside her and made the most of it for the sake of her family.

  Once the snakes were dead and their exposed innards shoveled out with the tainted dirt that had been sullied under the carcasses, Jeanie came to the conclusion that laying a rug on the dirt might not be ideal. If they were going to slay intruders on a regular basis, it wouldn’t be long before a thick rug held the smells of death, defining the space as even more hellish than she cared to imagine.