Sisters (5 page)

Ignoring her sister, Esther
made a sharp turn near the end of the block, reversing her direction.
As she passed Sophie, she spoke, "Your dress is very pretty."

Her words were quick and
shy, and so it took Sophie a minute to comprehend what she had said.
"So is yours," she called out. "At least the part that
shows!"

The girl looked back,
smiling, and Sophie waved, glad Esther seemed happy for a moment, but
still unsettled by her.

Sophie was almost to the
edge of town now--the Bellavance house was the last one on Ferguson
Street. And as she looked over the expanse of prairie, the setting
sun fell to just such a place in the sky that its rays suffused the
landscape with color: orange and gold and rose all at once, until the
sagebrush seemed to catch fire and the prairie to burn. The sky was
yellow and gold and pink and lavender, and set against it were the
clouds, dark purple now, edged with crimson red. Yes, Sophie thought,
yes. This is what I've needed. This immense space. This glorious sky.
She put everything else from her mind and watched until the colors
faded. Then she walked on, aware of an ease beginning within her.

The mood was broken
abruptly as she approached the gate to the Bellevance home and
suddenly had the eerie sensation of being observed. She looked back
down the street, and though she could see no one in the
fast-gathering darkness, the feeling persisted. In her shoulders, at
the base of her neck, was a tense uneasiness she couldn't ignore. It
was as though her senses were telling her of someone hidden who was
waiting for her to turn away so he could strike from behind. But
hidden where? She turned and looked up at the Bellavance house, a
round-shingled, two-story cottage set on a high foundation. The first
floor was all alight, and since the house was smaller than most on
Ferguson Street, she could have seen anyone watching her from inside.
And there was no one. She looked up at the second floor, and her eyes
fixed on a darkened window. Had there been a movement? She couldn't
be sure. The white curtains were still now, absolutely still.

Determined to shrug off her
uneasiness, she walked to the door and rang the bell. Paul Bellavance
opened it himself, smothering her in an embrace as soon as he saw
her. "Sophie, Sophie. It's been too long. I'm so glad you came."
He kissed her soundly, then held her at arm's length. "Ah,
Sophie, we're so proud of you. Here, let me have a look at you."

As he was surveying her,
she considered him, his shrewd and kindly brown eyes, his weathered
face, deeply furrowed and creased. He was a big man, an imposing
figure, especially now that his hair had whitened. His clothes were
not new, but they were well-cut, giving him an air of relaxed
prosperity. Paul had done well in Cheyenne, Sophie knew. His
mercantile company had grown with the town until it provided him a
comfortable income. But she doubted he had pushed matters beyond
that. He wouldn't have speculated in land or cattle, not because he
disapproved of it, but the rewards it might bring simply wouldn't, in
his eyes, justify the effort. "There's nothing I want I can't
buy now," she'd heard him saw when such a venture was proposed.
More than most men Sophie knew, Paul seemed guided by a concept of
sufficiency. The mercantile company was success enough for him; the
due paid him for being one of the territory's longest-term residents
was recognition enough. His easy, relaxed way had always made him
good company, and she realized she had missed him. "It has been
too long, Paul," she said. "Almost nine years. You could
come see me in New York, you know."

"Too many people,
Sophie. I'm too much a part of this land now, and I can't stand being
away. But come on, you don't want to talk to me, you want to see Joe.
Come on, I'll take you upstairs." He led her through an entrance
hall paneled in dark wood and up a carved walnut stairway.

"It's good of you to
make a place in your home for Joe," she said.

"James was going to
have him over there, but the children like to run and make noise..."

"Sally especially."

He smiled. "Besides,
Joe's like my family. I'm real honored to have him here."

They had reached a dark
upstairs hallway, and Paul put his hand on her arm, guiding her into
a low-ceilinged bedroom dimly lit by a wall sconce. A nurse was
sitting by the bed knitting black wool. When Paul spoke to her, she
gathered her things and left the room.

"He's so pale,"
Sophie said. "And he looks so small." Joe's eyes were
closed and he lay very still. She sat down in the nurse's chair
beside the bed. "It seems so odd to see him lying here. He could
do anything, that's how I always think of him. Anything he ever
tried."

"And according to some
of his stories, there's not a lot that he and my dad didn't try.
There were some wild times when the two of them were trapping in the
mountains."

"I got the tamer
stories, or at least tamer versions. I remember he liked to talk
about you and your dad building Fort Martin."

"That was one of his
favorites," Paul said with affection in his voice. "And he
liked to leave the idea the fort they built is the one that's there
now. Which is... well, shading the truth, let's say. After the Army
bought 'em out, a lot was added. I remember Joe and Dad even talked
the Army into adding a couple of rooms to the post trader's store for
them."

She looked up at him. "Your
father died not long after the solders came."

"Not long after. A
drunk Indian stole a cow, and a greenhorn soldier decided to make an
example of him. Ten men ended up dead, including my dad." He was
silent a moment, then continued, "The day we buried my father,
Joe came and said he wanted me to take his place. I was hardly more'n
a boy, and he took me right on, made me his partner just like my
dad'd been." Paul was quiet again; then he walked to the door.
"I'll leave now. If he wakes up... well, you know he can't talk.
Some sounds now and then, but nothing you can understand."

As Paul left, she looked at
Joe again. It was so hard to reconcile the way he was now with the
way he'd been. So small, he seemed so small, this man who'd loomed so
large when she was a child. Her mind went back to when she was nine
or ten, and she saw Joe standing over her as she tore open a parcel
he'd brought her from St. Louis. It had been wrapped in tissue and
bright ribbon, and inside was a pale-green frock with a checkerwork
trim of black velvet. She had gasped with delight at the sight of it.
It was prettier than anything she'd ever owned, lovelier than
anything she'd ever seen, and the next morning she put it on to wear
to school.

"I'm gonna save mine,"
Helen announced. For Joe had brought her a package too. "I'm
gonna put it away for something special."

But Sophie had worn hers,
running and playing in it on the way to school, loving the way the
delicate fabric swirled and billowed. She had been looking behind her
as she ran, watching the dress float behind her, when she tripped and
fell. The delicate material tore with a long and sickening sound.

She started to cry and
wouldn't get up, didn't want to see what she had done.

"Sophie, come on.
We'll be late. Sophie, you gotta get up."

But she wouldn't move. She
lay in the dust crying, the tears less mourning for the dress than
anger at herself. How could she have let such a thing happen? How
could she have been so careless?

Helen fetched Miss Travers,
and the schoolteacher lifted Sophie to her feet. "So that's the
fuss. It's ruined, isn't it."

It's not the dress, Sophie
wanted to protest. Not the dress at all. It's what I did to it, don't
you see? But she couldn't get the feelings into words; tears were all
she could manage.

"You stop that crying
right now, Sophie Talbot!" Miss Travers brushed angrily at the
torn skirt. "It's a sin, you caring so much for material
things."

But Miss Travers' orders
had little effect, and Sophie was still crying that night when Joe
came home. He saw the tears, heard about the dress, and understood
immediately. "Mad at yourself, are ya?" he said, picking
her up as though she weighed nothing at all. "You're not the
first person ever do somethin' like this, ya know. Why, I remember a
time at Rendezvous I lost nearly half my pelts, ten packs of 'em."
He went on to tell her how he'd been duped by an Arapaho; and there'd
been something about a wolf the Indian claimed was tame. Sophie
couldn't remember all the details, but she recalled the story had
ended with a midnight chase with Joe after the Indian, and the wolf--

A noise behind her broke
into her thoughts. Startled, she twisted around and saw that the door
to the bedroom had opened a crack. It was only the latch, she
thought. The latch must not have caught when Paul went out.

She turned back to the bed
and picked up Joe's hand. Scarred and gnarled as it was, she could
see in it the square and capable hands she remembered. He could do
anything: build a fort, fix a broken prairie schooner--he'd even
taught himself to read during one winter camp. In all his long life,
had there been anything he wanted to do he couldn't, any challenge he
had failed? She could think of none... except perhaps one. Herself,
or at least the girl she had been so long ago. It was about her
thirteenth year it had started, her refusal to recognize Joe's or
anyone else's authority. She had begun for the first time to
understand the power that lay in a pleasing face, a pleasing shape,
and she had been fascinated with its effects on the soldiers at Fort
Martin, intoxicated with the adventures it opened up.

One evening she had been
flirting with two young soldiers. Helen had been with her, but had
run home when Sophie agreed to go with the soldiers to their
quarters. It was a game to Sophie, with her controlling the players,
maneuvering them until they responded in ways she had planned. She
had known they would ask her to their quarters, and she thought she
could determine what would happen when they got there. And if she
couldn't?--she shrugged off the risk, ignoring everything but the
excitement of it. She had gone with the young men, there had been
much laughter, a few playful kisses--and then one of them backed her
into a corner. He kissed her roughly and pressed against her, hard
and insistent. She pushed him away, frightened now, feeling helpless,
out of control. He started back toward her, but at that moment Joe
appeared in the doorway. Helen must have told him where she was, and
he had come to get her.

"Get away. Get away
from her." Joe didn't shout, but his voice throbbed with rage.
The soldier backed away to stand by his friend, and both of them
watched Joe warily. They had the advantage of youth, but Joe's years
in the mountains had hardened him, toughened him, and they wouldn't
choose to fight.

Sophie moved toward Joe,
and she could feel his anger threatening to explode. But when she
reached him, touched him, he looked at her, and she saw an awareness
come into his eyes, almost as if he were seeing her for the first
time. His shoulders fell forward; the anger seemed to drain out of
him. "Let's go, Sophie," he said, and turning his back on
the men in the room, he took her away.

As they walked across the
parade grounds, his expression was troubled. "Fort Martin ain't
a good place for you now," he said finally. "I ain't here
much, and you don't pay your grandma no heed. It'd be better if you
went away for a spell." He told her he'd heard of a school from
another sutler. "He sends his girl there and it sounds real
fine, right near San Francisco and run by the nuns. If we can't find
some family goin' that way, I'll take you there myself."

Disbelieving, she had
stared at him, and what she saw shocked her and at the same time told
her he was serious. There were tears in his eyes, something she had
never seen before and had never expected to see. She looked at him
now, small and helpless on the bed, and she felt her own tears
rising.

Forcing herself to sit
upright, she glanced around the room. It was cozy and comfortable,
done in warm colors, a pleasing room except for one mawkish steel
engraving. From the wall opposite the bed, a Landseer stag stared
down with eyes which would have better suited a saint. Noble, gentle,
forgiving, they were not an animal's eyes at all.

Suddenly she felt the
prickling across the back of her shoulders again, knew with inner
certainty that someone was watching her. She tried to talk herself
out of it, telling herself it was nonsense; the only thing watching
her was that avuncular Landseer stag. But however much she protested,
she still knew someone was looking at her. They were outside the
door, watching her through the crack.

Gently she laid down Joe's
hand. Then she got up quickly and rushed to the door, pulling it open
in a single motion. An old woman was standing there, dressed all in
black, her eyes glaring and malevolent. Sophie felt confused,
disoriented, as though time and space were shifting and changing,
leaving her unmoored in a buzzing, rushing darkness. Her throat felt
constricted, but she must have cried out because there was the sound
of people running. The old woman rolled her eyes toward the noise and
disappeared into the hallway's darkness.

"Sophie? Sophie? What
happened, Sophie?" James was the first at her side.

"Somebody outside the
door. I was startled. Foolish of me."

"Outside the door? Who
was it?" Paul demanded.

"A woman, an old
woman. I know her, but I can't think..."

"Anna May, please go
see that Mother is in her room." It was Paul who spoke, looking
over his shoulder. then he turned back to Sophie. "It was my
mother. I'm sure it was. She's been living with us these past few
years, and she's old and sneaks up on people sometimes. Here, sit
down." He indicated a love seat in the hallway and turned on a
light. "You should sit down. You're pale."