Wildwood Creek (3 page)

B
ONNIE
R
OSE
M
ARCH
1861

S
he’s crying, my Maggie May, and as I come ’cross the field, I know the cause of it. There can be a grown-up wickedness in children, though they’re yet small. It’s young Joseph Bonham, and he’s the worst of them. I’ve a notion to grab the little urchin up by the ear.

I can hear his words, even from a distance. It’s a special meanness he’s cooked up today. “You’ll be got by the Injuns ag’in,” he tells her. “You gonna go be a Injun ag’in, huh, squaw girl?”

She’s pressed close to the wall, Maggie May, her hands fast over her ears, trying not to hear it. She’s come to the headmaster’s garden to take cuttings of the Seven Sisters rose we brought from the plot where Ma and Da and baby Cormie were laid to rest. I should’ve known she wouldn’t leave without it. It’s all we have of them, and I should’ve thought of it myself, but there’s so much thinking to be done, my mind whirls like a wind ribbon on a stick.

“You’d best leave her be, young master Bonham,” I tell him, wishing I had my rule stick along. He’s a wicked boy and brash at only eleven years old, this one. It’ll lead him to
trouble one day, and more so with no ma or da to be lookin’ after him. “It’s a small man who profits himself from the trouble of others.” Bending close to him, I remind myself that he has no parents, save the ones who left him on the street to shift for himself. “You remember that, Joseph Bonham. Be a good man as you grow, not a small one. It’s a choice you’ll be makin’ in these next years.”

I turn away, and he skitters off. Maggie May’s still tucked against the wall, and I can see she’s cut her hands to ribbons on the thorns. “Heavens me, Maggie May. What’ve you done to yourself?”

She’s lookin’ down at the blood then, noticing it for the first time. She can take her mind so far away, to a hiding place where she feels not a thing. I wonder, will she always be living this way now, with only a small part of her touching the world?

“It’s time to be off,” I say, and there’s a rim of water ’round her green eyes. They float like clover in an ocean. Like Ireland, I think, but I don’t remember Ireland clearly, and Maggie remembers it not at all. “It’ll be well, Maggie May, you’ll see soon enough.”

I straighten her brown dress and dry her eyes, then clean her hands with the old linen from my pocket. It leaves behind the dust of chalk from a slate I’ve wiped while teaching lessons. I wonder what sort of students I’ll be finding in this new place. I’ll miss many of the little ones we leave behind—these so needful of love. I see their faces at the schoolhouse windows as I dip the cloth in the bucket by the gate and wrap the stems of the Seven Sisters.

I hold them so tightly the thorns come through as Maggie May and I cross the yard and offer our farewells, preparing to climb into the wagon with the good reverend. He’ll transport
us to the steamboat landin’, then carry back supplies for the mission school on the journey home.

I think of the wagon returning and us not in it, and my throat tightens, so it’s a labor even breathin’. The good reverend’s wife hugs me to her, and she’s the closest to a mother I’ve known these past four years, but still it’s difficult for me. I’ll not let myself be pulling away, but my mind has gone back to the noose again. I’m feeling it ’round my neck, a tightening strip of rawhide, and the only way to keep my breath is to match step with the Comanche pony on the far end of the strap. Once again, we’re to be dragged from home, Maggie and me, but we’ve no other choice. We must make a life, and with this conflict between the states growing, less coin comes to the mission school by the month. Only a matter of time remains before difficult decisions must be made. We’ll be two fewer mouths to feed.

The reverend’s wife presses the cameo locket into my palm, along with a ribbon to string it on. I must always wear something to cover the scars, but mostly until now, it’s been only a ribbon. “You poor, poor child. I wish I could give you more. It isn’t of any value to sell, but it has been blessed with prayer. My grandmother gave it to me when the reverend and I came to Texas.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” I wish there were the love in me that she’s owed in return, but there’s a part of me now that will always shy away from touching, I fear. It’s four years since the end of our shame, since we were ransomed from our ordeal, but that bit inside me is dead as ever. It feels nothin’ but the need to run to the farthest dark place and hide away. I’m supposing by now that won’t change.

I should return the locket to her, but I don’t. I hold it in my hand instead, clenching it close as I take the seat next to the reverend and we ride away. My hands close tight, one
filled with thorns, the other with the locket, both cutting into me in equal measure. All I can do is be still and let the miles pass . . . and try to keep breathin’.

In the wagon box Maggie May leans against our carpetbag and turns her eyes to the cloudless sky. I give her the rose cuttings by and by and tell her to tuck them away, and we’ll hope they make the journey. They seem such fragile things, but they’re strong enough to root in most any soil.

A horse whinnies in the field along the road, and Maggie May sits up to watch. They’re livery horses, I think, but I cannot say for certain. Bays, sorrels, roans, grays. At least a dozen. The good reverend’s wagon team snorts and quickens in reply. Maggie’s eyes are pleasured, and she braces her hands on the side of the wagon to lean out and watch. I know what thoughts circle ’round in her mind now. She’s remembering the horse herd in the Indian camp. So many you could scarce see clear across.

The woman who combed Maggie May’s hair, and oiled it with bear grease and dressed her in a hide frock soft as silk kept a bay mare for her. A gentle old nag with four white socks and a piebald face. The one thing Maggie May had always wanted. She had Da’s love for horses, though she could not remember the days back in Ireland, when there was a house and a stable and a field of horses to be sold in matched pairs for drivin’.

Maggie May could remember none of it. I could scarce call up those times myself, and even that was a blessin’. Far better to forget what’s gone and be looking instead at what the new day has to offer. Da once told me that very thing. Yet he yearned for the horses back in Ireland, all the same. It was clear in the way he watched fine buggy teams pass by or colts frolic in the pasture. Maggie May is more like him than she knows.

The horses in the Indian camp were rangy and small, and it was no accident that there was a little mare for Maggie to have. In the woman’s lodge was everything left behind by a child who’d been lost, a little one who must’ve been nearly Maggie’s own size. It was a blessing that Maggie was young and they took her in as their own. It saved her from sufferin’. But not so for me, at thirteen. If not for the pleading of Maggie May, they might’ve killed me altogether, over time. It might’ve been a kinder thing.

The livery horses run to the far side of the pasture, and I send the past off to the corner of my mind, likewise. Instead, I look at the sky and hope to see tomorrow in it as Da always taught us.
Look up, Bonnie Rose,
his husky voice whispers like music in my mind.
Look up and out. Tomorrow is comin’. Can you see it, girl?

I try to paint a vision as the miles plod by. Could a tomorrow of that sort truly come? One in which ten months of bondage on the prairie are no part of me, and my shame has been stripped away? Could there be such a home? Could it be Wildwood? The magical place in which Bonnie Rose O’Brien becomes only
Bonnie Rose
? No terrible past nippin’ blood-hungry at her heels? No tiny piece of her birthed on the prairie and ripped from her arms and took away, leaving her no means of knowing whether it lived or died. Could there be no further need of caring, because that past doesn’t exist any longer?

I ponder it until town is finally ahead, and with it the bustle of the riverboat landin’. For the first time since our ransoming, I no longer feel the leash of my tormentors. The noose is gone away, and I fill myself full of breath and imagine Wildwood.

A
LLIE
K
IRKLAND
M
ARCH
, P
RESENT
D
AY

L
ook at this thing! Isn’t it beautiful?” My excitement bubbled over, even as I tried to contain it. My new boss, Tova Kask, didn’t like excitement. I’d figured out that much in my first morning at work.

“I doubt costuming will use it,” she replied blandly, swooshing a dismissive backhand at the latest delivery, an antique treadle-style sewing machine intended for the wardrobe department. “Have the man put it in the corner of the stitching room . . . or in one of the fitting areas, out of the way.”

Costuming had been given several basement rooms for cast fittings, production, and storage of rented hats, shoes, and accessories. In the last few hours, I’d begun to learn the layout of the old theater—at least the parts we were using. Deliveries arrived via a subterranean loading dock, and my job as assistant to the production coordinator was to help Stevie, the downstairs production assistant, with shepherding arrivals to their destinations. Throughout the building, various departments were already at work on the setup of the pre-production facilities for costume designers, set designers,
sound, lighting, and location specialists, as well as countless other members of the team.

Meanwhile, cast interviews and detailed psych profiles continued upstairs. No small expense was being spared to ensure that the people selected for the show could actually bear up under the rigors of pioneer life. Kim was hopeful. So far, she’d made the cut.

“Well, I know how to operate this thing if they do use it. We had one in my grandmother’s shop.” I instantly felt like a moron. I’d just expressed affection for the machine Tova clearly didn’t approve of.

“Of course you do.” She turned back to her iPad, muttering, “Things would proceed far more smoothly if he would refrain from encumbering me with things I do
not
need.”

My skin went hot, and I had that old, familiar sick-stomach feeling that comes from knowing someone doesn’t like or want you. Inside, I was nine years old again, the third wheel in my mother’s new relationship with Lloyd and his teenage kids.

Pushing aside the inconvenient rush of insecurity, I focused on Tova’s last words:
if he would refrain from encumbering me with things . . .

Who was
he
, I wondered? Was
he
the explanation as to why, with my woeful lack of qualifications, I had been hired in the first place?

The question lingered through the rest of a very long workday. By 8:25 that night, I was sweaty and wild-haired, and I’d ruined a really cute new shirt that I thought would be adorable for work. Tomorrow, more casual clothes. There were a slew of tasks still to be done, including helping to organize Tova’s lair and setting things up in the costuming area, which looked like a massive job. While some departments had a partial crew already in place to accept the deliveries,
there was no one in costuming yet. I was supposed to do my best to arrange the layout of the workrooms and the fitting rooms, so I had harkened back to Grandma Rita’s shop. It wasn’t that hard to create a logical structure for the design, stitching, and fitting areas.

The place was shaping up, if I did say so myself, and so was Tova’s office area, which she had been absent from most of the day. I’d unpacked her boxes of folders, set up her computer equipment, tested printers, and put together office furniture and even gotten rid of the ugly plastic cafeteria chair. There was still much to be done, but at least the downstairs was greatly improved and now a workable space.

Tova found me cleaning up the last of the packing materials in her office when she came to dismiss me for the night. She stopped in the doorway long enough for a quick scan. I noted that her hair was still slicked into a perfect bun, her silk tank top was magically unwrinkled, and her linen skirt still hung smoothly from her hips.

I stepped back and waited for her to admire my hard work. I might’ve had my insecurities about a lot of areas of my life, but I was confident in my ability to organize. Hopefully, regardless of the circumstances of my coming onboard, Tova would now see that I really did know a few things, and what I didn’t know, I was willing to work hard to learn.

I threaded my arms behind my back, having that giddy feeling you get when you’ve just handed someone their Christmas gift and you’re waiting for the ribbons to be torn off. There were still crates to unpack, but this room looked 5,000 percent better than when she’d left it this morning.

“I suppose you will shape this up tomorrow.” She gave a dismissive wave, indicating . . . I knew not what. I had even collapsed and stacked the empty packing containers, rolled and folded the bubble wrap, and collected a bin full of recyclables.

Right now the place looked better than any of the departments I’d visited today. Upstairs, the Art Department was a zoo, and in the electrical rooms, the assistant to the gaffer was about to have a nervous breakdown. Because this production would be filmed in a re-created frontier far from civilization, the sound, lighting, and technical personnel had horrendous logistical challenges ahead of them. Between now and May, they had to come up with plans for placing and concealing hundreds of cameras, miles of fiber-optic cable, and a plethora of switches and audio devices, as well as the electrical network to run them.

Tova cocked an eyebrow, waiting for my response.

I forced out, “I thought you said to arrange the rooms down here? Maybe tomorrow you could show me how you want them to be?”

Her head twisted quickly to one side, giving her the countenance of a raptor catching sight of prey. Something primal inside me trembled. I sensed that I had come a little too close to being snippy. The smooth skin of her cheek twitched, and I realized that she was running her tongue along the inside her mouth, gathering the sour taste of restraint. There was something she wanted to say to me so badly right now, but once again, she couldn’t.

We were locked in a battle, and I didn’t even know why we were fighting. We were supposed to be on the same team.

“I have no time to worry about the rooms or shuttling deliveries to their proper departments. This is why I have
you
and Stevie, now
isn’t
it? As Stevie is in charge of the delivery area, I’ve left this
small
job of organizing the basement area in your hands. However, if this is
problematic
for you . . .”

“It’s not.” I backpedaled like a Tour de France contestant about to go over a cliff.

“Then I will see you tomorrow at the same time, won’t I?”

“I . . . umm . . . I have classes tomorrow morning.” I loathed saying it, and I’d been avoiding the issue all day. I’d applied for a position as a part-time student intern. We hadn’t really discussed that at either of our rushed ten-minute interviews, but surely she knew that I still had classes to finish this spring. The money from this summer job would be just enough to get me through another semester of school. I definitely couldn’t afford to forfeit the courses I’d already paid for this term.

“I see.” Again, she sucked in her cheeks, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Well then, I will see you at what time?”

I quickly calculated how many minutes it would take me to get from class to my car, down to the Berman Theater area, into the parking garage, and to the basement of the building, including the two-minute stop at the front security check, where I was required to have my purse searched for camera equipment and leave my cell phone in lockup. This place was like Fort Knox already. I could only imagine how it would be once the production actually started. “I can get here by 11:35. Maybe 11:38 if there’s traffic.”

Her lashes lowered, shaping her eyes into blue half moons. “Let’s hope there is no traffic.”

With that, my first day of work was over. I gathered my purse, reclaimed my cell phone from the guard at the front door, and limped out onto the street, gulping in fresh air like a tourist who’d been stuck in a high-rise elevator all day.

I hadn’t made it five steps when the phone rang. Kim was on the other end. She was talking before I could get the thing to my mouth and speak into it. “Oh my gosh, it’s about time you finally came out! I’ve been waiting forever. Did you see the cowboys?”

My mind stuttered slightly, processing the barrage of information. I was still mentally cycling and recycling the end of my day with Tova—rewriting it into a scene in which one
of two things happened. In the first scenario, Tova found the basement rooms acceptable and was impressed with all my hard work, as well as my resourcefulness. In the second scenario, Tova aired her complaints to
him
, whoever
he
was, and by tomorrow, I didn’t have a job.

“Allie, can you hear me?” Kim demanded. “My gosh, you look like a wreck. What did they do to you in there?”

My hand went to my hair. “What . . . Where are you?”

“I’m across the street. I was down this way anyhow, so I thought we could grab some dinner. I didn’t know you’d be in there until after eight o’clock, though. I was about to give up.”

I peered toward the little hole-in-the-wall Italian place nearby, and there she was, standing in the window waving wildly.

A rush of friend love filled me. Aside from Grandma Rita, there had never been anyone in my life who liked me just the way I was—quirks and all. Despite the lurking presence of Tova Kask, Kim and I were going to have the adventure of a lifetime this summer . . . if she landed a spot in the cast. I’d almost forgotten that today was her big day—the final decisions were being made. No wonder she’d been waiting for me to come out. She was probably about to explode.

When I stepped into the restaurant, she already had the waiter on his way over with a warmed-over half plate of spaghetti. She slid a Dr. Pepper across the table along with the Parmesan. “You’re lucky there’s any left. It’s really good, but I only ate half. I need to lose weight. Seriously.”

Dropping my backpack, I collapsed into the seat and grabbed a piece of garlic bread all in one motion. “Holy cow, I’m starving. I think I died an hour ago.” I stretched an arm across the table. “Pinch me so I can check, okay? I might be passed out in the theater basement, and this bread is nothing more than a really good dream.”

Kim swatted my hand away. “You’re so weird.”

“You don’t know what it’s like down there in the basement. You can’t
imagine
what it’s like.” I couldn’t wait to tell Kim all about my day, about the sound and lighting equipment being delivered, and the five-thread sergers for wardrobing and the old treadle machine that was just like Grandma Rita’s.

She grabbed a napkin and handed it to me. “Wipe that stuff off your chin. You look like old Tom Ball.” Tom Ball had owned the store next to Grandma Rita’s place. Nice guy, terrible table manners. All you had to do to find out the daily special at the café was take a look at Tom Ball’s shirt.

“Thanks a lot.” I laughed, the stress melting away.

Kim’s lips pursed and her nose crinkled. “So, aren’t you
ever
gonna ask if I got on the cast . . . or should I say . . . in what
way
I got on the cast?”

“Sorry. There’s no glucose left in my brain. So . . . wait . . . did you say . . . what . . . You’re in? They told you? Is it final?” Kim seemed mildly excited, but not ecstatic. I wondered what that meant. Maybe her friend with the connections hadn’t hooked her up as well as she’d hoped.

She released her hair from a binder clip, and golden strands cascaded to her shoulders. “Well, I didn’t get a named historical character, like I was hoping I would. I wanted to play somebody I could research and learn about. Someone who was in actual historical records of this mystery town they’re basing the show on. I was thinking that once they finally give us some details, I could dig around in the library, visit genealogy sites, learn about my person’s life. Really get into the character and become
her
.”

Now I was confused. “But if it’s all supposed to be historically accurate, how can they just add people?” More than once today I’d heard team members on the phone ranting about how the structures, props, and fabrics had to fit the
time period to the finest detail. Set design and costuming couldn’t use anything with synthetic fibers or press-bonded details, whether it would be visible on camera or not.

The research assistants were digging like crazy. Makeshift desks were already strewn with photographs featuring groups of men posed around old wagons, pictures of women in long gowns, an old tintype of immigrant masons building the high rock walls of a house, and a picture of a family standing beside an oxcart filled with belongings. I’d slowed down on my way through different rooms and looked at the photos, trying to imagine the everyday lives of those long-ago people.

“They explained it all.” Kim sighed. “It’s not like they can just pick up the Yellow Pages and
see
who was in the town. Records were sketchy back then, and in a boomtown, it was even more that way. A lot of folks came and went, and there’s no surviving record of them. We
know
they were there, because of the businesses in the community, but they don’t know exactly
who
the people were. You are looking at Bath and Laundry House Girl Number Three.”

“Oh, Kim, come on.” I almost choked on a sip of my soda. “This is supposed to be a semi-serious docudrama, not an episode of
Gunsmoke
. Did they hire Miss Kitty too?”

Kim blinked at me once, then again, then a third time—her attempt to convey that she did not appreciate my humor. “I wish I were kidding, but I’m not. Saloons, bathhouses, and laundries were part of the town. They liked me for the part because I look really young, and German. A lot of the girls in saloons and bathhouses back in those days were like thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old. Which makes me really sad, when I think about it. When girls got to be that age, if their families kicked them out or moved away or couldn’t provide for them anymore, the girls either got married or found some way to support themselves. They had to.”