Mattie Read online

  Mattie

  A novel of the frontier

  by

  Judy Alter

  Mattie

  Judy Alter

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © Judy Alter 1988

  First published by Doubleday, New York, 1988

  .

  Other titles by Judy Alter available from Smashwords

  http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JudyAlter

  [email protected].

  http://www.blogspot.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  All of the characters in this book

  are fictitious, and any resemblance

  to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental

  Author’s Note

  Readers familiar with Nebraska history and the story of pioneer doctor Georgia Arbuckle-Fix will recognize some elements of her story in this novel. Dr. Arbuckle-Fix’s life and dedication did indeed inspire me to explore the personality of a woman who stayed on the prairie when easier ways of life offered themselves, but Mattie Armstrong is wholly imaginary and is intended in no way to reflect particular actions or beliefs of Dr. Arbuckle-Fix. All other characters are purely imaginary, and any resemblance to real individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my daughters

  Megan and Jordan

  Chapter One

  My mother was an unmarried mother, fallen woman, they called her back in Princeton, Missouri. They called her that and a lot worse names, most of which I didn’t understand at the time, thank goodness. It wasn’t just that Mama made one mistake—me—but I had a little brother, Will Henry, and neither of us had a father that we knew about. Will Henry was seven years younger than me, and you’d think I’d remember a man being around the house about that time to account for my brother’s appearance, but I didn’t. I used to wonder if Mama had somehow gotten caught in the great war just passed or if my father had fought in that war. For much of my growing-up years, Mama never told us if we had the same father or not. When either of us asked, Mama became flustered and impatient and usually just said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” There would be tears in her eyes that made me feel guilty and cruel, so I would abandon the subject.

  But Mama’s status caused both of us a lot of grief. I can still remember trips to the store for whatever small bit of staples Mama could afford. Other kids would tease, “Where’s your father?” “Ain’t you heard? She ain’t got none.” “You know what that makes her mama.” I never did learn to ignore those taunts. I’d turn bright red and feel myself tense up as I headed for home instead of completing my errand. Sometimes Mama sent me to collect ironing. Taking in ironing was one way she made a little money for us, and I can still see her heating that sad iron over the stove, then struggling to press its weight down just right on some sheer and wonderful dress that belonged to a rich lady in town.

  We lived in a two-room wooden shack, two rooms only because Mama hung a frayed blanket kind of in the middle to separate the cooking area from the sleeping area, and we three slept in the same bed, all the time until I left home at the age of fourteen. But that’s getting ahead of my story.

  Mama also took in sewing, and that’s how I met the Canary family. One day I had to go with Mama to fit a dress on Mary Jane, the daughter, who was just about my age. Will Henry was a toddler then, and Mama left him with someone else; heaven only knows at this point who it might have been. But she dressed me up the best she could, even ironing my patched cotton dress, and taking great care with her own appearance, wearing a worn flannel dress in subdued gray. She had cleverly redone it to hide the worst spots and had even added a small white ruffle at the neck. If you didn’t look too closely, she seemed as well dressed as the next grand lady.

  “Least the patches are neat, Mattie. We want them to know that I sew a fine seam and that I have some taste in clothes, don’t we?”

  “Yes, Mama.” I was always ready to agree with her when Mama was happy, like she was that day.

  “La, child, this may be the beginning of a better life for us. The Canarys may take a liking to my work and maybe to you, and that would . . . well, it might make things easier.” She laughed and tied her bonnet in a flourishing bow. Being less than ten, I believed Mama that it could all be true. I hadn’t yet learned to be skeptical about Mama’s new beginnings and search for my own.

  We were both in high spirits as we set out. Mama was still a beautiful woman, with pale brown hair and high cheekbones that maybe came from a not too remote Indian ancestor, but she was beginning already to look tired and worn out. I guess she must have been near thirty then. Still, tired or not, she drew looks as we walked down the dirt road and crossed the tracks to the “right” side of town.

  On the other hand, I must have resembled my unknown father, or at the least that Indian ancestor, for I had none of Mama’s prettiness. Tall for my age and skinny, I was an awkward, angular child with coarse dark hair which I wore pulled back so that it emphasized my high cheekbones and dark eyes. I used to dream about that unknown Indian in the family background and imagine that my Indian looks were mysterious.

  Little kids didn’t tease me when I was with Mama, but they were only slightly more discreet about their curiosity. I saw them pointing and staring, but there was no way I could run and hide, so I marched right along beside Mama, wishing the earth would open and swallow me.

  “Isn’t it a grand day, Mattie?”

  “Yes, Mama, it sure is.”

  “What would you most like to do today?”

  “Well, maybe mend that doll of mine . . .”

  “Oh, fiddle, Mattie, let your imagination go. Choose something that we probably can’t do.”

  I didn’t hesitate at all. “I’d like to hitch up a horse and buggy and leave here . . . forever!”

  Mama looked alarmed. “Mattie, why? This is our home now.”

  “Now? Wasn’t it always?”

  “Ever since you can remember, baby. But not always for me.” She had a wistful look on her face, and I wondered again about Mama, where she had come from, who her own mama was and all those questions she never would answer. In a way, I was cut off from my own roots, for we had no relatives in Princeton, Missouri, not even any friends. Somewhere, I guessed, Mama had a family, but there was no contact between them, and if it bothered Mama, she rarely let on.

  Because of the lilt in her voice and her genteel ways, I thought Mama came from the South, and that made me think of the war again. “Mama,” I asked hesitantly, “where are . . . well, where did you come from?”

  “Not here, child,” she said, laughing, “certainly not here. But it was a long way away and a long time ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I could guess that Mama’s family must have been pretty rich, because my own piddling amount of schooling by then had shown me that Mama had had a lot of education. She had one or two books—a copy of Shakespeare and some books of poems that she read aloud to me sometimes. Mostly then, I didn’t understand them, but I listened because it seemed important to Mama and seemed somehow to calm and soothe her to read those big words about things that were beyond me. I was, you might say, a tractable child.

  And somewhere Mama surely had learned to sew a fine seam. Her handwork was as neat and tiny as any I’ve seen to this day, and she had an eye for good lace, fine materials and well-cut dresses.

  That, of course, w
as what had brought us out that day. We arrived at the Canary home, which looked like a mansion to me, big and white and neat and clean, with blooming flowers in the front and a white picket fence, freshly painted all the way around. It was a two-story house with a gabled roof, lots of windows and even a balcony with a railing below and gingerbread decoration at the top. From outside, you could see heavy drapes pulled back for the day at every window.

  “Golly gee Ned!” I exclaimed as we started up the brick walk to the dark wood front door with its huge brass knocker.

  “Mattie, hush. Try to act like you go in houses every day that are just like this or maybe even grander.”

  “But I don’t,” I protested. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” Of course, I had seen big houses, this very one, on my one or two ventures into the other side of town. But I didn’t take exploratory trips very often because of all the teasing. And I never, ever thought I would go into a house like that. I remember today, clear as ever, that awestruck feeling, like my stomach was going to fall right down to my toes or else come up through my throat.

  Mama acted like she’d been in houses like this all her life, and maybe she had. “Mrs. Canary? I’ve come to fit dresses for Mary Jane.”

  The Canary family may have felt they were the grandest folk in Princeton, but nobody there had a maid, and Mrs. Canary opened the door herself. Years later I wished, nastily, that the lady could have known how far from being grand she really was. Somehow, living in places like Missouri and Nebraska, some of us got notions of grandness that were out of kilter with the rest of the world. We accepted as grand things that were really mighty small, like fine furniture and big houses. Yet there’s another kind of grand out here . . . But back to Mary Jane.

  Mrs. Canary let us into a fair-sized entry hall, with a straight staircase carpeted in red. By peeking, I could see a parlor to one side of the hall and a dining room to the other. The furniture all looked new—velvet, I suppose—and everything was very neat, like nobody lived there. The tabletops were marble and bare, except for one gilt-framed photograph, presumably Mr. and Mrs. Canary as newlyweds. The sofas and chairs had wood trim and looked awfully uncomfortable. There were antimacassars everywhere and a flowered carpet on the floor. I thought a minute about our crowded shack, with Mama’s sewing flung here and there, and my pitiful doll, with which I was now too big to play but which still sat on the bed each day. The Canary house made me cold inside.

  Mary Jane hung over the railing at the top of the stairs, smiling like a cherub and wearing a blue satin dress with a huge white collar, her blond hair done in sausage curls. I was acutely aware of my patched cotton and tried to avoid looking at her, but as soon as Mama turned her back, Mary Jane stuck her tongue out at me. I would never have been brave enough to do that.

  Mama saw the tongue, though, and reached out for my hand, holding it tight and smiling at Mrs. Canary, who led us upstairs to what she called the sewing room. I couldn’t see that anybody did much sewing there, except maybe for the pincushion with a few needles in it and some spools of thread next to it.

  Mama got right to work, measuring Mary Jane, who stood like she thought she was some kind of princess, smiling down at her servants from the footstool on which she stood. I longed to kick the stool out from under her, but I pretended to busy myself looking out the window.

  “I wouldn’t want the dress too long, Mrs. . . .”

  “Armstrong,” Mama supplied calmly. “Of course not. A girl her age doesn’t need a long dress, do you, Mary Jane?”

  Mary Jane disagreed. “I won’t dress like a baby. I need my dresses lots longer than this one you made me wear today.”

  “Mary Jane . . .”

  “I will not!”

  “Very well, dear. Mrs. Armstrong . . .” She hesitated again, as though it stuck in her throat to call Mama “Mrs.” “We’ll let her have her way.”

  I had a sneaking suspicion Mary Jane always got her way, and years later I remembered that scene and thought probably all her troubles started right there.

  Mama finished measuring and helped Mary Jane down from the stool, then asked Mrs. Canary for the fabric she wanted used, and they busied themselves in a corner, looking at material and discussing the best way to cut it. Mary Jane sidled over to me to whisper, “I don’t like having a bastard in my house.”

  Fortunately, I didn’t know what the word meant, but I knew well enough that I had been insulted, and pretty royally, too. If it were today, there are lots of things I would have done, but I just stood there, studying the flower in the carpet at my toes, and muttered, “I don’t like being here either.” I really think Mary Jane considered kicking me—she turned to see if her mother was looking—but I moved away before she could turn back.

  I told Mama what she’d said on the way home, and Mama was indignant. “Why, that awful girl! I’ll never sew another stitch for her, not ever!”

  “What does bastard mean, Mama?”

  “Never you mind. It’s just not a nice thing to call a person.”

  I had guessed by then. It had something to do with all those questions about where my father was, questions Mama wouldn’t answer. And now she wouldn’t explain the word to me.

  Of course, Mama did sew for Mary Jane, made her a bunch of dresses, but it never turned out to be the new beginning she expected. The Canarys were miserly about paying and picky about the work she did, not that Mama’s work was imperfect. But they would change their minds about a sleeve or a collar after Mama got a dress made, and then they’d claim it was all her fault. Mama never said anything, for we needed the little money they paid, but I felt sorry for her that the relationship didn’t turn out like she envisioned. We were never invited to tea.

  Things went on without any big change for quite a while after Mama started sewing for the Canarys. Will Henry grew bigger all the time, and pretty soon he had to endure school with me. Teasing never did seem to bother him like it did me, and I often thought he just wasn’t bright enough to understand what other kids were saying. He seemed to take it all as a compliment.

  “They like me at school, Mattie, they really do.”

  “That’s good, Will Henry. How do you know?”

  “Oh, they laugh with me all the time and call things to me.”

  I loved that little boy, and it made me sad to hear his story. At least, I guessed it was better if it didn’t make him sad. But every time something like that happened, either to him or to me, I resolved that I would get even when I grew up. Course, I never did, but timid child that I was, revenge burned pure in my heart, and I hated.

  I never did know if Mama got teased or anything because she never talked about it and always acted like she was the grandest lady in town. Some days Mama didn’t feel too good and spent the day in bed. Those were the days I would run errands for people, fetching a bag of sugar from the store or taking a notice to the weekly journal office, all to earn a little money for us. Some days I had to skip school between trying to grab a few pennies and taking care of Mama, but I usually kept up in my schoolwork.

  You see, Mama’s next new beginning was a real bad one. By the time I was twelve or so, I was aware that she was tired a lot. She not only had to rest much of the time, but she looked tired, with great dark circles under her eyes. And her cheeks were the brightest pink I’d ever seen. Sometimes she’d be burning up with fever, and I’d sit and wipe her forehead with a wet cloth.

  Once when I was sitting with her, I remember asking quite clearly, “Mama, tell me about my father.”

  She was tired and the question made her cross. “Why, Mattie? He’s no one you’ll ever know.”

  “But can’t I know about him?”

  “It wouldn’t make you proud,” she said, turning away with a tear. To this day, I wonder if maybe she married a Northern sympathizer who moved her to Missouri, left to find his fortune out West and only came back long enough to father Will Henry. It was another of my fantasies, but a less appealing one than some others. I never asked
Mama about it again.

  I was getting a little tougher. I didn’t run for home anymore when I was teased, and I didn’t turn red in the face. But I hadn’t yet gotten to the point of talking back, which, in my ignorance, I thought would be the pinnacle of growth. There was one boy, Tommy Hawkes, who was particularly mean and even threw a rotten apple at me one day. I used to think it would be the greatest satisfaction in the world to rub his face in the mud. I don’t know, maybe it would have been, but I never did get the chance. And I was still vaguely ashamed of something about Mama that I didn’t completely understand but that I knew had to do with me and Will Henry and that Northern soldier of my fantasy.

  Mr. Reeves came into our lives about that time. He was a big, handsome, happy man, the first man I had ever had a chance to be around or know well, mind you, and it was a new experience for me. I was tongue-tied most of the time.

  “Well, Mattie, what’s new today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, now. Did you go to school?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not? Every girl your age needs to be in school.” His huge hands clasped together, he announced this solemnly.

  “Mama didn’t feel too well, and I had to do some errands.”

  His face was real serious. “I know your mama’s not feeling well. We’re going to have to do something about that.”

  I don’t know where Mama found Mr. Reeves. He was a drummer, as they called salesmen back then, and he sold all kinds of kitchen products to every small town in northern Missouri. But he had been a farmer and a river boatman and all kinds of things, and I began to suspect there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He was a big man, and from those days, I remember most his wide grin. When his sales brought him to Princeton, which seemed to be more and more often, he spent his time with us, and under his hand our little shack began to be sturdier and to look a little better. He nailed up loose boards, chinked in spaces where the cold wind whistled in winter, and nearly rebuilt the tiny front stoop, part of which was rotting away. He brought fabric for Mama to make new and bright curtains, and he filled our kitchen with more pots and pans than we could ever have food to fill.