bare windowsills. "No
goddamned windows!" Baby was shouting, on her feet now, pacing
back and forth, one arm holding the child on her hip. "No
goddamned windows and no goddamned people!"
Tears were running down her
cheeks, and she wiped at them angrily, leaving dirty smears in which
more tears left pale tracks. "And you think I'm no goddamned
good!" she shouted at Amy Travers. "You come out here and
talk to me about bein' proud and bein' pure, and you actin' like you
care, but you don't mean none of it, do you?" As she turned her
face away from Miss Travers, her eyes caught Sophie's, and suddenly
Baby seemed embarrassed by her outburst. "Now you won't come
back and see me, will you?" she said, wiping her face with the
back of her hand again.
Sophie did not know how to
answer, but she was saved from having to when Baby seemed to remember
something. A craftiness came into her eyes, and she looked more than
ever like a clever monkey, able to plot and devise, but unable to
simulate guilelessness. "You come back and we'll talk about
Helen," she said loudly to Sophie. She flashed a quick look at
Amy Travers, then turned back to Sophie. "You come back, and
we'll talk about my friend Helen."
- Chapter 8 -
As they drove away, Sophie
surveyed the Wilson homestead: two shacks and a sod hut, a grouping
made only a little less desolate by the nearby creek with cottonwoods
growing along it.
"What're the other two
buildings?" Sophie asked. "Not homes, surely. They're too
small."
"One's the soddie they
built when they first came out here. Then they put up the shack they
live in now right on the edge of their other parcel so they'd have
dwellings on both homesteads."
"That's the law?"
The schoolteacher nodded.
"They built the smaller shack just this spring for Baby to keep
a few chickens in. She kept them in the soddie for a while, but she
was always afraid somebody'd claim the soddie wasn't a dwelling if
they saw chickens scratching in it, so she hounded Zack until he
built the little shack."
They crossed the creek in
silence, and Sophie found herself studying Amy Travers' hands. They
were amazing really, especially considering that Miss Travers had
spent most of her life in this country. They didn't look like the
hands of a woman who could drive a buckboard, shoot a gun, kill a
rattler. Except for their size, they looked almost like a child's
hands, the nails neatly trimmed ovals, pink and pliable-looking, the
knuckles not protruding, but instead making a slight dimpling in the
soft flesh. The skin had a marblelike smoothness, but one knew the
slightest touch would make an indentation in the pillowy softness.
Sophie was reminded of a statue, The Rape of the Sabines, she thought
it was called. The ravisher is lifting his victim to carry her off,
and his fingers sink into the yielding flesh of her thigh.
The comparison increased an
uneasiness Sophie already felt , and for much of the ride back she
was silent, examining her feelings. But Baby's words nagged at the
back of her mind, so as the buckboard reached the outskirts of
Cheyenne, she spoke, "Was Helen a friend of Baby's?"
"No. She was only
trying to help her."
"But Baby implied they
were confidantes."
"They weren't."
"She said she knew
about something James had done to Helen."
Miss Travers looked at her
sharply. "That's impossible. She's lying. Just like she was
about Jenny in the cellar. I'm certain she makes her go down there
when she wants to entertain her men friends."
Sophie had trouble
believing that of Baby, but she didn't want to get distracted in
defense of her now. "Why would she make up something like that?
I'm sure that's what she said. That Helen told her about something
James had done to her."
"She's lying,"
Miss Travers nodded her head jerkily. "Yes, she's lying. You
don't know Baby well enough to judge what she's saying. And you don't
understand what's happening here. You've been gone too long."
There was no mistaking the
reproof in Miss
goddamned windows!" Baby was shouting, on her feet now, pacing
back and forth, one arm holding the child on her hip. "No
goddamned windows and no goddamned people!"
Tears were running down her
cheeks, and she wiped at them angrily, leaving dirty smears in which
more tears left pale tracks. "And you think I'm no goddamned
good!" she shouted at Amy Travers. "You come out here and
talk to me about bein' proud and bein' pure, and you actin' like you
care, but you don't mean none of it, do you?" As she turned her
face away from Miss Travers, her eyes caught Sophie's, and suddenly
Baby seemed embarrassed by her outburst. "Now you won't come
back and see me, will you?" she said, wiping her face with the
back of her hand again.
Sophie did not know how to
answer, but she was saved from having to when Baby seemed to remember
something. A craftiness came into her eyes, and she looked more than
ever like a clever monkey, able to plot and devise, but unable to
simulate guilelessness. "You come back and we'll talk about
Helen," she said loudly to Sophie. She flashed a quick look at
Amy Travers, then turned back to Sophie. "You come back, and
we'll talk about my friend Helen."
- Chapter 8 -
As they drove away, Sophie
surveyed the Wilson homestead: two shacks and a sod hut, a grouping
made only a little less desolate by the nearby creek with cottonwoods
growing along it.
"What're the other two
buildings?" Sophie asked. "Not homes, surely. They're too
small."
"One's the soddie they
built when they first came out here. Then they put up the shack they
live in now right on the edge of their other parcel so they'd have
dwellings on both homesteads."
"That's the law?"
The schoolteacher nodded.
"They built the smaller shack just this spring for Baby to keep
a few chickens in. She kept them in the soddie for a while, but she
was always afraid somebody'd claim the soddie wasn't a dwelling if
they saw chickens scratching in it, so she hounded Zack until he
built the little shack."
They crossed the creek in
silence, and Sophie found herself studying Amy Travers' hands. They
were amazing really, especially considering that Miss Travers had
spent most of her life in this country. They didn't look like the
hands of a woman who could drive a buckboard, shoot a gun, kill a
rattler. Except for their size, they looked almost like a child's
hands, the nails neatly trimmed ovals, pink and pliable-looking, the
knuckles not protruding, but instead making a slight dimpling in the
soft flesh. The skin had a marblelike smoothness, but one knew the
slightest touch would make an indentation in the pillowy softness.
Sophie was reminded of a statue, The Rape of the Sabines, she thought
it was called. The ravisher is lifting his victim to carry her off,
and his fingers sink into the yielding flesh of her thigh.
The comparison increased an
uneasiness Sophie already felt , and for much of the ride back she
was silent, examining her feelings. But Baby's words nagged at the
back of her mind, so as the buckboard reached the outskirts of
Cheyenne, she spoke, "Was Helen a friend of Baby's?"
"No. She was only
trying to help her."
"But Baby implied they
were confidantes."
"They weren't."
"She said she knew
about something James had done to Helen."
Miss Travers looked at her
sharply. "That's impossible. She's lying. Just like she was
about Jenny in the cellar. I'm certain she makes her go down there
when she wants to entertain her men friends."
Sophie had trouble
believing that of Baby, but she didn't want to get distracted in
defense of her now. "Why would she make up something like that?
I'm sure that's what she said. That Helen told her about something
James had done to her."
"She's lying,"
Miss Travers nodded her head jerkily. "Yes, she's lying. You
don't know Baby well enough to judge what she's saying. And you don't
understand what's happening here. You've been gone too long."
There was no mistaking the
reproof in Miss
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