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“PRAISE FATHER, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.” The bellows in the pump organ wheezed as the congregation sat. Poor Miranda was silent throughout the singing while her sister and Katie joined in enthusiastically. I had a lot of sympathy for the way she was feeling. I was no opera singer, but I held my own in the school chorus. Unlike Kyle, who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Unlike Jason, whose rich baritone carried the harmony of the Doxology throughout the little church. So beautiful. Miranda gave me a mental squeeze to acknowledge my presence as we immersed ourselves in the warmth of his voice.
The new Methodist Episcopal Church was a sign of the civilizing of Laramie. A block away, the Catholics were erecting their church. The weather was cold, but the church was packed for the dedication this January morning. The service went on and on with some bishop or other having to preach after the preacher preached. We were packed onto the wooden bench so tightly that my elbow was securely tucked under Jason’s and I was certain I could hear his heart beating. Katie was on his other side and Theresa was next to me. Poor John Hamm stood in a corner in the back of the church. The church was anxious to convert the savages, but it wasn’t enthusiastic about worshipping with them. The fact that John could read and write better than most of the other members of the church did not help.
At long last, the service ended with the singing of “What a Friend” and we edged our way toward the door.
That was long.
“Yes, but for three hours we sat with our man touching us.”
I wanted to take his hand.
“Ramie! Not in public. What would people say?”
Sorry, Miranda. I’ll behave.
Still, I could feel her blush as she put her hand on his elbow. Katie took his other arm and Theresa followed behind next to John. Since there were five of us, no one was bothered with the fact that we were entertaining the gentlemen for Sunday dinner. We went to the rear of the store and mounted the stairs to the apartment above. While the menfolk built up the fire and sat in the chairs next to it, we women busied ourselves with the ham and sweet potato pie.
Jason sat at the head of our table. Katie and I sat on either side of him. Theresa sat more-or-less opposite Jason, but we had squeezed in another chair between her and Katie where John joined us. I was still fascinated with my comparably recent knowledge that Theresa was my ancestor. Pa had become his own ancestor when he rode in the body of Kyle Redtail and fell in love with my namesake. Here I was, just sitting at the dinner table with my four-times-great-grandmother who in this life was nearly three years younger than me.
She had just turned nineteen years old and was so beautiful it took my breath away. I wondered if my baby sister would turn out so lovely. Well, she had good genes.
“John Hamm does not sound like an Indian name,” Theresa said, focusing our attention on John.
“My Cheyenne name would be difficult for you to pronounce, Miss Theresa. Our names are often descriptive of us or of our dreams. It would be like calling you Golden Hair. The English make it easy on themselves by calling me John Hamm.”
“John is trying to help me build bridges between our people but it is a slow and painful process.”
“Nonetheless, I would like to know the true name of this Cheyenne brave,” Theresa said. “If that does not seem too forward of me, John,” she hastened to add.
“Vóhpo’häme,” the Indian said. Theresa tried to say it and giggled.
“What does it mean?”
“White Horse.”
“That is a much better name than John Hamm. With your permission, I shall call you White Horse. And you can call me Golden Hair forever.” Oh my. Miranda dropped her fork as I struggled to keep the flood of new information from spilling over into her. Our Family Bible. White Horse. I was looking at both my grandparents!
“What are you keeping from me?” Miranda demanded silently as we prepared for bed. Katie was brushing Miranda’s hair and pausing to kiss the top of her head every few strokes.
I can’t share this with you yet. I don’t know what it means or why I’m even here.
“Is my sister in danger from that Indian?”
No! Nothing like that. He would do anything to keep her safe.
“That is it, isn’t it? They are falling in love. How stupid and blind of me! This cannot continue. I will speak to her and ask Jason not to bring him back to our home.”
Miranda, friend. Please don’t do that. It would make no difference and would only drive a wedge between you. Please let it drop.
“How dare you even suggest such a thing?” Theresa screamed at her sister. “He is as fine a man as Jason Wardlaw.”
“He is a savage! How can you compare the two?” Of course, Miranda ignored my advice. I could have stepped in and made her say something else, but when I was gone she would just return to her ranting. Perhaps I could influence her gently.
“A savage? He went to Harvard College! He may be the best-educated man in Laramie. He has read more books than I have. More than you have.”
“But he is not ... like us,” Miranda insisted.
“I will not discuss this further, sister. This is my home. My store. I will invite whomever I please to share my dinner table.”
“I own...”
Miranda, let it drop for now. You are both speaking with your hearts, not your minds. Please, love. You are breaking my heart.
Miranda cut off what she was about to say and returned to the storeroom where she began unpacking a crate of China dishes. Dishes and glassware were a recent addition to the inventory of the newly renamed Sisters’ Mercantile.
“Who does she think she is? Claiming ownership! She inherited a derelict property in a god-forsaken town. I provided all the stock that has come in. I am as much an owner as she is. We agreed to change the name. Her home. Indeed!”
I am not sure why I am here. You certainly do not need me for conversation. You’re doing fine at talking to yourself.
“Demon Ramie, why can she not see what this will do to her. She would be forced out of town. They would never let him live here.”
Rowan
- 11.11.2021
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