Cattle Kate (5 page)

Chapter Five—My First Big Mistake

The first time he hit me came as a complete surprise.

“Will…iam…you're…dr…drunk,” I sputtered, like I was explaining it to myself as well as to him.

The punch had been so hard I reeled against the dinner table, lost my balance and ended up on the floor. I'd never been sprawled down here before and now I saw the crack under the door was more than I expected and I told myself, “Ellen, you need to get a bigger rag to keep out the skeeters,” and then I thought, “What kind of goose are you to be thinking of that at a time like this?” and I finally heard my husband screaming at me.

“Shut up, bitch, or I'll hit you again. Don't you ever talk back to me and don't you ever ask me my business. Do you hear me?”

For a second I was hoping this man just
looked
like my William and wasn't him at all, but it was just a second and that passed. He stood over me and I knew he was waiting for me to cry, but I wasn't givin' him any reward, so I just picked myself up and pretended to be tending to the rising Sunday bread.

William staggered off to the bedroom and I heard him flop on the straw mattress and it wasn't until I heard a snore that I let my tears come. Don't know if I was crying' from pain or shame, but I think it was both.

Nobody had ever struck me before—oh my Pa once, on my behind, when I was a little girl and had my joyride on Darby—but never in my twenty-two years had anyone struck me in anger and that's the worst kind of hit. And nobody—NObody—had ever spoken to me like that. I'm betting my Ma had never in all her years been called that name and I sure never thought I would be. It's not a word you use around decent folk.

Until that slap, I was a married woman nearing her third anniversary with a husband and a decent cabin on a claim near my folks' home place outside Lebanon, Kansas. For the most part, I was a happy woman with a cupboard full of canning from my garden and a barn full of wheat from a good harvest and a new quilt ready to piece. But that all changed the instant his fist hit me that October 23, 1882.

Oh, was he a sweetie when he woke up and smelled the roasting chicken. He was all lovey and kissy and he acted like it never happened and we were still the happy couple that got married on November 24, 1879, just before Thanksgiving. He was just like he was when he courted me, when I thought I was the happiest girl in all of Kansas.

I'm not saying there hadn't been problems in our marriage, but the problems we had were ones I could overlook or, after fuming for awhile, forget. As my Ma always said, “In a marriage, you've got to make the best of it.” And until that moment, I thought I was doing a pretty good job of living that advice.

The worst disappointment was the kind of thing a decent woman never discussed with anyone, so I always wondered if other women disliked how rough a man can be when he's claiming his husband rights. I don't know what I expected. Nobody ever explained anything. Ma just said to do what my husband wanted and to act like I enjoyed it. But I didn't enjoy it. Not from our wedding night when the sweet man who'd been courting me acted more like a routing pig. I guessed that was normal, because Ma said a man had needs we didn't understand. But our stolen kisses had been so sweet, and our secret hand-holding had been so tender, and I thought that was what the wedding bed would be like. I was so very disappointed. But I figured every woman had the same disappointment and, of course, I didn't complain. Besides, this is how we got babies and so I just closed my eyes and thought about the sweet children we'd have and hoped it would be over soon. But my time came every month and there was no baby. It became a monthly torture to get out the pail with the old rags that I'd need, and every one I washed was a stab to my soul that this was another month I wasn't growing a child.

William didn't like it either, and when he saw the rag pail, he'd turn away in disgust. Sometimes he'd yell over his shoulder, “Woman, we're gonna need children to help us with this farm,” as though I were deliberately not getting pregnant. Ma told me not to worry, but I knew she was wondering why I wasn't having my babies, especially because she was still having hers. My baby sister Jane came in October of 1880; beautiful Thomas in '82, and just holding them punched a hole in my heart.

And then there was the drinking. I didn't notice right away because, looking back, I don't think it was too bad at first. I never smelled a single spirit on William's breath the whole time we were courting. I knew the men were outside after the wedding having a nip or two—even Ma, who was as Dry as any woman in the country, turned her head at that, saying it was just for a celebration. I thought that would be the end of it.

Oh, I was so happy the next year when Governor St. John forced through a vote to prohibit alcohol. Kansas voters went along with him and we became the first state to go completely Dry. That wouldn't have happened if my William had his say. He talked against the vote day and night, said it wasn't right for a bunch of do-gooders to take away one of the few pleasures a working man had. But when I asked him if he was going to vote in the election, he said he was too busy for stuff like that.

Of course, this discussion only took place in our own home, because in my Ma's, the story was completely different. When she'd start in on how wonderful it would be for Kansas to go Dry and show the nation, William stayed silent. So did Pa, who couldn't vote anyway because he wasn't a citizen yet. I had to laugh the day Annie forced the issue and asked him, “Pa, if you could vote, how would you vote?”

Ma stopped drying the kettle, as Pa carefully said, not looking her way, “Why, Annie, of course I'd vote to go Dry. I bet the whole country will go Dry someday and, Mother, won't that be a happy moment?”

I saw her smile as she turned away because she knew he was only saying that to keep peace and she was smart enough to know that's not how Pa really felt. I bet she guessed that William lied about his support, too.

Of course, I overlooked his drunk when President Garfield got shot. I almost wanted a drink myself because he was shot on my twenty-first birthday. Ma always made a big deal of our birthdays—no matter what was going on, she made sure the day was celebrated somehow. We were lucky that July 2 in 1881 was on a Saturday, so after chores, we gathered at my folks' place for a nice supper. Little did we know that a horrible man who had been denied a job shot our president.

We got the word the next day—why does bad news always spread so fast while good news is still trying to get some attention? I cried to hear such an awful thing. William went off by himself and when he came home Sunday night, he reeked of liquor. But I took it for grieving. Everyone was grieving and maybe this was just the way my husband handled such bad news. Then he tied one on when President Garfield finally died on September 19. That was a Monday and we had just been in church the day before praying for him. Then that fast bad news came again and while I dropped all my Tuesday chores and went back to church with Ma, William went drinking somewhere and he was so drunk he stumbled into the house and into bed.

It's easy to explain away moments like that—far better than the dark thoughts that creep into your mind, so I overlooked it. I see now, looking back, that I was a scared girl whistling in the dark to pretend she was all right.

And then things got worse and worse and I couldn't believe this was the same William Pickell who had come around to help us build the soddie.

***

My brothers had started teasing me that very first day. “Ellen likes a pickle, yes she does, oh, she's so sweet for her pickle,” Andrew sang while his older brothers snickered.

“You shouldn't make fun of a man's name,” I shot back, but that didn't stop them.

“Ellen's in a pickle,” John would whisper when he went by me.

“What's Ellen's favorite drink?” James would yell out, like it was a real question and then he'd sing, “pickle juice.” Ma and Pa tried to hush them, too, but they were unmerciful.

William Pickell was a charming, good-looking man, I have to say that about him. He always wore his best manners when he was around my folks. He couldn't “yes ma'am” or “yes sir” enough and he wasn't pushy either (not like Mickey Larkin back in Ontario who must have thought I was desperate, because he came courting once and asked me to marry him, like I would marry a man so old and desperate himself).

William courted me for two years with buggy rides and polite conversation around our supper table. He told me about his dreams of a big family and those were the very words I was happy to hear. He had a nice spread not far away, with a three-room wooden house and a big barn. Nancy and Jessica figured he was the most eligible bachelor around. And I heard Mrs. Kline blessed our courting, like that was her right.

The first time William held me was when we lost Elizabeth. I cried into his shirt for a half hour, and he held me the whole time. Dear Elizabeth. The last of the triplets. We lost all three. All. Three. Ma and Pa were beyond consolation. Even the boys had the helpless look of grief, and I was certain my sisters would never get over this loss.

“Promise me, William, that when we have a girl, we'll name her Elizabeth for the angel that just went to heaven.” He promised.

I put her in the Bible with the other two, with a birthday of June 12, 1875. I wrote “died, 1878.”

William helped build the casket and dig the grave and he listened to all our stories about the dear child. He even rocked my little sisters, who were already seeing him as my man. That really tied him to my family, and that wasn't the only way.

To impress Ma, he went to Sunday services one time, but that backfired with Pa, because it gave Ma new ammunition to prod him in the same direction. He brought presents for my sisters—a piece of cloth for Franny, a hair ribbon for Annie, a rag doll for Mary. He let my brothers ride his fine horse and gave Pa a hand with breaking up the sod for our first crop. He gave me an embroidered handkerchief that had been his Ma's, and he never arrived without something for my Ma's kitchen.

“I have some fine corn this year,” he'd say, as he laid down a sack filled with sweet, juicy ears. “I have some extra sugar I don't need and thought you could use it.” Or, “I found an extra can of coffee and I'll never get to it.”

But the day he snagged my Ma's heart for good was the day he brought her something still rare in the West—a cat! It was just a kitten and Mary claimed it for her own immediately, but Ma saw it was the mouser she needed in the house and the barn and she even gave him a big hug for the extravagant gift.

He cemented my Pa's love when he offered leftover wood from his own cabin for our first real house in Kansas. Then he helped build the cabin that started out with five big rooms! Mrs. MacDonald said it was the finest first cabin she'd ever seen in these parts. And little Mary, who never did warm up to living “in the dirt” thought the man walked on water for helping us get a real home. She liked that even more than her rag doll.

Was it any wonder that every single member of my family agreed I had a great catch? I was so pleased my people liked him, because I liked him so. It was time for me to get hitched and start my own family and I'd finally found the right man.

I spent the last six months of courting making a fine wedding outfit.

I saw a dress I loved in the Monkey Ward catalog and of course, I couldn't afford a store-bought dress and there was no need for that since I know my way around a sewing machine like nobody's business. I'd been making my own clothes for a couple years now, and even made Pa a shirt one time (although my Ma is better at men's shirts than I could ever be). I made dresses for my sisters and aprons for presents and so it was nothing for me to look at a pretty dress in a catalog and make it up for myself.

My Ma's wedding present was a piece of blue satin for my dress. I draped it across the front of the skirt and gathered in the back to resemble a bustle—the first almost-bustle I ever wore. I embroidered the dark blue waistcoat, put lace at the sleeves and covered nineteen buttons for down the front. On my wedding day, I wore ear bobs, a locket, and a bracelet from Ma, with my two favorite rings on my right hand. William said someday he'd get me a wedding band for the left, but right then he thought that money would best be spent to get us started.

We were married on a cool November day, not cold, no snow yet. Ma cleared out the big room of our cabin and filled it with tables to sit his kin and mine and neighbors.

Ma and Mrs. MacDonald cooked for days and there were big platters of fried chicken and potato salad and corn mush and pickles, of course, since this had been a really good year for cucumbers and we had canned up jar after jar. Mrs. MacDonald made the most wonderful white cake—that was her wedding present to us—and everyone was thankful for that because there was nobody in Lebanon, Kansas, who could make a more tasty cake than Estelle MacDonald.

My sisters wore ribbons in their hair and I know I wasn't the only one who imagined how pretty little Elizabeth would have looked. Nancy and Jessica came in dresses they made special for the occasion, and Mrs. Kline came decked in a new hat with a giant feather—the men all snickered, but us women coveted that fancy hat. People came with best wishes and presents to help us get started. I got some beautiful linens and dish towels and seeds and a pretty pot to plant with flowers. Ma made me a lovely nightgown with lace at the collar.

Before I went outside where William and the judge were waiting, I told my Ma, “I hope William is as good to me as Pa is to you.” She hugged me real tight and whispered, “I hope so too.” This is the honest truth: I thought I was marrying a man like my Pa.

We rode to his cabin in his buggy at the end of a joyous day. Ma packed us a basket of leftovers so we could start out with food in the house. I carefully took off my precious wedding dress and put on the new nightgown from Ma. Out of nowhere, came this horrible noise of pots and pans being banged with spoons and sticks.