Plain Language: A Novel - Couverture souple

Chapter One

The buckskin gelding pawed the ground and tossed his head back. Alfred urged him on, but the horse moved in quick side steps without going forward. The horse had an Indian background and a stolid temperament. It was not his nature to be nervous. But something was upsetting him.

Alfred looked out over the windy plains of eastern Colorado. Broad hillsides sloped into grassy bottoms dotted with spiny yucca, prickly cactus, and thistle. The land was barren of trees, except for the occasional gnarled scrub cedar clinging to a rocky bluff, or the scraggly cottonwoods that congregated near the creek beds. He saw nothing amiss. Closer in, Alfred checked the ground. No rattlers, gopher holes, or other dangers a sharp horse like Sage might detect.

Alfred clenched his jaw and heard a familiar crunch. Grit. What he didn't breathe in through his nose, he took in through his mouth. Grains of sand lodged in the crevices of his teeth. It was a condition of working on the dry, brittle land.

Six months earlier, when Alfred had bought the ranch, no one had put a name to the long dry spell. He had been living in Mexico for eight years and had read about Roosevelt and the hard times across the country. People had put a name to that: the Depression. What were the odds that, hard on the heels of massive unemployment, would come the misery of drought -- for that was the word everyone now used: drought.

The wind picked up, and the air took on a bilious yellow cast. Alfred had grown up on a ranch in the Rocky Mountains and was not yet familiar with weather patterns on this terrain. He had not yet learned to read the currents and eddies of dust, the way an experienced canoeist could read a river, could tell by the roar of the water, the height of the spume, and the churn of the foam, the exact degree of danger the rapids held.

Overhead, ducks dragged their purple shadows along the backs of the grasses. Sage whinnied and shied back.

"Come on, pal. Help me out here."

Alfred was not in the habit of talking to his horses. Sure, a word or two -- "Good boy," "Giddy-up," that kind of thing. Yet here he was, speaking in full sentences.

He didn't have time for a balky mount. He was losing patience. He thrust his heels into the horse's side, and Sage moved reluctantly forward.

Alfred needed to get home and clean house to prepare for the arrival of his bride. At that very moment, Virginia Mendenhall was on the train from Mexico. She would arrive in Denver the next day and they would get married at the Quaker meetinghouse. It was impulsive to bring Virginia to this desolate land. They were both older and had worked at other jobs -- he as an organizer for the YMCA in Mexico, she for the American Friends Service Committee, a Quaker organization based in Philadelphia. She knew nothing about ranching but was game to try. Her enthusiasm reassured him, though he knew, deep down, that she had no idea what she was getting into. If he had been more prudent, he would have waited to see if he could make a success of ranching before bringing her out. But he was not prudent. He was in love, and love and prudence were not compatible. So he abandoned the sense of responsibility that throughout life had been both his curse and his blessing, and asked her to marry him.

Alfred heard a sound like a freight train and looked behind him. A massive cloud rolled toward him, muddy tan at the top, black at the base. Before he knew it, the cloud caught up with him. The wind hit like a tornado, blowing dirt so violently he could not see beyond the brim of his hat.

A dust storm. Sage had known, had tried to warn him. Perhaps it was the static in the air, or some high-pitched signal, some disturbance in the natural order of things that his horse could pick up, while Alfred, with all his reasoning and intelligence, could not.

The cloud guzzled up the light. He could not see beyond the back of Sage's head. All he knew was that home was east, directly into the wind, and miles away. He pulled his bandanna over his nose and turned the horse in that direction.

The wind came at them with unrelenting fury. It stirred up particles and hurled them through the air with such force that they scoured his face. Dirt crept down his pants, like insects. Tumbleweed spinning crown to head flew at him from out of the darkness, grazed his face, then moved on. Sticks, gravel, and flying debris pelted him full force. The wind pushed his hat further onto his head, as if a giant hand were pressing against it. His thoughts were not for himself but for Sage. It was cruel to have an animal out in this.

His best bet would be to go to the old sod house. It had been left there by the original settler who had proved up the claim. The roof was caved in and the windows gone, but it huddled against a rise and would offer some protection from the storm.

He turned Sage around. Now the wind flogged their backs as they made their way toward shelter.

Suddenly something spooked Sage -- a darting animal or some wind-borne debris. The horse reared up and pranced backward. Alfred heard a crackling sound, like a rifle shot. The weight of the horse fell from beneath him. He jumped clear as the horse crashed to the ground. Alfred got up, but Sage didn't. Sides heaving, the horse kicked his feet and strained his head upward, to no avail. Alfred knew from the terrible sounds of pain that the animal was in trouble. He circled Sage and approached from the back so he could check for damage without getting kicked. Blinded by the dust, he felt the animal's lower pastern for the bone between the hoof and the fetlock. All he could feel was gelatin.

He had to act quickly, before he lost courage. The saddle pitched and yawed as the horse flailed about. Alfred had trouble unstrapping the rifle. When he finally had it in his hand, he came around in front of the horse and aimed between the eyes, getting up close so that he would not miss. Sage tossed his head, caught the barrel of the rifle, and sent it flying. Alfred groped in the dust until he felt cold metal. The better target was behind the ear, he decided. He changed position. The horse's anguished neighs lacerated Alfred's insides. His hand shook. He concentrated on steadying his hand. He cocked the rifle. It didn't catch. He tried again. No use. The thing was jammed. The dust had clogged the mechanism.

Alfred's stomach turned nut hard. The wind cuffed his ears and numbed his face, but not his heart. Working the ranch alone, Alfred had done about everything a man could do. But this was one chore he had not counted on. He thought of every way to get out of doing it. Perhaps he could go get help. Perhaps the horse could be saved. But as the wind screamed and the dust built up, he knew what he had known in his gut from the beginning. He had no choice. He was wasting time, trying to save himself from the unpleasant chore, thinking about himself and not Sage.

He pointed the rifle into the air and tried again, just to make sure. Nothing happened. He took off his bandanna. Should he tie it over Sage's nose or eyes? Nose, he decided, so that for the last few moments, the horse could breathe dust-free. Even this close, Alfred could not see Sage's eyes. For that he was grateful. It was because of his liquid, intelligent eyes that Alfred had selected Sage from the many wild horses that the trader Caruthers had for sale. He felt the plush warmth of Sage's nose against his palm.

He got out his knife and crouched behind the horse's head. His lips burned, and his skin felt cracked and abraded, like old shoe leather. For his own safety he could delay no longer. Before putting on his gloves, he gave Sage one last pat. Each moment was another moment the horse was in pain. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and pulled the blade across the horse's throat. The knife caught at first -- why hadn't he sharpened it more recently? He changed his grip and pulled harder. He felt the blade slide across. The neighing stopped. The legs went still. Sage's head flopped to the ground. Alone with the wind, Alfred backed away in horror and held up his palms to his face. This close, he could smell his gloves, which were darkened with blood. The wet fingers were a magnet for the dust. In disgust, he threw the gloves into the whirling dust. Then he flung the knife after them.

He turned into the wind and he headed toward home. His chaps scraped against the low-growing cactus and sagebrush. Without his bandanna, he had nothing to keep the dirt out of his face. Sludge coated his tongue. He spit out a wad of mud. Flying grit scratched his eyes. He lowered his face into the crook of his elbow to protect his eyes. Suddenly he thought: His eyes. I should have covered Sage's eyes.

As doubt set in, he began to lose his sense of direction. To get his bearings on the ranch, he depended on visual relationships, how one thing lined up with another -- that butte across from that gate, this hillock in relationship to that gully. But he could not see an arm's length in front of him. He was walking east, directly into the wind and in the direction of home. But suppose the wind had shifted, even slightly, so that he was actually walking southeast, into the vast open range? If a ship veered off course even a few degrees, it would miss an island.

Too much thinking interfered with his homing instincts -- whatever it was in man that told him where on the earth he was, which direction to go, and how to get home. Everything around him was the same. He could be walking in circles, for all he knew.

If something happened to Alfred, no one would miss him for days -- weeks, even -- except Virginia. And what would she think when he wasn't there to meet her at the train station? She knew no one in Colorado. She didn't even know where the ranch was. All she had was a rural-route address. The only other person who might miss him was the postman, who would notice the mail collecting in the box -- any letters Virginia had mailed from Mexico that would arrive after she did.

Up ahead he saw sparks traveling waist high, in succession, cutting their way horizontally through the dust. A trail of stars, each one fading before the next lit up. Was his mind turning feeble? As he got closer, he realized that he had reached a barbed-wire fence. The wind was so strong it generated electricity that jumped from one barb to another along the length of the wire.

A fence spitting stars. Its strange beauty calmed him. Cutting a wide berth, he followed the fence until he came to a gate. He climbed over the weathered plank boards to the road. He chose a direction -- left -- knowing he had a fifty-fifty chance of being right. Now he traveled by the feel of the ground beneath his feet, sensitive to any change in elevation. When he felt himself going down into the bar ditches, he regained the high ground. When he came upon the curved metal mailbox, he was home free. From here he knew the way by heart.

Without eating supper or taking a bath, he fell into bed. Tomorrow he would take care of everything. Tomorrow he would get married. Now, the only thing he sought was sleep.

* * *

Sleep did not come to Virginia until deep in the night, after the border crossing. She had passed most of the time in the tiny curtained sleeping compartment, listening to the rotation of the train's wheels, fast for long stretches, then slow, pulling her toward her new life. The future hung shining before her, without a hint that anything could tarnish it.

After a few short hours of rest, she freshened up as best she could in a bathroom that wasn't much bigger than a telephone booth. She wore her long blond hair the same way she had for the past ten years, up in a bun, which made her look a bit too severe, but it had the virtue of being a quick hairstyle. She had never been one to waste time in beauty parlors. As she wound the thin ponytail at the nape of her neck, the train lurched around a corner and she was thrown against the side of the lavatory. The hairpins in her mouth fell to the floor and scattered. She washed them off and started over, then pinched her cheeks and looked at herself in the saucer-sized mirror.

She was not a beauty -- her forehead was too high, her nose too big, her cheeks not defined. But she had a pleasant face. With a touch of mascara, a bit of red at the lips and some powder on her nose, it would even be a handsome face, but she had never gotten in the habit of putting on makeup, and when she did, she felt like a stranger to herself. So even today, on her wedding day, she wore none. But she felt beautiful and knew instinctively that her face had a special glow. Not even lack of sleep could keep loveliness from her face. Not today.

She found a seat on the train and gazed out over the flat New Mexican desert. Low scraggly bushes gave the terrain a nubby appearance. Adobe houses the same color as the earth fit against the hillside. Near the front of the car, several men read newspapers, and a mother tried to quiet her two small children. Cigar smoke wafted through the window from another car.

Virginia unfolded a handkerchief on her lap and got out a roll she had saved for breakfast. After she finished eating it, she carefully brushed the crumbs from the pleats of her purple crepe dress -- her best dress. Not new, but of solid quality. She could not afford a new dress for her wedding.

She thought of Alfred, dear, sweet Alfred, waiting for her at the station. Would she even recognize him? She pictured his strong jaw, his square chin, and his eyes, which were...which were...What color were they? She couldn't remember. This flustered her. She had only seen him twice in her life -- once eight years ago, in the Washington, D.C., train station, and once six months ago, in Mexico. After that, they had gotten to know each other through the mail. Over the months, the details of his face had blurred, and the only thing that stood out was the lightning-shaped scar that divided his forehead. Taut and shiny, the scar did not tan the color of the rest of his skin, and made his face look lopsided. But his eyes. She closed her own -- would he be able to say what color they were? -- and tried to picture his face.

She felt a stab of apprehension as it occurred to her that she did not know him at all. She had no idea what it would be like on the ranch, far from her family, who gave her strength; from Quaker meeting, which grounded her; and from the Quaker work that gave her life meaning. She was giving up everything she knew in order to go to a place she had never seen, to marry a man she had known for less than two days. The folly of it hit her with full force.

The apricot-colored desert jerked by the window in flits and flashes. The rocking of the train made her queasy. She began to question her judgment. A rancher's wife? She was afraid of horses and didn't know a thing about cattle. She was a complete greenhorn. And the thought kept returning to her: she did not know the color of his eyes. She was marrying a man and she didn't even know the color of his eyes.

She had first met Alfred in 1925. She was on her way to graduate school at Haverford, a Quaker college near Philadelphia. She had never traveled outside of North Carolina. Her father was worried about her long train ride alone, and he had come up with the idea that she should travel as a pregnant woman. No man, no matter how unsavory, would bother a pregnant woman, he had reasoned. Her mother had made a special pillow that Virginia fastened beneath her slip. The strings hung down against her bare skin and tickled her back.

During the intervening eight years, she had traveled frequently and had come to love tr...

Virginia Mendenhall, a Quaker from North Carolina, is thirty-three years old when she travels to the arid plains of eastern Colorado in the mid-1930s to marry Alfred Bowen, ten years her senior. They have met only twice and have come to love each other through letters. Now, on an isolated ranch in the Dust Bowl, they must adjust to the harsh ranching life and the dangers of an untamed landscape, as well as the differences between them.
With an extended drought worsening the impact of the Depression in the West, neighbors turn against neighbors, and secrets from Alfred and Virginia's pasts come back to haunt them. But it is the arrival of Virginia's troubled brother on the ranch that sets off a chain of events with life-and-death consequences for them all.
Plain Language is a beautifully told tale of a man and woman fighting against tremendous odds for their land -- and their love.