By Cheryl McCreary
Copyright 1999
Buck looked around the room that him and Clara had shared all those years ago. Teaspoon had gone home. Isaac and Rachel had gone to sleep. Buck was to spend the night in the spare room. He and Clara had lived with Rachel once they got married. It was that or live at the hotel. Rachel wasn't about to let the young couple do that.
The room was still much as Buck had left it. Out of respect for the dead Rachel hadn't moved a thing. Walking through that door was like walking into the past. He felt like Clara was still there, still alive in that room. Buck glanced at the dresser. Clara's hairbrush still sat there where she always put it every night after she brushed her hair. Buck could see her sitting on the bed running the silver brush through her long blonde hair.
He picked up the picture frame of Clara and her father. He touched her face. He still missed her so much. He put down the picture. Her bible sat on the shelf. It had been passed down in her family for years. Buck opened the book to the first page. The members of her family for generations were all written there. The names of her grandparents, her parents, her brother who was killed in the war, her little sister who died as a child were all there. He touched her name, written in her mother's delicate handwriting. There was a small dot by all the names. It meant that the person was dead. Beside Clara's name she'd written his own. On that page they were forever married. Under that was Isaac's name. He had written it there before he left.
Buck closed the Bible. Put it back on the shelf where it belonged. He looked at the bed. The quilt on it had the marriage design on it. A friend of Clara's had given it to them as a wedding present. It was that bed that they had spent their first night together in. Wrapped in that quilt. He could feel her lips on his, her soft skin, her touch, her smell. Oh, how he missed her.
They had made Isaac together in that bed. He could see her before she died, before she gave birth to Isaac. He saw her face glowing with life. She patted her protruding belly. She had such dreams for their unborn child. If only she had known. What should have brought them both joy, brought her death and him sorrow. She had died on that bed before him. He closed his eyes. He could hear her blood cuddling screams of pain as she gave birth to their son. He heard the doctor tell him that she wouldn't live long. He saw her, weak and pale, cradling her newborn child in her arms. He wondered if Clara thought her life was worth her son's. Buck himself didn't know.
Buck remembered what Isaac had been like as a baby. He had been so light in his arms. His skin was as soft as clouds, his eyes slate blue, a faint black fuzz had covered his head. Buck had looked down into that face. It was innocent and fresh. He had wondered how such a small, sweet thing could have caused such harm to the world. His son's birth had caused his wife's death. That infant in his arms had ripped his world apart and slashed his heart in two.
Buck didn't hate his son. How could he. Isaac was all he had left. Everything else had been taken from him.
Buck looked around the room. He noticed that tears were streaking down his face. He couldn't stay there. He couldn't even touch the bed much less sleep in it. The spirit of Clara and the life they had shared haunted this room.
Buck opened the door and returned to the hallway. He noticed that the lights were out in Isaac and Rachel's rooms. He quietly went downstairs and left the house. He would spend the night under the stars. There no one haunted him. He walked across the dark yard and into the barn. His horse, Rolling Thunder, was there where Buck had left him earlier. Buck and Rolling Thunder had seen many battles. Rolling Thunder was a trusted mount. He was an Indian pony. He was large, his coat was white and sprinkled with red, his mane and tail were red, his eyes blue. No saddle graced his back. Buck strapped his bedroll to his back and mounted Rolling Thunder. Then he rode off into the night.
The next morning when Buck rode in from the plains Rachel said nothing. She didn't ask where he had spent the night. She didn't ask why. She let him eat in silence, as he desired. Buck was grateful for that. After breakfast Buck had walked to the cemetery. He saw Ike's grave. How he missed his best friend so much. He saw Noah's grave. Noah was a good man that deserved much more than the world gave him. He wished Noah could have seen the end of slavery. He knew that Noah had already seen it all from heaven.
Finally Buck stood before Clara's grave. He knelt by the head stone. Traced the words written in the stone with his hand. Clara Cross b. April 17, 1843 d. October 6, 1866 Devoted wife and mother. Tears flowed down Buck's face. He did nothing to stop them. He leaned his head so that it rested on the grave stone. "I miss you so much, Clara," he whispered softly.
Isaac stood outside the small cemetery fence. He watched his father cry at his mother's grave. Slowly he entered the cemetery and walked toward his father. Buck heard the light footsteps and did nothing about them. He knew who they belonged to.
Isaac stopped beside his father. He placed a small hand on Buck's shoulder. He looked down at his mother's grave. He had been here many times before with Rachel. They had brought flowers to the grave often, on mother's day, on Clara's birthday, on his birthday.
And they stayed like that for awhile. Buck crying at Clara's grave. Isaac standing beside him. Finally Isaac quietly spoke, "I'm sorry."
The words shocked Buck. They were not what he expected. He turned to look up at Isaac. "Why?" he asked. Isaac noticed the tears that ran down Buck's face. Buck noticed that although Isaac's eyes were filled with sadness there were no tears there.
"I'm sorry I took her from you." Isaac replied. Buck was still confused. Life took Clara from him not Isaac.
Seeing his father's confusion Isaac added, "If I hadn't been born she wouldn't have died. She'd still be alive and you'd be happy."
Buck knew that what Isaac said was the truth. But it was wrong. Certainly Isaac did not think that Buck, his own father, wished he had never been born. Buck, Isaac and Clara were just following the paths that life had given them. That was all.
Buck looked up Isaac, "No," he said. "What happened to Clara was her fate. There was nothing anyone could do about it."
"I'm so sorry father," Isaac said again and this time tears did fill those blue eyes.
Buck reached out his hand to Isaac. "Isaac, your mother gave her life for yours. She did it with love. And she didn't regret it." Buck was amazed by those words. But he knew they were the truth. Isaac's birth meant Clara's death. She would have done it over a thousand times. He knew how much she had loved Isaac when he was still that unborn child in her belly. She would have done anything for him. Giving her life so that Isaac could have one was a small sacrifice in terms of what she would have done for her child.
Isaac looked at Buck, tears flowing down his face. With one quick move Buck took Isaac into his arms. He held Isaac close. Tears flowed down both their faces. "Never be sorry Isaac." Buck whispered to his son to comfort him. "Life took Clara away from me not you."
They held each other for awhile and simply cried. But finally the embrace was ended. Buck wiped the tears off of Isaac's face. Then he stood back up. He looked down at Clara's grave once more. He then turned to leave the small cemetery, where so many of his friends already lay.
"Buck?" Isaac asked, making Buck turn and look at his son. "Will you tell me all about your life someday?"
Buck smiled. "Yes," he answered. Buck's soul had finally come home. Isaac soul would understand his, would know his, would love his. And Buck would tell all the joys and hopes and fears and pains of his life to his son. That was the way it was meant to be. "Yes, someday I will tell you everything," Buck answered.
Isaac looked up into the face of his father and noticed that tears still streaked his face. Noticed that Buck made no move to wipe them away. His father certainly was an odd man. He'd never met anyone like him before. Isaac knew that Buck was half Kiowa. He assumed it was his father's Kiowa heritage that made him different. His father understood this land better than any white man could, even Teaspoon. Isaac wished that some day he would also be able to understand the Kiowa blood that he possessed, the Kiowa blood that his father had given him.
On to Chapter Eight
