Aabagail!" Sully cried out, sobbing. It was all too much for him, his dead baby in his arms, his hand holding his dead wife.
"Oh God, no." With one arm he tried to place his wife’s head in his lap. He smoothed her brow. "Abagail, my love, come back - you can’t leave me. I need you so much."
"Please?" he begged. "There’s so much we planned on doing. Abagail, I need you - there’s -" he broke off, sobbing.
Loren kept driving, his knuckles turning white from gripping the reins so hard.
Charlotte felt sick. First little Hannah, now Abagail, and she hadn’t been able to help either one. Strangely enough, now tears weren’t coming. She placed a hand on Loren’s shoulder.
"Loren, you can stop now."
He kept driving. "We gotta get to Denver," he mumbled. "Gotta get them to a doctor."
"We - - we don’t need a doctor - anymore," Charlotte said dumbly.
Loren crumpled before her eyes. "My baby girl, my only child, she’s gone!" The reins fell from his hands as he covered his face.
Charlotte left Sully in the back of the wagon as she jumped to the front to grab the reins before the horses ran off. She brought the wagon to a complete stop.
"Oh God, Charlotte!" Loren cried, leaning in towards her. She held him to her, his head resting on her shoulder. "I said she was dead to me. I didn’t mean it, Charlotte - What horrible things I said! And now she is…and I can’t take them back! Oh God!" he sobbed violently.
"Shh," she told him. "She knew you didn’t mean it, she knew you loved her. She knew the truth - she forgave you."
She looked back at Sully. He was bent over his wife, his baby still in his arms. Presently, he sat back up, and there was resolve on his face. He was no longer crying, though there were tear stains on his cheeks. He looked calm, way too calm.
"Sully?" she called back to him. He didn’t answer her. Instead, he kept staring down at his dead wife and child.
She didn’t say anything more after that.
They reached Denver the next morning - why they continued on their way, none of them knew. There was no need for a doctor anymore; no medicine would help.
Charlotte still hadn’t cried. She didn’t know why exactly, but to tell the truth, she was afraid to.
The look on Sully’s face scared her. He looked like a man gone mad. He had not spoken a word in the last 8 hours, whereas Loren had been pouring out his grief and remorse to her all night. She didn’t dare go near Sully. She was afraid to go near him.
They rode through the town aimlessly, Charlotte at the reins, before she turned to go home. It had all been a waste.
They made it back to Colorado Springs at nightfall. Still not a word from Sully. Arriving in town, Loren got out of the wagon. "Where are you going?" Charlotte called after him.
Sully looked but didn’t say a word.
"To get Jake," Loren said.
"No," said Sully, speaking for the first time.
They looked at him in surprise. "Sully?" asked Charlotte. "But he’s the undertaker."
"No, Sully said again. Loren began to protest, but his son-in-law just looked him squarely in the eye. "You handle the arrangements, I’ll prepare my wife and child."
Jake came around the corner anyway, and stopped when he saw the wagon, two dead bodies and three live ones. His jaw dropped open.
Sully picked his wife up and slung her over his shoulders, and carried Hannah in his arms.
"What do you think you're doing?!" came a shout from Loren. An icy stare from Sully shut him up.
Sully, holding his wife and baby, stalked off to the West. Charlotte got down off the wagon, leaving Loren and Jake standing there, and began walking East.
"Hey wait!" Jake called after her. "Your wagon! What about your wagon?"
Charlotte turned around and spoke coldly. "Burn it."
He lay them under an oak on the grass nearby the homestead. They looked so peaceful to him, so much like they were only sleeping together, and all he’d have to say was, "Wake up, my girls," and they would. But they wouldn’t. Not now, not ever.
Sully thought back over the losses in his life: of his father, William, whom he barely remembered, his mother Katherine, who had drowned herself in the Hudson River, of his brother Billy, who had been dragged to his death by a horse. Too many losses in one life time already - and now at 26 years old he had 2 more to add.
He turned and walked to the homestead. He felt nothing, as he kicked open the door and walked in. He felt nothing, as he kicked open the door and walked in. His eyes didn’t register anything, not the bloody bed, not the supper dishes still on the table, nothing. He walked over to the bureau and opened a drawer. It was where Abagail had kept the baby clothes she had been making. He pulled out a tiny white dress that was to have been the baby’s christening gown. He laid it across the back of the chair.
He opened another drawer, and this time took out Abagail’s Princess Polonaise dress, a lovely summer affair she had been so fond of but hadn’t been able to wear very much before she had gotten big with child. He took out the underskirt as well, and lay it on the dress over another chairback.
And then something within him snapped. He opened a third drawer, then slammed it shut. Then a 4th - SLAM!! He opened and slammed the drawers over and over, becoming more and more violent each time.
He finally went to the foot of the bed and dragged Abagail’s hope chest over to the bureau. He didn’t look inside - there wasn’t much in there yet - he already knew that- their life together had barely begun- but now he just needed to put all his memories away, to lock them up forever. He opened the trunk and opened the drawers, then began throwing in Abagail’s clothes. He next threw in the baby’s: the rompers, the booties, all of it. He looked around the house for something else to put away. On the mantle he saw it. The wedding picture. He picked it up and threw it in the trunk, then slammed the lid shut.
He finally took a good look at the room, though only part of it registered in his mind. It looked all the same to him. The same way it had been left. The supper dishes were still on the table, the bed - well, he didn’t look at the bed. If he had, it would have been a gruesome sight indeed. But his mind blocked that part of the room out. He picked up the two gowns and brought them outside. He would dress them out there. Never would they go back inside that house, the house where Abagail had spent her final hours in pain. "Oh God!" Sully thought. The pain she had borne!
He dressed his daughter first. She was as beautiful as her mother had been, her fair skin almost translucent, with dark brown fuzz of hair. He remembered looking into her deep brown eyes as he had held her when she died; they were the same as Abagail’s that always put him in a trance. The pure white gown he dressed her in proclaimed to all the world his baby’s innocence, a world she would never get to live in.
He turned his wife. He eyes were closed, and once more he thought she was only sleeping. He ran his fingers over the beautiful Polonaise dress. A birthday gift, and now a funeral outfit. How ironic, he thought wryly.
He looked his wife over. Her face, ever beautiful, was still so, no line marking it. He drew his fingers over her arms, feeling their softness.
He looked down at her legs.
The beauty stopped there. Her skirts, soaked in blood, were dried and stuck stiffly together. They brought all the pain back, shocking him out of his numbed state.
He gave an animal-like cry.
"Why?!" he begged himself, he begged God. His Abagail, a woman who had hurt no one in her short life. Why had she been taken? And why his baby girl - she hadn’t had a chance. "Why not me?!" he screamed. But nobody answered.
He let out the breath he’d been unaware he was holding. Walking into the homestead, he took a basin and filled it with water, then brought it and several rags outside with him.
He took his knife out of his sheath and cut away her skirts, exposing her to the open air. Then delicately, gently, he washed away all the blood, leaving her clean.
He dressed her slowly in the polonaise dress, looking tenderly every second at her face.
"Why?" the thought hit him again. Why had he not gone for the doctor sooner? Why had he left her alone while he went for Charlotte? He could not bear the thought of her in the homestead all alone and in pain. He remembered her cries as he had raced in with Charlotte.
"Oh God, nooo!"
He threw his entire self into the ground, hoping it would swallow him up.
Die. He wanted to die. He looked around. A thought came to him. He withdrew his bowie knife from its sheath and held it to his wrists. One flick, that’s all it would take, and he could be with his wife and child again. Only one.
A new thought hit him, out of the blue. What was it that Abagail had once said? He remembered the day as if it were only yesterday. He had been carving a statue of a wolf by the fire, as Abagail read to him from the Rocky Mountain. He remembered her commenting on an article about a man who had committed suicide. He saw her now in his mind, very much alive, sitting in her rocking chair saying, "I sure feel sorry for him. Everybody knows that anyone who takes his own life is destined to end up in only one place. In Jesse ."
He remembered it had surprised him at the time. He hadn’t known that, although of course Abagail, the ever-religious woman would.
Would he be in hell while Abagail and Hannah were in heaven?
He dropped the knife. Turning around he stalked back up the steps into the homestead. He picked up his violin and without bothering to tune it, came back out to the bodies. He held his violin to his chin and began to play and sing:
His voice broke off. No more! He could bear it no more! Throwing the violin on the ground, he watched as it broke, the strings dangling over the smashed wood. He picked up the pieces and ran into the house. He threw them into the fireplace, then quickly built up the fire.
He had decided what he was going to do with his life. Standing by the fire, he watched it glow, eating the wood. He smiled, evilly.
He would never play again.
The sky was gray. Storm clouds threatened from the northwest. It was fitting weather for such a somber day. The funeral.
Almost two years to the day of the Sully’s marriage the town had gathered once again, this time to say goodbye to Abagail and her baby, Hannah. Reverend Johnson remembered the fair-skinned 18-year-old he had married as he now performed her last rites.
The father who would not come to his daughter’s wedding now attended her funeral. Teary-eyed, he held onto Maude well-behind the casket as the Reverend spoke.
Charlotte attended with her family, Ethan included for once. Dressed in black, she watched from a respectful distance her dear friend Sully.
Sully.
She had not spoken to or seen him since they had gotten back to Colorado Springs. Now she watched as he stood directly between the two caskets, not listening to anyone who told him it wasn’t proper. He stood, his face towards the ground, not hearing anything.
Loren watched him as well, disgusted by the whole affair. It had been Sully’s fault, he reflected, that Abagail had died. Loren turned his back on the man. He would never forgive him, he thought to himself.
The service ended, and the people began respectfully filing away. Loren took a hysterical Maude and a crying Olive from the scene, so that Jake could finish the burial. Then, walking up to Sully, he spat at him in a low voice, "It’s your fault she’s dead. I will never forgive you for this, Byron Sully." He walked away with his wife and sister.
Ethan took the kids back home as Charlotte stayed put, watching Sully.
Jake came up now, with the shovel, ready to pile the dirt on top of the coffins. Sully looked up and motioned for the shovel.
"I got it, don’t worry about it," said Jake.
"Give it to me," Sully said with tightly pursed lips. "I will do it."
"But -" Jake began to protest.
Sully yanked the shovel from his hands and began piling the loose dirt on top of the coffins. Holding up his hands, Jake backed away.
After he had finished, Charlotte approached him. He was know kneeling by the graves, picking up some dirt and letting it sift through his hands.
"Sully?" she asked, not very loud.
He didn’t answer her. She thought perhaps he didn’t hear.
She tried again. "Sully?" she asked, louder this time.
No response. This time she was sure he had heard her. "I - I just wanted to tell you," her voice faltered. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry." She turned and fled.
Sully looked after her as she ran. "It’s alright," he told her as she whisked across the meadow. "It’s not your fault," he said grimly. "It’s mine - all mine."
Charlotte spent a sleepless night in bed, tossing and turning with no comfort from Ethan. Finally at dawn she got up, dressed in old clothes and hitched up their new wagon. She really had made Jake burn the other one despite his protests it was perfectly good. Arriving at the Sully place, she walked into the empty house.
Deep inside, she had doubted Sully would be there, but somehow the hope had lingered that he would. No matter, she had come for a purpose, and rolling up her sleeves she set to work right away.
The first thing she did was pull the straw tick off the bedstead. She emptied the straw in the barn and threw the blood-stained covering into the fireplace. She lit the fire and watched it burn, noticing some wire strings in there.
She had brought a coverlet from home, and this she filled with clean, fresh straw, then heaved the heavy thing onto the bedstead. Once in place the room looked much better. She scrubbed the blood-spotted floor clean with sand until not a stain could be seen. Then she cleared the table, throwing away the rotted food, and wiped it down with a rag. She looked around her.
The tiny homestead was spotless. One would never have known of the terrible tragedy that had taken place within it only four days previously. She sighed aloud, then noticed something in the corner. Kneeling next to it, she was overcome with emotion.
A hand-carved cradle.
It had been Sully’s pride, a pain-staking labor that had taken him many months to complete. And now it lay empty, for the baby who would never sleep in it.
Charlotte cried then. All of the pent up emotions that had been buried for the past four days surfaced. She cried until she thought her heart would break, until she had no tears left. She cried for her dear friends who had brought joy and love into her life, for their daughter, for their life that had been shattered.
A knock sounded at the door. "Sully?" she heard a voice say.
Charlotte couldn’t move. She stayed huddled by the cradle.
Olive Davis walked into the homestead and saw her. "Charlotte Cooper?" she called out. She ran to the woman and pulled her grip from the cradle, holding her.
"Olive," Charlotte sobbed into her shoulder. "She’s gone! I can’t believe she’s gone!"
"I know, I know," Olive comforted, tears falling from her eyes as well."
An hour later, the two ladies were considerably calmer. Olive made some coffee and the two sat at the table sipping from their cups. She looked around the room.
"You cleaned this place up?" she asked.
Charlotte nodded. "I had to. It kept weighin’ on my mind."
Olive continued. "I came here lookin’ for Sully. You seen him?
Charlotte shook her head. "Not since the funeral," she said.
Olive looked down at her hands and began wringing them. "He must be having a mighty tough time right now...I just wanted to let him know I don’t blame him and neither does Maude. There was nothing he could have done." She paused. "There was nothing you could have done either you know."
Charlotte’s shoulders sagged. "I shoulda seen it comin’," she began.
"There’s too many ifs in this world already," Olive said matter-of-factly. "It was the Lord’s will, that’s what it was." She put a hand on Charlotte’s. "We’ve got to put our trust in the Lord, and believe that he knows best."
Her words rang true in Charlotte’s heart. She looked at Olive in a new light. They had been acquaintances for years, Charlotte knew her through Abagail and the Sewing Circle, and knew that Abagail was very fond of her aunt. But this was the first time she and Olive had ever had a real conversation. She smiled and gripped Olive’s hand in return.
He left before dawn. Sully had spent the previous night by his old haunt on the northern bank of Aspen Creek. Now, in the pre-dawn darkness, he looked at the eerie world around him. 3 o'clock is always ghostly hour, as anyone who has been up at the time alone already knows. And as Sully began walking to the East, those ghosts came back to haunt him.
"You will *never* be a son to me," Loren's voice pounded in his head.
"You are my best friend," came Charlotte's.
"I will love you to the end of my days, and even then beyond," whispered Abagail.
"It's *your* fault she's dead," Loren appeared again.
"Ahhhhhh!" Sully's frustrated voice screamed. He quieted down. "I'm coming Abagail, I'm coming," he muttered.
It took him 30 days to reach his destination, 30 days of animal-like tenacity. Each of those days he marched nearly 30 miles, and almost inhuman feat over the terrain. But he didn't care about his body. He didn't care about himself. He only cared about one thing.
On the 8th of June he arrived in St. Louis, almost 900 miles between him and Colorado Springs. There was no going back from here.