to know me, John?”
“Yes, Naomi,” he murmurs. “I want to know you.”
And that is enough for me.
We settle into a weary acceptance of life on the trail; I call it the daze of endless days, but death has fallen behind us, perhaps wearied by our plodding steps, and we pass two merciful weeks without digging a grave or counting a loss.
I am happy.
It is a peculiar thing, being happy when life is so hard and dirty and tiresome that every day feels like a war and every night I sleep on a bed so hard my skin is as bruised as my face is freckled. I have never known such utter and complete exhaustion, and yet . . . I am happy. Ma gave Wolfe life, but he is mine in a way that I can’t put into words. Maybe it is all the time I spend caring for him or the responsibility I feel for him. Maybe it’s a continuation of the love I have for Ma, who is too weak and tired to mother him alone, but he is mine, and my arms feel empty when he’s not in them.
The boys mother him too; it’s like he’s always been ours, waiting eagerly on the other side of transcendence for his turn to be a May, and now that he’s here, none of us can remember life without him. He smiles—Ma says I was a smiler early on, just like him—and he’s so aware and bright eyed, kicking his legs and moving his mouth when we talk to him, like he’s trying to talk back. Webb hovers only inches above his face and has long one-sided conversations with him, telling him about the mules and the horses and California, and Wolfe just seems to soak it all in.
Still, as sweet as he is, as good as he is, he doesn’t want to settle at night. Maybe it’s the constant rocking of the wagon that lulls him to sleep during the day, but at bedtime, Ma and I take turns walking him so he doesn’t keep the whole company awake.
Some nights I walk to where John keeps watch—he always takes the first shift—and sit beside him, letting Wolfe fuss where no one can hear him, and we talk of stars and simple things. He’s taught me some Pawnee words. He doesn’t call Wolfie by his name, even though he chose it. He calls him Skee dee—the Pawnee word for wolf. And there are plenty of them. We’ve seen signs of the buffalo, their chips and skulls bleached white in the sandy swales, but our most frequent guests are the wolves. They lurk on the ridges and follow the trail, and Ma has dreams that they’ll drag Wolfie away.
One night, so weary I cannot stay awake, I fall asleep in the grass with Wolfe in my arms and wake without him. For a moment I don’t know where I am or how long I have slept. I can’t remember if it was I who held him last. I jump to my feet, noting John’s blanket around my shoulders, and I see his silhouette against the blue-tinged darkness. I almost cry out, caught in Ma’s nightmare. Then I see the smooth line of Wolfe’s head bobbing against John’s shoulder, an occasional hiccup blending with the lowing of the cattle and the whisper of night sounds all around. He walks with him, talking softly in a language I can’t understand, pointing at the sky and the cows, the moon and the mules, and I am overcome with grateful awe.
John is careful. He says little and rests even less. Maybe his quietude is simply the wear of long days and short sleeps, and I don’t know if he shares the same comfort in my presence that I feel in his, but I think he does. I feel more than comfort. I feel fascination and fondness and a desire to follow wherever he goes. I want to hear his thoughts. I want to look at him.
He does not touch me. He does not take my hand or sit as close as I’d like him to. Not since the day in his tent when he told me I was beautiful has he indicated how he feels, and I can only guess that his words of admiration were delirium, caused by his illness. But when I seek his company, he does not ask me to go, and when the night is deep and the camp is quiet,