Prairie Widow by Harold Bakst

neighbors now dispersing back across the prairie, Lucy said to Jennifer, “You come home with Seth and me.” She still gripped Jennifer’s children, both of whom stared glassy-eyed at the slowly filling hole. “I’ve already told everyone you’ll be there tonight, should they wish to pay their respects.”
    â€œThank you,” said Jennifer, watching her children. “But, you know, I think I’d like to be alone—for just a while.”
    â€œOf course. But let me take Peter and Emma along with me. You’ll join us later.”
    Lucy began to escort the two away, but Emma stopped and looked back at her mother. She began to cry, and Jennifer dashed over, crouching and drawing Emma close. Peter tried to hold back tears, but then he, too, began to cry, and Jennifer pulled him close so that the three were in each other’s arms.
    Lucy turned to Seth. “Put ours in the wagon,” she said softly. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
    Seth nodded and herded his own three children into the back of his wagon.
    â€œShh, shhh,” whispered Jennifer in her children’s ears.
    â€œI want Poppa,” choked Emma.
    â€œI know,” said Jennifer.
    â€œI wish we never left home,” said Peter.
    â€œBut we did,” said Jennifer, rising to her feet, angry with Walter again. She pressed her children toward Lucy, who reached out to take them. “Go with Mrs. Baker,” said Jennifer.
    â€œWhy aren’t you coming?” peeped Emma, wiping her tears.
    â€œI will.”
    Lucy took Peter and Emma to her wagon, and they climbed onto the back with the Baker children. Then Lucy climbed onto the seat next to her husband. “You remember the way to my place?” called Lucy as Seth flicked the reins, starting up his black mare.
    â€œI remember,” answered Jennifer, returning her gaze to her husband’s grave. The hole was finally filled, and the headstone was in place. It read:
    Here Lies
Walter Vandermeer
Beloved Husband
and Father
at Peace
in God’s Embrace
1834-1873
    Shovels in hand, the two brothers walked over to Jennifer. “The Lord wanted ’im,” was all the older one mumbled, not so much as looking at Jennifer as he walked past. The other seemed to want to offer his own condolences, but he only lowered his eyes and continued on to the buckboard, which was drawn by two mules.
    The brothers’ wagon was the last to rattle down the shallow hill, and Jennifer was left standing alone among the sprinkling of headstones and mingling grasses. The meadowlark was back and caught Jennifer’s attention, perched as it was on a tiny cross, one of two tiny crosses set side-by-side. Jennifer noted the inscriptions. Both were Baker children, neither of whom had survived infancy. Then the meadowlark flitted over to another headstone, this one belonging to a Herman Whittaker. Then the bird flitted to yet another, as if it were showing Jennifer all the people who once lived on this prairie.
    â€œOh, Walter,” whispered Jennifer, barely hearing herself above the wind. “Do you see what you’ve done? Do you see where you’ve left your wife and children?” Jennifer dropped to her knees. She brushed her hand over the dark loamy soil that covered her husband. She felt her throat tighten. She didn’t care what Lucy said. This was a strange land, and she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Walter buried in it while she and the children returned to her clapboard house and her own Poppa.
    Jennifer’s eyes glazed over as she wondered what her father, a widower, was doing that very moment. She looked at the sky. The sun was low. It was past the dinner hour, later back in Ohio. Her father was probably sitting in his heavy, cushioned chair and reading the Gazette. It had been his ritual for as long as Jennifer could remember. All through her childhood, each evening, he retired to the parlor and his chair to