Free The Personal History of Rachel DuPree by Ann Weisgarber

wanted paint, and the yards needed trimming. All but Mrs. Du-Pree’s. The neighborhood had once been the home of Chicago’s educated Negroes, but that was before the slaughterhouses got so close. That was when Mrs. DuPree had been the wife of a doctor. That was before her husband died and she was forced to take in boarders. The neighborhood once was grand. But now Mrs. Du-Pree’s son was marrying the help, and that help had just left by the front door.
    I started walking again, picking my way over the broken sidewalk, my chin high. Mrs. DuPree might have the money for a second boardinghouse, but this neighborhood was where she lived. Mrs. DuPree was on her way down, I told myself, but the next Mrs. DuPree—me—was on her way up.
     
     
     
    On my wedding day, Dad hired a horse cab and took me to Preacher Teller’s. My mother and Sue had to work. So did church friends and neighbors, Trudy too. But standing in the front row of the church was Johnny, my older brother. I was so happy to see him that I nearly laughed. He worked nights playing piano in a saloon, and it had been years, I figured, since he had seen this side of eight o’clock. His eyes were streaked red and the smell of cigarettes clung to his suit. But his face was fresh shaved and it lightened my heart to have him there.
    He was proud of me for marrying Isaac. He’d said so from the start. “You’re making something of yourself. Didn’t I always say that you would?” he had said. “You’re the smart one—you’re getting out of this stinking city.”
    “You will too,” I said.
    After the ceremony, I kissed Dad good-bye. “I’m proud of you, girl,” he said, and this brought tears to my eyes. Up until that day, he had made out like he was glad Isaac hadn’t come for me. He hadn’t had anything good to say about Isaac DuPree. He didn’t care that Isaac DuPree came from a good family. In his day, Dad had said more than once, a man paid at least one visit to a woman’s parents before proposing marriage.
    I kissed Dad again. When I hugged Johnny, I whispered, “Come see me—us—in South Dakota.”
    “When you get yourself a piano in your parlor,” he said, “I’ll be on the next train out. I’ll play for the cows.”
    “See you real soon then.”
    An hour later me and Isaac boarded the 10:10 A.M. and began our journey to South Dakota.

5
    ROUNDER
    S outh Dakota. The land of opportunity. But that was before the drought, that was before me and Isaac put a child in the well. That was before we did it the second time. The second time, Liz screamed when Isaac told her he needed her. She screamed until I put my hand over her mouth and held her lips together. It was wrong what we were doing to her, but Isaac was right about the horses and Jerseybell. They had to be watered.
    Like before, I latched Alise and Emma in their room. I went with the others to the well, none of us saying anything as we walked against the wind. Isaac carried Liz, who cried into his shoulder, her arms around his neck. At the well we knew what to do, we knew what to expect, and that made it all the worse. We were getting used to doing this thing. We were giving in to it.
    Afterward, Isaac watered our four horses and then hitched two of them, Bucky and Beaut, to the wagon. He was holding true to his promise to get supplies, and John was going with him.
    Me and the girls—I had to make Liz—went down the rise to the barn to see them off. John waited on the buckboard, all grins. It had been a good while since he’d been to Scenic; it had been Mary’s turn the last time. I gave Isaac a small cloth bag. “Soda biscuits and a can of pears,” I said. “It’s all I’ve got.”
    “It’s enough.” He quickly touched my arm and then he hoisted himself to the top of the wheel. The wagon rocking some, Isaac settled on the buckboard, finding the worn spots where he always sat. He took the reins from John and giddyupped the horses. Creaking, the wagon lurched, and they