He wanted to be more flesh than spirit.
He wanted Miss Cloe.
* * *
You have not met many folks besides my brother and myself. I ought to start with Miss Cloe Inches. Recall that I said my brother never met any queens. Miss Cloe were not a queen. I do not consider queen is word enough.
Cloe Inches were an orphan raised in the house of Mr Job and Mrs Tab Stiles alongside my brother and myself – so she were our own somewhat-sister. I never known how Mr and Mrs Inches done apart from dying. She were between Big and myself in age, and sometimes mistaken for our blood kin. As pretty as Big were strong, and plenty strong herself. As tall as me, half a head shorter than Big. Hair of the darkest brown, just a breath short of black. Cheeks perpetually blushed, like the blood inside knew a private joke.
You would like such a creature to steal my brother’s heart. But she were not agreeable to the role of bouncing bride. By her own nature and by the example of Mrs Tab Stiles, Cloe were not at all meek. Her birthday was in the month of June and summer thunderstorms stayed in her eyes all the year. She had manners mostly but she could outrastle and outcuss most folks if you asked her to. She would outwork you without any asking at all.
My brother were a great hand for feats, but for steady habits there were no one better than Cloe Inches. She would keep after a task longer than Big or anyone you know, and no one ever stopped to pay her wonder. Cloe did not bother with prodigious thwocks – her work sounded more like thk, quiet and tidy. Big could juggle boulders all day, but Cloe would make candles – churn butter – stitch smocks – put dry clothes on the young Stileses – teach them school – butcher hogs and a hundred thks more and then holler us in for supper. All while Big were only making a circus with rocks.
* * *
I do not say any lovers’ secret when I tell that my brother meant to wed Cloe. He had said as much out loud and sober. He only wanted to convince her.
* * *
Big and Cloe and myself strolling in the lanes under a yolk-colored dusk. Children and dogs and day pigs running around and between us. Crickets sawing their fiddles. Past the gibbering of youth and insect you could hear how specially quiet Big gone.
Cloe will you be married to me?
Big stopped still. Speaking such an idea and walking were too much at once.
Cloe walked on even as she answered. Have you got a house for us to live in?
Big made to catch up. I would build us one
Would you build us money for a lot to raise it on?
My brother had a way of tilting his head when a truth bit him.
* * *
Big and Cloe and myself plucking deceased chickens in the cold January barn. With bits of feather dancing in the air, Big asked again.
Cloe will you be married to me?
Cloe did not turn from her work. What will you do to earn a keep?
Big sat with his chicken and considered.
* * *
Big and Cloe and myself stringing popcorn for Washington’s Birthday. His needle stopped ominously and it come out again.
Cloe will you be married to me?
I do not consider you are marriageable, Big
Cloe we will not want for a thing if only we make man and woman of each other
What have you got that will make me more of a woman?
He put his attention back to the popcorn.
* * *
Big and Cloe and myself whitewashing the backside of the house after the last of the snow were melted. The creatures in the barn watched curious from their stalls. Big drew a deep drink of air as he dunked his brush.
Cloe —
Big I do not wish to be wed to anyone at all just now
* * *
Big come to be scorched severally – by his empty palms, and by Miss Cloe’s considering that he were wanting in respects. In confidence I do not think my brother wore his best ears when making his proposals of marriage. He only heard the first bits of Cloe’s spurning – that he were poor, that he were wanting prospects, et c. He did not hear the second bits of Cloe’s being against marrying anyone at all just now. He took away from their lyceums the idea that he ought to secure an income, and that an income would secure Cloe, and so secure his happiness.
* * *
The only income Big had ever known was wonder won by feats. But by the coming of spring 1837, he had hunted out all Ohio city and Cleveland besides for feats wanting doing. There is only so much to do, even in a growing country. The yield of his work thinned out some too. There is only so much wonder in a place.
In the months of March and April Big turned sideways. He had shown before a tendency to create a mess in the making of a miracle. Now he went straight on to the mess without the miracle bit. Big Son who cut roads to nowhere. Who dug a well into dry rock. Who tried to rastle tame creatures. Who emptied jugs and went looking for brawls. Who tried to cure hog cholera.
My brother were not a doctor of swine or any creature. He somehow took sick with the hog cholera himself and puked enough to drown a horse. It were a feat but not the good sort.
There is a sickness worse than hog cholera, named despair. Big determined he would not succumb – that he would find remedy.
Spring.
Honest work is medicine. You cannot bottle or buy better remedy, whatever your ailment. On the first day of spring 1837, Mr Big Son determined to physic himself.
* * *
Our days proceeded somewhat like birds. You cannot rely on birds for any exact behavior, but you seen patterns in their doing. Sniff the wind some – fly around – make hidys at your cousins – swoop down and poke at corncobs. It is fool behavior, but regular. Do anything regular enough, and it becomes sacrament.
You cannot rely on a day entirely but you know the sun will come up.
On the first day of spring, that sun found us in our attic apartments above the Stiles barn. With the sun came the birds for a sing at our hayloft door. Those little birds peeked in at a long low room. Two straw beds and plenty of blankets. Two chairs. A few souvenirs of Big’s rambunctions. His red neckerchief hung on a nail.
A dozen birds come out for that day’s choir. Some of the singers come right into the attic to consider the crumbs and other savories that resided in Big’s bedclothes. My brother ate prodigiously, at all hours. You could practically hear hunger grumbling inside his snores, just before a grand brass yawn of snnnnChhtFppth announced that Big had joined the day. He shook his limbs out of his blankets and shooed off the scavenging birds, although one brave sparrow lingered to tug at a bone.
Another eyeful of my brother – let us see him close. At four and twenty years he had the bones of a man but the demeanor of a boy still. He were strong all over, such that even his shining brown hair and his ivory teeth seemed to have muscles. His eyes was somewhat small and close, and they tinied up to nothing when he laughed – a cannon sound that could rout any misery.
A roaring yawn and a thumping of the chest. Today is the day, little brother, he pronounced. I will make an honest man of myself
First, he would make his toilet. He picked up his sliver of looking glass and fussed some with his hair. Tied on his red neckerchief – sleep were the only place you could find him without it. Once the kerchief were on, he were open to custom. Without another blink, he dove down into the yard of the Stiles homeplace.