With a herculean effort, she tore her gaze from the horrible specter, turning her face into her pillow. The room went black, and the evil disappeared. Released from the spell, heart pounding, body drenched in sweat, she sat up. Eyes wide, she searched the dark corners of the room, looking for Ruben.
If she were brave, she told herself, she’d get up, check the door to be sure she’d thrown the bolt, but instead she lay rolled up in a ball of fear. If she dared move, he’d pounce. She could smell him, feel him there in the room, waiting for her in the deep, dark shadows to the side of the window. Or he could be there in the dark corner by the fireplace, waiting and watching.
Ears straining to hear the slightest creak, she remained very still, the sound of her heart thudding in her ears until she could stand it no longer—she had to go to the window, make sure no one lurked outside the door.
Peering through the window pane, she could see nothing but fog. It fed off the river, and as usual, had wrapped in, around, and over the trees, surrounding, smothering the cabin, growing taller, thickening with each passing hour.
The coals in the grate snapped and popped. She squeaked and slapped her hand over her lips to hold herself quiet. Darting back to her bed, she pulled the quilt up under her chin. A draft whistled mournfully down the flue. An animal skittered across her porch. Eyes wide, burning with fatigue, she waited, the hours ticking by at a snail’s pace.
Tired of listening, she faded unintentionally into an uneasy slumber.
Ruben’s voice whispered into her ear, Slut. Not fit company for good folks. She heard his laugh, sensed his girth and power next to her in the bed. She could feel his rough, dirty hands on her arm, his fingers in her hair. When his big hand moved to her stomach, she woke, sat up in bed, gasping for air.
Dawn arrived at last; a weak sun struggled to break through the heavy fog to loosen its grip. When it became light enough to see well into the corners of the room, she swung her feet over the side of the bed. Taking deep, steading breaths, she stretched her neck, rocking her head from side to side, telling herself it had all been a dream.
Sure this would be the day she’d die, she proceeded to don her faded red dress and old stockings. She carefully folded her lavender dress, new stockings, and old dress of blue denim into a freshly washed cloth flour sack.
While sitting at the table to braid her hair, a sharp pain raced through her bowels. Cold and shoeless, she sprinted out the door and made for the outhouse in back of the cabin. The evacuation of her bowels arrived swift and ruthless, taking only seconds. She exited weak and shaky and tiptoed back to the porch. About to go inside to the warmth of the fire, she doubled over, nearly brought to her knees by the gut-churning alarm. Breaking out in a cold sweat, she once again raced for the privy.
Sitting in the cold, dank outhouse, knees shaking, teeth chattering, palms sweaty, eyes looking through the slats of the flimsy door, she knew she would never see the other side of the river. She would die. The river would take her.
Isabell needed her, but she couldn’t do it. The stink of nausea swamped her, coming in through her nostrils with every breath she took. Wrapping her arms about her, she rocked back and forth on the hole in the rough boards of the privy seat and wept, surrendering to her fate.
Tired of her sniveling and quaking, chilled, nearly frozen, she made herself leave the outhouse. Once again she tiptoed quickly to her porch, this time finding Whit waiting for her, looking tousled, rumpled, blue eyes still full of sleep. “Need coffee,” he said and entered the cabin scrubbing his head.
“You left the door open, fog comin’ in. Cold,” he said. “I see you got your gear packed up. I s’pose Hayes and Reason will be waiting for you, sun’s almost up.”
“Yes,” she whispered, turning her back on him to get water in the coffeepot.
“They’ll be waiting,” she said aloud to the room, “Hank, Isabell, poor Lydia, waiting, counting on me.”
Whit talked, commenting on the thickness of the fog, the new buds on the willows, the robins in the yard, and Anora went about preparing him a bowl of hot oatmeal and a piece of her dark bread fried up with an egg. The nausea came and went. She held the diarrhea at bay long enough to get breakfast on the table. She couldn’t watch him eat; she had to go back out to the privy for another round of self-castigation, and unstoppable evacuation.
She came back to meet him headed out the door. “I’ll get Roscoe and Pete hooked up.” He looked up to the place in the sky where the sun should be. “I think it’s starting to lift a bit.”
Sitting at the table, she finished braiding her hair and closed her eyes against the throbbing at her temples, trying to slow the pulse that slammed through her veins. Forcing herself, she drank a cup of water and ate a piece of unbuttered bread, but more than that she couldn’t do. She tidied up the breakfast dishes and made the bed, then stood in the middle of the room, her little flour sack dangling from its draw string over her shoulder and said goodbye.
Whit returned and said, “So, you’re ready?” She looked beyond him, into the yard, and indeed the fog had become a wispy veil of white upon the morning; she could see the yard and trees, the color of the dirt.
Hesitating, she set her flour sack on the table and took inventory of its contents. She had her pine needle brush, her dresses, and her stockings. She’d torn out a few of the pages of her diary, leaving Whit the account book and pencil. She smiled wanly to herself, realizing the bag contained all her possessions. She started to put on her old mackinaw but Whit stopped her.
“Not that old thing. Wear the cape.” Bewildered, not liking to leave her father’s coat behind, she said, “I want my father’s coat around me. If I’m going to die, I want his coat with me. There’s no more Ruben, I know that. No more torture. But the river is out there waiting for me, challenging me, daring me.”
“We’ll leave it here. It’ll be here when you get back. You’ll see, Anora, you ain’t gonna die today. Now put on this pretty cape. We’re goin’ to town.”
Taking her by the elbow, he escorted her to the ferry, the destination of her execution. She planted her feet at the rise, refusing to move, her gaze following the water around the gravel bar. The river looked green this morning, dark, deep, cold green. Eddies swirled, moving fast. She watched a tree branch pass by close to shore, to end, held prisoner, near the far end of the ferry. Much the same as poor Aunt Carrie’s life had ended: her body added to all the other debris cast adrift upon a river’s whim.
Her gaze traveled to the far shore where Mr. Hayes and Mr. Reason waited. She saw the group of people behind him—a farm wagon waiting to cross, some boys milling around, she assumed them friends of Barney’s. It struck her as odd to have so many passengers at once. Usually, they trickled across in twos or threes, except when the Willa Jane was in.
“You coming?” Whit asked, tugging on her arm. She didn’t move. “Your eyes are the same color as the river this morning. You got pretty eyes, Anora,” he said, a playful smile twitching at his lips. “You look a bit peaky, nervous, I s’pect. I got’a idea. Put your hands on my shoulders. Keep your eyes on my back. Don’t look down into the water.” Giving her no time to think about it, he relieved her of her duffel and placed one of her hands on his shoulder.
She pinned her gaze to a point between his shoulder blades. The pebbles crunched beneath her feet. The red clay nearer the water’s edge caused her shaking body to wobble, and she tightened her grip. The water licked the sides of the wooden ferry, the sounds greedy and hungry.
“Going up the ramp, watch your step,” Whit said.
Sucking in her breath, looking neither left nor right, aware that on either side of her now there lay nothing but river—she’d reached the point of no return. She stumbled onto the ramp. Digging her fingers deeper into Whit’s shoulders, she felt him wince.
The puncheon logs of the ferry were wet and slippery. She expected Whit to stop, but he kept walking farther onto the ferry where two long arms of thick oak rudder came up out of
the center of the craft, one facing her and one that looked to the opposite shore.
“Here we are. Wrap your arms around the rudder, Anora. This ain’t so bad, is it? Nothing to be scared of. I think the sun’s gonna come out,” he said, his eyes to the sky.
∙•∙
Paxton jumped off the buckboard. Hank dismounted.
“What the hell are all these boys doing here?” Paxton asked, drawing Hank’s attention to the yahoos chucking rocks into the river below them.
“Doesn’t look like this is going to be the undocumented event we’d planned,” Hank said. “Who are those hounds down there by the water?”
“Well, there’s the two Hemphill boys, Barney Ambrose, of course, Milo Murdock and Homer Bowdin. I don’t recognize the other three.
“That’s John Woodcock and his wife, Mary, in the wagon over there. I think they’re on their way up to Scio to see her sister.
“My guess is Barney spread the word Anora would cross the river today.”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t see how that concerns them.”
Paxton shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Oh, Nutty Norie, she’s big entertainment around here.”
They watched the cowboy maneuver Anora onto the raft. The boys, down at the water’s edge, boisterously exchanged ribald opinions, calling back and forth to one another. Standing above them, Hank could hear the snickered, dirty little comments the boys uttered among themselves.
Paxton hollered down to them, “What the hell are you boys doing down here this morning? Shouldn’t you be home tending your own business?”
“We come to watch the fun,” Chester Hemphill answered. Chester, a tall, gangly boy with a lantern jaw and lank brown hair grinned, revealing he had a tooth missing in front. The eldest of the group, he’d apparently appointed himself spokesman.
“Come down to watch the show,” he said, puffing up with confidence, gathering encouragement from the snickering boys behind him. “Her crossin’ the river ought’a be good as that old long horned cow a while back,” he said behind a cheesy grin. “Maybe you weren’t here, Mr. Hayes. I remember Ben had a hell of a time gettin’ her across. Finally tied a rope ‘round her neck…let her swim alongside, almost drowned the dumb thing. Too bad ol’ Ben ain’t here this mornin’, he’d get her across. That’s for dammed sure.”
Paxton turned red in the face, his hands balled at his sides. He lunged, but Hank held him back. “He’s a kid, Paxton. A big mouthed kid full of hot wind. Let it go.”
The group of boys moved up the bank, coming within a yard or two of Hank and Paxton. Chester must’ve seen he’d hit a nerve; encouraged, he pushed a little harder. Elbowing the chubby boy next to him, he asked, “Milo, you was here, you remember that old long-horned cow, don’t yeah? Big tits.”
“Sure do,” Milo said. He spat a string of black tobacco juice off to the side of Paxton’s boot. “You s’pose he’s gonna have to tie her on? Probably should’ve milked her first.”
“Well, hell, maybe he did,” Chester said, and all of them brayed like mules, shouting huge guffaws that echoed up and down the river.
Hank took note Barney Ambrose had stepped back from the older boys. This conversation was foolish, dangerous. Hank thought the kid wise to realize Paxton Hayes wasn’t a man to fool with.
Barney stuttered an apology. “I, I only told Mmmilo. I told him Norie Talbot would be crossing the river this mornin’. I, I might’a said somethin’ about her havin’ a fear of the water. That’s all I said, honest, Mr. Hayes. I ain’t part of this bunch. I ain’t.”
Mary Woodcock appeared a woman of sense but she sat snickering behind her gloved hand, eyes crinkled at the corners, her body shaking with laughter. John, her husband, grinned at Hank and nodded. “Big day. Worth gettin’ up early to see it.”
Hank turned his back on the group of boys and the Woodcock wagon. What could he say? To call them all laughing hyenas, which he would very much like to do, would only raise more talk. But he had to keep Paxton from exploding, adding to the spectacle.
Holding himself in check, Hank folded his arms across his chest, silently wishing he’d been the one to bring her across. None of this would be happening.
Anora clung to the heavy rudder, her body bent over, her black cape catching a breeze, billowing out to the side. He cursed Whit Comstock for a fool. Did he actually think Anora could man the rudder? He couldn’t believe the stupidity.
∙•∙
“Keep your eyes on the old broken snag over there. Right there, to the right of the track coming down to the water,” Whit said, a finger pointing off to the oncoming shore.
Anora’s eyes were down. Afraid to breathe, she whimpered. Mewling, she watched the river come up through the cracks in the deck and lick the soles of her boots. Death wasn’t what frightened her, it was the prelude to death, the water filling her lungs, suffocating her, the struggle to stay alive and her ultimate surrender. Oh, how she prayed to be knocked unconscious.
The silver string of drool that left her mouth told her she was lost, she had no control. The sound of the river around her, a low, deceivingly, lazy glub, glub, threatened, today you die, today I fill your lungs, today you will know cold terror. She didn’t hear Whit. She didn’t see Mr. Hayes, or Mr. Reason, or anyone else, as the ferry drifted into the middle, the deepest, the fast current of the river.
A hand came under her chin, Whit’s voice, unusually sharp, ordered her to look up. “Get your head up. Look over there. The cable’s almost all the way out, the current’s gonna take us out and down. Get ready to lean in on the rudder and lean in hard. Don’t take your eyes off the snag. You got to head right into it.”
She thought him crazy, and yet she pushed back when the rudder started to move toward her. She heard herself grunting, straining, fighting the current, pushing with all her heart. Great salty tears streamed down her face, pooling between her lips, mingling with her saliva, dripping off her chin. Her jaw ached, so tight she thought her teeth would splinter.
Whit stayed at her side. When the soles of her well-worn boots, soaked with water, started to slip out from under her, the rudder took on a life of its own. No longer did she need to push against it.
The rudder swung up and out. Whit yelled into her ear, “Hang on. Hang on. Bring it down.” He had his hands on her hips, holding her steady, keeping her on her feet. She had no choice but to hang on. If she let go of the damn thing, it would pitch her backward through the low rail and into the water. She couldn’t let it win. She wouldn’t let it win.
Throwing her body over the rudder, to weigh it down, she found her footing, and started to pull back. Squinting through her sweat and tears, keeping her eyes trained on the snag, she pulled away from death, away from fear. Drawing closer now, the snag started to look bigger and longer. For a long minute in time, she feared the craft would rush past it, run away down river.
In the shallower water, the rudder became easier to control. Sobbing, her body shaking, she blubbered and repeated over and over, “God, love me. Oh, please. Please God.”
Whit encouraged her, telling her, “Only a few feet to go. Easy water…going in.”
The ferry crunched into the shallow water, sliding up onto the shore. Head thrown back, laughing, Whit slapped her on the back.
∙•∙
Hank could see Anora’s face. Her features contorted, lips purple, drawn back in a thin line, eyes wide and dark, her complexion an unnatural gray, hair flying out of its braid, she looked demented, out of her mind. His fear for her turned to rage against Whit Comstock. He wanted to strangle the man for bringing the ferry across with Anora at the rudder.
The group of boys jumped up and down, cheering. Beside him, Hank heard Paxton say, “This day’s work will be the talk of the county for years to come.”
Whit let the tongue of the ferry down. He beamed at them and waved. Hank heard him shout above the den, “You see her? She brought her in just fine.”
Behind him, Anora crumpled to her kn
ees. Whit appeared unaware.
∙•∙
Someone had ahold of her. Anora, eyes closed tight, had her arms wrapped around the rudder; she couldn’t let go. If she let go, her body would liquefy like lard in a hot skillet. Her arms would fall off, her skin would fold back from her muscles and the muscles would let go of the bone like water off a branch. If she unclenched her jaw, her teeth would fall out onto the ferry floor in a bloody mess. As for her legs, they were nothing but cold, lifeless mud—blood and sinew gone. A strong hand pried at her fingers, working them to let go of the rudder, let go of the only solid thing she had left, the only thing that would keep her whole.
∙•∙
Amidst chants and snide suggestions from the boys, Hank couldn’t move her. She’d folded herself over the rudder in such a way he couldn’t unbuckle her arms or hands.
“She’s got a hold of your pole there, Mr. Reason. Gonna have to saw it off,” Homer said. Following his ribald opinion came the loud snorts of laughter from his cohorts. There were other substitutions and additions made to this comment, all very amusing, all very sick.
“Grease? Or Pa’s got a cross-cut, should do it.” Hank heard one of the boys offer.
“Anora, please,” Hank said, beginning to sweat, his lips close to her ear to block the sound of the hoots and howls of those on shore. “It’s all right. Come with me. Look, you’re safe. I’m here.”
∙•∙
Anora, her hair in her eyes and in her mouth, black cape twisted off to the side of her body, lifted her head to peer over her arm. She saw trees, riverbank, and high ground, no water anywhere. There were people, but she didn’t see their faces or hear their voices; the sounds of her own panic still filled her head. Half running, half crawling, her little duffel tucked under her arm, she scrambled to the far end of the ferry. Someone rushed up behind her and grabbed hold of her waist. She screamed and batted away his hand, believing Ruben would drag her back out into the river.
The Widow's Ferry Page 17
