Down by the River

by Robyn Carr

  Twelve

  When June opened her eyes on Thanksgiving morning, the rare northern California sun was shining and there was the distinct sound of birds. She loved this, waking up on her own instead of by the phone. Lazing around in the morning while other doctors made the calls and staffed the clinic. In the back of her mind she heard John’s voice just as the baby gave her a sound kick. “Don’t get used to it!”

  Ah, yes, breast-feeding every two hours. Twenty diapers a day. Potty training, Mommy and Me swimming lessons, preschool, soccer, piano lessons, ballet… Oops, it’s a boy, remember? Okay, revise that to soccer, piano, football.

  It was cold in the bedroom so she gravitated toward the heat beside her, but she had to kick Sadie out of the way. Jim was spoiling the dog. Sadie, the wayward slut, now thought she was Jim’s dog and only went with June as a last resort.

  “Hmm,” he hummed, feeling her stomach kicking against his back.

  “We’re going to need a piano,” she whispered.

  “Before breakfast?” he asked after a long moment of silence.

  She giggled. “All children take piano lessons,” she informed him.

  “Ah. So we have a few weeks, then?”

  She giggled again, but it made her want to pee. This child had been sitting on her bladder for at least the past month. She was afraid to laugh, cry, sneeze or cough. Jim started to turn over. “Don’t move!” she instructed hotly. “I have a bladder situation!”

  Jim froze. It occurred to him that this was the sort of dialogue couples should have after years of marriage and not mere weeks of living together. Yet it all felt so oddly natural and sweet. “June, did anyone ever tell you that you’re at your romantic best first thing in the morning?”

  She laughed in spite of her better judgment. “You’re tempting fate.”

  He wiggled his back against her rollicking stomach. She made a panicked sound, rolled away and dashed for the bathroom. Sadie barked at her flight, thinking it might be playtime.

  In a minute she was back, comfortable and with freshly brushed teeth. She jumped back into the bed and this time snuggled into his embrace. Then she thought about Myrna and Morton. Although a very nice evening at Hudson House had been planned, last night hadn’t been the festive occasion hoped for. The Barstows, stunned by the revelation of who Edward Mortimer was, served up their predictably inedible dinner openmouthed. The only two people at the table who ate were Morton and Myrna, and they did not speak to each other. At dinner’s end, Elmer took Morton home with him and a spare bedroom was fixed up.

  When June and Jim were leaving Hudson House June said to her aunt, “I hope we can do a little better at Thanksgiving dinner than we just did.”

  And Myrna had replied through clenched teeth, “Doesn’t he just sit at the table as if he hasn’t been gone a day?”

  Now June snuggled against Jim and said, “Don’t I have the most interesting life of anyone you know?”

  He sighed. “Can’t we just stay here today? Make some grilled cheese and tomato soup?”

  She hoisted up on an elbow and looked down with amusement. “Come, now. You’ve chased down hardened criminals. Surely you’re up to today.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s all pretty weird.”

  Thanks to the Barstows, who must have stayed up pretty late on the phone, the word was out about Morton. Of course, they only called women they knew, but the women quickly filled in their husbands, who made sure all bases were covered. Gossip in Grace Valley was a time-honored tradition.

  June made it a point to get to her father’s early to help with the cooking, and to help with the transition—or whatever it was—between Myrna and Morton. But by the time she got there Morton had already been called on by Sam, Judge Forrest and Birdie, George Fuller and Tom Toopeek.

  “News travels fast,” June said to her father.

  “I’m surprised CNN isn’t here,” Elmer returned.

  June noticed that Elmer had really worked up a sweat in the kitchen. His bald head was gleaming and there were sweat stains on his shirt. “Is this upsetting you?” she asked her father.

  “What? Having my dead brother-in-law reappear after twenty years? Having the town at my door while I try to stuff the goddamn turkey? Having my eccentric older sister out at that haunted house of hers, trying to remember how to load our deceased father’s hundred-year-old shotgun? Naw,” he said, shaking his head. “Just another day in paradise.”

  “Maybe I should take your blood pressure,” she suggested.

  “No, you don’t. Right now I’m just a little irritated. I don’t want to be scared to death on top of that.”

  “Sit down,” she said, pushing him into a kitchen chair. She opened a window, letting some of the oppressive heat out. She fished around in the cabinets until she produced a single aspirin and a glass of cabernet. “Cook’s cure,” she said, fixing him up. “Jim and I will take over the dinner.”

  He took his aspirin, a sip of the wine, and said, “Great timing, June. Everything is done for now.”

  “Good. Then, you relax. For now.”

  Jim was bringing in June’s baking, load after load. Four pies, dinner rolls and candied yams.

  “So,” June whispered to her father, “what have you found out?”

  “That he didn’t have amnesia and he’s very happy to see everyone.”

  “That’s all? That’s it? Come on! I know if Judge and Sam were here they asked him why he left? Why he’s been away so long?”

  Elmer inclined his head toward the living room. “Suit yourself,” he said to his daughter.

  She found Morton seated in Elmer’s favorite chair, probably the main cause of his sweaty brow and rosy cheeks. Morton was such a tiny man. He seemed even more so now than she remembered. But then she recalled that Myrna and Morton had always been thought a cute couple, both of them so tiny and frail-looking. And, as it turned out, wiry as steel cords.

  “Hello, Uncle Morton,” she said, sitting down in the chair opposite him. “How are you this morning?”

  He put down his paper and smiled at her. He wore his pin-striped suit pants, but over his white shirt and tie he had on a red cardigan. Neat and tidy. His feet barely touched the floor, his legs were so short. She thought maybe he stood about five feet and two inches to Myrna’s five feet in her shoes.

  “Good morning, dear June,” he said, folding the newspaper onto his lap. “How wonderful you look. When Myrna said you were expecting after so long a wait I knew I had to get back here to see you and your father. He’s very excited, you know.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Morton. Now, before Aunt Myrna arrives, do you mind if I ask you a question or two?”

  “Not at all, my dear. Not at all.”

  “First, the obvious, what caused you to leave?”

  “Oh, my.” He looked upward as if the answer could be encased in the ceiling. “It certainly wasn’t any one thing. I had grown unhappy in my work, I suppose you could say. And retirement was looming. Now, there are two ways to face retirement, as I’ve learned. As an opportunity for a new beginning, or as the end. It all seems very simple now, but I admit, June, at the time I grappled with it.”

  “You haven’t quite answered,” she pointed out to him.

  “Well, I suspect I was depressed. In the way you medical people diagnose.”

  “Did you see a doctor?” she asked.

  “No. No, no. I simply looked for a new beginning. And Myrna was such a wonderful help in that!”

  June was dumbfounded. “Wait a minute. She didn’t appear to know where you had gone.”

  “True. True. It’s really not so very complicated. I went on one of my sales trips as usual, and I wrote her a fan letter, telling her how much I have always loved her work. And how it had long been a dream of mine to be a writer, but I didn’t get much encouragement from the people who knew me. I left a post office box and she wrote me back immediately, telling me I must reach for my dream and never allow anyone to dissuade me. Why,” h
e said, smiling at the memory, “it was so refreshing. So delightful, that instead of coming back to Grace Valley as usual, I simply wrote her another letter. And another, and another.” He leaned toward her and reached out his old and trembling hand to touch hers. “Frankly, I thought she knew it was me. It was months before she mentioned that her husband had abandoned her.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “She was put out, to say the least.”

  “Uncle Morton! And you didn’t tell her?”

  “I guess you know the answer to that,” he said.

  “Not very gentlemanly, Uncle Morton.”

  “Perhaps not. But I don’t think she dislikes the way things worked out for her. Those books about the dead husbands—genius! Can you imagine my thrill at seeing her on talk shows? And she must take credit for encouraging me in my own writing career, for I couldn’t have done it without her!”

  “But, Uncle Morton, you could have done it so much better had you just come home to Hudson House and—”

  His face, marked by the passage of eighty-six years, melted into an expression of sadness. “But there’s the rub,” he said softly. “It was Edward Mortimer she mentored. She told Morton Claypool not to be absurd.”

  June was stunned silent. She knew her aunt very well, and while Myrna would never be deliberately cruel, she did have this no-nonsense side of her that could be terse. Too matter-of-fact.

  So that’s how it had been. As Morton approached retirement, feeling useless and perhaps used up, maybe a little depressed in the shadows of his famous novelist wife, he’d expressed a desire to start a writing career of his own. Myrna tossed it off as a ridiculous notion and Morton was injured. So he wrote to her and found a whole new woman at the other end of his letters, a woman who didn’t find him absurd, but rather talented and exciting.

  “How is it we couldn’t find a trace of you? Even through the social security rolls?”

  “Why, I can’t say. Did you have the right number?”

  “I thought so,” she said with a shrug. “Could we have gotten it wrong?”

  “Perhaps so, June. I haven’t had a problem getting my checks. They come every month to Edward M. Claypool. Writing is not as lucrative for me as it is Myrna.”

  “Edward M?” she asked.

  “Edward Mortimer Claypool, though I’ve always gone by Morton.”

  She stared at him, her mouth parted in consternation. So that was why Myrna didn’t know. She finally recovered herself. “I bet you signed that very first letter Edward Mortimer, didn’t you?”

  He looked down. “Imagine my disappointment…” he said softly.

  “When Dad and I tried to locate you, we were looking for Morton Claypool. We didn’t know any Edward! Did Aunt Myrna even know that was your full given name?”

  “Perhaps not, June. We never even had a joint checking account in twenty years. I introduced myself to her that first day as Morton and that’s who I was to her. Always.”

  “Oh, Uncle Morton, you must explain this to Myrna.”

  “I think she may be a bit too upset with me to listen just now. If she doesn’t send me packing too quickly, I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it.” He smiled suddenly. “I have no hard feelings, after all.”

  “You might have to give her a little time, Uncle Morton. I can’t guarantee you Hudson House, but Grace Valley is your home as long as you want it to be. You have family and friends here, after all.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Quite a few of them have already visited today. Nosy buggers, aren’t they?”

  “They are,” she laughed.

  “I haven’t attempted to explain to them because, you see, I wouldn’t want to bring any embarrassment on Myrna. I saved the explanation for you. And when she’s done being furious with me, perhaps we’ll talk about it.”

  June grimaced, remembering the stony silence at dinner last night. “Do be patient,” she said. She prayed her aunt Myrna wouldn’t stand them up for turkey dinner.

  She was not held in suspense for long. Myrna arrived in early afternoon. Though she wore a serious and aloof expression, only June knew that she also wore her very best cranberry chiffon cocktail dress and favorite hat and gloves.

  The Toopeek household teemed with family. Lincoln and Ursula had had seven children, all of whom were educated through college, had married and had children of their own. They hadn’t all returned to Grace Valley for this holiday, but four of them had, making a total of twenty-six people under one roof. The food was unbelievable, the laughter contagious and the chaos of sixteen children enough to bring the roof down.

  In the midst of this, Tom crept away to his bedroom and reappeared in his uniform. He asked his wife how much time he had before dinner and she told him it would be hours yet. “But please don’t get yourself hung up unnecessarily,” she pleaded.

  “Of course not,” he said, kissing her.

  “You’re running away from the noise, aren’t you?” she accused.

  “You’re on to me.” He laughed, but inside he was filled with the happiness of having three brothers and a sister and their families with him.

  Tom and the deputies were on call, but no one was going to keep the police department open unless they had some trouble they couldn’t easily diffuse. Tom was optimistic. He felt in his bones that it would be a calm night. His father had said that later that night a peaceful harvest moon would rise.

  Tom drove his Range Rover out to Rocky’s roadhouse. There were only two pickups outside. Both had gun racks with nothing in them. Inside the bar was dark. Rocky stood behind her counter drying glasses with a dish towel. At one end of the bar sat Cliff Bender, a crusty old woodsman who rarely socialized with anyone. He also rarely drank alcohol, but this was a special occasion. He was probably giving thanks of a sort. On the other side of the room were two men, MacAlvies.

  Tom stood before the table. “Vern. Ben,” he said.

  “Chief,” they both intoned, looking up from their mugs.

  “How about dinner? You have plans?”

  “Yeah, Chief. We planned on drinking dinner,” one said. The other laughed.

  “George cooked again this year and I’m trying to drum him up some business. I’ll drive you over, have a cup of coffee and piece of pie while you eat, then bring you back here. Hardly put a dent in your drinking time.”

  “What you think, Vern? Interested in food?”

  “That George,” Vern said. “He can’t screw up a turkey too bad.”

  Tom took that to mean yes and went to make his offer to Cliff. That didn’t take too much arm-twisting, either. “Rocky?” he asked.

  “No thanks, Tom. I’ll just enjoy the quiet.”

  George had put up a sign in four churches around the valley: Free Thanksgiving Meal. He did this every year. While his mother-in-law tended the turkey at his house, George and his family served a meal to anyone hungry. Not everyone in the café that afternoon was too poor to fix their own meal, but most were. There were men, women and children who were having a hard time keeping life together in the cold of winter. They were rounded up by preachers, social workers, cops, firefighters, shelter operators, neighbors and friends. Tom made it his routine to go to the only bar in the valley and make sure those old boys had a belly full of decent food before they wasted the rest of the day in drink. They had a much better chance of holding their liquor after a solid meal. In fact, they might just get sleepy and go home.

  The café was full of people Tom had never seen in town, never seen before. Sam was having a cup of coffee, so Tom slid onto the bar stool next to him to visit a spell.

  “I heard a roar just west of here and someone said there were thirty or so Indians out there, cooking and eating,” Sam said.

  “Not quite thirty,” Tom said with a laugh. “Not everyone could come this year.”

  “Ah. That’s why it was quieter than usual.”

  “You want to come out? Sample some of my mother’s pies?”

  “Sorry, Chief. I have plans of my own.
I just wanted to stay close in case anyone needs help at the station.” He smiled. “And, too, I want to see that grin on old George’s face. I think this might be the happiest day of the year for him. Nothing gives that boy a rush like feeding people who need to be fed.”

  While the MacAlvies and Cliff enjoyed their turkey dinner, Tom took advantage of the time to run by the Craven farm. There was something about holidays and domestic abuse that seemed to go hand in hand. Even though the central abuser in this family was dead and buried, Gus Craven had left a legacy in five young sons.

  Tom saw the curl of smoke from the chimney and the soft lights shining from within, though sunset was at least an hour away. When Tom’s booted foot hit the first step on his way up to the porch, he heard the crack of an ax. He froze, listening. It came again, and a few long seconds later, again.

  He followed the sound around the house to the back. There he spied Frank. It didn’t escape him that Frank, the one who most often tried to protect his mother from his father’s violence, had a mean streak of his own to contend with. It was obvious as he split log after log, the sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air, that he was trying to work off a temper.

  Tom leaned against the house and watched. Maybe this was a technique learned in some of the anger-management sessions the boy was having with Jerry Powell, the local counselor. When you feel it coming on, chop wood. Or was Tom getting this mixed up with his own youth? Lincoln had a lot of wood-splitting set aside for his own boys.

  Jeremy Craven, age thirteen, stuck his head out the back door. “Frank? Ma says it’s ‘bout ready.”

  “Yeah,” he said, putting another log on the stump. That’s when he saw Tom leaning against the corner of the house. He stopped with the ax in the air, paused there, then let it fall and split the log. The young man, though still too tall for his frame, was getting some nice shoulders and biceps on him. “What you doing here, Chief?” he asked.

  “Just thought I’d stop by,” Tom said. But they both knew why he was here. Checking on things. Letting Frank know he was never too far away.