Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  Micah spotted Chester at one of the barbecue pits talking to Max Heinrich, the town butcher, and Charlie Bannock, the baker. Despite everything, it was good seeing Chester again. They had corresponded often while Micah was away. And earlier that year, on his trip back East, Chester had stopped in Cheyenne for a few days’ visit. As boys, and even as young men, Micah and Chester had been almost inseparable.

  Micah started toward the barbecue pit where Chester was having his discussion with Max and Charlie. On the way, he was stopped by Thomas Blythe, one of Probity’s three attorneys.

  “Micah,” Blythe called out, “come over.” He waved in a regal manner, inviting Micah to join him and Probity’s two other attorneys at one of the tables.

  Micah knew these men by reputation only. He buttoned his still-damp coat and climbed the grassy hill to their table.

  “Have a seat, Micah.” Blythe made a flamboyant, sweeping gesture to an empty spot at the table. He motioned to the other two men. “Earl Anderson. Jackson Clark.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Micah.

  Anderson only nodded, but Clark said, “Yes, you too.”

  “By the way, congratulations,” said Blythe. “It’s always a pleasure to welcome a newcomer into the bar.”

  Both Anderson and Clark seemed to accede to Blythe’s leading the conversation. Clark, about sixty years old, was tall and thin. He’d been an attorney much longer than either Blythe or Anderson, but Thomas Blythe had, without question, the most successful practice around. No other attorney in the county, no matter how long he’d been lawyering, could command either Blythe’s statewide acclaim or his substantial fees.

  “Thanks, Mr. Blythe,” Micah said as he sat next to Anderson.

  Earl Anderson, the county attorney, was a foppish little gnome. He was maybe five feet tall, and maybe he wasn’t. Micah couldn’t tell for sure. Around his neck he wore a monocle on a long, gold chain. “That was quite an entrance you made, young man.” Although he put a special inflection on the words “young man,” Micah doubted Anderson was more than eight or ten years older than he was.

  “Wasn’t it, though?” agreed Blythe. Blythe was not yet fifty, although, like Anderson, he appeared older than his years. They were both condescending, but Blythe’s condescension was less blatant than Anderson’s. Still, it seemed to Micah that both men were play-acting, cultivating mannerisms to make themselves appear more . . . what? Micah couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Sagacious maybe. More solid and trustworthy. Micah wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, he hoped it wasn’t the way folks expected attorneys to be.

  “You were in an embarrassing situation, yet you did not allow it to get the better of you,” said Blythe. “You handled the problem with a subtle, quick-thinking gesture. Very clever.”

  “I promise you, Mr. Blythe, there was no cleverness involved. If I’d been clever, I expect I’d’ve thought of some way to attend this shindig in a dry suit.”

  “Don’t be modest, Micah,” Blythe said, shaking his finger like a scolding father. “Your cleverness is instinctual.” He raised an eyebrow and looked toward his colleagues. “That’s the most valuable kind. Right, Clark?”

  Jackson Clark didn’t respond. Instead, he asked, “Care for a beer, Micah?” Before Micah had a chance to answer, Clark lifted a pitcher and poured him a glass.

  Micah doubted if any of these men had ever said a dozen words to him, or even noticed his existence, for that matter; now they were all sharing a beer. At least he, Clark, and Anderson were sharing a beer. Thomas Blythe drank lemonade.

  “The ability to think quickly,” Blythe continued, his voice taking on the tones of a professor, “is an attorney’s greatest asset, particularly if he intends to do trial work. Do you intend to do trial work, Micah?”

  Micah smiled. “Trial work is what I hope to do.” He lifted his glass and took a sip. “But I suppose I’ll do whatever work I’m offered. I’m in no position to be choosey.”

  “Choos . . . ey, . . . yes.” Blythe drew the three syllables out in such a way it suggested that being unable to choose was a concept that just now occurred to him. “I suppose that is true.” He stared for a moment into the clouds of his lemonade, then looked off toward the men at the barbecue pits. “I wonder when the food is to be served.”

  “I was wondering that myself,” said Anderson, following Blythe’s gaze.

  Blythe, speaking to both Clark and Anderson, said, “Perhaps you gentlemen wouldn’t mind finding out. I have something to discuss with young McConners here, and then I’ll be right over.”

  “Of course,” Anderson said, standing. Clark rose more slowly.

  Once they were gone Blythe said, “It looks to be an excellent party. Everyone has worked very hard to make it a success, particularly your friend Dr. Hedstrom.”

  “Chester has?” Micah asked.

  “Very much so. In fact, it is my understanding that the doctor planned the menu.”

  Micah found that hard to believe. As far as he knew, Chester had never even heated a can of beans. Planning a menu to feed more than fifty people sounded way beyond Chester’s skills.

  “Are you sure about that?” Micah asked. He didn’t even try to hide his disbelief.

  “Oh, absolutely. The good doctor is always full of surprises.”

  “That’s true.” Micah had to agree with that. “He is.”

  Blythe took on a confidential air. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Micah, but what are your feelings with regard to divorcement proceedings?”

  “My feelings?”

  “Do you have a moral compunction against divorce?”

  The truth was, beyond reading the statutes and a case or two, Micah had never given a moment’s thought to divorce one way or the other. “No, it has its place, I suppose. I can imagine a number of situations where it might be necessary.” He wondered if there was a right or wrong answer to the man’s question. Had he espoused some radical point of view that would get him ostracized from the legal community before he’d even begun?

  “Excellent, my boy. Excellent. I had hoped you would feel that way. I am, as you might imagine, in a position to, from time to time, refer you clients.”

  “Yes, sir.” Being close to broke, Micah liked the direction the conversation was beginning to take.

  “And it so happens I know of someone who is interested in obtaining a divorce. I, as do you, feel the proceeding, regrettably, has its place in our society.”

  In some ways Blythe reminded Micah of Judge Pullum, the man under whom Micah had read for the bar. Both men had a remarkable ability to insert adverbs and parentheticals into every sentence.

  Blythe took a sip of his lemonade, then pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and dabbed at his mouth. Compared to his earlier sweeping gestures, the act was almost dainty. “I, however, being a deacon in the Baptist church—and if I might be so bold, a moral leader in our community—must decline the case. I thought perhaps you might be interested.”

  “Of course, I’d be happy to. Having neither religion nor any particular reputation for morality provides me the freedom to do most anything.”

  A blank expression crossed Blythe’s face. After a short pause, Micah laughed, letting the older man know it was a joke. Blythe then laughed too, but it was a dry kind of laughter. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course. Very good. Very good.” His eyes scanned the crowd. “Here, come with me.” He set down his lemonade and stood.

  Micah followed Blythe to a table where half a dozen women sat talking. When they arrived, Blythe said, “Mrs. Pratt, may I have a word with you?” As soon as he spoke, four of the women rose and scattered.

  A girl of maybe eighteen, small and pretty, started to leave as well, but the woman to whom Blythe was speaking stopped her. “No, Polly, stay,” she said.

  The woman looked at Blythe, but she didn’t stand, nor did she offer him a seat. “What is it?” she asked. Her tone was blunt.

  “I wondered if it was your intention to conti
nue with the course of action we discussed in my office last week.”

  “It is,” Mrs. Pratt said. “Polly and I have rented rooms at Mrs. Jordan’s boarding house.” She was a handsome woman of maybe forty who looked to have at one time been beautiful. There was a firm set to her jaw. Her nose was a bit too large, but it fit well with the structure of her face. Her eyes were a shade of gray Micah had never seen before. A kind of pewter.

  “If that is the case, then allow me to introduce Mr. Micah McConners.” He turned to Micah. “Mr. McConners, this is Mrs. Cedra Pratt. I suggest, Mrs. Pratt, that you discuss your circumstances with Mr. McConners. I have mentioned to him that I knew of someone interested in divorcement proceedings but gave him no more details than that.”

  Mrs. Pratt offered Blythe a stony look, then directed her gaze at Micah. He felt his temperature rise in the heat of this woman’s scrutiny.

  “Do you have an office address as yet, Mr. McConners?” she asked.

  “No,” Micah said. “I’ll begin searching for office space tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” she said, “if you don’t mind, perhaps we could go over some things right now.”

  “Yes, of course. That would be fine.”

  “That is,” she added, “if Mr. Blythe would excuse us.”

  Blythe cleared his throat. Micah doubted the man was accustomed to being dismissed in such a fashion. “Certainly, Mrs. Pratt. If I can be of further assistance, do let me know.” He took the brim of his Homburg, lifted it a couple of inches off his head, gave a little bow, and walked away.

  The woman, watching Blythe leave, said, “What a pompous ass.”

  Micah hoped he was able to hide his shock. He’d never heard a woman use such language.

  “The reason I went to him in the first place is because Jackson Clark is a drunkard and Earl Anderson is a fool. I trust you’re neither of those things.”

  “Well,” Micah said, “I’m not a drunkard.”

  Her left eyebrow rose an inch, and she smiled. When she did, the hard set of her features eased some. “Please, Mr. McConners, have a seat.” She turned to the young woman and said, “Polly, fetch the gentleman something to drink.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the girl said. She was pretty but frail-looking. Her skin was as white as writing paper. “What would you like, sir?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

  “A beer would be fine. Thank you.”

  The woman placed her hand on the girl’s forearm. “You get it and come right back,” she said. When the girl was gone, the woman turned to Micah. “I am married to Emmett Pratt. Does that matter to you?”

  Micah shrugged. Of course he knew Emmett Pratt, or knew of him. He was one of the largest landowners in the county. He had homesteaded here in the mid-seventies and now controlled tens of thousands of acres. It was said that during the late troubles in Johnson County, Emmett Pratt’s place had been a favorite stop-over for the Cattle Grower Association’s “enforcers” as they traveled from Cheyenne to Kaycee and Buffalo. “It doesn’t matter to me,” Micah said. “How does he feel about the divorce?”

  “He doesn’t want it.”

  “Why do you?”

  She paused and looked away. “I no longer have—” She seemed to search for a word “—respect for him.” After a quick beat, she added, “Nor, it seems, does he for me.”

  “Well,” said Micah, “the sum of my experience in these matters is zero, Mrs. Pratt, but I can tell you divorce is not an easy thing to obtain. The law lists ten or eleven very specific causes that allow a divorce to be granted, and if your situation doesn’t fall within those causes, there can be no divorce. I would have to reread the statute, but I doubt loss of respect is listed among the grounds. If it were, I’m sure there’d be many more divorces in this country than there are.”

  “My reason for wanting a divorce is because it’s the right thing to do if we are not going to live together as husband and wife.” She looked to where Polly had gone for the beer. The firm set of her jaw that Micah had seen soften when she watched her daughter earlier now seemed to soften even more. “And we’ll not be living together as husband and wife ever again.”

  “How many children do you and Mr. Pratt have?” Micah asked.

  “Although Polly has taken the name Pratt, we have no children together,” she said. “We’ve been married only eight years. It’s the second marriage for both of us. My first husband was killed in a hunting accident when Polly was three. Emmett’s wife died of cancer ten years ago. Emmett has a boy, Sonny, from that marriage. I don’t want anything from Emmett, Mr. McConners, if financial support for children is what you’re considering.”

  “That is what I was considering, but even without that, there are provisions for alimony.”

  “I have no interest in alimony.”

  “You have invested eight years of your life in the marriage, Mrs. Pratt. Don’t you think you should be allowed something for all that?”

  “I have my reasons for wanting out of this marriage, Mr. Mc-Conners. If the law does not recognize those reasons as legitimate, so be it. I shall get out of this marriage with or without the law’s blessing. But I was not seeking Emmett Pratt’s money when I married him. I’ll not be seeking it when I leave him.”

  “There are practical considerations, ma’am. You have a daughter. How will you survive?”

  She sat up straighter, her back stiffening. “I was a teacher before I married. I expect I can return to that occupation.”

  It was clear Cedra Pratt was a strong, proud woman. Micah suspected that once she had committed herself to a marriage, she wouldn’t let go of it without good cause. Whatever Pratt had done to bring her to this state of mind must have been serious.

  “I hope,” Micah said, “to have an office rented by the end of the week. Look me up, Mrs. Pratt, and we’ll discuss this further. Perhaps divorcement is available. You may have some cause that fits within the statute.”

  Polly returned and placed a glass of beer in front of Micah, spilling a bit as she set it down. “Momma, look,” she said, and there was a note of desperation in her tone. She nodded toward a well-dressed young man about fifty yards away. He was leaning against a tree, sipping a beer. There were other young men involved in animated discussion all around him, but he paid none of them any attention. Instead, he stared across the picnic area at the three of them.

  It was rare to have a congregation of more than five people in Probity without someone making a speech. Some activity appeared to be about to begin at what was serving as the main table. The mayor and a few local bigwigs were milling around.

  “So, I saw you conferring with your fellow attorneys a little while ago,” Chester said.

  “Yes,” said Micah. “I think I got my first client.”

  “You think? Shouldn’t a well-trained professional like yourself be able to tell if you have a client or not?”

  “Well, I haven’t received a retainer yet.”

  “Aha,” said Chester, “already thinking like a lawyer. So were you impressed with the other members of the Probity bar?”

  Micah shrugged.

  “I guess they’re all harmless enough,” Chester said, “except for that little weasel Earl Anderson.”

  “You have no fondness for the county attorney?” Micah asked.

  “He wears a monocle,” Chester pointed out.

  Whatever bias Chester’s dislike of Anderson’s monocle represented, it made sense to Micah.

  “Besides,” Chester added, “I’ve never met a more ambitious, do-anything-for-a-vote scoundrel in my life. He’s not too fond of me, either.”

  “Not fond of such a loveable fella as you? Why, Chester, I can’t believe that.”

  Chester gave Micah a scowl. “Still a smart aleck, I see.” He turned his gaze to where Anderson was sitting. “He doesn’t like me because when no one around here would oppose him for county attorney, I made no secret of the fact that I had gone to Casper in an effort to recruit a new lawyer to move in and ru
n for the office.”

  “I can see how that might not endear you to him.”

  “You can also see how successful I was,” Chester said. “When I couldn’t find anyone who wanted the job, I started writing letters to the newspaper encouraging people to not vote for the office of county attorney at all. I suggested they leave that column blank. Turned out Anderson got barely fifty-one percent of the vote, and he was running unopposed.”

  “You have a gift for knowing how to win friends in high places, don’t you?”

  “The man’s a louse.”

  “What did he do to cause you to dislike him so?” Micah asked.

  “He’s very discriminating about who he chooses to prosecute and who he doesn’t. During his first term in office he launched a campaign against prostitution and drunkenness, which is all well and good, I suppose.”

  Micah felt himself smile. He knew that Chester was not much offended by either of those vices.

  “But,” Chester continued, “at the same time he was defending our morals, he was turning a blind eye to a consortium of wealthy landowners who’d gotten together and stolen the water rights from three farming families west of town. He’ll prosecute to the fullest some poor drunk or vagrant and allow his cronies to get away with anything. Whatever happened to the days when people like that were run out of town on rails? It makes you want to pluck a chicken and heat up some tar.”

  Chester had always maintained there hadn’t been a decent politician since Lincoln, and he wouldn’t waste his time with any of them. “My God, Chester,” Micah said with a laugh, “I never knew you to be so political.”

  Chester smiled. “Surprising, isn’t it? I guess Earl Anderson brings out the politics in me.”

  Micah nodded toward the tables that held the food. “You seem to be full of surprises today, aren’t you? This is quite a to-do.”

  Aside from the pies, cakes, and a dozen or so large bowls containing vegetables and various kinds of salads that had been prepared by the town’s ladies, the food was unidentifiable. Large trays were stacked high with fare the likes of which Micah had never seen. Huge containers holding something else as unrecognizable were set next to each of the trays.