Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  In the meantime, the child had awakened fully, whining and crying, as if sensing the element of strife that surrounded her.

  The once-peaceful afternoon was over. The picnic was packed away in silence, and they departed Letty and Nathaniel Cuttahay’s lovely little meadow.

  A sense of defeat and loss pervaded the ride home. Not a word was spoken, though neither Allison nor Logan yet fully realized just what they had lost.

  12

  A Time for Reflection

  Logan and Allison entered the great old house together, but as soon as Allison had gone upstairs and disappeared round a corner, probably to have a good cry in some private place, Logan swung around and exited the house.

  He left the Austin parked in front—after all, it wasn’t his car to take at will—and set off on foot. The notion of walking and thinking did not exactly appeal to him, but it beat hanging idly about the old castle. And unfortunately he couldn’t stop the flow of whatever might come into his mind. Hopefully if he kept on the go, the thoughts wouldn’t get too deep. He’d had enough of that for one day!

  He headed off in the general direction of town, though he didn’t really care to run into anyone he knew. But maybe after the two-and-a-half-mile trek, he’d be ready for some distractions. He might even check out the action at the Bluster N’ Blow, or down at Hamilton’s.

  The fine spring day had grown blustery, and an edge of chill accompanied the northeasterly breezes. Only patches of blue could be found in the sky now. Logan hitched his collar up around his neck, remembering as he did so his playful attempt to “impress” Allison earlier at the Lindow. That water would have been cold!

  The gesture may have been a foolish one. But Logan had to face it—he did want to impress Allison; he had been trying to do so for the last nine years. She may say he didn’t have to, but it looked otherwise to him. Why else had she used her influence to get him a job? What other reason was there for her always hounding him about moving back to Stonewycke? His own choices weren’t good enough for her.

  But were they even good enough for him?

  Was his own insecurity about who he was coming back to haunt him? He’d always walked with a cocky step and a confident word on his tongue. But down inside, didn’t he really know that he would never measure up alongside this family? He’d been stupid to think he could change, adapt, become one of them. He was a man of the streets, an ex-crook, a card sharp, nothing more than a common confidence man.

  Could it ever be different? He had tried. Maybe he could be more respectable, more able to fit into Allison’s world, if he could just settle on some definite course for his life. But in all this time he hadn’t found anything that “clicked.”

  Many reasons why flooded his mind. He didn’t want to think that they were nothing more than cheap excuses. He had no education, for one thing, and no capital with which to start anything. He could borrow from his in-laws, but that had its drawbacks, especially for one trying to stand on his own. His prison record was terribly limiting, for eight out of ten potential employers wouldn’t think of hiring an ex-convict.

  Was it his fault he had only one talent, and that that talent happened to function best in areas of somewhat disputable legality? What could a man do? Wasn’t God supposed to take care of all that, make him fit in somewhere else?

  There must be something out there that could satisfy him as much as his old life had. He had been happy in the old days, happier than he had been at any recent time, that was for sure.

  A smile crept onto his face as he thought of some of the antics he and Skittles had carried out. As if it were yesterday, he could still clearly see his dear old friend perched upon a pub stool playing the part of the drunken braggart, challenging any who dared contradict his profound scriptural knowledge. The old Adam and Eve gag had truly been one of the best! Like taking candy from a baby! And with him playing his part of the innocent bystander with cool aplomb, together they had made quite a financial killing.

  And there was the ever-faithful accident victim routine, in which Skittles would collapse in front of a car in slow-moving traffic, convincing the unsuspecting driver that he had nearly killed a helpless old man. At the most opportune moment Logan would appear as an eyewitness. After fifteen minutes of Skittles’ moaning, the driver was more than willing to make an on-the-spot cash settlement rather than risking a possible lawsuit.

  It was not the most original ploy, and used at one time or another by every street hustler worth his salt. But he and Skittles had been one of the best duos around; they had raised the con to the level of an art form.

  And there were many others. There was hardly a gambler in London who could match Logan’s flair and nimble fingers with a deck of cards. He’d been good, and it had been fun. He couldn’t help that.

  Intellectually, he knew his old ways were inconsistent with the new life God had given him, and with the life of integrity he had tried to establish since. Yet he couldn’t keep from smiling as he recalled those days, nor hold back a sense of disappointment from stealing over his heart as he realized what a failure his supposed “new” life was by comparison. Had it all been an illusion? Had God for some reason not come through for him as He seemed to for others? Was he himself somehow to blame for this failure?

  Of course, right now he did like what he was doing. It was legitimate, and it even had something of the same thrill as his old lifestyle. Arnie was right; he was good at it, tailormade for the job. But what would happen after the war was over? What then? He’d be right back where he began.

  Logan came to a small wooden bridge and paused in the middle to watch the tiny stream rush toward the west where it would deposit its winter runoff into the Lindow. The bridge was still fairly new; the flood ten years ago had washed the old one away. He had been so sure of himself back then when he and Allison fell in love, so certain everything would work out perfectly for them.

  Was it now time at last to admit that it hadn’t, maybe that it couldn’t, and cut his losses?

  He let out a dry, bitter laugh. Still the gambler, eh, Logan? he silently rebuked himself. Know when to raise, when to hold steady, when to fold. His strategies worked around the gaming tables; could they be applied to life as well? Was it time to fold, to throw in his cards, admit that it had all been a gigantic mistake?

  It seemed that he and Allison had done all they could. Maybe it would be different if they could communicate. But today only proved once again that any attempt to talk about things that mattered only led them back along the same bitter paths of discord. Perhaps it was true, after all, that they both wanted different things in life. How could a man and woman possibly stick together and make a go of it if they had opposite goals? They had struggled for over seven years trying to hang on to the thrill of their initial love, but it had long since worn too thin to sustain them anymore. And if they were going different directions in life, how could they ever hope to regain it?

  By now Logan had reached the environs of Port Strathy. He tried to focus his attention on his surroundings. He had to get his thoughts going in another direction, for they only seemed to be leading him into a dark abyss, and he dreaded to think what might lie at the end. But the town was quiet at this hour and offered little hope of distraction. The farmers had not yet returned home from the fields, and the fishers were inside resting before their night runs. Many of the men were gone, off to fight in the war, or to lend their services to the more lucrative factories in the south. The war had even changed Port Strathy. When it was over, no doubt many of those very men would not want to return to this slow-paced, poverty-bound northern valley. Others would have no choice but to be forever separated from their earthly home. He had heard that the Peters clan had already lost two sons. Jimmy MacMillan, his old fishing and poker cronie, had been killed at Dunkirk. They said he had dragged ten wounded men to safety during the mass evacuation and was going back for more when a mortar struck him down. How many more would die before it ended?

  But at least
they died honorably, thought Logan morosely. Maybe Jimmy was even a little to be envied. He went off to war and died a hero. His life meant something. And though his loved ones left behind would mourn his passing, they could also swell with pride at the mention of his name. The only use he himself could be was to skulk around in dark alleys. Even if a stray bullet chanced his way and killed him, the military and MI5 and all official agencies would disavow any connection with him in order to protect other agents in the field. He would be a nothing, a nonentity, not a hero. All Allison would get was a letter from some magistrate stating that her husband’s body had been discovered, the apparent victim of a street mugging. Everything would fit in her mind too: once a street hoodlum, always a street hoodlum.

  “So much for diversion,” mumbled Logan glumly.

  Unconsciously he struck out on the path leading to the harbor. Maybe a visit with Jesse Cameron would help. But even as the thought came to him and her animated face rose in his mind’s eye, he wondered to himself if he really wanted to see the feisty fisherwoman. She certainly would not let him get away with mere superficial chitchat.

  No, he couldn’t deal with that just now. Instead, he took the street westward. He’d go out on the beach and sit on a lonely sand dune for a while till he got his thoughts straightened out. Right now he didn’t want to see anybody!

  Passing the harbor and then crossing the wide stretch of flat sandy beach that rose gradually fifty yards inland to rolling dunes, Logan caught the heavy odor of fish from the processing plant. Suddenly the sounds of the machinery inside and the squawking of the perpetual gathering of gulls around the refuse bins invaded his consciousness as well.

  Just what he needed! A not-so-subtle reminder of today’s blow-up with Allison. A reminder that he didn’t have to die some inglorious death on a dirty back street in Northhampton or Brighton. A reminder that if he would just give in and be what they all expected of him, he could make everyone happy. A reminder that a whole new life awaited him as manager of Port Strathy’s major industry. A reminder that if he would only—

  But it wasn’t what he wanted. He shook his head in frustration.

  And from his self-centeredness, anger arose to join his feelings of being abused and misunderstood. Did Allison really know him so little that she could think he’d be happy there? She is the selfish one, he thought. Her husband couldn’t be a war hero, so at least she could make him into a prestigious pillar of the community. Her community! To make her look good! To give her security and contentment.

  But what about him? What about what he wanted? What about his own happiness and sense of worth?

  Yet, who could blame her? Everyone would agree that she deserved so much better than what she got, and Logan would be the first to concur. She would have made any of her public school friends proud as their wife. She had been courted by the cream of the crop before he came along. Today, she could have been the wife of a lord or a financier. But instead she was stuck with a nobody, a hoodlum, and worse. She wanted more for him because she deserved more. Yet the truth would always be that she would never have more than a second-rate loser for a husband. And there was nothing he could do about it. He was what he was. He couldn’t change his past, his common blood, his street-wise ways. He was not one of them, never would be, never could be. He was a hustler. He would never be able to fit into Allison’s mold, even if he wanted to. Right now he wasn’t sure he did want to. But even if he did, even if he took the job, even if he became utterly respectable on the outside, it would never change the person he was inside.

  Again came the conviction—Allison deserved better. She would be better off without him. Then she could be free. And he could follow his own life without having to carry around the guilt of knowing he didn’t measure up to what she needed.

  Logan came to an impasse in his thoughts. What to do? They both wanted the other to be happy. There still flowed love between them. Yet each was unable to sacrifice personal goals and personal contentment toward that end. Happiness for the other, yes—but while perserving their own individual goals for life. Was such a thing possible? Probably not.

  Why couldn’t marriage be that way? Why couldn’t both people be happy? Why did one have to give everything up, lose his identity, in order for the other to be content? It must be possible for a marriage to work so that both husband and wife were satisfied. Molly and Skits had certainly enjoyed that kind of marriage. And he had known others too. What was the secret?

  Maybe it all boiled down to whether the marriage was meant to be in the first place. And if not . . . then probably all the scheming in the world wouldn’t make it work.

  Was that where he and Allison stood at this moment—in a marriage that was never meant to be in the first place, and was therefore doomed to fail no matter what either of them did? Not a pleasant thought!

  Logan sighed, stood slowly, and headed back down the hill of sand the way he had come. Again he avoided the harbor. He couldn’t see Jesse right now, or anyone for that matter. He almost wished he had the guts to go down to Roy’s in Old Town and get plastered. But he hadn’t yet sunk so low as to go out on a drunken binge.

  He supposed he should pray. But he couldn’t make his mind focus enough for that. All he could see was his pitiful self, his failure as a husband, and the terrible thing he knew he was going to have to do before many more hours passed.

  13

  A Mother’s Advice

  When she and Logan had parted, Allison rushed upstairs. She gave the child to the nurse, then sought the silence of the library where she could unburden her pain behind stacks of silent, unseeing books.

  By the time she emerged some time later, it had grown dark and stormy outside. She heard the steady pelting of rain against the windows, but all throughout the house was quiet. She hadn’t been aware of the passage of time and was now unsure how late it was. Had everyone gone to bed? She found herself wondering where Logan was, or if he was still there at all.

  Her heart ached at that final thought. She knew she had been wrong to make him angry. But it was such a little thing! Why did he have to be so stubborn, so proud? Allison knew they could be happy here at Stonewycke. Why couldn’t he see that! What difference did a job make? Why did he always fly off the handle at any mention of it? Especially when all she was ever trying to do was help! Being together—that’s what was important. Loving each other. Why couldn’t he see that? Why couldn’t he—?

  She couldn’t finish the thought. She had felt certain of his love when he had stepped off the schooner four days ago. But now . . .

  Suddenly Allison heard the floor creak behind her. She started and spun around, her heart pounding. But the disappointment was clearly evident on her face when she saw it was not Logan at all.

  “There you are, Allison.”

  “Mother.”

  “I saw the car in front, but I didn’t see you and Logan return,” said Joanna. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  “I—we . . .” Allison began, but the tears, which had only been checked on the surface, rushed forth again. She bit her lip and screwed her eyes shut, but nothing could stop them from flowing afresh as if the well-springs of her sadness had not abated a drop from the last hour’s crying.

  “Dear, what is it?” said Joanna, approaching. But she hardly needed to ask the question. She had sensed that her daughter and son-in-law had all along been running from their problems and that sooner or later a painful confrontation must occur. For the moment, however, she said nothing more. She placed an arm around Allison, led her to one of the library chairs, and sat down quietly next to her, comforting her with the nearness of motherly love.

  Gradually Allison managed a tearful account of the afternoon. She told her mother everything, from the joyful discovery of the secluded meadow to the final angry outburst of emotion. She ended with the question she had already posed to herself many times.

  “Mother, why can’t we work things out?”

  Joanna knew the reason. But was her daught
er ready to hear it?

  “Allison,” she began, “there has to be some self-sacrifice in a marriage. If you both stubbornly try to hang on to your own personal desires, you might never work things out. People so often mistake what marriage really is all about. It’s not getting. It’s laying down your life for the other.”

  “Well, I’ve sacrificed plenty!” exclaimed Allison. “I willingly left home and went to London. I’ve lived in that crummy flat, where my friends are embarrassed to visit me. I’ve put up with his starting a new job practically every week, and when he’s between jobs, living on a budget that makes rationing look like wealth. What has Logan ever sacrificed?”

  “Is it truly sacrifice, dear, when you expect something in return?”

  “There you go sticking up for him again!” retorted Allison.

  “I’m not sticking up for either of you,” returned Joanna, her calm, soft-spoken voice rising slightly. “You both just have a lot to learn about marriage, that’s all. And about what sacrifice really means. You say you love him and he loves you, yet I haven’t seen either of you demonstrate the kind of love for each other that Paul says is to characterize a marriage, the kind of love Jesus had for the Church, the kind of love that lays down your life, not having things comfortable and how you want them.”

  “But I’ve tried so hard, Mother!” replied Allison, breaking into fresh tears.

  “Oh, my dear child,” said Joanna, taking her weeping daughter into her arms, gently stroking her head. After a few moments she said, “You can’t make a marriage work without facing that simple fact of what sacrifice really means. And then you have to ask God to help you do it. It’s not easy, Allison—for anyone. It hasn’t been easy for me. But God can and will help, once you reach that point of being willing to lay everything down. Only He can give you the strength to do what it might take to heal your relationship. True loving sacrifice goes so against our human grain that it is impossible for us to do alone.”