by Rodney Jones
“Well, it’s mighty thoughtful of you passing around advice like that and all. I’ll keep it in mind… if I can remember to. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, Hugh.”
chapter fourteen
“MR. KENNEDY,” ABIGAIL WHISPERED. A large, heavily bearded man stepped past the display window to the left of the entrance to Jacobson’s General. “I do not care for that man.”
I turned to look out of the corner of my eye. “Oh?”
“Have you heard about the Kennedy girl?” She tied a piece of twine around the roll of fabric my aunt was having me purchase. It would eventually become a dress for our neighbor, Zach’s soon-to-be-bride, Polly.
“No, I don’t believe I’ve met any of the Kennedys.”
Abigail’s eyes kept shifting toward the front of the store. “Well, of course not. But everyone’s been talking about it. I thought you might have heard.”
“Heard what?”
“She up and disappeared the other day. Left for school— she attends the same school as Emily—and, well, she didn’t show up. Pa thinks she ran away, but Mr. Kennedy is claiming she was kidnapped. Pa happens to know for a fact that Mr. Kennedy is sometimes overzealous when it comes to discipline.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, it’s just awful. Everyone’s been looking for her.”
“I sure hope she’s all right,” I said.
Since the last time I had been in Rutland, going on a month, I’d become more comfortable with Mrs. Jacobson’s hospitality. I’d just spent another night at their home before attending to the business I’d brought along. The Hemings had given me some silver and a list of hardware Zach needed: nails, glass, and a sundry of such—in addition to the usual list from my aunt.
While Paul and I loaded the glass into the wagon, I went on about the dance at the Watkins’s place in Weston and hinted at my interest in Zella Shaw, which I believed satisfied his suspicions of me holding something back. After I described her, he said he knew of her. She’d been in their store “more than a few times.”
I had the feeling he could tell me just how many times more than a few, but I didn’t pry. I asked him if he had the impression that she was a bit overly aware of her beauty.
“You can hardly hold that against her, John, as pretty as she is.”
Maybe I was wrong to feel that way, but that particular attribute, in my mind anyhow, was like having a little wart on the end of your nose—just a minor flaw, but for its location.
Paul glanced off toward the depot. Curious as to what had his interest, I turned. The entire sky was blanketed in dusty gray, though along the mountain ridge west of Rutland was a band of dark approaching the color of night. Before I got underway, he gave me a hand stretching a tarp over the back of the wagon.
“I don’t envy you, John… that long drive.” We both studied a particularly grim stretch of sky to the northwest. “Be careful.”
I nodded toward the two horses hitched to the front of the wagon. “These fellows here know the road better than I do. I may just crawl in under that tarp and take a good long nap.”
Paul chuckled. “You let me know how that works out for you.”
I climbed up onto the driver’s bench, started the team moving, then turned and gave my friend a salute. “Take care.”
Paul followed alongside the wagon. “Just one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Happy birthday.”
“It’s a day or two away yet, but thank you.”
“Now, does that mean tomorrow or the next day?”
I grinned. “Which is the twenty-fifth?”
“That’d be the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s the one it means.”
The road was still as dry and dusty as ever as I approached Wallingford. I passed a boy walking along the right edge of the road yanking hard on a cow that must have wandered loose, then glanced off to my left, and there it was: that place. Every time I passed there, I felt pulled, but that time seemed to tug on me like that boy tugging on his cow.
Over a month had passed since my encounter with the future, a month since I’d last seen Tess, and more than ever, I had an awful hankering to talk about it. There were days I thought I’d explode if I didn’t tell someone.
I stopped the wagon, set the brake, and walked up into the woods. I was hoping to find that level spot where Tess’s house would someday be. I hiked a wide switchback going up to my left, then back to the right, and still found nothing. I was quite a ways up before I decided I’d gone too far. I looked off to the north and then the opposite direction. I couldn’t see very far either way with all the trees and underbrush, but I had a feeling I was too far south. I walked north a bit and started back down. Then, I heard thunder. I looked up, half-expecting to see one of those flying machines, but saw only dark gray sky.
Before I felt the first drop, I heard the rattle of leaves above me. I kept a poncho under the bench on the wagon, but a lot of good that was, me being a half-mile from it. Hustling back, I kept my eyes peeled for anything familiar. By the time I reached the wagon, the wet had found its way through my clothes—not too bad, but I knew it’d be damp the rest of the drive home. I threw the poncho over my shoulders and started the team moving. The rain wasn’t hard, but seemed as though it would be a steady, all-day one. I kept looking off to my left, wondering if maybe I’d picked the wrong spot. It puzzled me that I hadn’t been able to find anything up there. Sometimes, I’d find myself doubting the whole thing had ever happened, but I still had the flashlight and that piece of ribbon from the first time I was there.
Just about every evening, I would read a little. I’d bring that flashlight out, twist the end, and light the pages of Mr. Verne’s book. I was nearly through the story a second time and would’ve read it a third, except it was nearing the time I’d agreed to return it. The opportunity just hadn’t yet arrived, as it was getting into harvest time, and I’d been so busy helping my uncle at the mill. I was hoping to get into Ludlow within the coming week and bring home another one of his stories.
The Wallingford train depot was just ahead, to my right. The station was a small two-room affair and had a fifteen-foot-square waiting area with a window in the south wall where people could watch a northbound train approaching. The place was abandoned and apt to remain so until late afternoon when the next train was scheduled. I took off my poncho and shirt and laid them out to dry, then sat on the one and only bench and opened the package of food Mrs. Jacobson had so kindly provided. I didn’t want to prolong such a wet day, but I wanted to dry out some before heading up that soggy mountain road.
After eating, I sat listening to the hiss of rain falling on the tin roof. I’d always been fond of that sound. Just another minute, I told myself. That minute stretched into the next five or ten. I glanced toward the window. Water clinging to the glass caught the green of the trees lining the other side of the track and the gray of the sky—a miniature world in each drop. I let another minute pass, then finally got up, collected my things, and stepped out into the drizzle.
I pulled a rag from the box under the seat of the wagon and wiped off a spot to sit, got myself squared, then gave the team a quick snap of the reins and started up the muddy road. The rain made for slow going, and there was the glass in the back to keep in mind, too.
About two miles out of Wallingford, a man on horseback approached from ahead. “Mr. Bartley, I presume.”
“Yes, sir?” I didn’t immediately recognize him, but as he drew closer, I did. “Mr. Young?” The last time I’d seen him was the Mosier dancin’. “You picked a fine day for a mosey.”
“If it were a mosey, I’d not be here. That’s for dang sure. I got word my brother up in Brandon broke a leg, clumsy fool. I’m headed up that ways to lend a hand.”
“Who’s watching the farm?”
“Well, now, I figure the old lady can leastwise keep it from blowin’ away. Her youngest brother, George, said he’d come by a time and again to help out. I’m a-hopin
’ to be back ’fore long. Got corn to get in yet, you know, and I hear the Sinclairs are gonna be havin’ a dancin’ down the way, Sabbaday after next. I done missed the Watkins’s and ain’t a-plannin’ on missin’ another, winter a-ridin’ our tail as it is.”
“The Sinclairs? I ain’t heard anything of it.”
“Well, I heard it from the old man himself. Said he’d be inviting everyone, come church tomorrow. Said he was thinkin’ of havin’ it the followin’ Sabbaday, but the cider festival is on that weekend, you know.”
“You’ve got a long, wet day ahead of you here. I shouldn’t be keeping you.”
“You got yourself a good puddle on your tarp there. You maybe should do somethin’ about that before you get some leakin’.”
“Yup. I’ll see to that. Take care, Mr. Young.”
News of the dancing took my mind from the constant drizzle. I wondered if my aunt and uncle would even consider attending with it coming so soon after the Watkins’s dance. It wouldn’t have mattered, really, but there was Zella to consider. I wasn’t the only fellow around with designs on her, and my not being there to maintain what advantage I might’ve gained thus far could very well jeopardize my chances of a courtship. The more I thought about it, the more important attending that social became—and any other, until I made my intentions clear. But if my aunt and uncle weren’t willing, then, well, that’d simply be that.
To shorten the way to the front door, I pulled the wagon up close to the house. The same persistent drizzle that’d accompanied me since Wallingford was falling there as well. I was thinking I’d unload my aunt’s things, then take the wagon to the barn, put the horses in their stalls, and leave the building materials for the next day.
As I was climbing down from the wagon, my uncle stepped out. I could see in that first instant that something had him all fired. “Leave that, John. Follow me.”
He headed toward the mill. There was some kind of trouble, and I was thinking hard, trying to get a jump on it. I quickly went over what I’d done in the mill the day before, but it was all simple, everyday kinds of things. Then it came to me—the flashlight. Why would they be going through…? Had I left it lying out? I tried to picture the room the way I’d left it. I followed my uncle into the mill and closed the door behind me.
“Sit down.” My uncle struck a match to a lamp and set it on the bench next to him.
I sat on a small barrel near the bucket leg. “Is Aunt Lil all right?”
“Lil’s fine. There’s just some things I need to know, is all. First of all, what’ve you been doing on these trips into Rutland, besides the obvious?”
“I stopped in Wallingford for a time at the train depot. Mrs. Jacobson gave me some supper, and because it was raining, I thought I’d get out of it for a spell.”
“And the other times?”
“The other times, sir?”
“The other times you were in Wallingford.”
“I reckon I just passed on through is all, sir.”
“I’d strongly advise you not to lie to me.”
A cool line of sweat ran down my side from my armpit. All I could figure was, someone saw me in Wallingford, mistook what it was I was doing there, and then felt it their business to tell my uncle. “No, sir, I wouldn’t lie to you.” I shook my head. “There was maybe a couple times I stopped near there to watch the train go by. That’s about all I can remember, sir.”
“And what about gals?”
“What?”
“There’s a young lady here claiming she’s from Wallingford. Appears she’s walked all that way in the rain… to tell you something.”
I knew I had the most baffled look on my face, because that was exactly what I was. “Sir, I don’t know any…” Then it came to me. “Tess?” It felt peculiar saying her name out loud. I wasn’t even sure it was out loud, so I said it again. “Tess?”
“That’d be the young lady in question here, yup.”
“Tess is here?” I turned my head in the direction of the house as I tried to imagine her being there, perhaps seated at the kitchen table with a cup of hot tea.
“John, you have some explaining to do, and I’d suggest you start right now, and say it all clean and straight.”
I needed time to think, but I didn’t have time. I had to come up with a story, quick. The problem was, I realized my story would have to match whatever story she might’ve given.
“Sir, did she tell you she’s from…?”
“Wallingford. I believe I just said as much.”
“It was the time before last. I stopped to watch the train. She was there. We talked was all.” An awful feeling came over me. It seemed as though I had just, in one quick and wretched stroke, destroyed whatever bond existed between my uncle and me.
“Talked?”
“Yes, sir, just talked.”
“I’d like to know what’s going on here, John. Hugh Stewart shows up a few hours back with this young gal he found wandering, alone, down the mountain, underdressed, I might add, and soaked to the bone. He says the poor gal was too scared to talk except to tell him she’s got something to say to you.” My uncle gave me a hard look. “She won’t say what it is. Won’t tell us who her folks are, how it is she knows you, or anything. She just says she needs to tell you something.”
I let my eyes drift away from his, down to my feet, while I searched for a response.
“There’s something not right about all this. Am I to believe she just happened by when you were at the train tracks and introduced herself, and you two just… just talked… and that’s all it is? That’s the only way you know this gal?”
“Yes, sir, we just talked. She was already standing there before I got there. I went up to her and introduced myself. We watched the train go by and then talked for a bit. I told her I was from Greendale. I reckon I did most the talking because I don’t recall her saying much of anything about herself.”
“That’s all it was?”
“Yes, sir, that’s all.”
“She didn’t strike you as peculiar?”
“No, sir.”
“Her walking all this way in this weather and all to see you… now, doesn’t that seem peculiar?”
“I reckon it does, sir.”
“My guess is she’s either touched in the head or badly smitten with you, or both. And that dress she had on. Was she dressed queer when you saw her?”
“No, sir. She was wearing a plain gray dress, what had flowers—daisies, I reckon it was—on it.”
“Well, something ain’t square here, son. You need to find out what it is she wants and be done with it, then we’ll get her home to her folks. They’re likely worried furious about now.”
“Tonight, sir?”
“What? No. Not in this weather. We’ll wait ’til mornin’, see if things look any better. Lil won’t like it, but we’ll maybe have to miss church. We’ll put this gal in your room tonight, which means you’ll be sleeping in the parlor. But first off, get those groceries brought in out of the rain and the team taken care of. Lil’s got supper on. I’m a-guessing this gal’ll be dragged out and hungry after a day such as she’s had.”
I was, at that moment, nearly terrified. Tess was there in my uncle’s house, waiting for me to walk in… and then what? “You think I should just… ask her what it is?”
“She won’t talk to your aunt or me. I suggest we get her fed, and then maybe you can get her talking over supper.”
“Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but what if it’s something she doesn’t want you or Aunt Lil to know? What if she, for whatever reason, just wants me to know?”
“If she can’t say it in front of us all, then it shouldn’t be said. And, by God, you shouldn’t be associating with gals of that nature anyhow.”
“Yes, sir.”
We walked back toward the house. My uncle went on inside, and I went to the wagon for the kitchen supplies. When I came in with my arms full, my uncle was in the kitchen, talking to my aunt. I didn’t see Tess
. I set the packages down on the little table near the kitchen door and went back for the rest. I wondered if they had her locked up in my room or something. It felt awful, the idea of her coming all this way to see me, taking the risks she did, and then ending up being treated like a stray dog.
I hurried to put the wagon in the barn and the horses in their stalls, then fed and watered the animals. I had a fuse burning inside of me, but couldn’t know what was at the end of it. Was it excitement, fear, disappointment, joy? It felt like a mix of every emotion under the moon, sun, and stars—a riled hornets’ nest. When I returned to the house, my aunt was setting the dining room table—four places. After a winded greeting, I followed her into the kitchen. The air was damp, warm, and full of cooking smells. She cracked open the oven door, peeked inside, then pulled it the rest of the way open. The sweet, yeasty smell of rolls spilled into the room.
“You want to let our guest know that supper’s on?”
“Where is she?”
“John.”
I turned. Tess stood in the doorway of the dining room wearing a brown dress that belonged to my aunt. She looked tired, a little pale, and nervous. I smiled in an effort to offer some comfort, but I didn’t believe it was any more reassuring than a smile given to a drowning man.
Her eyes locked onto mine. I had the queerest feeling, as though I was the one trapped instead of her. I couldn’t give her what she needed. I couldn’t say any of the things wanting, needing, craving to be said. I held her gaze for a moment, hoping to find evidence that she understood.
“Tess.” I searched my mind for the right thing, but nothing came. “You all right?”
“I don’t know… I…” Her eyes appeared moist, on the verge of tears.
I took a step toward her and gestured to the dining room behind her. “You want to have a seat, have some supper?”
She turned and looked toward the table. I didn’t know that she was ever going to answer, but then, after a long moment passed, she asked, “Where do I sit?”
I led her to a chair and pulled it away from the table. I bent down to her ear and whispered, “Tess, this isn’t going to be easy, I reckon you know. Please, just bear with me.”
