Touched

by Carolyn Haines

  JoHanna was leaning against the same big, smooth trunk of a wild bay tree and she pulled Duncan up into her arms, so I was the most convenient audience for Floyd to look at. He sat with legs apart, hands balanced on his knees as he leaned forward to eagerly begin the story. As a gunslinger or storyteller, Floyd had his moments to shine.

  “Have you ever been to Fitler, Mattie?” he asked.

  “No. I want to go. JoHanna’s told me some about it.”

  “It was the biggest town in this area, a boomtown.” He leaned forward even more and looked around at JoHanna, proud at the use of her expression. “That was back around 1880 and up until Mr. Kretzler built the railroad here in Jexville. That sort of sucked the life out of Fitler.”

  “The railroad runs on time and the river has its own schedule,” JoHanna said. “Folks were more decent when they had to rely on the river. They couldn’t get away with being as mean because they had to depend on each other more.”

  Floyd nodded, as if he’d seen such sights with his own eyes. “That’s true. But the story is that if the bridge over the Pascagoula River at Fitler had been finished, then Jexville would have been the town to die. That’s why it’s such a mystery what happened to Jacob Senseney, the man who had the money to get the bridge built.”

  Duncan leaned forward in her mother’s arms. She was exhausted from the nightmare and the exercises we’d done, without further leg improvement, but she was unwilling to give up the day and nap. “Old Mr. Senseney disappeared and was never heard from again. Some say—”

  “Duncan!” JoHanna clapped a hand over her mouth and pulled her back into her chest, laughing as Duncan pretended to struggle. “You wanted Floyd to tell the story, so don’t spoil it for Mattie.”

  Duncan squealed, then nodded yes that she would behave, and JoHanna removed her hand.

  “Anyway, Fitler was a hoppin’ place.” Floyd shook back his hair and smiled at me. “The main street was nearly a mile long, and there were five saloons and three of those had whorehouses on the top. Right beside the finest of the whorehouses was the jail, then a land office, and on down were three cafés and a restaurant with a French chef from New Orleans.” He looked at JoHanna, who nodded. “JoHanna ate at the French restaurant. She said she had crepes!” He smiled big that he had used the word. “And other things that I don’t want to think about.”

  JoHanna laughed. “My parents had come down to Fitler to invest in the timber business and the town. They were going to build a big sawmill there, to compete with the one in Pascagoula. But the hitch was, there had to be a way to get the lumber inland. At Pascagoula, they load it onto ships and sail it to market. Fitler needed an inland system. A railroad. And to get the railroad a bridge was needed. The ferry was very risky because of the river currents.” She brushed her hand over Duncan’s head and stopped talking.

  I’d heard from Janelle how JoHanna’s folks had drowned on that very same ferry. Yet she still took Duncan swimming in the Pascagoula as often as she could. Almost as if she defied the river. Or maybe joined with it.

  Floyd picked up a small twig and twirled it in his big hands. “Mr. Senseney was a Yankee from up in Minnesota. From all the old tales, he was the black sheep of the family and had come south to avoid the law.”

  “What had he done?” I interrupted without thinking. “Sorry, Floyd.”

  “It’s okay. There are a lot of different stories about that.” He gave JoHanna a look as if he expected her to jump in. When she didn’t, he continued on with only a slight hesitation in his voice. “The best I could tell was that he was the second brother in a family and his daddy left everything to the oldest son. Lots of folks around here think like that, that the oldest boy inherits and the others have to fend for themselves. So the land won’t be divided.”

  “For those families who have something to divide.” I hadn’t intended my comment to sound so bitter, but it fell into the middle of the story like a stone. For a few seconds there was silence, then the screech of a red-tail hawk, which broke the tension, and Floyd continued.

  “Jacob Senseney was said to have stolen all the money from the family business and headed south to make his own fortune.” Floyd grinned. “There’s a tale that says he left a note saying he was taking only a portion of what should have been his fair share. That may be true or not. As far as I ever heard, no lawman ever came looking for him, and he made a fortune down in Mississippi in land and timber. He owned two of the saloons in Fitler and two of the really bad ones that were set up like houseboats and floated up and down the river. But his pride and joy was an old paddleboat called the Mon Ami. That’s another French word for ‘my love.’ He did love that old boat, ‘cause he stayed on it a lot, going up and down the river having card games and such.”

  I started to tell them about the card game that Elikah held on Sundays, but I held my tongue. It wasn’t my business to tell, and I didn’t want to even say his name on such a nice day.

  “Mr. Senseney got in with JoHanna’s daddy, and that was when the bridge became more than just a dream. It was going to cost a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars to build, and the state wouldn’t give a penny. The state engineers said the current was too strong right there at the fork of the Leaf and Chickasawhay, but Mr. Dunagan, that’s JoHanna’s daddy, and Mr. Senseney hired their own engineer who said it could be done.”

  Floyd’s voice had picked up a fast rhythm so that it seemed as if he’d told the story many times after learning it from someone else. Or perhaps he did have a flair for the telling. His face was alive, his blue eyes holding mine with a trust that finally revealed itself as his deficiency. He trusted me to listen, to believe as he believed. He trusted me to give as much as he gave, and for that he was the object of ridicule and sport on the streets of Jexville. In his complete innocence, he believed that Clyde Odom and others of his ilk were playing with him.

  “Is something wrong, Mattie?” He was staring at me with concern.

  “No, Floyd.” I patted his knee and felt the rock-hard muscle of a young man. “I was listening too hard. Please go on.”

  He nodded, picking up the story. “So it was agreed that if Dunagan and Senseney built the bridge, then the state would improve the road north of Fitler to Meridian and south of Fitler to Mobile. The road was part of the old federal roadway, and a well-traveled route.” He cast a glance at JoHanna. “The drawback being the ferry.”

  “Why didn’t they build two smaller bridges over the Leaf and Chickasawhay?” I’d never seen any of the rivers, but I loved the word Chickasawhay. It was like music in my mouth.

  Floyd looked at JoHanna, who now supported Duncan’s head on her chest. Duncan was fighting sleep, but her sharp eyes were becoming slow and lazy. Pecos had even settled onto a roost in an old huckleberry bush beside her.

  JoHanna’s voice was soft, low. “The swamps at the fork of the rivers are very dense, especially where the bridge would have gone. To go upriver would have meant abandoning all the benefits that the wider, deeper Pascagoula gave the town as far as river traffic. In Daddy’s mind, and Mr. Senseney’s, it was Fitler or nowhere. Especially since that was where Mr. Senseney owned so much land and where growth would have meant even more money for him.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, there was the terrible ferry accident where Mr. and Mrs. Dunagan drowned.” Tenderhearted to a fault, Floyd said those words all in a rush and didn’t dwell on them. “But Mr. Senseney was determined to go ahead with the project. It took him a year or two, but he got the supplies together and began to pour the cement supports that would hold up the bridge in the swift current. It was a wonder, and people came from all around to watch the work, which was slow as molasses. But finally the supports were in, and standing. That spring there was the worse flooding ever. One of the supports was hit by a barge that had come loose. The supports held! It was time to build the platform of the bridge!”

  Floyd leaned toward me, his eyes bright. God he was a handsome man. And not the least aware o
f it. I wanted to reach out and touch his face but knew that it would be wrong. No matter what my intentions, it would be wrong. It would not matter that what I wanted to touch was his tenderness, his sense of wonder. I held my own hand in my lap.

  “That night Mr. Senseney was in his biggest saloon, The Watering Hole, and he was saying that he was headed out early in the morning to New Augusta to buy supplies there. Then he was going straight down to Pascagoula to buy more supplies there. It was his plan to start building the bridge from both sides! He said it would be done in six months, and then he had an appointment with the head of South Central railroad. See, if a wagon bridge could be made across the river, then he was certain a railroad bridge could be put a little farther downstream. At the bar he was so excited he bought drinks for everyone, and drank a little too much himself. Then he went home.”

  Duncan had fallen asleep with the familiar story, but I was spellbound. “What happened?”

  “Since Mr. Senseney said he was leaving before daybreak, no one missed him for several weeks. It would have taken him some time to go to New Augusta, get back and he’d said he was going straight down the river to Pascagoula, and the Mon Ami was gone. Everyone thought he was on board her. But after five weeks and there was no sign of him or his supplies, folks began to wonder. He didn’t come to collect his rents or take care of his business, and the Mon Ami returned and the captain said he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Jacob Senseney. They telegraphed a family by his name in Foley, Minnesota, but he wasn’t up home with his folks. He’d just vanished.” Floyd lifted his eyebrows over his kind blue eyes. “And he was never found.”

  “What happened to the bridge?” I asked.

  “It was never finished,” Johanna said. “The supports are still in the water, holding as firm as he and Daddy said they would. But no one ever had the money to buy the materials, and when the railroad decided to go through Jexville, it was the end of Fitler and the dream of the bridge.”

  “That’s a sad story.” It had left me with a hollow sensation. “All of that work, all of those dreams. Where do you think Mr. Senseney went?”

  “Folks thought he was murdered, but there was never a body. Some said he got scared and took the money and left. Part of it was Daddy’s money and I was supposed to get some of it.” JoHanna acted as if she was talking about marbles or jacks, something unimportant.

  “Part of a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars was yours?”

  JoHanna’s smile was tired, as if she’d spent all the energy she ever would on this subject. “Half of it. Daddy put up half the money for the bridge, and Mr. Senseney said he would finish Daddy’s dream and then give me my money back plus a portion of the profits he made on his land.”

  “And what happened?”

  “There was no written agreement. His property was sold or stolen, and I guess they sent the money to his family in Minnesota.”

  “JoHanna, that’s awful.”

  “I haven’t done without much.” She shrugged, careful not to awaken Duncan. “Don’t feel bad for me, Mattie, I’ve had a good life. Very good. Except for a few misfortunes, I’ve been very lucky. I never knew the money before it was gone, so I didn’t regret it that much. Just at times.” Her smile was even tireder. “Just at times when I think it could do some good. But …” She shook her head, dismissing the rest of whatever she was going to say. “I think someone killed Mr. Senseney. Folks said he was a crook and that he ran off with the money, but I never believed it.”

  “The law didn’t hunt for him?”

  JoHanna’s smile was hardly a smile at all. “The law is only as good as the community it serves.”

  “And Fitler was an evil place?” To hear JoHanna talk about it, Fitler was wild, but she’d never led me to believe it was corrupt.

  “Jexville became the county seat. The sheriff was here. There wasn’t a lot of interest in what had happened to Mr. Senseney.”

  “Because it was to the benefit of Jexville.” It didn’t take a bloodhound to track down that trail.

  Floyd picked up the last of the sandwiches and bit into it. He chewed and swallowed. “They say Mr. Senseney’s ghost walks the old main street of Fitler. JoHanna and Duncan are gonna take me one night to see. I’ll bet I can talk to him.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, Floyd. You’re an innocent, and spirits know to trust you.” JoHanna reached around the tree and patted his arm. “Now Mr. Moses is going to expect you to get back to the shop and work this evening to make up for being gone today. Remember, you can’t tell anyone about Mattie being here. It’s our secret.”

  “Mattie’s gonna stay out here with you and Will?” Floyd grinned at me. “Maybe I can stay, too.”

  “I have to go home to Elikah,” I told him. “Tomorrow.”

  “I have to go to work.” He stood up and began to pick up the picnic things. “Let me take Duncan,” he said as JoHanna tried to rise holding her. He lifted the child up into his arms as if she were made of fluff. Her little legs dangled, pale and fragile-looking with a few blotched scars, but she slept like a rock. The fact that she had made no progress during her exercises this morning had disappointed her greatly.

  JoHanna caught one lifeless foot in her hand and held it, as if she were examining it for the first time. “Duncan had the dream again.”

  Floyd looked down at her. “No one will hurt her, JoHanna. I’d never let them hurt Duncan.”

  JoHanna rose. “I know, Floyd. You and Pecos are her guardian angels.”

  “Duncan helps me with my work.” Floyd tilted Duncan into his arms so he could look at her face. “She tells me things.”

  “I’m sure she does.” JoHanna sounded slightly skeptical.

  “She gave Floyd a design.” I felt some strange need to take his side, to be sure that JoHanna knew he was telling the truth, not just making it up. “It’s beautiful. For one of the boots he’s making.”

  JoHanna brushed Duncan’s head, the fine, dark hair rippling like sleek cat’s fur. “Maybe Duncan will be a painter.”

  “Or a dancer,” I said. “When her legs are well.”

  “Or a storyteller,” Floyd added.

  Johanna lightly kissed Duncan’s head. “We don’t care, do we, as long as she’s happy.”

  “She can be anything she wants, as long as she’s happy,” Floyd said.

  JoHanna picked up the picnic basket, nudged Pecos with her knee, and motioned for me to take the lead with her as Floyd carried Duncan home in his arms.

  Thirteen

  JOHANNA turned on the path, laughing at something Floyd had said about Pecos as we came out of the woods. I was the first one to see Will’s car. It was parked beneath the chinaberry tree, a gleaming red monster of a car.

  Two thoughts struck me almost at once. Will was home, and JoHanna would be able to take me to the doctor in Mobile. I felt as if all the air had disappeared out of my lungs and all the sounds of the earth had stopped. There was only the pounding silence, the heat and sunlight, white-hot light, that danced on the hood of that red car.

  “Mattie!” JoHanna’s hand caught my elbow, shoring me up as Floyd came up behind me and put a hand between my shoulder blades.

  The sounds came back and the light dimmed and I could breathe again. “I’m okay.”

  “I didn’t expect Will until much later.” JoHanna sounded worried and excited.

  “You want me to put Duncan in the hammock or take her to bed?” Floyd asked. He looked toward the road. “I’d better head back. Mr. Moses will be thinking I left for good.”

  “The hammock will be fine.” JoHanna looked again at the back door, as if she expected Will to appear.

  “Thanks for the picnic,” Floyd said as he eased Duncan into the hand-knotted sling that was tied between the chinaberry tree and a much smaller grancy graybeard. Both trees cast thick shade, lowering the temperature by a good ten degrees. A mockingbird squalled an insult at us for interrupting her privacy.

  “Thanks for the story, Floyd.” I answered becau
se JoHanna was looking at the back door again. “Go on. I’ll stay here and watch Duncan.”

  Floyd waved and took off, his long legs moving with pantherlike grace, completely unaware that his body rippled with a signal his mind did not comprehend.

  “I’ll be back in a moment.” JoHanna walked to the clothesline, where she rested her left hand. Her eyes were trained on the kitchen window. “Would you mind keeping an eye on Duncan?”

  JoHanna acted nervous, almost afraid. Had she and Will had a fight? “Go on and see about Will.” I went over to the hammock and took a seat on the ground, bracing against the smooth bark of the chinaberry to the further fury of the bird. I ignored the squawking and focused on Duncan. Whatever nightmare had tormented her this morning, there was no trace of it on her face now. Her eyes were softly closed, her mouth pursed in the rosebud of innocence.

  JoHanna watched me and Duncan for a minute, then let go of the line. She hesitated a moment like a doe at a branch when she smells a human approaching, then started forward to the door. Once she was in motion, there was no doubt, no weighing of alternative actions.

  “Will?” she spoke his name as she went up the steps and opened the screen door. He stepped out of the shadows, caught her against him and picked her up with a growl.

  They seemed to struggle, and I half rose from my position on the ground. My hand closed around a piece of lighter that someone had put in the yard with the intention of splitting. The screen door slammed with terrific force, and they disappeared into the kitchen. There was the sound of the oven slamming shut. I stood up slowly, the wood in my grip, and made sure that Duncan was still asleep. I heard them again.

  “You bastard! You’ve been in my pot roast. No wonder you were so quiet coming home! You didn’t even come looking for us!”

  “A good wife would have been here to feed me.”