The Quill Pen

by Michelle Isenhoff

  He grimaced. “I’d have to draw the line there. Come on. You have enough clams to feed half the town.” He scooped up the bucket and carried it for her as far as the church. There they parted ways.

  At the store, the checkers game was in progress. “Hello, Mr. Hank, Captain Jeb,” he called. “Did you hear what happened at Judge Ruby’s luncheon?”

  Hank laughed. “That was two days ago, son. Everyone has heard that story by now.”

  Jeb scowled and pulled his cocked hat low over his brows. “Merle had no business airing my private affairs to the whole town. I refuse to speak to the woman until she gives me a proper apology.”

  “But why?” Micah wondered. “You deserve the honor.”

  Jeb’s face flamed red. “I served my country because it was the right thing to do, not to be lauded by the likes of that bunch.”

  “Oh, relax, Jeb,” Hank admonished. “Merle defended you in good faith. And you have to admit, you rose like a phoenix out of Ruby’s pyre. Everyone’s been talking about you.”

  “I’d have preferred to remain a common sparrow with my privacy intact.”

  “What’s a phoenix?” Micah asked.

  Hank answered, “A bird of ancient mythology. According to the Greeks, it lived for a thousand years or so. When it neared the end, it would build a nest and set itself afire. A new phoenix would then rise from the ashes.”

  “Well, I’m glad Mrs. Parsons put Old Man Ruby in his place, even if he is dead,” Micah declared.

  When he entered the store, he found his mother behind the counter. He handed her the sack of bonnets and dropped the coins on the counter with a clatter. “I bought—uh, sold twenty.”

  Her eyes widened. “Good work, dear. Your father will be so proud.”

  “Of course he will,” he stated flatly.

  A smile gentled his mother’s features. “Perhaps you should dust the sand off your posterior before you tell him.”

  A commotion sounded out on the porch. Micah heard the voice of Mrs. Parsons. Then Jeb called out, “Hank, tell Merle I’ve got nothing to say to her.”

  “Jeb, you crotchety old fool!”

  “Tell Merle I won’t be insulted by someone of her indiscretion.”

  Mrs. Parsons huffed through the door and marched straight to the counter. “I need a burying suit,” she demanded.

  Micah’s mother took a step back. “A what?”

  “A burying suit. You don’t intend to lay me in my casket wearing these old rags, do you?”

  Anna’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Mrs. Parsons, I’m sure…” She stopped and stared at the widow uncertainly.

  Micah clamped his teeth down on his bottom lip to deflate a rising bubble of amusement. He stepped alongside his mother. “Ma’am, you’re not going to die. You assured me of your health yourself.”

  She gave him the full power of those gray eyes. “Don’t be foolish, boy. Everyone takes their turn.”

  Shrugging, he led her to the yard goods in the corner of the store and pulled a few bolts of fabric off a high shelf. “My father stocks—” he began, but she cut him off.

  “You want me to sew my own clothes? I can’t even see to thread a needle anymore, boy.”

  Anna had recovered by now and approached as graciously as ever. “Mrs. McGreggor does fine needlework, if you find a fabric you like. I highly recommend her,” she offered. At the widow’s stony silence, she continued, “Or we do have a small selection of ready-made clothing.”

  “Then what are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Show them to me.”

  Micah leaned up against a shelf, watching the exchange with veiled amusement. Eventually, after much abuse and deliberation, the widow chose a stark gray suit appropriate for a funeral. As Anna wrapped the garment in brown paper, Micah couldn’t resist a subtle provocation. He opened the bag of unsold hats.

  “Would you like to buy a sunbonnet to match, ma’am? They’re on special this month.”

  Turning to him with her purchase in hand, she replied in level, clipped tones, “The sun doesn’t shine underground, boy,” and marched down the porch steps.

  They held their breath for several ticks before a trickle of laughter escaped Micah’s lips. His mother collapsed against the counter. “I do declare, that woman gets more cantankerous every year she ages. She has no tact. No tact at all.”

  “But she has personality, Mother,” he grinned.

  Micah spread several of the bonnets neatly near the fabrics. The others he used to fill some empty spaces on the dwindling shelves. Next, he pulled a ledger from under the counter and carefully credited Buddy Lincoln’s account for the haircut. He hadn’t yet replaced it when Gabby and her father entered the store.

  Anna stiffened immediately. “Excuse me. I must see to dinner.” She stepped from behind the counter, primly clutching her skirt as if Sanjay had tracked something on the floor she had no wish to drag her hem in.

  The sailor paid her no mind. “Hello, Micah. I have a grocery list here that needs filling.” He held out a scrap of paper. “I met a young lady with a bucket full of clams and thought chowder sounded like a fine way to end a summer day.”

  Micah shuffled his feet with embarrassment and glanced at the open ledger. “Sanjay, I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to extend you any more store credit.”

  The sailor held out a handful of coins. “I got that message. I’ll pay off the rest of my account after I deliver Mrs. Crenshaw’s table.” Then his eye shifted to the bonnets. “What happened here?” he asked, rolling one between his fingers. “Your father rob a millinery?”

  Micah snorted and began filling a crate with the items on the list.

  Sanjay crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “You know, you missed a fine fish fry last night, son. No one can cook up a fresh catch like my Maria.”

  “Must have been better than what my father dished out to me,” Micah replied.

  “He find out you came by?”

  “Yes, sir. I should have stayed for fish.” He glanced at Gabby, who gave him an encouraging smile.

  Sanjay rapped his knuckles against the counter. “You sure are in some kind of predicament, Micah. You and your pa clash like a slaver and a British man-o-war.”

  “I know.” Micah mused, “Maybe it would be best if I just left. If I just took to the hills and struck out on my own.” There. He had said it aloud, as if voicing it might push him to do it.

  Sanjay’s features pulled close together. “It would be wiser to give yourself a few more years, Micah. The world is a tough place for a boy your age.”

  Micah wedged a bag of flour and a box of salt into the crate. “If I wait, I’m afraid I might get buried so deeply in this town I’ll never be able to dig my way out.”

  He dusted off his hands and leaned his elbows on the counter. “Sanjay, how old were you when you went to sea?”

  The sailor’s lips pressed together tightly. “A year younger than you.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Because my father was an angry drunk.”

  Micah’s eyebrows jerked up like Father Holcomb’s. “He hit you?”

  “On good days I avoided most of the blows. On bad days—” he shook his head, remembering.

  Micah whistled low. Set alongside that, his own situation seemed almost idyllic.

  “He beat my mother too, but she wouldn’t leave. When I couldn’t save her, I shipped as cabin boy on a vessel bound for England.”

  “Did you ever go home?”

  Sanjay shook his head regretfully. “I took to life at sea like I’d been born for it. When I was seventeen, I learned my father was dead, but it was several years before I could get home to my mother. By that time, she had passed on as well.”

  “Golly, I’m sorry.”

  Behind Sanjay, Micah could see Gabby listening intently, like a cat following the movements of a mouse in the grass. Her eyes gleamed with an expression he’d never seen be
fore.

  The sailor’s eyes seemed fathoms deep. “It was a long, long time ago.”

  Micah pushed the crate toward the man, unsure what to say. “Your order is finished.”

  Sanjay brightened. “Thank you, Micah. If you want a taste of my famous clam chowder, you know where to find me.”

  He hoisted the box to his shoulder and turned to leave. Then, as if just remembering something, he called back, “Say, Micah, have you ever heard of a man named Nathaniel Cochran?”

  Micah frowned, scanning his memory. “Who is he?”

  “He’d be dead now, but he was a sea captain some years back. I believe he originated in these parts.”

  Micah shook his head. “I never met him, but I’m not the one you should be asking. Come with me.”

  Sanjay followed him out to the porch.

  “Hank, Jeb,” Micah asked, “have you ever heard of a local fellow named Nathaniel Cochran?”

  “Never heard the name till now,” Hank declared, “and I’ve lived here all my life.”

  But Jeb wrinkled his forehead. “Seems I might have, but I’m having trouble placing it.”

  “He was a captain, like you,” Micah prompted.

  “During our Glorious War?”

  Micah turned to Sanjay.

  “Before, most likely,” the man answered.

  Jeb shook his head. “Sorry, lad. Why do you ask?”

  “Sanjay collects lore from the sea. He was wondering about it. You should hear some of his stories sometime. They rival yours, Captain.”

  Jeb gazed at the dark-skinned man suspiciously. “Is that so?”

  Sanjay smiled benignly. “Thank you, gentlemen. If anything comes to mind, please let me know. It just might fill in some holes in a story I’m researching.”

  As the man trotted down the porch steps, Gabby pulled Micah into the building.

  His shoulders tensed up. “What if my father comes in and sees us together? I got in big— Gabby, what is it?”

  Vague uneasiness shrouded her usually smiling face. “Micah, my father—” She shook her head in confusion and glanced toward the door.

  Curiosity nudged him. “What about him?”

  She lowered her voice. “That story he told you? I’ve never heard it before in my life. I thought my grandfather died when my father was a baby.”

  “Did Sanjay tell you that?”

  “I—” she frowned. “I can’t remember. But he never tells the same story twice.”

  At that moment, Gerald entered the store and scowled at the pair.

  Micah froze.

  Gabby’s manner changed immediately. “You have to come see them, Micah,” she gushed, linking her arm through his. “You wouldn’t believe the size of those wild rose shoots you helped me plant this spring.”

  Gerald cleared his throat. “I hope you are here to pay off your store credit. If it goes past due, I will prosecute to the full extent of the law.”

  “As a matter of fact, that is not why I’m here.” She smiled up at him, a challenge blazing in her eyes.

  Gerald sneered with distaste. “Then I cannot imagine your reason. My son finds it quite inappropriate to fraternize with one of your, uh—” he looked Gabby up and down “—station. Don’t you, Micah?”

  The man and the girl glared at each other, sandwiching Micah between them, catching him like a lobster in a trap. He couldn’t deny his best friend, but neither could he find the strength to oppose his father.

  He licked his lips, looking from one to the other. Finally, his eyes scuffed the dirt and he whispered, “Yes, sir.”

  12

  _______

  Micah could hardly swallow his food that evening. The roast beef had all the flavor of sun-bleached driftwood, and it wouldn’t work past the knot in his throat. Eventually he gave it up and asked to be excused from the meal.

  Alone in his room he flopped onto his bed and buried his face in a pillow. His head ached, and in the darkness behind his eyelids he could still see the hurt and betrayal in Gabby’s eyes as clearly as if it was printed there.

  He groaned. What had he done? Would he never find the fortitude to stand up to his father? Was he destined to slink through life like a frightened kitten?

  What had Gabby said on the beach? That he hadn’t yet been forced into drawing from his courage? He knew now that’s what she had tried to do in the shop. By challenging his father, she had tried to force Micah to choose between them. But instead of wedging some steel into his backbone, he had melted before his father like a block of ice in the desert. And he did so at the expense of a friend.

  So much for Gabby’s theory.

  The hot ball of anger Micah carried toward his father roared into flame. He snatched up the pillow and chucked it across the room, knocking a framed print off the wall. The picture landed with a thunk and a satisfying sprinkle of glass.

  He had to let Gabby know he hadn’t meant the things he said. He considered sneaking out to see her, but he knew she’d just slam the door in his face. The way she had stormed from the store, it’d probably be a week before she spoke to him. And then the scene wouldn’t be pretty.

  In a burst of frustration, he slammed his foot against the bedpost and hobbled about the room, muttering words his mother would wash out with vinegar. Then his eyes lit on his writing desk. Perhaps Gabby would accept a note. If she didn’t, putting his thoughts on paper would at least give him a chance to vent his anger.

  He opened the drawer and snatched out the quill pen.

  Dear Gabby,

  My father is cruel and heartless, though you probably think the same of me. I didn’t mean what I said, and I’m sorry. I never would have said it if my father hadn’t forced me to. How I hate him! I wish someone would knock some sense into his thick head!

  Anyway, please forgive me. I don’t want to lose your friendship.

  Sincerely,

  Micah Randall

  He folded the letter and slipped down to the kitchen. “Lusa, is Nancy still here?”

  The woman waved toward the dining room. “Mrs. Randall called for her.”

  Micah crossed to the doorway and found the dining room empty. He started up the stairway to his mother’s rooms, but the front door slammed open and one of the livery hands barreled into the room yelling, “Mrs. Randall! Mrs. Randall!”

  Spotting Micah, the man called, “Son, run and fetch your mother!” but she was already gliding down the stairway with Nancy close behind her.

  “Mr. Swainston, what on earth—?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your husband has been kicked bad by a horse. In the head. The boys are bringing him in.”

  Anna’s hands fluttered at her throat and she turned deathly pale, but she issued quick orders. “Micah, run and fetch Dr. Buford. Nancy, get Lusa and make up a bed in the study. Quickly.”

  Still angry, Micah ran at a slow jog. Serves him right, he thought to himself.

  Then he caught sight of his father dangling between two men. He hung limply, like a corpse, and blood dripped from his skull. The scene shocked Micah to greater urgency.

  After the rotund doctor had grabbed up his black bag and hustled down the street, Micah sank onto the couch in his office. His body shook, hatred and pity and fear all warring within him.

  An image of himself perched on the back of a horse flashed across his mind. He was very young, and the horse seemed humongous. But he wasn’t afraid because his father walked ahead of him, leading the animal by a rope and smiling proudly up at him.

  Micah stared at that half-remembered smile. He reached out for it like a starving man reaching for bread, but the scene in his mind shifted.

  Now Micah lay in bed enveloped in a feverish haze. His body ached and his skin burned. He felt a rough, cool touch brush his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw worry etched on his father’s face. Worry and grief and a trickle of tears. He felt the splash of them on his overheated cheek.


  He closed his eyes, but the image still danced before him. He hadn’t recalled either scene in years. Could it be that something soft lurked beneath his father’s spiny exterior?

  Then the picture darkened, replaced by a figure seated at the dining room table, eyes glaring beneath a rock-hard brow.

  Micah became aware of his hand clenching and unclenching in his lap. Looking down, he found he still held Gabby’s letter. It was mangled and the ink was sweat-smudged, but he could still read his angry red words: “I hate him! I wish someone would knock some sense into his thick head!”

  His blood turned to ice in his veins.

  Could it have happened again?

  13

  _______

  Micah groped for the door. He needed to be home. He needed to see the injury for himself. Perhaps there had been some mistake.

  Blindly, he stumbled down the shadowing street. The sound of rushing water filled his ears. Filled his mind. Paralyzed his thoughts.

  When he staggered in the front door, the doctor was just emerging from the study.

  “Micah!” The physician rushed to his side and, supporting him, led him to a chair. “Sit down, son. It’s not as bad as all that. Your father had a good knock to the head, but he’s awake now. I stitched him up and gave him something for the pain.”

  Micah panted, drowning like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

  “He’s going to have to stay in bed for a week or two, so you’ll have to be a help to him around here. But don’t worry, I’ll keep a very close eye on him.”

  “But—but I—”

  The doctor eyed him keenly. “Perhaps you should rest now, son. I’ll send up something to help you sleep.”

  Obediently, Micah climbed the stairs. He overheard the doctor tell Lusa, “He’s in shock. See that he takes this.”

  Micah crawled beneath the covers and waited. Soon Nancy came with a pill and a glass of water. He drank the whole glass, but when she was gone, he spit the pill out from under his tongue. He didn’t need to feel groggy. He needed to think.

  He threw the covers off, snatched up the quill pen, and paced the length of the room, turning the feather over and over. Where had it come from? How did it work? Why had it come to him? Like roaring breakers, his thoughts dipped and crashed, tumbling over one another in a vain attempt to toss out some kind of answer.