Esther's Pillow

by Marlin Fitzwater

  “Why don’t we wear these feed bags?” Easy suggested. “Just cut the eyes out.”

  “Are you crazy?” Jay shot back. “They say ‘Garvey’s Mill’ in big red letters. Everybody in the county will know who did it.”

  “No, they won’t,” Ed chimed in. “Everybody in the county has these sacks. It could be anybody.”

  “Bring ’em along then,” Jay said as he headed out the door. The three men walked to the wagon, already hitched to one of the Garvey mules. Jay took three bags out of the bundle, opened his pocket knife with the bone handle, and cut small holes just above the word ‘Garvey’s.’ He tossed the first one to Easy.

  “Here,” he said. “You may have to make the holes bigger.”

  Easy thought that might be a reference to his wide, flat face, but he let the remark pass and tried on the bag. It was perfect. He folded it lengthwise and tucked it into his belt. He also had Tiny’s bonnet, which seemed preferable to a feed bag.

  “Did you bring the feathers?” Ed asked as he unhitched the mule. No one answered. Ed looked up at Easy. “Didn’t I tell you to bring the tar and feathers?”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” Easy said. “I forgot.”

  “We’ll stop by the Ennis place,” Ed said. “It’s on the way.” All three jumped up onto the seat in the front of the wagon, and Ed guided the mule away from the mill, onto the road that ran under the small railroad trestle for the Sante Fe line that passed straight through Nickerly. As they neared the Ennis house, Esther was in the front yard waiting for them.

  “Good luck, boys,” she shouted.

  “We’re gonna get her out of the county tonight,” Easy said.

  Ed brought the mule to a stop, leaned forward in his seat to talk past Easy and Jay, and asked, “Can we borrow a pillow, Esther? We forgot the feathers.”

  Esther ran back in the house without saying a word.

  “Does everybody in town know what’s happening?” Jay murmured to no one in particular.

  Esther emerged from the house, letting the screen door bang behind her, and threw the pillow up to Easy.

  “This should do it,” she said. “I hope you teach her a lesson.”

  “We’ll do that,” Ed said as he urged the mule forward. It was almost dark, and they wanted to be well hidden before Herb and Margaret arrived.

  The boards on the wooden bridge across Twelve Mile Run were well worn with age and splintered by the hooves of cattle driven across them on a regular basis. Some of the nails had been jarred loose, and shrinkage left sizable gaps between the planks, creating a washboard effect for buggies and wagons. It was only a mile and a half to the bridge from Nickerly, but since picking up the pillow from Esther Ennis, the boys didn’t have much to say, suddenly realizing that so many wheels had been put in motion, so many people involved, that they could not back out.

  Jay Langston felt a rumble in his stomach as the wagon wheels rolled across the bridge, bouncing his insides with every plank, reminding him that he hadn’t given much thought to how his family might react to the events ahead. He guessed his father would approve; he had heard the Reverend Aaron condemn the conduct of Miss Chambers as blasphemy, a sin against the will of the Lord, and as a disease that should be bled from the community. It seemed clear that Jay’s role tonight was pretty much what his father was talking about.

  By the time they reached the intersection at the top of the hill, it was Kansas dark, which under cloud cover is as black as an Angus, with rural electricity still a rare commodity and farmhouses so far apart that window lights look like fireflies. But on a clear night, the open prairies and sparse tree lines have just the opposite effect. There is nothing to obstruct the glow from the moon and the stars; they hang above the landscape like lanterns throwing great shafts of illumination across the fields, exposing rabbits in full gait and all manner of night creatures scurrying across the clods turned up by the plows. Shadows dart about like martins, so fast you cannot follow them to their point of origin, and cows stand along the horizon like dolls at the Nickerly carnival. It was in this light that Ed Garvey could make out the forms of Cavity Ben Johnson, Red Romberger, and Club Wilson, their wagon parked down the road nearly a half mile, no doubt so as not to alert Herb and Margaret. There were three or four other figures with them as well.

  Ed pulled his wagon up to where the three were standing and whispered hello. Cavity Ben took the bridle to steady the mule while Ed climbed down.

  “Where are they?” Cavity asked.

  “Can’t be far behind,” Ed whispered. Voices could carry for miles across the open prairie; indeed Ed was sure they would hear the buggy before they could see it, especially when it hobbled over the bridge. He privately congratulated himself for planning this whole thing with the bridge, a kind of early warning system. Then he got a look at Easy Tucker, who had slipped behind the wagon and seemed to be changing his clothes.

  “Holy cow, Easy,” Club exclaimed, “what are you wearing? Is that Tiny’s dress?”

  Easy didn’t reply. Ed walked over to get a closer look, pinching the excess cloth about Easy’s waist and remarking, “You and Tiny don’t seem to be the same size.”

  “Shut up, Ed,” Easy said. “Wait till you see my hat.” Then he swung his left arm from behind his back and held up Tiny’s fishing bonnet, a huge floral print affair that folded over her head like a tarpaulin over a stack of wood. The bonnet puffed over Tiny’s entire head so that when she sat on the bank of the Saline, fishing pole in hand, waiting for the catfish to bite, she looked like a giant mushroom. Easy hoped it would have the same effect for him.

  “I see you picked up some friends,” Ed said, turning to Club. “Howdy boys.” He motioned for the four men standing back a few yards to come over to the wagon. Ed knew them all, of course, Ab Polk, Emil Emig, Yohan Swenson, and Quenton Reynolds. Yohan and Quenton both had children in the Sunnyside School, and they couldn’t like what was being said about relations between Margaret Chambers and her students.

  The mule heard the rumble first, raised its ears, then its head, and let out a loud mulish scream at the unknown intruder. Ed grabbed the harness and settled the animal down, then listened himself as the far-off noise moved slowly in their direction.

  “Must be the motorcycles,” he said. “Hank Simpson must be just starting out from town. Sounds like more than one cycle. Must have his cousins with him.”

  Everyone turned toward town to listen, but the sound was new to them, and they couldn’t tell if it was two or three cycles. Even the new Model A Ford engines all sounded different, and Ed wasn’t sure he had ever heard a motorcycle engine before. But that must be the roar, and it sure sounded like more than one.

  “I hope they’re ahead of Herb and don’t pass him on the road,” Club said. “Those bikes will scare his horse right into the ditch.”

  Herb Forchet had forgotten just how pretty Margaret Chambers could be, especially on a warm summer night when the sun had just vanished, the locust hum was starting to tone down for the night, and the dust had settled on the roads. He helped Margaret into the buggy, offering his hand, and feeling the strength of her long fingers as she stepped on the metal stirrup and bounced onto the leather seat. She carried a plaid shawl over her left arm, thinking she could cover her head if the breeze threatened her hair, or wrap it around her shoulders if it got cold on the trip home. Her pink dress was finely starched and splendidly crisp, so fresh that it gave Herb a moment of anguish about his assigned task. She did not seem like an evil girl. It was true that he had tried to put his arms around her on their last date, several months ago, but it was only because he heard that she liked it. Joe Tanner had told him that she liked to be kissed, that every boy who had ever taken her out had kissed her. He was still angry that he should be the only one she rejected, but maybe tonight would make up for it. At least tonight all the boys would see her in his arms and know that he was as good as everybody else.

  “Do you know anything more about who’s coming to the dance?” she a
sked.

  “No, Margaret,” Herb said, “I expect several of the boys from Ellsworth will be there. But I know you and I will have a good time.”

  Margaret glanced at him cautiously as the rig moved away from her house and down the road. “Now, Herbie,” she said, “don’t you try anything with me like last time. You said this was just a square dance.”

  Herb laid the whip to his horse lightly, not wanting to continue this conversation, and the rig leapt forward. It didn’t take long to reach the Twelve Mile Run bridge, and Herb slowed the horse to a walk just in case one of the boards was missing or broken. As they crossed, Margaret leaned forward, squinting into the night. It was quite bright, and she could vaguely make out the outline of something in the road.

  “Look, Herb,” she asked, “what’s that ahead?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, recognizing an opportunity to bring his horse to a stop and make one last pass at Margaret before meeting the boys. He leaned forward with her, feigning an attempt to see down the road, then put his arm around her shoulder.

  Margaret jerked away. “Don’t,” she said rather loudly. “If that’s all you want, you can take me home. Now get this buggy moving or take me home.”

  His rejection now complete, Herb moved to the edge of the seat, relishing the comeuppance Margaret Chambers was about to get; she would soon wish she had treated him better. He once again applied the whip and smugly waited for his friends to appear.

  As they neared the top of the hill, Herb spotted a group of men crouched behind some scraggly mountain laurel bushes in the ditch along a crossroad. He had never noticed a crossroad at that location, even though he had been on Twelve Mile Run several times. It must be just a wagon trail used to gain entry to the pastures on either side of the main road. As they got closer, a mule and wagon suddenly pulled out of the shadows and stopped in the center of the road. Two men were in the wagon and several more were running behind.

  Herb jerked on the reins so hard that the horse bucked in front of them. Margaret grabbed Herb’s arm for support.

  “What is it, Herb?” she stammered. Several of the men wore Garvey feed bags over their heads. “What do they want?”

  Herb sat still, not knowing exactly what to expect. But he recognized Ed Garvey’s voice telling him to get off the rig. He jumped off the buggy, and Garvey caught him off balance, knocking him down with a shove that scraped his face in the sand. Then other hands grabbed his coat and shoved him into the ditch beside the road. “Stay there,” someone shouted.

  Herb touched his nose and realized it was bleeding. Then he looked up and saw the guns. One man stood holding the bridle of the horse; three others were holding pistols aimed at Margaret; and one man, he assumed to be Garvey, was pulling Margaret off the rig.

  As Garvey grabbed Margaret’s arm, she screamed, “What is this? What are you doing?” He yanked her off the seat with such force that she stumbled. Her dress caught on the stirrup and tore as she fell to the ground.

  Two men grabbed her by the elbows and pulled her to her feet. She thought of fighting or screaming. She tried to wrench free, but a large man wearing a poncho and straw hat reached down and grabbed her ankles, pulling her feet out from under her. They held her in the air for a moment, as if uncertain what to do next. Margaret thought she recognized the dress on one of the men, but it was so ill fitting she couldn’t be sure. Their breath smelled of whisky.

  “Take her around back,” the first voice said. And the three men carried Margaret around behind the buggy and lowered her to the ground. The man in the poncho started to let her go, but she struggled, and he tightened his grip.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried.

  “We want you out of the county,” the voice said.

  Then another man with a feed bag appeared beside her. It was Jay Langston, holding a milk pail at least half full of a thick black substance. Another bag was stuffed in his belt, hanging almost to the ground. Then the man in the dress bent down and slid his fingers under the neck of her dress.

  “Oh, no,” she screamed. Her mind flashed back to college, to that dark evening when the unseen hand had moved along her throat and under her blouse. She gagged and she struggled again. That only seemed to anger her attacker. He jerked the red rose at the neck of her dress like a handle, and Margaret’s ears filled with grunts and snarls. She gave a powerful kick, but then her body froze as she felt his powerful arm yank forward, ripping her dress straight down the front.

  Easy didn’t realize the force of his adrenaline, and the dress tore all the way to Margaret’s waist. Then he grabbed her bodice, not knowing exactly what it was for or how many garments might be involved, and he ripped again. But this time his eyes saw Margaret’s breasts burst forth. As his hand slashed downward, his little finger and the side of his hand brushed against her hardened nipple. It was like a branding iron had scorched its imprint on his hand, and he drew it back instantly. He rubbed his hand against his leg, but the burning would not go away. He thought maybe his hand was cut, but he could see no blood. He reached down frantically and rubbed the side of his hand in the dirt, but even the road sand would not eliminate the gnawing at his little finger. He set the bucket of tar on the ground and grabbed his right hand with his left. He was shaking.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Garvey yelled. But Easy didn’t answer. He just stood up and stared off into the dark, clutching his burning finger. Garvey yelled again. Then Easy Tucker just turned and staggered off into the night.

  Jay Langston picked up the tar bucket, tore the feed bag off his head, and dipped it into the tar. He then made one big smear down the middle of Margaret’s chest and stomach. Then he reached down and lifted her skirt. Club Wilson was still holding her legs and he gasped.

  “Don’t you let go, Club,” Jay hissed.

  Then Jay reached for the waist of Margaret’s pantaloons and pulled them down to her knees. He started for her panties, then stopped, reached again for the well-soaked feed bag in the pail of tar, and swabbed her thighs and legs.

  Margaret had quit struggling. Her mind was numb. She did not understand why this was happening. Her head reeled. She felt the warm tar on her legs, then collapsed on the road. The man stood over her and poured the rest of the pail on her stomach and dress. The whole process took only a few moments.

  “Where are those damn feathers?” Garvey shouted.

  Margaret could hear footsteps as someone ran toward the buggy, then the pillow was in front of her, just a white cloud pouring down on her, soft and fluffy. Then everything was black.

  People were shouting to get out of there. Her feet were dropped. The hands holding her arms began to drag her body, then she was lifted into the air and tossed onto the seat of the rig. She could hear the horse dance with nervousness as people ran away. Horses were moving. Engines were revving. Wheels were sliding in the sand, but Margaret never looked up. Her body was sticky and burning, her clothes covered with a black glue that would not wipe away.

  Herb Forchet crawled out of the ditch when it was clear everyone was gone. He wanted the darkness to cover his shame. He realized how small he must appear, hiding in the ditch, crying over his own cuts, willing to sacrifice his sense of civility and manhood for the approval of his friends. Yet they did not admire his actions this night. They despised him for his weakness, and he knew it. They had thrown him into the ditch, like wastepaper. He stumbled to the buggy and climbed into the seat beside Margaret, whose face was still buried in the leather.

  “Please help me,” she cried. “Please take me home.”

  “I will,” Herb pleaded. “I’ll take you home.”

  He took her by the shoulders to help her sit up, and saw what they had done to her dress. Margaret held the front together with both hands, but black tar was everywhere, on her dress, her face, in her hair, on the seat of the buggy. Her pink dress was unrecognizable, wrinkled and torn, with feathers sticking to the fabric, making her look like a wounded bird who had been caught in a thu
nderstorm and thrashed by hail. She was torn apart.

  Margaret couldn’t figure out how to put herself together. She just held her stomach and pleaded to go home. Herb found the reins of the rig and turned the horse around in the road. As they straightened out, he asked again if he could help.

  “No,” she whispered. Then she remembered the hatpin in her purse. She leaned over and felt for it under the seat. She took the hatpin, remembering Ileen’s words and wishing she had used it on Herb Forchet, or any one of her attackers, but now she just wanted it to hold her clothes on. She pulled her dress together across her breasts, and threaded the hatpin through the material with two dips. Then with her hands free, she began to pick the feathers from the tar, scraping them against the edge of the wagon to pry them from her fingers.

  As Herb worked his horse up to a trot, Margaret looked up for the first time. Then she froze with fear. Not a hundred yards ahead of them were four more men, walking down the middle of the road toward them.

  “No,” Margaret cried, “they’re coming back. Whip up the horse! Whip up the horse!”

  Herb was in no position to question her instructions, and he had no idea why these boys would just be arriving. He laid on the whip, and the boys jumped out of the way as the buggy tore past. “Who was it?” Margaret asked.

  “They were wearing head scarves. I don’t know,” Herb said, not knowing and not wanting to know.

  He only wanted to get back to town, and then as far away from Nickerly as fear and shame would carry him.

  Chapter Eight

  When Margaret’s mother poked her head inside the girls’ room at milking time, the moon was still hanging outside their window like a golden locket. Margaret and Ileen looked so angelic with their soft faces sticking just above the covers that Mrs. Chambers gently closed the door so their father would not disturb them. It wasn’t until two hours later, nearly seven o’clock, that she opened the door again to rouse the girls for breakfast. The sun was splashed over Margaret’s forehead, bleaching out her eyebrows and leaving the lower part of her face and hair in tender shadows that gave no clue to the turmoil of the previous evening. But when Margaret stirred, her mother noticed a strange redness on Margaret’s cheeks and around her hairline, a roughness like a raw sunburn after a long day in the fields. Mrs. Chambers crept closer and lifted her hand toward Margaret’s face, ready to check for fever or some other malady, when Margaret’s eyes opened. They showed a sadness Mrs. Chambers had never seen before, and then Margaret started crying; long slow uncontrollable sobs that Mrs. Chambers could not understand, so she held her daughter, raising her from the pillow, slipping her arm under Margaret’s hair, and holding her face gently against her own. She caught a pungent whiff of kerosene and lye soap.