Esther's Pillow

by Marlin Fitzwater

  When Garvey walked out of jail, escorted by his father, people on the street stared at him, but no one shouted hello, as would have been the case in the past. He could feel the difference in attitudes, but everything looked the same—the long main street of limestone buildings and a few more automobiles on the still unpaved street. He wanted to go back to the mill with its familiar surroundings and within a day he sent word that the tar party was invited to stop by for a visit.

  Jay Langston’s release from jail was more typical of the others. No one came to meet him. Jay stood outside the jailhouse, relishing his first taste of freedom. He looked up and down the street, searching for his parents or at least a familiar face. His extra clothes were in a pillowcase thrown over his shoulder. Oh well, he thought, a long walk home on the open road would do him some good.

  Jay knew his father wasn’t preaching at the church anymore, and he suspected that his welcome home might be chilly. But he hadn’t expected a cold shoulder. Jay had spent a lot of time thinking about his family and had decided that fate had cast him as a minister’s son, but that it was not a proper fit, and he would escape as soon as possible.

  When Jay entered the house, only Ivy was there to meet him. She seemed not to know how to act. But she put her arms around him and murmured, “Thank God you’re home, Jay.”

  “Your room is ready,” Ivy said, releasing him.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he said, tossing his pillow bag on the floor beside the table. He didn’t know what to say either. He didn’t even ask about Aaron or his brother, Ray. And he didn’t want to start an argument with anyone in the family. So he said little, greeting each of them with this same spartan hello as they returned to the house. When he went to bed that night, his first night home in a year, he was thankful to be out of jail, and thankful that the Reverend Aaron and his mother had not greeted him with a biblical lecture. Maybe time would heal their differences.

  Jay Langston was the first to arrive at Garvey’s Mill, riding his father’s dapple gray horse and still wearing the smirk that had always spelled trouble. Jail hadn’t changed his appearance one bit. He wore a blue plaid jacket over his blue work shirt and brown trousers. A shock of thick brown hair fell cockily over his forehead. He jumped out of his saddle, tied the horse to a hitching post beside the mill, and bounced into the office. He had been out of jail only three days and was still plain old thrilled to be free.

  “Ed,” Jay said, “good to see you back behind the scales. How’s your mom and dad?”

  “They’re fine,” Ed said. “Although Mom is more nuts than ever. She acts like nothing ever happened.”

  “My mom and dad are the same way,” Jay said. “They watch me like a civet cat. I think Dad blames me for the fact that he can’t preach at the church anymore.”

  “My old man blames McArdle for everything,” Ed said. “We’re going to get that son-of-a-bitch.”

  The stove in the center of the office was warming up fast from the three logs Ed had brought in earlier. Jay walked around to the side, held his hands over the front of the stove for a few minutes, then unbuttoned his coat, and sat on the bench along the wall. It had all started right here more than a year ago, he thought, and he felt a brief chill.

  “What are you going to do to McArdle?” Jay asked. “Hell, he’s going to be a U.S. congressman.”

  “Not when we get done,” Ed said.

  “Now what?”

  “My dad’s working on something,” Ed replied.

  “Don’t get us in any more trouble,” Jay offered. “I don’t like McArdle either, but I sure as hell don’t want to go back to jail.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ed said. “My dad’s got this all worked out with that orphan over at Russell that he’s been taking care of.”

  “Are you crazy?” Jay exclaimed. “Not another tar job.”

  “No, no, no,” Ed said. “This is something else. We don’t do anything.”

  “What’s gonna happen?”

  “I can’t say everything,” Ed said. “But we’ll get McArdle out of that race, that’s for sure.”

  It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Jay Langston to figure out what Ed Garvey was up to. He had never met, or even seen, the orphan girl, but he had heard about Ed Garvey supporting her and visiting her in the orphanage. Jay thought Garvey would take the girl to McArdle’s political rallies and get her to ask embarrassing questions of some kind, a mischievous plan he rather liked.

  “Where are the rest of the boys?” Jay asked, wanting the others to hear this story. He was as game as the next guy for a good time, but not another stint in jail. Truth is, Jay hadn’t grown particularly fond of Ed Jr. while in jail, concluding that the miller was less than astute, had an exaggerated sense of self, and was more or less a kept man through his father’s largess. Jay had no such backup, certainly not in the religion business, and he spent a lot of time thinking about how he could make money with cars, the shiny new black machines that were changing the landscape.

  “I don’t know who’s coming,” Ed said. “It’s still early. Won’t be dark for another hour, and I’m not sure Club Wilson or Piney Woods will ever get away from home again. Their wives got them chained to the barn door.”

  But Piney did show up. His glasses were still perched high on his nose, and he appeared skinnier than ever, with his overalls looking all legs. Piney had been out of jail for more than six months but had some trouble readjusting to life in Nickerly. For one thing, Ed Garvey didn’t know it, but Piney’s wife had left him, a doubly shocking development since the Woods family went back so far with never a break in the generations. Piney responded by taking to the jug. He only worked about three hours a day on the farm, starting late with the milking and stopping early with the plowing so he could get a running start on the moonshine. He arrived at Garvey’s Mill carrying a brown porcelain jug of corn liquor that would knock your head off. If you could survive the first couple of swallows, it got to tasting pretty good. After that, you went directly from dizziness to oblivion. Piney was in the first stage when he said hello to Jay Langston.

  Jay moved to the back of the room so he could prop his feet on the corner bench. Seeing Piney made him think about jail, and it bothered him that Piney seemed in such a diminished state. Jay also worried about himself. He feared that confinement had marked him in some way, like leather straps across the rump of a horse. Jay was the kind of guy always looking for shortcuts, a faster way to shock corn, a quicker way to chop wood. He knew he was impatient. When they painted the barn, Jay never bothered to paint the underside of the wood, even when his father explained that the purpose of paint was to prevent rot, not just to improve the barn’s appearance. If a shortcut was possible, Jay would find it. As a result, he had a reputation for never doing a job well. Jay had examined these characteristics a thousand times in jail, but the examination didn’t lead to any particular transformation. Rather it left him with the simple hunger to get away, to start anew.

  “I’m ready to get out of here,” Jay said to Piney Woods. “There’s nothing for me in this county. Maybe Kansas City.”

  “You can’t leave yet,” Ed Jr. interjected. “You don’t want to miss the day we nail McArdle. That’ll be a good one.”

  Judge Thomas Crier presided at the arraignment of W.W. McArdle and knew immediately that something was fishy about the charges.

  But he had seen stranger things in his life, like perfectly normal bankers who turned out to be embezzlers, so the charges stood: one count of felonious assault and abuse and a second count of attempted rape. Judge Crier was particularly skeptical of the assertion that this crime took place at the home of the plaintiff’s uncle, who apparently had left the state of Kansas with no known whereabouts, at least none that his niece could identify.

  The judge did make one concession to his private concerns; he scheduled the trial for one week hence, thus preserving the possibility of a resolution before the congressional elections. John Engle arranged bail for W.W. and agreed to the e
xpedited trial, against his better judgment. W.W. thanked him for his work, saying he wanted a quick resolution of the matter, and furthermore, he intended to serve as his own lawyer. Engle argued against this course, but W.W., still hoping to save his fledgling political career, was adamant that he could quickly prove his innocence.

  Meanwhile, Buck Lamb was in a quandary. Word of W.W.’s arrest was spreading quickly, and with only two weeks to go before the election it was impossible to hunt up another candidate, certainly not one that could win. He discussed the matter with his fellow members of the State Democratic Committee, but they were of little help, throwing up their hands in frustration, some of them even urging W.W. to withdraw immediately from the race. Not one of them wanted to stand behind a candidate charged with rape. Even if W.W. were absolved of all charges, the scandal was enough to ensure defeat. But to Buck’s credit, he didn’t see any honor in retreat. So he placed two calls to the only people he knew who owed W.W. a significant debt: Temple Dandridge and Margaret Chambers.

  Margaret Chambers met Temp at the train station, as they had agreed over the phone, and embraced him warmly. They had exchanged letters over the past year, but the pace of W.W.’s campaign kept Margaret from going to Kansas City, and although Temp had asked his editor if he could do a story on the McArdle race, the assignment had gone to the Star’s Kansas political reporter. As Temp looked at Margaret, he noticed a certain change in her face. In spite of the anxiety about this latest legal problem, she seemed to have a tranquility that added to her beauty, which Temp noted, held the same attraction as a year ago. She seemed calmer and more mature. He was instantly drawn to her. He took her hand and led her into the station.

  “Margaret, I’ve really missed you,” he said. Then quickly added, “How are your parents?”

  If Margaret were in any way embarrassed by his attention, she didn’t show it. “My mother is well,” she said. “She’s started going to church again, and we even had the neighbors over for dinner. Dad’s the same. Just keeps on working.”

  Temp turned to pick up his suitcase that was on the cart being pushed into the station. “I didn’t pack much ’cause I figure on a short trial,” he said. “Tell me about this whole mess.”

  “I don’t believe this for a minute,” Margaret said. “Winton has the most wonderful family. He would never do such a thing. Somebody put that girl up to it.”

  “The wire services carried the story,” Temp said. “And they were pretty specific about what happened. Are you sure?”

  Temp considered himself a good friend to W.W. McArdle, but the newsman in him couldn’t help feeling skeptical. Temp never quite believed anything without knowing the facts for himself.

  “Let’s talk about this later,” she said. “It’s so wonderful to see you. Let’s walk to the Adeline. I left the buggy tied over there.”

  As they started down Main Street, Temp put his free arm around Margaret’s waist, and she did not move away, indeed he thought she moved closer to him. He liked the way she added to his confidence, making him feel taller and stronger. He was trying to figure out if he could talk with her at the Adeline, drive her home in her rig, walk back to the hotel, and still be ready for tomorrow’s trial. But she enveloped his mind, crowding out all those pesky thoughts of deadlines and interviews. As he felt her hips move under his hand, all thought of the trial vanished.

  Judge Crier wasted no time convening the trial and impaneling the jury. It was clear to Temple Dandridge, who accompanied Margaret to the courthouse, that this was to be a sober affair. There was none of the celebratory atmosphere associated with Margaret’s trial, and in fact the courthouse seemed almost deserted by comparison. Temp and Margaret were a little late because of a last-minute call from Nate Cabot in Kansas City, asking for thirty inches on the trial and the congressional campaign. When they walked through the courtroom doors, a reappearance Margaret approached with some apprehension, the surprise was waiting. In addition to Mrs. McArdle, who sat alone directly behind W.W., the only other people in the room were all fourteen members of the tar party, including Herbert Forchet. Only Easy Tucker was missing.

  Margaret squeezed Temp’s hand, not as a request for support, but as a challenge. He could feel her leading him down the aisle to sit right beside Mrs. McArdle, every tar party eye watching her proceed through the courtroom, without expression or comment, as if in secret confrontation.

  Margaret leaned close to Temp as Judge Crier ordered the trial to begin and murmured, “Most of those guys I don’t even recognize.”

  The first witness was Francis Ferris. W.W., acting in his own defense, intended to end this trial as quickly as possible, and that meant establishing the facts immediately. No character witnesses. No effort to establish an alibi, although he could do that if he had to by calling Buck Lamb, who would testify that he was on the campaign trail with W.W. almost every day. Francis had made it difficult to refute her charges by offering very few details. The charges as read into the court didn’t even specify a date for the attempted rape; the uncle at whose house the abuse allegedly took place had vanished, if indeed he ever lived there; and no reason was even given for why McArdle would have been at this location. It was just Francis charging that it had happened.

  She was only fifteen, but dressed to look five years younger, and when she entered the chambers with Ed Garvey Sr., she seemed confused about where to sit, until County Attorney Dunfee motioned her to his side. By the time she was called to witness, she seemed frightened, glancing nervously at the jury as they stared at her, fidgeting with her small purse, a natural leather bag cinched at the top. Her dress was long, almost to the floor, with white lace cuffs and a starched collar. Her hair, which W.W. had noticed as straight and dark, was now curled and lighter.

  But when W.W. McArdle, who treated her with careful respect, asked where her uncle lived, she knew it was near Ellsworth but little else. She didn’t know where the uncle was now or even when he had gone; she had been living at the orphanage for several years and only visited her uncle occasionally; and she felt she had to tell the sheriff her story. Every question W.W. asked her drew an ambiguous or negative response.

  W.W. was careful not to ask about the physical aspects of the attempted rape, in spite of the written charge which said McArdle “asked her to have sexual intercourse” and “did then and there lay upon a bed with the said Francis Ferris, and did then and there hug, fondle, and kiss the said Francis, and did then and there place his hand upon the body of said Francis Ferris, and being in a partially disrobed condition, did then and there embrace, fondle, and hold the said Francis Ferris in his arms for the purpose and with the intent to then and there unlawfully and feloniously carnally know her, contrary to the statute in such case made and against the peace and dignity of the State of Kansas.” Not a murmur was heard when these charges were read to the jury at the opening of the trial, and W.W. did not intend to ask Francis to repeat them. He didn’t think it would be necessary. And he didn’t want to make it look like he was trying to embarrass or intimidate the girl.

  The prosecution did ask Francis to repeat the charges, but all she would say was: “He tried to rape me.” County Attorney Dunfee wanted to paint his victim as a sympathetic person, but every time he tried to lead her into a description of McArdle touching her or hurting her, she simply repeated the charge that he had raped her.

  W.W. rested his defense thinking it had been clearly demonstrated that the crime simply did not occur. The jury lived in the county, knew the tar party boys at least by reputation, knew the saga of Margaret Chambers, and also knew about the defendant’s candidacy for Congress. He could not imagine a more public case or a more obvious outcome. And he was right. The jury took just seventeen minutes and one ballot to acquit W.W. McArdle of all charges.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Son,” the Reverend Aaron Langston began, the day after the acquittal of W.W. McArdle, “our family must gather itself this morning to bless the Lord, to bear witness to His life,
and to restore the integrity of our family in following His dictates. We cannot ignore our responsibility to our family and our Lord.”

  Aaron had fashioned his own religious beliefs through many years of different churches, congregations, and meditation on the teachings of Christ. His family had started as Quakers, believing deeply that some of the divine God lived in each person and that each person had a personal relationship with God. Aaron’s personal savior was a loving God, not a fearful one, and even though Aaron could spit fire and brimstone on the evils of sin with the best country preachers, he began early in life to move away from the harsher realities of Quaker tradition. He especially rejected the punishments of the church against its parishioners, such as the whipping of mothers for illegitimate births, fines, community jail for missed church services, and the expulsion of parishioners for adultery. Aaron and Ivy believed in punishment for sin, but they also believed that God should be man’s judge. Now they were returning to an earlier set of rules.

  Pain settled over Aaron’s face as he looked across the living room at his pious and hardworking wife, Ivy, a woman who had never asked for worldly goods, but who had demanded that her family be loyal to the most basic tenet of her religion. Ivy believed that the integrity of the family grew out of their life and the land. Their lives should be a testament to their beliefs. She was a good woman. And this family gathering was surely the most difficult she would ever face.

  Aaron glanced at his daughters, demure and perhaps woven of a strong fiber he had not yet seen. He hoped so, because he knew his actions today would not be easy to understand.