by Judith Pella
Last year, using a bank had been voted down, but this time putting the money in a savings account won by a narrow margin.
To Zack’s surprise, Calvin had more to say.
“Reverend L ocklin, could you take this to the bank when you go to Deer Island?”
“Me?”
Zack had truly tried to get out of it. He wanted no part in such a temptation, but all the other men were too busy to make a special trip to St. Helens, and he was headed in that direction anyway. Thus, the money had fallen into his hands. These men who didn’t trust banks had entrusted him with their church building fund!
In the end, Zack had succumbed to temptation. He did not have the money with him. He had buried it at the bottom of his—Locklin’s—trunk. He’d tell the deacons he had deposited it in the bank and make up some story about losing the receipt. He wasn’t intending to use that money, but he couldn’t let it go, either. He was going to keep it for an emergency in case he had to make a fast getaway. Then, just like everything else, he planned to pay it back someday. He may have once or twice rigged a game of poker or sold fake snake oil. He may have concocted one scheme or another to part a fool from his money, but he had never taken money from anyone. Most of the time they had been more than willing to give it. He figured he was doing them a service, teaching them to be more careful next time.
He was no thief! But that money weighed upon him like a specter haunting him, intruding even into his dreams. He was beginning to regret leaving it behind. He should have stuck with his original plan—hide out, make some money at the sawmill, and then, when he had a few dollars and the coast was clear, he could take off for California. That was still the plan. The other was . . . just in case.
Maybe it would be better for everyone if he did take that money and disappear. These people didn’t deserve a fake minister. But something more than needing a place to hide kept him here. Something in a blue calico dress with hair like the sun—she haunted his dreams as much as the ill-gotten church building fund. Ellie Newcomb was also another reason he should leave.
When he returned to Maintown after his circuit, Calvin accepted, without question, Zack’s story of losing the bank receipt. Why would they doubt him? He was the minister.
Maggie had seen William a few times since that day at the pond, but he wasn’t as available as he’d been, what with working at the sawmill now. Then he’d had his circuit, and Maggie had gone to Scappoose with her family for a couple of days to visit her grandparents. Besides all that, her mother kept her busy at home from sunup to sundown. Maybe Mama was purposefully trying to keep Maggie away from the minister.
Those few times she had seen William, they were never alone. They had chatted pleasantly but there were no more kisses. Just to spite Ellie, Maggie wanted to press William for some affirmation of his intentions. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, and not because of Ellie—they were talking again; still the atmosphere between them was chilly. Maggie’s reluctance was because she really was not ready for marriage. She wanted to spite them all by snagging the minister, but down deep she knew she’d be hurting herself most of all.
Nevertheless, she was surprised when her mother sent her on an errand to the Copelands’. Of course, Mama probably realized the reverend would be working at the sawmill, so it would be safe to send her.
Maggie found Mrs. Copeland in the kitchen kneading bread dough.
“Mama sent me to fetch the reverend’s suit and a couple of other things for her to alter,” Maggie said.
“Can you go on up and get them, dear? My hands are a mess.”
“He told my mother he would set them out for her.”
“He didn’t leave anything down here. They must be in his room.” The woman smiled. “I’m sure he won’t mind if you go to his room.”
Maggie shrugged, not wanting to show her hesitance. Even with her modern thinking, it seemed improper to go into a man’s room. The last and only time she had been there was on that first day when half the townsfolk were present, as well. She climbed the stairs and opened the door, feeling almost as though she were entering the Holy of Holies.
Reverend Locklin’s room was tidy. She wondered if Mrs. Copeland cleaned it, or if he kept it that way. She looked around and decided it wasn’t just tidy.I t looked hardly lived in. Well, with working at the mill and riding the circuit, he didn’t really spend a great deal of time here. Only the little desk held any personal items—a few books, paper, and pen he must use for preparing his sermons.
The quilt was neatly spread out upon the bed. She had to walk around to the other side to find her block on the part that hung over the side of the bed—the best place to hide a poorly made block. And that block no doubt represented her best work! Maybe she would have done a better job if she’d known William at the time, but most likely this was the best she could ever do.
She looked around, hoping to find a neat stack of clothes ready for her to take, but there was nothing. She thought of Boyd and Georgie’s room and how it defied even Mama’s constant nagging to stay clean. There were always clothes strewn everywhere. She opened the wardrobe and found both broadcloth suits hanging. She took the one that still needed altering, folded it, and laid it on the bed. I n the dresser drawers were clothes that had already been fixed.
She saw the trunk, and it seemed logical that he’d keep clothing he wasn’t wearing in there. She was reluctant to open it but at the same time very curious. She realized she knew precious little about William. He’d only spoken of his life that once at the pond, and he had seemed reticent about it once he realized what he was saying. Shouldn’t she know more about him if she thought she might marry him?
The answer seemed clear to her as she lifted open the lid of the trunk. Right on top, some clothing lay neatly folded. She could have stopped there but knew she wouldn’t. She put a pair of trousers and a shirt on the bed with the suit. Then returning to the trunk, she moved aside the other clothing. On the bottom of the trunk she saw several books, among them Leather Stocking Tales and The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper. Maggie had read these herself, though her mother had said they were not proper reading for a young lady. Another was Moby Dick by a person named Herman Melville. Maggie hadn’t heard of this one. She picked it up and glanced at the first chapter. I t looked interesting but again probably not appropriate for a girl. She recalled what William had said about a sea adventure on the Pacific Coast, how he’d first said it was his experience, then recanted.
Somehow she thought these books odd for William. These were adventure stories, and though he’d never said anything to indicate otherwise, she had the impression he was a man of the world, a man who lived adventure rather than reading about it. Moreover, she had never seen him read a book for pleasure or even talk of books.
Moving aside some of the books, she found the real prize. A daguerreotype of three people, two older, probably parents, and one younger male, probably sixteen or seventeen years old. Were these William’s family? His parents and brother perhaps? None of them looked like William. They were fairer of skin and hair than he was. Maggie turned over the picture. On the back were the words, “Mama, Papa, and William.”
That was strange. Perhaps they were aunt and uncle and cousin. He’d never said anything about relatives he was especially close to, but that was possible. Maybe they raised him. Maybe he was adopted. But to have a brother, a cousin, or adopted brother with the same name?
Replacing this, she saw a larger paper, a certificate of some kind.L ifting it out, to her astonishment she saw what was clearly a ministerial license naming William Edward L ocklin as the licensee. This had to be the very license William had told Mrs. Briggs he did not have! Perhaps he had just received it and was going to surprise the congregation with an announcement on Sunday. But why was it tucked at the bottom of the trunk?
Her final and perhaps most disquieting discovery was a leather wallet that had one hundred fifty dollars in it along with a paper verifying the amount and s
igned by Maggie’s father! Maggie had heard her parents talking about how they had given the building fund money to William for him to deposit into the St. Helens bank. William had already been to St. Helens. Why had he not deposited it?
With trembling fingers, Maggie replaced everything, even the clothing, back into the truck just as she had found it. She did not want him to know she had been in the trunk and to suspect she had been snooping.
She sat in the chair by the desk in order to give herself a moment to digest all she’d found. Her mind conjured a dozen logical reasons for everything, for there were indeed many. There need be nothing sinister in any of this, yet her mind, which her mother always said was too imaginative for her own good, also formed many devious reasons. But she shook away each and every one. It was all perfectly innocent, she was certain.
And rather than let her imagination run away, she could ask William himself. He surely had nothing to hide. That would, of course, mean she’d have to admit she’d been snooping.
Propping an elbow on the desk, Maggie bumped a book that was sitting open. Glancing toward it, she saw the chapter title on the open page was “Love Extolled.”
He must be working on his sermon, she thought, for beside the book was a sheet of paper with writing on it.
The words “Love Extolled” were at the very top. Below that she read, This morning we shall explore the miracle of grace—our Savior’s astounding grace. This is a difficult concept for men to grasp. How often have I heard men say, “You can’t get something for nothing”? This we understand. Even a gift is often perceived with having ulterior motives behind the gesture. . . .
Maggie turned back to the book. Her eyes moved down the printed page, and she saw the same exact words as were written on the paper. She picked up the book, turned it over, and saw it was titled, The Sermons of Robert E. Markus. She flipped through the pages and paused at one titled “Consider the L ilies.” She was not one to listen too closely to the sermons in church, nor to remember them verbatim afterward, but what was written on this page sounded incredibly like the first sermon William had preached in Maintown.
Was William stealing another preacher’s sermons?
Well, what of it? Maggie found herself answering her own query.
Again, she put everything back the way she’d found it and jumped up from the chair. Mama always said no good came of snooping.
She knew there had to be perfectly good answers to everything she’d discovered. She also knew she wasn’t going to try to find those answers. A great sense of protectiveness rose up within her. There were folks who might take these discoveries wrong and think ill of William, and she just couldn’t have that.
Was it love she was feeling? Did she love William and thus desire to protect him?
He was, after all, the first man to ever kiss her. She didn’t want to think she was the sentimental type who fell in love with the first kiss. Yet he had kissed her, and she had liked it. She felt as light-headed around him as she did around Colby Stoddard.
She just did not know what it all meant and wasn’t sure she wanted to. She wanted things to stay just as they were.
She hurried out of the room, nearly colliding with Mrs. Copeland.
“Oh, there you are,” the older woman said. “I was coming up to see what became of you.”
“N-nothing . . .” Maggie stammered. “I’m fine.” Her voice came out in a squeak.
“You look absolutely peaked.” Mrs. Copeland frowned. “Couldn’t you find the pastor’s clothes?”
“Oh . . . uh . . .” Maggie chuckled sickly. “I forgot them.” She ducked back into the room, grabbed the suit, and exited again.
“Just the suit?”
“I’ll get the rest later. I gotta go.” Maggie spun toward the stairs, and suddenly remembering her manners, she paused and offered a quick, “Thank you.”
Then she raced down the stairs and outside. She ran halfway home, fearing the entire time she would run into William and he would see guilt spelled clearly on her face.
TWENTY - TWO
Zack was exhausted. He trudged up the stairs after telling Mrs. Copeland he would forego supper. She told him she would keep it warm on the back of the stove in case he changed his mind. In his room he plopped down upon his bed and stretched out, only vaguely thinking of his work-soiled body defiling the fine quilt. But he was too tired to do anything about it.
He’d been up at five in the morning to start work at the mill at six. He’d worked ten hours.I n past days they’d had him sweeping up and performing other light tasks, no doubt taking it easy on the minister. But today a couple of fellows had quit, and Zack had been given the job of bucking logs onto the carriage that moved the logs to the saw. Every muscle in his body ached from the grueling labor, and his hands, though he’d worn gloves, were sore and blistered.
He nearly laughed aloud as he thought of his ma’s frequent admonishment: “Zack, you work harder than anyone I know to get out of work.”
Masquerading as the minister had seemed a lark, an easy way out of his sticky predicament. Now he saw it probably would have been better if he’d just taken a job at one of the lumber camps back in the woods. But that had seemed too much like work.
Then adding insult to injury, Elisha Cook had ridden up after work as he was nearing the Copeland place and asked if he could come back to his place and pray for his ill mother. Mrs. Cook had been suffering with a carcinoma for some time, and it seemed her condition was worsening. Zack had paused long enough to tell Mrs. Copeland he’d be late for supper, then rode with Elisha about four miles to his parents’ farm—it was just Elisha and his mother now because his father had run off several years ago.
Zack was growing accustomed to making such calls. He hardly gave it a thought anymore to visit the sick or the troubled. Calvin had once mentioned he’d likely have even more calls later. Some folk were holding off on account of his being new and the folks wanting to “test” him first. Also, word that his license hadn’t arrived yet had circulated, so some were probably holding off for that reason, too. If he’d been a real minister, he would have already had several “altar calls” and as a result, a number of baptisms to perform. He’d be counseling folks, knocking on doors, and getting the backsliders to church.
It was easy to sidestep all this by offering one excuse or another or by not seeking out these tasks. He’d rather they think him lazy than inept. L ast week in Deer I sland he’d officiated at another funeral. He figured there was no harm in doing funerals, since these folks were dead and all. But he knew it would not be much longer until he was fully accepted into the community and more demands would be placed upon him. He hoped to be long gone before then.
He wondered about Beau Cutter. Could he possibly still be looking for him? A man like that had a long memory. Maybe he should cut out of this place when he got his first pay from the mill.
All this thinking was starting to add a headache to his other aches. People talked a lot about “honest, hardworking men,” but he was sure it was the dishonest man who worked hardest. Lying and deception did not come easy. Had he realized that when he fell into this scheme, he might have done differently. Yet he was here now, and the best thing was to see it through.
At least tomorrow was Sunday and he’d not have to face the grueling work at the mill for another day. That made him remember he’d been so busy he hadn’t finished working on his sermon. He’d copied one from Markus’s book but still needed to memorize it. Well, he’d just rest for a few minutes, then eat that supper Mrs. Copeland had promised to keep warm for him. By then he’d be able to face the task ahead.
The Newcombs were spending a quiet evening by the hearth when Jane Donnelly knocked on their door.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your evening,” she said, obviously distraught but still conscientious about propriety.
“What’s wrong, Jane?” Ada asked.
“Tom and Tommy went hunting earlier this afternoon, and they have not returned home.”
She glanced up as Calvin joined them at the door. “You know they wouldn’t be hunting after dark.”
Calvin probably was thinking the same as Ada. What had they been doing hunting at all in the middle of the day when most men were working? Well, Ada knew what they were doing— shirking real work with the excuse that they were hunting food for the table. Still, Ada didn’t know why Jane was so worried. The two layabouts were no doubt passed out drunk in the woods.
“Come on in, Jane,” Calvin said, “and tell us why you are so worried. This can’t be the first time they are late coming home.”
“Even Tom don’t miss supper,” Jane said a bit defensively.
“You want me to go have a look around for them?” Calvin asked.
“I hate to drag you out at this hour. But . . . oh, I know what you are thinking, and I don’t blame you, but this isn’t right even for them.”
“Maybe they’re just lost,” Ada offered, though she was certain Tom knew the woods better than anyone.
After confirming with Jane the possible places the men might be likely to hunt, Calvin took his coat from the peg. “Boyd, would you join me?”
“I can go, too, Dad!” offered Georgie.
“Not this time, son. Two of us is enough.”
Boyd and Calvin left, and Ada invited Jane to sit down.
Jane hesitated. “I better go back home in case Tom comes back there, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure Calvin will go by your house to check,” Ada said. “Come and visit with me. Have you had supper?”
“I couldn’t eat.”
“Then some tea?” Ada asked. “Ellie, would you fix up a fresh pot?”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” Jane said.
“Of course you’re not. Come and sit down.”
They sat in front of the hearth that was bright with a nice warm fire. They chatted and Jane helped Ada with some sewing. The next hour passed slowly. Ellie brought tea and joined them with her own sewing while Maggie helped Georgie with a puzzle. I t would have been a pleasant, homey scene except for the frequent lulls in conversation and the rising tension as time dragged on.
