A Deadly Shaker Spring

by Deborah Woodworth

  “Can you tell me who you were suspicious of?” Rose asked. “Even if you weren’t at all sure,” she added, as she noted the look of anxiety on Agatha’s face. “You know you can trust me not to besmirch someone’s name without adequate evidence.”

  Agatha’s face scrunched as if she were in pain, and Rose regretted her question. Naturally Agatha would have qualms about voicing suspicions that could harm an innocent person, no matter how much she trusted Rose. Agatha fell back against her pillow as though her sinews had snapped. She began to gasp for breath.

  “Josie!” Rose shouted. “Josie, come quickly.” She touched Agatha’s arm gently. “Rest now, don’t strain yourself. Josie will be right here with something to help you sleep. Just forget about my question. We’ll be fine.”

  Agatha’s eyes shot open and she stared at Rose.

  “Oh, dear, dear,” Josie fussed as she bounced into the room. “Leave it to our Agatha to overtire herself first time out. Well, we’ll just give her a sedative and help her get that strength back.” She gave Agatha an injection. “Don’t you worry, now, Rose, it isn’t your fault if Agatha insists on pushing herself too hard. She always was like that, you know. So very conscientious. But she’ll be back again tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “WELL?” WILHELM SAID AS HE TOSSED A COPY OF the Cincinnati Enquirer on Rose’s desk. Since Cincinnati was the nearest large city and a major market for Shaker goods, the Society always tried to read their newspaper. It was open to a section containing guest articles and letters from readers. Rose had been so busy that she had not looked at a newspaper in days. She glanced over the headlines in puzzlement.

  “What is it you want me to read, Wilhelm?”

  Wilhelm’s thick finger stabbed at an article on the right-hand side of the page. The headline read: “A Stranger in Our Midst.” As she began reading the article, her stomach tightened.

  The Shakers, also known as the United Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing, are a strange and secretive lot, the article began. Rose skimmed through it quickly, her sense of dread deepening. The byline said “Kentuck Hill”—the name used by the man who spoke against the Shakers at the town meeting Rose had secretly attended. She was certain he was also the author of the Languor County Watcher, though the style of this article was far more sophisticated. A man skilled with language, Rose thought.

  The article continued:

  What do we really know of these Shakers? Since, in my youthful ignorance, I was once a part of them, I will tell you about them—not out of bitterness but love for my homeland. Many of you know of the Shakers only through the goods they produce, such as exquisite pieces of fine furniture, tasty preserved fruits and vegetables, decorative seed packets, and aromatic herbs.

  What few of you know is that these items, excellent though they may be, are produced under conditions of the vilest servitude. Defenseless children are little more than slaves, doing their masters’ bidding until late into the night. Young people are enticed into the “Society” with promises of a spiritual life and everlasting joy. Once entangled, these innocents find themselves working day and night, with little rest and without the comforts of home and family, and without even the smallest recompense.

  Moreover, these products are made by traitors who will not defend their country against any foe, no matter how wicked. Few of you know that during the Great War, these Shakers chose the coward’s way, refusing to allow their young men to take arms against the Kaiser. They did this for the sake of their beliefs, they claimed—yet while the rest of the country suffered and died and sank into a Depression, these folks have become rich! Judge for yourselves whether their purposes are of the Spirit.

  Perhaps vilest of all is the way these Shakers live, so different from other Americans. Their “families” are large groups of men and women living together in the same building. Children are wrenched away from their own families and sent to live in a separate building. Husbands and wives are put asunder. One can only imagine—and it is best not to do so!—what volcanoes erupt when natural human affections are so unnaturally suppressed. The fury is spent on the children and on unprotected young girls, held against their will. I will say no more, to spare the sensibilities of my readers.

  If you are as alarmed as I am, you will agree it is time for action. Naturally we do not advocate violence of any sort. To harm these folks would make them into martyrs, a fate for which they no doubt long. No, we believe that the best way to rid ourselves of this pestilence among us is to destroy its source of support: REFUSE TO BUY SHAKER GOODS. Refuse to patronize establishments that insist on carrying Shaker goods. If we all pull together, as we always have in times of threat to our American way of life, we can drive this curse from our beloved countryside.

  Rose let the paper slip from her hands onto her desk.

  “I’ve had calls from friends in Lexington and Louisville,” Wilhelm said. “Their papers carried the same article. This person intends to destroy us, attacking our livelihood. But he cannot touch our soul,” he finished grimly.

  “Nay, but he can pierce our stomachs,” Rose said. “Do the others know of this yet?”

  “I’ve told no one, but word will leak out soon enough. It is for the best. The Society must join together, stand up bravely to this persecution.”

  Rose saw the brightness of Wilhelm’s eyes. “One might almost think you were looking forward to this struggle,” she said. “It could destroy us, you know.”

  “We have suffered too little; we have grown complacent. Adversity will strengthen us. If we do not have enough to eat, well then, we will understand with our own bodies what the early Believers endured.” Wilhelm’s thick white hair, in need of a trim, curled over the collar of his brown work jacket, giving him the look of a nineteenth-century brethren just back from a long journey to gather souls.

  Rose sighed. Wilhelm was a zealous Believer and a powerful spiritual leader. But he had never been a trustee, never had to watch over the financial health of the Society. He did not understand that the Depression had indeed touched their lives, though they had rich land and hard-working hands to work it. They always had food on the table and extra to share with the less fortunate. But their financial condition had weakened steadily as this Depression wore on. Their businesses were essential to their long-term survival.

  Rose’s office telephone jangled. Wilhelm tossed it an irritable glance. “I have preparations to make,” he said. “We will speak more about all this later.”

  Rose decided she would rather face whatever was on the other end of the phone line than know what preparations Wilhelm had in mind. She nodded to him as he turned to leave, then reached for the phone. She almost regretted her decision when the operator informed her that the buyer for one of the largest hotels in Cincinnati was on the line.

  “You’re canceling everything? All the herbs and jams and preserved vegetables? But you’ve ordered from us for years, and we’ve always delivered the best quality; surely you agree. I know this is because of that cowardly and false story in the paper, but I can’t believe you would accept those lies. I thought we’d always respected one another.”

  “I know, Miss Callahan, and believe me, this wasn’t my decision. Just got dumped in my lap to call you, and I’m mad as—well, I’m not happy about it. I always could trust your products, and our customers love them, but we’re under new management, and with this Depression and all, they think we can’t afford to lose customers who might be mad at you Shakers. For what it’s worth, the whole kitchen wished they could quit, said they never tasted cooking herbs half as good as Shaker ones, but then they’d be out on the streets, what with there being no other jobs around. So you see what a pickle we’re in. Sorry, Miss Callahan, really I am. Maybe we can start up again with y’all once this blows over.”

  “I understand,” Rose said. “I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to lose a job over this. Thanks for your words of comfort. As you say, maybe when this blows over . . .�
�� She hung up and leaned her forehead against her hand, which still held the phone.

  “Rose? Are you unwell?”

  Rose whirled around, her heart leaping at the sound of the familiar, much loved voice of Gennie Malone.

  “Gennie, my dear! What . . . How . . .”

  “The ‘how’ is the squad car with Grady,” Gennie said, as she hugged Rose. “He had to talk with someone down the road and said he’d drop me off and pick me up later. The ‘what’ is some not very pleasant news that I couldn’t bear to deliver to you over the phone.”

  Rose nodded and lifted from a wall peg her smallest chair, to fit Gennie’s diminutive body. Worried as she was, Gennie looked lovely, her eyes sparkling after the eight-mile drive alone with Grady.

  “You’ve come to tell me what is happening with our Shaker products in Languor, haven’t you?”

  Gennie nodded. “It’s gotten worse and worse all day, ever since that awful newspaper article came out. I’ve heard lots of people say they weren’t even going to warn you; they were just going to show up with everything Shaker and demand their money back. Floyd Foster led the pack. He took some carrots and potatoes and just threw them out in the street, which made me really mad, because there are hungry people who could have eaten that food, but the cars and wagons smashed it to pulp before anyone could grab it off the street.” A spot of color appeared on each of Gennie’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed with anger. Oh, what a Believer she would have made, Rose thought. But at least she had learned compassion, which she could carry with her into the world.

  “I have something else to tell you, too,” Gennie said, covering Rose’s hand with her own. “The flower shop I work in—the owners want us to return all the herb plants and even the sprigs and flowers I’ve been working into bouquets. I told Emily—remember Grady’s sister, Emily?—I told her I would do no such thing, and I didn’t care if they fired me!”

  “Gennie, nay, you must return everything. Don’t risk your job. It would be nearly impossible to find another these days.”

  “Well, Emily wouldn’t let me talk to the owners,” Gennie said with obvious regret. “She called them while I was at lunch and told them she would handle everything. By the time I got back, she had taken all the Shaker herbs and hidden them from me. She said Grady would be terribly upset if she let me lose my job. So I suppose Emily will bring everything back, but remember, she’s really doing it for me and Grady, not because she agrees with that stupid article.”

  “I know, Gennie. Many people in Languor have been loyal friends to us. I trust that God will work through those good people, and we will survive this. Somehow.”

  All day long, the cars and wagons arrived at the Trustees’ Office, filled with Shaker goods being returned for refunds. Some Languor citizens made hurtful remarks about Believers, but most looked sheepish and regretful. Often the lowest-ranking employee had been sent because no one else wanted to face the Shakers with their cowardice.

  Rose had no way to reimburse people for their returned products. The money had already been used to make loan payments and buy whatever supplies the Shakers could not produce themselves. She handed out IOUs, cringing as she wrote each one. Within the space of one day, North Homage slid from relative financial stability to impending ruin.

  Rose had begun a clean ledger book to record the day’s transactions. She had filled far too many pages when her office phone rang. She reached for it reluctantly. News that day was never good.

  “Miss Callahan?” asked a brusque male voice. “Jackson here, president of the Languor School Board.”

  Rose’s heart pounded with dread.

  “I am very sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Callahan, but the Board met in emergency session this afternoon concerning the North Homage School District. We decided to close the district, effective immediately. Given the unfortunate publicity you all have been getting, and the many calls we’ve received from alarmed parents and citizens, we thought it best to decide the issue immediately. The situation is simply too volatile, and we can’t afford to allow children to be placed in danger.”

  “Mr. Jackson, I assure you, there is no danger—”

  “We are the best judges of that, Miss Callahan. If there is even the slightest hint of impropriety, we must act immediately to protect the children.”

  “Impropriety. There is absolutely no question of impropriety in North Homage’s school. I’m shocked that you would believe such a lie. We live our faith every moment of our lives. We would never allow—”

  “Miss Callahan, whatever may be your intentions, and I’m sure they are good, the fact remains that we cannot risk our children while the truth works its way to the surface. The parents would never stand for it, and the publicity—well, you can understand the pressure we’re under. Now, I really haven’t time to talk longer. We will be in touch later in the month to discuss sending the children who live in North Homage elsewhere for school.” Jackson hesitated a moment, then relented. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always had great respect for the education North Homage has provided. I shouldn’t tell you this, but you will shortly be receiving a call or visit from a child welfare worker, as well.”

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid so. Some citizens are up in arms about any children being in North Homage, and they are lobbying to have them removed from your care. From what I can gather, it’s actually a woman behind this movement, a Laura Hill, or that’s the name I’ve seen on some of the literature being distributed around town. Seems she wants the children put up for adoption. In fact, she expressed an interest in adopting them all herself. Now I really must go.” The voice was brisk again, then gone.

  Rose felt a wave of exhaustion as she hung up the phone. She sank back in her chair and let her head rest against the slats. No sooner had she closed her eyes than she heard footsteps on the pine floor of her office. Her eyes popped open to see Richard Worthington standing before her, a look in his eyes, something bright and cold like a winter day, that chilled her blood.

  “Richard?” she said and, not liking the weak tone of her voice, she added, “What is it, Richard?” She pulled herself straight in her chair. “We are quite busy just now, as you well know.”

  Worthington nodded slightly. “Believe me, Rose,” he said, his voice bland, “this is a painful errand for me.”

  Rose stared at the thin patrician face and felt the anger and triumph behind the words. “I doubt that,” she said quietly.

  Worthington slid a ledger book from under his arm and placed it on Rose’s side of the desk. He remembered not to stand too near Rose. She was glad for the custom; his presence disturbed her. He opened the ledger book to a page labeled “North Homage Shaker Village: Outstanding Loans.” Rose leaned over the book, confused about Worthington’s purpose in showing it to her. After all, they had their own records. Nay, she remembered, their records had been defaced and were illegible. Her heartbeat picking up speed, she ran her finger down the list of loan payments for the past six months. For four of those months, the spaces for payment amounts said “No payment rec’d.” Only two months listed payment amounts, and those were much lower than the actual amounts Rose had counted out and delivered herself.

  Rose grabbed her own payment records, hoping her memory was wrong, that there really were some legible numbers inside that would contradict the bank’s records. But the entire “Paid” column had been obliterated with a long streak of ink that looked as if it had started from a blob at the top of the page. Someone must have moved the book gradually upright so the ink would spill directly down the page. Without looking at Worthington, she could feel the sharp edge of his gloating smile.

  “How did you do this, Richard?” She met his eyes. “I saw you write down the correct payment amounts when I delivered the money to the loan officer and to you. You must have spent nights copying over the entire ledger book.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, now I remember,” Rose said, her
own voice hardening to match Worthington’s. “Six months ago, the loan officer took a job in Cincinnati. Did you get it for him, by the way? Such jobs aren’t easy to come by these days. So with him gone, you took over receiving loan payments—just until you hired someone new, you told me. You must have started a new ledger book then. Yea, I see by the date on the first page that you did. That would mean you only had to keep two sets of books for six months, and it could all be in your handwriting. Since we always paid in cash, there would be no other record of the size of our payment.” She pulled open a small drawer where she kept loan payment receipts. It was empty. She was not surprised.

  Worthington’s face was expressionless, just a hint of satisfaction in his cold blue eyes.

  “I knew you were cruel, Richard, and clever. But I miscalculated the depth of your anger. All I can ask you is, why? Why are you doing this to us?”

  “You have spent too long away from the world, Rose,” Worthington said. “You are spinning a fantasy in which the Shakers’ failure is someone else’s fault. The truth is, you people are irresponsible. You just don’t pay your bills.”

  Rose swallowed her surge of anger. “Are you foreclosing, then?” she asked, her voice as steady as she could manage.

  “Oh, that may not be necessary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bank is willing to be lenient, given your previous history of paying more or less on time. If you deed over certain parcels of your lands to the bank, we will forgive the payments you have missed. We will send you a list of the lands we will require. Nothing need be made public, so your reputation will be safe. Whatever reputation you have left, that is.”

  “And I suppose these will be rich farmlands?”

  “We really don’t wish to take your homes away from you, Rose. Of course you may keep your buildings. Some of the farmland will be sufficient.”

  “How are we to survive?”