The Sweetness of Water

by Nathan Harris

  * * *

  He awoke to an orchestra of horse hooves. He rushed to the door of the barn and peeked his head out, taking in the party coming up the lane. Several men on horseback led the charge. Behind them plodded a black carriage.

  Prentiss yelled for George and walked toward the cabin. He did not wait for a response but went straight through the back door and nearly slipped into the stove top in his haste. The parlor sat empty. The house was asleep.

  “George!” he yelled upstairs. “Best you get up!”

  Outside the horses were pulling up to the roundabout, the carriage settling in a cloud of dust. The men reined the horses in, although the beasts still pranced in the throes of their energy. The two in the lead had been at the house the day before, and the others, near the back, were none other than Ted Morton and Gail. Prentiss thought to go upstairs and knock, but as he stepped forward, the bedroom door opened.

  George appeared in a nightgown.

  “What’s the racket about?” he said, eyes squinted.

  “Out front,” Prentiss said. “It’s that sheriff. And he ain’t alone. I seen Morton as well. It’s a gang of ’em.”

  George’s eyes snapped open.

  “Don’t go outside,” he said. “Let me put some pants on.” He returned to his room.

  In the roundabout the coachman opened the door of the carriage and out strode a man in evening wear, prim as any Prentiss had ever seen. A second man, about his own age, came next, and the two stood beside the carriage, saying little. The older one spoke to the younger one, then adjusted his tie and took a few steps toward the house. What followed was almost in lockstep: George’s bedroom door opened, and so did Caleb’s, and one after the other father and son descended the stairs.

  “Saw them coming through the window,” Caleb said. “August is with them.”

  “What nerve,” George said. “To come here unannounced. If they dare try anything.”

  “George! Is that you in there?” It was the older one in the suit, whom Prentiss presumed to be the father of the boy, his brother’s killer. “Why don’t you come out so I don’t need to go in.”

  “You set foot through this door and I’ll put a pan to your head, Wade. Trust to it.” George went onto the porch, hobbling all the way.

  The man in the suit waved him off, his face pinched in disgust.

  “Threats do not suit you, George. You’re better than to say such things.”

  Hackstedde and his deputy were still on horseback, along with Morton and Gail, while the man called Wade and his son stood before their carriage on foot. Prentiss hadn’t seen the boy before, although he was as Caleb had described him—reserved in demeanor but with something wild in his eye. He wanted to have at him there. He wasn’t one for fighting, but he’d make an exception, take those blond locks in a fist and guide his face toward the ground, repeat those steps until the boy quit trying to get up.

  “I’m not looking to have a conversation this early in the morning,” George said as he and Prentiss stepped outside, “so you better bring this to a point quickly. None of that jabbering on you’re about.”

  “Jabbering on,” Wade said merrily. Suddenly his face set and he grew stern. “Today, as you may or may not know, is a very special occasion. August is to be wed. And yet yesterday, in the midst of our preparations, we were met with what can only be considered nefarious allegations, leveled at August by your son. You can imagine how distressing this was to my boy. Isn’t that right?”

  Wade grabbed the shoulder of his son, who remained as stone-faced as his father. Prentiss tracked the boy’s gaze to Caleb, who had joined his father on the porch and was looking right back at him, eyes still caked with sleep.

  “I would not deign to repeat the perverse accusations,” Wade said. “But I thought it wise we come see you in person, just so August might stress how innocent he is of these charges.”

  August broke in, speaking as if reading off the page, in one tone, a rapid stream of words.

  “I fear Caleb has experienced severe trauma from the war, and that his condition has caused him to invent a fiction about our time together that did not take place.”

  “Oh quit it,” Caleb said. “Just quit. My God. You were never good, but I thought you were honest, or at least tried at it. I mean, your lying about being injured in the war was one thing, but this is beyond the pale. Had I known you were just a sicker version of your father, and equally heartless—”

  “Do not speak on what happened at war—”

  But Wade was quick to step on his son’s words.

  “Suffice to say Caleb’s impairments are currently on display,” he muttered.

  It was at this point Isabelle appeared in her nightgown, hair still wrapped in a bun.

  “You know better than to speak ill of a son in front of his mother, Wade Webler. You’ll not do it here.”

  “Isabelle! Good morning to you.” Wade raised his hat. “Not to worry. I will say no more. The sheriff can take it from here.”

  Hackstedde came out of a deep slouch and straightened upon his horse. He appeared to have had no sleep, his eyes sunken in their sockets, the bags under them so swollen it was as if his face had folded in on itself.

  “Right,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to these rumors your son’s hatched, George. I interviewed Ted here, says he had at least a dozen men in his fields and not a one saw anything out of the ordinary in those woods or heard a peep.”

  “He said it better than I could,” Morton allowed.

  Hackstedde carried on. “August denies the charges and has a fine alibi. Him and his father were working at the office when this all took place. So, that’s all there is to say. The case is closed.”

  George’s chest was rising and falling so quickly Prentiss feared the old man’s heart might give out. Yet they all intuited that it must be the plan, as before, to remain silent and let the result play out. And so George did his part.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “If you wish,” Wade said, “for the sake of goodwill and for the loss y’all have incurred, I have a few horses I am willing to donate to your enterprise. I know you only have that ass, and I loathe to see you struggle on that thing every time you come through town, looking like a sad Mexican weaving his way through a canyon trail.”

  Morton and Gail snickered, both of them putting a hand to their mouths as though they were twins privy to the other’s movements.

  “I am very happy with Ridley,” George seethed. “If I wanted a horse, or three, I would get them myself. But your kindness is very much appreciated.”

  “So be it,” Wade said. “We’ll be on our way. I have to pick up my mother. I tried to send her a driver, but oh no, I must fetch her myself.”

  This man was an individual, Prentiss now saw, entirely different from himself. It wasn’t his cunning, or the evil coursing through him, but his confidence—the surfeit of knowledge in his broad smile, which indicated that although his son had been accused of a cold-blooded murder, everything in the world was aligned to ease his livelihood, no matter who, or what, got in the way.

  “Might I also offer my apologies,” Wade said, “for not extending an invitation to the wedding? What can I say? We decided in the end to make it an intimate affair.” He turned from a deal well done and began to return to his carriage with his son.

  “A man died,” Caleb said, his voice squeaking with emotion, as it was prone to do. “Setting aside who did it, or how little I think of that person for the rest of time, does the fact itself mean nothing to you? That a life was lost?”

  It was the smallest comfort that these goons had no response. Wade and his son paused and turned back, seemingly roused by the slightest discomfort.

  “His name was Landry,” Prentiss said. “He wasn’t just any man, but my brother. Best person I ever known. Best person I ever will know. And there ain’t no number of horses that could make up for him being gone.”

  “That’s enough from you,” Morton said.
“Best learn what little you might from that brother of yours and keep your mouth shut.”

  George stepped up, tucking his shirt into his pants, eyes alight.

  “You are a callous fool, Ted,” he said. “You have no right to speak a word in polite society, or any society for that matter.”

  “If you’re aiming to start something again,” Ted said, “I’ll finish it again.”

  “Now everyone calm down,” Hackstedde said, raising his voice.

  “I saw him put paws on Mr. Morton once,” Gail said, “and I ain’t about to let it happen again.”

  The horses tensed and whinnied, and the whole yard, still awash in the breezy morning light, had the feeling of boiling over. Voices trampled one another now but Prentiss was quiet amid the uproar. Although Morton was a pathetic creature, lower than he was, he could not shake the hold of Wade Webler: the grandeur of his costume, the smugness of his countenance, the self-assurance in his total command of the situation. He stood leaning against the carriage whispering to his son, grinning once more. In the face of his strength Prentiss felt a sudden shyness, as if he were a boy again, hiding in fear behind his mother’s gown. He could not have it—could not be made small anymore. The insults continued in waves and the energy carried him forward. He was halfway to the carriage before the sheriff noticed the body moving toward his party.

  “Stop where you are,” Hackstedde said.

  “Prentiss!” George said. “Get back here.”

  But he did not take orders or commands. No longer.

  “What is this boy up to?” said Wade, still lounging against the carriage as Prentiss approached.

  The sheriff and the others all turned their horses to face the carriage. Behind him Prentiss could hear the scuffing of George’s hobbled steps on the dusty road.

  “Prentiss! Please.”

  Still Wade’s eyes were sanguine, a mellow brown, his lips plump like a woman’s, his chin jutted out. But at last the power in those eyes dissolved before Prentiss, who was close enough to the man to smell his cigar mouth. This was primal. Wade could not maintain his ease at such close, bare-knuckled quarters.

  “George,” he said. “Call your dog off me.”

  Prentiss took a deep breath. When he exhaled, it felt like a lifetime of grief pouring out of him, exorcised and offered back to the world as a righteous rebuke. The sensation was so pleasant, so transporting, that he would have been content knowing that single breath had been his last—indeed, it was so rapturous that he did not think much of what came forth with it: the ball of phlegm that rocketed from his mouth like cannon fodder into Wade’s face.

  Wade stood stock-still, his eyes unflinching, as the mucus dripped off his nose. Time stopped then. The yard was silent. The world itself stuttered to a pause. When it commenced to moving, it was impossibly slow, laid out like a tune written note by note in real time. Prentiss’s gaze fell upon the upholstery of the carriage, blisteringly white; he then looked onward: out the back window, at the blanket-sea of green, the grass whipsawed in the wind, and he saw the breeze before he felt it upon his neck, perhaps the last of the morning before the heat swept through.

  The blow of the rifle butt followed the wind. It slammed into his ribcage and was chased by a second at the dent of his leg behind his knee. He felt himself begin to fall but grabbed the side of the carriage and turned to face Hackstedde as the butt of the sheriff’s rifle came down upon him again. Prentiss dodged and was caught upon the shoulder.

  “On your knees!” Hackstedde screamed.

  By then his deputy had dismounted as well. As he came forward Prentiss felt a grip about his neck—Wade Webler locking him in a choke hold.

  “Enough!” George yelled, drawing near.

  The air was going out of him and Hackstedde pulled back for a fatal strike just as George stepped between them and waved the sheriff off.

  “Put that goddamn gun down, Lamar. Wade—” George’s eyes darted toward Prentiss’s own with a look of terror. “That’s enough now,” he said calmly.

  Prentiss’s heart beat so hard he felt it in his head. He could not free himself from this bear of a man and had begun to panic, squirming toward his own unconsciousness. There was a circle about them now: Isabelle and Caleb pleaded while the others remained silent, their eyes steady on Prentiss and Wade. The pressure on his neck was relentless.

  George held his hands up in an attempt to pacify Wade.

  “You know as well as I do those agents are coming to town. His brother’s death was cause enough for alarm. You go and kill this man right here, right now, what do you think will happen?”

  Wade spat his response practically into Prentiss’s ear: “Do I look like a man who cares?”

  Prentiss was lifted nearly off the ground. He could not believe the strength of the man, whose arm was wrapped so tightly around his neck that his tongue writhed in his throat against his will.

  “Consider the very real chance,” George said, “that they decide to make an example out of you. Glass might be an ally, but these fellows coming don’t give a hoot how many buildings you own, or how much money you have. These bastards on their way have it out for men just like you. They will relish the chance to punish the most powerful they can. Think about it. For the sake of your business. For August.”

  Prentiss figured George’s words might well be pure inventions, but they did the job. Wade released him, his body unclenched, and he fell to the ground in a heap, gasping for air. Before he could gather himself Hackstedde was at his back, placing irons upon his wrists. He grabbed Prentiss by the hair at the back of his head and yanked him up. His head was still ringing—the world still dizzy.

  Wade took a deep breath and wiped the spittle from his face. His son looked on with such hatred that Prentiss thought he might come for him just as his father had. Yet he said not a word.

  “Put that boy in a goddamn hole in the ground,” Wade said. “I want a judge sent for. By tomorrow.”

  “Only judge they got circulating is Ambrose,” Hackstedde said. “He was hearing cases in Chambersville last I caught wind.”

  “If I pay, how quickly can I get him here?”

  “I imagine as soon as the money touches his palm.”

  “Get word to him. I’ll cover the expenses. I want this boy charged and I want it done by the law. Anything less than a hanging would be a travesty. Make sure Judge Ambrose hears I said as much.”

  Prentiss exchanged a glance with George, and in the hollow of the old man’s cheeks, the strain in his face, he found a look of disappointment so profound he had to turn away.

  Wade fixed his collar, and as if this was a signal, the coachman came forth and opened the door for him and August.

  “Now we have a wedding to attend, if you do not mind.”

  Morton, still atop his horse, faced Wade with remorse in his eyes, his hat in his hand.

  “Before you go off,” he said, “might I just lend you my apologies for that boy’s spitting? I take responsibility seeing as he’s the issue of my land. The Lord himself can attest to the fact that he ain’t never committed such a unholy act before, not toward me nor anyone in my home.”

  Under the spell of his anger, Wade’s entire body appeared engorged, and his head, equally swollen with rage, the color of a tomato, swiveled to face Morton atop his horse.

  “I imagine he was waiting for someone worth the effort. Good afternoon.”

  And with a single whip from the coachman, the Weblers were off.

  It was an uncomfortable moment before Morton nodded at Gail to follow him down the lane.

  “Me and Mr. Webler get along rightly,” he said, fixing to leave. “He’s just in a bad mood is all.” He directed a terse command at his horse, and the two departed themselves.

  This left the sheriff and his deputy. Hackstedde pulled a length of rope from his saddlebag, tied one end to the horn of his saddle and the other to Prentiss’s already shackled wrists.

  George could only shake his head at Prentiss in a s
how of defeat.

  “You were so close to being gone,” he said. “Why?”

  There was no means sufficient to explain the pleasure: how fantastic it had been to gather the courage, to step forward, to give in for the first time ever to a forbidden act of protest. The joy of standing before Wade as if he had power—just for that one second—was ineffable.

  “It felt good,” he told George. “That’s all I know.”

  The tug of the rope, yanking him toward the horse, produced a piercing stab at his side where he’d been struck. He had the urge to vomit, but he would stay upright, no matter the pain, until he reached wherever they meant to take him. The horse settled as Hackstedde mounted him.

  “We’ll figure something out,” George said.

  “Let it be,” Prentiss said. “Let your family rest.”

  George opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. Perhaps he realized there were no words.

  Isabelle bade Prentiss goodbye.

  “Ma’am,” Prentiss said, nodding. “Caleb.”

  “Prentiss,” Caleb said.

  “He’ll be in the county jail,” Hackstedde said. “No visitors.”

  Prentiss looked up and wondered at the clouds, soft as feathers pinned to a harsh sky. There was a second tug and they started off down the lane.

  CHAPTER 19

  John Foster had built his home along the unnamed creek that wound its way through all of Old Ox. The stream met at a pinch, and the levels were so low that there was hardly a current to speak of; on quiet days, if one listened close from the rear portico, that infinite trickle of water could be heard upstream, so distant it sounded as though it was sourced from the pit of a seashell. Yet it went unheard almost always, as John’s children were hellions, and rained terror upon the home until his dying day, after which his wife, Mildred, brought discipline down upon the house with a force so swift that the water was often heard not only from the back of the home but by all those who passed before it. Even still, her sons, now grown, were not often on their best behavior, and Mildred was always eager to inform Isabelle of the ongoing trials of her parenting that sometimes failed—but the general accomplishment was still enough to bring a sense of satisfaction over Mildred, and although it was not the heroism one might read of in a novel, its place in the annals of domestic triumphs was secure as far as the women of Old Ox were concerned.