Thing With Feathers (9781616634704)

by Sweazy-kulju, Anne

  “Indiana. To visit my aunt there.”

  “Oh,” the young woman said in evident disapproval. “Not much society there, you know. I can’t imagine leaving easy country just so to visit Hoosiers.”

  “Easy country? Why would you call it that?”

  “Oh, I meant no offense. It’s a good thing, I think. Oregon is…countrified. It has the feel of lemonade stands and church socials. Easy country is just a nom de guerre, what city folk in Chicago call hinterlands like Maine and Oregon.” She pronounced it “Or-ee-gone.”

  “Oh.”

  Cindy realized that she was not going to have an opportunity to sleep. So, she reasoned, she might as well put out a glad hand to Percival and learn something about being in a society. She tucked the pillow under her seat and crossed her hands in her lap cordially.

  “So, what’s Chicago like?”

  And for the next few hours, her newfound friend, Percy, devoted all her leisure in exposing Cindy to glimpses of the Chicago lifestyle.

  Cindy was conditioned for trouble, which would certainly be a surprise to Percy, who considered life in the rural Oregon country as the daughter of a Baptist preacher to be “easy.” Percy’s misconceptions made Cindy want to snort with contempt. But when she stepped from the train and rested her eyes on the landscape of Chicago, everything was notably different from what she expected. Smoke-laden air carried along enticing smells from food specialties of at least three different countries. Brick structures jutted out among wide, people-filled streets, some towering sixteen stories high. Some structures were just steel skeletons of what promised to be. The men wore suits and bowties beneath their coats, and the women all wore fancy, touch-me-not finery. Will would have called them all “lollapaloozas,” but Cindy thought they looked swell. She looked down at her own modest dress she had donned for comfortable travel and immediately determined to change her appearance. Why not? Blair was gone. Cindy needed a look all her own.

  As she stood, admiring the city, hearing the noises and laughter of people on their way to and from jobs, shopping, dining and Lord knew what all, she became aware of a clanging that was growing louder, drowning out the other sounds until someone yelled, “Look out, miss!”

  Cindy stepped back to see a bright red-and-brass street car bearing down on her. She had been standing right on the track, though she had not noticed it through the light covering of snow.

  Chicago was everything Cindy could have hoped it would be and so much more. She breathed the city in and exhaled with satisfaction.

  Indiana. Fiddlesticks. I belong in this city.

  She hefted her satchel and started down a very busy street, looking for the first order of business: a place to live. Within minutes, she found a three-story brick building with elegant glass-etched double doors from which hung a placard reading, “Room for rent. Ring bell.”

  The buzzer bellowed with a hollow, gonglike sound. It was necessary for the buzzer to make a good deal of sound in order to be heard over the sewing machine’s clatter from the first floor renter. Mrs. Warrington, an aging widow who never lost hope of finding another husband, primped before her mirror before hurrying down the stairs to welcome the visitor. Oh how she hoped it would be a renter for the top floor room in the back. That room had remained vacant for all of the last two months. Without the revenue from the back room, her overall profits were slight at best. She opened the door with a flourish and a grand smile.

  “Won’t you come in, my dear? Are you here about the room?”

  She gave Cindy no opportunity to respond, as she continued prattling on. Cindy began to suspect that perhaps all of Chicago’s womenfolk chattered nonstop.

  “It is small but comfortable.” She led her up three flights of stairs. “We get steam heat from the building next to us. The bed has a lovely set of springs, and the bathroom is only one floor below, but of course, you have your pitcher and basin here. I was formerly collecting three dollars a week, but I could let it go for…” She sized up the potential renter quickly, taking note of the humble attire and lack of coiffure. “You may have it for two fifty.”

  The strangely quiet girl was attentive and polite as the landlady continued with the advantages of renting a top floor room in the back. She was more than surprised when the silent girl opened a purse crammed with bills and handed her five dollars for two weeks’ rent. Mrs. Warrington tended to regard any cash-carrying person as generally trustworthy until proven otherwise, so she did not require the usual exchange of references. The room was rented for cash, and that was information enough.

  Chapter 32

  March, 1932

  Cloverdale, Oregon

  In the early part of the twentieth century, protections for children came from nongovernmental societies, if they came at all. In rural areas, which Cloverdale, Oregon was, activists for the SPCC’s (Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children) were nowhere to be found. Small town rural governments witnessed shocking increases in the number of child cruelty, abuse and neglect reports, as well as in the number of calls for reform. The government’s answer, “Juvenile Courts”, took up the wider-umbrella of “Child Protection”. The success spread quickly, and by 1919, Juvenile Courts were in every state but three. Politicians saw to it the remaining hold-out’s joined up in short order.

  The judge, in the case of Bowman v. Marshall, was an elderly gentleman who sported both a full mustache of solid white and a pair of bifocals through which he would survey a witness with an expression of mild curiosity. The white hair lent the judge an air of wise perception while the bifocals caused witnesses, mostly those conceiving of ill testimony, more than a little trepidation.

  Will Marshall was an honest man, and as he testified his sincerity could not be questioned. Still, the judge made him nervous to the point that he began twirling that handlebar mustache of his, unintentionally conjuring a slightly fiendish image.

  “You say, Mr. Marshall, that you never saw your brother strike his wife or in any way harm her during the four years of their marriage?”

  “Uh…yes, sir. That’s a fact.”

  “Did Mrs. Marshall seem happily married to you, sir?”

  “Blair? Yeah. I mean, no one ever saw her happy until she married my brother. Then, after that, she didn’t want anything to do with the preacher, like she was scared of ‘im.”

  “Please do not make any suggestions to the court, young man.”

  “I…yes, sir. Sorry, Your Honor.”

  “Are you acquainted with the plaintiff?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Do you know the Reverend Bowman?”

  “He’s no reverend. He’s only a preacher because my ma and pa built him a church and the congregation said it was all the same to them if he wanted to preach for ‘em.”

  “So then, Preacher Bowman does preach for your church?”

  Will looked helplessly at Sean, who merely nodded for him to answer. “Yes, sir. I guess I know him as a preacher at my church.”

  “What is the relationship between your brother, Sean Marshall, and the preacher, as far as you see it, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Do you mean, do they like each other?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I would have to say no, sir, not at all. It’s just this way: Blair didn’t want him around her or the baby, and so Sean saw to it. Seems there was nothing Sean wouldn’t do for Blair.”

  “Did you ever see the preacher mistreat his daughter?”

  “No, sir. Truth is, I never even noticed Blair until she became family. Then I never saw the preacher around his daughter at all. That’s the way she wanted it.”

  “How do you know that was the way she wanted it, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Well…uh…Sean told me it was so.”

  “Did Mrs. Marshall ever tell you this?”

  “That s
he didn’t want to be near her father?”

  “Exactly. Did you ever hear this from her directly?”

  “I guess not, like, in words, no. But whenever neighbors would gather”—he stopped to instruct the good judge that theirs was a close-knit community and there were many get-togethers, such as salmon bakes and picnics, barn-raisings, and church socials—“and I would see him trying to…uh…layin’ to make a touch on her, I could see that Blair always looked real uncomfortable. You could jus’ tell she didn’t want him around her.”

  “You sort of perceived her contempt toward her father, but you never actually overheard her say she was afraid of him?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Never mind, Mr. Marshall. You can step down.”

  “Yes, sir.” He looked over at Sean miserably. He’d felt impotent up on the stand, talking face to face with the judge, and he feared that he might not have helped his brother.

  Sean shook his shoulder and smiled wistfully when his brother took his seat next to him. The judge asked the preacher to take the stand next.

  When the oath was administered, Bowman raised his hand higher than his shoulder and answered in his most arrogant, rumble-bass voice, “Of course.”

  “Mr. Bowman, some of your neighbors have testified today that your daughter seemed to be frightened of you. Not a single person has been brought forward who could testify to your claims that Mr. Marshall abused his wife. Do you stand by this accusation?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, Mr. Bowman, how do you account for your own daughter’s fear of you?”

  “I was the only soul she could share her shame with, sir. The same reason no one else can testify to Marshall’s assault and battery is the same reason she was afraid of me. You see, I had ordered her to leave him more than once.”

  “Well, Mr. Bowman, if that’s so, then why didn’t your daughter leave him or at least file charges of spousal abuse?”

  “She was afraid of what he might do. The Marshall family is a wealthy one. And with that wealth comes power. Why, you and I both know how rich folks can pull strings and get away with most anything. I would not be a bit surprised to know that the Marshall money has tampered with this court!”

  The judge rapped loudly and glared over the tops of his bifocals. “No impertinence, Mr. Bowman. No impertinence!” while Sean’s attorney muttered loud enough to be heard all over the court room, “This is an outrage!” which it was, since Bowman had just won his case with that one inflammatory remark.

  “You are excused, Mr. Bowman. Mr. Sean Marshall, please take the stand.”

  “Your Honor,” Sean’s lawyer objected. “I would like a chance to question Mr. Bowman about his motive for slandering this court the way he did.”

  “Well, sir, we all want things we can’t have. Now please have your client take the stand.”

  Sean’s lawyer blustered and ran an impatient hand through his hair and generally stomped his feet like a misbehaved child, but the judge paid no attention. Sean looked cautiously to his attorney as he remonstrated, but when he received no guidance, he decided to take the opportunity to say his piece.

  “I do,” he pledged solemnly in response to the judge’s question of oath.

  “Mr. Marshall…Mr. Marshall, are you the natural father of the child, one Victory Marshall?”

  “No, sir, but I am his father just the same. I raised him, and I love him. I watched his mother give birth to him. I was there, holding her hand. His mother and I were the ones to rock him gently into the night whenever he took ill. I feed and I clothe him. I…I teach him…things…” Sean’s voice broke. “He’s my son…” Sean nearly sobbed and could not go on.

  “Would you like some water, sir?”

  Sean just shook his head no.

  “Did you ever lay violent hands upon your wife, sir?”

  “No! God, no! I would never do that! I felt sorry for her is why I married her, but then…then I fell in love with her, and we were, we were happy together. She’s gone. I don’t know why, and all I have left in the world is my son, my son, Your Honor.”

  The judge was a gentle man who was firmly opposed to domestic violence. He held that the man on the stand below him was telling the truth. Few justices can rebuff a strong man who is reduced to tears. He took a sip of some water to soothe himself before continuing. “Mr. Marshall, why did your wife leave you then, if not because you raised your hand to her?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Sean’s anguish was palpable. “I swear I never hurt her. I love her. I tried to save her.” He looked up at the judge with eyes which glistened. Then his face changed right before the judge’s eyes. The lines in his face grew deeper, the hollows beneath his eyes and below his cheeks grew darker and his skin turned gray. “I could never harm her. I’ll tell you who abused Blair…” He caught himself. He couldn’t say it, not even then. Could he? What if she chose to return? She could be home right now for all he knew. And if she did return, her reputation would be ruined if he were to tell the court what he knew. He had promised he’d never do that. He’d promised Blair he would keep her secret forever. Forever was a hell all its own. He looked despairingly up at the bench.

  “Mr. Marshall, you were going to tell the court you knew of some abuse your wife has sustained.”

  “No, sir. I can’t say any more.”

  Will bolted upright and shouted at him. “Sean, for Christ’s sake, man, if you know somethin’, now’s the time for sayin’ it!”

  Sean just looked at his brother and shook his head. Then he glanced the preacher’s way and was met with a cunning smirk. Sean Marshall knew as sure as there’d be rain in April that he had just lost his son.

  He was not cross-examined. In fact, the court room was deathly quiet. The judge rapped twice on the scratched and marred bench and cleared his throat. “I have heard the arguments and must admit that I remain in doubt. The court has heard no convincing evidence that Mr. Marshall has abused his missing wife. However, that is not the focus of this case. I am to decide the custody of a small child, whether that child is to live with the natural grandfather or remain with his now-wifeless stepfather.”

  The judge’s good sense was in conflict with Bowman’s allegation that the wealthy automatically emerges the winner. Fortunately, he formed a rule of conduct for just such an emergency: when in doubt, decide in favor of the plaintiff and order the defendant to pay all costs. He would bend his rule of conduct just a bit this one time. “In the case of Bowman vs. Marshall, I rule in favor of the plaintiff, Preacher Bowman. I dismiss all charges of spousal abuse against Mr. Sean Marshall. Each party shall pay his own costs. This court is adjourned.” He rapped twice more and quickly exited the court room with a taste in his mouth that was thoroughly sour.

  Chapter 33

  “Can we get goin’ a little faster, Will?” Sean’s impatience was tangible.

  Will snook a peek over at his brother. Sean was urgently tapping the outside of his door, through his unrolled window, with the fingers on his right hand; the other hand was busy keeping his hair from blowing in his face. The day was a sunny one, but that March air was brisk with the sting of winter still in it. Will had seen his brother that way before—every single day since he’d learned Blair had left, actually.

  “There you go again, Sean. Plainly, you’re still clinging to the hope Blair will be waiting for you when we get home.” His declaration was met with breezy silence.

  “Well it’s either that or you’re trying to drum the paint off the auto,” Will tried. His attempt at light humor was lost on Sean, but Will was not the sort to be put off so easily.

  “Sean, brother, she won’t be there. I hate to see you keep working yourself up for it when it ain’t gonna happen.”

  He did not turn his head. Instead, his eyes were focused on some place far ahead in the distance. “S
he might.”

  “No, Sean. She’s gone. We tried everywhere. She was on that train to Indiana, but she never got there. She disappeared, little brother. People don’t disappear by accident neither.” He paused to sigh and to brace himself, too. He didn’t like saying those hurtful things to his brother, but someone had to. He inhaled deeply. “She ain’t comin’ back. I don’t mean to hurt you, Sean. I just can’t stand to see you keep hoping the way you do. I mean, every single day, you’re out in the fields or you’re in the carriage house tearing apart old radios, an’ I see ya go runnin’ for the house ‘cause you thought you heard someone. Sean, it’s killin’ me to see you this way. You gotta accept it or you’re gonna go nutty. She’s gone. Prob’ly forever.”

  Finally, his brother turned to him. So he had been listening. Will was never sure those days.

  Sean fixed him with a hard stare. “No, Will. I won’t accept it. I can’t. Don’t you see? I just lost my son. And the only way I can get Victor back is if Blair comes home. So she has to. She has to come home, Will. Don’t you understand that?”

  “I’m sorry, Sean.” And he truly was.

  Chapter 34

  Sean lay in his bed, alone again. The pale pink envelope was clenched in his hand. The house was too quiet. It was absent the sound of a child. It lacked the industrious noise of a young mother getting that child ready for bed. The house was a void, like Sean’s heart. In a room downstairs, Sean could hear his ma coughing.

  Where could Blair have gone? he asked himself for the hundredth time. He knew she was alive, and that was all. But not really even alive, was she? He looked at the letter again. It was Blair’s handwriting, but it was signed, “All my love, Cindy.”

  Sean grieved over the unknown. He knew the preacher had done something to make Blair leave. Sean had said he would rescue her; he had failed. He should never have left her alone. He punched his pillows. He threw the envelope across the room. But the small defiance did not make him feel any better. It seemed that nothing could take away the pain. He quickly threw his boots on and grabbed a flannel shirt. He slung his camera around his neck and reached for the flash. It was his only means of escape, that and his ham radio, but there would be no receivers on at that time of night. Sean had never felt so alone.