March 1932
Cloverdale, Oregon
Rebecca arrived by horse, and when she came through the front door, stomping her feet and shaking off her hat, she looked as pretty as ever. She was one of the few women Sean thought could look just as natural in pants as in a dress. She was right on time, but Sean had been waiting nonetheless. Rebecca had figured on that being the case.
“Will, Beck-wheat’s here,” Sean shouted up the stairs.
Will was taking the rainy morning to do some accounting work on the farm’s books. He closed the books, grabbed his raincoat and headed down the stairs.
“You be careful, you two. Will, I’m countin’ on you to keep him out’ta trouble, ya hear?” Said Rebecca.
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Tjaden,” Will joked. Then with a degree of seriousness Will turned to Sean and asked him, “Are you absolutely certain you want to do this, uninvited?”
Sean grabbed his coat and hat off the rack in response.
“Alright, Sean. I’d be glad-hearted to see Victor, too. But you confound me by saying it’s ‘cause you need a witness. I still don’t understand why you should need one. The man has said some hateful things, but he ain’t gonna get physical with you.”
“I told ya, Will. You’re Victor’s uncle and he’ll be glad to see you. And, I need you there as a witness in case preacher decides to try and kill me.”
At that, Rebecca’s eyes widened. “The preacher? Try to kill you? Really, Sean. I know you two have your differences, but aren’t you being a might blasphemous?”
Sean just smiled at her. “We’ll see. Thank you again, Beck-wheat, for sittin’ with Ma while we’re gone.” To his brother, Sean said, “Boy, I’m glad you said you’d come along, Will.”
They tied their horses up to some trees standing to the left of the drive. Will stopped to remove a wooden spinning top that Elrod Tjaden had carved for little Victor out of a chunk of fallen spruce. Rebecca had asked that it be given to Victor as a belated birthday gift. He tied the pack closed again and turned around to stare blankly into the business end of Preacher Bowman’s shotgun. It was pointed directly at them.
“Hey there! What?!” He looked incredulously at Sean.
Sean raised his hands innocently and walked slowly toward Bowman, smiling all the while. “Did I tell ya, Will, that he’d greet us out of sight, tip his hat, roll out the red carpet, welcome us in his most mannerly way?”
Will followed Sean’s lead, raising his hands too, and walked a half step behind him. His smile never faltered, yet he admonished Sean through the side of his clenched teeth. “You just didn’t want to rob me of the excitement, huh, Sean? What have you gotten us into?”
Sean acknowledged him with a wink. “C’mon, Preacher. What kind of a greetin’ is this? You must think I’m here to cause trouble. Now, that wounds me, Preacher. What about turnin’ the other cheek an’ all that?”
“You’ve come far enough, Marshall. We shoot trespassers ‘round here.”
“Well, how ‘bout forgivin’ us our trespasses and let us look upon Victor for a spell? This here’s his Uncle Will. We miss seein’ the little fella.”
Preacher Bowman tipped his head in Will’s direction. “Will,” he said in a form of greeting. He descended the front porch steps and walked toward them and then circled around and went for Sean’s horse. He was checking for weapons.
Will could hardly believe it. “Preacher Bowman, I—I’m nearly beyond words. I don’t believe this behavior in you. I know you an’ my brother are fire-and-petrol to one another, but you gotta give him his due. The man’s got a right to see his son. So? Can we look upon Victor, or not?”
“Not. Now you two go on. Get off my property before we have us a good ol’ Tennessee barn fight. You’ll not be poisonin’ my son with your stories today.”
“Your son, preacher?” Will had caught him off guard.
“My grandson…er, the son I never had.” He waved the shotgun at them as he inched back toward them. He noticed that Will was looking with disgust at his boots. He looked down. “Aw, Judas priest!”
While the preacher was distracted by the horse pucky on his boots, Will lowered his hands, tapped his brother’s shoulder and motioned with a nod toward the small window near the front door. Victor was watching them. Preacher resumed his advance, waving his shotgun as he did, pressuring them back toward their horses.
“You know, Preacher, if you keep making the mistake of menacing us with that thing, I’ll have to take it away from you.”
“That so, Marshall? You and what army?”
“Hey, hey, c’mon now. Let’s siphon it down some,” Will tried. “Preacher? You once told my Ma you spoke three languages. How is it you don’t know how to say, ‘welcome’ in any of ‘em?” He turned to Sean. “And, brother, you didn’t come here to fight, you came to see Victor. That’s right, ain’t it?”
Sean swallowed his pride and nodded. Will turned to the Preacher. “Ita?” He surprised the Preacher with his knowledge of Latin.
Preacher Bowman wasn’t feeling particularly charitable or welcoming. “No,” he snapped.
“I’m gonna pop him so hard his great-grandchildren will feel it,” Sean promised his brother.
Before their eyes, the corpulent face of the preacher grew an angry red, and he blustered. “I don’t recognize what it is my Blair ever saw in you, Marshall. But you better believe I’d just as soon shoot you where you stand as look at you. Now get on!”
“Well, ‘course you wouldn’t recognize it, Bowman. It’s a peculiarity called humanity. I don’t doubt you never heard of it. But look. Why don’t you start practicin’ some now and just let me see my son?”
Will nodded, his smile full of encouragement. “We wouldn’t stay long, Preacher. We wanted to give Victor a birthday gift that Elrod Tjaden carved for him.” He held out the toy to Bowman, who refused to lower the firearm and take it from him. “C’mon, now. It was carved from that giant spruce on their property that lightning struck and split in two, last storm. Struck it twice in one night. It’s a toy but it’s also for luck, too.” He held it out for a good long while but the preacher wouldn’t make a grab for it. Will stashed it in his coat pocket.
Meanwhile, the heavy rain of earlier had since become a steady cascade. They would have been drenched had it not been for the canopy provided by the solid walls of trees. It was looming darkness all the way to the preacher’s doorstep, save for only tiny patches of light amid forlorn shadows and chill depths. Will shivered, not from his wet clothes but from the depressing landscape that surrounded them. It was dank and austere and cheerless. He understood why Sean was so obsessed in getting Victor away from that place. It was no atmosphere in which to nurture a child.
Sean could see that the preacher’s face hadn’t cracked into any expression of mercy, nor had he lowered the barrel to his shotgun any. He turned to the boy in the window and shouted to be heard above the noise from the rain against a million leaves.
“Victor! Son! I love you, Victor! You hear me, boy? I love you!” He took a step closer, his arms outstretched to the boy, who continued to stare at him, his chubby hands splayed pathetically against the grimy glass, his little boy eyes filled with tears.
The shotgun touched Sean’s chest.
“I’ll do it, Marshall. Won’t be any skin off o’ my behind to do it. Now get on out of here.”
“Forget it, Sean. Might as well be polishin’ cow patties,” Will said. He grabbed Sean’s sleeve and pulled him around. Sean looked back at the window one more time with silent envy, feeling like his blood was being siphoned out of him, leaving his body cold inside. Within that coldness lay a primal desire to chop the preacher’s head off with a dull shovel. The fleeting thought emerged with such passion that it frightened Sean. He swallowed the painful lump that had taken form in his throat and they trudged back t
hrough the mud to their horses. Sean untied the animals, mounted his, and turned back down the drive to the main road.
Will looked over to his brother. “I would still like to give him a knuckle-sandwich, Sean,” he hollered over the rain.
“And I would sure like to watch him eat it, Will,” Sean answered.
Chapter 35
“I think he wanted an excuse to kill Sean. I really do!” Rebecca told her husband. “Anyway, that was what happened when Sean and Will tried to visit. Also, he wouldn’t accept your gift for Victor.” She handed the carved toy back to her husband.
“Well, I don’t have a mind to involve ourselves in the Marshalls’ feud with the preacher, but he ain’t gonna threaten my friends with a shotgun an’ get away with it. Someone’s gotta talk to the man, and it might as well be me.”
Rebecca stopped him merely by touching his arm. “Don’t, El. Don’t go over there. I fear for what he’s capable of doing. The Marshall’s believe the man is fit to do murder. I saw it in Will’s eyes when he was telling me all about it. It frightened me. The preacher’s not right in his head, El. Leave it alone. For me.” Her eyes pleaded with him, and he could not refuse her, though the Finnish part of him angled for satisfaction.
“Say he’s got a few lanterns out, eh?” He chuckled.
Rebecca was relieved to see her husband place his hat back on the peg.
“It worries me, El. You know the hateful things the preacher has been sayin’ about Sean. Sean Marshall’s a good man. You know that as well as I do. But he’s quit the church, and all folks know is that his wife’s run off. He won’t tell anyone, not even Will, what really happened. Now his word’s no good over the preacher’s. Things are just gonna get worse for him, El. And things are already so bad for Sean it makes me want to cry.”
Elrod patted her hand gently. He knew the feelings his wife had for Sean Marshall, but he didn’t begrudge either of them for those feelings. Sean had been her first love and she his. One never forgets their first. Elrod Tjaden also knew that Rebecca loved him, and that Sean Marshall had truly loved Blair. Her leaving had caused him a great deal of pain. “I don’t know what I can say, Rebecca. If there was something I could do to help Sean, you know I would do it. He’s been my best friend since we were both tadpoles.”
“Just promise me, El, that no matter how bad the gossip gets about Sean, you’ll stand by him. We Tjaden’s are his only true friends, and he needs us.”
“Of course, Beck. Sean’s a fine man. He’s earned my respect many times over, and that ain’t gonna change because of some fool gossip. Besides, the man can’t be a monster if my wife was in love with him once.”
She looked, but she could see no bitterness in the remark. His eyes twinkled at her, and she knew that he’d meant what he’d said as a compliment. She was proud that she had married such a good man. Rebecca had been in love just twice in her life, and both men were among the finest to be found in Tillamook County. Rebecca grabbed her man and planted on him a deep, long kiss before hugging him for all she was worth.
Chapter 36
March, 1932
Chicago, Illinois
Cindy fast developed a taste for Parisian dining, strong coffee in tiny cups, and the theater, all of which bled her purse to near empty. She had paid her rent a month in advance, and had enough money left for a few days’ meals, but after that? She had to do something to get more money. She did not know how to use a typing machine, and her sewing wasn’t anything she was proud of. She was a good cook, but the dining styles in Chicago did not cater to huge slabs of meats, bowls of potatoes, and dangerous sections of homemade apple pie.
There was really only one profession the preacher had prepared her for, and she was good at it. The music man had said as much. He’d said she was better than any of the whores he’d had. All she had to do was allow Blair to stay hidden in her oblivious state and submit to the whims of men willing to pay for it. Maybe it would be sort of cruel to Blair, after Cindy had promised her she’d never be hurt again. But hadn’t she always come to Blair’s rescue when she was needed? Cindy needed Blair’s help. It wouldn’t be right for Blair to refuse her.
Besides, will she even be mindful of what is happening to her? I think not. Hmmm, Chicago must be full of men looking for that type of entertainment. But where does one go to look for them?
She made her way to a stool at the bar of the speakeasy and ordered wine.
When the bartender placed it before her, a gentleman sitting two stools down half rose to take a bill from his vest pocket. “I’ll buy the lady’s drink, Tad.”
Cindy murmured a polite thank you and emphasized it with a demure batting of her lashes. She had developed a passion for wine with dinner, but that would be her first time drinking in a speakeasy. She’d been surprised how easy it was to obtain bootleg wine in Chicago.
As she sipped, the payer moved over to the stool beside her. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I am. I’ve rented the top back room on Bishop Avenue. One can always reach me there by sending along a discreet note. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, well…I’ve just never seen you here before. Name’s Wendell, ma’am. Ever enjoyed a meal in the Table D’hôtel? It’s French. Pretty darn good food really.” He noticed that she wore no wedding ring.
He’d noticed quite a lot about the young woman, actually. He had been watching her from the moment he saw her lovely image peering through the front windows, seeming to contemplate that barstool she eventually chose. She might have a room down the block, but this girl was not Chicago-born, nor had she been in the city for long, Wendell guessed. This was a country girl, possessed of country strength hidden behind mild manners and closely-checked fear. Wendell fancied she might have been raised on a farm in the Midwest, as he was. For one thing, although she wore rather fetching garb, no city girl would attempt a night out with nothing more than a bit of emphasis about the eyes and a dab of rouge on the cheeks, although Wendell wished they would try. Then there was the girl’s air of awkwardness. She did not appear to be very much at home inside the Speakeasy, and Wendell guessed this was her first visit to such a place. But, as if to confound him with contradiction, a look into the woman’s eyes bespoke volumes of experience quite beyond her years. Perhaps hers was not a country life of the gentle sort.
“Kind of you to pay for my drink, Mr. Wendell. And, yes, I have dined next door. I agree. It’s quite good.”
“Oh, it’s my first name that is Wendell. I was rather hoping we’d get to be first name friends.” Wendell lifted her left hand from the bar and held it in his.
“Mine’s Cindy. Nice to meet you.”
She gracefully slipped her hand from his, but not before Wendell saw the tan line where a wedding ring must have resided until recently, or before he felt the calluses of hands which had known a fair bit of toil. This beautiful creature was such a contradiction! Wendell thought to himself.
“So, Wendell, after you enjoy such a fine Bohemian meal, what do you do to work it off?” She looked at him pointedly.
Her provocative reply made Wendell break out in smile. He sidled up a bit closer to her and whispered in her ear, “Decorum demands that I say I would take a brisk walk after. But the best way to do work off a rich French meal is to do what the French profess to do best.” He sat back and awaited her reaction.
She said nothing right away, and Wendell worried. “How much, Wendell?” Cindy finally replied.
“How much?”
“For the entertainment you proposed. You did just proposition, did you not?”
He cleared his throat, and his cheeks turned a might pinkish. She was pretty fresh when you got right down to business. “Five dollars is what I’ve paid…well, what I mean is, I didn’t realize you were—”
“I’m worth six dollars if I’m worth anything, Wendell. I’m not your avera
ge whore.”
“I can see that.”
“First, I would like that dinner you mentioned. And you must supply the room.”
“Sure thing, Cindy. Uh…so, have you done this many times before?”
“More times than you have fingers and toes, Wendell. And never a dissatisfied customer. I can guarantee a good time.”
“Well then.” Wendell’s initial uncertainty changed immediately to a feeling that was good and feisty. “Let’s drink up and go have us some fun, Cindy.”
March, 1933
Chicago, Illinois
Mrs. Warrington had not so much as asked her last name. The girl, ‘Cindy’, was quiet but disturbed the other renters nonetheless by the strangeness of the hours she kept. She remained in her room all day, sleeping, Mrs. Warrington presumed, but then would leave her room in the evening. She usually returned at seven o’clock in the morning and then mysteriously remained in her room the full day again.
Mrs. Warrington felt she should never have allowed this to go on for so long a time. It had been almost a year. But the manner in which her newest tenant arrived and departed was one that begged no acquaintances, and so Mrs. Warrington was at a loss for learning anything about that beautiful and strange girl with the most variable habits. One time, she did grasp the opportunity to ask what deliveries there were in the form of plain white envelopes, to which Cindy responded they were tickets. She’d claimed to be an avid fan of the theater, which she was. But it seemed to Mrs. Warrington, and also to the other renters who watched the girl’s room with unconcealed curiosity, that the envelopes arrived in a most curious manner; sometimes twice in one day, other times once in three or four days. Finally, her curiosity got the better of her and she poised herself at the top of the stairway one morning and waited for Cindy’s return.
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