Tattler's Branch

by Jan Watson

  “We should have dessert first,” Armina teased. “We bought oatmeal cookies at the store today.”

  “I thought you were never leaving the house again, Mazy,” Lilly said.

  “Oh, Lilly, we wore hats. Didn’t we, Armina? We had fun trying them on.”

  “Let me see,” Lilly said, all smiles. “I’ve never seen you in a hat, Armina.”

  They disappeared into Lilly’s room and came back sporting two of her frilliest chapeaus. Armina’s was a black beret with red drooping feathers. “I look like a rooster,” she said, tilting back her head. “Cock-a-doodle-doo.”

  Mazy looked positively fetching in the gray felt cloche with cascading yellow ribbon Lilly had purchased in Chicago while on an excursion with Tern. She put a straw skimmer atop Lilly’s head. “Now,” she said, “it’s officially a party.” She handed Lilly a pair of scissors. “Sister, open your package.”

  The paper fell away to reveal two shoe boxes. Mazy’s face fell, then brightened. She clasped her hands to her heart. “I’ll bet they’re opera pumps—probably kid high heels. If so, I’m stuffing tissue in the toes and wearing them to church.”

  Lilly lifted the first lid and took out a pair of lady’s high-topped shoes, size six. They were two-toned brown with laces—decidedly fashionable. An advertising brochure sported a picture of the shoes and boasted: The burning and aching caused by stiff soles are entirely prevented by the RED CROSS SHOE, for it bends with the foot. RED CROSS SHOES are made of pinch-free, flexible, noiseless leather. Try them—you’ll like them. We guarantee.

  Lilly sighed. She could feel Tern’s presence as strongly as if he were sitting in the chair across from her. He was the most thoughtful man.

  Armina rubbed the smooth leather toe of one shoe. “How nice,” she said.

  “Try the other box,” Mazy said.

  “Forevermore,” Lilly said as she unearthed a pair of low-cut canvas shoes. She examined the thick rubber soles. “I think these are plimsolls—deck shoes for boating.”

  “Well,” Mazy said, “won’t they be handy the next time it rains?”

  Lilly slipped the canvas shoes on her feet and clomped around the room. They were decidedly unattractive, but they felt as relaxing as house slippers. “Oh, my goodness, these are wonderful.”

  “You look like a duck,” Mazy said.

  Armina set about unlacing the leather high-tops and pulling wads of paper out. “More like a goose the way you’re high-stepping.”

  “They feel so good,” Lilly said, her stone bruise easing already. “I’m sure I’ll get used to the looks.”

  Mazy sat at the table, resting her chin in her hands. “I was so hoping for a hat.”

  “There’s something in the toe of this’n here,” Armina said, giving the shoe a mighty shake.

  Silk scarves flowed smooth as melted butter from the throat of the boot. One of Tern’s calling cards followed. The note on the back said, To my love—both comfort and beauty. See you soon. Your loving husband.

  Mazy pounced. “There are three,” she said, raking a long rectangular cloth from the pile. “I claim this one.” She removed her hat and wrapped the shiny white fabric, shot through with threads of gold, over her tightly wound curls, tying the tails under her chin. “Do I look like Cleopatra?”

  “Perish the thought,” Lilly said. She selected the red-and-black batik print and draped it around Armina’s thin shoulders. “This one is definitely for you, Armina. It matches your hat.” That left the sky-blue scarf for her. Tern loved to see her in blue.

  Armina stroked the silky fabric of her gift. “I never felt anything so soft in my livelong life. It’s like a baby’s . . . like a baby . . . a baby.” She faltered, stricken; her eyes searched the room wildly before landing on Lilly. “Where’s the baby?”

  Chapter 22

  Shade Harmon had had just about enough. He had stayed too long at this particular dance.

  Yesterday he’d spent a good part of the morning darting from shadow to shadow trying to figure out where the doctor was. Then she popped up with the sheriff, them walking and laughing together like their heads were strung with gold, like there wasn’t a care in their particular world. And who gave a whit about his? Man, he was sick of this game.

  He pulled a straight-back chair out onto his porch to clean and oil the revolver he’d won in a craps game last night. The gun was small and short-barreled but had substantial heft. It also, somehow, had a feminine air—menacing as a spurned woman. He supposed it was the pearly-pink handle that made it seem girlie. He bet Jesse James would never put a fancy bit like this in his holster.

  Shade stretched out his long legs, keeping his back to the pear orchard. He held the pistol loosely against his knee. That would have been the life, wouldn’t it? Running the back roads with the James gang, taking no guff, robbing from banks instead of being robbed by one.

  A blue jay landed just in front of him, cracking open a sunflower seed against the wooden porch railing. When Shade shifted in his seat, the bird called a raucous warning and flew away. Its wings shone like sapphire in the early morning sunlight.

  Shade and Jesse had something in common besides their disdain of banks: both lost their fathers at a young age, and both their fathers had been Baptist ministers as well as farmers. Shade’s father raised tobacco, and Jesse’s grew hemp. Before she died, Shade’s mother used to tell of the time both men preached during the same brush arbor meeting. She said the tent was full every night and that two dozen men were baptized following the revival.

  “Poor Zerelda,” Shade’s mother would lament whenever Jesse’s latest escapade blazed from the newspaper headlines in bold black print. “She loved her blue-eyed boy, but she raised him hard.”

  “Poor Zerelda indeed,” Shade said to the returning jay. “She got her arm blowed off because of her wayward boy. Not to mention, the outlaw Jesse James got shot in the back of the head whilst dusting a picture frame. What an inglorious end. I wonder if the portrait was of his mother.”

  Seed hulls flew from the bird’s mouth. The blue jay cocked its head and stared at Shade with black, piercing eyes. He fancied the bird could peer into the darkness of his soul. “It’s good my mother didn’t see how I turned out.”

  Disdainfully the bird turned its back and winged away again. Shade twirled the oiled pistol on his index finger. The butt banged square against his kneecap before falling to the floor with a dull thud. He hopped across the porch on one leg, swearing in pain.

  He sat back down, resting his head in his hands. The gun lay in shadow where he had dropped it. Some bandit he would be. Lucky he didn’t shoot himself in the foot. Did he actually think he could shoot a man in cold blood like Jesse James had done? Agony clutched his heart with an icy hand. Had Jesse ever killed a woman?

  A wild hot wind rustled through the pear orchard like a cry. Like a call from the grave—like the voice of Sweet Noreen. The incessant droning insects in the drying grass and weeds chanted a funeral dirge.

  Shade tugged his hair with both hands and cried out, “Lord! Lord! Is it too late for me?”

  There was no answer—not from God, not from his mother or father dead these many years, and not from Sweet Noreen. He was on his own. But only for a little while, only until he found Betsy Lane—his last chance to do something good with his life.

  He swore to himself that he would raise her right, try to fix whatever might be wrong with her. But if it proved impossible to change, he’d love her anyway. He was all she had.

  Picking up the rag, he recommenced polishing the gun, stopping every so often to sight down the barrel. The blue jay mocked him from the limb of a sugar maple. Maybe the bird would be his first target; he could take it out in a blaze of guts and feathers. Except he wouldn’t, of course; instead he went in the house and came back out with a fistful of bread crumbs. He flung them over the rail. The jay dived for one before it even hit the ground.

  He didn’t intend to shoot anyone. The firearm was for show in case whoever ha
d Betsy Lane didn’t want to hand her over. The very thought made him mad all over again.

  Twirling the gun, he drew on his own shadow.

  “Blam!” he said before ramming the loaded firearm in the pocket of his pants and drawing again. “Blam! Blam! Blam!” He could get good at this. The gun made him feel powerful—like everything was even for a change.

  He made to draw one more time, but the hammer caught on his pocket, cocking the gun. Impatient, he grabbed the pistol and tugged hard. With a mighty blast, the gun discharged.

  Shouting, Shade fell back against the floor, sure his time had come. His ears rang and his heart pounded. He was alive, but he dared not move. He didn’t want to know where the bullet had lodged.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched the jay sidestep over to some crumbs. The bird pecked and ate while keeping one eye trained on him. “Life goes on,” he fancied it would say if caws were words. “Your loss is my gain.”

  With an effort, he raised his hand and let it flop. The bird didn’t even flinch, just kept pecking, cleaning up the bread one tidy piece at a time. The repetitive striking of the bird’s beak no doubt masked the sound of his blood dripping through the floorboards. Tears leaked from his eyes and pooled in his ears. He sighed mournfully. Soon the buzzards would come.

  A fulminating anxiety bloomed in his chest like mold on overripe fruit. How had his life come to this? What had he ever done to bring himself to such a dark and desperate place? Someone once said life is about choices. . . . Well, could be, but what about other people’s choices? What about how they had affected him?

  Yeah, what about growing up without a father? What about having to be the man of the house at eight years old? What about his nervous, clingy mother who couldn’t or wouldn’t support herself? What about her spending the better part of every day rocking and staring out the window while her mind slipped away like a shadow in the night? What about the Missouri Home for Indigents where he’d been forced to place her? What about it taking ten long years for her to die alone?

  One dark thought bumped up against another—like his brain was a chain-smoker bent on self-destruction.

  The only peace he’d ever had was during the early years of his marriage to Betsy. She’d been a loving presence in his life—stabilizing, even. It seemed to him she was his reward after years of strife. She made him want to get up in the morning. And then she got sick. What about that? What about how someone else’s illness could suck the life right out of you? Did he really ever have a chance?

  His father had preached that all of life was preordained. There was an answer for you. Some folks were destined to stumble in shadow and others to dance in the light.

  The one thing he’d cop to was Sweet Noreen. He’d waltzed right into that with eyes wide open. She’d had the opposite effect on him than Betsy. Where Betsy calmed him down, Noreen revved him up. She was the whirlwind to Betsy’s calm zephyr. Once they’d met, they stayed on the go—living in six towns in two years. It was the perfect life to ply his trade, and Noreen thrived on change.

  Of course it had to end. Everything did eventually. And that was fine. He’d been ready to settle down. The way they were living was taking a toll. They made plans. He’d get a daytime job. She’d take care of the house, cook and clean, be a regular wife. Problem was, settling down unsettled Sweet Noreen. She wasn’t wired for the mundane life.

  The porch floor was getting hard. Shade’s back seized in protest. The blue jay spared him no sympathy. With one easy hop, it landed on his chest and went to work on a shiny metal button. Gathering his energy, he brushed the bird away, then cautiously patted his chest. The only wounds he found were the old healing ones. He sat up, then stood. The bullet had splintered the place in the floor directly under his feet. Maybe he wasn’t so unlucky after all.

  He shook his head, his shoulders, his arms—letting the problems fall where they would like so many dry leaves on a windy day. Then, back inside, he cooked a hearty breakfast, adding fried potatoes to his usual bacon and eggs. After pitching the coffee grounds, he set about his tasks. It was time to put his plan in motion.

  Last night he’d tossed and turned, discarding first one strategy and then another. Finally, about 5 a.m., he rose and put on a pot of coffee. It seemed every plan he came up with had a kink. He wasn’t concerned with the actual taking of Betsy Lane—one look at his gun should convince the doctor that he meant for her to lead him to his daughter. No, the problem was how he could get the baby on a train without stirring interest. He’d traveled east to west and back again more than once, but he’d never seen a man on a train alone with an infant.

  Then he’d hit on what might be the solution. His old Army duffel would make the perfect little nest for Betsy Lane. He wouldn’t close it fully so she could have plenty of air. Once aboard, he’d retire with the baby to a sleeper car. He only needed to make it as far as Cincinnati. It would be easy enough to disappear in the big city.

  He prepared the house for leaving. First he boiled all the baby’s bottles and the rubber nipples, putting them in a paper sack when they dried. He washed Noreen’s delicate pink-and-green dishes and mopped the kitchen floor with sudsy bleach water. His clothes were in the duffel from his aborted trip to Tennessee. He took out some things—pants and jackets of rough material—and put them in a separate bag, leaving only soft things like shirts and underwear and socks. Atop these he put the few diapers he had left and some little drawstring gowns. They’d make a good bed for the baby. There was plenty of stuff in plenty of stores in Cincinnati, and he had plenty of money.

  Whoa, Nellie. He’d just about forgotten about the baby’s head. Noreen never took Betsy Lane outdoors without a hat. She said it would prevent earaches. She said nobody wanted to be around a baby with the earache.

  He searched the house over before he found the knit cap tangled up in his own bedcovers. A yearning, lonesome feeling washed through him as he held the tiny piece of fluff. He fingered the pink ribbon ties attached to the bonnet with delicate pink rosettes. Betsy Lane looked like a doll baby when she had that ribbon tied in a bow under her sweet chin. At first he’d fretted because she didn’t seem to have a neck—her wobbly head set square on her shoulders. But Noreen said babies didn’t have necks. She said their heads were too heavy for a neck.

  “Support her head. Support her head,” Noreen was always saying whenever he picked the baby up. It put a dreadful fear in him—what if Betsy’s head popped off and rolled under the table or clean out the door? Toward the end, when he was doing most of the holding and feeding and changing, he’d discovered babies were sturdier than they looked.

  Betsy was seven days old when the naval string came off. It was about the same time Noreen lost interest. He noticed her drawing away when they gave the baby her first bath. He thought it would be fun, but the baby just lay in the water with her head resting in the crook of his arm. She didn’t splash and coo like he thought she would. And Noreen stood looking over his shoulder as dull as Betsy Lane. He’d dried the baby with a soft cotton towel, being extra careful with all the tucks and folds. Noreen oiled and powdered Betsy Lane, then dressed her and wrapped her in a blanket before putting her to nurse. It didn’t go well, though Shade loosened the papoose wrap and tickled the tiny feet. Noreen had sat in the chair like a mannequin with stiffly folded arms. It reminded him so much of his mother.

  That’s when he’d thought of going to the store to buy bottles and rubber nipples. The baby needed more than the butter and sugar mix she took from Noreen’s finger following the sporadic difficult feedings. That trip was the beginning of the end. But now he had a second chance.

  He was ready to put the past behind. The house was clean and neat. The windows were closed and shuttered. The icebox was packed with newsprint. The taxes were paid for the year. He’d keep them current by money order for a few more years until the secrets this place held could no longer be a threat. What happened after that was of no consequence to him. He and Betsy Lane would never be back.


  He was locking the door when he remembered the bromide of calcium. His fingers wavered back and forth at the black metal plate, the lock click-clacking as he maneuvered the key, undecided what to do. He swore he’d never give such a thing to the baby, but what if she cried and he couldn’t get her to hush? It would only be for a short time, just until they got to Cincinnati, and he’d give her only a tiny bit—not the half teaspoon Noreen dosed her with.

  His step was light when he crossed the bridge over Tattler’s Branch. Once he got to Skip Rock, he’d stash his gear in that old abandoned house he’d found and look for a game—give him something to do this evening. Come morning, everything would change for the better.

  Chapter 23

  Lilly dressed hurriedly. It was her half day and she wanted to get to the office early, before the stream of patients arrived. Kip seemed to understand and made short shrift of his business when she let him out.

  She cracked the door to the back bedroom and saw that Armina was still sleeping. Good. She’d needed a sleeping draught last night, but thankfully she hadn’t slipped back into the fugue state of Saint Vitus’ dance. Remembering the baby had left her confused and shaky but not physically unfit.

  In stammering bits and stuttering pieces, Armina had told Lilly her story. She remembered climbing through an open window and taking a baby. She didn’t remember why—only that it was crying. She recalled running with the baby across a footbridge spanning a deep creek, but she didn’t remember where it was or why she was there in the first place. There were giant rabbits and juicy blackberries and grating pickaxes jumbled throughout her account but no understanding of why they were relevant.

  When Chanis had stopped by for an evening visit with Mazy, Lilly shared the things Armina had said. “Will Armina be in trouble with the law?” she asked after they stepped outside, beyond earshot.