Tattler's Branch

by Jan Watson

  When she and Ned married and moved to town, Armina had been at a loss. She couldn’t find enough work to keep herself busy; her new little house practically cleaned itself, and idle wasn’t in her nature. She was that glad when she started running Doc’s house as well as her own. Then her need for busy was like a basket overflowing, just the way she liked it. Plus she liked having her own money. She wasn’t a handout sort of woman.

  Good grief, speaking of . . . there was Turnip Tippen at the door. Why didn’t he barrel on in like he generally did, dripping ice water all over the floor?

  “Morning, Armina,” he said, holding a big block of ice suspended from iron tongs. “Reckon you could get Kip to move?”

  Kip was standing right outside the door, guarding something at his feet. “Looks like he’s caught something,” Armina said. “I hope it’s already dead. Let me get the broom.”

  Turnip looked around the ice block. “He’s got a shoe—just kick it outen the way.”

  Turnip’s bossiness always made Armina’s blood boil. Maybe he could get by with that at home, but—

  Cold water dripped on Kip’s head. He shook it off like he’d just had a bath. Armina saw his catch—it was Doc’s new canvas shoe. She picked it up and backed out of Turnip’s way. Kip wagged all over, whining and leaping up to rest his paws on Armina’s knees. Kip never acted like this. Something was bad wrong.

  Armina hurried to Doc Lilly’s room and threw open the closet. Her shoes stood polished and waiting. All of them—including the new Red Cross ankle boots. She checked by the bed. There were her slippers peeking out from under the bedspread.

  Kip barked and ran to the kitchen door. Maybe Doc was in the garden—that wouldn’t be usual of a workday morning, but Armina prayed she was.

  “Wait a second, Kipper. Let’s see if Doc’s satchel is gone.” Armina’s heart dropped. The table by the front door where Doc kept her kit was empty.

  “There, got you all fixed up,” Turnip said, closing the door to the icebox. “You all right, Armina? You look like you seen a ghost.”

  Mazy wandered into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Turnip, you need to take us back to town,” Armina said. “There’s something bad going on.”

  “Wait,” Mazy said. “I have to get my hat.”

  Armina was already out the door, shoe in hand. “We ain’t waiting. Get a move on, Turnip.”

  Kip leaped down from the wagon before it was fully stopped in front of the clinic. Armina’s sense of alarm didn’t lessen when she saw the back door ajar. Doc was strict about not encouraging folks to think they could come in that way.

  Hannah stuck her head out. “Where’s Dr. Still?”

  Another wagon pulled up and Mrs. Blair stepped down. “Has anyone seen Timmy?” she asked.

  Kip barked and growled and pulled another shoe from the tall grass beside the sidewalk. It was a match to the one Armina held.

  Turnip took it from the dog’s mouth. “I’m going to fetch Sheriff Clay,” he said.

  The room reeled with expectation. Hannah had made coffee and now Armina sat with her strong cup of joe trying to force herself to remember what had happened the day she found the baby. Chanis sat in a chair across from her, his knees nearly touching hers. Everyone else he’d ordered out.

  Armina wished she had Kip at her side for a bit of comfort, but he’d taken off like Snyder’s hound as soon as she opened the kitchen door.

  “It’s real important, Miz Armina,” the sheriff said. “I think whatever happened to you that day is connected to whatever has happened to Doc Still.”

  The coffee cup jiggled against the saucer. Armina’s nerves were strung tight as catgut on a fiddle. The sheriff didn’t help—he looked so starched and official, not at all like the boy who came calling on Mazy. Was he going to write her words down on that pad of paper in his hand? If he did, what would he do with them? She didn’t want to wind up some harebrained headline in the paper.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if I was out looking for Doc? I can’t come up with anything else.”

  The sheriff rubbed his jaw. “Don’t be afraid, Miz Armina. I’m just trying to sort things out. Why don’t you start at the beginning and say whatever comes to mind.”

  Armina screwed up her face and closed her eyes tight. It didn’t help—her mind was blank as a blackboard on the first day of school.

  Chanis patted her arm. For some reason that light touch made her want to cry. “It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t fret over it. You’ll make yourself sick again, and Doc will have my hide.”

  His kindness washed over Armina. “Maybe—could I talk to Hannah? Like as if we was setting on the porch?”

  He went and got Hannah, then put their two chairs side by side facing away from Doc Lilly’s desk. “I’ll sit here behind you, if that’s all right, Miz Armina.” He took the desk chair. “Don’t pay me any mind.”

  “Prime the pump, Hannah,” Armina said. “Ask me something.”

  “Remember what a pretty day it was? We had just a little rain that morning. I ran outside to get in the wash, but the rain stopped before I took the first peg off.”

  Armina rested her head against the chair back. Hannah’s soothing voice continued, carrying her back to the misplaced day.

  “I recall it well because that night is when you took ill. I remember I was knitting a blanket for my sister’s baby. It was the prettiest soft blue.”

  Armina’s hard brainpan split open like a black walnut, exposing the soft meat inside. “I woke up that morning thinking of blackberries.” She cracked her neck from side to side, releasing the strain. “I put on one of Ned’s work shirts and daubed kerosene around my ankles.” Her ankle itched. She scratched it with the toe of her shoe. “Chiggers are bad around blackberry bushes.”

  “They are that,” Hannah said.

  “My walking stick and my berry bucket were in the cupboard. I noticed I needed some flour if I was going to make a cobbler. The berries from up on Tattler’s Branch make the best pies you ever tasted.”

  The sheriff drew in his breath, distracting as a mosquito’s whine. But Hannah’s soft “Umm-hum” pulled Armina back into the story.

  “It had been a long while since I’d been up Tattler’s Branch Road, but I went right to the footbridge and crossed to the other side. Those berries were fairly begging to be et.”

  Armina swallowed hard. “Seems like I must have fell in those bushes because next thing I remember, I was kindly hidden among the leaves and brambles watching a man and woman sort of wrestling down the bank toward the creek. I can’t rightly say why this was so, but it seemed like everything was very still—you know, like right before a big storm and even the birds stop their chatter? The air fairly shimmered with forewarning.” She rocked back and forth in the chair. Her head felt big as a balloon, like she might just rise up and bang against the ceiling. She clasped the chair arms tightly.

  “Next thing I knowed, they was both in the water.” She covered her face with her hands. “The man had yellow hair—long yellow hair tied back, and he had a rock—a good-size rock. He raised his hand and the woman went under. That’s what I remember.”

  “Terrible, terrible,” Hannah said.

  The sheriff’s chair scraped against the floor. “You did good, Miz Armina.”

  “I’m not finished,” she said.

  He crouched before her at eye level. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “There was blood in the water and bloody tracks on the ground. I seen the man on a porch I reckon was at his house. He took a shovel and a pick and disappeared. I heard a pitiful mewling I knew for certain sure was a baby, so I crawled in the window and took the little thing. All whilst I was running back across the bridge over the creek, I could hear that pickax a-ringing on rock. I figured he was digging a grave.” Armina gasped. “What if he’s digging Doc’s grave right now?”

  The sheriff handed her his pad of paper and the stub of a pencil. “Can you draw me a map of where you went, Mi
z Armina? Tattler’s Branch is just one mile short of being a river. Lots of folks live other side of it and most have bridges.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Armina said. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Turnip can drive us in the wagon,” the sheriff said. “Miss Hannah, you come along.”

  Half the town was milling around in the road outside the clinic. Mrs. Blair rushed the sheriff when they stepped outside. “Is Timmy with Doc Lilly?” she asked, panic rising in her voice. “Do you think that’s where he is? I know he gets into mischief sometimes, but he always comes straight home from the cream station. He hasn’t even had breakfast yet.”

  “Now, Miz Blair, the boy’s probably funning around with some of his friends,” the sheriff said.

  Armina didn’t think Chanis meant what he said—he was just coddling the worried mother with words. His mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes had narrowed. The look on his face made her more scared than she already was. She felt like she had set something terrible in motion. But like Pandora and her box, it was too late now.

  “You got to level with me,” she said as he helped her up to the wagon seat. “It’s bad, ain’t it?”

  Mazy pulled on his arm, distracting him. “I want to go too, Chanis.”

  “Now, Mazy, it would be best if you stay here.”

  Tears spilled down Mazy’s cheeks. Bless her heart, Armina thought. Even scared half to death and with a straw bonnet hiding her curls, she was still pretty as a porcelain doll.

  “But everyone else is coming,” Mazy said, “and she’s my sister.”

  Armina looked in the wagon behind her. It was full of folks.

  “Ever’body out!” the sheriff bellowed. “This is not a hayride.” Then he said again, “Now, Mazy. Someone needs to stay here in case Doc Still comes back. I’m just going to look around some. Miz Armina’s going to show me something that might be important. Miss Hannah’s going along in case Miz Armina takes ill. We’ll be back shortly.” With a look around at the crowd, he said, “If anybody saw anything the least bit interesting this morning, tell me now.”

  Mrs. Hill raised her hand. “I’m feeling extra poorly, so I need to see the doctor first. I have a serious disorder, you know. It started in the spring of 1899. It was April 1. I remember because my cousin’s husband had a stroke that day . . . or was it my cousin who had the stroke?” she asked in her faltering way. “Well, it was April 1, 1899. I know that for a fact. I ain’t been the same since.” She pulled a long knit sweater tightly around her body though the day was already warm.

  Armina wanted to jump down from the wagon and choke Emma Hill. The foolish old lady never stopped talking, and her talking always concerned some day long past—like her mind was a calendar always flipping backward. It was one thing to yak on when folks had the inclination to listen but, good gravy, not today.

  “Come along, Emma,” Mrs. Blair was kind enough to say, putting an arm around Mrs. Hill’s chicken-wing shoulders. “I expect the sheriff has other things on his mind.”

  Chapter 25

  The room was close and dank with trash and old clothes piled up in the corner. It looked to Lilly like the house had been abandoned years ago. As soon as she heard the man go outside, she tried the doorknob. It didn’t turn, of course. The only window was boarded over from the outside, but she could see movement through a space in the two-by-fours. When she peeked out, she saw the man hauling Timmy across the backyard. Timmy twisted and kicked against his captor, screaming like a banshee.

  The man opened the door to a dirt cellar carved out of a bank and shoved Timmy in. Timmy churned out before he could slam the door and took off like a shot through the tall weeds. The man grabbed his shirt collar and dragged him back to the hole in the ground. He pitched the boy in headlong and slammed the door, wedging it shut with a metal rod through the latch.

  The breath caught in Lilly’s throat. Timmy’s arm was healing nicely, but it wouldn’t stand up well to this rough treatment.

  The man was out of her line of sight. What might he be doing? She assumed his goal was to get the baby, but really all he would have had to do was go to the law and claim his rights to her. Neither Lilly nor Anne could do anything to stop him. A sick feeling settled in Lilly’s stomach. There had to be something more for him to have gone to such lengths.

  She tried to recall how the man had seemed when she treated him last week. He was abrupt and dismissive, but she’d sensed no overt hostility. He’d been clean, except for the bloodstained shirt. She recalled the long braid of his hair and his brown felt hat. He had high cheekbones and a sharp, hawk-like nose. Like Timmy, she would have taken him for an Indian were it not for his fair complexion and blond hair. The only thing odd about him was the reason he’d come in—those wounds to his chest.

  She saw the man go around the corner of the house. Everything grew quiet. She thought the man had left, but she suspected that wouldn’t last long. In the meantime she might find a means of escape or perhaps a weapon of some sort. With a practiced eye she examined the room. There was a dressing table much like hers, except it had no bench and dust obscured the mirror. A chair bursting springs and horsehair was flanked by a table and a coal-oil lamp. Coal-oil lamps had heavy bases—perfect for conking someone over the head. She pictured herself standing by the door with the lamp raised high.

  Getting closer, she noticed something out of place, something coiled around the lamp. She pulled a snakeskin loose and held it up. At least six feet long, it streamed from her hand. The tail end puddled on the floor like a length of ribbon. A blacksnake, she would bet. She hoped it was long gone, but she’d be extra careful when she went through the heap of clothes. Neither she nor the snake had an easy way out.

  Lilly took grateful advantage of the necessary pot behind the door—at least she didn’t have to worry about her bladder if the snake slithered out and scared her. Then, gingerly, she searched through the clothing, discarding shirt after shirt, dress after dress, finding nothing more interesting than two pairs of moldy shoes. She would sit in the chair and try them on, except the snake might be hiding under the cushion. She’d heard it said that they were more afraid of you than you were of them, but she wouldn’t take that chance. Instead she sat on the shelf of the dressing table and examined her feet. They were a mess of abrasions and surface cuts. She hoped Timmy’s had fared better; since the boy didn’t wear shoes during the summer, she suspected he had a nice protective buildup of calluses.

  The first pair of shoes was much too large, but the second ones would do in a pinch. And Lilly was decidedly in a pinch. She would rather have blisters from ill-fitting shoes than a stubbed toe or a serious cut. After wiping mold from the shoes with a musty shirt from the pile on the floor, she put them on. They’d be okay if she could do up the buttons.

  Buttons! Buttonhooks—an unexpected weapon. Frantically aware of the passing of time, she dumped the dressing table drawers out onto the floor. There was no buttonhook but there was a knitting needle. She swallowed hard and slipped it into her pocket, where its presence burned like carbide, like the planning of a sin. What did she think she would do with the needle? Poke his eyes out? Stab him?

  One hour turned into two as she waited, afraid to turn her back on the door. Finally she heard his heavy footsteps in the hall and saw the doorknob turn. Now was the time to put faith in action—time to do all things through Christ. She flung the tool away.

  “Come along,” he said, waving the gun.

  “I’m not leaving Timmy here alone,” she said.

  “Oh yeah, well, what if I shoot you now? Who’ll find you or the boy?”

  “You are not a cruel man. I don’t believe you’d leave the boy in that place to die.”

  He scraped the barrel of the gun against the stubble of his beard. “Ma’am, you took my child. Alls I want is to get her back.”

  “And I am willing to help you, but not at the risk of hurting Timmy.”

  “That boy’s brought this misery on himself.
He wouldn’t stay out of my business.”

  She raised her hands in supplication. “Sir, he’s just a boy.”

  He whirled and kicked the door so hard it bounced against the frame. She flinched and nearly screamed. His eyes were wild when he looked at her. “Just do as I say and nobody has to get hurt.”

  “Bring Timmy in here, and I’ll go with you.” She let her face go soft. It wasn’t a stretch to let a few tears flow. She could have cried a river.

  He turned on his heel and shut the door. The key clicked in the lock.

  Lilly flew to the window and watched him jerk the cellar door open. A subdued Timmy came out and followed the man inside.

  “Timmy, you’ll be okay here until we come back. Okay?” She held the snakeskin up. “Look what I found.”

  “Boy, that’s a beaut.”

  “Just think what the boys will say when you show it to them. They’re going to be so envious that you’ve had such an adventure.”

  “Yeah,” he said, wrapping the skin around his wrist. “I can’t wait to show them. Maybe I’ll find the snake, too.”

  The man had procured a horse and a two-door carriage, with an ample front bench and a small backseat. Lilly wondered what family was missing theirs.

  They’d have to go around the mountain in order to get to the Beckers’ house in the buggy. The horse couldn’t haul it up the ridge on this road. She was thankful. They were sure to see someone who knew she was missing.

  But half an hour later, they rolled into the Beckers’ front yard. “I know they have my daughter,” he said, his voice as cold as a January morning. “You go get her. Try anything funny and I won’t have any qualms about what happens next.”

  Lilly stepped down from the carriage. She knew she looked a mess. Anne would know something was amiss the moment she saw her. She squared her shoulders, walked up the porch steps with her unfastened shoes flopping, and knocked on the door.