Stay a Little Longer

by Dorothy Garlock

  Sighing irritably, Stack said, “I was explaining to you that while the Gaitskill Lumber Company has done all that it had set out to do with regard to the new mill they planned to construct east of town, it appears to the board of directors back in Minneapolis that things are… lacking on Carlson’s end. I was asked to come here to give you an opportunity to explain your point of view, but for that, I’m still waiting.”

  Instead of answering, Zachary asked, “Would you mind if I smoked?”

  Stack nodded. “If you must.”

  From the moment he received the telegram that told him to expect a visit from the lumber company’s representative, Zachary had dreaded his impending arrival. In his experience, meetings such as this could easily degenerate into shouting matches, spiteful accusations, and often the collapse of a carefully prepared deal.

  Plucking a thickly rolled Spanish maduro from the silver box on the edge of his enormous oak desk, Zachary took his time in snipping the cigar’s end and striking the match to light it. Puffing heavily, he soon had the end blazing red and bluish tendrils of smoke rising toward the ceiling. Fresh tobacco smoke burned in his throat.

  “Where are my manners?” he said in sudden awareness. “Would you like one?”

  “No thank you,” Stack answered curtly.

  Zachary’s desire to smoke, as well as his offering a cigar to his guest, was not born out of a longing for tobacco; it sprang from his desire to avoid showing weakness. Making Stack wait for him to proceed, while infuriating to the man, also served to remind him that his host was not without power of his own. Too often in situations such as this, whoever was on his side of the desk bent over backward to please his benefactors.

  But that is something I will not do!

  Weakness was not an attribute that many would ascribe to Zachary Tucker. Well over six feet tall, he was a thick man who was drifting toward fat; like his father, his ability to consume drink and large meals was something of a local legend. His coal-black hair, pomaded smartly, had begun to show just the faintest hint of a silver-gray at his temples. He often ran his fingers through the bushy thickness of his mustache. While his cheeks were ruddy, a color associated with good cheer, the blackness of his eyes, as well as the dark circles that surrounded them, suggested something far different. Many a man had been broken under the stare of those eyes.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see the problems you so clearly do,” he finally said.

  “You must be joking,” Stack replied impatiently.

  “Everything is going exactly as we intended,” Zachary explained, cutting the man off while absently flicking a half-inch of ash from his buttoned coat, one of a seemingly endless wardrobe of the newest fashions.

  “Not according to the papers you’ve shown me,” Stack argued, holding up a sheaf of documents. “Everything indeed does seem to be in order, save for one property,” he continued, peering down his nose at a particular sheet, “owned by one Eliza Watkins and Otis Simmons.”

  Simply hearing the names of his late brother’s in-laws sent shivers of disgust running down Zachary’s spine, a reaction that he hoped had not been betrayed by his face. To have his financial future so intimately connected to those people was an insult he wouldn’t be able to stand much longer. But every time he tried to speak with Rachel Watkins…

  God damn Mason and that damn family!

  “They’ll come around,” Zachary assured his visitor.

  “You said the same thing four months ago,” Stack snapped back. “Or have you already forgotten that visit?”

  “My associates and I are doing everything in our power to ensure that all will go exactly as planned,” Zachary explained, pointing over Stack’s shoulder to the quiet man standing in the corner. Travis Jefferson had worked for Zachary Tucker for the last four years, usually doing jobs of an unsavory nature. Thin, but wiry and strong as a wildcat, he was apt to let his bony fists do his talking. It was a brave man who willingly faced him. Close-cropped brownish-blond hair framed an oval face. An angry scar, white and fat, ran diagonally from his hairline down to his tanned brow. He didn’t acknowledge Tucker’s gesture, nor did Stack turn to look at him.

  “You’d better be,” Stack said. “You know how much is at stake.”

  “Oh, yes,” Zachary answered. “I do.”

  Nearly one year earlier, the Gaitskill Lumber Company had come to Carlson with the intention of opening a lumber mill to the east of town. Large groves of cedar and oak covered that area, ideal for the growing needs of Minneapolis and St. Paul. With the railroad already an established presence, all seemed in place for a prosperous partnership. All it would take was a rail spur run from the lumber operation to the existing depot.

  But then there had been a snag…

  One of the conditions that the lumber company had placed upon the deal was that they wanted to buy up the properties located around the depot. Newly constructed offices would coordinate traffic from the mill to and from the Twin Cities. Company executives could come to view the enterprise’s progress without having to camp out with the laborers. The amount they offered for the properties was generous, far above true value, and all those who first had been approached had jumped at the deal. But then Zachary had spoken with Eliza Watkins and everything had gone to hell.

  Standing in the darkened room on the second floor of the boardinghouse, her eyes had filled with tears as she recounted all of the wonderful years her beloved daughter, Alice, had spent growing up under the building’s gabled roof. She’d told him of birthdays, skinned knees, her girls sliding down the banisters to the front door, and of the first time Alice had brought Mason to visit, until Zachary had been ready to pull out his hair! Eliza told him that selling the house would be nothing short of a betrayal to those memories. Though he had offered to raise the buying price higher than any building in Carlson, she told him no amount of money would change her mind.

  The worst part for Zachary was that he knew she and Otis needed money. Any fool who stood outside and looked at the property could see that the owners weren’t financially secure; worn and chipped paint, a sagging roof, and cracks in the windows were only the most obvious of their problems. Boarders in these parts were few and far between. Eliza had given up her birthing practice and Otis was a drunk. Even Rachel…

  What future did these people have?

  “A great deal of work has gone into making sure that this deal actually comes off,” Stack explained, his eyes never wavering from Zachary’s. “A considerable amount of… greasing the wheels has occurred, if you know what I am saying. For it to come undone now would be a grave disappointment… indeed, nothing short of a grave mistake,” he added pointedly.

  “As I explained,” Zachary assured him, “they’ll eventually sell.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right, otherwise…”

  “Otherwise what?”

  “While it’s certainly too late for the company to turn its back upon the town, considering all the preparations made, it might well revisit its intentions of doing further business with you.” Stack smiled sardonically. “If word were to get out that you were unreliable, who’s to say what future opportunities would ever be presented? After all, the Gaitskill Lumber Company is one of the pillars of Minneapolis’s business community. It is not an enemy one would wish to have.”

  Without any doubt, Zachary knew that this was the true reason for Wilbur Stack’s visit, to give him a warning. Failure to do as he had promised would have undeniable consequences. The lumber company would make him pay for his failure by blacklisting him from any further contracts. With the right amount of pressure, his dream of owning Carlson, of being the most powerful man in the area, could go up like so much smoke.

  “There is another matter,” Stack explained with a delicate cough.

  “Yes?” Zachary asked curiously over the end of his cigar.

  “There are some members of the company’s board who would prefer to work with your father, Sherman Tucker, on this particular matter,�
�� Stack said with caution, clearly weighing each of his words, watching for Zachary’s reaction. “His is a name well known in business circles. Many remember his efforts to bring the railroad to Carlson in the first place. I’ve been instructed to ask if it might be possible to bring him into our negotiations.”

  Zachary smiled inwardly. This request was something he’d long anticipated, and had expected to be made much earlier. His father had been a lion, one of several founders of Carlson, and through sheer will had built the town into a successful community. When he opened the Carlson Bank and Trust, he’d done so with the belief that fairness always bested greed, that by helping a neighbor through difficult times the whole of the town could be strengthened. He’d taken pains to raise both of his sons to believe in the same principles, all in the hope that they would one day succeed him. But Zachary had always known differently…

  The truth is that I was never supposed to be the successor!

  Mason had always been their father’s favorite. As the elder brother, he had clung to Sherman’s elbow, following the older man around like a puppy. For that obedience, fortune had smiled upon him. Mason had been the one of the two blessed with the looks of a leading man in the theater, the brains to master any task put before him, the grace and wit to charm anyone he met, and the hand of the most beautiful girl in Carlson. He was the one who had always been meant to carry the mantle of the bank; he was the one who would be expected to lead Carlson into the twentieth century; he had always been the one…

  But then he had gone off to war.

  Though the news of Mason’s death had shaken all of Carlson to its very core, Zachary had been privately elated. There had always been a simmering rivalry between them that grew with every passing year, but hostility existed mostly on Zachary’s end; after all, he had nothing Mason could have wanted. If he had a penny for every time he’d been told to act more like Mason, he wouldn’t have needed the rotten bastard to die in order to inherit the bank; he’d have already been rich!

  And suddenly it all belonged to me!

  Mason’s sudden passing had aged Sherman Tucker a decade in what seemed little more than a blink of an eye. More and more, the older banker withdrew himself from public life, retreating to the library of his home on the northern edge of town. By the time Alice Tucker died giving birth to Sherman’s granddaughter, he’d fallen so ill that he needed round-the-clock care. It was undoubtedly only a matter of time until he joined his beloved son in heaven.

  Sherman’s exit had left Zachary in complete control of the bank and the future of Carlson. His philosophy of business was nearly the exact opposite of his father’s; he felt nothing mattered but the money. He didn’t give a damn if a farmer was going through tough times or a merchant was still waiting for a shipment of goods from Duluth. If the money he was owed wasn’t paid in time, he had no qualms about seizing whatever he could as payment. Was it his fault if businessmen had bitten off more than they could chew? Money was power… and that was what he coveted.

  “I’m afraid that my father’s illness is so severe that he will be unable to be of any help in this matter,” Zachary explained patiently. “The doctors all say to expect the worst, but I prefer to be more of an optimist. Perhaps if he makes a recovery, he might be able to aid us in the future.”

  “I see,” Stack answered, clearly disappointed.

  “But make no bones about it, Mr. Stack,” Zachary said with just the slightest touch of steel in his voice, “my father has often expressed the utmost faith and confidence in my abilities. After all, he taught me everything he knows. If he were able to join us, I’m certain that he would have made the very same choices I have.”

  Stack stared at Zachary for a moment longer, looking as if there were things he wished to say, but instead began shuffling papers into his briefcase. “I believe our business is concluded,” he said finally. “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day, Mr. Stack.”

  * * *

  “God damn it all!” Zachary swore angrily after he was certain Wilbur Stack was out of earshot. Snatching up his empty glass, he generously refilled it with whiskey and sent the contents burning down his gullet. He poured even more, but he was so agitated that instead of drinking it, he tossed his still smoldering cigar into the glass, ruining it all.

  “What are we gonna do now, boss?” Travis Jefferson said as he stepped from the shadows toward Zachary’s desk. He had been around enough of the man’s rages to know to stand back respectfully.

  “What can we do but keep on, you simpleton?” Zachary snapped.

  “How about movin’ the lumber company’s offices farther up the line? There ain’t no reason that they gotta be next to the depot, is there?” Travis suggested. “Maybe we could find some other folks that’ll snap up the money that you’re offerin’.”

  “It’s far too late for that,” the banker answered dismissively. “Gaitskill has already made plans that they won’t want to change, no matter what sort of explanation I give them. The consequences of simply asking them to do so would be disastrous.

  “I’ve made a promise to them that I believed I could keep,” he continued. “It’s just proving a bit harder to do than I had expected. No, we will just have to make things work… even if we have to force them a bit.”

  “How much force are you talkin’ about?” Travis asked, the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

  Zachary took a good long look at his lackey. Travis Jefferson was absolutely not one to shy away from violence. In the past, he’d proven to be valuable beyond measure: a late-night visit here, a guttural threat delivered there, and, on one memorable occasion, a bone-breaking. All it would take was one word and he would set upon Eliza Watkins and her drunkard brother as if he were a starving wolf.

  “We’re not at that juncture yet,” Zachary said. He walked over to the window and stared back down the street. The boardinghouse was just visible from the rear, a reminder of the sizable obstacle that lay in his path. “I’m going to try to have a word with Rachel. She always struck me as the reasonable one. If I can get her to understand the predicament she is in, offer some extra money, maybe she can succeed in getting her mother to finally see reason.”

  “And if she can’t get it done?”

  “That, my friend,” Zachary said, smiling, “is where you come in.”

  Chapter Six

  RACHEL TOSSED a freshly laundered sheet over the wire clothesline and paused, the sun’s faint warmth pleasant on her upturned face. Overnight, the weather had begun to change; there was a crispness to the air that spoke more of the coming winter than the last remnants of fall. Wispy clouds spread across the autumn sky, as thin as gauze. A formation of ducks, heading south to warmer climes, beat their wings furiously, quacking noisily at each other. Still, this day was beautiful.

  And here I am working yet again!

  The small courtyard behind the boardinghouse was framed on either side by the adjacent buildings, the rear by a narrow alleyway. Three lines of wire were strung from wooden poles driven deeply into the ground. Facing toward the south, the courtyard spent much of the day in sunlight and was ideal for drying wet laundry.

  Rachel had risen early—dawn had just broken—and set about the first of her morning chores. After breakfast, she’d been to visit the Wickers, declaring that newborn Walter was in tip-top shape. Though the baby was drowsing soundly on a newly knitted blanket, it was clear from the bleary-eyed look on his parents’ faces that he had caused a sleepless night, with many more surely to come. After accepting her payment, she’d headed back to the boardinghouse and resumed her work.

  Hefting another sheet, Rachel pulled one of the clothespins free from her lips and fastened the laundry to the line. Laundry, laundry, and more laundry! It was every bit as backbreaking as it was time-consuming. Late spring, summer, and early fall it went out on the yard line. In late fall, winter, and early spring she labored in the stone-walled basement where the coal furnace dried the wash, albeit a bit more s
lowly. She reckoned that it was only a matter of weeks before she would begin hanging sheets downstairs.

  This particular morning, she had tried her best to persuade Charlotte to help her, but the girl had laughed and run off to play with Jasper. Watching her, Rachel had wondered how Charlotte had managed again to get away from Eliza’s watchful eye.

  What am I ever going to do with that girl?

  The previous day’s disastrous trip to her sister’s grave sprang back to Rachel’s mind. Nothing had gone as she had hoped. She’d taken Charlotte there because the girl needed to acknowledge her mother, but Rachel had been left to speak to Alice by herself.

  The sudden slamming of a door at the rear of the boardinghouse roused Rachel from her unpleasant reverie. For a brief moment, she thought that her uncle Otis had come to help her with the laundry, but between a break in the wet sheets she was dismayed to see that it was Jonathan Moseley striding toward the line.

  “Rachel,” he called. “Are you out here?”

  Holding her breath and standing completely still, Rachel hoped that he’d fail to notice her and let her be, but a poorly timed gust of wind raised a pair of sheets so high into the air that she was left in plain sight. When their eyes met, his face brightened just as hers fell.

  “Ah, there you are!”

  When Rachel first laid eyes upon Jonathan Moseley, he’d reminded her of a scarecrow. Tall and thin, stoop-backed and awkward, he appeared to be made up of nothing but knees and elbows. Mostly bald, he insisted upon combing what few wisps of straw-blond hair he had over his barren pate. His thin nose was crooked; his eyes were large and buglike, and his small mouth was filled with stained teeth. He had an unpleasant habit of darting his tongue out and running it over his dry, cracked lips. There was simply nothing attractive about the man.

  For the month that he had been a boarder, he had represented himself as a traveling salesman making his way across Minnesota. His shabby and battered case contained every sort of item that could possibly be hawked: brushes of all sizes, shoelaces of varying length, Bibles, and a hair cream that he claimed would cure baldness. For the life of her, Rachel couldn’t imagine who would buy such a product from a man with so little hair.