by Rodney Jones
“Depends on what you’re planning on doing with her. If you just want her to keep the grass down in the pasture, you may want to be sure she has teeth.”
Liz smiled. “Oh? Is that why they look at their mouths in the movies?”
He grinned. “I’m just pulling your leg. She’s four years old. Hasn’t had her first cavity.”
“I want a good riding horse,” I told him.
“Well, I can assure you she’s that.”
“How much weight can she carry?”
He looked me up and down. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“Could she carry maybe two people at the same time?”
He shrugged. “You’re talking about three hundred pounds, maybe? It’ll tire her out a bit quicker, though it wouldn’t hurt her at just a walk or a trot. But I’ll tell you, most people, when they’re buying a horse, they’ll send a vet out to inspect it first. And one of the things you want to look at is her legs and feet. Check them for straightness and alignment. Make sure the feet aren’t cow-hocked or toed out. Here, Liz, hold her here. I’ll show your friend what I mean.”
He pointed out all the great features of the horse, and I paid close attention. In the end, I bought Victoria. I asked Steven if he could continue boarding her for a while and offered to pay extra on top of the three thousand sale price.
“I’ll keep her for as long as you want,” he said. “No charge for the first month. Just so you know, though, there’s a farm a little south of Wallingford. Woodman’s their name. They’d board her, I’m sure, if you’d want her closer.”
“No,” Liz said. “This’ll do.”
Steven looked at me. I shrugged and smiled.
On the drive back to Wallingford, Liz said, “Did you see his eyes?”
“Whose?”
“And his voice. Every time he opened his mouth, it like resonated right here.” She placed a hand over her heart and sighed.
“I think he likes you.”
“Don’t do that.”
“No, really. He kept looking at you when you weren’t watching.” I made googly eyes at her.
Just as I was pulling into Liz’s driveway, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyway.
“Tess? Um… this is Steven. I hope you don’t think this is inappropriate, but could I have your friend’s number? Do you think she’d mind?”
chapter twenty-four
John
Monday morning, I awoke to find Uncle Ed lying on his bunk, shivering. His blankets were in a mound on the floor. I picked up the blankets and spread them over him then added mine to his pile. When Mrs. McNeil arrived with breakfast, he was still asleep. The deputy stepped up to unlock the cell.
She came to the door and whispered, “Is he all right?”
“I suspect he had a rough night,” I said.
“Oh, the poor man.” She set the tray on top of the stool in the corridor. The sweet aroma of butter and maple sugar drifted into our cell. “Well, I hope this helps.”
She handed me an envelope addressed to Mr. Edwin Paulson. I recognized my aunt’s handwriting. It’d been just over a week since our arrest. Uncle Ed had been fretting a lot about his wife.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sir? It’s time for breakfast.”
He cracked open a blurry eye. He squinted at Mrs. McNeil then struggled to sit upright.
I handed him the envelope. “A letter from Aunt Lil.”
Uncle Ed waited until we were alone again before he opened the envelope. He unfolded the letter, peered down at it, then held it out to me. “I can’t make out a single word, John.”
I took it and read aloud.
My dear Edwin,
I hope this finds you and John well and your injury healing proper. There has been so little to be cheerful about here of late, but I have made do. I had the Mosier boy, Liam, help me sort through what was left by the fire. The kitchen stove survived well enough, thank God. Just two busted feet was all. With help, we moved it up under the lean-to where I have been making use of it. The burr stones, bushings, and collars from the mill are yet in fair condition, and I have been told that a good many of your tools are in repairable condition as well. Most everything is stored beneath the lean-to, and I have fixed myself a bed of sorts in the barn. I am grateful we still have that.
I am sorry to say I missed church this last Sunday. I cannot bring myself to sit there before Alan Stewart and listen to him dress up his gossip and ill opinions with Bible verses. I will not go without proper worship and so will be attending the church on the hill from here on.
Regarding John’s situation, I have sent word to many of our kin and acquaintances, informing them that we are in need of a fair attorney. I pray daily that he will be freed of this unjust quandary and the rightful culprit be given his place. I wrote to my cousin Eli, as well, in hope that he and his family will welcome me at their home for a time. I need to be closer to you and John, to lend whatever help I can.
Give John my love, and trust in the Lord that justice will prevail.
Sincerely, Lil.
My uncle cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, she can make the undertaker’s visit sound like a cakewalk.”
“It ain’t her way, complaining about this and that,” I said.
“No, it ain’t.” He winced.
“Do you need more laudanum, sir?”
He shook his head and grunted. His chapped lips and the bags under his crusty eyes made me think of my little brother, Michael. I still carried a mental picture of him on his death bed, my ma slumped over his tiny body.
I filled our drinking cup then helped him take a drink. Back at my bunk, I started reading a novel that Mrs. McNeil had borrowed from the library for me—Les Misérables. I read enough to wonder at Mrs. McNeil’s judgment in selecting a story that reminded me of my own sad predicament.
I found it difficult to read, as my mind continually wandered. I worried about Uncle Ed and about myself, but I also devoted a good deal of time to thinking about Tess. It pained me to imagine what she might’ve made of my disappearance. The promise I’d given her, as though I’d just handed her a fresh-picked daisy, looked more like a cruel lie. I stared at the paragraph I’d just read, realizing I had no idea what it was about then returned to the beginning.
Joe called from his cell, “How y’all a-doin’ down there?”
I looked up and said, “As well as one might expect, sir.”
“You ain’t a feelin’ poorly, then?”
“It’s my uncle.”
“But you’re all right, huh?” Then, he added, “Other than bein’ stuck here in this shithole?”
“I reckon.”
“Good. That’s good. You know, your friend Charles lost his boy and his wife to illness this past spring. It worries me some, being around fevers and all. They’ll kill you just as dead as a bullet.”
“Mr. Morse lost his wife… and a boy?”
“Some God-awful illness struck ’em both down within a short week. I give him a hard time, I know. Probably shouldn’t. Just an old habit. I don’t reckon he takes it personal. I’ve known him since he was a sprout in short pants. He’s all right. Better than some ’round here.”
I wouldn’t have guessed from looking at Mr. Morse that he’d so recently suffered such a loss. I studied my uncle lying there on that uncompassionate slab of wood. His eyes were closed, cheeks sunken like a corpse. I felt a pang of sorrow, as I did in the museum with Tess when I’d read about his fate. Shadows stirred at the edge of my mind—failure and sorrow entangled.
chapter twenty-five
Tess
Manna from heaven, frosting on the cake, a bloody freakin’ miracle—that was Steven Spears. I loved seeing Liz so ridiculously infatuated. Seeing her and Steven together—holding hands, talking, laughing, and kissing—mad
e me realize how much I wanted the same.
Steven had proved to be an asset in more ways than one. Besides easing my guilt by filling the void I would leave, he taught me how to take care of a horse, showed me some beautiful equestrian trails in the area, and even went shopping with Liz and me. We drove up to the Trumbull Mountain Tack Shop in Pittsford.
“Look at these, Tess,” he said, pointing at a pair of saddlebags that were on sale. “Half the price and built to last a lifetime.”
“Oh, yeah, those are nice,” I said, “but I want bags that’ll last three lifetimes.” The bags I was interested in were custom made from the heaviest cow hide. They looked as though they could manage my three hundred pounds of silver without the risk of busting a seam, though I wasn’t about to reveal that as a factor in choosing bags. Steven had no knowledge of my plan. I’d coerced a sworn oath from Liz to keep it our secret.
“But they’re so bulky. You sure you want ’em that big?”
“She knows what she wants, Stevie,” Liz said. “Big bulky bags. The bigger the better.”
By Thursday, the twentieth of August, everything was ready to go. After discussing it with Liz, I’d decided to post a message on my Facebook page. I spent hours composing a letter in which I claimed I was going away for a while and would be unreachable. It was cleverly worded, not exactly lying, and perfectly ambiguous. Liz said our friends would speculate but not freak out about it, and then they eventually would get over it and maybe even forget about me.
I thought about that for a minute. “What about my mom?”
“You want me to hold her down while you explain it to her?”
I chuckled. “I’ll have to write her a separate letter. Or… I don’t know. Maybe I should talk to her, tell her the truth.”
“Get serious.”
“Right. It might be easier for her if I simply vanished without a word.”
“Maybe you could say something like, ‘I love you and I’m traveling the world in search of myself’—something poetic. Tell her your leaving has nothing to do with her.”
“Nothing to do with her?” That sounded phony, like a cliché used to break up with someone. I worried that Mom might totally lose it just at the thought of my leaving home. But then I’d be doing it soon anyway with college just a year away. “This really sucks.”
“Everyone’s gonna miss you.” Liz sighed. “Will you write?”
Telling lame jokes was Liz’s way of avoiding the tough, emotional issues. I started to laugh, then the letter John had written me came to mind. The craziest, most brilliant idea came stumbling out from the fog of my mind.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m not doing the Facebook thing. Instead, I’m going to buy personal ads in the Rutland Herald. I can let you know how I’m doing and what I’m doing. I can let Mom know that I’m okay. Cool, huh? I can stay in touch.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The library. They have copies of the paper going back to the Civil War, all digitized and searchable.”
Liz’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Tess, that is genius. Awesome.”
“Yeah, well…” I shrugged.
The next day, a small package containing a fake mustache arrived from a Hollywood makeup-supply company I’d found online. I hid it in my dresser then drove into Rutland and spent the day shopping at secondhand shops and antique stores. I eventually settled on a well-worn cowboy hat with a wide brim. From there, I went to a used-book store to look for a copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. I found a clean 1990 hardbound edition for only fifteen bucks.
When I got home, Mom was standing at the dining table, going through the mail. She stopped and looked at me. “What is that?”
“A hat.” Hoping to avoid further interrogation, I took it off and headed for my room.
“Wait a minute.” She started toward me.
“It’s just an old hat I bought for hiking, to keep the sun off my face.”
“Wait, wait. Put it back on.”
I did and rolled my eyes. “It’s steampunk.”
“Steampunk?” Her face contorted. “No, it’s stupid-hillbilly.” The hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her lips.
The following day, I called Liz and asked if she wanted to join me in Rutland for what was to be my last pizza—maybe ever. While I waited for her to come over, I put on my disguise, the whole getup: mustache, chest wrap, clothes, and the hat with my hair tied up under it.
The doorbell rang. I went and opened the door. Liz stood there staring at me, looking confused.
I used my deepest, most masculine voice. “Uh, do I know you?”
“Tess?”
“Crap.”
“Where’d you get the cool mustache?” She stepped forward, peering at it. “It looks so real. Oh, man, you look great. If I wasn’t already seeing someone…”
“Liz, seriously. Does it look fake?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s convincing. Really. I think if I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t have realized you were a girl at all.”
After parking in the restaurant lot, Liz reached back behind her seat and lifted a large paper bag. “For you.” She reached in, pulled out a plastic grocery bag, and dropped it unceremoniously into my lap. “Your own personal drug store.”
“You bought me drugs?”
“I did a little research, Tess. Did you know that people in the nineteenth century got headaches? And constipation?”
“No way.”
“And they didn’t have ibuprofen or laxatives.”
“Is that why they were always frowning?” I opened the bag and saw at least a dozen little boxes and some little plastic childproof vials—the type that prescriptions typically came in. I grabbed one and read the label. “Rozerem? What’s that?”
“Sleeping pills.”
“Really? Where’d you get these?”
“Most of the stuff came from Walgreens, but the Rozerem and a few other items are black market. Bill Hoyt.”
I pulled out another prescription bottle. “Amoxicillin?”
“Like penicillin. You never know. Could save your life.”
I brought out a third. “And this?”
“Pamabrom, for PMS. Could save your marriage.”
I pulled out boxes of Benadryl, Sudafed, baby aspirin, ibuprofen, Dulcolax, and Imodium, and more prescription drugs: Tylenol 3, Ambien, and Oxycontin. “Aw, that was so thoughtful of you.”
“It’s nothing. But this, on the other hand…” She pulled another sack out of the bag. “Go ahead. Open it.”
I reached into the bag. “Batteries?”
“Yeah. The best in the world. Enough to last a lifetime.”
I pulled out the remaining box. “And what is this?”
“Check it out. This thing is so cool. I found it at Sharper Image.”
“An MP3 player?”
“Yeah, but it does everything. It has a built-in speaker and microphone, so you can record voices. And look at this.” She reached over and grabbed something from the box. “The little bugger even comes with its own remote.”
“Aren’t you concerned about the possible destruction of the planet?”
“It’s just for music.”
“The butterfly effect. Duh.”
“Well, don’t be taking it to Show-and-Tell. Duh. I uploaded your favorite tunes, over three hundred songs.”
“Oh, cool, Liz. Thank you.”
“God, I’m gonna miss you.”
The next morning, I got up at daybreak, had some eggs and toast, pinned a note to the fridge—“Love you, Mom!”—then drove over to Liz’s house. My backpack was stuffed, and over three hundred pounds of those beautiful shiny silver bars were in the trunk. Earlier in the week, Steven had taken Victoria over to the Woodman farm, less than a half mile east of Wallingford.
Liz answered the door before I even got a chance to knock. She led the way into the kitchen and poured us some coffee.
“Well, this is it,” I said. “I’m doing it. I feel like one of those people who spend days planning their jump from the Golden Gate Bridge. It seems so easy until you’re standing there, staring down at the cold water and sharks.”
“God, Tess, what a lovely analogy.”
“I’m just nervous. Look at me.” I held out my cup. The coffee sloshed about as if we were having a six-point-eight earthquake.
“Bloody hell. I’ve been working so hard at not thinking about it, and now I’m friggin’ terrified. Can we change the subject? Talk about Steven or Jack White or anything else?”
“You know what worries me?”
“No, no, no.” She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears. “I don’t want to know.”
“All right, okay, I’ll just keep it all bottled up inside.”
“Everything’s gonna work out. You and Victoria will arrive safely. John will be thrilled to see you. That other guy, what’s his name, will shit his pants. Your plan will work, Tess. It’ll be fine.”
“Okay, yeah.” I took a deep breath. “Go to the library on Monday and search the Rutland Herald archives. I’ll post messages as often as I can.”
“Well, you’d better.”
“Oh, and I have some boxes of stuff for you out in the car. Books and CDs, mostly. And my DVDs and some pictures, stuff that’s kinda about us.”
Liz put a hand over her mouth and gazed at me with sad puppy eyes. “Ohhh…”
“And those earrings you like, the little dangly bunnies, and my Dora lunchbox and Foo Fighters T-shirt—”
“Oh, man, stop it. You’re about to make me cry.”
A little while later, Liz dropped me off at the Woodmans’ farm. I went up to the house to let them know I was there then walked back to the barn. The moment I stepped inside, Victoria came to the gate of her stall as though eager for a trip to a time when horses were the bosses of the road.
