by Bill Cameron
Later, when he brought Ellie’s clothes, washed and folded, Pastor Sanders included a set of men’s pajamas. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything else. Your father is going to collect some things for you, but he wants me to be careful about meeting with him. Doesn’t want to draw attention.”
“These are fine. Thank you.” The pajamas smelled of grass from hanging on the line outside. Most of the time she slept, or gazed out her window at the creek and the aspens on the far bank. Unlike everyone else she knew, Pastor had no television or satellite dish. He didn’t even have a phone. The long August days passed by with the breathless expectancy of a ticking clock. Sunlight pressed down on the flowing water and surrounding barley fields like a hot blanket. During trips to the bathroom, she avoided the mirror, afraid to see the damage her fall from the bridge had done. The stiff ache in her ribs and neck told her enough. Each morning, almost as if he could hear her thoughts, Pastor assured her the bruises were fading. During the days, he left her alone with her thoughts while he ventured out to tend to his own chores or work for other valley farmers, returning each evening with the lengthening shadows.
By the third evening she started to feel restless. She dressed and joined him on the back porch, where they sat in a pair of handmade rocking chairs and watched the brown-edged creek flow down valley toward the setting sun. Every so often, Pastor Sanders would refill their iced tea glasses, the only interruption to their companionable silence. Ellie listened to birdsong from the pasture above the yard, to the quiet sounds inside her own body. After days with nothing required of her but rest, she felt she could almost hear her damaged tissues knitting together again. But within her healing flesh lingered a pain she knew would not be cured in a few short days, no matter how comfortable her room or hospitable her caretaker.
As the sun dropped lower, the fields around them awoke with the chirping of crickets. A spider worked under the porch eave, its growing web gleaming in the orange light. Ellie saw the flicker of bats over the aspens, and heard a splash as a trout jumped in the stream.
“Your father wants me to meet him tomorrow to give me your things.”
“Can I come? I want to see him.”
“He doesn’t think it’s a good idea. If anyone sees me and him together, we can say it’s about work, but you—well, it’s too risky.”
She sighed. She felt so alone, yet that was nothing new. Even before Luellen left, she’d been alone. But it was a strange and crowded isolation. Someone was always watching over her, making sure she didn’t cross unseen and often shifting boundaries. Her mother, Pastor Wilburn, Stuart. They sought to shape her into docile, daunted Lizzie, yet she remained Dark Ellie. She gazed across the rickety porch at Pastor Sanders, rocking gently in his chair, glass of tea in his hands. His eyes were as deep and bold as the waters under the railroad bridge.
“You’ve done so much already.”
“I’ve done no more than any good Christian would do.”
“A lot more than most.”
“Not for me to judge.” He smiled a comforting, grandfatherly smile. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
She spent the next day pacing from room to room. Through the windows she looked first out upon Pastor’s barley field, then the rising hills, then the creek—and back again. At points during the day she felt certain Hiram would be waiting when Pastor met with her father, would follow him back to her. As the afternoon wore at last into early evening, she found herself staring down the long gravel driveway, her ribs aching and her breath tight in her throat. At last she saw a dust plume rise, and a short time later Pastor’s old green pickup drove into view.
He carried a jacket draped over one arm and a small black duffel bag in his hand. Inside were a couple changes of underwear, socks, a bra, a pair of jeans and a shirt, as well as her old sneakers. She blushed at the thought of her father going through her underwear drawer, but felt even more troubled by him in her house at all. Did he see the blood on the kitchen floor? Could he tell what had happened?
Pastor offered her the jacket. Dark blue, with Givern Valley Future Farmers of America stitched across the back.
“Your daddy said Stuart wasn’t home.” He looked into her eyes. “Maybe Hiram was confused about which of you was long gone.”
Was she holding her breath? “He’s a long way from long gone.”
He led her into the kitchen. She helped him mix a salad and make a couple of sandwiches from leftover meatloaf. They carried the food out to the porch, hoping to catch an evening breeze. Ellie sipped her iced tea, chewed listlessly on her sandwich.
Pastor watched her, his expression solemn.
“Your daddy said Stuart was rough on you, not a proper man. He told me you lost your baby at Stuart’s hand.”
Ellie’s vision went dark and she pressed her hand against her stomach. A moment later, she found herself vomiting over the porch rail. Meatloaf and half-chewed lettuce spilled into the impatiens below. She’d eaten little, and her stomach emptied quickly. “I’m sorry ...” Dry heaves continued to wrack her. “I’m sorry ...” Pastor placed a gentle hand on her back and shhh’d quietly. “S’okay. Let it out.”
After a few minutes, the contractions subsided and she dropped back into her chair. Pastor brought her a damp washcloth and a glass of water. “Don’t drink a lot at first. Just clear the taste from your mouth.”
She smiled gratefully and wiped her face. When he took the cloth, she sat back with her eyes closed. A stitch pulsed in her side, but she tried to focus on the creek and the chorus of crickets instead. After a time, her breath returned and her stomach settled enough to speak.
“So important, what you have in your hand.”
Ellie looked at the water glass, an old jelly jar. “I don’t understand.”
“Come and see.” He stood and put his hands on the porch railing. After a moment, she joined him. Her stomach still felt loose, but she was steady on her feet. He gestured across the narrow patch of yard to the barley field beyond. The stalks stood almost waist high, a sea of rolling green breaking against the foothills a quarter mile distant. Pastor then pointed back across the creek. There, the terrain was more open and flat, with patches of tall grass and reeds among shallows that stretched across the valley. She knew the far edge of the marshland backed up on her father’s fields, and much of it, in fact, had been in Kern hands for generations.
“I don’t have a lot, but my barley crop is enough each year to carry me through till spring when work picks up again. I don’t own any of the wetlands, but I have good water even in dry years. It helps that I back up on the hills.”
Ellie couldn’t count the number of times she’d gazed across her own family’s land toward these same hills. In the fall her father and brothers would hunt ducks in the marsh. In summer they’d flush chukars and pheasant. Ellie’s father tried to include her, but her mother disapproved of such notions. Left to herself, she settled for solitary hikes through the wetlands to see the yellow rails in migration, and sometimes even sandhill cranes.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s what Hiram wants.”
“For the water.”
“Yes, for the water.”
She blew air up through her dark bangs. “Why are you telling me this?”
The old man turned and got his tea glass, drank, and shook the melting ice that remained. “Your brother died up to Chiloquin, didn’t he?”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Rob. He got involved in a fight or something at the casino up there. We never got the whole story.”
“And then your other brother—”
“Brett died in Iraq. He joined the Marines after he lost his farm.”
“I understand your father tried to buy back the land when it went to auction.”
“He didn’t have enough cash on hand, and he couldn’t swing a loan.”
“I imagine it didn’t help that Hiram Spaneker was standing there with a cashier’s check.”
Ellie had no response to th
at.
“That leaves you and your sister to inherit the Kern land when your father finally passes.”
“No one knows where Myra is.” There’d been talk of Myra riding, bony and hag dry, with bikers out of Redding, or up in Medford. Even as far off as Yakima.
“Which leaves you sole heir to the best water in Givern Valley, even discounting Brett’s parcel already peeled off through bank auction.”
“Hiram thinks he can get the land from me? After everything that’s happened?”
“Not from you. Stuart.”
“But Stuart is—”
Pastor raised his hand. “Right now, Stuart is whatever Hiram says he is. Hiram’s interests are better served by you alive and wed to his boy than dead or in jail. Even if he does own half the valley, the last thing he wants is to take a chance your father will hire some smart defense lawyer outa K-Falls or Eugene, or hell, even Portland.”
“My father would never hire someone from Portland.” But she was thinking of her choices. Go to the police and face up to what she did. Or turn herself over to Hiram. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her, but he could make her wish she was dead. And someday, when her father passed and she inherited the land, what then? How long would Hiram hide Stuart’s death, if he thought doing so might give him title to the best water in Givern Valley? It would have been better to die in the swollen creek than to fall into his hands.
“What can I do?”
Now Pastor leaned forward. When he spoke, his voice was low, conspiratorial. “You’ve got to outthink him.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Of course you do. Your daddy told me you’re a smart girl.”
“How could he say that after everything I’ve done? This mess—”
Pastor drew himself up. “A woman is entitled to protect herself.” His voice snapped like a leather strap and Ellie drew a sharp breath at the sound. But then his eyes softened again. “Now you listen to me. Your daddy says you’re to use Hiram’s scheming against him.”
She let out her breath and ran her hands through her hair. It felt greasy on her fingers. The sensation reminded her of the infection between her legs, of the medicine left behind. She wondered when she would get the chance to see another doctor.
“Your father sent money with your clothes. It’s in the zipper pocket inside your coat. It’s not much, but it’ll get you started.”
She’d never been on her own. Her stomach clenched and she felt like she would throw up again. Pastor Sanders reached over and took her hands in his own. She flinched at the touch, but he held on.
“Listen to me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “You made a decision the other night, and no one is blaming you. But now you got to see it through. Hiram thinks you’ll go to ground, try to hide in familiar haunts. So slip away instead. Go quiet. Then in a month or two, once you’re safe, call your father. He’s preparing something for you, and he says it will be ready by then.”
“Call him?” Her last, tenuous tie to the valley was dissolving. “From where?” Even her father no longer saw a place for her here.
“Wherever you are. Call him when it’s safe.”
She looked at him sharply. Luellen’s words ... when it’s safe. But suddenly Ellie knew what path she might follow. Luellen had led the way, another young woman who fled Givern Valley. Ellie would travel north to Portland and find her old friend.
Pastor Sanders seemed to sense her new resolve. She met his deep eyes and felt a moment of solace. “Okay. I will go.”
They drove to Klamath Falls the next afternoon, forty miles down the state road. Their first stop was the Greyhound station. Pastor waited while she bought her ticket, north to find Luellen. From there, who knew? She also bought a card at the newsstand. She wrote Luellen a short note to let her know she was on her way and mailed it in the station.
It was too late for that day’s bus to Medford, where she would make the Portland connection. She’d have to go the next morning. Back in the pickup, Pastor drove to a nearby motel. She told him he didn’t have to stay with her, but he insisted it was no trouble.
“It’ll be a comfort to your daddy to know I’ve seen you off.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Stay safe. That’s thanks enough.”
Once they were settled in their room, Pastor went out to get them some supper. He didn’t think it was a good idea for her to be seen in public, as unlikely as it was she’d be recognized this far from Givern. She tried to watch television while she waited, but nothing could distract her. She found herself going to the window again and again, looking out at the parking lot and the street beyond. The sound of the television was shapeless buzz in her ears. Pastor did not return.
Ellie slept poorly, fled the motel early. Though she knew the safest course was to remain in her room until time to catch the bus mid-morning, a boxed-in feeling drove her out. For a while, she walked the empty streets, duffel bag clutched to her chest. There was no sign of Pastor’s pickup. She thought about calling her father, but didn’t, afraid of who might be listening. After a while she found herself in a bagel shop. She tried to eat, but the food was dry and flavorless; the coffee tasted like ash. She eyed every customer who came through the door, recognized none of them. When an older man with a blue gaze strikingly similar to Pastor’s caught her eye she fled the shop. No one followed, near as she could tell. Two hours later, the bus carried her away.
Three Years, Three Months Before
Body Of Elderly Klamath Man Found By State Trooper
BONANZA, OR: An Oregon State Police trooper discovered the body of an elderly man last night in a ditch off W. Langell Valley Road three miles south of Bonanza, according to a state police spokesman. The Klamath County Sheriff’s Department was called in to investigate the death.
The victim was identified as Pastor Sanders of Westbank, Oregon. A pickup truck registered to Mister Sanders was also found nearby.
Sgt. Joanne Ellison, a spokeswoman for the Klamath County Sheriff’s Department, said the death is being treated as “suspicious in nature,” but would provide no further details, pending an investigation.
PART THREE
NOR SET DOWN AUGHT IN MALICE: THEN MUST YOU SPEAK OF ONE THAT LOVED NOT WISELY BUT TOO WELL
—Othello, Act 5, Scene 2
November 19 — 3:15 pm
No One You Want to Fuck With
My front door is locked, something I forget to do more often than not. Susan would have ensured her team took care of such details when they pulled out. They had no way of knowing I’d left my keys in the little drawer of the mail stand next to the front door. I look through the front window from the porch. Everything is neat and tidy, table tops clear, chairs in place, all more orderly than when the cops appeared this morning. Susan would have seen to that too.
I stick my hands in my pockets and turn, stare out at nothing. The street is now quiet, the only sign of the morning’s chaos the trampled patch of grass in front of the Bronstein house and the yellow warning tape crisscrossing the porch. A year or so back, Luellen and I traded keys, though I took some convincing. She thought it would be nice if we could look after things for each other, feed the cat and bring in the mail while the other was away. Not that I ever go away, but a spare key with the neighbor would serve as a hedge against moments like this. I guess we didn’t anticipate her husband facing off against SERT. I breathe, try to ignore the tightness in my belly. After a moment, I make for the side gate. I can usually pop the spring lock on the back door, assuming I didn’t engage the deadbolt.
I’m not a pride-and-joy kind of person, but if I were, the back yard would be mine. The plants are mostly northwest native, climate zone appropriate and selected to attract local birds. With the help of Ruby Jane and Pete I designed the space to have a natural quality, soft-edged and shaggy, full of color in the spring and summer and dark evergreen during the rainy season. The deck is large enough for me and a guest or three when the weather cooperates and my mood
is tolerant of invasion. Not a big yard, private and suited to my temperament.
A lot of the birders I know live for the unusual sighting, for the chance to add a check mark to their book. I’m content to sit on the deck and watch the finches work the nyjer thistle feeders or listen to the sparrows bicker over the millet. This late in the year only a few stragglers linger. With the cold now pushing west from the Columbia Gorge, the juncos will soon arrive from the hills, which means the arguments will move from the feeders hanging from the arbor at the back of the yard to those on the ground. By then, I’ll settle for watching through the kitchen window. I may possess an Oregonian’s inbred tolerance for rain and chill, but even I have my limits.
As I climb up onto the deck, I can still make out the shadow of a blood stain in the wood, evidence of a past act of violence I was lucky enough to miss. Been meaning to get the deck sanded and resealed for almost a year and a half—focused and on task I’m not. I head for the back door, stop when I hear a quiet burble behind me, a soft coo like a pigeon. I turn and see him standing in the ivy at the back of the yard, half among the branches of the maple tree that hang over the fence from the yard next door. He’s peering up into the tree, though I can’t tell what he’s looking for. Danny Bronstein.
“Hey there, little fellow.”
He glances my way, but I’m not nearly as interesting as whatever’s up in the tree. I jump off the deck, walk over and crouch next to him. He’s wearing a Big Bird pajama top and a pair of blue overalls, both damp. He must have been caught out in the rain earlier. At least he’s wearing shoes. The afternoon temperature is hovering around sixty, unusual but not unheard of this deep into November. He’s not acting as though he’s cold.
“You doing okay, Danny?” I still can’t tell what he’s fixated on in the branches overhead.
“Mister Skin.” His voice is a whisper. No surprise there. At his most raucous, Danny is a quiet child.
“What are you doing here, little fellow? Where’s your grandpa?”
