Thurston House (1983)

by Steel, Danielle

  'I'm sorry about your wife, John ' I ' I lost someone I cared about a great deal a long time ago ' the epidemic of '68' . They were jumbled words, but John Harte knew that Jeremiah understood. He looked up at him with eyes bright with tears. He was a fine-looking young man, and he was almost as tall as Jeremiah was as they stood facing each other. He had raven black hair and eyes that were almost as black as coal, and he had huge gentle hands, in some ways, the two men were oddly alike, despite the gap of almost twenty years.

  Thank you for coming, man. His voice was deep and jagged with grief as two tears ran unashamedly down the younger man's cheeks, and Jeremiah could feel an echo of the old pain in his own heart as he saw them.

  Is there anything I can do? He remembered the food he had brought. Perhaps someone in the house could make use of it.

  John Harte looked deep into his eyes. I lost seven men today, and Matilda ' Jane. ' His voice broke on the words. Barnaby's ' He couldn't finish what he started to say, at the mention of his son. He looked up at Jeremiah again. The doctor said he won't live through the night. And three of the other men have lost their wives ' five children' . You shouldn't even be here. He suddenly realized the risk Jeremiah had run, and was touched by that too.

  I've lived through it before, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you. He noticed that the younger man was deathly pale, but he suspected that it was grief and not the dread flu. You look as though you could use a drink. He pulled a silver flask from the saddlebag he had brought and extended it to John.

  He hesitated, took it, and then nodded toward the door of his home. Do you want to come in? He wondered if he was afraid, he should have been, but Jeremiah nodded his head.

  Sure. I brought you some food, if you think you can eat. John looked at him, both surprised and touched, particularly since the last time Jeremiah had offered his help, John had almost thrown him out. He didn't want any help from him. But this was different. It was a different kind of disaster than a fire or a flood at the mines. He sat down heavily on the tufted green velvet couch in his living room, and took a long drink from Jeremiah's flask and then handed it back to him, staring at Jeremiah with unseeing eyes.

  I can't believe they're gone' . Last night ' He started to gulp, fighting back his own tears' . Last night' Jane came running downstairs to kiss me good night even with her fever ' and this morning Matilda said ' Matilda said ' He couldn't hold the flood back anymore, and it came, as Jeremiah held his shoulders in both hands and held him there as he cried. There was nothing he or anyone could do, except be there for him. He looked up at Jeremiah at last, and Jeremiah's eyes were damp too. How can I go on without them? How? ' Mattie ' and my little girl' and if Barnaby ' Thurston, I'll die. I can't live without them. Jeremiah silently prayed that he wouldn't lose the boy, but he knew that there was a good chance that he would. He had heard as he stood outside that the boy was pretty bad off, or at least that was what the men said. But he looked hard into John Harte's eyes now.

  You're young yet, John, there's a long life ahead, and it's a terrible thing to say to you tonight but you may marry again, have other children. Right now, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to you, but you'll go on ' you have to ' and you will. He handed him the flask again, and John took another sip, shaking his head, as the tears coursed down his cheeks.

  And it was less than an hour later when the doctor came for him. John jumped up as though he'd been shot.

  Barnaby?

  He's calling for you. The doctor didn't dare say more, but his eyes met Jeremiah's as John raced up the stairs to his son, and in answer to the question in Jeremiah's eyes, he only shook his head. Jeremiah, sitting downstairs, knew instantly from the terrible moan of pain he heard from the little room at the top of the stairs that the boy was gone. John Harte knelt with the boy in his arms, keening for the family he had lost in two short days. With a determined step Jeremiah walked solemnly up the stairs, and gently opened the door to the room. Thurston took the boy from him at last, laid him on the bed, closed his eyes, and led John Harte from the room as he sobbed the child's name. He forced strong drink down Harte's throat and stayed with him until the next morning, when his brother and several other friends came, and then Jeremiah quietly went home, aching for him. He was exactly the same age Jeremiah had been when Jennie had died. He wondered how it would affect John Harte, but he suspected from the little he knew of him that the boy would press on.

  He grieved for him now, and when he dismounted in front of his own house, with the morning sun climbing high into the sky, he looked out over the hills he loved so much and wondered at the cruel fate that could deal life and death so easily ' how swiftly life's sweetest gifts are gone ' he seemed to hear Jennie's laughter ringing in his ears as he went inside, and saw Hannah asleep in a kitchen chair. He said nothing to her as he walked past her into the parlor he never used, and sat down at the piano he had bought so long ago for the girl with the laughing eyes and the dancing golden curls lovely she had been. He wondered what it would have been like to be married to her how many children they might have had it was the first time in a long time that he had allowed his mind to run along those lines; he thought of John Harte's lost daughter and son, and hoped he would marry again soon. That was what Harte needed now, a new wife to fill his heart, and new babies to replace the two who had died.

  And yet it wasn't what Jeremiah had done. He had remained alone for the past eighteen years, and it was too late now. He would never change that. He had no desire to. But as he sat looking down at the piano keys, yellowing now, never touched, never used, he wondered if he should have done what he thought John Harte should do. Should he have married someone else? Had a dozen children to fill his empty house? But there had never been anyone who captured his heart, no one he liked well enough to marry. No, there would be no children for him. But as he thought the words to himself, he felt a tiny shaft of grief slice through his heart' . A child would have been so nice ' a daughter' a son ' and then, suddenly, he remembered the two John Harte had lost, and he felt something inside him close tight. No. He couldn't bear another loss. He had lost Jennie. That was enough. He was better off like this ' wasn't he?

  What happened? He was startled to hear Hannah's voice, and he looked up to see her standing in the empty room, as he fingered the piano keys. He stopped and looked at her, tired, depressed. It had been a long, sad night.

  Harte's boy died. He almost winced as he remembered closing the boy's eyes and taking John Harte forcibly from the room. Hannah shook her head and began to cry, as Jeremiah walked slowly to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and led her from the room. There was nothing left to say. Go home and get some sleep.

  She looked up at him and sniffed as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. You should do the same. But she knew him better than that. Will you?

  I've got some work to do at the mines.

  It's Saturday.

  The papers on my desk don't know that. He smiled tiredly. There was no way he could go to bed and sleep. He would have been haunted by the vision of Barnaby Harte and his father grieving for him. I won't work too long. She knew that too. It was Saturday. He went to Calistoga on Saturdays, to see Mary Ellen Browne. But Hannah could see that today he wasn't much in the mood.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and looked at his old friend. There were a thousand thoughts running through his head after the night before. I told him he should get married again, and have more children. Was I wrong?

  Hannah shook her head. You should have done the same for yourself eighteen years ago.

  I just thought of that. He looked out the window at the hills. He never let her put up curtains anywhere because he loved the view of the valley so much, and there was no one within miles to look in.

  It's not too late. Her voice was old and sad. She was sorry for him. He was a lonely man, whether he knew it or not, and she hoped that John Harte would not choose the same fate now. It seemed wrong to h
er. She had never had children herself, but for her it had been destiny, not choice. You're still young enough to marry, Jeremiah.

  He laughed at the words. I'm too old for that now. And he frowned as he thought and met her eyes again, they were both thinking the same thing I never really could imagine being married to Mary Ellen, and there's no one else. Hasn't been for years. Hannah already knew that he only went to Mary Ellen, but after the night he'd just been through, he needed to talk to her and she understood that too. She was his friend.

  Why didn't you ever want to marry her? She had always wondered that, although she thought she knew. And she wasn't far wrong.

  She isn't that kind of girl, Hannah. And I don't mean that meanly. She didn't really want to marry me at first, though lately I think she would. She wanted to be free, he smiled, she's an independent little cuss, and she wanted to take care of her own kids. I think she was afraid people would say she married me for what I had, or that she tried to take advantage of me. He sighed. Instead they called her a whore. But the funny thing is mat I don't think she minded that as much. She always said that as long as she knew the truth, that she was a decent woman, and there was only me, then she didn't give a damn what people said. I asked her to marry me once Hannah looked stunned at his words, and he grinned and she turned me down. It was when those damn women in Calistoga gave her such a bad time. I always thought her mother started that fuss to force my hand, and maybe she did, but Mary Ellen told me to go to hell back then. She said she wouldn't be forced into marriage by a bunch of old bags. And I think she was still more than half in love with her drunk of a husband in those days. He had left her more than two years before, but she always hoped he'd come back. I could tell by the way she talked. And then he smiled again. I'm glad he didn't. She's been good for me.

  And he'd been good for her too. He had furnished her house, and helped her with things she needed for the kids, when she'd accept the gifts. They had been together now for close to seven years, and her husband had been dead now for more than two. They were used to the arrangement they had. He rode to Calistoga every Saturday night and stayed with her there. The children stayed at her mother's house when he was there, and they were less clandestine about their affair now than they had once been. There was no reason to hide it anymore, everyone in town knew that she was Jeremiah Thurston's girl' . Thurston's Whore they had called her at one point, but no one dared to say that anymore. Jeremiah had personally taken care of it with one or two. But he also knew that Mary Ellen was just that kind of girl. She was the kind of girl that women would always dislike and be jealous of, she had flashy redheaded good looks, long legs and full breasts. She wore her dresses too low and was too willing to give a passing cowboy a glimpse of leg as she stepped off the curb and lifted her skirts well above her ankles. It was that which had drawn Jeremiah to her at first, and she had proven to be as lovely as he had hoped when he had dispensed with the rest of her clothes. She was so lovely in fact that he had swiftly come back for more, and then he had discovered how kindhearted she was, how decent, how anxious to please. She loved her children more than anything in the world, and there was almost nothing she wouldn't do for them. She had been deserted by her husband two years before, and she had worked as a waitress, a dancer, a chambermaid at the hotel attached to the spa, and even after her alliance with Jeremiah she had continued to hold down the same jobs. She insisted that she wanted nothing from him. And several times, Jeremiah had attempted to dismiss her from his mind, but there was something so tender and warm about the girl. She filled an empty spot in his heart, and he was constantly drawn to her bed for more. In the early days he had ridden up to Calistoga several times during the week, but it was too complicated with her children in the house, and they had made their weekend arrangements at the end of the first year. It was difficult to believe that six years had passed since then. Even more so when once in a while he caught a glimpse of her children. Mary Ellen herself was thirty-two now, and she was still a handsome girl, but he still couldn't imagine marrying her. She had been too worldly when they'd met, too brazen, too used, and yet he loved her honesty and her openness, and her courage. She had never backed off because of what people said about her involvement with Jeremiah, although he knew that at times it had been difficult for her.

  Would you marry her now? He didn't shrink from Hannah's question, but even now, after seven years, he couldn't imagine marrying Mary Ellen.

  I don't know. He sighed as he looked at the old woman. I really am too old to be thinking of that sort of thing, don't you think? It was a rhetorical question, but Hannah was quick to answer.

  No, I don't. And I think you should give it some thought before it is too late, Jeremiah Thurston. But she herself didn't think that Mary Ellen was the answer, much as she liked the girl. She had known her all her life, and had always thought her forward and at times downright foolish. She had been among the first to call her a fool for her open affair with Jeremiah. She was a good-hearted girl and it was impossible not to like her. But nonetheless she was thirty-two years old, and he needed a young wife who would give him children. Mary Ellen already had three of her own and had almost died when giving birth to the last one. She'd have been crazy to try it again and she knew it. I'd like to see a child in this house before I die, Jeremiah.

  He smiled sadly, thinking of the two Harte children who had just died. So would I, my friend, but I don't think either of us will ever see that. It was the first time he had ever said that to her, or to anyone.

  Don't be so stubborn. You've got time. If you looked, you'd find the right girl. Her words brought Jennie back to mind, and he shook his head, as much to push her from his mind as in answer to Hannah's words.

  I'm too old for a young girl. I'm almost forty-four years old.

  Well, you sound like you're ninety. She snorted in disgust, and he laughed as he ran a hand over the beard stubble on his face.

  I feel damn close to that some days, look like it too. It's a wonder Mary Ellen doesn't lock the door when she sees me coming.

  She should have done that years ago, Jeremiah, but you know how I feel about that. He did, but Hannah was never afraid to repeat her opinions. You were both foolish to start that, and you've both paid a damn high price for it.

  It was the first time she had voiced it quite that way and Jeremiah looked surprised. Both of us?

  She damn near got run out of town on a rail, and you've given up the chance to marry someone who'd give you children. You might as well marry her if you're going to do that, Jeremiah.

  He smiled benignly at Hannah. I'll tell her you said so. Hannah harrumphed and picked up her shawl from the back of a kitchen chair as Jeremiah watched her. He was going to shave and bathe before going to the mine, and he needed another cup of strong black coffee. It had been a long, long night with John Harte until his relatives arrived to console him. By the way, John was grateful for the food you sent, Hannah. I made him eat it this morning.

  Did he sleep at all? Jeremiah shook his head. How could he? And I know you didn't either.

  I'll be all right. I'll sleep tonight.

  She grinned wickedly at him and turned to look at him from the doorway. That don't say much for Mary Ellen, does it? He laughed and the old woman closed the door behind her.

  THERE was an eerie silence about the mines on Saturday, which pleased him. All was stillness, there were no voices, no shrill whistles, no blasting of the furnaces. There were two watchmen drinking coffee in the March morning, as Jeremiah dismounted and tied up Big Joe in his usual place and strode into his office. The papers he had come in to look at were waiting for him, contracts for the quicksilver they produced, and plans for four more cabins to house the men who worked for him. Already the Thurston mines had the appearance of a small town, with seven houses for the men, and cabins beyond for those who had brought their families to live with diem. It was a hard life for them, but Jeremiah was sympathetic to their need to be together. It was a decision he had made a long time
ago, and the men were grateful to him. Now he sat looking at plans for still more accommodations for them. The complex seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds, as was the production of the amines. He was pleased by the contracts he had before him, in particular the one from Orville Beauchamp in Atlanta for nine hundred flasks of quicksilver, which amounted to some fifty thousand dollars. Beauchamp would in turn be supplying most of the South. He was a clever businessman, Jeremiah could tell from the contract. He represented a group of seven men, and apparently was their spokesman. The deal was important enough that in another week, Jeremiah would be traveling to Atlanta to meet the consortium and cement the deal with them.

  At noon, Jeremiah looked at his pocket watch, stood up, and stretched. He still had work to do, but it had been such a rough night that he was suddenly exhausted, and hungry to see Mary Ellen. He needed her warmth and her comfort. Again and again he had thought of John Harte and the family he had lost. The sympathy Jeremiah felt weighed on him like a boulder, and as the morning wore on, the thoughts of Mary Ellen pressed in on him. It was just after twelve when he left the mines and walked outside to where he had left Big Joe tethered.