by ML Gardner
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Gordon said softly.
She shook her head, tossed her napkin from her lap and excused herself with choked words no one could understand.
All was quiet for several moments as they listened to Claire’s footsteps on the stairs. Her door closed with a hollow thud and Gordon let out the breath he had been holding.
“I’m sorry. I think I ruined dinner.”
“Not in the least,” Maura said with a congested sniffle. Ian saw her eyes were slightly red as she wiped her nose with her napkin. Looking as if she had been actively fighting tears, she smiled and patted Gordon’s hand. “She needed to hear your story,” she said. “She needs to know she isn’t alone.” She reached over to pick up stray bits of food Scottie had spread as she talked. “I think ye should wait a week an’ then ask her to an evenin’ out,” she said matter of factly. With one hard nod of her head she smiled. “Yes, I think that’ll do just fine.”
∞∞∞
Gordon walked through the door of his home. It was quiet and cold and he quickly turned on the radio to fill the empty space. He sat down in a chair by the hearth with a heavy sigh. Feeling as if he had, in fact, ruined dinner, he scolded himself for sharing so much of his life’s story with Claire, whose wound was still so fresh. He very much wanted to ask her to dinner, as Maura had suggested–ordered, really–but didn’t know if he would have the courage now. He glanced over at a picture of his late wife on the side table. She stared back at him with a soft, gentle smile and kind eyes.
“It feels like I’m stepping out on you,” he told the picture with a gruff laugh. “Feels like I’m doin’ something wrong.” He shrugged helplessly, heavy with guilt. “God, this is really hard, Marjorie.” The picture didn’t answer, but he stared at it regardless, waiting. A soft voice came from somewhere deep inside his mind.
If it were the other way around?
“Would I want you to live your days alone…if it were me who died? No. I wouldn’t. I’d want you to be happy. To have someone to care for you. I’d like to think you’d want that for me, too.” He took the picture frame in his hands and held it out in front of him. “She’d understand. Claire, I mean,” he said to his wife’s image. “She’s lost her man and she’d understand that a part of me still loves you. And I always will,” he whispered.
August 1st 1930
Bomani left Victor’s office for what he told himself was the last time. He hadn’t told Victor that of course, only taken money to do another job. He walked through the degenerate streets as night fell, anxiety twisting his stomach into knots. He couldn’t firebomb these squatters; the insurance company was getting suspicious of Victor, who had received compensation for three firebombed apartments in the last two months. He found the building and climbed the stairs to the apartment. He took a deep breath, and told himself this was the last one.
With a hard kick the door splintered, hanging off of one hinge. A woman screamed from inside and two men scrambled from the living room into the bedroom. The apartment was sparsely furnished, smelled of urine and something boiled in a pot on the stove. The woman scooped up a small child from the corner and screamed again.
“Time to go,” Bomani told them. “You’re being evicted.”
The woman started babbling with a hard accent, waving her free hand around, pointing to the door. He heard rustling in the bedroom and backed up two steps toward the door with his hand on the pistol tucked in his waistband.
Suddenly, one of the men emerged from the bedroom with a shotgun. He recklessly aimed and fired; the plaster above Bomani's head shattered and rained down on him. Grabbing his pistol, he dropped to a crouch and aimed, hitting the man square in the middle of the forehead. The woman started screaming again as she ran past Bomani, out the door.
Bomani heard glass shatter in the bedroom. He got to the doorway just in time to see the other man disappear onto the fire escape. Bomani made no move to chase after him. He turned slowly, his eyes drawn to the dead man in the living room. He'd landed on his back, arms and legs splayed messily. His head lay to the side in a halo of blood. Open vacant eyes stared past Bomani.
“You are the last,” he told the dead man. “I swear, you are the last.”
He backed up toward the broken bedroom window, and jumped out onto the fire escape.
∞∞∞
His own neighborhood was only slightly better than the one he had just left. He pushed open the thick glass door leading to a dank staircase. His was one of only two apartments over the small medical clinic that served the poor.
The stairs stank of dirt and mildew, the walls holed and stained, and he didn’t touch the handrail as his boots stomped wearily up the stairs.
He walked in and was relieved to see his woman standing by the stove, cooking what smelled like pasta.
“You’re late,” she said, glancing at the clock.
“I know. Sorry.” He sat down in a tattered but clean armchair and bent to unlace his boots.
“What kept you?” She turned around impatiently and waited for an answer.
“I had one last job to do,” he mumbled quietly.
“One last job. I thought you promised no more. You promised me, Bomani.”
“I know. I’m sorry. We need the money. No more. I promise. I’ll find a real job.”
He sounded sincere enough and she sighed heavily turning back to the stove.
She startled when he put his hands on her shoulders, having not heard him cross the room.
“I’ll feel a whole lot better when I know you aren’t doing dangerous jobs for that monster.”
“We almost have enough to leave,” he said softly, and moved to her side. He ran a large hand slowly up and down her back. “I can’t wait to take you away from all this.”
“And I can’t wait to leave, Bomani, but it’s not worth your life. And your eternal soul.”
He stiffened and avoided her eyes. “From this day on, I won’t do anything that will compromise my immortal soul. I promise.”
“What about what you did today?” She held up her hand to silence him before he could speak. “I don’t want to know what it was,” she said quickly.
“I’ll go to confession tomorrow,” he said and glanced at the gold cross that hung around her neck. Being of Egyptian decent, he wasn’t Catholic; in fact, personally, he held no particular religion at all, and didn’t believe confession would save his soul from the atrocious acts he had committed, but it made her feel better, so he went. Sometimes it made him feel better, too, but only in the way of unloading some of his burdens and have someone tell him it would be all right if he did this and said that. Deep in his heart, he felt it was too late for him.
∞∞∞
Jonathan carried three lobster pots off the boat and dropped them down onto the pier.
“We’ll need to fix these, Ian. There’s some cracked slats on the bottom.”
Ian nodded and went back to offloading the days catch. He had the same hard learning curve that they all had in the beginning, and he looked tired for it.
“You’re doing well, Ian,” Jonathan said as he went back to inspecting pots. They were a good team, despite Ian’s novice, and pulled in a respectable catch. Which was good with prices falling the way they had been lately. Jonathan spent most of the day preoccupied with numbers. Would it be better to always go out together, the three of them? They seemed to accomplish more. But if they could bring on one more man and split up in teams of two, that might be best, financially. Caleb had worked quietly through the day, his throbbing head keeping him from much conversation. He was used to it, for the most part, working with a violent hangover, and they had grown accustomed to his silence.
“Seasick as I get, I can still help scrape pots, if ye need it.”
Jonathan looked up to see Patrick standing safely on solid ground.
“Knock yourself out,” Jonathan said with a smile.
“Tomorrow.” He grinned. “Actually, I’m here to t
alk to Caleb.”
Jonathan turned to see Caleb working steadily stacking pots.
“Caleb! Patrick needs to talk to you. Why don’t you take a break?”
Caleb narrowed his eyes, huffing his breath. “Could you not yell please? My head is killing me.”
Jonathan turned back to Patrick. “Everything okay?”
“Not really, Jon. I came here to talk to Caleb because tryin’ to catch him at home sober is damn near impossible.”
Jonathan scrubbed his hand over his face and sighed heavily. “I’ve been worried about that.”
“Well, there are decisions to make about the farm and it not bein’ my land and all, I need to consult him.”
Jonathan turned to the boat and yelled again. “Hey, Caleb. Pat needs to talk to you.”
Caleb stopped, grumbled under his breath and jumped to the pier.
He stood in front of Patrick with his arms crossed, and huffed impatiently.
“There’s some decisions to make about the farm, Caleb. I’ve been trying to talk to you in the evening, but you’re…indisposed.”
“You mean I’m drunk.”
“Yeah, that, too.”
“Well, then, what is it? What’s so important?”
“Well, for one, Hannah’s stopped givin’. I need to know what ye want to do ‘bout that.”
“Shoot her.”
“Caleb, we might could breed her again–“
“Then fine. Breed her again. Why’d you ask me if you already knew what to do?”
“Because it’s your farm, Caleb.” His words were laced with resentment and the two locked eyes, each stubbornly refusing to look away first.
“We still need to buy another milk cow till the calf is weaned,” Caleb said. “Did you think about that?”
Jonathan stepped up, sensing the tension between the men. “I could ask Gordon. He runs that dairy, after all. I’d bet he has a milk cow he’d be willing to sell.”
Caleb nodded at Patrick. “Yeah. Do that.” He turned back to the boat.
“Excuse me?” Patrick took a few steps toward Caleb. Jonathan and Ian watched nervously. “Am I yer bitch then? Ye jest wave yer hand and order me what to do on yer land, like I’m a feckin’ slave? Let’s not forget, Caleb, ye asked me here. Ye asked for my help.”
Caleb ignored him and stepped back onto the boat. Patrick took several aggressive steps, and Jonathan moved into his path.
“Let me talk to him, Pat. I’ll set him straight.”
Patrick’s temper was flared, and he shifted restlessly. “Why don’t ye do that, Jon. Because I’m not goin’ to be treated like shite by that drunken arse. I’ll just put me family back on a train to New York, that’s what I’ll do!”
“Nobody wants you to do that, Pat. Just calm down. Let me talk to him.”
Patrick relented with a nod and turned away, cursing under his breath. When he was out of earshot, Jonathan glanced at Caleb.
“Hey, asshole. I gotta talk to you.”
“Well, that’s not what I’m used be being called, though it has happened on occasion,” a voice behind Jonathan said with a laugh. He spun around to see a man, short with thick glasses and plump rounded shoulders. Hardly the picture of authority, despite the badge on his uniform.
“Marvin's the name,” he said, sticking out his hand. “New deputy for Sheriff Vincent.”
“Right, he mentioned you. Nice to meet you. How are you settling in?”
“Pretty good. Me and the wife bought a house in Pigeon Cove. Cute little place. Helluva lot different than the city, I can tell you that.”
“You don’t have to tell us,” Jonathan said with a smile. “This is Ian and Caleb.” Both men stopped and nodded, but only Ian walked over to shake his hand.
“Caleb, come meet the new deputy,” Jonathan called.
“I'm kind of busy,” he called back, not looking up. Jonathan turned back to Marvin.
“He doesn't mean to be rude. He's sort of going through a rough time right now,” he confided. Marvin raised his eyebrows, curious without directly asking.
“Him and his wife have little ones at home, twins a few months old. And, well, I don't know how much Vincent told you, but we just lost our best friend.”
“He did. Is there still an open investigation?” he asked, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“No, Vincent closed it. It's a long story. I guess what the report says and what I think are two different things.”
“Maybe you could stop by sometime, have a cup of coffee and fill me in on that. The wife would love to meet you. She's anxious to make friends here.”
“I'll talk to Ava. I'm sure she'd love to come.”
Marvin wrote down his address on a scrap receipt and handed it to Jonathan.
“And you, too, Ian was it? You're welcome anytime.”
“Appreciate it, Marvin,” Ian said and shook his hand again.
They watched him walk back to his car, a little unsteady on the rocks and sand.
“He sure looks like the runt o' the litter, don't he?” Ian laughed.
“Well, I guess you don't have to be menacing to uphold the law.” Jonathan grinned.
“Well, that's good. Because I think Claire's wee kitten looks more menacing than he does.”
August 7th 1930
Patrick was quiet, sitting in the old chair that belonged to Hubert, Caleb’s late father, staring at the open window across the room. It was a muggy night; sweat clung to them like an extra layer of clothes. The oppressive, damp heat always set Patrick in a foul mood and he caught himself biting his tongue with Shannon and Aislin all night.
He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand over his face; more redistributing the sweat, rather than wiping it off. Shannon eyed him with concern over the edge of the book and she continued to read to Aislin on the sofa.
After the book, she settled her daughter on a makeshift pallet under an open window next to her infant brother, Roan, and covered her lightly with a thin sheet.
“Codladh Sámh,” she whispered and kissed her forehead.
“I don’t know how anyone could sleep well in this heat,” Patrick grumbled and wiped his face with his arm.
Shannon walked behind him and put her hands on his head, massaging his scalp lightly through messy wet patches of hair.
“What’s on yer mind, Pat,” she asked, her voice tired, but patient.
“A lot. I need to talk to Caleb again,” he said. Shannon could detect the slightest hint of irritation in his voice.
“Isn’t he upstairs with Arianna and the babes?”
He shook his head. “No. He’s in the barn.”
“Why not go talk to him then?”
“You know why, Shannon. He’s likely drunk,” he said flatly.
“Maybe I can help,” she said as she walked around the chair and knelt in front of him. “What seems to be the problem?”
“There are several, Shannon. And I’m not sure how to move forward with certain things…this isn’t really my land. It’s not my farm. I have ideas that might help, but I can’t do anything without talking to Caleb. And every time I go to talk to him, he’s fallen over stupid wi’ drink.” He sighed and rested his head on the high back of the chair. “It makes me angry, Shan. I’d kill to have what has been handed to him, and he doesn’t care a thing about it. I’m left to do the work but not able to make any decisions that might help this place give a bit more.” He was raising his voice in frustration, and Shannon glanced at the sleeping children and back at him. “I’m sorry, I’m just upset is all.” His eyes floated around the living room. “I wish this was all mine. Do ye have any idea how hard I’d work, day and night, to give ye a place like this to call your own?”
She smiled and took his hand. “I know, Pat.”
“Ye deserve a place like this. Grander than this even.”
“An’ we’ll have it one day, Patrick. We’re workin’ too hard not to.”
“I wish that was all it took. Hard work.”<
br />
“What else then?”
“A bit o’ luck wouldn’t hurt, that’s fer sure.”
She looked away, paralyzed to help him feel like an adequate provider.
He leaned forward and gave her a long, hard kiss on top of her head. Then he stood, swung his leg over where she knelt before him, and walked out to the barn to confront Caleb.
∞∞∞
He was sitting in the corner at a makeshift desk with a barrel for a seat. Spread before him were pictures, dozens of pictures taken over the last few years. He laughed under his breath, not knowing Patrick was standing near, and took a long drink.
“I remember that day,” Caleb whispered, holding up a picture of all three couples on an African safari.
Patrick cleared his throat. Caleb startled and turned, a surprised expression turning to one that mingled blankness and irritation.
“I need a word, Caleb.”
“Sure, what’s up?” He turned around on the barrel to face Patrick, wedging his bottle between his legs, his shoulders slouched sharply, eyes swollen and tired, he wobbled slightly. He was working on drunk, but not quite there.
I’d like to talk to ye about a transaction. I’d like to buy a bit of this land from you. The bit with the cabin there on the back of the property.”
Caleb straightened in surprise. “What do you want to do with that?”
“I want to finally make a place of our own. I don’t have enough money to buy outright, but I could put a small down payment and make payments, quarterly. We could draw up papers and you hold the deed until it’s paid for.”
Caleb nodded. “You know that cabin hasn’t been lived in in decades.” Patrick nodded. “I’ll do the work it takes to make it decent. But it’s the acre or two surrounding it that I’m most interested in.”
