Was this the real reason they were moving away? Maybe that’s why his parents didn’t care how he felt about packing up his life and starting over. This was his fault.
Replacing the mounting guilt and shame, an overwhelming sadness seeped into Mark. Jack had been the only person in the world he could sit with in comfortable silence. Not knowing if he’d ever find that again was dismal. Not knowing if they’d ever speak again or see each other was even worse. Particularly since they’d left things on bad terms.
Mom tapped his shoulder, right as he was about to envision himself as a blond barbarian with a glowing sword, consequently ruining his I have the power! moment. Was there really something wrong about a cartoon and set of action figures? Or was there something definitely wrong with him? Her timing was uncanny, as if she sometimes saw inside him.
Mark peeped up at the massive arch of the doorway while passing through. It was like being under a whale’s ribcage. He repressed the Jonah reference surfacing in his mind. How perfect that the house made him feel physically inadequate. All he needed was for a bathroom mirror to shrink his dick like some funhouse illusion. The effect would complete the mental torture.
Strolling into the spacious living room, that might as well have been the length of a football field, there was the faintest impression of a ghostly party, classical music filling the air. The floorboards and built-in shelves had absorbed the uncorking champagne and clinking glasses. Mark’s mood lightened as if someone offered him some bubbly, so he pretended to be unable to walk straight on his way to the next stop.
The family and the realtor filed into the dining room, their focus drawn to the dangling crystal tear drops of the chandelier. Even encrusted with dust, its refracting light twinkled at Mark. Curiously, his palms started to perspire.
“This is where the party guests would enter.” The agent gestured to the doors that opened to a set of stairs outside, apparently the drop off point for the carriages back in the day. It was also a direct line to the fountain. Mark snubbed it by putting his back to the window.
Mom’s lips parted, but before she could utter a word, Tausha shrieked.
Dad moved the camera from his eye.
All of them stood transfixed as the girl collapsed to the carpet and pounded almost right through the floor. Then she tried to crawl into the hollow space under the built-in sideboard, her wailing loud enough to summon the dead.
What’s wrong with her?
At almost seven, she was getting much too old for such behavior. Plus, his sister was more of the silent type. Verging on stoic, even. She’d not had a tantrum since the terrible twos.
Everyone gawked at the swinging door to the pantry and kitchen, the passageway to the living room, and to the exit to the open lot and driveway. Nothing there. Mom bent down and caught Tausha by the arm to whisk her outside.
On the other side of the window, free from the confines of the house, his sister’s sobs diminished. Her shoulders no longer heaved.
The realtor covered her mouth.
Mark’s father shrugged.
“Too much candy?” Sugar was the only evil that came to Mark’s mind. He winced in jest.
Mark and his father continued the walk-through. A while later, Mom and Tausha caught up with them. However, Dad was too busy snapping photos to notice. He’d become an architectural magazine freelancer, his life depending on the perfect angle.
When they ventured into the basement, Dad lingered in front of the iron door with a wheel in its center. He spun it, creating the sound of metal on metal and a few almost imperceptible tick-tick, ticks. “What’s in here?” he asked.
“No idea. I can ask the bank for the combination, but I think it would’ve been in the notes if they had it.”
“Check on that, will you?” Dad’s eyes gleamed.
Mark knew that the walk-in safe was a feature tallied on the let’s buy this place column in his father’s head. But, Mark got an attack of the willies. In there was probably a pile of dead rats covered in maggots. Or an army of ginormous furry spiders scurrying all over the walls. Clearly, Mark had binged on too many late night B-movies, his solo guilty pleasure after everyone had gone to sleep. Monsters indiscriminatingly killed everyone no matter what, the ultimate equal playing field.
The grand tour ended with a “Sleep on it” and an “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Mark lagged on the back step, captivated by a shadow with a cowboy hat loitering by the side of the massive two-story garage. The person’s posture and movements were fluid, indicating someone youthful. The hat tilted upwards, but Mark couldn’t make out any features as the stranger shook his head in response, before retreating behind the building.
Mark’s face tensed in confusion, yet the encounter intrigued him. Although he didn’t understand the message, Mark wasn’t filled with dread. Standing on the porch, though, made him anxious to catch up to his family already at the car.
He jumped down and scurried along the driveway.
Once the family loaded into the Pacer—the agent having already pealed out of the driveway—they all sat quietly. Dad white-knuckled the steering wheel, his neck craning for a better view of the house exterior. Mom had an index finger to her lips.
As if the walls could perceive being watched, an entire window frame crashed to the pavement. The explosion of glass clattered and the wood fractured into splintery fragments.
The place was telling them to back off. Whether it was a warning or a threat, Mark wasn’t sure. He reminded himself it was just a building—a manmade place, constructed with ordinary resources. It wasn’t alive. That line of thinking embarrassed him. It was time to get a better grip on reality, to super-size his maturity level, especially since he’d be a junior at the high school in the fall. And, he was a bit older than his classmates, considering his birthday was late in the year and his parents held him back. Mark’s age afforded no excuses.
His parents turned to each other, eyes wide and mouths agape.
The unspoken sentiment was that none of this was a fluke.
All his father said was, “That was far out.”
Wait, was that a good or bad thing? Mark leaned between the front seats. “Dad, so when are we looking at the next house?”
“I don’t think there’s going to be a next house.”
Mom folded her hands, drawing them to her mouth. “Yeah, we just can’t afford anything else.” She turned to Mark. “You don’t want to share a room with your sister, do you?”
He loathed rooming with his sister the last few years. For one, she was a restless sleeper, rocking the bed all over the place. For another, she paraded around in various states of undress, which made him cringe. There were all sorts of other hazards to his well-being having her as a roommate. Too many to list.
But more importantly, Mom’s words were the confirmation that the pit of his stomach and all the alarm bells going off in his head about the new property were no match for finances. Or, the inexplicable attraction Mark’s parents appeared to have to the Victorian. Was it the amount of space? The elevator? The vault? The lure definitely wasn’t the fountain. Mark’s lip curled at the sight of it through the window.
The pit in his stomach needled him further.
Sure enough, his parents forced him and his sister to go to the mortgage closing the following day. Not even Mark could fathom what that contract bound the family to. And that a new life and a new school were the least of his problems.
June 1860
The Durleys, seated around the dining room table, forsook their tongues.
Emma’s grandmother passing from fever only a few springs prior, had been horrendous enough.
Back then Emma’s father had wiped tears on his sleeve in between dispensing tonics and ridding the local children’s stomachs and bowels of various swallowed objects, be it a whistle or a coin. His lighthearted jokes about it all, absolving them of the scolding for the doctor’s summoning, no longer sprang from his lips. Now that grandpa was gone, to
o, Papa’s sense of humor wasn’t the only casualty. His tears had dried up, traces of abnormal behavior budding in its place. More serious ailments incited bouts of insidious cackling. Life and death had lost all sense.
One afternoon, she’d witnessed her father pouring buckets of crimson liquid into the garden soil. Unable to ignore the situation, she wandered over, the odor of iron confirming he’d been sowing blood. Animal? Human? “Papa, what’re you doing?” she’d asked. He answered, “New fertilizer I read up in the almanac. Let’s see how the tip works.” Emma’s mind forced her to let it go without further investigation, fearing her inquiry would prove she was the crazy one. In the off chance his eccentric grieving didn’t pass, she became hypervigilant for ways to forge her own way of life.
Although it had been well over a month since Grandpa’s funeral service, the rest of the family’s somber mood hadn’t lifted as their silverware scraped along their plates. Nor had the news of their sizable inheritance been of much comfort.
“What’s the news?” Mama asked, glancing at the letter next to her husband’s plate and taking a bite from her fork. The return address indicated the correspondence had arrived from the family friend who’d moved away to found what was now the largest lumber mill in Winona, Minnesota.
“James Laird sends his condolences.” Papa was still sore about his father’s having a tooth pulled by the town barber, who created the lethal infection, a misfortune entirely preventable with any modicum of sense. Why a father would refuse to consult his doctor son was inconceivable. “He also writes they need a town physician. He’s put in a good word for us.”
“That’s marvelous, Milton.” Mama’s eyes twinkled as she met her daughter’s gaze. “Why, I’ve heard Winona’s the third most populated town in the entire state.”
Emma looked to Hugh who knew just as well as she did how anxious their mother had been to set her up with Thomas Laird. Mama went plumb melancholy when the entire Laird clan had moved away.
“Our patients could right well come to us then,” Mama said.
“I expect they shall, Mary,” Papa replied.
Fewer house calls meant a more tranquil lifestyle. Emma loved the sound of that. No more being roused at all hours of the night, nor having to travel many a raging storm, boots filled with mud or water, through various obstructed paths littered with logs or monstrous roots to patients who may or may not be alive once they arrived. The payments the family received for medical services were typically produce, meats, eggs, or blankets. As a result, Papa had developed an aversion to tomatoes. Emma had developed an aversion to being tired and on edge all the time.
Mama smiled widely before dipping her bread in gravy.
“I’ve already started on the drafting. James knows of an architect.” Papa sipped his ale.
“Will there be a pharmacy?” Mama asked. With the right floor plan, Papa’s dream was within reach. Furthermore, mother’s weekly lament about not being able to properly remedy the community could come to an end.
“Will there be a pharmacy?” Looking to his children, Papa grinned. “Isn’t your ma a card? That’s right about the most amusing thing I’ve ever heard.”
Mama grinned at her own silly question.
“Riley, Hugh, we leave in a couple of days. You best say your goodbyes and set to packing.”
“Yes, sir,” Hugh mumbled with a strained look on his face. After Grandpa’s passing, it’d taken him over a week to adjust to caring for the extra horses in the stable. Papa had told Hugh to buck up, since they’d be able to hire help once they moved north. Hugh despaired over the idea, but here it was—the disruption of his routine and everything he knew.
Unlike his brother, Riley’s “yes, sir” boomed emphatically, his expression bright. He wriggled in his seat, attacking his plate with his utensils as if he’d packed already. Adventure had finally come calling.
Emma would talk to her tutor, Oliver Evans, or Ollie as he’d let her call him. With circumstances about to be easier on her parents, they really didn’t need her anymore as a nurse. Her dearest wish was to study at the university to become a teacher, or at the very least a private tutor. Ollie said she’d make a fine educator, shaping young minds and fostering the spirit of justice and equality.
Maybe, just maybe he’d ask her to stay, to marry him. They’d change the world together.
May 1861
In their room aboard a steamboat traveling up the Mississippi, Emma strapped the holster to her leg while her mother tidied her hair and repositioned her hat. It was their final night, their docking in Winona set for the following morning.
Her many conversations with Ollie hadn’t gone as planned. Although they’d had plenty of intellectual conversations, and some that made Emma feel as if they’d shared one mind, he proclaimed he wasn’t the marrying kind. He didn’t see how raising his own kids would make the world a better place when he could reach so many more in the classroom and in the parlors of the community. They needed him. But Emma needed him too. She wasn’t sure she wanted her own children, despite that it’d been ingrained in her as something inevitable. When his gaze had pulled away from hers as she inquired about their future, she knew he didn’t feel the same.
Emma wiped her eyes and holstered the pistol.
“Is that really necessary?” Mama asked, eyeing the gun.
This was coming from a woman who slept with a rifle under the bed, both back when her husband had gone off to be a medic in the Mexican-American War, leaving her with three young children for nearly two years, and when he’d left her with Emma this past year.
“Isn’t this why I’m here?” Emma spoke in reference to the rumor around town she was a better shot than anyone, including her father and two brothers. Nonetheless, she’d only handled a weapon in times of dire emergency—like when there was a grizzly bear on the porch, or an outlaw in the garden. She drew the gun, spun it, and re-holstered it.
“Stop that. You’re making me nervous.”
“Relax, Mama.” But being two unescorted women on this passage was no time to relax. Men sometimes took advantage. Emma had seen the ugly physical evidence of this on more than one female patient. Although the body often healed, the mind and heart were never the same. Precautions needed to be taken. “Besides, you can thank the Johnsons for our predicament.” The Johnsons were supposed to have been on board this cruise, but changed their minds about leaving town at the last minute. Lucky them.
“They had their reasons.” She sniffed her potted sprig of jasmine, humming in appreciation.
“So do I, Mama.” Emma’s plan to stay in Illinois was foiled. Since she hadn’t found a tutoring position, she had no bargaining chip to speak of. Ollie said he’d put in a word to several families on her behalf, but Papa had spent extra time on Sunday mornings in a hushed voice with this or that potential employer. All of her book smarts wasn’t a college education, when it came down to it. So, there was that.
“Come now, you’re part of this family. When we get settled, I’ll speak to your father about your going to college. They have those in Minnesota, I reckon.”
“I’ve heard that.” Emma failed to lighten at her mother’s humor. They didn’t have Ollies in Minnesota, though. She missed him already. No more scoffing at local gossip while sipping hot chocolate. No more glances at each other when they noticed the pastor accidentally turning the scripture into innuendo for the millionth time. Now she wondered if Ollie had danced with her at the county fair out of pity, or boredom.
While lifting an almost empty perfume bottle, Mama asked, “Care for a dab?”
Papa had gifted her the fragrance before he’d gone to Minnesota, saying it was just a taste of the niceties about to be part of their new lives. The couple didn’t always agree, not even on a patient’s diagnosis, and Papa needed prompting to remember special occasions, but every once in a while he schemed a heartfelt gesture on his own.
Emma accepted her mother’s offer, tilting the bottle and applying the perfume to her chest
and behind the ears. Neither mother nor daughter would have a proper bath until after their journey. There was no sense stinking to high heaven if they didn’t have to.
Arm in arm, the pair found a seat next to the window in the dining room. Amid the small talk and bites of tender roast and vegetables, Emma sensed a pair of eyes on her. Scanning the room, she noticed a man a few tables away with sandy hair and beard. Instead of looking away, his blue eyes held hers until she reverted her focus to Mama.
“What is it?” her mother asked.
“Nothing.” Emma feared she’d already given the man too much attention.
Out on the deck, Emma leaned on the railing to peer at the river and the passing landscape. The trees waving to her were mostly maple and birch, the verdant hillside rolling in the distance. Ollie’s parting gift had been an urging her to be careful, since she would always be important to him. Yeah, right. Instead of holding on to that sentiment, Emma revisited the litany of dangers he’d spouted: the boat’s boiler exploding, the vessel hitting a snag and sinking, or an Indian ambush. Oh, and how could she forget the possibility of treacherous passengers or captain? Be careful? As far as an explosion, hitting a snag, or the ambush, there wasn’t one goddamn thing she could do to avoid them.
Gazing at the sparkling water and catching sight of the birds soaring overhead, Emma decided Ollie’s advice amounted to a bunch of nonsense. Maybe he wasn’t so wonderful or wise, or any of the other qualities she’d attributed to him. There had to be a man out there better suited for her, someone who truly loved her in return.
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