Feather for Hoonah Joe

by Marianne Schlegelmilch

  “Wow!” Mara said softly.

  “Then, after a week or so, my memory came back just as fast as it had left. That’s when I called Joe. I was shocked to hear him like he was—speech slurred, despondent—not my husband at all.”

  “We were worried, too,” Mara said.

  “I’ve never known Joe to drink,” Sylvia said. “I mean, we’ll have a beer or a cocktail out socially once in a while, but never any serious drinking. To hear him that impaired was shocking. That’s when I knew I had to snap him out of it.”

  Mara laughed limply. “I heard about the phone call.”

  “He gets despondent sometimes,” Sylvia said. “The war, the fire, Stu. Sometimes it all gets him down, but never have I known him to drink himself silly like he did during those few days.”

  Mara squeezed Sylvia LaMonte’s hand.

  “It’s been hard on us all,” she said. “It’s like all our lives have been turned around with learning who you really are. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad that we know the truth, but the adjustment has been hard—maybe because of all that’s gone on before, you know. Maybe that’s why Joe left instead of . . . ”

  Sylvia LaMonte stood up, leaving Mara sitting on the sofa.

  “I know, dear. I know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find my Joe and maybe take a walk, or go to bed early, or do something that feels even remotely normal for just this short moment before I have to think about all this again.”

  “Goodnight, Sylvia,” Mara said.

  “Goodnight, dear.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Time Now

  Sal found Joe in the yard where the landing craft was unloading. He had already summoned Mara and Doug as well as all available support staff.

  “Be sure to hang a closed sign on Beachmoppers,” he told Dennis, the last person left to notify. “And if you’d be good enough to pick up my niece, Della on your way down here, I’d be grateful.”

  Once they arrived, Mara and Doug took charge so that Joe could rest, directing the crew on where to stack the loads of debris they had brought in.

  “It’s pretty chop chop out there already,” the captain of Beachmoppers said. “I was relieved I was able to get the landing craft in like I did, but the load is relatively light and this craft’s as good as they come, so here we are.”

  The debris was the usual assortment of floats and broken furniture—nothing of real value as it now stood, but they had found an artist who was creating an entire line of saleable items by reconstructing the furniture fragments into useable art pieces and donating a percentage of the profits to disaster relief efforts in Japan.

  “Why don’t you two just let us handle the rest of the unloading?” Doug asked the elderly couple.

  Joe Michael didn’t resist. His face sagged in a way that added about ten years to his appearance, and the twinkle in his eye was gone. Mara watched Sal stare at her husband as he walked around the yard. For a moment, she caught Sylvia LaMonte’s eye in a moment of knowing concern of their shared love for the old man. She started to move toward him, but stopped as Sal gently placed her hand into his and led him toward their truck.

  “We’ll be fine, Joe,” Doug said.

  Joe Michael climbed into his dualie and waited while his wife climbed into the other side. Then he drove off—slowly, purposefully, and without looking back.

  Later that afternoon, Doug and Mara saw the dualie parked outside the elderly couple’s house. They didn’t stop in as usual and neither did Sal or Joe come to the window as they usually did to see who was there.

  Inside, Joe Michael napped in his recliner as Sylvia LaMonte stared at the manila envelope she had left tucked into a corner of the bookcase across the room since first discovering it in safety deposit box 7 at Rhinebeck State Bank.

  After a while, she got up and brought it to the table. Perhaps it was time to face the inevitable task of opening it and really examining the yellowed papers it held.

  She peeled back the flap and started to remove them, then abruptly got up and began pouring a cup of tea from the water that simmered on the woodstove.

  She stopped to pull a comforter over her sleeping husband, making sure that his feet were tucked in tightly, and smiled as Joe moaned a soft thank you. Then she walked to the window letting herself become overly engrossed in watching a ship sail by.

  The sun was sliding toward the horizon when she sat back down at the table and pulled several pieces of paper out of the envelope and spread them across the table.

  She got up and made herself another cup of tea, tucked the blanket more tightly around Joe’s shoulders, then sat back down. Among the papers, in a small, tattered envelope, yellowed with age, was a letter. Handwritten, the cursive script that was almost lyrical in its presentation caught her eye. She picked it up and began to read.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Letter

  Dear Fr. St. Jean,

  For eighteen years I have cared for the gardens of this parish and many of those adjoining estates, all the while carrying the burden of being forced to conceal what no man should have to hide.

  Although I might well have chosen to unburden myself in your confessional, knowing as I do that you are bound by the laws of God and the Church to retain my strictest confidence, I chose instead to try to right the wrong I have done in the best way that I know how.

  I do so with the greatest confidence that you will allow this letter to find the persons who it can most help piece together and repair the damage my act of concealment has wrought on their lives.

  It is to you, a man of integrity and a man whom I trust, that I leave this letter, knowing that somehow, and perhaps long after I am gone, you will find a way.

  You will now know, as I have recently learned, that I have terminal cancer and will likely be gone before Christmas. It is thus my dying wish that you be the first to know the truth and the last to set it free.

  Elzianne Jeanette LaMonte is my daughter borne of a lifelong and passionate affair with her mother, Melinda LaMonte, wife of Johnson LaMonte.

  So that all should know, both Mellie and I went to Johnson LaMonte when she first learned she was carrying my child. They should also know that in keeping with his wishes and in order to ensure the best possible future for our child, we ceded to Johnson LaMonte’s insistence that the world should never know that the child was not his own.

  In return, my darling Mellie and I physically parted ways as she acceded to Johnson LaMonte’s other condition that they remain married, as to not do so would have jeopardized his standing as a leader within both the Rhinebeck community and the very tightly knit parish of St. Aloysius. It was the beginning of the end of my life that we did so, even though she incurred my undying gratitude when she saw to it that over the years I was able to watch our daughter grow up.

  Johnson died without revealing the truth to Elzianne. To ensure that the truth would never be disclosed, he left a stipulation in his will that if it ever were revealed, or if any evidence of a resumption of a relationship between Melinda and me should occur, the substantial inheritance left to both Melinda and Elzianne would be cut off.

  To accomplish this, he engaged the trust of his best friend, Jameson Kindle, to whom he entrusted official oversight of his estate—a fact that Melinda LaMonte found increasingly repugnant as the years went on.

  Despite the risk, Melinda and I managed to meet secretly a few more times. It was during one of those times that she revealed her intention to find a way to punish Jameson Kindle for his willingness to try to control both her wealth and her happiness.

  When I spoke to her for the last time before she died, she told me that in an effort to protect our daughter, Elzianne, she had initiated a series of events that would tarnish the legacy of Jameson Kindle and his heirs in such a way that her financial assets and those of our daughter, Elzianne, would forever remain secure.

  Later, when Melinda and Johnson’s eldest daughter, Sylvia, married Jameson’s eldest son, Bert
Kindle, Melinda stepped up her efforts to destroy Jameson Kindle by tarnishing the good name of his firstborn son, even despite the fact that he was now married to her eldest daughter, Sylvia.

  Jameson Kindle died soon thereafter, but not before he began to suspect the plot that had been unleashed against his son, Bert, and warned him accordingly.

  When Sylvia LaMonte Kindle began to suspect that her mother was sabotaging her husband, Melinda denied it, while secretly increasing her attack on Bert Kindle. When Sylvia confronted her mother once more about her suspicions, Melinda tightened her hold on the family fortune by implicating Sylvia in what we know were trumped-up attempts to discredit Bert, and equally trumped-up allegations that Sylvia was somehow responsible for her husband’s untimely death.

  It was at that time that Bert and Sylvia fled Rhineback and began a new life in Alaska, where they lived until Bert Kindle died, and after which I lost track of her whereabouts.

  A few years later, Melinda learned that she, too, was dying. She summoned me to her bedside for what I thought would be our last passionate goodbye. Instead, she told me that our daughter would carry on her mission to discredit Bert Kindle’s name after she was gone.

  Although she then swore for the last time that she loved me, when I objected to her plan for Elzianne, she went on to say that our daughter had always been told that Johnson LaMonte was her father, and would never learn the truth about me from her, thus dashing any hopes that our daughter would know my love for her.

  And in her chilling last words to me, Melinda told me that she had already warned Elzianne that there was a man who had been trying to extort money from her by claiming to be her father, and that that if that person ever came forward, she should pursue legal action against him.

  It is with a heavy heart that I now go to my own grave knowing that my daughter will never know the love that her mother and I shared, and through which she was conceived, while also knowing that the woman I loved betrayed me, just as she did her own husband, in the end.

  I only ask God’s forgiveness for my sins and pray that somehow after I am gone the truth can somehow be told.

  Most sincerely,

  Henry Wilson Patterson

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  In Face of Reality

  Sylvia (Sal) LaMonte Kindle Michael was asleep sitting bolt upright in her chair when Joe Michael found her in front of the window around 3 a.m. For a moment he feared she was dead. Never had he seen her this way.

  Carefully, he gathered the pages of the letter from the floor and set them on the table before leading his still sleepy wife to their bed. When she had rolled over into peaceful slumber, he returned to the place by the window and read the letter.

  How had Sal carried this burden for so long? He knew that she had been married to Bert Kindle and he knew that the marriage had been a happy one. He also knew that Bert had died unexpectedly and that Sal had taken to living near the sea—moving from seaport to seaport—until meeting and marrying him in what she told him had been years since Bert’s death.

  The whole thing about Rhineback, the LaMontes, her mother, and Elzianne were new information. As far as he knew, much of what had just been revealed in this letter would have come as a surprise even to her.

  As far as Elzianne, Sal had once mentioned that she had a sister, who she had lost track of over the years—something she had also told him was A-okay with her as the two of them had never been close. But the fact that she had carried the knowledge that her own mother was trying to sabotage her life must have been almost more than she could bear. And now to learn that Elzianne, her lifelong nemesis, was only her half sister, well . . .

  How selfish he had been to assume that his life’s burdens outweighed hers. No wonder she had been acting strangely as of late. How unforgiveable that he had fled Rhinebeck assuming that she had rejected him and had not searched for the truth about his wife.

  Unable to sleep and consumed with shame, he wandered about the house, as if in doing so some answer to all of this would present itself. Perhaps all this was only a dream. When he tripped on the stoop between the living room and the new addition that led to the kitchen, he knew it wasn’t.

  The first hint of the sun’s arrival appeared as a thin yellow line along the horizon when he finally decided to make himself some coffee. He watched a ship sail by, then another, before getting up to pour himself another cup of the comforting brew.

  Sal’s footsteps in the other room told him she was up, so he poured a cup for her, too.

  “I read it,” he said gently when she appeared.

  “It’s good that you did,” she answered. “I really don’t think I can face this alone any longer.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Check

  Sylvia had told her husband about safety deposit box 7 after her first trip to Rhinebeck, and about how the contents had come into her possession. Joe hadn’t asked about them since. If they had stayed hidden away forever, he might not have cared, but here they were, splayed out in front of him, along with all they represented.

  He picked up an uncashed cashier’s check. It was dated more than forty years ago and it was signed by Jameson Kindle, identified therein as executor of the estate of Johnson LaMonte—Sylvia’s father. The amount was staggering, especially for its day. It was made out to Reverend Father St. Jean on behalf of St. Aloysius Parish for one million dollars. When he turned it over, he saw that it had been endorsed to Sylvia LaMonte.

  Joe handed it to his wife.

  Sylvia was aghast. What favor had Jameson wanted from Monsignor St. Jean? Had he tried to buy his silence over something that might have been said in the confessional by Johnson LaMonte, or perhaps even by her mother, Melinda LaMonte?

  Sylvia knew her friend well enough to surmise that he would never have broken his vows as a priest to reveal anything he had heard in the confessional. J.T. had always, since their childhood, been both a humble and an honorable person.

  The evidence within her hands seemed compelling. Had Monsignor St. Jean never cashed the check so as not to expose the attempted bribe and place himself or the parish in jeopardy? Further, he had signed it over to her. Had he done that so that should it ever be discovered, it could never fall into the hands of Elzianne, Dorland, or anyone else, and would go directly to her, thus providing her with at least a share of her parents’ wealth?

  Why hadn’t he just destroyed it? Wouldn’t that have been the easiest thing to do? Instead he had secured it in his safety deposit box for all these years. Had he tried to find her? No one else had succeeded in doing so after Bert died, so it came as no surprise that he, too, would not have found her—that is, if he had been looking.

  Of this she knew she could be sure, J.T. would never harm her or be a party to anyone who would seek to harm her. How hard it must have been for him to carry this burden for his entire life, to risk his own career, his life’s vocation, to hold onto these things for a lifetime.

  Their affection for each other had been real, their friendship deep, starting from when they first met on the playground in second grade, and ending only with his death. It had transcended time, and their life choices. It had been above all else, pure. Free from pretense, devoid of pretext, greater than worldly needs.

  He was in heaven; of this she was sure. No amount of manipulation, no level of conniving by her family, and no faltering in faith and commitment had kept him from his path.

  She had been fortunate to know him—to have earned his friendship and his loyalty. She would protect him and his good name in return, no matter what came of the contents of the envelope laid out before her.

  Chapter Forty

  Another Letter

  The letter addressed to Doug and Mara Williams from Dorland Kindle was point blank. An investigation was being launched into the death of Bert Kindle and the distribution of all assets that were in his possession at the time of his death were being scrutinized to ensure that they had fallen into the hands of their rightful own
ers.

  Pursuant to this end, be advised that no further activity should be undertaken using either the F/V Driftfeather or the F/V Storm Roamer.

  ~Dorland P. Kindle, Attorney at Law

  Kindle, Kindle, Chase, Swanson, and Fitzlander, LLC

  “Ignore it!” Dennis Connor Sr. barked into the phone after receiving a fax of the document at his Boston office. “It’s nothing but intimidation.”

  “But can he freeze the use of the seiners?” Doug asked, as he huddled around the phone with Mara, Sal, and Joe.

  “Just carry on with your business,” Dennis Sr. answered, deflecting the original question. “I’ll be firing off a strongly worded note to Dorland Kindle today.”

  ~~~

  “We were approached by a private vessel yesterday at which time they handed me some kind of document stating that I must cease further operation of both seiners,” Derrk Stanley told Doug during a satellite call from somewhere in the Gulf of Alaska.

  “It’s nothing like you’re thinking—is that all they said?” Doug answered.

  “That’s all,” Derrk replied. “Look, Doug, I’ve known you a good long time and long enough to be sure that you’d never intentionally get yourself tied up in anything even remotely suspect. Still, this is over the top and nothing I’ve ever come across in all my years on the seas before. If there’s something going on—if you’re in some kind of trouble, or something—well, I just can’t let myself get caught up in it, you know.”

  “What’re you saying, Derrk?”

  “I’m bringing the seiners and the fish in until you get this straightened out, Doug. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Derrk paused for a long silence before speaking again.