by J. L. Jarvis
The train pulled into the station. Charles Adair looked toward his son with a measure of tolerance, having reestablished his control, and with so little effort. The family boarded the train. Andrew sought comfort in the fact that it was he who had chosen to board the train, and not his father. Having made his own choice, he now felt relieved to be back in the safety of reticent compliance.
As good as it felt to be home, Allison’s thoughts were miles away, with Samuel. Three weeks had passed since she had left him at the lake. She thought of the lake as it must appear now, desolate and undisturbed by boat or man.
She opened the letter Samuel had left in one of her bags, and she read it once more.
A,
I'm missing you now as you read this. I can see your soft hair like fire in the sun, your gentle smile, and your eyes with their faraway look. I watch the night sky and imagine you at your window, looking for me. I can see us together. I hold your heart close to mine until, soon, I can hold you in my arms.
Your D
“Samuel,” she whispered.
Allison sat at her desk and lifted her fountain pen.
D,
I remember how you looked when we parted, standing there so tall and handsome. I thought, “My heart is his, and he’s mine.” As though you had heard me, you looked at me and smiled. I would have run into your arms. But I couldn’t. The more I love you, the more cruel the world seems to be. We are created equal, you and I, but not born to equal lives. A man ought to be able to seek his own destiny. But how can he—how can you—when we hide? If we hide, we act against what we believe, and then what have we done but to perpetuate wrong? Yet if we refused to hide, we would take on the world’s burden, and that may be more than I know how to bear. I don’t know how to change the world. I just know how to love you. I miss you so. I must remind myself constantly that we will soon be together.
A
Allison set down her pen and, drawn to anything that might bring her closer to him, picked up Samuel’s letter and studied it. First, she envisioned him sitting at his desk, writing. Then she saw him—strong and good. He made her feel loved as no man ever had.
There was a knock on her door. Allison absent-mindedly answered.
In walked her mother. “Cook has prepared a snack for us, if you’d like. That must be good news, you’re absolutely beaming!”
Allison blushed as she realized she still held the letter from Samuel. Hastily folding it up, she explained, “Oh? It’s just a letter to an old friend.” Before her mother could ask who it was, Allison excused herself to freshen up. Her mother wondered but then remembered something that needed her attention and left the room.
Once downstairs, Lillian practically tripped over Andrew, who sat with his feet stretched across the hallway, poring over a missive of his own which he was preparing to post.
“Really, Andrew? Must you sprawl?”
“I’m so sorry, Mother,” he exclaimed as he reached out to steady her. In the process, his letter floated to the floor, where it lay in plain view.
In futile haste, he picked up the letter and slid it into his pocket but not before his mother’s knowing gaze had taken it in.
“Maggie MacLaren,” said his mother with a subtly raised eyebrow. “Isn’t she that girl—from the valley below the lake?”
“From Johnstown. Yes, Mother.”
“Hmm.” Lillian looked away with a casual lift of the brow, then a sigh.
“What, mother?”
“It’s just that, I wonder. Do you think it’s wise?”
His eyes shut for a moment. Without turning to face her, he said, “Wise?”
Her demeanor softened to gentle deliberation. “Encouraging that girl?”
He turned toward her but avoided her gaze. “If by ‘that girl’ you mean Maggie—”
“You know very well who I mean.”
“Well, then, yes.” He cringed to hear his own voice betray too much emotion. He turned away in vain hope of escape.
She heard it too, for her eyes flashed to him, and she studied his face.
Andrew tensed beneath her maternal scrutiny. He put on his most charming smile, but it faded as her gaze bore through him.
Softly, she said, “You love her.”
He felt almost surprised to admit it aloud. “Yes.”
A tiny crack formed in Lillian’s practically flawless composure. “Well, of course it’s a summer dalliance. It will pass.” When she looked at her son’s face for reassurance, she found none. “How could you let this happen?”
Andrew returned her alarmed gaze with dull eyes. “Love isn’t something you let or don’t let happen.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Lillian sought the right words, but the situation was already out of control. It had gone too far, yet she couldn't chastise too harshly when she saw in her son a faint reflection of her own faded memories.
Heavy footsteps announced Charles Adair’s arrival in the room. He sorted through letters. “I believe this is yours,” he said. Without looking up, he extended a piece of mail toward his wife, which she silently set on a nearby table. He looked first at Lillian, then at his son. “What is it? Andrew, have you upset your mother?”
“It seems our son is in love.”
“Well, it’s about time!” Charles extended a congratulatory hand toward his son. “Don’t look so sad, Lillian. The boy’s twenty-six. It was bound to happen sometime.” Charles laughed and put an arm on his son’s shoulder as he led him over to a chair.
As Charles encouraged a reluctant Andrew to sit down, Lillian spoke. “With that MacLaren girl.”
Still Charles failed to appreciate Lillian’s concern. “MacLaren?”
“From Johnstown.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“The librarian,” Andrew’s mother explained, and then rolled her eyes in relief as her husband at last understood the problem.
Andrew awaited the tempest, which, to his surprise, wasn't forthcoming. For while his mother was distraught, his father was quite accepting of the notion. This seemed to inflame Lillian even more.
“Charles, we must do something!”
“Do something? Lillian, you worry too much. It’s summer. Let the boy have some fun.”
Lillian wasn't convinced.
“It’s not as though he wants to marry the girl!” Charles chuckled as he walked over to the window. “I wonder how that work is going at the cottage. Has anybody heard from Samuel?”
“But I do.” Andrew stood facing his father. “I do want to marry her.”
Lillian sat down with a helpless sigh. Charles continued to stare out the window. “But you won’t.”
With false cheer in her voice, Lillian said, “It’ll pass. Why, a few weeks from now—”
“I’ve asked her to marry me.” Andrew shifted his weight.
Charles whipped his head around to face his son with contempt. “What? You asinine fool!” As though it were a bothersome business matter, he proceeded to set forth a plan of action. “Say nothing more to her about it. We’ll fix this—I’ll fix this. You just…find something—anything—to do other than see her again.”
“But you don’t understand. I want to—”
“No, you don’t understand!” Charles blustered with merciless vehemence. “You will not marry that girl.”
“Father—”
“Do you think I’ve worked all these years building a name in this city so you could ruin everything by marrying beneath you? It takes more than new money to establish oneself, but we’ve done it. I have singlehandedly built this for you, and you will not ruin it!”
Lillian felt slighted. Having sat through more than her share of ladies’ luncheons and charity events, she’d built friendships that had helped to advance Charles. She got Charles the interview for his law firm, and cultivated countless friendships with potential clients. Without her help, he wouldn't be where he was, a fact he seemed always to forget. She didn't mind shooting an indignant look his way to remind him.
Andrew’s shoulders wilted along with his bold posture. In a quiet voice, he said, “I love her.”
“Love is irrelevant,” scoffed Charles, while Lillian watched on. Charles took his son’s shoulders in his hands, and confronted him face to face. “Do you understand me? You can't marry that girl.”
Andrew’s eyes took on a look of pleading desperation, but he said nothing. Charles deftly maneuvered with his well-practiced courtroom persuasion. Speaking slowly and simply, he offered up the options to Andrew. His voice was liquid, his mind well oiled, and his purpose absolute. His efforts were barely needed, for both parties knew who the victor would be. Despite this, both men engaged in the exercise. Charles had an inherent need to wield power. He postured and blustered until Andrew sat in hopeless defeat.
“Of course, I can’t force you to do anything. You are, after all, a grown man. You can do what you will. But know this now and forever. If you fail to heed my advice, and shame your mother by marrying this librarian girl, you will be ruined. You will be expunged from society, from your job, and from your family. You will not get one penny from us—ever—living or dead. If you marry that girl, you will marry her life. Take a look at yourself and your fine clothes, and this house, and your friends, and your world. Marry her, and all this will be lost to you. What would you do? Where would you go? Think on it. And when you have thought, make your decision. And you’d sure as hell better be ready to live with it.”
Charles paused to savor the victory as his words settled, but he couldn't let go of the weapon. If words were daggers, he pierced Andrew’s heart slowly, and twisted them, just to be sure. He moved close, and in hushed tones said, “You wouldn’t survive on your own. Without me to lead you, you’re nothing. Without Samuel to do all your work, you are useless. Yes, I know what goes on. You’re lucky he’s a Negro. No white man would have put up with that—doing somebody’s work, taking no credit for himself.”
“Charles!” Lillian leaned forward in her chair.
“Don’t feel sorry for Samuel. I pay him well to do Andrew’s work. But, Andrew, you’d better hope he never finds a firm willing to hire a Negro attorney.”
“Well it won’t be your firm, will it, dear?” said Lillian softly, for Samuel was—in spite of his law degree—a clerk.
Charles faced Andrew and returned to his point. “You’ll never leave the life you have here, because you can’t.” He gripped Andrew’s shoulder and grinned amiably. “So, let’s stop all this nonsense about marriage. It’s over. You understand that, don’t you?”
Charles held his son’s gaze until Andrew responded with a meek nod. With that, Charles withdrew and began to pace as he fleshed out a plan to unravel the mess into which his son had entangled himself.
Andrew had bravely assumed control of his own destiny. But with one taste of glorious command over his life, he didn't know what to do. He had never been taught to assume responsibility. The freedom frightened him. He was ashamed to admit to himself how relieved he now felt to revert to his former role in the family. His destiny now was assured.
Charles was talking. “Of course, you have exposed yourself to a breach of contract suit by entering into a betrothal. But we should be able to resolve this easily enough. She doesn’t seem like the sort to make trouble.”
Andrew sank deeper into his chair with abject resignation. His eyes looked dull as doused embers.
Charles continued. “Now, what I need from you is a letter—a kind letter. The last thing we want is to give rise to rancor.”
Lillian leaned back with her hand to her brow and sighed.
Andrew lowered his head and listened to his father’s instructions.
“There’s a good man,” said Charles. “You see? We’ll get you through this.”
Andrew nodded his head mechanically. Charles didn't notice his son’s vacant eyes.
Chapter 15
Hank walked through the back door, wearing sweat and grime from the steel mill. On his way to the water closet he shed two hats and a shirt. He closed the door and pulled off his woolen trousers, woolen underwear, and heavy socks. Having donned a fresh change of clothing, Hank walked into the kitchen and put his arms around Beth in a familiar embrace. It was welcome but not warming. The pain she had suffered at Hank’s hand had so numbed her that his touch brought no pleasure—only a false impression of tenderness that she would never know. In her gentle, forgiving way, she patted the hand that touched her but moved away from his reach on her way to some unnecessary chore. She would accept his kindness as a respite from the raging storm. She kept a watchful eye, though, for the signs of the tempest that would follow in time.
The portrait of a loving father, Hank mounted the stairs to go check on his sick daughter. From the sick girl’s room, Beth heard the welcome sound of her little girl’s voice. “Daddy!”
Beth dropped her dishtowel and ran up the stairs. “Mama, I’m thirsty,” were the most welcome words Beth had heard in days. Beth’s unspoken fears rose to the surface and caught in her throat. She fell to her knees and buried her face in Robin’s bedding.
“Mama, can I have a drink of water?”
“My precious Robin, you can have anything you want,” she said, beaming. She rushed out of the room, pausing at the bottom of the steps to look to heaven in thanks.
“So she’s out of the woods, is she?” said Maeve with a radiant smile. Beth poured her some tea and sat down next to Maggie.
With a smile and new light in her eyes, Beth said, “Her fever’s gone, and her skin is beginning to clear up.” She thought back on the past three weeks. Tears clouded her vision as she added, “How do we get through such times?”
“It’s best not to ask. Just take the blessings as they come and the strength when they don’t.”
Maggie passed the sugar to Maeve. “There’s been no sign of fever in your children yet?”
“No, thank Heaven. It’s the little one I’ve been watching most. But she’s healthy as a horse, knock on wood.” Maeve rapped her knuckle against the oak table.
“It’s been a trying summer for everyone,” said Beth.
“Oh, I know,” said Maeve. “So many have come down with it.”
“Too many,” said Maggie.
“And then, of course, all the rich folks I wash for have packed up and gone home to Pittsburgh, so we’re pinching the pennies again.” As she finished speaking, she caught Maggie’s eye. A troubled look passed over Maggie’s face, but was soon gone. “Well, would you look at me, prattling on like I’ve got nothing better to do. I’ll be on my way now. I just came by to bring back these Mason jars. A couple of them are full of that jam I just put up.” Maeve’s voice trailed off as she followed Beth down to the root cellar to put them away.
Maggie remained behind. So Andrew had gone. That explained it. But why had he not tried to contact her? He could have written or wired. Maggie’s bitterness began to overwhelm her need for an explanation. She’d spent three weeks in search of an acceptable excuse, but there was none. Andrew would not return. There would be no wedding. Maggie tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that only Jake knew of the wedding plans, so at least she was spared the pity and embarrassment of having the whole town watch her heart break.
The next afternoon, a letter arrived with law office letterhead embossed on fine cotton designed to impress or intimidate, depending upon the recipient. Maggie looked at the letter and recalled the magical day in July when she’d walked among people who wrote on such paper. So much had changed since she’d sat on a perch and observed them.
She eased onto the porch swing and read. Her face was soon veiled with a solemn expression. While she read, something slipped from the envelope and flitted to the floor. Maggie stooped to retrieve a check, stunned to see it was made out to her for a sizable sum. Confused, she read on. The second page wasn't from Andrew but from his father’s law firm. It explained the check and, by its implication, the first letter, as well. In exchange for the check, she was to release hi
m from his contractual obligation to marry her. They were buying back Andrew’s promise.
Maggie stared at the words until they looked like mere letters running together in a meaningless blur on a watermarked paper. It was only paper, she told herself. But that paper was all she had left to hang onto. Like the watermark on it, her dreams could barely be seen anymore, and then only if one looked very hard. No one would. No amount of tears would change that.
For a long time, she sat watching the wind brush through the trees, and the birds glide against the background of billowing smoke from the stacks of the iron works. “How could he? How could I have let him?” She wanted her pained heart just to stop, but it was made more alive by the sadness. Too strong to break, the ache swelled. What she had opened in trust lay cruelly used and cast off. No, this wasn't what she had read about love.
“Love is a fiction that fills poems and hearts but not lives—not my life,” Maggie said, as she looked up with an expression as gray as the sky. She wondered how the birds of the mountain survived in the air amid the encroaching smoke. And yet they did.
After many hours and more regrets, Maggie sat at the kitchen table, alone. She looked again at the check. She reread the two letters. How she hated herself for trusting a man who would do this. This was how his kind sailed through life, she now realized. They bought and sold hearts as though they were property, with acts of conveyance and deeds of ownership. Cold acts. Cruel deeds. And they made it look easy.
She signed the paper and, with that act, legally released Andrew from his promise of marriage. She slipped the document into its return envelope, and then dropped the check into the awaiting fireplace. She sank into a chair and impassively watched the fire consume Andrew’s final promise to her: to pay the bearer to forget his promises. And for this, she would never forget him. She watched the paper curl and blister until it was ashen. When it was done with its burning, her heart was cold.