Down by the River

by Robyn Carr

  Jim and Elmer took a look in Elmer’s garage at what tools he’d collected over the years, then in June’s. Elmer had spent what free time he had fishing and playing poker, so aside from the most rudimentary tools necessary for basic repairs, he was a little short. Likewise Jim’s modest collection in the back of his truck and in June’s garage. Sam, they figured, might be better fixed, having a gas station and all. Once they knew what they had, they’d pay a visit to the Forrest household and assess their needs.

  When they pulled up to the gas station, they pulled up to trouble. Syl Crandall’s bakery truck was sitting at the pump and Syl was having a very loud argument with Conrad Davis.

  “Oh, Lord, what was Sam thinking,” Elmer said to Jim.

  The men got out of Jim’s truck in time to hear Syl say, “If Sam wanted to change his policy, then Sam should’ve told his friends!”

  “If you don’t have the cash, I can come around the bakery and get it—”

  “It’s not that I don’t have it, young man, it’s that I usually pay Sam by check once or twice a month. I use a lot of gas to make deliveries.”

  “We’re working on cash now,” Conrad said.

  “Is that so?” Elmer asked, approaching them. Jim shored him up from behind and glared at Conrad. It seemed to take Conrad a second to remember him.

  “Just collecting for the gas, man,” he said.

  “Where’s Sam?”

  “He’s over at this old house he found for me and the family. It’s been left empty and he said we could use it.”

  “Elmer, this young man says he’s running the station now and we’re not to leave IOUs anymore. You hear anything about that?”

  “Nope. Better take Mrs. Crandall’s IOU, son. That’s how she’s used to doing business with Sam.”

  “Things’ve changed now that I’m running the station. He said it doesn’t make any difference to him how I run it, long as I take good care of it. I swept it out and everything.”

  “And Sam is…?”

  “I told you! He’s over working on that house!”

  Elmer took a step toward him. “Where’s the house, son?”

  “The street’s Marigold or something like that. It’s just a few blocks over, behind that big church a ways. Right by this woman with a chopped-up face.”

  Syl gasped. “That’s Mrs. Mull,” she said unhappily. She stuffed the IOU in Conrad’s pocket and stomped to the truck. “I never,” she muttered.

  “I think it’s against the law to leave without paying, ma’am.”

  “Call the police!” she shouted. She got in her truck and drove one block to her bakery.

  “I’ve known Syl Crandall for a hundred years,” Elmer said. “I can’t imagine what you said to her to get her that riled, but I’m guessing it was pretty bad.”

  “Look, you buy gas, you pay for the gas. How hard is this?”

  Jim put a hand on Elmer’s shoulder from behind. “Let’s go talk to Sam.”

  “Yeah! You go talk to Sam! He’ll tell you! I’m running the station now and when I pump gas I get paid for the gas!”

  “You’ll sell a lot more gas with honey than vinegar,” Elmer said.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Never mind.” Shaking his head, Elmer got back in the truck. “What in the blazes was Sam thinking?”

  It became evident very quickly when Elmer and Jim found the house down the block from the Mull’s. There were only a couple of glass windows in front; the rest had been covered with boards. There was a curl of smoke coming from the chimney. It was a poor little place, but something about that swirl of smoke warmed it up considerably.

  Just as the men would have knocked on the door, it opened. Jurea let out a small gasp of surprise, which immediately grew into a smile when she recognized Elmer. “Oh, Doc Hudson, you gave me a start.” In her arms she held a wicker basket full of clothes that appeared to need laundering.

  “Morning, Jurea. I don’t guess you know June’s…June’s…” He turned slightly and looked up at Jim, frowning. Then, without any solution in sight, he smiled back at Jurea. “Jurea Mull, meet Jim Post, the newest newcomer to the valley.”

  Her smile was shy and sweet. Of course. Jim knew instantly who she was. June had been telling him stories of the Mulls and their exodus from the hills since the first week they met. He’d been more than a little curious about her face and the transformation. He had no idea how charming he was when he reached for her hand, though it still grasped the basket. He actually had to pry it loose just a little so he could squeeze it. “Jurea, it’s so nice to meet you. June has told me all about you and your family.”

  Elmer snorted. “Humph. Well, at least you and my daughter seemed to take some time for talking. Sam here?”

  “Sure, he is. Come in, but mind that door. This old house is so full of holes we can’t hardly keep the wind out, and there’s little ones in here.”

  There, in the corner of the living room by the wood stove, sat a young woman in a wooden rocker holding a bundle that was surely a newborn. There was a rug on the floor, and while bare in spots, it at least served to keep a bit of warmth between two little girls and their game of blocks. And not far away, kneeling to repair a floorboard with a warped and ragged edge, was Sam. The scene had such a look of domesticity, it appeared almost the natural order of things.

  “Hey, there. The calvary,” Sam tossed over his shoulder.

  Elmer walked over to him, put a hand on his shoulder and said in a near whisper, “Sam, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  Sam sat back on his heels. Just a few feet away Erline Davis sat with the baby, her little girls playing contentedly at her feet. In this setting, as opposed to the front seat of a truck in the throes of labor, she had a pretty and peaceful look. And she looked far too young to be the mother to this many children.

  “Winter’s on us,” Sam said. “Up to now, Erline and the little ones were in a shelter and before that they camped.”

  Elmer sighed, thinking of what Conrad was pulling down at the gas station. Sam would have to get him out of there or be robbed blind. “Well, Sam, I guess it’s true what they say. No good turn shall go unpunished.”

  Jim hadn’t intended to head up a town project, but he could sense that this was some kind of beginning. With the Davis children so young and vulnerable, the place they were staying had to be shored up and safe, even if it was only one room. Central heat was out of the question, but the fireplace and wood stove made the small living room warm. There weren’t any appliances, but the electrical work was serviceable, and in the old pickup were some cooking pans, dishes and a hot plate.

  Jurea wasted no time in taking Erline under her wing and showing her how to make do in a house that offered little in the way of luxury. Elmer left a message for Corsica Rios, a social worker from Family and Children Services, who would see that the Davis’s got a little help with food and clothing.

  While getting them taken care of, the men couldn’t help but see that Jurea and her family could use a little fixing up, too—what with Clarence in the hospital. Afterwards, while having lunch at the café and talking about these chores, George interrupted them. “I’d be glad to do my part to help out at the Forrests’ if you’d lend a hand this weekend out at the Cravens’. Leah’s my waitress and her sixteen-year-old son Frank washes dishes. It’s just her and the five kids. They keep up pretty good, but with the cold weather on us, it wouldn’t hurt to make sure they’re all set for the winter.”

  Harry said, “I’m not much of a carpenter, but I can tote and carry with the best of them.”

  “Before we can do anything at all, we have to take a look at what we’re taking on. We’re going to have to go out by the Forrest house and take inventory.”

  Hal Wassich was having a hot cup of coffee with his son Hank and a couple of the locals when he heard the name come up in conversation the first time, so he paid better attention to what was being said. Then he wandered over to the counter where the men sat. “D
id I hear you say you’re going over to the Forrest house to lend a hand?” he asked.

  They turned and looked at the grisly old farmer. Elmer jumped in surprise when he saw the bright pink scar running down his forehead. “Lord, man, you really whacked your noggin.”

  “Hit a six-point buck, that’s what. Chris Forrest was getting a ride with the chief that morning and he taped me up as best he could. He never said anything about needing a hand. He should’ve known he could count on my family.”

  “Seems he’s gotten shy about his needs,” Sam said. “Since his boys gave the town such a lot of trouble before that accident.”

  “He’s got two banged-up teenagers in hospital beds in his living room, and that house he bought was a fixer-upper. I don’t think he’s even got the kitchen sink working yet, not to mention carpets on the floor. And June said they’ve strung curtains across bedroom and bathroom doors.”

  “Rumor is the best help they have these days is Judge—and you know what a pleasant sort he must be to work with.”

  Hal whistled. “We better get on out there and see what’s what. Hank?”

  “Yeah, Pa?” he answered from across the café.

  “Finish your coffee, son. We got something come up.”

  About an hour later, Nancy Forrest answered knocking at her door. There, on her rickety porch, stood an impressive gathering of men who’d come in a half-dozen trucks. There was Jim and Elmer, Harry and Sam, Hal and Hank Wassich, George Fuller and his son. A few others had joined them before they left the café—Standard Roberts, whose flower fields would be too wet right now to keep him real busy; Lincoln Toopeek, who was semiretired, anyway; Ray Gilmore, who was found at the bakery and joined in; then, at the fork in the road, they happened upon Bud Burnham, who’d do anything for a little time away from his wife, Charlotte.

  “Hi, I’m Jim Post. I’m June’s…June’s…Well, no one’s really been able to figure that one out yet.” There were a few chuckles among the men, but not Elmer. “Someone said you and Chris might need a hand out here. Some fixing up? Some carpentry? Some plumbing? And we have specialists in trash hauling, polishing, waxing, washing and whatever it is you need done.”

  Nancy put both her hands over her startled mouth and began to cry.

  Eight

  Even if the wintery temperatures were not cold enough to give the river watchers peace of mind, it was at least cold enough to make June’s layers of clothing seem natural. Only Jim knew that she could no longer zip her slacks closed. She covered the evidence with a long T-shirt, and over that a baggy sweater that reached below her hips.

  Susan gave her a sidelong appraisal. “Are you ever going to graduate into actual maternity clothes?” she asked.

  Every morning when she rose and dressed for the day, when all of her clothes, from bra to boots, felt more snug, she would realize how fast time was fleeing. While Jim was busy helping all over town, while cold and flu season was in full swing, while the bleakness of winter deepened toward Thanksgiving, June grew.

  “Are you concerned?” June asked her nurse.

  “Actually, yes. See, there comes a point at which your unzipped pants won’t stay up, and at the worst possible moment, you find them around your ankles. I’ve been there.”

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t only Jim who knew.

  “Even if I had the time, I wouldn’t know where to look,” June admitted.

  “Never fear,” Susan said. “I’ll get catalogs. And your aunt Myrna called. She wondered if you might have time to run by Hudson House. She’d be happy to give you lunch.”

  June wasn’t taking any more chances. “Call her back and tell her I’ll bring lunch. At about twelve-thirty.”

  Not only did June grow, she grew ever more hungry. The nausea of early pregnancy was replaced by ravenous hunger. She called George at the café and asked him to make a foot-long submarine sandwich with everything. Aunt Myrna might eat a fourth of it, if she were starving. She stopped at Crandall’s bakery and picked up four double-chocolate-fudge brownies—the large size. One for her, one for Myrna and one for each of the twins. Unless someone didn’t want theirs…

  It was just a tish past twelve-thirty when she arrived to find Myrna waiting impatiently for her. “Thank goodness you’re here. I thought I might have to drive in to the clinic to have a word with you. I can’t remember when I’ve asked anyone for advice, but June—he’s coming.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Coming! Edward Mortimer! He’s traveling to Grace Valley to see me. After all these years of letters, without so much as a phone call between us, he’s coming! What in the world am I going to do with him?”

  June still stood in the foyer. “My goodness. When?”

  “Thanksgiving.” She said it in a panicked whisper. “Thanksgiving,” she repeated.

  “Myrna, we have at least a couple of weeks. Do you suppose we could have lunch?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t eat a thing,” she said, whirling away from June. “Come to the kitchen then, you can eat.”

  When they were settled in the breakfast nook, June spread her picnic out on the table. She fetched a knife and two plates, cut a piece of the sandwich off and put it before Myrna despite the fact that the older woman waved her away impatiently. Secretly, June hoped Myrna wouldn’t eat it. She was famished. But before digging into her much larger portion, she asked, “Just why are you so frazzled? I thought you wanted to meet him in person.”

  “I have always wished for him to visit. I even attempted to meet him in Fresno years and years ago. You must understand, dear, we’ve been writing each other letters for many years. On one hand, we’re the best of friends. But on the other, were complete strangers….” Her voice drifted off wistfully.

  “How did all this start, Myrna?”

  “Edward was a true aficionado of my work,” Myrna went on. “I think he knew more about some of my plots than I did.”

  “How sweet,” June said, between chews.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Back then, before we all worked on computers, a lot of us would write letters. I used it as a means of warming up for the day. It was every bit as creative an art as our novel writing or poetry. And I spared no talent in my gift of entertaining. I ranted and raved and carried on about Morton once and Edward wrote me back that my letter set him ablaze, it read with such passion and rage. He asked me if I’d ever considered killing him off in a book.”

  “So it was Edward’s idea,” June said.

  “Oh, I guess it was,” Myrna said. “But I was this close to thinking of it myself.”

  While June ate her generous lunch, Myrna unfolded a story of friendship that went back almost twenty years. Edward encouraged the idea of her notorious husband-killing books, and on occasion read and critiqued her manuscripts, as well. He was the only one to do that, according to Myrna. No other friend or fellow writer saw her work before her editor. Not only was this pen pal lurking behind Myrna’s career, always supportive and at times actually helping, but Myrna was also acting as mentor to Edward who, after retirement, was finally getting an opportunity to write.

  He’d worked in a ho-hum job, he said, bringing in just enough money to get by. He hadn’t been necessarily unhappy, thanks to books and friends and travel, but he hadn’t been fulfilled. Then finally, in his senior years, came his opportunity to write some of the history he’d studied as a hobby all his life. An avowed bachelor in his sixties, he came late to the profession, but published his first nonfiction book a few years after his first contact with Myrna.

  “He’s a very talented writer, but I still like to think my assistance had something to do with him finishing that first book and getting it published. I read the manuscript several times, giving him editorial advice and correcting errors. I even championed him to my editor! He didn’t buy Edward’s book, but still… When you think about it, I suppose I was only doing for him what he’d done for me. I think we relied on each other for about twenty-five or maybe thirty books, between us.”

 
“Who knew you had this mystery man in your life, keeping your prose tight and your plots grisly!”

  “As I said, I’ve been in touch with lots of writers over the years. This one, though, this one emerged as special. He’s been with me a long, long time.”

  “Then why are you so nervous? Meeting him should be a wonderful experience. And what better time than Thanksgiving?” June covered her mouth as a small burp escaped. “We’ll cook, however. Dad and I and Jim.” It was just then that she looked around the kitchen and realized that neither Barstow twin had made an appearance. “Where are the twins?”

  “I couldn’t have them around to eavesdrop on this long, drawn-out story. I sent Amelia home when I received Edward’s letter.”

  June’s eyes lit up at the mere thought that no Barstows would be sharing the brownies. She opened the white bakery package slowly, almost reverently. “What is it you think I can do to help, Auntie?”

  Myrna leaned toward June. “First, don’t even mention this to your father. I’ll tell him when I have it figured out. Second, what am I going to do with him, June? I can’t have him here!”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Besides the Barstows getting underfoot, what if I don’t like him so much in person? What if he doesn’t like me?”

  “That’s not probable, now, is it?”

  “Well, June, we come across quite differently in letters than we do in the flesh. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Possibly true, but we also get to know each other much better by revealing our personalities in letter after letter. I imagine that’s why all these people fall in love in chat rooms on the Internet.”

  “Exactly!” she said. “Then they meet and find out they’ve been misled!”

  “Myrna,” June began suspiciously. “Have you misled Edward somehow?” She half expected her aunt to say she’d lied about her age or something. But Myrna was vigorously shaking her head. Her aunt was notoriously honest.

  “What if he finds me…eccentric?”

  June’s laugh was so sudden and loud, there was no hope of concealing it as a cough or sneeze. Myrna frowned. “Now, Auntie,” she said. “You can’t expect miracles.”