Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

  “Yes, he spoke of the opportunity.” I tried to reassert my words. “He was set to come home as soon as he earned some extra money.”

  “Perhaps.” The sheriff pulled his kerchief from his rear pocket and wiped it across his forehead. “Word is, he got mixed up in a bar brawl after another night of drinking.”

  A clear memory pierced my mind of the last time I saw Tuck after a night of drinking and fighting.

  “He made a poor choice and went at another drunk with a knife. Shot straight in the chest. Died on the spot.” Sheriff Murphy twirled his hat in his hands. “Sorry to be delivering such awful news. Wish I could say something different. Don’t even have his body to properly bury. Seems he was placed in the miners’ communal grave, being he had no family there to speak of.”

  I tried to shout the words that spiraled in my head. It isn’t true! My husband isn’t dead! But all I could feel were my legs giving way, my head swirling, and the sound of shattering glass.

  CHAPTER 8

  Daniel ~ Assignment, September 3, 1893

  “We’re heading West, my friend.” Finn removed his bowler, unleashing dark red curls. He slapped the hat on his leg, raised his arms above his head, and twirled in a circle across my wooden floor. I could only imagine it was a form of a Scottish dance, erupting from his boyhood days in the Lowlands.

  “And don’t you ever knock?” I turned, paintbrush in hand, and smiled at the young man who seemed to feel it his job to try to narrow the decade between us.

  “McKelvey is sending us to the Oklahoma Territory.” He spun again, this time adding a sidekick and nearly crashing into my easel and canvas.

  “For heaven’s sake, Finn. Would you settle down and let me get some work done?” I turned toward my painting and contemplated the next color.

  “Don’t you want to know why we’re going?” He pulled up a stool and positioned himself adjacent to the large canvas.

  “I already know.” My eyes stayed focused on the penciled lines, sketched out late last night when sleep eluded me again. “Talked with McKelvey a few days back.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Finn crossed his legs and rested an elbow on his knee. “You wanted me to keep dancing for you, eh?”

  I cocked my head toward my young friend and studied him. “Hardly, and Mrs. Williamson on the level beneath us is certainly glad you stopped.” I lifted my palette and swirled a mixture of dark umber and olive green. “Told him I’m not going.”

  “Of course you are. You can’t expect me to go without you.” Finn scooted the stool closer. “We’ll be right there while history is being made. Can you imagine? They predict thousands of people will line up to race for plots of land on the wide-open plains. I’ll take the photos, and you’ll make your drawings. Folks back here have never seen such a thing.” Finn was nearly bouncing on the stool as though racing along on an imaginary horse. “Documenting this event could make us famous, Daniel.”

  “You’ll be fine without me.” I wiped a corner of the canvas with my finger, leaving a black smudge. “Besides, there’s plenty of news to cover right here.”

  “Why are you always using those dark paints? Why not add a bit of life?” Finn stood and eyed the painting closely. It wasn’t completed, but the trees along the grayish-green river were bare. The bent and gnarled dark-brown branches had lost their leaves in anticipation of winter, and a dreary fog was settling over the landscape.

  I stepped back a few paces to view my work. “Because ...” I hesitated, fumbling for words. “There’s no ...” My head bowed in defeat.

  “Life left in you?” Finn finished what I didn’t want to admit.

  “Is it that obvious?” Studying my palette, my eyes were met with the dark blends of browns, greens, and shades of gray mingled together—a muddy conglomeration. I eyed Finn. “Have I really become so lugubrious?”

  Finn raised his eyebrows. “Not sure about that description since I’ve never heard the crazy word.”

  “Means sad, gloomy, dismal—”

  “Okay, got it. He picked up a tube of cerulean blue. “How about this color? Folks say the sky out west is a blue like you’ve never seen.” He tossed it aside and picked up alizarin crimson and cobalt violet. “And the sunsets and sunrises stretch for miles across the horizon.”

  My forehead pounded with another unwelcome headache. “As usual, you’re only trying to help, but things can’t change.” I pulled a rag from my pocket and rubbed at my paint-stained hands. Darkened creases accentuated the lines on my palms and fingertips, and from somewhere back in my high school days, Lady MacBeth’s words echoed in my mind, Out damn’d spot! Out, I say!

  “Daniel.” Finn’s voice was abrupt, no longer having fun with the assortment of paint names. “Listen to me.” He stepped toward me and snatched the rag from my hands.

  I stared at him, not sure what to make of his sudden change in demeanor.

  “You didn’t kill that boy.” He laid his hand on my chest and our eyes locked. “It was an accident.”

  Like a deluge of rain, the images raced back into my mind, vivid as the day it happened four and a half years ago. The Boston City Stables, a large brick building on Highland Street, filled with several tons of hay, hundreds of bushels of grain, and stalls filled with snorting and screeching horses, was ablaze in the middle of the day.

  As if still standing on the grassy rise just to the west of the building with sketchbook and charcoal pencil in hand, my mind replayed what I had witnessed. The three-story building erupting with shattered glass falling from the windows, followed by belching, black smoke. The slate roof groaned under its own weight as the interior support beams gave way and sections of the roof crashed mercilessly to the floor below.

  In the dim light of my apartment, I squinted into Finn’s eyes, desperately hoping it had all been a nightmare—the horrific images, the stench of blackened smoke, the deafening sounds, and even the heat lashing out at my face from the inferno ... taunting me to keep enough distance to save myself from being consumed as well. One last time, I willed myself to believe there was a God who could take all of it—the images, the sounds, the smells, and the guilt—and bury them where they belonged. In the depths of hell.

  “Daniel?”

  It was as though my body had been temporarily knocked from the safe vantage point from which I witnessed the event. Now, my eyes watered as they did that day. But unlike the soot and heat that stung my eyes, my eyes were wet for another reason. Tears poured from somewhere deep in my soul, and, without invitation, they invaded my heart with ruthless intrusion.

  “I saw him.” My heart sank, and the tears came with a vengeance. “Watched him go back in ...” I gasped for air as my chest heaved, “to get the last horses.”

  “Daniel, listen to me.” Finn grasped my arm, giving me a quick shake.

  “No! Don’t you see?” My hand pushed at him, causing him to stumble. “I watched it happen from a safe place—taking it in, observing the entire scene—just as a journalist is trained to do.” My face contorted at the reality of my cowardice. “I could have thrown my paper and pencil to the ground and ran in after the boy, helped him get the horses, helped him—”

  “But the firemen were there. They—”

  I shook my head at Finn, though actually ashamed of myself. “I’ll never forgive myself for letting that boy die. All the horses got out alive because of him and some other brave men.” Exhausted, I steadied myself against the wall and slid down to a crouch.

  Finn approached and squatted next to me. The silence lasted several minutes. Then he barely whispered, “God knows I’m glad I wasn’t there that day to see the same.” He paused and drew in a deep breath. “But there has to be some forgiving of yourself or you might as well just lie down and die.”

  A guttural sound rose from my throat as though my subconscious agonized at my demise. “My friend, I believe I already have.”

  “Forgiven yourself?” He turned toward me.

  “No, died.”


  *****

  Neither of us had more to say. We sat on the hardwood floor, stretched our legs straight, and leaned our heads on the cool plaster wall. Moments later, like an antsy child, Finn began to whistle as he often did while he worked. Then he jumped to his feet, walked across the room with boots clomping, and rummaged through the paints on my supply table. This strange act continued until several tubes fell onto the floor.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” I pushed onto my knees and stood as a jar of brushes toppled over. “Knock it off. Don’t touch anything.” I stomped toward my easel.

  “Catch.”

  Just in time, my hand reached into the air and caught a tube of paint.

  “Nice catch. It could have clobbered you in the head.” Finn laughed like he found my discomfort amusing. “But maybe that’s what you need.”

  “You’re acting like a fool.” I rolled the tube over in my hand and read the label: Windsor Newton—Cadmium Yellow. “Throwing paint at me, are you?”

  “No, just passing on the new color of the day, my friend.” Finn snatched his hat from the chair. “You’d better stock up on that one. I hear there’s plenty of sunshine where we’re heading.” He walked toward the door and turned the knob. “And get busy packing. McKelvey has us leaving on the train within the week.” Finn opened the door and disappeared into the dark hallway.

  Standing in my dimly lit apartment, Finn’s off-key whistle diminished as he descended the stairs. Surprising myself, I smiled and went in search of a suitcase.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mary ~ Swept, September 4, 1893

  The next morning, I awoke in my mother’s bed. She was asleep in her floral reading chair—her slippered feet propped on the ottoman—snoring lightly like a purring cat.

  Pushing myself upright caused a sharp pain to pulse in my shoulder. Ignoring the pain, I edged out of bed and landed softly on the floorboards so as not to wake Mother.

  My clothes hung over the back of the chair in front of the vanity, and at the sight of my reflection in the mirror, I gasped. My hair was tangled and disheveled, and my left eye was slightly purple and swollen near the corner. What in the world happened?

  Flashes of memory came racing back—of my legs giving way and the realization that I couldn’t catch myself with both hands holding the plate of muffins and drinking glass. My left shoulder must have taken the brunt of the fall, followed by my face bumping against a chair, or perhaps the table. Strong arms—arms that must have belonged to Sheriff Murphy—carried me to Mother’s bed. Then there was that voice that caused me to shudder.

  “She’ll be fine, Louisa. Put a cool cloth on her eye and let her rest.” The voice and heavy breathing came from the edge of the bed. The scent of leather mixed with earth wafted from his body—the scent of a man who spent most of his days outside, and often upon a horse. “There’s no need to call the doctor.”

  “All of this has been too much for her,” Mother said. “She’s always been a strong girl, but having him leave like that, and then hearing the news ...”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s hard news to share with a woman left alone to raise a son by herself.” The sheriff’s voice was low, but I could still hear every piercing word. “If I may be so bold as to say that her fool of a husband made the worst decision of his life by leaving your amazing daughter. Bad enough it cost him his life.” Heavy footsteps came closer to the bed. “I’ll be by in the morning to check on the two of you. It may be high time Mary has some help once she realizes the state of her life.”

  His warm hand brushed across my forehead, but a chill raced through my pounding head.

  I don’t need anyone’s help, especially from you, I wanted to shout, but the darkness of the night slipped into the house and blanketed me with only fitful dreams of Tuck grabbing his chest as I tried to scream his name.

  *****

  As I stared into the mirror, my fingers tingled, and my legs shook. My entire body felt numb—all except my aching heart. Was Tuck really dead? Wasn’t it all a horrible nightmare? As though confirming my greatest fear, tears of sadness and disbelief trickled down my cheeks.

  With weak arms, I adjusted my dress over my undergarments and wondered how it had been removed last night. Mother was slight, and her sixty-plus years were beginning to show. She was still asleep in the worn and sunken chair, curled like an animal in a favorite resting spot. Had I been dealt the same uncertain and tragic plight as my mother?

  No doubt, she was a strong woman—a survivor who had been abandoned by her hard-drinking and abusive husband. My father left when I was sixteen. Mother had done the unthinkable and divorced him after having eleven children, me being the sixth, to raise me and my five younger sisters and brothers back in Stockton, Ohio. My older siblings had found wives and husbands and moved on to new locations. John, my oldest brother, even went on to practice law back East while I helped Mother with the little ones and tended our small farm.

  Looking back, my life had been held at bay for the sacrifice needed to help my mother. Suspended in the middle between the older siblings who were free to make their way, and the younger ones who needed both their mother and me, we became a team, strengthened by a love unique to a mother and daughter trying to navigate the difficulties of life.

  Tragically, the youngest two, Albert and Anna, died of pneumonia in the winter of 1880. They were laid to rest in Stockton before Mother and I, and the remaining three children, moved to Adair. Two years later, a handsome young man from a neighboring farm caught my eye at the monthly social. On a crisp, autumn day, Tuck and I were married. After some time, my remaining younger siblings grew up, married, and moved to other Midwest towns. Mother managed well on her own, though I still offered help whenever needed. Even with a sore back and aching feet, her job at the general store, inventorying, selling, and taking care of the locals’ needs kept her sharp and feeling appreciated.

  “Oh, Mother.” I placed a blanket over her arms. “You never wished for my life to be difficult like yours.” My lips brushed her wrinkled forehead, and then I spun around in a panic. “Where is Wesley?” I started for the bedroom door.

  “He’s fine, dear.” Mother waved a limp hand as though dismissing my fear. “He slept on the sofa last night. Wanted to be with you, but I told him you needed to rest well through the night, and his kicking and hogging the bed wouldn’t make that possible.”

  “Does he know about his father?” My lips pursed in anticipation of her answer.

  Mother shook her head. “It’s best for you to tell him.” She rubbed her hands together. “I told him you got overheated from the weather. Said we ladies get a little too hot sometimes. That’s all.”

  “I’m going to go wake him and get us on home.”

  Mother slid her feet off the ottoman and pushed the blanket aside. “He got up early to go fishing. Sheriff Murphy came by before seven to check on you. Figured since you were still sleeping, he’d take the boy to the river to catch some trout.”

  My jaw dropped. When I found the words, it was better not to tell my mother what was on my mind. After grabbing my hat, I ran out the front door and jumped off the porch, not bothering with the three steps.

  *****

  After a few minutes of running as fast as I could manage in a long skirt, I reached the river. A scan of the bank showed no sight of the sheriff or Wesley. Sweat stung the cut near my eye. My head pounded, and my shoulder throbbed. I cradled my arm next to my body to calm the pain.

  The river meandered and gurgled now that summer had passed. It appeared only knee-deep in most places. The bushes and pines were thick along the bank, and it was impossible to see past the first bend. The best vantage point to look both east and west along the waterway would be to wade into the middle. Finding a grassy spot, my shoes were quickly unlaced and tugged off along with my stockings. The cool grass felt good on my bare feet, reminding me of earlier years when Tuck would take my hand, and we’d sneak away from town and swim in the deep waters where the river
ran through the canyon walls.

  Pushing the memory from my mind, I hiked my dress around my knees. The first step sent a shiver up my leg, and the sandy bottom squished between my toes. Another step welcomed the water gently swirling around my calves, inviting me to play in its presence. It was a strange sensation. Part of me was determined to find Wesley and put an end to his fishing interlude with the man who was clearly not his father as quickly as possible. Yet at the same time, the water was bathing me—cleansing me of my fear and worry. After wading three steps further and lifting my dress around my waist, the water splashed and hopped like a child released from school on the first day of summer.

  Like a dry dishrag, the hem of my clothing dipped and absorbed the water, taking on an awkward weight. I tucked my right arm under its layers and lifted the pale blue fabric above the water, determined to free myself from the burden.

  Nearly to the middle of the river, a sense of lightness washed over me—a release from the darkness that had invaded our home. With my eyes closed and my head tilted back, the sun warmed my face as the gurgling water whispered my name.

  My foot stepped where the smooth rocks became dislodged and left a divot in the river bottom. Suddenly, the water pulsed against my waist. It encircled me and propelled my body forward as though ensnared in a crowd. Unable to hold my dress higher, the cloth drank the water—parched and greedy like the scorched dirt road running out of town. Losing my balance, I let go of the petticoat and extended my arms to steady myself. Like a rock, all the bulky material dropped into the water and encircled my legs, tripping and dragging me into the river. The sandy bottom, mixed with rocks and sticks, brushed against my hands, making it impossible to reorient myself.

  The strong current pulled my feet out from under me. No longer able to stand, my head bobbed under the surface. My hair fell loose from its bun and tangled around my mouth and eyes. Up became down. Down became up. My instincts knew the river was fairly calm and should allow me to simply force my legs downward. Then my feet could plant themselves and stand, finding myself in only waist or chest-high water. But the tangle of my clothing, like an anchor securing a ship, defeated my attempts to be free. The chance of stopping myself from floating further downstream was only temporary.