But Norman made one more appearance at the family home.
Harold always worked late on Saturdays. It was payday at the mill and the farmers of the area came in to conduct their business on that day. On that particular evening, Harold had gone from cage to cage, checking the proceedings and helping with any problems in the handling of customers and their accounts. From time to time, he was called into Mr. Brucker’s office to tend to various points of business that kept popping up. It wasn’t until seven o’clock that the last customer was dealt with. That meant Harold didn’t get out of the building until after eight. He had to make his inspections and write up the daily balances to be put on Brucker’s desk so the bank president could see them first thing Monday morning.
When Harold walked across the bridge into the East Side that evening, he was tired, hungry, and cross. His mood plummeted further when he walked through the door and found his mother sitting on the sofa weeping.
Norman, weaving slightly, stood in the middle of the living room. He glanced over at Harold’s entrance, then turned his attention back to his wife. “I got the law on my side, Elaine,” he slurred. “So there’s no sense in arguing ’bout it.”
“What’s the matter?” Harold asked.
Elaine was crying so hard she could do no more than shake her head to indicate that Norman was causing a problem.
“Gimme the money,” Norman said. He turned, stumbling a bit, and looked at Harold. “I got a bus’ness deal going and I come home to get the finances I need.”
“Mother doesn’t handle the money,” Harold said coldly. “I do.”
Norman squinted and stared at his son. “Well! Bless my soul, maybe you do, boy.” He grinned and staggered over, throwing an arm around Harold’s bony shoulders. “How’d ya like to ’vest some o’ ’at money, boy? I got a real good bus’ness arrangement with a fellow up at Haverhill.”
“What sort of business?” Harold asked.
Elaine was finally able to speak. “Don’t listen to him, Harold! You’ve worked too hard—”
“Shut up!” Norman bellowed. He looked back at Harold. “A man’s got to keep women in their places, huh? Haw! Huh? We got to do that, boy.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a pint bottle. After tipping it up and finishing it, he tossed it on the sofa. “Speaking of investing, it looks like I gotta put some money into another o’ them whiskeys, huh?” He laughed again. “I’m going back into the merchandising business. I’m gonna open a store with a fellow up in Haverhill.”
Harold felt cold rage. “I’m not giving you any money.”
“Goddamn! You’re my son,” Norman said. “This here’s a business deal—with a fellow up in Haverhill.”
“You ran the store here into the ground,” Harold said. “I certainly cannot imagine you doing any better in the future.”
“Hey! You just hold up there, boy!”
“Get out of here,” Harold said.
“What?”
“The family money is mostly mine. Mother has agreed that I have all the say in how it is handled.” Harold’s anger, like all his emotions, was controlled. “I said get out of here. You’re nothing but grief. We don’t want you coming around anymore.”
“Why, goddamn!” Norman’s anger welled up. He drew back his hand and slapped Harold hard across the face. “Don’t talk t’ me like ’at. I’m your father.” Harold rubbed his face and bent down to pick up the glasses that had fallen off. He stood up and looked at his father, saying nothing.
Norman glared at him; then his gaze softened. The drunkard swung his eyes to his wife, then back to his son. He started to sober up so fast, with realization of what he’d done, that it was almost visible. Then he started to weep. “I’m sorry, Harold. I’m—” He looked at his wife. “I’m sorry, Elaine. God above, what am I doing? I shouldn’t have come back here and bothered you. I don’t know what made me do it.” He went to the door and stopped, turning back to his family. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I wish I knew.” He shrugged. “But I don’t know; I just am. And I’m sorry as hell. I won’t be back. I promise.” He lurched through the door and clomped across the porch on down to the sidewalk.
They never saw him again.
Harold worked in the bank for nine years. His life revolved around the sixty-hour weeks he put in on his job. His only diversion was renting a buggy on Sundays and taking his mother for a ride after Mass. Elaine appreciated Harold’s attention and the way his hard work had improved their lives, but she was a practical woman and knew that she hampered his life. Elaine wanted Harold to find a nice girl and settle down to raise a family. She realized he would be sorely pressed to do so as long as she lived with him. Being an unselfish woman, when she had a chance to leave, she did just that.
Her sister Madelyn, who lived in Brockton, had married quite well; her husband ran a cartage company in the city. A much older man, he had had a stroke and died several weeks after the episode of Norman’s final departure. The two sisters had always been close, and when Madelyn asked Elaine to come live with her, she didn’t hesitate. Harold argued with his mother, but there was no changing her mind. Even when he kept badgering her to stay while they stood on the depot platform waiting for the train, Elaine would have none of it.
“That’s enough, Harold,” she said firmly. “I’m going to live with Aunt Madelyn and that’s the end of it.”
He finally relented. “All right, Mother. But I’ll send you money—”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Elaine snapped. “Madelyn has promised I would have no need for it. Besides, since you began to support us, I’ve managed to save up a bit from the music lessons and sewing work, so I should have enough pin money to last me my life.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I want you to start seeing young people your own age, Harold,” Elaine said. “You’re twenty-four years old and have a fine, steady job. You should be thinking of marriage.”
“Mother!”
When the train arrived, Elaine got aboard, but not before eliciting one more time a promise from Harold to start branching his life out from his work at the bank. And once more, Harold promised.
Even portly Erastus Brucker, president of the bank, thought Harold was evolving into a stuffy old man before his time. And he did more than talk about it. One Friday afternoon the blustery but kindly banker called his chief teller into his office for a one-sided conversation.
“Now see here, Harold. You’re getting to be a bit of a wet blanket. We can’t have that, can we? What would this bank’s reputation be if everyone in Drury Falls thought its chief teller was a gloomy Gus? That wouldn’t do. No, sir! That wouldn’t do at all.” Harold, knowing the old man was leading up to something, simply nodded and waited to hear what was going to be said.
“I want you to get out more, Harold. You represent this institution and people have got to know you. Now, there is a soiree over at the Reardons’ home this Saturday. It is being hosted by the daughter, who is about your age, I believe. George Reardon is a great friend of mine and I’ve arranged to have you invited. I want you to go and have a good time. And keep in mind that those young people are future customers with whom you will be dealing someday.”
“Yes, sir,” Harold said.
“George married one of the Grange sisters,” Brucker explained. “So you’ll be meeting the crème de la crème of Drury Falls society, Harold.” Then he added with a wink, “So behave yourself. I’ve been told that several of the young ladies who come in here think you’re a handsome fellow! Don’t break any hearts.” He winked. “That wouldn’t be good for business, either.”
Harold, his face reddening, feared what he might face in an unaccustomed social situation, but he accepted his employer’s instructions as readily as he would have orders dealing with work.
Harold’s fears about feeling awkward and alone were dispelled when he arrived at the party that following Saturday night. Everyone there was his age and, although many of them had attended private scho
ols while he was receiving a public education, he knew most of them through dealings with their families at the bank. The greetings he received were reserved in some quarters, but several of the young people were quite friendly.
Particularly Nancy Reardon.
The young lady, a very pretty honey-blonde with bright blue eyes and a petite figure, was a vivacious and attentive hostess. When she noticed that Harold Devlin had not joined in the dancing, she walked up to him and asked why, in a manner of frank curiosity.
Harold smiled shyly. “I’m afraid, Miss Reardon, that I do not know how to dance.”
“Then I shall teach you, Mr. Devlin,” Nancy said.
“In front of everybody?” he asked with dread.
“And why not? If they don’t like it, then pooh on them!” She took him by the arm before he could offer any further protests, and led him out while a waltz was playing. He stumbled a bit at first, but quickly picked up the rhythm. With Nancy guiding him along, by the time he finished the dance he was performing rather acceptably.
“Well!” he said. “I didn’t know I could do that!”
“You must dance with me more than any of the other girls,” Nancy told him. “You owe me that, Mr. Devlin.” Again leading him, she took him to several of the other young ladies and explained he had just danced for the first time. This led to the other girls also wanting to teach him. Even after old Brucker’s statement, he still didn’t realize that he was the sort considered by women to be rather good-looking. Harold thought they were just showing him some extra kindness.
He had a grand time at the party. When it came time to leave, he made his good-byes with a bold invitation to Nancy to accompany him on a buggy ride.
“We can’t go alone, silly,” she said, smiling. “So you won’t mind if my cousin Philomena Grange comes along, will you?”
“Of course not, Miss Reardon,” he replied, happy she was accepting.
“Then we shall meet you at the ice cream parlor Sunday afternoon at two o’clock,” Nancy promised.
For the first time since he had begun working at the bank, the week seemed to drag by. His job was tedious at times, but Harold’s devotion to his duties was more than enough to keep his usual efficiency at a high level.
The Sunday buggy ride with the two girls was filled with good humor and a lot of laughter. That happy occasion ended with another invitation from Harold.
This time he wished to escort Nancy to a party at the home of his employer Erastus Brucker. Harold’s heart leaped for joy when Nancy accepted.
That week seemed even slower than the first. Now deeply infatuated with the attractive young woman, Harold swore there were extra days thrown into the schedule as time slowed between Monday and Saturday. Closing out the tellers’ books was pure agony, but he managed to finish the task in record time. At six o’ clock he was already at home, bathing and getting dressed for the festive occasion.
When Harold arrived at the Reardon residence, he was met at the door by her father. The young man, gingerly cradling a box of chocolates under his arm, smiled broadly at Mr. Reardon. “Good evening, sir!”
“And a good evening to you, Mr. Devlin,” Reardon said. He stepped out onto the porch, gently took Harold by the arm, and walked with him to one side of the house. “I say, young man, may I have a word with you?”
“Of course, sir,” Harold replied.
“Now listen, Mr. Devlin,” Reardon said when they were standing in the shadows. “You’re a good sort, you know. You have an excellent reputation down at the bank and, by golly, I respect that. I truly do.”
Harold was pleased. “Thank you very much, sir.”
“You know your duties and you perform them admirably,” Reardon went on. “Why, Brucker brags you up constantly. Did you know that?”
“No, sir, I didn’t,” Harold said. “But I’m pleased to hear about it.”
“Of course,” Reardon said. He cleared his throat. “So I know that you are a man of responsibility. And I must ask you to meet another set of obligations.”
“I’d be happy to, sir,” Harold said, becoming a bit puzzled by what seemed to be a rather pointless conversation.
“I’m going to ask a big favor of you, Harold,” Reardon said, using his first name. “I am going to ask you not to take Nancy to the party tonight.”
“Sir?”
“In fact, I am going to ask that you not see her again, Harold,” Reardon said.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Reardon.”
“I just don’t think it would be a good idea if you and my daughter became friendlier,” Reardon said. “There is a great deal of difference in your social standings. I’m afraid that dissimilarity is so great that it cannot be surmounted. You wouldn’t want to create any awkward situations, would you, Harold?” Reardon asked. “Not an intelligent, hardworking fellow like you.”
Harold recognized the contempt and insult hidden in the condescending tone of Reardon’s voice.
“You understand, do you not?”
“Yes, sir,” Harold said softly. “I understand.” He realized, in cold, emotional pain, that Reardon hadn’t wormed his way into the good graces of the Grange family to have his daughter marry the lowly bank teller son of a drunkard.
Harold turned and walked across the porch and down the steps, still carrying the chocolates.
Monday morning Harold reported to the bank and drew out his entire savings. He put most of it into a bank draft that he sent to his mother in Brockton. Then, with a few dollars in his pocket, he went into Mr. Brucker’s office and informed the shocked president that he was resigning his position immediately.
“I say, Harold!” Brucker said. “Is this a joke?”
“No, sir,” Harold answered. “Not in the slightest. I am leaving the bank immediately. I apologize if my departure creates an awkward situation, but I can no longer tolerate my existence in this town.”
“Let’s have a long talk, Harold!” Brucker begged.
“No, sir. I must leave here as quickly as possible. I need time to gather my thoughts and decide which way I wish my life to go. Good-bye, Mr. Brucker. I thank you for all the kindness and confidence you’ve shown me.”
Leaving the sputtering old man at his desk, Harold walked out of the bank and went down the street, where he immediately enlisted in the army.
He wanted to forget everything—Drury Falls, his father, the bank, and most of all Nancy Reardon.
The army sent Harold to the David’s Island, New York, recruit depot. He endured the usual bullying from the drill sergeant and fleecing by the sutler and post tailor. Bitter and quiet, he kept to himself, not offering friendship nor seeking any. After a few weeks he and the others were given orders transferring them to an infantry regiment at Fort Keogh in the Montana Territory.
They traveled by train in a primitive car. The benches were hard and scarred by levees of previous recruits who had used the vehicle. A barrel of tepid water, with but one ladle, stood at one end of the conveyance. The trip wasn’t so bad until they reached Cincinnati, Ohio. There recruits sent down from Columbus Barracks joined them. From that point on, the trip was uncomfortable and so crowded that the soldiers had to take turns using the benches. Meals were no more than stale bread and coffee as they rolled slowly westward.
The one bright spot was when Harold met a younger soldier who bubbled with enthusiasm. He was an Ohio farm boy named Tommy Saxon. Harold’s bad humor eased up a bit in conversations with the light-hearted and merry youngster who looked on the miserable journey as a fantastic adventure.
The train trip ended at Fort Meade, Dakota Territory. Here the neophyte soldiers disembarked and were met by an officer and two sergeants from Fort Keogh. Herded together after a quick feed of salt pork and hardtack, they hiked overland to the Powder River. At that point the best part of the entire trip took place. They boarded a roomy steamboat and traveled the rest of the way to Fort Keogh aboard the airy vessel.
The arrival at their destination was the herald
of busy days ahead. Several of the new men, Harold and Tommy Saxon included, were assigned to Captain Riker’s L Company. After being issued rifles and field gear, they went through four weeks of detailed training. Following that, their outfit was put on detached duty and assigned to be part of Brigadier General James Leighton’s expeditionary force into the Sioux country.
They then began a march south along the Powder River on a hike that led them down into Wyoming Territory. Now, a bit more than a month later, the young infantrymen, separated from their main command and on foot in a territory under the complete control of hostile Indians, bivouacked where the Crazy Woman River flows into the Powder.
As Harold asked himself when he went on guard duty that evening, “What have I gotten myself into?”
Chapter Eight – The Return
Captain Charles Riker and Lieutenant Fred Worthington stood together sipping their coffee while viewing the early morning scene of the bivouac. A slight mist rose off the river and drifted through the trees. The sky was overcast, giving an impression of grayness to the scene. Even the men’s voices and the banging of rifles and equipment seemed muted.
Pickets on the alert had been positioned out on all sides while the other troops boiled their coffee and hardtack. Sergeant Robertson was a distance away, having some word or two with Mulligan the thief. The senior noncommissioned officer emphasized whatever he was saying with sharp jabs of his finger into the soldier’s shoulder.
Worthington chuckled deeply in his throat. “I don’t think Mulligan is going to be returning on his feet. From the way Sergeant Robertson is riding him, he’ll be lucky if he can crawl back into the main camp.” Captain Charles Riker was not amused. Sometimes he thought the lieutenant got some sort of pleasure when he witnessed some enlisted man’s discomfort. “I told him to back off a bit. The man won’t be worth a damn in a battle if he’s exhausted to the point of collapsing.”
Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4) Page 9