Pecos Valley Revival

by Alice Duncan

  Since I didn’t want to eat alone, I stepped out of the line, saying as I did so, “I’d better wait for Phil.”

  The preacher nodded and moved forward a pace. Esther either didn’t hear me or pretended not to. With that same vacant smile on her face and a plate in her hand, she followed her brother.

  I don’t care what anybody says, I thought the woman was strange.

  It didn’t take Phil long to run to his house, grab a jacket, and head on back out to the food line. When I saw which jacket he’d deemed appropriate for his pending fiancée to wear at a potluck supper, I grinned to myself.

  “I got you the warmest one I could find,” he said, panting to a stop before me.

  “Thanks, Phil.” And I stuffed my arms into a sheepskin-lined corduroy jacket, the sleeves of which reached way past my fingertips. Phil rolled them up to my wrists for me. The jacket itself came down to my knees. No doubt about it: I’d be warm for the rest of the evening. And so what if the jacket didn’t match my dress? I felt like a newly crowned princess.

  So Phil and I got back into line, at the end of it this time. It didn’t matter. People in Rosedale don’t believe in skimping, and there was plenty of food left, including a last couple of spoonfuls of my mother’s pea salad. I shared them with Phil, which goes to show my state of mind by that time. I was willing to concede undying love to Phil Gunderson and even share the last of my mother’s pea salad, as long as we both got to see a little of the world before we recited the matrimonial vows.

  Since clouds had rolled in, obliterating the stars, and it was dark as the inside of a cave, most of us took our plates back to the fire circle so we could see what we were eating. Phil and I sat beside Myrtle and Sonny again, and this time Zilpha and her husband Mayberry joined us, too. As Phil and Mayberry started talking about saddles, Zilpha said, “What did you get Hannah for her birthday, Annabelle?”

  “I embroidered a scarf for her.”

  “That’s nice.”

  I sensed an air of suppressed excitement in my sister that evening. Eyeing her critically as I munched a bite of Mrs. Gilchrest’s smoked brisket (which wasn’t as good as Miss Libby’s, although I’d never tell her that, and it was pretty darned good), I swallowed, then said, “What is it, Zilpha? You look like the cat that’s swallowed the canary.”

  “I do?” Zilpha made an attempt to appear sober and serious, but her eyes still danced.

  “Yes,” I said firmly, “you do. What’s up?”

  She put her fork down and laid a hand on my arm. “Annabelle,” she whispered, “if I tell you, you have to promise that you won’t tell another soul.”

  Oh, yeah? This was odd. It wasn’t like Zilpha to keep secrets. “Okay. I guess I can promise. Unless you tell me you’re the murderer.” I’d meant it as a joke, but it was a bad one and inappropriate.

  She shook her head. “Of course, I’m not, but that’s the reason I don’t want you blabbing. I don’t want you to tell anyone else because this is supposed to be a solemn occasion, and I don’t want to spoil it. And anyhow, if anybody should be celebrating in spite of the occasion, it’s Hannah, because her birthday’s tomorrow.”

  Hmm. How could one spoil a solemn occasion? By laughing uproariously, I guess, but I doubted Zilpha’s secret involved comedy. “Okay. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

  “You can tell Ma and Pa after you get home.”

  This concession to the no-blabbing rule puzzled me. If she wanted Ma and Pa to know something, it wasn’t like her to go through an intermediary. But I wasn’t going to cavil. By that time I was wildly curious. I only said, “Okay.”

  She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Mayberry and I are going to have a baby!”

  “What!” I cried, so astonished I almost dropped my plate. Then I saw Zilpha’s furious frown and clapped a hand over my mouth. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I said, “I’m sorry. But, Zilpha, this is wonderful news!” I could see now why she didn’t want the whole world to know it. Not at this particular memorial service. It wouldn’t be fair to the families of the bereaved to know that other people were still able to experience the joy and gladness of welcoming new life into the world.

  “I think so, too, but don’t tell anybody, for heaven’s sake. Not for another week or so, anyhow. Because . . . well, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry your happy news has to be kept secret because of some rotten murdering villain.” The more the world went on the way it normally did, the more I resented whoever it was who had cast a blight over my little community. I sure hoped the police or the sheriff would catch the scoundrel soon. Neither of Rosedale’s law-enforcement groups had a whole lot of experience in nabbing murderers, but I guess they were competent. “How far along are you?”

  Zilpha cast a furtive glance around the fire circle to see if anyone was watching us. I guess my initial reaction had been kind of loud. “Only about two months, I think. I’m going to see Dr. Hilliard next week.”

  I was surprised. “You have to see a doctor? Is everything all right?” I couldn’t remember Ma going to the doctor when she was going to have Jack. Then again, I’d been awfully young at the time.

  “According to the magazines, ladies who are expecting babies, especially their first, should be thoroughly examined by a doctor as soon as possible and keep seeing the doctor all during their pregnancy.”

  “Oh.” There seemed to be a whole lot I still didn’t know about being an adult. It was probably a good thing Phil and I had decided to wait until we were older to tie the knot.

  “Anyway, I’m very excited about it, but I don’t want to let on. At least not here and now. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “I understand.” For a second, I imagined the impact Zilpha’s news might have on Mrs. Fish or Mrs. Sawyer, both of whom had just lost children born of their own wombs. The very idea made me want to cry, so I suppressed it.

  Zilpha heaved a happy sigh. “Mayberry is going to be such a wonderful father.”

  “You’re going to be a wonderful mother, too,” I said, meaning it sincerely. Of my two sisters, Zilpha was the more loving and caring. And she was right about Mayberry. He was a genuinely good man. I had a feeling any child of theirs would be a happy one.

  Zilpha and I continued to chat with each other, and Phil continued to chat with Mayberry. Occasionally, Myrtle and Sonny would join in the conversation with Zilpha and me, but for the most part they seemed engrossed in each other. I thought that was sweet, and I was happy for Myrtle. Sonny Clyde was a nice fellow, although I hoped he didn’t aim to cowboy for a career, since it was a fairly unstable one, and cowboys didn’t make much money.

  I know, I know. A girl’s supposed to marry for love, and she’s not supposed to be money-grubbing and materialistic. And I’m not advocating gold digging when it comes to selecting husbands. But, doggone it, I knew firsthand that love didn’t put food on the table. Every time I doubted it, all I had to do was think about Mrs. Wilson and her eleven kids (more than half of whom weren’t even her own) to make me recall that life wasn’t fair. It was just as rough on the good as it was on the bad. I couldn’t think of a nicer or better or more Christian woman than Mrs. Wilson—and look what life had thrown at her. I sure didn’t want Myrtle to be the next generation’s Mrs. Wilson. If you know what I mean.

  Zilpha had just told me what she’d got for Hannah for her birthday (“A beaded evening handbag. I ordered it from the Sears and Roebuck catalog. You know, for when she has to attend important dinners with Richard.”) when I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I swiveled to see who’d tapped, my heart crunched when I espied Mr. Gunderson. His presence brought too forcefully to my mind what had happened the last time he’d tapped me on the shoulder at a campfire.

  My initial reaction lessened when I realized he was smiling. Thank God! He wouldn’t be smiling if somebody else had been poisoned or battered to death with a baseball bat. So I smiled back.

  “Can you come and help Mrs. Gunderson for a minute, Miss Annabelle? W
e’ve got the makings for s’mores, and Mrs. G. needs help carrying stuff out to the campfire.”

  “Sure,” said I. “I’ll be happy to help Mrs. Gunderson.” I rose from my place, gathered my empty plate and silverware and tapped Phil on the shoulder.

  He turned his head and smiled up at me. “Hey, Annabelle.”

  “I’m going to help your mother with dessert, Phil. Be right back.”

  “Need help?”

  I shook my head. “Naw. I think we can handle it. But thanks.”

  So I took my plate and silverware back to the picnic tables and left it on the table designated for the collection of dirty dishes, and went to the Gundersons’ house. Knocking lightly on the kitchen door, I didn’t wait for a reply, but pushed it open and went right on in. That’s the way we did things in Rosedale. We weren’t formal.

  Mrs. Gunderson was pleased to see me, and we gathered together a couple of boxes of graham crackers, several chocolate bars, and two bags of marshmallows. People were expected to cut their own sticks on which to roast the marshmallows. Or mushpillows, as Jack used to call them when he was a baby. I think that was the only cute or endearing thing Jack ever did. Perhaps his recent bad behavior had driven all the other instances of demonstrated charm out of my mind.

  Mr. Gunderson opened the door for us. I carried the tray with marshmallows and chocolate bars, Mrs. Gunderson carried the boxes of graham crackers, and we all three headed back to the campfire. Since I was in the middle, I said, “This was a very nice thing for you folks to do—you know, have this little memorial when you were expecting a happy occasion. I know Mr. and Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Sawyer appreciate it. We all do.”

  Shaking her head and looking sad, Mrs. Gunderson said, “It’s the least we could do. I can’t even bear to think of losing one of my children. Nothing can possibly be worse.”

  I’m sure every parent there that evening felt exactly the same. I thought of Zilpha carrying a new life in her body, and of somebody someday killing that new life, and my blood ran cold.

  It ran even colder when I got close enough to the campfire to see that someone new had been added to the little group of which I’d formerly been a member. And, darn it to heck, it was Esther Strickland. She was smiling at Phil and batting those long eyelashes of hers, too. Shoot, I’d thought Phil and I had sorted through this nonsense and that he’d have brains and courage enough to repel any further advances from Miss Strickland.

  But that had been silly thinking on my part. Phil would never be rude to a woman. Heck, he found it difficult to be rude to a man. He was too darned nice.

  I frowned as I realized that Esther was holding out a cup to Phil. Must be cocoa, I decided, since there was a big pot of it bubbling over the fire.

  When I glanced at Reverend Strickland, I saw him standing, staring at Esther, horror writ large upon his rather small features. Wondering why he should look as though he were witnessing a hanging, my gaze slid sideways and I saw Charles and Edward. They were both hurrying toward Esther and Phil, and both of them also sported expressions of alarm on their usually stoic faces. Now what in the world were they . . . ?

  And then I understood everything. In the horror of understanding, I dropped my tray and bolted like a spooked hare toward the fire circle, waving my arms and screaming at the top of my lungs.

  “No! Phil, don’t touch that cup!”

  Both Esther and Phil jumped a foot in the air and turned to see what the commotion was all about. I saw Phil take the cup from Esther’s fingers. I saw the sweet, innocent smile creep over Esther’s perfect features. I saw Phil lift the cup to his lips.

  I shrieked, “No!” again.

  And then, like a baseball player heading to score at home plate, I lunged at him and smacked the cup away from his hand before he’d had the chance to take a sip.

  Then I lay there on the ground, covered my face with my hands, and sobbed. Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.

  Naturally, my histrionic display had caused absolute silence to descend upon the fire circle, kind of like I’d sloshed a bucket of ice water on the gathering. Everyone stood up and tried to see the idiot who’d screeched like a banshee and spoiled the get-together. Myrtle leaped to her feet and hurried to help me rise, as did Zilpha. Mayberry and Phil just sat there and goggled at me, both looking as if they’d been turned to stone.

  With the help of my sister and Myrtle, I staggered to my feet. My pretty gray dress and Phil’s jacket were both covered with dust, and my black stockings had holes in the knees—and my knees were bleeding. I was still crying, although I’m not sure why—a combination of leftover terror and relief, I guess.

  Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I saw that Charles and Edward had taken Esther by the arms, one man on either side of her. One of them stooped—I still didn’t know which was whom—and I realized he was reaching for the cup. I shouted, “Don’t let him take that cup!”

  Zilpha shook me slightly. “What in the name of Glory is the matter with you, Annabelle Blue?”

  I pointed a shaking finger at Esther. “It’s her,” I said ungrammatically. “She’s the one who killed Kenny and Hazel. She tried to poison Phil just now. I know she did.”

  If the gasp I heard from the collection of folks around that campfire had been exhaled instead of inhaled, the fire would have been blown out. Shooting a murderous look at me, one of Esther’s keepers grabbed the cup. Phil, thinking fast, jumped up and grabbed it back. Then he turned and frowned at me. “What the devil are you talking about, Annabelle?” He must have been really rattled, or he’d never have said the word devil in company.

  I nodded at the cup. “Test it. Have the pharmacist test it. Have Mr. Pruitt test it.” In spite of Phil’s jacket, I was cold. I started shivering.

  Reverend Strickland rushed up and took his sister from Charles and Edward. “Really, Miss Blue, there’s no need for this . . . this. . . .”

  I turned on him like a termagant. “Isn’t there? Why do you have those guys hovering over her all the time, then? Why is it that when a man she’s set her eyes on goes back to his girlfriend, he ends up dead?” I turned on Esther herself. “What did Hazel see, Miss Strickland? Eh? She said it would knock the socks off everyone in Rosedale. What was it?”

  Her blue eyes were as empty as a summer sky, and she still smiled. “She was such a silly creature.”

  The entire mob swiveled to stare at Esther.

  “That’s enough now, Esther,” said her brother in a soothing tone. “You needn’t say anything.”

  She turned upon him such a look of scorn, it almost withered me, and I wasn’t even its recipient. “Don’t be a fool, Milo. Why shouldn’t I talk? It’s not my fault God works through me to punish people who disobey His laws. I’m only doing His work.”

  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one gaping at her by that time, but I was the only one who spoke. “You kill people for God?” The woman must be mad, I told myself.

  “I am God’s instrument,” she replied calmly. She turned back to Reverend Strickland. “Tell her, Milo.”

  Turning on the so-called man of God in my own right, I demanded, “Yeah, preacher, tell us. You knew your sister was loony, didn’t you? That’s why you had Charles and Edward follow her around everywhere, isn’t it? Because you didn’t trust her not to kill people who got in her way. Your own sister!”

  Milo Strickland buried his head in his hands and started sobbing. Wow, you don’t often see men crying like that, at least not in Rosedale, New Mexico. “Not my sister,” he said brokenly. “My wife.”

  Boy, if my initial accusation had caused a loud gasp in the audience—and it had—Milo Strickland’s statement precipitated an entire hurricane of incredulity.

  Esther frowned at her . . . husband? Oh, boy. “Milo, you told me never to tell anyone, and now you’ve told. You’re being very silly.”

  My temper spiked. Two people had died because these blasted revivalists and their entourage had kept Esther’s . . . heck, I guess it was insanity . . . a se
cret. I’m not even sorry to confess that I hollered at Milo Strickland. “Do you mean to tell us that you knew this woman was a murderer, and yet you allowed her to roam free among the rest of the people in the world? When you knew what she was capable of? You do realize that she murdered two people here in Rosedale, don’t you? And she damned near murdered Phil? How many other people has she killed?” I’ve very seldom had violent urges in my life, but I wanted to take Jack’s baseball bat and batter both the Stricklands to death right then.

  “I don’t know why you’re so upset, Miss Blue,” said Esther serenely. “It’s my duty to mete out justice. You’re being quite ridiculous about this. I’m God’s chosen one. Any man who prefers somebody like you to me”—you should have seen the look of disgust she aimed at me—“deserves punishment. As for that silly Hazel creature, why, she was going to tell people about Milo and me, and that’s supposed to be a secret. Milo said so. People who can’t keep secrets are wicked.” She cast another scathing look at her husband. If she were allowed to go free, I wouldn’t bet my socks that Milo Strickland might not have been her next victim.

  I could scarcely believe my ears. I stood there, my fists clenched, my head spinning, unable to comprehend the total battiness of the woman. Phil came over and put his arm around me. I returned the favor. So there we were, our arms around each other’s waists, staring at Esther Strickland, whose beautiful face was now marred by a frown.

  “You see?” said she, nodding at Phil and me. “That’s just wrong, you and Phil being together. It’s wicked. I thought you knew better than to pay any more attention to that creature, Mr. Gunderson.”

  “That creature?” I said. “Meaning me, I suppose.”

  She gave me a pitying look. “Of course. It’s unnatural for a man to prefer someone like you to someone like me. God made me beautiful. God made me perfect. Anyone who prefers someone less than perfect needs to be punished.” She looked me up and down as if she were sizing up a freak at a sideshow.