by Gary D. Svee
Iona stared into Standish’s face. “Arch came out on the step. He was carrying that shotgun, trying to cock the hammers, but it was so big, and he was so little.… One of the men grabbed the shotgun. He lifted it above his head and said he would kill the ‘whore’s whelp.’”
Iona’s face was dead. “I let them have me, Mr. Standish. I told them if they would leave Arch alone, I would stop struggling. Just then Klaus stepped into the yard. He tried to stop them, but they beat him to the ground. I was brutalized. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t there. I.… Others have come since then, but Arch and I hide. No one has come for some time, but I.…
“That’s the reason Arch carries that shotgun. That’s the reason.… I can’t go to town, Mr. Standish, unless we sneak into the back of Mr. Kennedy’s store. I don’t want Arch to hear the things they say about me.”
Neither had seen Arch walk up from the ponds, but he saw Standish holding Iona’s hands. He dropped his pole and ran to Standish, bending over until his face was just inches away from Standish. “You hurt my Ma, and I will kill you!”
“Arch!”
“I will, Ma.”
“Mr. Standish didn’t hurt me. He was telling me a sad story.”
Arch’s eyes squinted almost shut. “Don’t want to hear any sad stories.” His eyes dropped to the ground. “Could use some help, though, cleaning these fish.”
Standish rose, brushing off his pants. “That’s the story I was telling your mother, that nobody lets me clean their fish, anymore. It’s enough to make a man weep.”
One of Arch’s eyebrows crawled. Standish looked at Iona. She was trying to smile.
Arch said, “I got a mess of ’em, Ma, a mess. We’re going to have a great dinner.”
Iona nodded and began picking up the shards of the picnic.
CHAPTER 12
Arch leaned on his elbows, despair written large on his face. “I can’t decide. Just can’t.”
“What’s that, Arch?” Iona asked.
“Can’t decide if I like the fish better fried or baked.”
“It is a quandary, isn’t it?”
Arch bristled. “No need to talk to me like that, Ma. You tell me not to use swear words, and then you.…”
“Quandary?”
Arch leaped to his feet. “What’s the matter with you, talking like that.”
“Arch, quandary isn’t a swear word.”
“It ain’t?”
Iona shook her head.
“So I can say it whenever I want?”
“Whenever you want.”
“Well, that’s a quandary of a thing, ain’t it?”
“It sure the quandary is,” Standish nodded.
Iona smiled, a faint smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Arch you have presented us with a feast.”
“A feast fit for a king’s court and varlets,” Standish added.
Arch bristled. “Varlet. Ain’t but one varlet here.”
“I stand corrected,” Standish said.
“It’s a quandary of a thing to have to talk to a varlet, ain’t it Ma?”
“Quandary of a thing.”
Iona turned to Standish, willing him to understand. “We of royal blood are faced with many quandaries.”
Standish nodded. “Whether ’tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or by opposing to end them.”
Iona jerked. “Are you suggesting, sir, that the answer to our problem is to end them by…ending ourselves?” Her face took on air tragic as any of Shakespeare’s plays. “I have thought of that, but I have certain obligations that will not allow it.”
Standish shook his head. “What if it doesn’t mean that? What if it means that we can either suffer these slings and arrows or rise up and oppose them.”
Iona was shaking her head violently. “When everyone believes a lie, does it not become the truth? How do we change the truth, Mr. Standish?”
Iona was beginning to gather the plates and silverware from the table. A chill hung over the room and Standish would have sworn that the lights in the room had dimmed.
Iona spoke in a small harsh tones, “Have we become your hobby, Mr. Standish? What do you expect in return for suffering our outrageous fortune. Do you expect the…benefits of my reality?”
Standish stood. He whispered, “No, ma’am, the only thing I expect of this is…relief from my own reality.”
Understanding replaced the rage on Iona’s face and a long keening wail followed Standish as stepped from and the Belshaw home.
Arch stared at his mother. “Well, ain’t that a quandary of a thing. Locoweed is contagious.”
Iona tried to laughed, but her face twisted into tears and sobs tore from her throat.
Iona ran to the door and yelled after the retreating Standish. “Mr. Standish would you give my son and me a ride to town tomorrow?”
Standish stopped. He stood for a long moment before turning toward them. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Seven,” he said, the sound little more than a whisper, and turned away.
Arch watched Standish disappear into the trees and turned to his mother. “Ma, why the quandary would we go to town? You ain’t finished that shirt yet.”
“Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t go.”
“You ain’t going nowhere with the varlet unless I come along.”
Iona took a long breath. Her words sighing into Arch’s ears. “About seven, Arch. We’ll have to be ready.”
“Don’t think I want any more fish, Ma.”
“Why Arch?”
“It makes people crazy.”
Iona nodded and carried the dishes into the kitchen.
Standish slipped the harness over Hortenzia’s back. He considered saddling Sally, too. If Bodmer had sniffed him out, he would have to run. No, he wasn’t running anymore.
Questions ran through his head as he hooked Hotensia to the wagon. What would he do when the catcalls came from the boardwalk? He had to protect her, but if they thought he was simply the next in line for her favors, it would hurt more than help her. He had to be sure that Iona wasn’t hurt. That was paramount.
Nice day, colors stood out in the soft sun as though they had been splashed with water. It was a good day to die if it came to that. Standish didn’t want to die. His desire to survive was stronger than it had been for years, but he had no intention to continue life as a fugitive. Arch and Iona had given him a great gift. He would return that as best he could.
Standish rode on, his mind more on the problem than on his surroundings. As he turned Hortenzi into the Belshaw lane, a frown teased his face and then a soft smile. That might work, if they could get Arch to go along.
The three approached Last Chance in silence and dread. Standish pulled the wagon to a stop at the edge of town. “Arch, there’s something your mother and I have to tell you, something that you need to know.”
“You hurt my Ma?” the words came between gritted teeth.
Standish shook his head. He glanced a moment at Iona. She was stiff and pale. “The thing is, your mother is my sister.”
Arch shook his head. “Can’t be. If she was your brother, she’d be locoed, too.”
“No, my mother had been off locoweed for sometime before your mother was born.”
“If you’re ma’s brother, then you’re my.…”
“Uncle,” Iona said absently.
“So, I’m related to a varlet,” Arch said, shaking his head. Still, Standish could see a faint grin on Arch’s face.
“So what can I expect from an uncle?”
“Not much,” Standish said. “Work, fishing and probably next fall we could go hunting.”
“What about licorice? I would think an uncle would keep his.…” Arch cocked his head and looked at his mother.
“Nephew,” Iona said. Her brows pulled together. She was considering her recent acquisition of a brother.
“Yeah,” Arch said. “I would expect an uncle to keep his nephew stocked up on licorice.”
; “Don’t know if I can do that.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Kennedy likely would run out after two days.”
Arch nodded. That was likely.
Standish turned to Iona. “Ready?”
Iona nodded, her lips drawn into a thin line.
Standish snapped the reins across Hortenzia’s back, and that was how the Standish/Belshaw family rode into Last Chance.
The apothecary had taken on a new air. One side of the building was solemn still, bright white with dark letters espousing certain cures for gout, rheumatism and other ills. The south side of the building was a tribute to whimsy, with “Soda fountain” written across the large front window in gold letters.
Standish coaxed Hortenzia to the boardwalk bordering the store. He glanced across at Iona. She was stiff, pale beneath her soft green hat. She was wearing a green cotton dress with soft pink roses on it. She was beautiful. Standish could see how Hedrick had been taken with her that day in the cobbler’s shop. Her skin was blushed with the sun from their picnic yesterday, and Standish decided he could easily spend a day looking at her.
Arch was rigid. Standish didn’t know if he was angry or frightened. He was dressed in a new pair of jeans and shirt. Standish could see the fine stitching that marked Iona’s work. Standish climbed down from the wagon. He stepped around to the other side and took Iona’s arm, helping her down. Arch jumped, setting off a little puff of dust in the street.
The trio stepped across the boardwalk, pausing while Standish opened the door. The soda fountain was as bright inside as out. A long counter, white as December snow, stood along the north side of the building. The stools were alternately red, white and blue. The back bar was lined with bottles filled with flavors to tease the imagination: pineapple, strawberry, raspberry, chocolate, vanilla, mint, coconut.
Behind the counter was a young woman dressed in a blue skirt, white blouse and red vest. She greeted them with a wide grin.
“May I help you?”
Arch was already on a stool, overcome with the scents mingling in the room and the colors of the bottles on the back bar. Standish and Iona joined him.
Standish’s eyes roved over the flavors advertised behind the bar. “I’ll take a strawberry soda with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
Arch squealed. “They got ice cream?”
“They’ve got ice cream, all flavors of ice cream.”
Arch’s eyes squinted. “What’s this flavor stuff?”
The young lady recited her litany of flavors.
Arch swallowed. “You got any huckleberry?”
The young lady frowned. “Sorry, no huckleberry, but I’ve got some blueberry topping. It’s a lot like huckleberry.”
Arch frowned. “Ain’t nothing like huckleberry.”
The young lady grinned again. “I suppose not. Maybe you’d like a lot of flavors. How about a banana split?”
Arch turned to his mother, seeking help.
“I think you would love a banana split,” she said.
Archie nodded.
“So we have a strawberry soda with a scoop of ice cream, a banana split, and I’ll have.…” Iona’s brow furrowed. “I’ll have a.…”
“Pineapple milkshake,” Standish spoke as though in prayer. “I had one in Helena. They are.…”
The young lady leaned forward. “People tell me they can’t stop smiling a week after they’ve had one of my pineapple milkshakes.”
Iona beamed. “I’ll take a week of smiles.”
The young lady smiled back. “Good choice.”
Arch bristled. “Is a pineapple milkshake better than a banana split?”
The young lady leaned over the counter again. “I’m told that after eating one of my banana splits, my customers have to go back East to see a doctor who helps them stop tittering.”
Arch jumped off the stool. “You can’t talk like that in front of my Ma.”
The young lady was taken back. “I don’t understand, I.…”
“Us royals got tender ears,” Arch said.
“Royals…?”
Standish spoke in a soft voice. “Which word, Arch?”
Arch’s eyes squinted nearly shut. “I can’t say a word like that in front of Ma.”
“Maybe you could whisper it in my ear.”
Arch’s eyes jerked to his mother. She nodded. Arch grabbed Standish by his shirt sleeve and dragged him down, whispering in his ear.
Standish nodded. “That’s not a bad word, Arch.”
“It ain’t?”
Standish shook his head.
The young lady leaned across the counter. “Which word,” she whispered.
“Titter,” Standish said.
Iona covered her mouth with her hand. Chuff, chuff, chuff.
“Well, ain’t that a quandary of a thing,” Arch said, climbing back on the stool.
“It’s a quandary, all right,” the young lady said, and the three adults burst into laughter. Arch stared at them as though they had lost their minds.
Arch chased the last drop of ice cream across the plate with his spoon. When he was content that he had wrung the last bit of taste from the banana split, he sighed. “Guess that was about the best banana split ever.”
Standish and Iona and the young lady—they had discovered her name was Melissa—sighed, too.
Melissa whispered, “I have never seen anyone enjoy a banana split so much.”
Iona said, “If eating were an art, Arch would reside in the Louvre.”
Melissa’s eyebrows furrowed.
Iona explained, “An art museum in Paris.”
Arch nodded. “Us royals know things like that.”
The furrows on Melissa’s forehead deepened. “Royals?”
Iona seemed surprised. “Hasn’t he eaten like a king?”
Melissa smiled.
“Us royals and the one varlet,” Arch explained.
Melissa frowned. “Varlet?”
Iona took on a serious air. “It is difficult, you see, to be a royal if one doesn’t have a varlet to do one’s bidding.”
“Bidding?” Arch said, frowning. “That’s what you do when you buy cows.”
“Yes,” Iona said. “If ever we sell our cows, Mr. Standish will do our bidding.”
Melissa laughed, and Arch muttered. “Tough to be a royal.”
Standish paid the bill, and the three stepped through the soda shop door, stopping on the boardwalk to consider the next stop on their trek.
“Anything in mind?” Standish asked.
Iona turned sober. “Perhaps we could go to the clothing store.”
Standish nodded.
“Don’t know why we would want to do that,” Arch intoned.
Iona said, “I’d just like to look at some of the new fashions. It’s been so long since I’ve done that.”
“Mr. Kennedy might run out of licorice while we’re there.”
“For your mother, Arch?”
Arch scuffed at the boardwalk with his shoes and nodded.
Standish peered down. “About time to get Arch some new shoes.”
Iona nodded. “It’s about time, but.…”
“Well, let’s see what they’ve got that will fit him.”
Arch brightened. “Mr. Kennedy has shoes. While we’re in there for the licorice, we could.…”
Iona laughed, and then took a deep breath. “Mr. Standish?”
“After you, Mrs. Belshaw.”
The store was busy, not with customers but with a clutter of clothing. Dresses, skirts, blouses, and jackets occupied every inch of space. The aisles wound their way through colors enough to challenge, though not match, a Montana sunset.
The clerk approached the moment they entered. “May I help you?”
“We would just like to look for a while.”
The clerk nodded, a question plain on her face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember who you are. You look familiar, but.…”
“Perhaps you will allow me to introduce us,” Sta
ndish said. With a wave of his hat and a slight bow, he said, “This is Mrs. Iona Belshaw and her son Archibald.”
“Arch,” the word came in a hiss.
“I am Miles Standish, Mrs. Belshaw’s brother, and Archibald’s uncle.”
“Arch! My name is Arch. It’s a quandary of a thing when your own uncle doesn’t know your name.” Arch glared up at the clerk. “He’s a varlet and his mother was locoed, so you can’t pay much attention to him.”
“Varlet?”
“Us royals got to have a varlet to do our bidding in case we want to sell our cows,” Arch explained.
“Royals?” Confusion galloped across the clerk’s face.
Iona stepped away, looking through the dresses hanging by the door. There were blues and yellows and pinks and…a maroon. A beautiful maroon dress, with a high collar and long sleeves. Lace played across both. She stopped, captivated by the garment, seeing herself whirling in a dance, the light playing across the silk. Reality crushed the fantasy, and she stepped away, moving to a shelf with men’s shirts.
She saw the shirt immediately. It was the last shirt she had taken to Mr. Kennedy. The clerk stepped to her elbow, whispering in her ear. “Mr. Standish would love that shirt. Mrs. Kennedy—you know from the general store—does these shirts exclusively for us. You won’t find a higher quality shirt in New York City.”
“How much is it?”
“Three dollars.”
Iona jerked her hands back.
“I know that seems like a lot of money, but for the quality, it is a bargain. Look at the stitching.”
Iona didn’t have to look. She had seen every stitch by the soft light of a kerosene lantern. Arch stepped up. “Wow, ain’t that.…”
Iona grabbed him by the arm. “You’re right Arch, that’s more than we can pay for a shirt. We’d best be going over to the general store.”
Arch jerked to free his arm from his mother’s grip, but she held tight.
The clerk whispered as though she were a co-conspirator in a bank robbery. “That would fit your brother to a tee. I could lay it away for him for Christmas. You could pay me a little every month. That way.…”
An overdressed woman stormed through the door as though it were an impedance unbefitting a woman of her stature. Her eyes roved the room, coming to an abrupt halt on the clerk. She walked to the clerk, stepping in front of Iona.