This Old World

by Steve Wiegenstein

  When they reached the rectory, Flynn stepped down and tied up the horse. “You wait,” he said. “I’ll tell him we’re here.”

  He walked to the door, knocked, and went inside. In a moment he was back at the wagon. “In here,” he said, helping her down from the wagon. “I’m to go first.”

  The church was a drafty brick building with a dim interior. Marie sat in a back pew while Flynn walked to the confessional nearest the rectory door. When she was a child in the Icarian colonies, she used to accompany her mother to confession once in a while, although her father had declared himself secular and refused to go; she had even made it through to her own first communion, and a few more, at thirteen. But after her mother’s death, she had given it up. She hoped she could remember the ritual.

  After several minutes Flynn emerged. He walked to her and laid his hand on her arm; Marie realized to her surprise that this was the first time he had touched her since before her father died.

  “Father Tucker is his name,” he said. “He’s all right.”

  Marie found her way to the confessional and sat on the bench. “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been many years since my last confession,” she said. At least she remembered that much.

  “How many years, my child?” The priest’s voice was gentle. Through the screen she could see the outline of a round face with a mop of white hair on top.

  “Many. A dozen? Fifteen, perhaps?”

  “Oh, my! This may take a while. But that’s all right. I have all the time we need.”

  She went into it, the adultery, the child out of wedlock. The lying that she had to do to accomplish the adultery. The loss of faith in God. She felt as if she would never reach the end of her sins. But eventually she did, or at least reached the end of her recollections. Then finally came the absolution, and she stepped back out into the light.

  Flynn was outside, watering the horse with a bucket. “We’re supposed to go into the rectory,” he said. “He’ll marry us there.”

  “Not in the church?”

  He shook his head. “Ain’t neither of us what you’d call faithful members here. He comes along the railroad now and then and says mass. I give him what coppers I have. But the rectory parlor is what we get.”

  They waited inside while the priest’s housekeeper found some witnesses. “You’re a child of Daybreak, then?” the priest said to her while they stood.

  “Yes.”

  “But across the river, you’ll be in my house,” Flynn said vehemently. “Ain’t no voting every week on everything.”

  Father Tucker noticed the consternation on Marie’s face at the sudden force in Flynn’s tone. He took her hand.

  “Marriage is a solemn covenant, my dear,” he said. “As Jesus is the head of the church, the husband is the head of the home. You must be prepared to accept your husband’s admonitions and bear his reproofs with a cheerful heart. Can you do that?”

  There seemed to be nothing for Marie to say but, “Yes, Father.”

  “And, my son, you must approach marriage with a loving heart. There is no room in a Christian marriage for resentment over old things. Can you look forward, and not behind, and give your wife guidance openly and lovingly?”

  “Sure, Father. Sure I can.”

  Then the housekeeper showed up with a couple of old men in tow, and they lined up in the parlor, and within five minutes it was done.

  They spoke little on the ride back. Marie’s thoughts circled again and again around how she had gotten to this moment—first scandalized, then alone, and now married to man she still barely knew. Had she ever let her reason rule her? Hardly. She might claim that she was marrying Flynn for the home and for Josephine, but she didn’t believe it herself. She certainly didn’t feel rational. She felt a sudden loss of confidence in her imagined adult decision and turned away from Flynn to hide the tears that were streaking her cheeks.

  “No crying,” Flynn said. “I’ll have no weepy wife in my home. Crying women make me nervous.”

  “Sorry,” Marie said, wiping her face with her coat sleeve.

  She had sent Josephine and Angus to stay with Kathleen for the night, so the cabin was dark and silent when they arrived. Flynn dropped the rails in one section of his fence and led the wagon through. “There ain’t a finer fence in the county,” he said, pride in his voice. “Mule high, hog tight, and bull strong. My herd comes in next week, maybe the week after that.”

  “And who will tend your herd while you’re off working on the railroad?”

  Flynn’s reply was quick and fierce. “My son and my wife, and her daughter, that’s who. Unless you think you’re too fine for cattle farming.”

  “Of course not,” she said. She regretted that her question had sounded querulous. She hadn’t meant to start the night on the wrong foot. “But I don’t know anything about cattle, I’ll warn you that.”

  “What’s to know?” They eat grass. In the summer we make hay and in the winter we feed it to them. They drink from the river, and in the fall we drive them to a siding on this railroad I am building and sell them to whoever gives us the most.”

  He helped her down from the wagon and went to put the horse in the barn while Marie stepped inside.

  So this was to be her home. She lit the lantern hanging inside the door. Flynn could certainly use a woman’s touch. The floor needed sweeping, the makeshift window was covered with grease and cobwebs, and ashes had spilled out of the hearth, blackening the planks on its border. It was a wonder he hadn’t burned the place down by now. Marie reminded herself to bring in flowers from the fields whenever they were in bloom, the place was so dark and colorless.

  Marie found some cornmeal and salt pork in canisters. It was getting dark; no time to gather greens. Hoecake and salt pork would have to do for their wedding meal. She would have been glad to have some of Dathan’s Indian stew right now. There were forks and plates on a shelf, not necessarily clean, but cleanish enough to use. She wiped them with a towel and set them on the table, and as she did, she saw a tin of lard on the shelf as well. That might come in handy later on. She scooped out a thick fingerful and wiped it into a teacup, which she placed on a table beside the bed in the other room.

  It seemed like Flynn had been gone a long time. When he finally came in from the barn, his hair and skin were wet; Marie realized with a pleased start that he had bathed in the river.

  They ate as they had ridden, in long swaths of silence broken by bursts of awkward conversation, the night ahead weighing on them. “That was good. Thank you,” Flynn said, pushing his plate away.

  “I’ll do better once I’ve sorted out what you have,” Marie said.

  “I don’t doubt that a bit. I ain’t been much of a cook or an eater, as you can imagine. Be good for Angus to have some honest food.”

  They both knew it was time. Marie stacked their plates in Flynn’s washing pan and went into the bedroom.

  Her trunk had been placed on the floor at one end of the room. She opened it; her nightdress was on top, right where she had placed it. She put it on and lay on top of the covers. The room was cold; she reminded herself to bring in a bed warmer tomorrow night. With a quick gesture, she dipped the lard out of the teacup and inserted it into herself.

  She cleared her throat. “You can come in now,” she said.

  Flynn entered, carrying the lantern. He looked at her as she lay on the bed. “You’re a pretty thing,” he said. “I ain’t no beauty, I’ll admit to that. But you got me, for whatever that’s worth.”

  He took off his shirt. He was lean and strong, and his body was scarred. Marie could not stop looking at him.

  “I’m a brute, ain’t I?” he said. She didn’t answer. “I know I ain’t the kind of fine-thinking man you deserve. You wanted Horace Greeley, and you got a Irish railroad navvy.”

  “You’re a good man,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “You’re not just a railroad navvy.”

  “That is the goddam truth,” he said hoarsel
y. “I am a man, and a proud man at that. Wouldn’t matter what I am, though. ’Cause you got me now, and I got you. Ain’t that right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s right.”

  He dropped his pants and climbed on top of her. With both hands he pulled her nightdress over her head.

  She wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready for him. But he was already nose to nose with her, and she was glad she had greased herself, for he was right there before she knew it, before she had a chance to say ‘wait.’ He gripped her shoulders.

  “Don’t you holler now,” he said.

  No, she wasn’t going to holler. And maybe he was just a dumb Mick with no manners and no idea of how to treat a woman. But she had done this of her own free will, she had married Michael Flynn for better or for worse, and there was no repining. Everyone in Daybreak thought she was mad to marry this man, this illiterate oaf. Everyone in Daybreak could go to hell. Michael Flynn could go to hell, rutting her like a brindle bull in springtime. No one was going to get her tears from now on, not even herself. She would holler for no one and nothing. And as he labored above her with his eyes closed and a look of vacant concentration on his face, Marie felt a strange sense of freedom. So she had thrown her life away; she had done it her own damn self.

  Chapter 14

  The hiding place was good. Newton, being the oldest, had the most freedom around the colony; the old empty house south of the village, the Webb place, was off-limits to the children, but Newton found he could go up the mountain, into the woods, and then swing down behind the old barn and sheds without being seen from the kitchen windows of Daybreak. And that was how he found the cave behind the old Webb place.

  A spring ran out of the cave, a muddy, sulfurous trickle that dribbled through some wooden troughs into one of the sheds. They would gather at the mouth of the cave after chores, Newton, Josephine, Angus, and the Wickman twins, Sarah and Penelope, and feel the warm air blowing out, warm now but in summer it would feel delightfully cool, and they reveled in its moist dirty odor. They moved carefully; the girls had to keep their dresses clean, and Angus kept fearfully looking down the road.

  “Papa’ll tan my hide if I ain’t watching the cows when he comes home,” Angus said.

  “Those cows ain’t going anywhere,” Newton said scornfully. “They’re in a field with grass and water. No reason to jump the fence.”

  “It’s not the cows he’ll be after. It’s me.”

  “When’s your brother coming home?” asked Penelope. She leaned against a limestone boulder, her leg braces propped beside her. Penelope’s hips had never healed from their birth problems, and she walked with a wide-legged swing on the braces her father had fixed up for her, first one side, then the other, like the make-believe walking of a doll carved from a tree joint.

  “Letter said this week, maybe tonight even. Depends on the trains,” Newton said.

  “I miss him,” said Penelope.

  “I don’t,” Newton replied. “Always following me around, asking dumb questions.”

  Sarah looked up from playing cat’s cradle with Josephine. “That’s what brothers are for.”

  “Well, I can do without it,” Newton said. “He’s a pest.”

  Both Sarah and Penelope had inherited their mother’s amiability, but while Penelope had a gentle quality, Sarah was peppier, quick to tease. She was as active as Penelope was contemplative. “Your mama’s a good teacher,” she said to Josephine. “I like her.”

  Josephine said nothing, but smiled to herself.

  “Papa’s gonna tan my hide,” Angus repeated.

  “Your papa’s cows are scary,” Penelope said. “I don’t like their horns.”

  “A cow is a cow,” Newton insisted. “There is nothing to be scared of in a cow.”

  “They’re too big,” Penelope said. “Big old cows with big old horns. I don’t like them.”

  “Suit yourself,” Newton said. “Don’t go around them, then.”

  “Lordy, I won’t,” she said. “They’re across the river, anyway.”

  “Let’s do something,” Sarah said. “I’m tired of sitting here.”

  They sat silent for a moment, waiting for Newton to suggest something.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go look in the old Webb house.”

  This was more than anyone had counted on. “Are you joking?” Angus said. “Somebody’d see us for sure.”

  “I think that house is haunted,” Sarah said. Newton answered her with a look. “Well, I do!” she repeated.

  “It’s not haunted,” he said. “Charley Pettibone lives in it. We won’t go inside. We’ll just look in the windows.”

  Dubious looks passed.

  “Charley Pettibone was a rebel,” Sarah said. “He and some old ghost would probably get along just fine.”

  “If anybody sees us, we’re as dead as the old gray goose,” Angus said. Penelope nodded agreement. Sarah shrugged but looked doubtful.

  “All right, I’ll go,” Josephine said.

  And with that, they were off, Newton and Josephine in the lead, the other three trailing. From the cave mouth they followed the wooden troughs to a dilapidated shed, where the troughs drained into a series of old tubs, now filled with silt. “I remember old Mr. Webb,” Newton said over his shoulder. “He was all right. He wouldn’t be a ghost. Or if he would, he’d be a good ghost.”

  “I remember Harp Webb,” Josephine said. “He wouldn’t be a good ghost.”

  “Harp Webb is buried up in the graveyard. If he haunts anyplace, it would be there.”

  They walked around the back side of the barn, out of sight of Daybreak.

  “That’s where we should have gone, up to the graveyard,” Angus said. “We could see if that man Mr. Wilkinson is digging somebody up like he says he is. My papa says he just goes up there and drinks whiskey all day.”

  The group stopped at the corner of the barn. From here it was a long walk across open ground to the house. “Think anybody’s watching?” Sarah said.

  “Nah,” said Newton. “They’re all working.”

  Angus’s gaze was turned the other direction, south down the road where his father would be coming.

  “How come your daddy doesn’t make you mind the cows, too?” Sarah asked Josephine.

  “He’s not my daddy,” Josephine snapped. “Mr. Turner is my daddy. I used to get letters from him.”

  The certain tone of her reply stopped them short. They knew there was something irregular in the whole business, something in the past that the adults didn’t talk about. Newton’s daddy was Josephine’s daddy, too, though how that had all happened wasn’t clear. There was a secret story to it that none of them quite knew. Newton had always sensed the strangeness, and of course his mother didn’t like Josephine; everybody could see that. It all tied together somehow. One day he would have to ask.

  “Well, your stepdaddy then,” Sarah said.

  “He knows I don’t care if his cows walk off a cliff,” Josephine said. Her hair was long and black and straight, like her mother’s; she flipped it to one side with her hand, as if the flip itself was sending cows to their perdition. “I don’t know why Mama married him anyway.”

  “Are you going to get married someday, Newton?” Penelope asked. But Newton was busy peeking around the corner, looking for grownups. He glanced over his shoulder with a sniff.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’m going to join the Army and go to West Point, like my grandpa,” he said. “A soldier’s got no time for marriage.”

  “Your grandpa was married,” Penelope persisted. “And your daddy was a soldier.”

  Newton paused. “Well, maybe someday,” he said. “All right, let’s go. Walk brisk, don’t run. You’ll just draw attention.”

  He started at a quick walk across the yard to the corner of the old Webb house, Josephine following, Sarah and Penelope behind. But Angus was not to be seen. The children walked faster, then began to run, piling into a laughing heap once they had reached the safety
of the house. But Angus?

  Angus was nowhere. Then a few seconds later, there he was, off in the distance, dashing back from the shed where they had hidden, running toward the Daybreak barn, and from there presumably to the Temple, the river crossing, and his father’s cattle pasture.

  “Well, beat the Dutch,” Newton said. “Angus has run off. Oh, well, let’s get to exploring.” He looked around for something to stand on to peer into the windows of the Webb house. “Story is, when old Mr. Webb died, he left ten thousand dollars in gold buried somewhere around this place. Everybody went crazy digging for it, but it was never found.”

  But Penelope Wickman, always perceptive to things around her, was paying no attention to Newton’s story. Her eyes were fixed on the far distance, to the north, where the road from town emerged from the trees on the other side of the river. A wagon was descending the hill and had reached the ford.

  “Newton,” Penelope said, “I think your mama and daddy are home.”

  Chapter 15

  As soon as they crossed the river, Adam hopped down from the back of the wagon and ran ahead to join the children. Turner watched him go with a moment of longing. When was the last time he ran to anything with such carefree pleasure? The envy of the adult for the hearts of children.

  They had kept their eyes averted as they passed Michael Flynn’s place—a tender subject for a constellation of reasons, but even a sidelong glance revealed much: the tall rail fence surrounding twenty acres of woods pasture; a half dozen tightly muscled, compact-looking red cows browsing under the trees; a hog lot closer to the river, built, it appeared, directly over the grave of that bushwhacker Turner had killed.

  The fence was well done, the cattle good looking. Perhaps that was how they should have done it, enclosed their pasture instead of letting their cattle roam the mountain, bought a real breed like these Devon reds or some shorthorns, instead of their rangy mixed-breed milkers. But they hadn’t, so what was there to say. He knew Flynn still owed them for the land, and the word was that he had borrowed heavily from someone in town for the cattle. That was the new order of business, everything on credit, every man for himself. Their old ideas of equality and common sharing, those were finished.