by Pamela Morsi
"Henry Lee, I only want what is best for you," she implored. "What's best for us."
He turned his back.
"You are not giving up the whiskey business?" she asked finally, quietly.
"No, ma'am," he answered turning, at last, to face her with anger in every line of his face. "And if that don't suit you, well, I believe you know your way to the door."
They stood there separated by bars, but also by a thousand dreams and ideals.
Hannah turned without a word and walked away.
Chapter Eighteen
Hannah sat on the arbor swing at her father's house watching the setting sun. She could hear Myrtie and Violet in the house cleaning up the supper dishes. She should be in there helping or there were at least a million other things that she might be doing. Harvest time was upon them, the busiest time of the year on the farm, but lately she seemed to find more time than she needed to lose herself in thought.
She had been back home for almost three weeks. Time enough for her anger to turn to dismay and her pride to stubbornness. Henry Lee was back at his place. The gossips had made sure she knew. He'd returned from Muskogee only two days after she had. Apparently, he'd been right: the marshal didn't have enough evidence. She was glad about that. Sighing she shook her head, she hated thinking about him in that cell.
He hadn't attempted to contact her. She'd left him a note on the kitchen table saying that she was moving back to her father's home. Somehow she expected him to at least acknowledge that. But she hadn't heard a word from him.
She had certainly heard a good deal about him. She was hardly back herself when word of his arrest in Muskogee was prime dinner conversation in every household in the congregation. The entire community seemed to have an opinion about their marriage, and most didn't hesitate to express it. Old Maude Ruskin seemed to sum up the feelings of most of the church people last Sunday when she patted Hannah on the cheek and told her simply to "put that unfortunate marriage behind you."
Hannah discovered that, except for herself and most of the young girls Myrtie's age, virtually every person in the community had known all along about Henry Lee's whiskey business. She'd even asked her father point- blank why he hadn't told her.
He hesitated thoughtfully and then said, "At first I thought you must know. By the time I realized that you didn't, well, it wasn't my place. He's your husband," he said, as if that answered everything, "and it's really between the two of you."
That had continued to be her father's major theme on the subject. Somehow, to him, her marriage vows took precedence over all else. Her father made it clear that he thought Hannah should return to her husband. He believed it so strongly that, at first, he hadn't wanted Hannah to move back in.
"I've been helping married folks through rough times for a lot of years," he explained. "When a couple have trouble, they've got to stay and work it out. It does no one good if the wife can just pack up and go home to Daddy when things don't suit her."
"It's not a case of things not suiting!" Hannah had argued. "The man I married is choosing to break the law and has no intention of reforming. You can't expect me to stay there as if I approve of that."
"You'll never change a man by running out on him, Hannah."
"I didn't run out on him. He sent me away," she admitted in frustration. "He doesn't want to change. He says he likes making whiskey, that he's proud of what he does and that I should just accept that." She threw up her hands in disgust. "I'd certainly be a hypocrite if I did."
Her father was inflexible. "You wouldn't be a hypocrite, but you might be a better wife. Lots of women have found themselves married to men who don't live by the scriptures. As long as that man doesn't beat her, starve her, or threaten her, the good wife stays right with her man and shows him by her example how to live right. She doesn't just run off and say, 'It was all a big mistake, let's forget the whole thing.' "
"Some marriages are just big mistakes," she insisted, "and trying to keep something together that was never meant to be is just throwing water down a rat hole!"
"Are you saying you don't care for Henry Lee?" her father asked pointedly. "You forget, I've seen you two with your heads together. It'd be obvious to a blind man that you got feelings for each other, strong feelings."
"What I feel is relief that I've put that chapter of my life behind me!" Hannah lied vehemently.
Finally, when it became clear that the father and daughter who had once been so close were determined to remain completely opposed to the other's view, Violet intervened. Hannah was sure that her father hadn't heard a word she had said, but he listened to his wife.
"I know you are right," Violet assured her husband. "But I think these two just need a little time. Let their anger cool a bit and see what's left of their other sentiments."
Her stepmother convinced the preacher that Hannah should be allowed to have some time to think about what she wanted.
Time to think was what she got. She had trouble eating, trouble sleeping, but no trouble at all thinking. Her thoughts were constantly in action. She would recall a story that he had told her with his wide-eyed look of mischief and find herself smiling at the memory. She would imagine the sight of him working in the yard or chopping wood and a warm glow of desire would settle around her. In her mind she was talking with Henry Lee, working with Henry Lee, laughing with Henry Lee, dancing with Henry Lee and at night when her exhausted brain had finally given over to sleep, her dreams were writhing in passion with Henry Lee.
She rebelled at the injustice of it all. They had just begun to know each other. She thought that he could make her happy, she knew she wanted to make him happy. Why couldn't he be a farmer like everyone else? But Henry Lee could never be like anyone else.
Hannah heard a horse coming up the road, breaking into her thoughts, but she didn't even bother to turn. It was Saturday night, so she knew exactly who it was. The rider spoke as he trotted past on his way to the hitching post.
“Good evening, Miss Hannah."
"Good evening, Will."
She watched him dismount and wrap the reins around the hitching post before stepping on the porch. He straightened his jacket and ran a hand across his head, making sure that his hair was lying down before knocking briskly on the front door.
That was another surprise she'd discovered when she'd returned. Will Sample was courting Myrtie. The two were so in love they would sit and make calf eyes at each other all evening. It was strange to see them together. Will's shy, red-faced clumsiness disappeared completely when he was with Myrtie. He talked to her with confidence and never seemed to stammer or stutter around her. And Myrtie was a sight to behold! The mischievous little doll was now amazingly serious about such things as the making of pork sausage and the canning of pickles. The bright-eyed little girl who thought all material should be made up into dresses now carefully folded sheets and dishtowels and placed them in her hope chest.
Hannah remembered her own surprise and Myrtie's giggling blushes when she heard of her new beau.
"I've always thought he was just wonderful. He was always so sweet to me, treating me just like I was grown up. But I assumed he was coming around all the time to see you, even though you two never really seemed that interested in each other. It never occurred to me that I was the one he was here to see."
The young girl's eyes were soft and starry.
"He said he just wanted to be close by while he waited for me to grow up. Claims to have loved me from the first minute he saw me, and he just wanted to be sure he was right in my path when I went looking for a husband."
Hannah had listened, startled. She fervently offered extravagant thanks to heaven that her well-planned trap had failed so miserably. How close she had come to making her sister—and the man she loved—miserable. How blind and foolish she had been to think that a man, any man, who cared for a woman would be unable to show that feeling. No man is so shy that he wouldn't go after what he loves.
At least the way things had worke
d out, the only person who was really unhappy was the person who deserved it: Hannah.
She would have liked to believe that Henry Lee was unhappy, too. He had seemed to be learning to care for her, and surely he had become used to her being around. Did he miss all those good meals and those finely laundered shirts? Apparently not. At the prayer meeting on Wednesday night, one of the women told her that he was seen dancing and laughing at a barn dance near Ingalls.
"He was flirting and carrying on, just as if everyone didn't know that he's a married man!"
Hannah could see him, dancing and flirting. But, in her mind, he was always dancing and flirting with her.
She shook her head with disgust. Never in her life had she been at such cross-purposes with herself. Leaving him had been the right decision. He wasn't about to change and she could not live with a lawbreaker, imagining the lives that he was ruining, even, maybe, her own life. She had lived with him less than a month and had actually imbibed spirits herself. Living with him for a lifetime might have changed her into a gin-soaked derelict!
She stopped herself before her mind got carried away. Her fall from grace was none of Henry Lee's doing. And for all that he was guilty of many things, he had never hurt Hannah or treated her in any way except like a good husband should treat a wife.
She couldn't seem to regret even one small moment that she had spent with him. They were all so precious to her now. Even when he was acting strange and staying out all night, he was still with her. Now she was alone.
She had carefully gone over all of their time together, realizing how foolish she was, making grits for pigs and cleaning out the fermentation barrels. But she also realized why he'd spent so much time away from her. He was obviously at his still and he hadn't wanted her to know.
She wished that he had made a woman of her and given her a child to be with her forever. She remembered with a wistful smile her discussion with Myrtie on the morning after her wedding. She pictured the child she dreamed of that morning and the hope that had sung through her veins with pleasure at the touch of her husband. Neither of these things would ever happen now. Because he was a whiskey man.
It was ridiculous for a woman to sit and sigh at the moon, wishing a man was something that he wasn't. It was especially ridiculous when the woman was much better off on her own, she reminded herself. She needed to get on with her own life. Decide what she was going to do. But the decisions were harder than ever.
Staying here with Violet and her father was even less possible now than before she'd taken such drastic action to get married. With Myrtie sure to marry next spring, there was truly no excuse for her to stay even if her father would allow it, and she was not too sure about that.
Another marriage was not an option. Even if she could get an annulment instead of a divorce, she would never be considered marriageable. Unmarried women really couldn't work outside the home or the family business unless they were teachers, or maybe nurses. Hannah had neither training nor skills in either of those areas. Perhaps she could find an elderly woman with no family who needed a caretaker. The thought didn't fill her with optimism.
She imagined herself ten years down the road, cloaked in faded, gray bombazine and spending her years in quiet, silent isolation as she watched aged dependents slowly slip from this world to the next. The face of her mother, weary and emaciated at the last, superimposed on the image of her future client and inexplicable tears stung her eyes.
Oh, how she dreaded tying her life to that of the sick and dying. She wanted life and laughter. She wanted a future with love, a future with her man beside her, his arms around her, his lips in her hair. Duty and respect seemed to pale by comparison.
A breathy giggle joined by a deeper laugh drew her attention to Myrtie and Will who were just coming out on the porch. Hannah gathered up her things to leave. She knew the young couple would want the privacy of the arbor swing to steal a few quick and desperate kisses. She gladly gave it over to them, with only a slight twinge of jealousy. She knew how it felt to be in love.
Henry Lee sat at a comer table in Zanola Little's barn listening to the strange mournful sounds the musicians had chosen to play. All around him dancers slowly undulated to the strange mix of African and Indian rhythms, bodies slick with sweat and eyes closed, feeling only the music. He wished he could lose himself in the dance also, but lately nothing seemed to be able to work for him.
The truth of that statement managed to bring a wry smile to his face. He had tried to banish Hannah from his mind with a pretty little dance hall girl in Ingalls. She was still fairly young and very skilled, but at the last moment he'd paid her and sent her on her way. He ached with desire, but could no longer find relief among the women of his past. The woman's painted face had offered no allure and the body that she eagerly pressed against him repulsed him and served only to remind him of what he really wanted. He wanted Hannah, only Hannah, and he knew now that he would never have her.
When he'd returned to his cabin, he'd been hopeful. Hannah had a good mind, realistic and practical like his own. He was sure that after the first rush of anger, she would see that they could have a good life selling whiskey. She needn't ever worry about herself or her children doing without the things that they needed.
When he'd found the note on the table, he'd wanted to lay his head down and cry. He'd sat staring at it for the better part of an hour. Thinking about her sitting at the table, writing out the conclusion of their life as one. He couldn't make out a word, except his name, but he knew she was telling him that it was finished.
Henry Lee had chosen Zanola's place on purpose. The blacks mostly kept to themselves and he was tired of his every word and deed being the grist for the gossip mill. Elsewhere he would have felt like he had to look pleased, like he was quite content with the direction his life had taken. Here, at least, he had the luxury of displaying all the misery that he felt.
Zanola hadn't asked for a word of explanation about his ill-fated marriage. "Your business is your own," she had told him. "You want to talk, I can listen, but sometimes you just got to think on it yourself."
"She's left me," he told her simply. "Guess there ain't much more a man can say about that."
"You can go after her, you know."
Henry Lee shook his head sadly. "There's no purpose in it. Nothing has changed between us. I'm still the whiskey man and she's still the preacher's daughter. It was foolish to think for a minute that those two could make a pair."
Zanola was not as sure as Henry Lee, but she was a woman who had seen a good deal of misery in her own life, recognized it, and knew that the whiskey man was best left alone to see his own way through his troubles. She passed the word and Henry Lee found himself undisturbed by well-meaning advisors or cheerful comrades.
He'd had plenty of advice already. The morning after Hannah left, the Oscar brothers had arrived at the jail. Putting their good reputation on the line, they insisted that charges against Henry Lee be dropped.
When the judge heard Hiram Oscar's glowing description of Henry Lee's character and then looked at what little evidence Tom Quick had managed to scare up, Henry Lee was released immediately.
The Oscars, with Henry Lee in tow, had made their way to the McCulley Dining Hall where he was given a very strong piece of their collective mind.
"I try to judge a man by what he is, not what he does," Hiram told him solemnly. "But there is no way that I can countenance the kind of evil that you are doing. Sure, lots of folks drink, and most of the Indians, well, they think they ought to have a right to drink just like whites."
The woodworker turned to Willard as if to enlist his support. "Drinking makes a man crazy, he don't know who he is or what he is anymore. He gets to caring nothing 'bout right or wrong, all he cares about is that drink and where he can get another one."
Henry Lee continued to eat his dinner, listening, but unwilling to reply.
"You didn't invent liquor, boy. It was here long before you were and it'll be here aft
er you've gone. But that don't mean that you've got to invest your life in it."
"Hiram, I make good whiskey," he finally told him. "It's like working with the wood, it's a gift I've got and it'd be a shame for me not to use it."
"A gift to do evil ain't no kinda gift at all!"
The old man lowered his voice, and spoke to Henry Lee more gently and with emotion.
"I don't know nothing about you, except what you need to know 'bout a man. I done worked with you and seen that you're mighty fit to run the river with. Who your folks was, or how you was brought up, I don't know none of that. But Henry Lee, I tell you like a son, like I would have told my own, when you live your life outside the rules, outside what folks believe is right, it ain't no fit life. You get no respect, except from other 'uns as bad as you. And you got no respect for yourself 'cause you didn't play it straight. It's like cheating in a card game, you know even if you win that the others are all better than you."
Henry Lee flinched at that and the Oscar brothers didn't miss it.
"Henry Lee, you've got a strong back, a good mind, you're not afeared of work and you're plenty capable. You got that sweet little wife, and 'fore you know it, you'll have a house full of young 'uns. I'd say this boy's got some pretty serious thinking to do, wouldn't you, Willard?"
The two brothers left shortly after that. Henry Lee hadn't the heart, or the guts, to tell them that Hannah had left him. He couldn't bear to speak of it. But everybody already seemed to know anyway.
Holding up his glass, Zanola mercifully came by and filled it. Henry Lee stared at the clear liquid that was his pride and his livelihood and thought only of his Hannah.
He'd tried staying out at his place, working, keeping busy. He'd reaped his harvest as soon as it was barely ready and worked like a madman sunup to sundown until it was in. He mowed his hay field all alone, not wanting the help that he usually hired. He needed the work, he needed to sweat and ache and hurt. He needed to cry, but a man didn't do that.