by Tim Tingle
The agent looked to his hands, folded across his belly, and moved them to his lap. For the briefest of moments, Idabell thought her threat had worked, a threat suggested by an elderly church friend, Mrs. Blakely, who had abandoned her own scarves ten years earlier following the death of her husband, a local purveyor of farming supplies.
Taylor lifted his eyes and saw his wife’s strong and unflinching gaze. He reached for her hand and took it in his own.
“You would tell anyone, anyone who asked, the source of your bruises, if I understand what you are telling me?”
“Yes.”
“From a fall, an accidental slipping in the kitchen?”
“No.”
“You will stay inside and I will tell them you are feeling ill or not yourself. Like before, like always.”
“No, I will no longer let you lie about me.”
“Then how will you explain the cut across your lip, the swelling of your cheeks?” With every word, Taylor gripped her hand harder and his voice took on a vile and hateful tone. “How will you say you got them?”
“From the fist of my husband. That is what I will tell them.”
Taylor twisted her wrist, and when Idabell struggled to wrench herself free of him, he squeezed it till the tears flowed down her face.
“I will kill you first,” he said, clenching his teeth into a bitter meanness she had not witnessed since the early years of their marriage.
“You will have to kill me to keep me silent,” Idabell said and spat into his face. In the fury of his surprise, Taylor released his grip and lunged across the table, his palms open and aiming for her throat. Idabell rose, very deliberately smoothed her dress, and turned to the front door, as if she were alone and answering a knock. In full view of Saturday morning travelers flocking to Spiro, she stepped to the porch a moment before he reached her.
Ona Mae was baking apples in the kitchen when she heard the knock. Whisked from the memory of her grandmother’s cheerful banter and cinnamon-spotted apron, she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and stepped lightly to the door. She paused when she saw Idabell Taylor. Her hand went to her chest and short breaths pursed her lips. The darkness of the killing fell like a sodden fog.
I am a widow, she thought. I defended myself. How much do they know? I will never tell them. No one keeps secrets like I keep secrets. I will take my secrets to the grave.
She craned her neck to the window to see if Agent Taylor accompanied his wife as he had on the previous visit. Seeing only Idabell, she turned and panned the room with a slow gaze, seeking some safe place or object she could slip into and thus remain unseen.
Anyone watching, even God, she thought, would never see me as alive. I am whitened dead and drained of blood, guiltless of everything below. Ona Mae smoothed her hair with one slow stroke of her right hand, then slid her wrist across her neck. With the second louder knocking, her body jerked against her will. She wrapped her long fingers around her throat and took a deep breath.
I will take my secrets to the grave, she thought, and opened the door.
“Ona Mae. May I come in? May I please come in?”
“Yes. You may come in. I am by myself, you know.”
“Not any more, you are not. I need to stay with you for a while.”
As soon as he heard of the intruder, John Burleson let his workers know he would be “unavailable today, maybe for a few days,” and drove to the Hardwicke homestead. He was relieved when Mrs. Taylor answered the door.
“How is Ona Mae?” he asked.
“I think she will recover. It may take a day or two, but she’s doing well, considering.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” he said, removing his hat and looking over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glance of Ona Mae.
“Just a moment,” said Idabell, closing the door behind her. After a brief pause, Ona Mae appeared.
“So good to see you,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Please come in. We both would like to speak to you.”
Thus John Burleson was welcomed into the circle of buried secrets. An hour later he found Samuel Willis feeding cane to the sorghum press behind the Willis’ house. He relayed the message that Ona Mae needed him and Colonel Mingo to stay at the Hardwicke place for a few days.
“What is happening there?” asked Samuel.
“She is afraid,” said Burleson. “Mrs. Taylor is with her, but they’d both feel better having you two look out for them. You’ll do it, won’t you, son?” Samuel noted a pleading look he had never seen on the face of the stationmaster.
“I’ll tell my father and be on my way,” he said.
The first night, Samuel and Tobias settled into a thicket of pines and undergrowth, allowing full view of the front door. When the women retired, Samuel slipped quietly through the back door, using the key Ona Mae had entrusted to their care. He spent the remainder of the night at the kitchen table, his father’s rifle loaded and ready. By the second day, at Mrs. Taylor’s suggestion, the two spent the morning seated at a table—moved from the dining room to the front porch—for any and all passers-by to see.
“If we have need of protection,” she said, “people should know. They might even lend a hand. You never know the choices folks might make.”
In a way she could never have expected, Idabell’s speculation came to life before the women’s awed and grateful eyes. Thinking the ladies were in seclusion and surrounded for protection from unknown intruders––possible gang members of the first night's now-dead assailant––a dozen men, urged by their wives, spent the second night playing cards in the kitchen and alternately patrolling the grounds of the Hardwicke place. Little did they suspect what their wives already knew, that by his very absence the feared assailant was Agent Taylor himself.
Four days later, with no disturbance by day or night, and life apparently returning to some semblance of normality, the men returned home, leaving only Samuel to guard the ladies. As soon as the last man, Matt Blankenship, had saddled his horse and returned to his own life, Mrs. Taylor returned to what was left of hers.
When she entered her house, she saw her husband seated where she left him, the empty whiskey bottle toppled over on the table in front of him. He lifted his eyes to her and asked, “Do you know anyone named Estella?”
“Estella?”
“Yes. Estella Roe? Is she a friend of yours? Was she ever?”
“Have you thought of what I said to you?” Idabell asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I have thought of nothing else for the last four days. Please tell me. Have you ever heard of Estella Roe?”
“No. I don’t think I have.”
“I have dreamed about her, seen her grave, every night since you left.”
Idabell sighed and looked through the window to the distant limestone bluffs. The grandfather clock’s ticking measured the moment and the room filled with the glow of settling evening. A sparrow flew across her vision and left behind the crimson stretch of clouds on sloping hills.
“I have seen her death,” he said. “By the hand of her own husband. He beat her so until she died. I have seen this every night. A terrible vision.”
“This is not about scarves, you know.”
“No. Not about scarves. So much deeper. Can you ever find a way to forgive me?” he asked. He hung his head and reached for her, closing his eyes and lifting his palms.
“I hope we can get through this,” she said, taking his hands in hers.
Train Comes to Spiro
November 1897
On the slim chance that Maggie might receive the news, Agent Taylor placed a second notice in the newspapers of Galveston, Texas; Santa Fe, New Mexico; St. Louis, Missouri; and New Orleans, Louisiana.
To Maggie & Terrance Lowell, be it known that a stranger, similar in build to Marshal Hardwicke, has been found dead and will be buried two days hence. You both are welcome in Spiro. Your safety and freedom from persecution I once again will guarantee. Mrs. Taylor says hello and urges you to come.
Two weeks later the following letter appeared, addressed to Agent Taylor.
Agent and Mrs. Taylor:
Terrance and I have decided to accept your invitation. We have been living in Galveston, Texas, since our departure from Spiro. We will be arriving by train next Saturday, November 24, in time for the holiday. Terrance says hello. He can read now, he wanted me to mention.
No one was more excited than Hiram to hear the news. A dozen times a day he told the story of Terrance holding a butter knife to his throat and threatening to do me in! With a butter knife! But Maggie wouldn’t hear of it. She bashed him in the head with her leg! The wooden one, you know.
The two o’clock train was on time. Terrance was, of course, terrified. As the train rounded Gilliam’s Hill and started breaking for its entry into Spiro, he read aloud the black-lettered sign facing the train a quarter mile from the depot.
“Spy-ro.”
“How are you doing?” asked Maggie.
“Lemme just tell you this,” Terrance said. “Did you see that cemetery we passed about a mile ago?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Maggie, that’s where I’d be right now, if it wasn’t for you. The marshal would have hung me and buried me, and that’s where I’d be.”
The train jolted with the sharp sound of screeching brakes.
“Come to think of it,” said Terrance, “resting nice and peaceful under those cemetery elm trees doesn’t sound too bad.”
Maggie squeezed his hand. “Don’t talk like that, Terrance. I couldn’t live without you.” She leaned over him and peered out the window at the crowd gathered on the landing. “I wonder how Hiram is doing without me?”
Hiram was Hiram and he was doing fine, having hired two young Choctaw girls to take Maggie’s place, one the granddaughter of that friendly old fellow, the one the marshal beat up on, you know. To the surprise of all, his business had actually increased since Maggie’s departure. Choctaws by the dozens crowded the aisles on those ever-increasing occasions when Hiram himself proclaimed a sale.
“Wonder how Maggie is holding up without me?” he asked Dr. McGilleon, as the two stood shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks to get a look as the train made its approach. Dr. McGilleon started to speak, but the wispy thread of a spiderweb floated from the eave and settled on the tip of his nose. He brushed it away and glanced upward to see a long-legged spider nestled in the rafter. No harm, he thought. Not a poisonous variety.
The train pulled into Spiro with a long exhale of steaming breath and the gentle rocking back and forth of passengers and luggage. Hundreds of people stood on the platform, some holding signs reading “Welcome Home, Maggie.”
“Would you look at that!” said Maggie, kissing Terrance on the cheek. He lifted his eyes in a wry smile and nodded his head.
“As long as you are with me, I’ll get through this fine,” he said.
Once most of the other passengers were disembarked, Terrance stepped down and dragged the luggage to a spot against the depot wall. Maggie waited and gathered her courage, realizing they would never know Terrance without her by his side. She stepped aside and allowed an elderly woman to pass.
Terrance offered his hand to the older woman, who took it gratefully. She eased herself down, halting for a moment on each step before reaching for the next one. When she stood on solid ground, she squeezed his hand and he lifted his eyes to meet hers.
“That was nice of you, young man,” she said. At the sight of his hazel eyes, she caught her breath. Her mind soared through years of school sights and smells: pine benches, dusty books, and struggling children doing their best to please her. Her journey ended thirty years ago, staring at the face of a poor, sweet child.
“You have nice eyes,” she once told him. “I call their color hazel. They are your eyes. Look at them some time.” What was that boy’s name? A moment later she had her answer.
“Terrance!” a voice called. “Are we ready for this?”
“Yes,” said Terrance Lowell. Miss Palmer staggered to the lone empty bench as the crowd passed her by, attracted by Maggie’s voice. Miss Palmer bowed her head, beaming at the man he had become. Terrance Lowell, she whispered. Look at you now.
Ona Mae stood inside the depot waiting room, apart from the crowd, watching as the train screeched and shook and pulled to a halt, the biggest engine she had ever seen. She clutched her ticket a little tighter. Two large suitcases sat beside her.
“Dallas?” John Burleson had asked an hour earlier when she purchased the ticket.
“Yes, please. One-way to Dallas. My brother and his family are there.”
“One-way?”
“Yes. Please.”
“When…how…will you be returning?”
“I do not plan on returning.”
Burleson looked at her in a way she found disturbing. She slid three crisp bills across the counter. He handed her the ticket and stepped away from the counter. “Son,” he said, addressing a young attendant. “Take over here for me, will you?”
“Yes sir, Mister Burleson,” the man replied, stepping smartly to the counter and adjusting his bowtie.
Ona Mae watched as John Burleson appeared through a side door and reached for the suitcases. “Let me store them in the back room for you, out of the way, till the train comes,” he said. Ona Mae nodded. He carried the suitcases down a short hallway and returned.
“Fine,” he said. “Now, you can wait here or on the platform, though it is getting crowded out there, what with Maggie coming home today. Why don’t you stay inside? There’s an empty seat,” he said, pointing to a tiny round table against a wall away from the windows. “Be nice and quiet for you. I’ll have the waiter bring you tea. A piece of cake. My treat?”
When she hesitated, he said, “Please. Let me do this.”
“That would be nice,” Ona Mae said. “Thank you.”
An hour later Ona Mae stood in a stupor by the window, hoping to move quickly through the crowd and board the train to the city without being seen and recognized––as she prepared to leave her home and the few adult friends she had ever known.
“Ona Mae?”
“Yes.” She turned to see John Burleson.
“Would you please come with me? I would like to speak with you in private. For only a moment.”
He turned and walked down the hallway without waiting to see if Ona Mae intended to follow. When she stepped through the door of the storeroom, he reached over her shoulder and closed it quietly.
“I cannot let you go,” he said.
“I have purchased my ticket. What are you saying?”
“Ona Mae, I am so afraid at what I am about to do. Please be easy on me.” He slipped an arm around her and pulled her to his chest. To his great relief, she did not resist.
Neither Ona Mae Hardwicke nor John Burleson were familiar enough with the nuances of love and touch to know what to do next, so they simply stood and held onto each other in the warmest embrace of their lives, till the noise of Maggie’s stepping from the train, the cheers and clapping, awakened the two to the need for decisions.
“What can we do? What will we do?” she asked.
“I don’t know what we will do. I only know what we won’t do. I won’t carry your luggage and you won’t get on that train.”
“I cannot live in his house. I will not live there.”
“I can’t live here at the station,” John said. “Not now. Not anymore. I have land, a good piece of river bottom land. Good farming land, just a short walk from the river. The fireflies are so beautiful there in the summer. When I was younger I used to ride out to the bottoms just to watch them. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Especially after she died, my wife. The fireflies were so bright.”
Ona Mae squeezed her eyes tight shut to hold onto the spell.
“I can build you a house, build us a house.” John paused and looked at Ona Mae’s bowed head. He touched her hair. “I know how it was with you. We all did. I banged my fists against the w
all every time you came to town, to see you hiding yourself, lowering your eyes and…and being so afraid. No more of that, never again. I’ll build a house for you. I have good timber on my land, a good stand of cedar lining the river. It’s stout, straight cedar, good for planks.”
“John?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do this?”
“Because you have been in my thoughts every day for years. You are the only thing left for me here. You never knew that?”
“I think I knew. I was afraid to think of it. I always thought…”
“What?”
“I always thought no one else would have me.”
“Oh,” he moaned. “What we do to hide from each other. How come we are so hard on ourselves?”
Ona Mae took his massive hands and looked John Burleson square in the eyes.
“Will you do something else for me?”
“Of course.”
“Will you call me Mae? Not Ona Mae. Just Mae.”
“Mae,” he said, tilting his head. “Mae?” A smile curled at the edge of his lips. “Mae. Ahh. I like that. From now on you can be my Mae.”
“You will build a house for me?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, in full understanding of the vows they were exchanging. “I will build a house for you. A house of purple cedar.”
Pokini's Whisperings
Rose • 1967
Death closes in on me now. I need no owl to tell me so––I’ve never put much stock in fearing owls. Staring at the cold unfertile egg upon my plate, I know the world was once a warm and sweeter place, full of runny yellow yolk and salt crystals perched on crunchy toast. I look backwards from the egg and my salt-free breakfast and my destiny is always the same––the white wooden Choctaw church in Skullyville.
Last night I had my dream again. I could simply say I saw a vision, but it was stronger than that. I had a vision—I birthed, I breathed to life, I lived a fleeting moment of vision. It was and is a vision for all the yet unborn ones, and it was thus.