A Difficult Boy

by M. P. Barker

  Ethan felt trapped inside a nightmare. It seemed as if Mr. Lyman were two completely different people at once: the one who had Ethan cornered and trembling, and the one who bent to accept Ruth’s good-night kiss and give her one in return. Ethan almost expected to see the two Mr. Lymans split apart and the kindly father go with Mrs. Lyman to tuck Ruth in while the second Mr. Lyman stayed to torment Ethan.

  “All right, boy,” Mr. Lyman said, after his family had disappeared behind their bedchamber doors. With one hand, he captured Ethan’s wrists and jerked them down so he couldn’t hide his face. “The truth now.” His voice was low, and even more menacing for that.

  “I d-don’t know. Paddy—he’s not—he can’t be a thief.”

  “I caught him in the act, boy. Rifling through my desk.” His grip tightened, and he forced Ethan to his knees.

  Tears welled in Ethan’s eyes at the shock of his landing. Pain lanced from his knees all the way to the base of his skull, and it felt as though his wrists were being crushed to jelly in Mr. Lyman’s palm. “C-c-c-aught him?” Ethan stammered, hoping his terror sounded like surprise, like innocence. “What—what—where is he now?”

  “Locked up in the cellar. Don’t tell me he didn’t take you into his confidence.” Mr. Lyman shook Ethan like a dog shaking a rat.

  Ethan’s head thumped hard against the wall. He choked on tears and phlegm, wanted to collapse to the floor and just sob with fear and pain. He thought then that he would just tell everything, if it would make Mr. Lyman leave him alone. But telling would only make things worse. How could Daniel always be so brave, he wondered. He swallowed back the glob of mucus in his throat, grasping for the right lies to tell. “I-I-I-didn’t know. I didn’t think he’d really turn out to be a thief. I hoped he wasn’t so bad as everyone made out. I-I-I-I guess I was wrong.” Ethan let himself go limp and drooped his head. “I guess you were right about him all along.”

  Mr. Lyman narrowed his eyes. “If you’re lying to me, boy . . . Well, never mind for now. Upstairs with you, and I’ll deal with you when I’m finished with the other one. Then we’ll see how much you know and how much you’re pretending not to know.” He hauled Ethan to his feet and dragged him toward the attic stairs. He shoved him upstairs then slammed the door behind him and shot the bolt home.

  Ethan lay on the stairway for a long time, letting loose the racking sobs he’d held back. Finally, head aching and throat raw, he dragged himself up the stairs. He thrust his shaking hands into the pitcher, dashed the lukewarm water on his face, rubbed it over wrists that felt rope-burned from Mr. Lyman’s grip.

  Fat and bronze, the moon’s round face filled the eastern fan window, spilling silver-blue light across the attic. The moon’s shadowy craters seemed to curve into a mocking sneer. Ethan turned his back on it and limped to the western window, where Daniel so often looked out over the spot that had once been his home. The stars were wan and feeble, overpowered by the moonlight. He clutched the sill, his nails digging into the wood. He wanted to ball his hands into fists and slam them through the window. Instead, his fingers brushed against Daniel’s tiny horse. He rubbed the toy’s wooden neck and sides, wishing it could be magic, that it could tell him the right thing to do, or that it could spring to life, grow to full size, sprout wings, and carry him and Daniel far, far away, beyond the mountains, or even to the moon.

  Clutching the horse in one hand, Ethan flopped down on the bed and reached into the mattress, where he’d hidden the paper. The coarse straw and husks scratched his fingers as he groped for the smooth white rectangle. For all its raggedness, it had been important once—he could tell that even in the moonlight. Mr. Lyman had drafted it in his best hand, and the tattered paper had once been heavy and fine.

  Ethan took a lucifer from Daniel’s little table and lit their last candle stub. He tipped the paper so that the light shone more fully upon it. The document was full of important-sounding words like whereas, hereby, wherefore, and witnessing thereof. Four months ago, Ethan wouldn’t have been able to make any sense of it. But from his lessons with Mr. Bingham, he knew that familiar words like presents and satisfaction had entirely different meanings from the ones he’d learned in school. He prayed that he’d remember enough of his lessons to sort it out, prayed, too, that it might hold some clue that would help Daniel.

  He followed the letters with his finger. Know all men by these presents . . .

  By the time the moon moved out of the eastern window and stood straight overhead, he’d studied the paper so long that he could see it with his eyes closed. It was just what he needed. The document was dated December 1834, the winter of the fire that destroyed Daniel’s family and his home—the home that Daniel’s father had mortgaged to Mr. Lyman. The home that Matthew Linnehan had redeemed only days before his death, the final payment and satisfaction of mortgage all documented by the paper Ethan held in his hands. But Mr. Lyman had taken everything anyway, taken Mr. Linnehan’s money and his property. And his son. Taken them all and used them as if he had a right to.

  He rose and returned to the western window, where the silhouettes of the mountains loomed like sleeping dragons. Surely the paper would be enough to prove who the real thief was. And surely Matthew Linnehan’s land was worth the price of a horse. But what good would the paper do when it was locked up in the attic with Ethan, while Daniel was trapped in the cellar, maybe even now being thrashed to death by Mr. Lyman? And when Mr. Lyman came for Ethan, he’d find the paper and destroy it, destroy it and Daniel and Ethan all together.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  With the moon hovering above the mountains, poised to sink behind them and yield to the sun, Ethan made his decision. He would have to tell more lies than he’d ever told in his entire life. He would have to tell Mr. Lyman he was sorry for not believing him. He would have to disown Daniel entirely and pretend that he was on Mr. Lyman’s side, now that he knew Daniel was really a thief and a liar. It was the only way he’d get free. And then, once he was free, he could run home and tell Pa and Ma everything that had happened. Surely they would help Daniel. He frowned, remembering that people used to call Pa Simple Gideon, that Pa had relied on Mr. Lyman to sort out his accounts. Would he know if someone had been cheated? And would anyone believe Simple Gideon? But Ma—she’d know. She’d know and she’d figure out a way to help.

  He slit the seam of his vest pocket and slipped the document in between the vest front and its lining, working the fabric between his fingers until the paper settled by the side seam, where someone searching his pockets wouldn’t notice it. Then he braced himself for the thud of Mr. Lyman’s footsteps on the attic stairs, practicing over and over what he would say.

  Only Mr. Lyman didn’t come. The eastern sky faded from black to gray, and the cattle and sheep grew restless for their breakfast. From the attic window, Ethan watched Mr. Pease and Mr. Wheeler and Joshua Ward and Lizzie come to do their chores. He watched Mr. Lyman talk to them in the yard, telling them all of Daniel’s crimes, no doubt. He watched Mr. Lyman walk away after giving the men their instructions. He watched Lizzie go in and out of the barn with her milk buckets, and the Lyman girls go off to school.

  As the sun crawled higher in the sky, the August heat filled the attic and stayed like an unwelcome guest. The cicadas hummed a constant vibrato that set his nerves trembling to the same frequency as the sound. The sound stretched and stretched and stretched, then snapped in a moment’s silence, then started again.

  An hour, maybe more, went by, and a wagon drawn by a piebald horse pulled into the yard. A middle-aged man with the sad eyes and droopy jowls of a hound dog drove. Constable Flagg. Mr. Lyman sat next to him, calling out for Mr. Pease as they drove into the yard. Ethan watched the three men disappear into the house, then return dragging Daniel, bound hand and foot.

  If he hadn’t known it was Daniel, he wouldn’t have recognized him. His face was purple and swollen, striped with tendrils of dried blood. Dark stains splotched his tattered shirt, welts and bruises mottled his
forearms. Mr. Lyman talked excitedly to Mr. Flagg and gestured as if recounting a fearsome duel between himself and Daniel. The constable glanced uneasily back and forth from Daniel’s battered face to Mr. Lyman’s unmarked one. Finally, Mr. Lyman and Mr. Pease tossed Daniel in the back of the constable’s wagon like a carcass to be taken to the butcher’s. Then all three men got into Mr. Flagg’s wagon and drove away.

  Ethan’s throat clogged and his eyes blurred.

  Noontime came and went, and still Mr. Lyman didn’t return. Ethan could smell dinner cooking in the kitchen, but Mr. Lyman didn’t come home for it, though Mrs. Lyman came out and stared down the road for a long time, as if that would summon him back. He saw the girls come home from school for their noon meal and leave again. He watched Lizzie throw the dinner scraps to the chickens. Then somewhere in all the watching, he fell asleep.

  Ethan heard the bolt rattle at the bottom of the stairs. His head snapped up, and he dashed to the farthest corner of the attic, as if that would protect him. The tread on the attic stairs was lighter than Mr. Lyman’s. No doubt it was Mrs. Lyman come to see if she could thrash the truth out of him. He set his jaw and tried to work up his courage to endure whatever she meted out. He began to rehearse his story in his head.

  But it was Lizzie’s voice that came to him from the stairway. “Ethan? It’s only me,” she said softly.

  He sobbed with relief as he dashed over to her. “Lizzie! You have to let me out! Please!”

  “Shhhhh,” she said. “I brought you some dinner. I made you a plate while Mrs. Lyman had her back turned.” She set a cloth-covered dish on the floor next to him and pulled knife, fork, and spoon from her apron pocket.

  “I don’t want it,” Ethan said. “I mean, that’s kind and all, Lizzie,” he added when he saw her expression go from sympathetic to sharp, “but I have to get out. I have to help Daniel.”

  “It’s too late for that, dear. Daniel’s made more trouble than anyone can help him out of now.”

  “It wasn’t his fault!”

  “Mr. Lyman caught him right there, stealing from his desk. How could it not be his fault?”

  “Please, Lizzie—”

  Lizzie smoothed a tangle of sweaty hair away from Ethan’s forehead. Her hands felt cool, even though they were strong and callused. “This is about Ivy, isn’t it?”

  Ethan nodded. “We just wanted to figure out how to keep her, that’s all.”

  She tipped Ethan’s chin up to look into his eyes. “Buying her with stolen money was a pretty foolish idea, wasn’t it? Whatever made Daniel think he wouldn’t get found out?” She shook her head. “I was starting to think he was different from what they all said. Now it turns out he’s just a thief after all.”

  “He’s not! He’s not!” Ethan tore away from Lizzie’s touch. “It wasn’t money we were looking for. We were looking for Mr. Lyman’s account books. We thought we could prove that Mr. Lyman owed Daniel enough to buy her.”

  “We?” Lizzie’s eyebrows rose. “So he dragged you into it after all. Oh, Ethan!” Her hand rose to her mouth. “If Mr. Lyman finds out—”

  “He’s the one that’s the thief. I can prove it if you let me out.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “It’s not my place—”

  “Please, Lizzie. You know what he’ll do when he gets back. You saw what he did to Daniel, didn’t you?”

  Lizzie winced and looked away.

  Ethan clutched her arm. “If I don’t get out, nobody will ever know the truth. Daniel will go to jail. And he’ll die. You know he can’t stand to be shut up anywhere close. Please, please . . .”

  Lizzie looked around as if she expected to find someone spying on them. Finally, she said, “Show me this proof, and then we’ll see.”

  Ethan ripped the lining from his vest and took the paper out. He hesitated before turning it over to her. “You have to promise not to give it to Mr. or Mrs. Lyman. You have to promise to let me out first.”

  “All right. I promise.”

  Ethan fidgeted while she read the paper. How much time had they already wasted? Why couldn’t Lizzie just trust him?

  “This is terrible. Just terrible,” Lizzie said finally. She got up quickly and put the paper into her pocket. Ethan grabbed for it, but she pushed his hand away. “If anyone tries to stop us, they won’t be looking through my pockets, will they?” She pursed her lips. “But who do we tell?”

  Ethan heard the sound of hoofbeats in the yard below. He tugged at Lizzie’s sleeve. “Come on, Lizzie. We have to go now. Somebody’s coming—maybe it’s Mr. Lyman.”

  She stepped over to the window and looked out. “No. It’s all right. It’s Silas come back. We’ll tell him. He’ll know what to do.”

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Lyman demanded as Lizzie and Ethan came downstairs into the kitchen.

  “We need to talk to Silas.” Lizzie took Ethan’s hand and headed for the door.

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Mrs. Lyman stepped in their way, her arms folded across her chest, her tall, thin frame a solid barrier to their escape. “That boy is being punished, and you have no right to take him.” She reached for Ethan’s free hand.

  Ethan jumped back as if she were a snake. Just as quickly, Lizzie stepped between him and Mrs. Lyman. “Don’t you touch him.” Although Lizzie held her head high and her eyes flashed angrily, her hand on Ethan’s was shaking.

  The slap sounded like a thunderclap to Ethan’s anxious ears. He gasped and looked up to see Lizzie’s cheek reddening with Mrs. Lyman’s handprint.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Silas’s deep voice resonated through the kitchen.

  Lizzie was wrong, Ethan thought, watching Silas’s eyes darken with gathering ire. Silas would take Mrs. Lyman’s side after all.

  “What she’s doing is defying me,” Mrs. Lyman said. “This insolent baggage is—”

  “Not her. You,” Silas said, pointing to his stepmother. His mouth was set in a thin, angry line, and his hands opened and closed at his sides. “Do you think Lizzie’s a bound girl for you to strike as you please? Apologize to her.”

  Ethan had never heard Silas defy his stepmother before, let alone order her to do anything. Neither, apparently, had Mrs. Lyman. For all the heat of the fire and the sweltering day, a cold trickle crept down Ethan’s spine as he watched her face turn as red as the pickled cabbage that sat in a bowl on the table. She snatched up one of the wooden spoons from the table and struck Silas so hard across the jaw that the handle cracked.

  Silas raised a hand to his cheek. A spot of blood appeared where a splinter from the spoon had scratched him. He stared at the blood on his fingers as though he didn’t know what it was.

  “You’ve gone too far, boy.” Mrs. Lyman’s hands flailed about as she talked, as if she yearned to strike the young man again. “You’d think the farmhands and the dairymaids were in charge of things around here.”

  “Farmhands? I trust I’m more than that, ma’am.” Silas’s voice remained cool, but it was a dangerous chill.

  “Oh, yes. You’re no more than a glorified farmhand. No more than that”—she snapped her fingers under Silas’s nose—“to Mr. Lyman and me. You’re only here on my sufferance—you and those—those boys.” She said boys the way she would speak of vermin and wrinkled her nose at Ethan as if he were a piece of filth from the bottom of the slop-bucket. “And all because your father has a soft heart. He’s endured you and those—creatures—out of pity. And look where it’s gotten us. Robbed last night, and heaven knows but we might have been murdered as well. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn you had a hand in it.”

  Silas blinked and shook his head. He looked suddenly confused by the course his stepmother’s tirade had taken. “This is absurd.”

  “Is it? I know what you’re capable of. I do indeed.” Her eyes narrowed into glittering slits. “Your father may be blinded by sentiment, but I know his mind and his memory.”

  The last three words seemed to lance through Silas
, draining the color from his face.

  “Silas?” Lizzie said softly.

  With a visible effort, Silas straightened and collected himself. “Come along, Lizzie. I see we’re not wanted here.”

  “You’re not taking that boy,” Mrs. Lyman said, moving toward Ethan.

  Silas brushed her aside and took Ethan’s free hand. “A thief takes what he pleases.” He turned, and he and Lizzie marched out of the house with Ethan between them.

  “Go, then!” Mrs. Lyman shouted after them. “But you’ll answer to Mr. Lyman before long. I’ll see that you do.”

  Ivy was tethered in the yard, still saddled and bridled. Silas took the reins, looking for a moment as if he wanted to leap on her back and race away. Then he shook his head and ran a hand across his face as if he were putting on a mask, his expression changing to an unreadable blank.

  “What is it, Silas?” Lizzie asked. “What does she mean?”

  He shook his head. “You heard nothing in there. Nothing. Understand?”

  “No,” Lizzie said.

  Ethan tugged her sleeve impatiently. “We’re wasting time, Lizzie,” he whispered. “Daniel—”

  “Daniel?” Silas repeated. “Yes, I’ve heard. The whole town seems to know.” He spoke slowly, as if it took an effort to redirect his thoughts. “Turned thief. Well, I hardly have any right to judge him, have I?” He started to lead Ivy toward the barn.

  “He’s not a thief,” Ethan said.

  Lizzie took the reins out of Silas’s hands and wrapped them back around the hitching post. “There’s something you need to see,” she said, taking the paper from her pocket. She glanced back at the house, where Mrs. Lyman watched from the kitchen window. Lizzie moved behind Ivy, so Mrs. Lyman couldn’t see her.

  If Silas had looked stricken before, he looked crushed after reading the paper. “My God, what sort of lie is this?” He clenched his fist around the document.