A Difficult Boy

by M. P. Barker

  Ethan jumped forward to snatch it back, but Lizzie’s hand was already on Silas’s, gently uncurling his fingers and extracting the document. “I think it may be the truth. Ethan says it was in your father’s desk. I think—I think it may be genuine.”

  Ethan blurted out the story of how he and Daniel had plotted to save Ivy, how Daniel had been caught, and how Ethan had escaped with only one piece of paper to show who the real thief was. “There’s more in his desk. Those black books of his—I think the truth’s in there.”

  Silas shook his head dizzily. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Then look for yourself.” Lizzie led Silas and Ethan around to the front of the house, so they wouldn’t need to go back through the kitchen and face Mrs. Lyman again. As they entered Mr. Lyman’s study, his wife bustled down the hallway, her wooden spoon raised like a truncheon.

  “Out! Out of my house!” she shouted.

  Lizzie stood in the study doorway, her chin lifted haughtily. “That’s odd, ma’am. A moment ago, you didn’t want us to leave.”

  “Why, you—you—you—” Opening and closing her mouth like a newly landed fish, Mrs. Lyman fumed her way down the hall. Just as she reached the study, Lizzie slammed the door in her face.

  Numbly, Silas sat at his father’s secretary while Lizzie bolted the study door against Mrs. Lyman. She pounded on the door and shouted for several minutes before giving up and going away, probably to fetch help.

  “I don’t know where the key is,” Silas said, looking about the room. “No doubt He keeps it with Him.”

  “I—um.” Ethan twisted his shirttail in his hands. “It’s broken. It broke when we—” He fumbled helplessly, looking to Lizzie for assistance.

  Silas raised a weary eyebrow. “And I’m to believe you’re not thieves?” He pulled down the flap and looked at the row of books before him. As Ethan had the previous night, he reached for the first one and began to read.

  Lizzie took a second book to examine for herself. “Look,” she said, pointing out some entries to Silas. “Look at all the debits next to Daniel’s name for new shirts and trousers. And a greatcoat? He doesn’t have any of this.”

  Two sets of footsteps thumped down the hallway now, and two sets of fists pounded at the door.

  “You see?” Mrs. Lyman’s voice said. “Locked up in there, all three of them, searching your desk for banknotes, no doubt.”

  “Silas!” Mr. Lyman called from the hallway. “Open this door! What have you done to your mother?”

  Silas slammed the ledger down on the desk, stomped across the room, and threw open the door. “My mother, sir, is dead. And it appears that Mr. Flagg has arrested the wrong man.”

  “Now, son, what lies has this—this boy been telling you?” Mr. Lyman waved a contemptuous hand at Ethan.

  “It’s you who’s the liar,” Ethan said, taking courage from Silas’s and Lizzie’s presence. “Daniel just wanted to prove it, that’s all.”

  “I knew he’d lead you astray, boy. Well, he’s going to prison now, where he’ll do none of us any more harm.”

  “He’ll die in prison!” Ethan said. “Wasn’t it enough that you took his land? Do you have to kill him, too?”

  Mr. Lyman took a second to control his face. “Took his land?” His laugh cracked around the edges. “What sort of foolishness is that? His father couldn’t mind his books and couldn’t pay his bills. I bought that land with a mortgage that Irish fool never repaid.” Mr. Lyman’s eyes darted around the room as though he thought Matthew Linnehan’s ghost might jump out of a corner and challenge him.

  Mr. Lyman was afraid, Ethan suddenly realized. A hopeful spark kindled in his heart. “He did pay you. I found the paper that says so. Only there was the fire, and he died. And then you never told anybody, so you got to keep his land. Daniel’s land.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Lyman said, stepping toward Ethan. “These things have to be witnessed. If there were any such paper, somebody else would know about it.”

  Ethan backed away. “Mr. Palmer witnessed it, but he doesn’t live around here. Nobody would think of asking him.”

  At the mention of the teamster’s name, Mr. Lyman’s lips pressed into a tight, thin line. “That’s absurd. There’s no paper. I destroyed—” He caught himself too late.

  “Destroyed what? This?” Silas said. He held up the discharge of mortgage. “Does this look familiar, sir?”

  The storekeeper’s face turned nearly the same yellowish parchment color as the paper.

  “What—what is it, George?” Mrs. Lyman asked. “He’s lying, isn’t he?”

  “Would you like me to show her, too?” Silas said. “Or does she know?”

  “It’s nothing, Mercy, nothing,” Mr. Lyman said, his voice ragged. “It’s all right.”

  His wife took his arm. “Of course. He’s trying to blackmail you. You owe him nothing, dear. Nothing.” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at Silas.

  “Nothing but the truth,” Silas said. “That you’re a liar and a thief.”

  Mr. Lyman’s hand cracked across Silas’s face. The young man stood as still and solid as granite. Ethan winced, but the only evidence that Silas had felt the blow was the growing patch of red on his cheek. Mr. Lyman’s hand came up again. Silas caught his wrist, clenching it so tightly that Mr. Lyman’s fingers spread wide and he let out a hoarse cry of surprise. Silas dragged him toward the secretary, sending him reeling into the chair.

  “Stop! Help! He’ll murder us all!” Mrs. Lyman shrieked. She ran toward the door.

  “Oh, be quiet, you old cow!” Lizzie snapped, quickly stepping in her way.

  Rising from his chair, Mr. Lyman clutched his son’s elbow. “What are you doing?”

  Silas shoved his father back down. He grabbed the arms of the chair, trapping Mr. Lyman in his seat. He jutted his chin toward the stack of black ledgers. “I’m going to take these to Constable Flagg. Maybe I should see what else is in here as well.” He released his father and attacked the desk. Drawers crashed to the floor as he pulled out more papers and account books and stacked them in a pile. “Perhaps we’ll find out who else you’ve been cheating.”

  The storekeeper recovered himself and stood up, fists doubled. “You’re not too old for a thrashing, boy.” He shook a fist under Silas’s chin.

  Silas stood his ground. “Nor are you.” He parried his father’s fist and shoved him away, returning to his assault on the secretary.

  “You ungrateful lout!” Mr. Lyman said. “You mean to ruin me, don’t you?”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about ruin, after cheating a ten-year-old out of his inheritance.” Silas looked as though he was tearing the desk apart only to keep from doing the same to his father. His hands twitched as if they’d like nothing more than to turn into fists and pound at something.

  “You’re mad!” Mr. Lyman said, trying to grab Silas’s arm and pull him away from the desk. “Who buried that boy’s parents? Who kept him when nobody else would have him?”

  Silas pushed his father off, like a mastiff shrugging off a nipping terrier. “Don’t pretend you gave him any charity. He slaved for every stitch on his back and every mouthful of food off your table.”

  “I never treated him any worse than I did you.”

  “No, I’ll say that to your credit. You never spared me the back of your hand, either.” Silas loomed over his father as if he were about to repay him for every beating. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” He shoved armfuls of books and papers at Ethan and Lizzie, gathered the rest for himself, and headed for the door. Ethan followed without thinking, dazed by Silas’s fury.

  “ ‘How much sharper than a serpent’s tooth . . . ,’ ” Mr. Lyman shouted after him. “It’s fortunate your mother never lived to see you turn on me.”

  Silas’s tan seeped away, leaving his face a sickly beige. The books and papers in his arms trembled. For a moment, he seemed to shrink. Then, in a blink, he was steady again. “You’re right. My mot
her would weep to see what you’ve become.”

  But Mr. Lyman had the last word. As Silas neared the threshold, his father shouted after him, “It wasn’t my sin that killed her!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Silas staggered, drawing his stomach in as if someone had just punched him. The books in his arms crashed to the floor.

  “There, boy, there’s the truth, isn’t it?” Mr. Lyman said. “A fine one you are to be passing judgments.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Silas,” Lizzie said. “He’s only saying that to be cruel. Everybody in town knows it was an accident. She fell—”

  “Because he made her.” Mrs. Lyman pointed an accusing finger at her stepson.

  Silas turned away as if he couldn’t bear Lizzie’s gaze.

  “You have no idea what it was like, do you?” Mr. Lyman said, his tone swaying between wheedling and cutting. “Seeing her in your face every day, reminding me she was gone, and who had killed her. I thought I could beat her out of you, but it was still her eyes looking at me out of your face, cursing me for what I’d done. I’d shut myself up and weep for her, and then despise myself for that softness. I vowed you’d never be that weak, suffer that way. I’d make you hard, as hard as Delia and I should have been. If we’d been hard, she’d still be alive, she and the baby. I vowed I’d make you hard. And I have, haven’t I?” His voice was dagger sharp. “Damn you.”

  Ethan drew closer to Lizzie. She took his hand and squeezed it. But her palm was sweaty and her fingers trembled.

  Silas’s hands clenched until his knuckles whitened. “I’ve been damned, sir, for most of my life.”

  Mr. Lyman’s bitter chuckle hung between them. “And bringing me down, that will redeem you?”

  “No, sir,” Silas said softly. “It’s too late for that.” He gestured toward the tumble of books on the floor. “But Paddy—Daniel,” he corrected himself. “Daniel and the others. Maybe it’s not too late for them.” The two men’s eyes locked for a moment.

  Mr. Lyman’s voice turned to steel. “You’re still soft. Soft for these strangers. Can any of them do for you what I’ve done? Give you what I can give? Damn you, boy, I’m your father.”

  “I have no father.” The hardness in Silas’s voice matched Mr. Lyman’s.

  Mr. Lyman recoiled as if he’d been struck with his own switch. “How can you say that? Everything I’ve done—it’s all for you. You only have to ask, son. Give up this madness and whatever you want is yours.”

  “I want the truth.”

  Mr. Lyman made a gurgling noise deep in his throat, as if someone were choking him.

  Silas’s eyes turned hard at his father’s silence. “That’s what I thought.” He stooped to pick up everything he’d dropped. Mr. Lyman groaned as though Silas had torn a hole through him. He lunged toward the spill of papers and books.

  Silas elbowed his father away. “Here,” he said, pulling the books together. “The truth’s in here, isn’t it?”

  “Ruin me, then. Ruin me, and ruin yourself as well. There’ll be no farm for you to work, no house for you to live in.”

  “It’s no more than I deserve.” But from the ashen look on his face, Ethan suspected that Silas hadn’t considered what exposing his father would really mean. Ethan himself hadn’t thought of anything but helping Daniel get Ivy and perhaps finding out the truth about Pa’s debts. He’d never imagined that hurting Mr. Lyman would hurt Silas, too.

  Mr. Lyman pointed to his wife, her narrow face grown pale, her eyes no longer sharp. “Does your mother deserve—”

  Silas cut him off with an abrupt sweep of his hand. “Your wife, you mean. I ruined my mother long ago, as you reminded me.”

  “And your sisters, your brother?” Mr. Lyman continued, gaining strength as he spoke. “You’d cast them out into the streets?”

  Silas turned to Lizzie and Ethan, his face haggard. Ethan prayed Silas wouldn’t give in. But how could he expect Silas to sacrifice his livelihood, his home, his family for Daniel? Mr. Lyman stood a little straighter, a little taller, certain that he had won.

  Ethan swallowed the lump gathering in his throat. He hoped Silas would forgive him for what he was about to do. He hoped even more that Mr. Lyman was wrong about ruining Silas. He stepped forward. “It doesn’t matter if you keep Silas from telling. I will,” he said. His chest felt tight, and it was hard to breathe, but the words came out sure and steady.

  Silently, Lizzie came to Ethan’s side. She gave his arm a little squeeze, then knelt and began gathering papers and account books into a tidy pile. “I’m sure my father can make sense of these,” she said. She took off her apron and spread it on the floor to make a bundle of the books and papers.

  The tightness in Ethan’s chest eased. He knelt to join her.

  “You see, sir.” Silas gestured toward Lizzie and Ethan. “It’s not in my hands. They have no reason to protect you. Or me.” He bent to help Lizzie and Ethan bundle up the papers and account books. Ethan noticed the tightly clenched muscles hardening the lines of Silas’s jaw, making the tendons stand out like cords in his neck.

  “Protect you?” Mrs. Lyman said. “From what, George? You’ve never cheated anybody. There’s nothing here. Nothing that can harm us.” Her chin trembled. “Is there?” She went to her husband and put an unsteady hand on his arm.

  For a moment, Ethan thought the storekeeper might lunge toward him and Lizzie and snatch the papers away. Then he turned to his wife and laid his hand over hers, his thumb tracing the blue veins that stood out on the back of her hand. “Leave us, Mercy, please,” he said, trying to guide her toward the door. “You don’t need to hear any of this.”

  “I think I do, George.” Mrs. Lyman released her husband’s arm. She groped for a chair and lowered herself weakly into it. “I need to hear the truth, whatever it may be.”

  He looked ready to crumple to the floor and weep. “The truth, then.” He returned to his desk and slumped into his chair. “Since you’ll have it whether I will or no.”

  Each time Ethan glanced at the storekeeper, he looked a little more faded, a little smaller. Ethan burst out with the question that had plagued him all day. “Why?”

  “Why?” Mr. Lyman repeated. Ethan guessed that he’d never had to give a reason for anything before.

  Silas rose and loomed over his father. “Yes, why? Why cheat an orphan out of ten acres of land that’s barely good enough for potatoes? You didn’t need it.”

  Mr. Lyman stared at his empty desk for a long time before answering. “It was Lucius who gave me the idea.”

  “Mr. Bingham?” Ethan couldn’t believe it. Mr. Bingham was an odd man, but surely not a wicked one.

  Silas growled in disgust. “So now it’s someone else’s fault. I should have known.”

  Mr. Lyman nodded. “Lucius gave me the idea and didn’t even know it. A few days after the fire, he told me how sad it was that Linnehan had left the boy with nothing but debts. I never thought the man had made a secret of paying me. But he did. He told Lucius he wanted to see me about a Christmas surprise for his wife and children. Lucius thought he wanted credit to buy some frivolous thing or other. He said wasn’t it just like a Papist to borrow money to buy presents when he should be paying off his debts. Then I remembered what Mr. Merriwether said about the fire. God’s judgment, he called it. God’s judgment on Papists for keeping Christmas like a pack of heathens. I saw God’s hand in it, too.”

  Ethan shuddered, remembering the sermons Mr. Merriwether had preached about how Papists couldn’t be saved, how God would punish them for their wrong beliefs. It made God sound as mean as Mr. Lyman.

  Silas rolled his eyes. “God’s hand,” he repeated. “What did God have to do with it? Mr. Linnehan paid you.”

  “Yes, he paid me, and we drew up the papers. But your uncle Henry was away. He was Justice of the Peace back then, too. We needed his signature before I could file the papers at the courthouse. I told Linnehan to hold on to his money until then, but he had some superstition
about starting the New Year clear of debt. He said he trusted me.”

  “He trusted you,” Silas echoed sarcastically. He shook his head in disbelief, lifting his hands and then letting them fall to his sides.

  “We had Seth Palmer witness the payment. He was handy, and Lucius was busy with a customer. I don’t think Palmer even knew what he was signing. If Lucius had been the one signing, he’d have examined every letter, every comma. And he’d have remembered.

  “I was going to take care of the discharge, get it registered. But the more I thought about it—” Mr. Lyman plucked at his son’s sleeve. “There were ten acres of land in my pocket, free and clear, and the only one who knew I had no right to them was a dead man.”

  Silas yanked his arm away as if his father’s touch would contaminate him. “There was the small matter of his son.”

  “The boy was dying. He had no family. There was no will. What was I to do, let the Commonwealth claim the land?”

  “But he didn’t die, George,” Mrs. Lyman said, her voice fraying. The more her husband revealed, the more she bent inward on herself, as if she had eaten something that was tearing at her insides.

  Mr. Lyman straightened in his chair. His voice grew indignant. “I did right by him. Didn’t I keep him in my household and raise him like family? How many times did I send for the doctor? You know he’d have died otherwise. And Mrs. Nye in to nurse him day and night. Who do you think paid for all of that?”

  Ethan bit his lip, sure that Mr. Lyman’s accounts would show that Daniel had been debited for all of that and more.

  Silas grunted. He folded his arms across his chest. “And while he was dying—rather, not dying—of fever, you stole his land. Daniel got his Christmas surprise all right, didn’t he?”

  “I waited,” Mr. Lyman said, as if that should redeem him. “I put the paper away and waited. If anybody knew Linnehan had paid me, I could say I hadn’t time to deal with it, what with the fire and the boy getting sick. But nobody said anything. When the estate went to probate, I waited until the last possible moment to make a claim. Nobody questioned me. God wanted me to have it. Why would He have let it be a secret if He didn’t want me to have it? Why would He have brought Mr. Palmer to me at just the right moment?”