by Carla Kelly
“Time to move on,” he muttered. He wasn’t so sure he could provide anything fancier than a lumber stall, or at least that was how it looked to him as he drifted off.
B
“Wake up. I have to talk to you.”
Ammon tensed. A man’s hand on his shoulder brought him wide awake. He grabbed the hand that shook him and bent the fingers back until the man swore. Ammon opened his eyes, then sighed and closed them again, releasing his father-in-law’s hand. I can’t do anything right with the Finches, he thought, wondering if all husbands felt that way about in-laws.
Ammon opened his eyes again, hoping that Thomas Finch was a bad dream brought on by salmon croquettes. Nope. He was still there, rubbing his fingers.
“Sorry, Brother Finch. I’m not used to people grabbing me.” He’d never tell a father-in-law how Addie used to grab him. The thought made Ammon smile a little. There was no returning smile. “What, uh, can I do for you?”
Ammon pointed toward the stacked lumber next to him as he swung himself into a sitting position and tried to keep the suddenly too-small quilt covering him. “Have a seat over there, sir.”
Finch looked around with real distaste, sitting poker-stiff as always, but with his long legs stuck out at curious angles because he was too tall for the lumber seat. He looked like one of the blue herons that waded, stilt-like, on the pond behind the Hancock’s house in García.
Finch was silent, staring at Ammon’s bare feet sticking out from under the quilt, as if he had never seen toes before. Maybe he hadn’t. Even Addie had joked about how formal her parents were.
They stared at each other. Ammon was reminded all over again how grateful he was that Addie didn’t resemble her father. Double dog dare you to look away first, he thought.
To Ammon’s satisfaction—he noticed his pleasures were getting smaller and smaller with each passing day—Thomas Finch looked away first.
“I don’t know how to ask this.”
“Then don’t,” Ammon said, ever practical. “We haven’t really had much to say to each other.”
“Where’s Addie?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where’s Addie?” his father-in-law said again. “She was there in García, and she didn’t come out with the women and children.”
“You’re serious?” Ammon said, fully awake now. “I never saw her there.”
“Of course I’m serious! Who jokes about what I just asked? Maybe you don’t know, but Yvonne and I were visiting in Logan when the order came to leave. Our other children were in Dublán, but Addie was keeping an eye on Grandma Sada.” Finch stood up and walked the brief length of the lumber stall. “Where is she?”
“I have no idea,” Ammon replied, keeping his voice neutral, even though goose bumps started to march up and down his back. “Addie and I haven’t exchanged one word since she threw her wedding ring at me.”
“She’s your wife!”
“Not lately.”
Finch shook his finger at Ammon, a gesture so impotent that Ammon wanted to laugh, even as his own uneasiness quickly crowded all humor out of his mind.
“You and your whole family are ramshackle ne’er-do-wells,” Finch declared. “I don’t know why we ever agreed to let you marry our little girl.”
Maybe because you were so busy planning a better marriage for your show-pony daughter that you forgot the quiet one, Ammon thought but had the sense not to say it. “Well, you did agree, and it didn’t work out, so what do you want from me now?”
Ammon winced inside after he said that, because it didn’t seem much better. He hadn’t meant to sound so hurt, but that whole dining room scene came back— Addie so pale and angry, him so stunned at her sad news. He wanted to get up and leave Finch standing there, but he couldn’t think of a dignified exit from a lumber stall, wrapped in a quilt.
“I’m sorry you don’t know where she is,” Ammon said, his voice softer now, as he tried again to placate a man used to comfort, standing in a lumberyard. “My father said there are still a lot of refugees here and there in El Paso. I doubt Addie would stay in a lumberyard for long.”
“She wouldn’t have a choice, if you two were still together,” Finch muttered.
I’ll never be good enough, Ammon thought. He couldn’t think of what to say. For all her quiet ways, Addie was much quicker with a comment, most of them funny. He remembered a few zingers, some of them at her own expense, because she didn’t mind a joke. Too bad they couldn’t weather a crisis.
Apparently Thomas Finch couldn’t either, Ammon decided as he regarded his father-in-law. Funny what happens to some people, unused to difficulty, who find a problem they can’t solve. He found himself looking at the other man with sympathy, something he wouldn’t have thought possible two years ago.
“I’m sorry I didn’t measure up,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll find Addie in a private room in El Paso, probably waiting for you. President Romney has a list—”
Finch grabbed Ammon by the quilt and gave it a shake, making Ammon grateful that his sisters and mother were in the next stall with Aunt Loisa. He struggled to hang onto the only thing between him and embarrassment. “Wait a minute, I’m—”
“You think I haven’t already talked to Junius Romney and looked everywhere?” Finch raged. “I’d rather do almost anything than talk to you! I need your help!”
The words were nearly torn from his throat. He released his hold on the quilt and sat down. Mama came around the corner of the stall, her face stern.
“Brother Finch, my son still hurts over what happened. Maybe you’d better just state your business or go away.”
Ammon stared at his mother, the anger leaving his heart as he watched her hands shake. She had never said boo to a goose in all the years he had known her, and here she was, standing up to one of the wealthiest men in the Colonies.
“It’s all right, Ma.”
“No, it isn’t! Don’t hurt my child, Brother Finch.”
She said it quietly and simply. The angry lift to Finch’s shoulders subsided. Suddenly he looked older.
“That’s better,” Mama said. “Let me get your clothes, Am. Brother Finch, you can stay here and watch him dress, or you can wait outside.”
A muscle worked in Thomas Finch’s cheek as he left the stall. He flung back the quilt that served as a door, almost as though he wanted to slam it hard. It was such a childish gesture that Mama couldn’t help smiling. She left too, returning with Ammon’s clothes folded neatly. “Here you go, son,” she whispered.
Ammon took her by the arm. “Ma, I didn’t know I needed a champion,” he said. “I’m twenty-six.”
“Everyone needs a champion, now and then,” she said, then left him alone.
Ammon dressed quickly, tugging on his boots that someone had cleaned. He pulled back the quilt and gestured to his father-in-law. “We’ll discuss whatever we have to discuss like civilized people. Come inside again, sir.”
The fight had gone out of Thomas Finch. Ammon sat on the cot, waiting for him to speak. When he did, his voice was subdued.
“As you very well know, Yvonne’s mother has been threatening to die for a few years.”
Ammon knew he wouldn’t have put it that way, but he also knew his father-in-law was not a subtle man. He just nodded.
“Addie has been in García all summer. You never saw her? Don’t you go to church?”
Far from subtle, Ammon thought. You’re not going to rile me. Not this time. “My freighting business is in Pearson,” he explained, keeping his voice neutral. “I don’t spend much time in García, and I go to church in Juárez.” He looked his father-in-law in the eye. “I know you’ve seen me there.”
While it could never be said that Thomas Finch wilted, the starch went out of his shoulders.
“All I can figure is that Grandma Sada actually took a turn for the worse, and Addie either couldn’t move her or wouldn’t leave her. She’s still there; she has to be!”
“Heavens, I h
ope not,” Ammon said. “I’m hoping you’re really wrong and she’s here in El Paso.”
They were both silent.
“No one saw them in García?” Finch said, ending the long pause.
“No, or they would have come out with us, whether they wanted to or not. I never saw any smoke from Grandma Sada’s chimney either.” Ammon shook his head. “Maybe I never really thought about it.”
That wasn’t true. He thought about Addie all the time but assumed she was on the family ranch between Dublán and Juárez. He had almost gone over to Grandma Sada’s house one evening after all the women and children left García, just to sit on the side porch, smell the honeysuckle, and remember better times with Addie. He had started down the side street, then changed his mind.
He looked up. Mama had come into the lumber stall, her eyes worried. She sat down on the lumber pile, Junebug on her lap, her arms tight around her youngest. Ammon knew just what she was thinking as she looked down at her own daughter, then at Thomas Finch. Then she looked at Ammon, and it was a look of calm resolve.
“Son?” was all she said.
He nodded, his mouth suddenly too dry for speech. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was return to García alone. On the train to El Paso, some of the García men had sat together and discussed how soon they could return, but even the most eager knew it depended on what their priesthood leaders told them.
“This can’t wait until we get the go-ahead from President Romney,” Ammon said.
“Of course it can’t!” Finch snapped. “I’ll pay you one thousand dollars to find Addie and get her out of Mexico.”
She’s my wife. You don’t owe me a penny, Ammon nearly said. He looked at his father-in-law, a man he didn’t like and probably never would. He had discovered early in his marriage that people like Thomas Finch dealt in dollars and never in kindness. Thoughtfully, he appraised the man, knowing that Finch expected him to say, “You don’t owe me a penny.” I believe I’ll surprise you, he thought. Why not? It’s been a pretty awful day so far.
“Let’s do this,” Ammon said finally. “You pay my mother five hundred dollars in greenbacks before I even put my rump in the saddle and cross that border.”
Ah, yes, Finch hadn’t expected that, if the startled look on his face was any indication. He nodded, his eyes wary.
“If I die in Mexico, you pay my father another five hundred dollars.”
Mama couldn’t help her gasp. Ammon knew better than to look at her. It was one thing to think it, and another to say it.
“And if you get Adaline out and survive?” Finch asked.
“You pay that five hundred dollars to Addie. She can decide what to do with it,” Ammon said. “If she wants to divorce me and start over somewhere else, that’ll be enough money. If she has other plans …” He shrugged. “It’ll be Addie’s five hundred dollars, either way. Let’s put it in writing.”
“You don’t trust my word?” Finch asked, the question a challenge.
“ Nope.”
“Oh, now, Ammon,” Mama started.
He overrode his mother, not looking at her. “Brother Finch, tell me something: Did you really send a telegram to Pearson to tell me about Addie’s miscarriage?”
Silence. Brother Finch looked away. “I think I forgot.” He sounded sulky, like a boy caught at mischief.
“That’s what I thought,” Ammon said. He went to the quilt door. “Mama, get it in writing. I’m not coming back here until he’s gone. I’m not even sure I ever want to see him again.”
“It was just a miscar—” Finch began. He stopped when Ammon grabbed his chin and gave him a shake.
“Don’t you even say anything like that to me, and for sure, not to your daughter,” Ammon said, each word distinct. “I’ll get her out of Mexico, but I’m not doing it for you. I’m probably not even doing it for Addie. This one’s on me.”
THREE
AMMON LEFT THE lumberyard and walked toward the depot, needing to put distance between himself and Thomas Finch. He sat on a wooden bench inside the depot because it was cool there—at least, as cool as El Paso ever got in early September. With all his heart, he longed for the mountains they had left behind, where life had been hard, but peaceful, in those days before the long-overdue revolution began.
He thought of the time, years ago, that Mama had suffered a miscarriage. In that way of women, the Relief Society brought over casseroles and good cheer, comforting as best they could. Ammon remembered going to the barn where his father sat weeping. No one came to comfort him. Ammon remembered just sitting next to his father, their shoulders touching, because Pa never cried and Ammon was only twelve and didn’t know what else to do.
Pa finally blew his nose and put his arm around him. “Son, for some reason, they don’t think men need comfort.”
Addie, that was my child too, he thought, leaning back. After Addie threw his ring at him, he had mourned by moving permanently to Pearson. He added a room onto his stable and cried there in peace and quiet when he felt like it, because only his team was around to listen. Mostly he just worked harder, wrote letters to Addie that were returned in pieces in another envelope, and watched the revolution unfold in front of him in that railroad and lumber town. He finally lost count how many times Pearson changed hands between the federales and the Red Flaggers. He freighted for both sides, kept his head down, and hid his earnings in the two-hole privy behind the stable.
He’d leave tonight on the westbound train to Hachita. The army had expressed some interest in hiring his team and wagon to haul rations to the Mormons now camped all along the border. Like every riding horse he had ever owned, Blanco would be happy to see him. He’d go overland, the same way they came out, avoiding major roads, heading into the protecting sierra as soon as he could. He knew every logging road and Indian trail in the mountain district, roads that armies never traveled. He could have Addie back to Dog Springs in a day or two.
It was a piece of cake, except that he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that. There was his money in the privy in Pearson to retrieve, and he knew there would be other, hardier colonists sneaking back into Juárez and Dublán. Depending on who controlled the railroad, he could probably just put his wife on the train, bid her adiós, and stay behind. He thought about it in the dim quiet of the depot and asked the Holy Spirit what He thought. Nothing. Ammon decided to rethink the matter. He looked around; other men were sleeping there, so he knew he could close his eyes in prayer and no one would notice.
He received a different answer, one so bizarre that he almost laughed out loud. That can’t be right, he told himself. Maybe I’m rusty at this. He closed his eyes again. Same impression. Maybe it was time to pay attention.
He didn’t want to leave the quiet of the depot because it reminded him of the little home he had shared with Addie. He could count on quiet there, or near-quiet, because Addie liked to hum while she fixed dinner, and he enjoyed listening to her. And if he came into the kitchen and just put his arms around her, she never objected. She never even minded taking a pan off the hob, if she too had more on her mind than boiled potatoes.
Squinting against the brassy sun, Ammon left the depot. He reached in his pocket for his timepiece, then remembered that a guerilla had taken it from him on his last visit to Pearson. Well, it felt like an hour had passed.
Mama met him at the entrance to the lumberyard, where she must have been watching for him.
“Brother Finch gave me five hundred dollars,” she told him, tucking her arm through his. “I’m so brazen. I asked him for another twenty-five for incidentals. Are you taking the train back to Hachita?”
He nodded.
“You’ll need it for train fare and supplies. Maybe a serape and sombrero. Your Spanish is more fluent than some Mexicans. It’s September and you’re dark from summer.”
He nodded again, wanting to tell her what he was thinking. He didn’t because it was so preposterous.
Mama looked at him, measuring him in that way of
hers that told him she had something to say. He waited, amused, because he had something to tell her. She hesitated and obviously thought better of it.
They sat together, silent, under an awning in the lumberyard until Pa returned, carrying a burlap sack of vegetables. With a sigh, he sat down beside them and handed five dollars to his wife, looking at both of them.
“What’s this? A delegation? Did I do something wrong?” The smile left his face. “Brother Finch found you, I guess.”
Ammon nodded.
“He came to the mercado, and I told him you had come out with the others. Are you crossing the border to bring back Addie?”
Ammon nodded again.
“Thought you might.”
Keeping her voice low, Mama explained what had happened. She looked around, then opened her apron pocket a little for Pa to see the money. Pa whistled.
“Guess my five dollars didn’t impress you too much today!” he joked.
“He’s going to give you another five hundred if I die down there,” Ammon said.
“I have it in writing,” Ma chimed in.
“I think he expected me to be all noble and say I’d find Addie for nothing, but I’m tired of being noble, and we have plans.”
Ma looked at him, startled. He touched her arm. “Yeah, this is my business voice; I usually keep it in Pearson. My sisters have plans; you know they do. Elise has her heart set on going to the academy in Provo, and Joannie wants to study nursing. Susan wants to teach home economics someday, and June …” Ammon frowned. “Junebug would just like another set of play dishes like the one she left behind. We’re strapped, Pa, and we need Brother Finch’s money, plain and simple.”
They sat in silence, then Pa cleared his throat. “Get Addie out fast and hurry back to us, son.”
Ammon shook his head. “No. I intend to take my time getting Addie out, provided I can find her. Just an extra day or two.”
Pa just stared at him. Ammon glanced at his mother, who was smiling a private little smile, even though it made her lips tremble.
“Were you going to suggest that, Ma?” he asked.