Miriam Penfield stopped in mid-motion and let out a series of terrified shrieks. They rattled the window panes beside her and lifted Nate Penfield up and out of his bed before he had time to think. He grabbed his shotgun from the gun rack on the bedroom wall and streaked into the kitchen in his union suit and bare feet, bellowing his wife’s name as he went. The bathroom came alive with glaring light when he flipped the wall switch, and three wild-eyed people stared at each other in terror.
“By Jesus, Miriam, what the hell’s going on here?” the old man roared. “Put your skirt down, for God’s sake!” He turned to glare at Dawson, the shotgun clenched tight in his hand. “What the hell is this, Sonny?”
Dawson blinked in the brilliant light, then crossed his arms over his bare legs and leaned forward to cover himself as he stared up at his pa. “Jesus, Pa, I was just taking a piss …”
Nate wrinkled his nose. “You’re drunk as a skunk, boy! Been driving, too?”
“No, I don’t drive! I’m not that stupid!”
“Pretty near, I’d say! Jesus, Miriam, let the boy have some privacy even if he is makin’ like a girl!”
Miriam stood speechless, the color drained from her face, her ample chest heaving beneath the flannel nightgown as she worked to regain her composure. She had never been so startled in her life.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” Dawson said from his perch on the seat. “I was just trying not to wake you. Really.” He wished she would leave the room, but she showed no signs of moving.
“Go to bed, Miriam,” Nate said, his voice softening. “It’s all right. It’s just Sonny.”
But Miriam caught the flicker of amusement in her husband’s eyes. She felt her color begin to rise as she turned away from them, suddenly humiliated. Nate was trying to stifle a grin as she took what remained of her dignity and left the room.
Dawson felt sick to his stomach once more. “I’m sorry, Pa.”
“You should be. You damn near killed us what with her hollerin’ and all.” He shook his head and began to chuckle. “Jesus, that must have been a sight.”
Dawson looked away from his father and closed his eyes, trying to forget the look on his ma’s face.
“As for you, you ain’t going nowhere but work for a month. You’re grounded, boy.”
Dawson turned to scowl at him. “Pa, I’m twenty-five years old. You can’t ground me.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed as he shook his finger in his boy’s face. “You live in my house. And you got no driver’s license cause you drive drunk. Twenty-five years old or not, you’re grounded. You go to work. You come home. There’s plenty to do around here. Winter’s comin’ right on schedule.”
Dawson sighed and turned away. It was definitely time to move out of here like he’d been contemplating for months. He rose and pulled up his jeans. His head was pounding madly, and the nausea was returning. Why did he drink like this anyway? It never did him any good in the long run, and lately it had been doing its share of harm.
“Who were you with tonight?”
Dawson closed his eyes against another wave of nausea. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What the hell difference does it make?”
“Plenty. Your friends are the ones who get you in trouble.”
Dawson kept his eyes closed. “I get myself in trouble. It’s in my blood.”
Nate drew himself up to his full six feet, his blue eyes flashing. “What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You look at me, boy.” Nate waved a hard-knuckled fist in front of Dawson’s face. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be here, and don’t you forget it.”
Dawson nodded wearily and flipped off the bathroom light. Being here wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, but Dawson had no intentions of trying the old man’s temper any further. “I gotta go to bed, Pa, “ he said, but Nate continued to block the doorway with his bulky frame. “You still seeing that Marsh girl?”
Dawson sighed. He knew what was coming. “Sometimes.”
“I hear she’s pregnant.”
“It’s not mine.”
Dawson could not see the old man’s features in the dark, but he could hear the familiar curled lip in the sound of his pa’s voice. “Yeah. That’s what I said when Matthew Littlefoot handed you to Miriam the day you was born.”
Dawson closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The nausea and pain in his guts suddenly surged forth, and he barely turned in time to hit the toilet bowl. When he finished throwing up, Nate was gone.
Chapter Two
Grant McIan pulled the last hunk of slabwood off the pickup truck and threw it on the neatly squared-off pile beside the sugarhouse. It landed with a satisfying thunk.
“Lookin’ good.” His partner, Larry, nodded solemnly. “Shouldn’t run outta wood this year.”
“Hope not.” Grant surveyed the long rows stretching into the trees and estimated the wood at twenty cords. “We’ll run out of sap first if we don’t find some more people willing to trade.”
Larry pulled a blue and white bandanna from his back pocket to mop the sweat from his face, then wadded it up and blew his nose. “I hear Wes Dayton’s place sold. Don’t know to who yet.”
Grant shook his head. “Boy, I wish I could have bought that place. I’ll bet there’s five thousand taps there, all side hill.”
“Yup, and it’s probably some flatlander who don’t know a maple from a pine. I’m willing to bet on it.”
“Good. Then he won’t be sugaring, and maybe he’ll let us use his trees.” Grant wiped his forehead on the edge of his sweatshirt, then slammed the tailgate shut on the pickup and climbed into the driver’s seat. Larry crawled up beside him, cradling his lunchbox on his lap as they drove up the hill to Grant’s cabin to eat their lunches before heading to the hardware store.
The cabin was now a year-round home, but it had not always been so. Grant’s grandfather had originally built it as a hunting camp, his Vermont retreat from the hustle and bustle of life in Providence, Rhode Island. The land had belonged to Grant’s grandmother, a native of Chatham who had met and married Winston McIan when he was a student at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire. Her father had bought the land as an investment but had never lived on it. She, in turn, gave it to her son, Grahame, when he and his new wife decided to settle in Chatham. Grahame and Irene cleared an acre to build their house, but left the rest untouched. Whenever Winston came to visit, he preferred to stay in the small cabin he had built, and when Grant was old enough, he stayed with his grandfather.
The old man died just before Grant started college, and Grant took over the cabin as his own. He partitioned it into a small bedroom and a separate living space, insulated it, and dug a spring-fed well to provide water. It already had a masonry chimney and small airtight woodstove. He added a two-burner gas stove for cooking in the hot months and a supply of kerosene lamps. The cabin was too far back in the woods to be reached by existing power lines.
Over the years, Grant’s female guests, enchanted with dinner served by lamplight, were not so thrilled about the lack of indoor plumbing. But for Grant, the cost of living there was right. His only purchased energy was a tank of LP gas and a gallon of kerosene. By cutting his own wood, he improved his father’s woodlot and heated his home for free. The sugar maples that he left behind to flourish in their newfound space were the basis for the maple syrup business he and Larry were building.
Like many New England towns, Chatham was actually made up of several small villages, each with its own post office. Chatham Center, while not the geographical center, was the heart of the town. It was the original settlement and contained the town hall, the library, the First Congregational Church, and the oldest houses. Chatham Ridge comprised the series of hills that bordered the southern edge of town, while Chatham Flat was its antithesis, the bottom land along the Baxter river where the soil was periodically enriched by spring floods. The few hill farmers on Chatham Ridge
tended to raise livestock, while the farms on the Flat produced vegetables and strawberries and prodigious amounts of hay. North Chatham was more residential in nature, populated primarily by newcomers who worked outside the town. Chatham Four Corners was little more than a landmark where two state highways crossed.
The hardware store was in Chatham Center. The two-hundred-year-old building also housed a snack bar, a chainsaw repair shop, and the Chatham Center Post Office in the rear. When Grant and Larry pulled in, the parking lot was filled with cars and pickups. A small group of guys were gathered outside the store: Randy Faust, Clay Beaumont, and the Penfield brothers, Blake and Dawson. Blake and Randy were arguing when Larry and Grant jumped down from Grant’s truck.
“Butch is heading for northern New Hampshire,” Randy was saying.
“What the hell for?”
“Deer huntin’.”
Blake gave him a disgusted look. “I know that, you ass, but what the hell does he want to go way up there for? We got more deer in Vermont.”
“Yeah, but the season don’t start here for another two weeks. Besides, the deer are bigger.”
“Like hell they are! Sonny got one right here on the Ridge last year, weighed two hundred pounds. Ten-pointer.”
“Sonny don’t count,” Clay answered. “The deer trail him, and then turn sideways so’s he can get a good shot.”
The rest of the guys laughed, and Dawson smiled his slow, reluctant smile. Blake Penfield turned to Grant and Larry. “Saw you guys at Royal’s mill this morning.”
“Oh yeah? We didn’t see you.”
“We were out back picking out hemlock. Got a barn to close up before it snows.”
“Better get to it, then,” Larry answered, looking at the leaden sky.
Grant glanced at Dawson. Blake’s tall, dark-eyed half-Abenaki brother looked green around the gills; drinking again, no doubt.
“So who bought Wes Dayton’s place?” Larry asked. “Anybody know?”
“Somebody from Maine,” Clay said.
“Maine? What are they coming here for? Dartmouth?”
“You’d have to be some rich son of a bitch to afford that place,” Randy said.
“What’s the name, do you know?”
“Nah.” Clay nodded toward the Post Office door. “Maybe my ma does.”
Another pickup rattled into the hardware store lot, this one a battered red Ford with a bumper sticker that said HUNTERS DO IT IN THE WOODS. A robust, orange-suited man rolled out of the vehicle and eyed the group, nodding a greeting all around. His gaze rested on Dawson and a grin came to his jowly face. “Hey, that’s some story I heard about you and your old lady.”
Dawson’s general lethargy immediately transformed into an angry glare. “What?”
“Last night.” Butch Phillips turned to the others. “Din’t he tell you? This dude comes rolling in around two o’clock …”
“Who told you?” Dawson snarled.
“Huh? Your pa. He was telling it down at Wyman’s store. Anyway, so he goes sneaking in …”
“Shut up, Butch!” Dawson yelled. Blake reached for his brother’s arm, but Dawson broke free. “I can’t believe that asshole goes around telling stories on Ma!”
“Who are you calling an asshole, you bastard half-breed?” Butch lunged at Dawson in an effort to knock him off his feet, but Blake was ready for him, stepping in to ram Butch with his shoulder.
“He’s talking about our pa!” Blake yelled. “Sonny, knock it off.”
But Dawson’s ire was up, and he was ready to fight. Clay grabbed Butch and yelled at them to stop, while Larry and Grant went for Dawson. Randy stood poised between them, watching both sides for the first move.
“What’s wrong with you guys?” Grant shouted. “Dawson, go home and get some sleep; you look like shit. And Butch, why don’t you just head out and get yourself a deer? Time’s a-wasting.”
“Fuck off, Grant!” Dawson was still struggling to free his arms. “He didn’t call you a half-breed!”
“Dawson, you’ve been called that your whole life, and nobody means it, even this asshole!”
“Right.”
Butch shook off Clay’s hold and glared at Dawson, then turned on his heel. “I got better ways to spend my time,” he said as he headed into the hardware store.
Dawson’s large fists were still opening and closing as they hung at his sides. “I can’t believe Pa’s telling that story around,” he snarled.” “I could kill him.”
“Let it go, Sonny,” Blake said. “You know you can’t change him.”
“Killing him would change him,” Larry said.
The rest laughed while Dawson continued to scowl. Clay turned to Grant. “So, I hear you guys are expanding your sugaring operation.”
“We’re trying. That’s why we’d like to know who bought Wes Dayton’s. He had quite the operation himself a few years back.”
“Ten to one they post it just in time for deer season,” Randy grumbled. “Prime hunting land, too.”
“Nah. They’re from Maine, not Massachusetts,” Blake answered. He slapped Dawson on the back. “Let’s go. That barn ain’t siding itself no matter how long we give it.” The two headed for Blake’s truck with the others looking after them.
“God, that Dawson’s a scary one,” Randy muttered. “He’ll kill his old man someday.”
“I doubt it,” Grant said.
“I don’t. He’s got a mean streak a mile wide. You can see it in his eyes.”
“Well, if so, he got it from his old man, not his ma.”
Randy gave Grant a disgusted look. “I didn’t know anybody even knew his ma.”
“Well, we all know Nate, and he’s mean enough to father a fisher cat.”
“And probably has,” Larry said. “Speaking of which, I hear old Claude’s got another notch on his dick.”
“Oh, yeah?” Randy grinned. “Who?”
“One of Floyd Marsh’s girls. The oldest one.”
“Cassie?” Clay frowned. “She’s Sonny’s girl!”
“I don’t know,” Larry answered. “I just know old Claude’s fathered at least four other bastards around town.”
“Too many notches and his dick’s gonna fall off,” Randy said.
“You know what else?” Larry chuckled. “Old Floyd goes up to see Claude after he finds out, and he goes up to the trailer and he pounds on the door and Claude lumbers out and says, ‘Yeah?’ And Floyd says, ‘You got my daughter pregnant.’ And Claude goes ‘Which one?’ Now Floyd ain’t no Einstein, so it takes him a minute to get the drift, and by then Claude’s shut the door!”
“Christ, why would any of those Marsh girls even go near Bennerup?” Randy asked. “Every one of them’s a good-looker.”
“Something about us Frenchmen,” Larry grinned.
“No wonder Sonny’s so ugly,” Clay said. “He’s been going out with Cassie since high school.”
“So how does she know it ain’t his?”
“Well, I guess we’ll all know when it’s born,” Randy said. “Dawson Lightfoot Penfield ain’t gonna father no kid in secret!”
“Littlefoot,” Grant mumbled, disgusted with the conversation now. He moved away from the group and raised his hand to signal his partner. “Come on, Larry, let’s see what Loretta knows about these new people. See you guys.”
Loretta Beaumont had been postmistress of the Chatham Center post office for over twenty years. Her husband, Bob, was one of two real estate agents in town, and between them they usually knew all there was to know about newcomers to the area.
“Bob didn’t sell that one, and isn’t he mad,” she grinned as she rested her forearms on the worn surface of the post office counter. “Russell van Horton from over to Hanover did. Century 21. These people come from Maine somewhere, that’s all I know. Russell don’t say much, you know. Tight-lipped Hanover sort.”
“I can’t think of nothin’ more irritating,” Larry said.
“Have you heard a name or anything?” Grant
asked her.
“Nope. I even asked Edie over at the Ridge post office ‘cuz they’ll probably get a box over there, but she says they don’t have one yet. Why do you ask?”
“We were hoping to contact them about tapping their trees this March.”
“Well, we can ask Russ van Horton for a name and address. No harm in asking. Or better yet, why don’t you go over and ask Wes himself?”
“Where’s he living now, do you know?”
Lonely Souls Page 2