A gasp escaped from the crowd as the old woman stepped onto the platform. A crimson flush of anger crept like a tide up Judge Ruby’s neck, but the tiny lady bullied him aside.
“You want to honor Billy Ruby? I’ll tell you about him; we grew up together. I found this letter in my attic last night, setting right out in the open like it was waiting to be found. It jogged a few memories.
“Bill was a crook through and through. If you got on his blacklist and found yourself facing him in court, you got a taste of his vengeful nature. If he got to hankering after something you owned, chances were he’d find a way to wrest it from you. If you were a beautiful girl indentured in his kitchen, like my childhood friend, Wilhelmina” —she held up her letter— “you might find yourself compromised with no legal recourse.
“William Ruby left town to join the army because a crooked land deal he made went sour. The ball he took in his leg didn’t come from a British musket. He was shot by the angry father of a teenage girl in Pennsylvania.” She glared at the murmuring crowd with disgust.
“If you wanted to honor a local veteran, you should have chosen the man who set things to rights when Billy left. You should have picked the man who married Wilhelmina and claimed her son as his own. Captain Jebediah Reece is twice the man William Ruby ever was, but you couldn’t see that past the wealth of the Ruby estate. Shame on you. All of you.”
The widow threw down her letter in disgust and stormed her way through the crowd and out the door. Micah wanted to stand up and cheer, but he managed to suppress his glee down to a ridiculous grin.
Behind the widow, the room erupted in astonished conversation. Judge Ruby scooped up her letter, glanced at a few lines, and angrily wadded it into a ball.
Micah snickered, his resentment cleanly forgotten. He would have worn his suit all week just to witness the shock breaking out across over-rouged faces. He couldn’t have planned it better if he had plotted it out himself.
Micah’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the bench. He did plot it! In his journal the evening before. With the quill pen.
His head spun in a sudden riptide. The luncheon came off exactly as he had wished, exactly as he had written. The widow’s incriminating letter couldn’t have popped up by happenstance, could it?
Micah felt his chest compress. After the bonnets, he wasn’t sure he could chalk this up to chance.
7
_______
The surf was louder today, rolling in through the mouth of the cove like rhythmic breaths. Micah took another bite of his sandwich and reached for the glass of lemonade, his mind a jumble of agitated thoughts.
He needed to discuss the quill pen with Gabby, but the amount of work at the shop yesterday had left no opportunity to sneak away. And this morning his father had accompanied him to the widow’s to work out a deal to haul away her unwanted furnishings and sell them on commission in the city. It hadn’t gone well.
The woman had readily agreed to the arrangement. She led them upstairs and pointed out a variety of items to be removed. Uncharacteristically silent, she had allowed them to work without any direction or interference. But her keen gray eyes overlooked nothing. And she couldn’t have missed the shouting had she been a mile out to sea.
Father and son had tunneled through the cluttered room all morning, hauling the largest furnishings down three flights of stairs until the lawn resembled an estate sale. It was littered with chairs, tables, ornamental shelves, a pigeonholed desk, and even a cradle. All awaited their assignment in the wagon until the largest piece, a splendidly carved bureau, could be placed first. It was, of course, farthest back in the attic.
The widow followed them up and down, silent but ever in the way. And as the temperature rose, Gerald’s patience began to melt away.
A ray of sun, hazy with stirred-up dust, slanted sharply down to the floor before an aisle had finally been opened to the magnificent chest of drawers. As a result of their labors, large empty gaps had appeared throughout the room. The remaining items were mostly small and manageable.
“Grab an end, boy,” his father snapped. Gerald had already found handholds on either side of the massive chest.
Widow Parsons could stay silent no longer. “You might as well ask him to lift your team of horses and the wagon too.” Her lip curled in disdain. “No boy can haul that bureau. Micah, run and grab the blacksmith.”
Micah tried not to show his relief as he dashed for the door.
But his father boomed out, “Woman, I think I know my own son’s strength.”
She snapped right back, “And I have my walls and stairways to think of, Mr. Randall.”
“I tell you, I know what I’m doing! The boy is nearly a man. Micah, grab the end!”
Micah approached hesitantly. His arms and back already ached from the hours of heavy lifting, and a cramp was forming in his right calf muscle. Slowly, he stretched his arms around the end, the wood solid and unforgiving.
“Sometime today, boy,” Gerald growled.
The medieval king was back, frowning down on him, passing judgment, and once, just one time, Micah wanted to measure up. He grabbed the dresser and, muscles screaming, managed to move in the direction of the doorway.
They paused at the top of the stairs, his father shifting to back down first, supporting the bulk of the weight. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Micah resolutely picked his end up again and slowly, so slowly, they started the huge dresser down to the next level. His back and shoulders burned like fire, and his leg muscle constricted. Halfway down he began to gasp. He could feel his strength fading. He fought it, but it drained away like the runoff of a large wave, and the bureau slipped from his grasp.
The freed weight hurled downward, digging a three-foot gouge in the plaster and slamming his father to the ground. Rising to his feet, the man let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor wince. Then he turned the tirade on his son.
Micah had failed. Again.
The fire burned hotter in his gut.
Mrs. Parsons jumped into the fray, wagging her finger in the big man’s face like a schoolmarm. “You’re a fool, Gerald Randall. Too proud to admit when you’re wrong. You knew blamed well the boy couldn’t lift that weight. Now look what it’s gotten you.”
She pointed to a crack in the side of the chest, marring the intricate wood design. Then she delivered her most devastating blow. “You’ve just forfeited your commission. This piece won’t bring half of what it was worth anymore. I’ll be expecting the full price you receive.”
Gerald’s face grew mottled with bright red splotches. Micah chose that moment to sneak out and fetch the blacksmith, hoping the two combatants didn’t kill each other in his absence.
With the blacksmith’s help, the bureau and the scattered furniture were soon lashed into the wagon. Gerald climbed onto the seat without a word or a glance in the old woman’s direction.
“Leave the boy,” she called out. “I have more work for him.”
That had been two hours ago. Now Micah sat on the back veranda watching the early afternoon sunlight scatter on the surf’s spray. The rumbling in his stomach was satiated, and strength had returned to his weary muscles.
“You find out what kind of bird made that feather, boy?” The widow threw him a keen glance across the table.
Micah jumped, sloshing his drink into his lap. Did she know he’d stolen it? But there was no accusation in her eyes. “No, ma’am. I probably never will.”
“My daddy had saltwater in his veins,” she said abruptly. “One eye was always reading the weather in the sky, the other he fixed on distant lands. He was driven to reach that next port, regardless of what it would cost him.
“He traveled to Europe, to Africa, to the tip of South America. When he came home, I used to crawl on his lap and listen to adventure after adventure. I never grew tired of hearing them.
“My mama, she tried to keep him home, but it never curbed his wanderlust. He was a s
ailor till the day he died. This town was built by men just like him.
“But you’re no waterman,” she stated, fixing him with a penetrating glare. “No businessman either. You belong to the woods and the fields. I see the fire of the wild ones in your eyes. I saw it the moment you picked up that feather.”
Micah felt strangely transparent, like she could see right down inside him. Like he was a glass filled with water. It unsettled him.
She pulled out a coin purse and snapped open the top. “We’re finished today. I have errands to run. I’ll send for you in a day or two.” She counted out some coins. “Here’s two days’ pay, seeing how I forgot to shell out last time.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I told you not to mumble, boy.”
He tried again, louder.
“That’s better. Now skedaddle before that new fella at the bank closes up shop.”
He jumped up, but she grabbed his arm, burning into him with even, calculating eyes. “Next time, tell your father you can’t lift it.”
***
The “new fella” at the bank was Mr. DeWitt. “Thomas Lloyd DeWitt” the placard on the door read. He was a slight, pleasant, middle-aged man who had moved from Boston in search of a quieter way of life. And though he’d taken over for old Mr. Parker four years ago, he’d be new to the older residents until their deaths.
“Hi, Mr. DeWitt,” Micah called as he pulled open the door.
“Why, hello, Micah.” The banker was rather plain—single, with a receding hairline and wire-rimmed spectacles. “What can I do for you today?”
“Just this,” Micah replied, sliding his pay under the bars of the teller’s window.
“Oh yes, you’re working for Mrs. Parsons.” Mr. DeWitt leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don’t let her scare you. Deep down, I think she’s really a decent person,” he said with a wink.
Micah made a face. “It must be pretty deep.”
The banker laughed. “So, you’re depositing this?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. DeWitt rustled some papers and began filling in numbers. Then with a thump, he handed Micah a rubber-stamped receipt. “You’re collecting a good sum of money for someone your age,” he praised. “Your father must be proud.”
Micah snorted. “Nothing I do ever pleases him.”
“Oh, I think you’d be surprised how a father feels about a son.”
At that moment, Micah caught sight of Gerald through the front window, striding purposefully toward the bank.
“Oh no,” Micah moaned, searching frantically for a hiding place. “Here he comes now. Don’t let him see me!”
The banker shot him a sympathetic look. He unlatched the swinging door in the counter and held it open. “Quick. Back here.”
Micah dove behind the partition just as the door opened.
“Ah, good day, Mr. Randall,” Mr. DeWitt called with a smile. “What can I do for you?”
Gerald was all business. “I need to make a withdrawal.”
Mr. DeWitt started the paperwork and asked pleasantly, “Will your son be starting at Fremantle soon?”
Micah almost groaned out loud. His father had deemed the local schoolhouse too improper for a Randall and enrolled him in his own alma mater, the Fremantle Boys’ Academy in the city. Micah looked forward to it like a knife wound.
“Next week,” Gerald snapped.
“Ah,” the banker nodded. “I was in your store this morning. Getting a little low on merchandise, I noticed. But it’s beautiful weather for a supply run, especially with shipping costs what they are,” he prompted.
Gerald looked the banker full in the face. “DeWitt, your nose for other people’s business is entirely too long.” He made no attempt to mask his annoyance.
Mr. DeWitt gave a hearty chuckle. “Will your son be accompanying you?”
“He’ll mind the store.”
“Fine boy, your son.”
Gerald remained silent. Then grasping his money and the receipt, he strode through the door without another sound.
Micah crawled from under the counter and laughed out loud. “Thank you, Mr. DeWitt! If he knew I was back here, he’d have hauled me off to that dungeon of a store in no time flat!”
The banker smiled. “I suppose every boy needs a little time for recreation now and again.”
Micah watched his father disappear up the street before opening the door. “You promise you won’t tell him?”
Mr. DeWitt became very grave. “I never discuss one client’s business with another. Besides, I’d be tattling on myself!”
***
The man shifted his hold on the wooden chest, listening to the lap-lap of waves that had grown all too familiar. He was alone, bobbing on water that stretched beyond the horizons.
He licked his lips, felt the dry, cracked skin on his tongue. The salt water had parched his throat, parched his body. The chest might keep him afloat, but it contained no food or water, and it could not protect him from sharks.
He was going to die.
His mind drifted to the others. Certainly they believed him now. Where were they, he wondered. Had they somehow escaped? Or had they met his same fate, slipping beneath the waves one by one?
He thought then of his mother, of how he’d like to see the old woman one more time. She’d been disappointed in him. He’d always planned to make her a grandmother. To find a wife, buy a farm, raise children of his own. Someday…
The sun sank to meet the ocean, darkening the waves, cooling the air. He had given up hope. He knew now that day would never come. With an involuntary shiver, he pulled out his knife and carved another mark into the face of the old chest. It would be the only record of his final days.
8
_______
Micah waved to the kindly banker and darted behind the building. At last he had an opportunity to talk to Gabby about the strange pen. Within fifteen minutes, he was approaching the rickety shack in the swamp.
Jade met him at the edge of the clearing, her back end likely to topple with the force generated by her tail. When Micah reached down to scratch her, she covered his hand with sloppy affection.
No one was sitting on the porch, but Maria soon poked her head around the corner of Sanjay’s shop. Her face was as pink as a radish and smeared with soil. She propped up her bulk with a hoe. “Hello, Micah.” Her accent bounced along like an uneven stone. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Hi, Maria. Is Gabby here?”
“No. She went to town for me. You must have passed each other.”
Micah felt disappointment slide over him.
“But she’ll be home for supper. You will stay and eat with us, no?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. My mother will be expecting me. I just came for an afternoon visit.”
Her broad face split in a smile. “You are a good boy, Micah, and always welcome, but I must finish the garden before the weeds carry away my vegetables. Sanjay is in his shop. He will visit with you.”
Sanjay already peered from the door of the old shed. “Micah,” he called. “Come see the treasure I found after our last storm.” He held the door wide.
Inside, the reek of moldy timbers combined with freshly cut wood in a sweet symphony of aromas. An untidy inch of sawdust smeared the floor and hushed their footsteps. The old sailor was a fine craftsman. His latest creation, a side table carved with intricate, twisting vines, waited half-finished in the center of the room. Micah rubbed the smooth top appreciatively.
“For Mrs. Crenshaw, the cooper’s wife. It will be a wedding gift for her niece,” Sanjay volunteered.
“It’s beautiful.” Though most of the townspeople treated the dark-skinned family with suspicion, when they had need of fine woodwork they grudgingly commissioned Sanjay.
“That’s not what I brought you in here to show you. Look there,” he pointed.
Micah followed his finger up to a menagerie of old shipping r
elics displayed on the walls like fine art. His eyes sought out a mounted steering wheel, a bell, a torn old map, several nautical instruments, a pair of cabin lamps, even a broken chunk of a figurehead carving. Micah knew the rickety house, too, was filled with such vestiges of the big sailor’s hobby.
“No, no. Here,” Sanjay insisted, pulling a tapered tool off the wall.
“It looks like ivory,” Micah said.
“Whale ivory. A jawbone, most likely. It’s a rope-working fid.”
“A what?”
“A fid. It’s used to separate the strands of a spliced rope. And look here.” Sanjay turned the fid to reveal sketches of a ship and a whale. “Days on a whaler can get mighty tedious, and many sailors become expert at carving in teeth or bone. Some of the artwork is incredibly detailed. It’s called scrimshaw.”
Micah took the tool and admired the picture. It was rough work, but clear and simple. “You found this on the beach?”
Sanjay nodded. “Off some passing whaler. It turned up in the surf.”
“You mean you don’t know which ship?” Micah teased. “I’m disappointed. I would expect its dimensions, tonnage, captain’s name, and full history!”
Sanjay smiled, his teeth gleaming white against his dark face. Micah had whiled away many an hour listening to the sailor’s old tales and absorbing his seemingly boundless knowledge of the sea. “Just now it’s not whalers or even whales I’ve a mind for, but only a simple catch of fish. Care to join me?”
Micah squinted at the sun to judge the time. “I’d love to. I still have a few hours before I’m expected home.”
They hiked upstream to Crystal Lake, which was really just a broad, swollen section of the river. Jade followed, splashing through the shallows and poking curious whiskers into every hole along the bank.
The trees thinned and gave way to wide meadows that smelled of sunshine and of the pink lobelia growing along the shore. Waist-high grasses rippled in a miniature ocean, with waves that glinted golden in the slanting light. Jade plowed in among them, her path marked by a flurry of meadowlarks roused from their roosts. Every twenty feet or so her head would pop up just above the tops of the swaying grasses, like a gopher peering from its hole.
The Quill Pen Page 5