“What is it, Margaret?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
She did not hurry her daughter. She knew that when Margaret stopped crying, she would talk, and then they would know what to do. She rocked Margaret slowly from side to side.
Ileen awoke and started to speak, but her mother motioned with her free hand for her to be quiet, so she sank back into her bed, frowning as she remembered her admonitions of the previous evening, but thankful that Margaret was home safe. She was surprised that she had not heard Margaret come to bed. She had waited up for her sister, reading by the fireplace until almost eleven o’clock, then going to bed, expecting to be awakened by Margaret. But that had not happened, and now Margaret was crying in her mother’s arms.
Mrs. Chambers was a gentle woman, who prayed often even though she seldom went to church. She read the Bible daily. Her church homilies were a guiding philosophy, for herself and her family. She instructed her girls in the way of the Lord, and admonished them to live humble lives of servitude to God and family, the way she had lived her own life. She was not particularly strong, not a leader, or even a joiner of organizations like the Civic Improvement Association. Those were for other women with rich husbands and too much time on their hands. Mary Chambers didn’t resent those women, because she wasn’t a resentful person. She had spent all of her life in God’s shadow, living on the promises of a loving Savior and doing her best to cast aside the worldly sins of ambition, greed, vindictiveness, and jealousy. If there were ever a confrontation, she would back down. And if she were shortchanged by one of the patent medicine salesmen who sold elixirs on the sidewalk, she would never complain, telling her husband that the man undoubtedly needed the money more than she did. For those who knew the story of her dalliance at the shivaree so many years ago, it was as if the fire in her personality was exorcised that night, the humiliation with Johnny Harwood having left her with a guilt that rendered her forever meek. But she had made the best of it, turning meekness into goodness.
When Margaret finally stopped sobbing, she looked up at her gentle mother, and wondered if she could tell her what had happened, not because her mother would not be sympathetic, which of course she would be, but because her mother would have no idea what to do. Retaliation of any kind, a public reckoning of any kind, was simply beyond her. Her mother’s natural inclination would be forgiveness. That would not be Margaret’s course, but right now all she needed was sympathy and support, and her tale came tumbling out.
“Oh, Mother, it was so horrible,” Margaret began. “Why would they do it?”
“Just tell me what happened,” Mrs. Chambers softly urged. Ileen lay stiff in her bed, afraid for her sister and for her mother, suspecting some vicious attack by Herb Forchet. Would her mother think Margaret doomed to hell by some sin of the flesh? Or worse, that the sins of the mother had been repeated and guilt would wash them all into a sea of shame? Ileen thought of her own shame, then realized how selfish that would be and pushed it aside. She would support her sister, no matter what.
Margaret, ever the schoolteacher with the organized mind, walked through the story from the beginning: the phone call from Herbie Forchet, the buggy ride, being waylaid, the horrible feeling of tar being applied to her body, and then the long night of cleaning before coming into the house.
“I stayed up until eleven,” Ileen commented from across the room.
“I was home before that,” Margaret whispered. “I asked Herbie to let me off down the road. It was still light out, from the moon, and I could tell that you were still awake, but I didn’t want to scare you.
“I went along the hollyhocks by the side of the house and out to the barn. The cows were out so there wasn’t any noise. Mother, I just couldn’t let you see what happened. My pretty new dress. It was horrible.”
Mrs. Chambers said nothing. She sat stunned, on the edge of the bed. “But why?” she finally managed to stammer.
“I don’t know, Mother,” Margaret said. She was relieved that her mother wanted to know, to understand the men’s motives, because Margaret already knew that she herself would be seeking those answers.
“I went to the back of the barn where Father keeps the horse blankets,” Margaret continued, “and took off my clothes. My legs and chest hurt so bad. They were so sticky. And it was in my hair.”
The words were rushing out, as if the expression of events had to be cast aside with her soiled clothing.
“I threw my clothes on the straw by the gunny sacks. There weren’t any rags, so I took a gunny sack and soaked it in kerosene. I just splashed kerosene on my chest and legs. It felt cool at first, but then it started to burn, and I was scared it would just make things worse. The tar started to wash off. I even put kerosene in my hair, where they had touched it. Oh, Mama, it was so horrible.”
“Then I found the lye soap that Daddy sometimes uses, and I climbed in the water tank by the windmill. I know it must have been cold but I didn’t even notice. I scrubbed and scrubbed with that soap. You know I’ve always been afraid of that tank because that’s where the cows drink, and it has that moss all over the bottom. But last night it felt so soft and clean. The moon was shining in the water and I could see myself. If I didn’t move, the water was still and I could see that I wasn’t really hurt. I just felt such shame. Why did they do this to me?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” her mother said. “We’re just glad you’re home.”
“I put my clothes in a gunny sack,” Margaret continued. “It’s still in the barn. I left the blanket just outside the back door and came to bed. I was so thankful none of you woke up.”
“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Chambers said again. “Your father will find the blanket and your clothes. He’ll burn them later. No one need ever know about any of this.”
“Mother,” Margaret said, “everyone will know. All those boys. What will I do?”
“Don’t worry about that today, darling.” It was the first time Margaret’s mother had used that affectionate term in years, since Margaret was a child. When she was seven, Margaret was playing in the barn, climbing through the stanchions where Father milked the cows, moving the sliding boards that yoked the cows while they were being milked, when she spotted a stray cat crouched in the corner. Cats and dogs wandered in and out of the farm on a regular basis, sometimes staying a day, sometimes a year, but in the end always moving on. Margaret treated them like the hoboes who came to the back door for food or a day’s work. The Chambers were known as people who didn’t turn strangers away.
Margaret knew the cat with the dirty yellow fur and crooked black stripes across its back was the most common form of stray, without pedigree, color, size, or any distinguishing characteristic to suggest a natural lineage. It was dark in the barn, even at midday, and shadows played against every wall, hiding the cat’s ears as they lay back against its head, and masking the angry hump of its back as it raised against the wall. Then it leapt at Margaret, clawing her arms and sinking tiny sharp teeth into her hands. Margaret drew back but the cat clung to her, somehow tangling its claws in her wool sweater. Margaret screamed and ran, bumping the door of the barn that was kept closed by a large spring, knocking the door open, and finally dislodging the cat from her sweater. She ran into the house, screaming for her mother, who finally calmed her down, washed the cuts and bites, and ordered Father to find the cat and shoot it. After she had wrapped bandages around Margaret’s arms, she helped Margaret to bed and held her just as she was doing now, repeating, “Don’t worry, darling, it will be all right.”
Margaret could not understand the motives of the tar party any more than she could those of the cat.
Ileen brought her a glass of water. As Margaret raised up on her right elbow to accept the glass, Ileen caught sight of the deep red scratches on her chest and the bruises that were turning black on her breasts. Ileen instinctively put her hand to her mouth and backed across the room to her own bed. Margaret noticed the reaction but said nothing. She raised the glass to
her lips, turned to look out the lower corner of the window, and saw the small fire burning in the cow pen. She handed the glass to her mother and fell asleep.
Easy Tucker stumbled in the back door of the farmhouse he and Tiny had shared all their marriage and quickly switched off the single light bulb that hung over their kitchen table, hoping his wife wouldn’t notice his red and swollen eyes. Worse, he still couldn’t erase the irritation on the side of his right hand. It wasn’t pain, or a pinch, or any kind of burning sensation—just a presence that seemed tied to his brain, so that when he felt the itch he saw her breasts shining large and full in the moonlight. When he had the vision, the feeling pulsated on the outside of his little finger, like a festering leprosy that had been diagnosed but couldn’t yet be seen. He stuffed his right hand in his pocket and made a tight fist in the hope of squeezing the feeling away, then sat at the table, trying to gather his senses before facing Tiny.
When Easy looked up, she had filled the doorway. “Is she leaving the county?” Tiny asked. “I prayed for you all evening. You were the instrument of God’s vengeance this night, Ed, and I know you carried out his wishes. I pray that we will be rid of her evil for all time, Ed, and that will be the Lord’s will.”
Easy said nothing.
Tiny could see that something was wrong. She walked around the small table and ladder-back chairs to place her hands on Easy’s shoulders, feeling the shudder that moved across his body. “Are you all right, Ed?” she asked. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
Easy jerked his hand from his pocket and shoved it onto the table. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “What happened?”
Tiny reached over Easy’s shoulders and placed her hands on his cheeks; she felt the wetness of tears and the pain that had stretched his skin, like the freezing and thawing of the earth that leaves crevices in the spring. The walk home from Twelve Mile Run had left Easy’s face broken and rough.
As large as Tiny was, and as rigid as her belief in God could be, she was still a gentle woman who had salved Easy’s wounds, physical and psychological, for seventeen years. She knew when his tears touched her fingers that something had gone terribly wrong; Easy was a common man of good sense, but he seldom cried, and Tiny was worried.
“Tell me, Ed,” she said.
Easy just shook his head slowly from side to side. Then he dropped his forehead to rest on his left arm, and his back began to shake with convulsions. Tiny felt more helpless than she had in a long time, probably not since her children were sick with the fever. They had recovered, but she never forgot those terrible days when she could not help them as they shook and coughed; her only recourse to trust in the Lord. The Lord had responded and her faith was rewarded. Nevertheless, it hurt her to see Easy’s body so consumed by grief.
Easy could feel Tiny rubbing his shoulders and it gave him reassurance. He raised his head from the table and began to tell the story, not in sequence, but in blurts and coughs that focused on his pain.
“Oh, Mom,” he said, using his most endearing name for his wife. “She was so young, about like our own kids. I tore off the front of her dress. I saw her . . .” And his voice faded into sobs. Tiny’s hands flew to her mouth. She said nothing, but her face started to harden as she realized that she had never really thought about the process of tarring and feathering. Why tear off her dress? Somehow she just assumed the tar would be poured on the outside of her dress. Maybe just on the apron of her skirt. Not on her face. Why tear off her dress?
“She kept saying, ‘Why me? What do you want?’” Easy said.
“Well, I hope you told her,” Tiny answered.
Easy said nothing, but he was regaining his composure. He straightened his back and used his shirttail to dry his eyes. It had helped to blurt out what had happened, even if he didn’t fully understand why. He looked down at his right hand. The itch was still on his finger.
Tiny said nothing as Easy looked up. He stretched his legs under the table and let his muscles relax for the first time in hours.
“Ed,” Tiny began, “did you see her?”
Easy knew what Tiny meant, but he said nothing.
“Did you tear her dress off just so you could look at her?” Tiny said slowly. “Did you break a commandment of the Lord?”
Easy wasn’t sure what he had done. The question made him stop and consider his guilt and shame. He knew that lust was wrong. But lust wasn’t adultery. Had he broken a commandment? He didn’t “covet his neighbor’s wife”—this Margaret was just a girl. But it was definitely wrong to look at a young girl’s breasts. It was a sin. A terrible sin that he recognized the moment it happened. He wondered if Tiny knew that her anger and questions were actually easing the guilt because he couldn’t specifically identify the sin. He guessed not.
“How could you?” Tiny screamed, staring at him. “How could you let yourself be lured into a mortal sin by that vile woman? You put your hands on her. You touched her. You tore her dress and exposed her body. Shame on you, Ed Tucker. The Lord will strike you for this. I sent you out in the name of Christ to rid our county of this shameful, evil woman, and you fell under her spell. You will know the Lord’s vengeance, Ed Tucker.” Then Tiny turned and ran to their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Easy sat at the table and with his left thumb, he began to scratch the outside of his little finger. Quietly, he began to cry.
The next morning, Ed Garvey Jr. slipped out of the house without breakfast, not wanting to face his mother, not knowing whether she knew about the tar party. He needed to talk with his father. He rode directly to the mill, arriving just after dawn when the world seemed incredibly peaceful. A few meadowlarks ushered in the brightness of another summer day. Ed noticed a slight dampness still on the wheels of the wagon parked behind the mill office. He had pulled the wagon behind the building last night, unharnessed the mare, and rode her home. She was still lathered from the fast pace of getting away from Twelve Mile, and a line of white sweat was spread over her haunches like froth along the beach after an ocean storm. Ed had looked her over this morning in the barn but didn’t bother to wash her down. She had been put up wet before. Instead he rode the stallion to the mill.
This morning, everything seemed to be in place. Ed took the used tar pail out of the wagon and dropped it from the edge of the water wheel into the deepest part of the river, a sinkhole that slowly deepened with each turn of the wheel. He watched as the pail filled with water and sank down into the darkness.
Ed Sr. arrived about seven thirty, seemingly in high spirits, wearing a brand new denim jacket he had picked up in Salina. He wasn’t surprised to see his son already in the office, sorting out the books for the day ahead. Ed Sr. had run into Club Wilson’s dad the previous evening and had heard about the plan for the tar party. Now he wanted a firsthand report.
“Hello, son,” he said, “I understand you boys were up to a little mischief last night. How’d it go?”
“I think we got her out of this county forever,” Ed Jr. said. “She knows we won’t tolerate her kind around here.”
“That’s good, son,” Ed Sr. said, lowering himself onto a bench. “Now we won’t have to fool with that damned school board. I wish your mother wouldn’t find out, but I’m sure she will. You just leave her to me. We had to get rid of this teacher, and everybody knows it. Hell, you’ll probably get elected mayor for all this.”
“You don’t think she’ll go to the sheriff, do you?” the son asked.
“Naw, the sheriff wouldn’t do anything anyway. He knew yesterday what was up, and he didn’t do anything. Besides, he’d have to arrest half the town, and for what? Putting a little tar on that girl. No law against that far as I know. I wouldn’t worry about it. Our biggest problem now is we have to find a new teacher.”
“I worry about Herb.”
“Who’s Herb?”
“You know, Dad. The barber, Herb Forchet. He drove her buggy. He looked scared out o
f his knickers last night. Plus we gave him a bloody nose.”
“Why’d you do that?” Ed Sr. asked.
“We had to make it look real. He was supposed to take that Chambers girl off the buggy before we got there, but they were having some kind of argument, so we had to throw him off in the ditch.”
“You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
“No. We tore her clothes a little to put the tar on. But she’s all right.”
“You tore her clothes,” Ed Sr. repeated slowly. “Why didn’t you just pour the tar on her dress?”
“I don’t know,” Junior said. “We didn’t talk about it. Easy just grabbed her dress and ripped it down.”
Ed Sr. didn’t really want to hear any more. He was really quite proud of the boy, not usually one for leadership in most matters, and in this case he had put the whole plan together. Of course, he knew some folks might look a little askew at tearing off the girl’s clothes, even if they did want her out of the county. Even the Reverend Aaron might have trouble with that. But he could take care of Aaron, and the sheriff, if need be.
Esther's Pillow Page 8