Esther's Pillow

by Marlin Fitzwater

  “I noticed the wagon out back has a little tar on the floorboards,” Ed Sr. said. “You might want to clean that up a little.”

  Ed Jr. got the message. He closed the red ledger, shoved it back in the top drawer, and moved to the door. Just as he reached for the knob, the door opened in front of Club Wilson.

  “Oh, sorry, Ed,” Club said. “I just came over to tell you that Herb Forchet has left town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Barbershop is locked. Buggy is gone. Looks to me like he never even went home last night.”

  The Reverend Aaron and Ivy Langston, sitting at their kitchen table, poured themselves a glass of warm milk only minutes out of the cow. All five of their Holsteins had been milked before sunup. Jay’s brother Ray had drawn them the general outlines of the previous night’s activities while they were milking. Ray hadn’t participated, but he knew what happened, and when he looked in on Jay that morning it was confirmed. Jay’s clothes were rumpled on the floor at the foot of his bed, and a small feather was lodged in the cuff of his trousers. Ray walked directly to the barn, stood between the Holsteins fat with milk, and spoke over their backs to his parents, each sitting on a “t” stool with a pail between their legs. Ray didn’t know the details, but he knew the plan, and he rushed it out with the barest of details. The Langstons listened without comment, then Aaron spoke with unusual quiet. “Your mother and I will take this up with Jay after milking.” No more was said until the couple sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Mother,” the Reverend Aaron began, “I have preached often on the sins of the mortal. I have asked our congregation to be ever aware of their sinful ways, to follow the lessons of God, to teach their young that the laws of God are the laws of man. And I believe the Lord will punish all those who break his laws; he will have mercy, but he will not be restrained. If the Chambers girl is guilty of taunting our boys, or leading them into temptation, then she should be removed from the school.”

  Ivy was a hard and unforgiving woman in matters of betrayal to God, and she agreed with her husband in every aspect of his ministry. But she also had five daughters and had heard their prattle about boys and teachers and their other friends at school.

  “I worry about Margaret’s mother,” Ivy said. “In spite of that incident years ago, and in spite of their not going to church, I think she is a good woman. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. I hope Margaret wasn’t hurt.” Ivy also understood how a personal comment once made can never be taken back, how a moral mistake once made can never be erased from memory, and she knew that Mrs. Chambers had closed herself off over the years rather than face any reminder of shivaree night. Ivy could not imagine compounding that pain with the knowledge that her daughter had been tarred and feathered.

  “We’ll know soon enough if Margaret was hurt,” Aaron said, pouring another glass of milk.

  They hadn’t bothered to make pancakes, or fried eggs, or scrambled potatoes, or any of the normal breakfast dishes. Ray had stayed in the barn, eager to avoid the discussion about to take place in the house, and the girls were still in bed. So the house was still when Jay padded out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, wearing an undershirt and trousers, but no socks or shirt. He was still waking up, unshaven, and hoping for a quick drink of water from the cistern pump to clear his throat. But the minute he stepped through the kitchen door, he knew it could be some time before he finished dressing.

  “Sit down, son,” the Reverend Aaron said. “Tell us about your activities last night.”

  “We had us a tar party,” Jay said casually, leaning against the doorjamb. “We showed that Chambers girl a thing or two.”

  “Whenever we take the Lord’s will in our hands,” Aaron said, “we must be sure of our righteousness. Do you know her trespasses?”

  “Yes, Dad. Everybody knows her trespasses. She tried to seduce that Swenson boy. And she teases everyone. You know how she looks at people. Wearing all that fancy jewelry.”

  “We know her sins of pride and arrogance,” Aaron said. “But it is also a sin to bear false witness against another. Do you know all these things to be true?”

  “We didn’t hurt her,” Jay said. “We just poured a little tar and some feathers on her and told her to get out of Nickerly. She wasn’t hurt. I helped put her back on the buggy myself.”

  Ivy’s face was known to set in a frown that would outlive stone, but when she heard Jay’s comments, so unadorned with remorse or concern for the girl’s family, a slight crack moved from the left corner of her mouth around the corner of her chin, betraying a deep moral conflict between the purpose and the methods for enforcing moral purity. Although she would never acknowledge it, she also had considerable doubt about her son’s newfound zeal in enforcing the tenets of the Bible. She believed in the thoroughness of his moral upbringing, a process that had involved hours of lectures, Bible readings, and religious studies. But the fact that he let these admonitions slide so easily from his bearing worried Ivy. She had hoped for some show of remorse at having to inflict this unusual punishment on the Lord’s behalf. But it was not there. Her son was pleased, even proud, of his actions.

  “Everybody in town was in on it,” Jay said, beginning to feel that a more secular defense was needed. “Must have been fifteen guys there. And we got the feathers from Esther Ennis.”

  “I don’t need to know the details, son,” the Reverend Aaron said. “I’ll pray for you. And you better pray that that Chambers girl is all right. Now get dressed before the girls get up.”

  Jay shifted his weight off the doorjamb and turned on his heel. He smiled to himself. The inquisition had been easier than he expected, presumably out of deference to the religious value of the tar party’s actions. But he was a little concerned about his mother’s reaction, especially that vaguely hesitant expression that had fluttered over her face. He wasn’t used to seeing his mother uncertain.

  Chapter Nine

  W.W. McArdle, the county prosecutor, walked quickly along the dirt road in front of his newly rented home, one of only four houses on Fourth, and the only one in Nickerly available for rent. He counted his steps from home to the courthouse, saying a number with each footprint he made in the soft black soil. The street had been graded with a horse-drawn blade, but every rainstorm left ruts in the road from the wheels of wagons and carriages. W.W. swerved every few steps to keep from twisting his ankle, but he never lost count.

  The little town of Nickerly had lettered its streets in one direction, and numbered the cross streets, a miniature version of the section roads that measured the farmsteads every mile. W.W. wanted to know exactly how far he walked to work in the morning so he could advise clients on distance. It was only a hundred paces from home to courthouse, and maybe three hundred paces from one end of town to the other, although he hadn’t had a chance to walk it yet. This was his first month in Nickerly and moving his wife and daughters from Topeka to a prairie town of a few hundred people left him little time for walking tours.

  He took the courthouse steps two at a time and bounded into his office, setting his briefcase on his dark walnut desk. He moved to the two double-hung windows behind his chair and raised the roller shades, allowing a block of morning sun to form on the desk. W.W. was still apprehensive about this move west, but it helped that his wife was starting to appreciate the slow pace of Nickerly life. He remembered how she had questioned the move, having grown up in Kansas City. But now they had a church, the First Presbyterian, and Mrs. McArdle had been invited to join a Bible reading group. It seemed his family was assimilating rather well.

  W.W. was less certain about himself. He liked the prestige of being county attorney. His classmates at law school often talked about the long climb in building a legal reputation, the boring probate cases that formed the basis for most private practices, and the struggle to secure clients. But here in Nickerly, W.W. seemed a celebrity from the beginning. His name was in the paper. People even stopped him on the street just to shake hands. Yet he wished h
e felt more comfortable with farmers and their clipped conversations about grasshoppers and cattle diseases. It wasn’t a perfect fit for W.W., but he was trying to learn the local customs. Last week he even stopped by the blacksmith shop to watch a red-hot plowshare being hammered into shape. He admired the smithy’s quick, self-assured movements, his deft handling of the scorching metal. The smithy had a unique talent, and so did he. W.W. was proud of being a lawyer.

  Margaret Chambers and her mother paused at the base of the steps and looked up the limestone front of the Nickerly County Courthouse, past the varnished oak doors, past the long windows on the first floor, past the conical roofs of the corner towers, to the clock tower in the middle of the building. It was almost noon before Margaret had convinced her mother that she had to tell the sheriff what happened, and it took another hour for her mother to explain that the sheriff wouldn’t care, that he was friends with the men who tarred her, and that too many community leaders were involved. So they decided to talk to the one person they didn’t know, the young county attorney from Topeka, who had arrived in Nickerly only a few months ago.

  Margaret had tearfully recounted her story again for her parents, even the part about her dress being torn and the man in the bonnet who walked away. Her mother gasped at each new revelation, feeling her daughter’s pain, the crudeness of her attackers, the shame of her physical exposure. Margaret’s father sat stone-faced. He was furious at the cowardice of his friends and neighbors, but within him dwelled a deep fear of the community’s judgment and such a heavy shame that he could not muster a stronger defense of his daughter.

  Margaret saw that weakness in her father’s eyes and knew that if she sought justice of any kind, she would likely stand alone. She would be the accuser, not the victim. But she had her mother. And in her mother blazed a fierceness and an understanding of her situation that came from years of being unable to fight back, unable to challenge the shivaree rumors. For it took more strength than any in the family realized for Mrs. Chambers to endure that injustice, to sleep through the anger and rise each morning to face a condemning community. Margaret knew now where her courage came from, and she knew her mother would stand beside her in the “Office of W.W. McArdle.”

  Mr. McArdle’s office was on the first floor, across from the county clerk’s office, only two doors down from the district judge, and within twenty steps of the county courtroom, a solemn and elegant chamber at the end of the hall. Margaret knocked gently, pushed the door open, and held it for her mother. Then they both stopped to face the county attorney.

  W.W. McArdle looked up from his desk but said nothing. Not many women had visited him since he took office. Most of the legal affairs of the county were conducted by men, and most of the trials brought to him for prosecution involved violence by men against men. He knew that women were taking a greater interest in public affairs, even marching in the streets of Topeka for suffrage, but he had no idea what these two women could want.

  “Are you Mr. W.W. McArdle?” Margaret asked. “I read about you in the paper, and I need your help.”

  “I am,” he replied. “Please come in.”

  As Mr. McArdle rose from his desk, Margaret took stock of him. She did not know what lay ahead of her, but she imagined that at a minimum she would have to face her attackers, and she hoped for a strong shoulder to lean on. The man in front of her did not look too promising. Mr. McArdle appeared to be less than thirty years old, with a narrow build and slightly hunched shoulders. At least his clothing seemed professional. His white shirt was heavily starched, accented by a thin black tie. He wore finely pressed black pants, highly polished shoes, and a pair of round, wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked to Margaret like a professional man should look, and a far cry from the businessmen of Nickerly who seldom polished their shoes. His voice was somewhat high, but she had only heard five words, and they were uttered with a precision that appealed to her. He had thin features, with black hair parted in the middle, but his saving grace was a smile that materialized the minute he stood up.

  “I’m Margaret Chambers,” she said. “And this is my mother. I have been tarred and feathered, and I want to punish the men who did it.”

  The smile vanished from W.W. McArdle’s face.

  “Please sit down,” McArdle said, ushering the two women to the wooden captain’s chairs in front of his desk. As he moved around the desk to his own chair, he took an appraising glance at the straight-talking young woman before him. He didn’t know the Chambers, or many other people outside the courthouse. But the name Margaret Chambers did stir some recognition, perhaps a gossip item from one of his secretaries, or perhaps a mention by his wife after church. He couldn’t recall the exact context.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Margaret took a deep breath and carefully recited her story with total fidelity to the truth, as she knew it, but there did appear to be a lot of blank spaces, particularly the whys.

  “Forgive me, Miss Chambers,” McArdle said, “but why did these men do this?”

  “They said they wanted me to leave the county.”

  “But why? Did these fellows all have children in your school? Do you know any of them? Any personal grudges?”

  Margaret’s mother reached between the chairs and touched her daughter’s hand.

  Margaret’s firmness began to weaken. She had steeled herself for the painful recollection of the attack, but she still hadn’t come to terms with her feelings toward the individuals. It was easy to hate Herb Forchet, and she blurted his name out quickly. He had tricked her, used her, and made advances that she rejected. But the others were harder to classify.

  “I don’t know why,” she murmured.

  Margaret looked at the floor. Her hands registered a faint tremor, as she thought of Mrs. Garvey and what her accusations would do to their family. But if justice was to be done, she had to reveal everything she knew.

  “Ed Garvey, from the mill, and Jay Langston, the preacher’s son, and another man in a dress and bonnet that I didn’t recognize,” she said. “There were others, everywhere. I couldn’t see them. There were horses in the dark. And a roar, like one of those cars. And then more men on the road wearing head scarves. I didn’t know any of them.”

  As Mr. McArdle listened, his anger began to grow. This was not a childish prank, or even an adolescent mistake. This was a crime perpetrated by grown men, married men, leaders of the community.

  And it didn’t really matter why, or what, Margaret Chambers had done. These men had assaulted her, had violated her, and they had to be dealt with by the law.

  “Miss Chambers,” he said slowly, “if you’re certain you want to proceed with this, I’ll need you to swear to charges against these men, and I’ll have the sheriff arrest them. I think we should start with Mr. Forchet.”

  “What will happen?” Margaret asked. “Will they go to jail?”

  “First, we’ll have to investigate this matter,” McArdle answered. “Then we’ll see what kind of charges need to be brought. Do you know where Mr. Forchet is?”

  “I understand he left town that very night,” Margaret said.

  “Well, let’s start there.”

  McArdle took a sheaf of paper from his desk drawer. At the top, in large script, were printed the words “State of Kansas, Warrant—General Form.”

  “Whereas,” McArdle wrote, “an information has been presented and filed against Herbert Forchet, charging that on or about the 7th day of August a.d. 1911, in the County of Nickerly and State of Kansas, one Herbert Forchet did then and there unlawfully assault, beat, and wound one Margaret Chambers, contrary to the form of the statute in such cases made and provided and against the peace and dignity of the State of Kansas, therefore:”

  The rest was preprinted. It was an order to the sheriff to arrest, forthwith, Mr. Forchet, and secure his appearance before the judge of the District Court of Nickerly County to answer for the charges.

  McArdle pushed t
he warrant to the front of his desk for Margaret to read. She shuddered slightly at the legal formality of the charges, but her expression never changed. Neither did she look at her mother, who had gently started to cry. Margaret nudged the warrant back with a soft “Thank you.”

  McArdle rose from his desk and walked the women to the door. As he was closing it behind them, Margaret suddenly turned and said, “Why doesn’t it say anything about the tar and feathers?”

  “Sadly,” McArdle said, “there’s no law against that.”

  Jay Langston rushed into the mill office early the next morning, out of breath from the short ride at a high gallop, hoping to find Ed Garvey Jr. alone so he could give him the news. But inside the office, standing behind the counter, were Ed and his father, obviously agitated and angry. When the door broke its jamb, the two fell silent, but their last words were still on their lips, like a drop of coffee from the last sip. It was the kind of awkward silence that shrinks a room, and Jay could feel the walls.

  “You know,” Jay said simply.

  “Everybody knows,” Ed Jr. said. “I heard it from three people before I got two blocks this morning. By noon, everybody in town will be here.” He meant everybody involved in the tar party.

  “You boys quit stammering,” Ed Sr. said. “That Chambers girl deserved exactly what she got. You boys did the right thing, and this town will back you up. I’m going to talk to the sheriff today and straighten this thing out. It’ll never go to court. I’ll spend every last dollar I have to see to that.”

  Jay could see that the Garveys knew more than he did about the arrest of Herb Forchet. “What’s going to happen now?” he asked.

  “We don’t know for sure,” Ed Sr. said. “That Chambers girl went to the county attorney and filed charges against Forchet, and the sheriff arrested him on the way back into town last night. That fool got scared and went to Topeka for three days.”