Easy looked at what he had done, but he felt nothing. No change. No relief. He still felt her nipple, and he jerked his hand away. How could this be? The finger was gone. He stuck his hand with its bleeding nub into the ground, and put all his weight on it. The soil was fresh and cool. The finger was unmoved on top of the stump, like a chip of wood that remained after the chop, to be flicked away before the next swing. Then Easy began to feel the pain.
He lowered himself to the dirt floor, hardened by years of trampling by man and beast. The floor was covered with straw to provide warmth and soak up moisture. He had pitched the straw out of the loft above at regular intervals and now was thankful for the softness as he sat next to the wall, leaning back against an interior post. He stuck his finger back into the ground, at an angle so he could lean back and rest his head. Then Easy Tucker, an entirely physical man who had defined his life in work and fights and strength, began to cry.
He thought about going to jail and having to leave Tiny, the one person who had made him feel loved and needed, who had nursed his body and his soul. He had deserted her on a dark road with cowardly friends and a schoolteacher he hardly knew. Hopelessness rushed through him, driving a pain through his arms and legs. Yet strangely he could still feel his finger at the end of his hand and at the same time see it lying where it had fallen, like a small mouse perched in the shadows.
Easy’s eyes rolled back toward the sky. He could see up the ladder to the loft where a shaft of light illuminated a canvas of right angles, formed by the hundreds of rectangular bales of hay stacked to the roof. Easy had created the picture. As he threw each bale down to the waiting cattle, he had created moving patterns in the stack. It was a game, like the game he had played in the loft as a child, moving the bales to form endless tunnels that climbed to the rafters, high above the floor. He used to sit in the openings with his legs dangling thirty or forty feet above the ground, and he felt safe because no one could reach him. No one knew the tunnels. He had built a fortress that could not be penetrated.
Easy tried to follow the light to its source at the pitch of the roof, but his head could not bend far enough back, and he wasn’t sure whether it was sun or moon, how long he had been in the barn. Then the light was gone.
Tiny had been working in the kitchen, cooking a large ham from the icebox, cutting off the fat and some extra pieces of meat for the pea soup that was slowly coming to a boil. She knew Easy would be hungry from the chopping, and dinner might be difficult. They had to discuss the Forchet sentence. She did not look forward to it, angry with herself for even suggesting to Easy that he might have wanted to touch that girl. She knew he hadn’t. Indeed, she had urged him to participate in the tarring for the good of the community. It was the will of God, and now it had come to this. A good hot dinner might help.
When the sun went down Tiny began to worry. She had seen Easy walk the mare and the rig to the barn well over an hour ago, but hadn’t heard any commotion since. She hadn’t realized till now how the sounds of Easy’s work filled her world, his chopping wood, or the clang of metal as he hitched the horses to the plow, or the whipping of the reins as they splatted against one another in the fields. She always knew he was there, as surely as rolling up against him in the night and feeling his toes or his shoulders. She listened for those sounds, and hearing none, she moved to the door. She gave a shout and received no response. Suddenly seized with panic, she raced across the yard to the barn. She smelled the fear that every mother has for her family, knowing that something had happened. Had he fallen under the horse, or down the ladder, or nicked himself with the ax? She heaved the door aside, stuck her head into the darkness, and called Easy’s name. And then she saw his shadow, propped against the wall, almost as in prayer, with hands folded across his chest.
Tiny ran to Easy and took his head in her arms, shaking him and begging him to wake up. Then she saw his hands, clasped tightly around the wooden handle of the long ice pick. It was buried deep inside his chest.
Chapter Fifteen
Margaret walked erect but felt like she could wilt at any moment. She clung firmly to her mother’s and her sister’s hands as they walked toward the Nickerly courthouse for the first day of trial.
W.W. McArdle had advised them to arrive early, in case there was a crowd, and to wear light-colored clothing and breezy summer hats. He wanted them to appear confident and innocent. Though she was nervous, Margaret certainly felt innocent. Even her few flickerings of guilt had vanished in the days since the tarring and feathering.
There seemed to be some effort in the community to blame her for Easy Tucker’s death, but Margaret didn’t see why. It was traumatic to have such a gruesome act of self-destruction take place in Nickerly, and Margaret did dream of Easy once, out there in his barn, getting more and more depressed, seeing the shadows of evening bounce off the trestles, intensifying the demons in his mind. Her most vivid image was of Easy standing in the dark, his large frame looming like a bald eagle before the moon, with one arm rising above his head, its shadow shooting through the roof, and then coming down on that tiny finger. She could almost feel it, not the physical pain, but the desperation that must have been a product of Easy’s guilt. She awoke thinking Easy was in her room, and it scared her. At least this new dream had replaced the nightmare of being pulled off Herbie Forchet’s buggy.
The Chambers family didn’t attend the funeral, of course, but the gossip around town was that Mrs. Wilson said Margaret Chambers did it—she had killed Easy Tucker with her charges against the men. Mrs. Wilson had circulated at the graveside like a stray cat looking for a home, searching for sympathy to her grievance, and finding a willing audience. Margaret had brought the tarring and feathering on herself, the mourners reasoned, and now she had brought destruction on the community. There was one death. And everyone knew that the Reverend Aaron Langston and his son had had an angry exchange, with the boy charging out of the house, saying he wouldn’t mind living in jail for a while. Better than living with a preacher who wouldn’t defend his son or a mother who defended that girl. The general feeling was that the Chambers girl would try to destroy them all before this matter was over.
Margaret suspected the whole town would be against her, and she had steeled herself for a possible confrontation at the courthouse, but she hadn’t expected to have so many faces peering at her, judging her and condemning her with their open stares. She had told herself that she would not look, she would not catch their eyes and give them the satisfaction of knowing that their disdain had been conveyed. She would rise above them. She would pick a spot above the courthouse door and stare at it the whole way through.
But as she turned the corner a block from the courthouse, Margaret could see the people milling around, little children playing hide-and-seek in their mothers’ skirts. A gaggle of men had gathered near the steps dressed in suits as if this were a church service, and bicycles sprawled in the grass where young gawkers had left them, anxious to see the courthouse or even Margaret Chambers herself. It looked like a celebration, Margaret thought. But the crowd hushed as she neared, and the children just stood and stared, some clutching their mothers’ hands. Strangely, the women started moving closer to each other as if for protection. Almost imperceptibly they were edging nearer the steps, some glancing at each other, some staring straight at Margaret as if trying to make their hatred penetrate her discipline, trying to make her look at them, to recognize their right and role as the moral enforcers of community standards. And she would not do it. Without a word or a glance, Margaret Chambers climbed resolutely up the courthouse steps and strode through the open door.
It startled Margaret that even the hallways were filled. As she moved out of the sun and into the building, she was momentarily blinded by the darkness, hearing only a jumble of voices around her but feeling a hand take hers away from her mother. Then W.W. McArdle’s voice said, “Don’t be afraid, Margaret; everything’s fine.” She looked in his eyes, the first she had made contact with, and th
ey were reassuring, the eyes of a man who knew his way around the building, and presumably around the law. After a brief stop to convince the bailiff to open the door, McArdle directed the Chambers family into the empty courtroom, seated them in the front row just behind the small table designated for the prosecutor, and asked them to make themselves comfortable. They wouldn’t have to say or do a thing. This would just be opening statements.
The first surprise was a line of women who marched into the courtroom like legionnaires, dressed in black ankle-length skirts, black high-button shoes, and stern black felt hats with only the smallest bent of the brim as a nod to stylishness. The crowd dissolved to let them through the minute they appeared. The Civic Improvement Association of Nickerly, Kansas, was not to be trifled with, and of all the residents in court that day, only Margaret Chambers seemed not to know it. She observed them out of the corner of her eye, but she did not turn to look. W.W. McArdle, however, sitting at the prosecutor’s desk, spun around immediately upon hearing them shuffling down the aisle. He watched as the principal attorney for the defendants ushered them into the second row of benches, just behind the Chambers family.
After the folderol of getting the judge seated, the call to order, and the entrance of the fourteen leading citizen defendants of Nickerly—a smattering of applause and light chatter of support spread through the courtroom—the trial seemed about to begin.
John Engle, the attorney hired by Ed Garvey Sr. from among Salina’s finest criminal lawyers, stood to address the judge. Engle had coal-black hair, slicked back. It looked wet, as if the lawyer had just stepped from a shower, and it set off a red face that suggested a life of field work, although Engle’s black vest and gold watch hinted that few of his forty-five years were spent in manual labor. But the name Engle was known in these parts for integrity, for a family that had served on school boards and county commissions. Whether you were trying to get a loan at the bank or shocking wheat, you could count on the Engles for help.
“Your Honor,” John Engle began, “before we start any other proceeding this morning, I would like to address a special appeal to the court on behalf of the Civic Improvement Association of Nickerly. These leading ladies of the county respectfully submit to the court, on behalf of the defendants in this case, a request for a change of venue.”
A rustle spread through the courtroom.
“All quiet,” the judge ordered, using his gavel for the first time. “What possibly can be the reason for this?”
“Your Honor,” Engle began again, “our petition maintains that the defendants cannot get a fair trial in Nickerly County. There has been so much rot printed about this case in Nickerly County that any man ought to know these defendants cannot get a fair jury here. The population here has been so prejudiced by a salacious press against my clients that all manner of lies are now a part of the public mind. We will submit to the court stories of the most extreme nature, all without foundation, that openly accuse these good men of Nickerly of every misdeed known to man.”
Mrs. Wilson virtually leapt to her feet, screaming, “Read these, Your Honor. Blasphemy against our husbands.” She waved a half-dozen newspaper clippings over her head. They were Mr. Temple Dandridge’s articles from the Kansas City Star, his entire serialization of the tar party case since his arrival in Nickerly. “These are lies,” she screamed. “Fodder for the damnation of Margaret Chambers.”
“That is enough,” the judge shouted, bringing down his gavel with a loud crack.
John Engle quickly moved in front of Mrs. Wilson, telling her to please sit down. Club Wilson, sitting among the defendants, also rose to attend to his wife, but Engle intercepted him and guided him back to his seat.
The judge could see that this trial was getting out of hand, a situation he did not intend to allow for one more minute. He brought down his gavel again and said, “Mr. Engle, Mr. McArdle, I will take this petition under advisement. The trial is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” He immediately got up and returned to his chambers, leaving behind a stunned audience.
Temple Dandridge, however, was not surprised, and he made a fast move around the benches, across the front of the court, and stood at John Engle’s side even before the lawyer had picked up his papers. “When can I get a copy of that petition?” Temple asked.
“Now,” Engle said. He had a carbon copy ready, already in an envelope marked “The Kansas City Star.” When Mrs. Wilson saw Temp reach for the petition, she unleashed an attack of the kind never heard at the monthly meetings of the Civic Improvement Association.
“You unspeakable vermin,” she hissed. “How dare you accuse our men of following prurient interests? They were defending our families, our children, and God’s divine principles. That woman is a harlot. She enticed our men and seduced our children, and she’s done it before. You tell the truth for a change, Mr. Kansas City Star.”
Temple stepped back, just in case the woman decided to lash out with more than words. He took the envelope with the petition and headed for the door. Nearly everyone in the courtroom had witnessed the tongue lashing, and when Dandridge turned to leave the room they closed in behind him. They wanted to exit as quickly as possible to tell their friends and neighbors about the remarkable turn of events.
W.W. McArdle took Margaret by the arm and whispered close to her face, “Don’t say anything till we’re in my office.”
When Margaret and her family returned home from the courthouse, Temple Dandridge was leaning against their front door, petition in hand, his straw hat tipped on his head to shield the sun, which had just angled over the noon hour. His tie was undone, and his jacket was slung over his right shoulder. Margaret had seen a lot of Temple during the past few weeks and had come to enjoy his company. She didn’t fear his newspaper’s motivations the way her mother said she should, and she had not tried to manipulate his thinking the way W.W. McArdle hoped she would. She liked talking to Temple about events outside of Nickerly County, even though he kept bringing her back to the subject of her prosecution. Temple had never before seen a case like this, in which the victim appeared to be the one on trial.
“Margaret, I have the petition,” he began. “I’d like to talk to you about it.”
“Sure, Temp,” she said brightly. “Come in.”
She turned to her mother, who seemed more upset. Temp thought she might have been crying, although it was hard to see her eyes because of the sun.
“Mother, may we have some tea?” Margaret asked. “Temp and I want to talk.”
“I assume W.W. went through the petition with you after court,” Temp began after wedging himself on the parlor couch with two needlepoint pillows. This was his favorite spot because he could see through the open living room into the kitchen and nearly to the back door. It gave him a sense of control, a sort of “back to the wall” defense that made it possible to know where Margaret’s family was at all times. They were always there, listening, peering in at the conversation, but seldom interfering. Temple was surprised at how deferential the family acted toward Margaret, treating her more like an honored guest than a member of the family. And Margaret seemed comfortable with that role, always respectful of her family but ready to make her own decisions about the trial and about Temple Dandridge. She liked him. And so far his articles had been favorable. Indeed they had started to turn public opinion against the defendants, and against the community, as Mrs. Club Wilson had pointed out that morning.
“Margaret,” Temp said, “this petition says the press has already condemned the defendants because they are portrayed as wanting to hurt you. It says that they have already been judged guilty and can’t receive a fair trial here. Do you agree with that?”
“Temp, they did want to hurt me.”
“Do you think the press has been unfair?”
Margaret noticed that Temp never referred to his own stories, but rather “the press.” Several other papers were covering the trial. In fact, the Adeline was full of reporters from the Universal
Wire Service, the Topeka Capitol, and other newspapers across the state. Temp had explained to Margaret how a wire service story might appear in papers as far away as New York City, and indeed, several other big-city newspapers had publicized the case, including the New York Times. Margaret had never actually seen the New York Times, but she knew that New York was the largest city in America and presumed that its newspaper would also be the biggest. And just in the last few days she had received many letters from New York, from people she didn’t even know. All were sympathetic to her plight, and some even included money. She had three checks for five dollars each that her father had taken for safekeeping. He said she shouldn’t mix this money in with her regular money because she might have to give it back or something. Margaret and her father were both slightly stupefied by this phenomenon. Why were people sending money?
“I don’t think so, Temp,” she said. “Your stories have been fair. You told what happened. I don’t want to have this trial someplace else. We would have to move there, or get a hotel room, which we can’t afford. That would be unfair.”
That was the quote he needed, so Temp tried to change the subject, to ignite a more personal relationship. W.W. McArdle had endorsed the relationship between Temp and Margaret, but other reporters were seeking interviews with Margaret as well and the competition seemed to be increasing daily. He needed a personal rapport to keep his advantage. More importantly, he really liked Margaret. This was a problem he had encountered before as a journalist. It was often hard to separate his personal and professional role in his friendships. He found himself consumed by Margaret, even thinking about where she might go when this trial was over. No matter what happened to the tar party men, Temp assumed Margaret would have to leave Nickerly. Indeed he could foresee that even if everyone were convicted, they would win their first objective by driving Margaret Chambers out of the county. She couldn’t stay. Of course, it looked to Temp as if the attitudes of outsiders, the readers of the Kansas City Star and even those of the New York Times, were beginning to have an impact on the citizens of Nickerly. They were starting to feel a little isolated in their moral conclusions. And that’s the impact he wanted his stories to have.
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