'No, not at all, Doc. Make yourself comfortable.'
They shared the bench, Doc Fergueson putting his black leather satchel carefully down beside him. 'You're worried, son,' he said.
Zaccheus nodded. 'Did you examine my mother yet?'
Doc Fergueson nodded. 'I arrived about half an hour ago.'
'And?'
'It doesn't look well, I'm afraid. Not well at all.'
Zaccheus felt the weight on his shoulders increasing. 'Is there anything we can do?'
'I'm afraid not,' Doc Fergueson sighed, staring out into the rain. 'All we can do is try to make it easier for her. If you had the money, I'd suggest a clinic back east in Asheville, North Carolina. Otherwise . . .' He shrugged helplessly. 'I'm afraid she'll die, and soon. In her condition, this cabin isn't a very healthy place. Not with all the drafts and leaks.'
'It's the only home we've got,' Zaccheus said miserably.
'I know that,' Doc Fergueson said softly.
'Can I go in and see her?'
Doc Fergueson nodded and Zaccheus went inside.
Sue Ellen appeared to be asleep, her stringy hair fanning out over the thin pillow beneath her. Her face was pale and drawn, and there were dark shadows under her eyes.
'Ma,' Zaccheus said softly.
Her eyes slowly opened. She reached out to touch Zaccheus' hand. 'Mornin', son,' she said weakly.
He cupped both his hands around hers and felt a stab of pain: even her fingers felt brittle and fragile. He sat down on the edge of the bed. 'You had a bad night, Ma. How do you feel now?'
'A li'l better. I'm worse nights than days. Hope I didn't keep you from sleepin'?'
'No,' he lied, 'I could sleep through a thunderstorm.'
She sighed and knit her brows. 'I'm jest so bored lyin' in bed all the time! That's the worst of it. I ain't used to doin' nothin'.'
'Soon as you're well, you'll be up and about.'
'No.' She shook her head. 'I ain't never gonna be up'n about agin. I hope I die soon, that's all. That way your pappy'll be able to git on with things.' She sighed weakly. 'I ain't nothin' but a chain round 'is neck.'
'No, you ain't.'
She pulled her hand out of his and turned her face sideways; when she spoke, her voice was muffled by the pillow. 'I tried to be a good wife to yer pappy. I tried to work hard and raise his children the best I could. But now it's all over.' She turned around, her eyes wide and glistening with hot tears. 'Once I'm dead, do me a favor, Zack? Take care o' yer pappy fer a li'l while? He's a lot more sensitive than he lets on, and he's been takin' all this mighty hard.'
Tears blurred Zaccheus' vision. 'I promise,' he said quietly. 'But I don't want to hear talk like that no more, Ma. You're gonna get well. I'll see to it.'
But he didn't know if she heard him. Her eyes were already closed and her breathing came softly, regularly. She had fallen asleep at last.
Doc Fergueson was still waiting for him out on the porch.
Trembling, Zaccheus sat down slowly and stared at the doctor. He hesitated a moment. 'This clinic you mentioned, Doc. What can you tell me about it?'
'It's expensive, son. Too expensive for most people. Only the rich can afford to go there.'
'But it could help Ma?' Zaccheus persisted.
'Well, yes and no,' the doctor said carefully. 'It'll never get rid of the tuberculosis, I'm afraid, but with a lot of rest and the right care, it could arrest the disease for a while. She could even improve a little.'
'Then we've got no choice,' Zaccheus said firmly. 'We'll have to send her there. How much would it cost?'
Doc Fergueson looked at him. 'A hundred dollars a month, something like that.'
'A hundred dollars!' Zaccheus sat very still, not daring to breathe. There wasn't that much money in the world! 'And how long would she need to stay there?' he asked finally.
'Three months at the minimum, maybe four. Maybe even six or eight.'
Zaccheus' mind was reeling. Three months at the clinic would come to three hundred dollars, eight months to eight hundred. 'We just don't have that kind of money.'
Doc Fergueson's voice was soft. 'I know, son.'
'But if we could raise it,' Zaccheus said, 'then could you get her in?'
'Yes,' Doc Fergueson said positively. 'It's a private clinic. They'll take anybody as long as they can pay.'
Letitia, Theoderick, and their four children—Jesse, aged five, Stockley, aged four, Pearl, two and a half, and Sallie Sue, barely six months—drove over to visit Sue Ellen that afternoon. Letitia hadn't known that Zaccheus was home and she gave him a warm hug. Theoderick shook his hand stiffly. The two older children let out whoops and went running off into the rain. 'Don't get too wet!' Letitia called after them, but they threw caution to the wind and didn't listen.
After the grown-ups, Pearl, and Sallie Sue visited with Sue Ellen for a while, it was clear that she was growing tired, so they all went outside. Nathaniel and Theoderick sat on the porch drinking moonshine, Pearl playing at their feet, while Letitia picked up Sallie Sue. The rain had let up, and together she and Zaccheus walked to the banks of the creek, where he had once talked so candidly about the future with her.
The years of hard farmwork had already made their mark on Letitia. Though still sturdy and strong, she was thinner, with compressed lips and angular cheekbones. Her skin was tanned dark, and crow's-feet were beginning to appear at the corners of her eyes. She held herself rigidly erect and her steely eyes were clear and impassive, almost cool in their appraisals. She rarely smiled. It was as if she had lost her sense of humor.
Zaccheus was filled with a sense of misgiving. At first he had been relatively certain that his sister would agree to at least think about what he was about to propose, but now he wasn't so sure.
He waited for the right opening to come up in their conversation.
Letitia said, 'I hear you're gittin' along well in school.'
Zaccheus nodded.
'Ever'one's real proud o' you. Don't, honey!' She leaned her head sideways as Sallie Sue tried to tug on her hair.
'I hear you and Theoderick aren't hurting either. Ma tells me you expanded the farm.'
She nodded. 'Yeah. We bought thirty more acres last year, after the Widder Dodelson died.'
This was the opening he had been waiting for.
He took a deep breath. 'Letitia?'
'Yeah?'
'We gotta do something for Ma.'
'Do somethin'?' His sister frowned. 'Like what?'
'Doc Fergueson says if we can send her to a clinic in Asheville she might get better.' He shrugged. 'Who knows? She can't get any worse, that's for sure.'
'An'?' She eyed him warily. 'What's the catch?'
He sighed painfully. 'It's expensive.'
'Uh-uh.' She shook her head vehemently. 'We ain't got no money, Zack. Not after puttin' a down payment on the new land, keepin' up the payments, gittin' new machinery, and feedin' the kids. All that eats up money. We can't afford to lose what we got.'
He stared at her. 'But Ma's life is at stake!'
'I know that, but what she got won't go away,' she said with her own brand of logic.
He clenched his teeth. 'The clinic can help her!' he said fervently. 'I know it will! What she needs is good medical care!'
'It ain't gonna help none.'
'Why do you say that?'
She shifted Sallie Sue to her other arm. 'Theoderick, he don't believe in doctors. And what he sez is always true. When the Widder Dodelson took sick and didn't do nothin' 'bout it, she wuz fine. Soon's Doc Fergueson started meddlin' with her, it wuz curtains. Same way with Willie Brashear.' She looked at him significantly.
'Maybe. But maybe they called Doc Fergueson too late,' Zaccheus suggested softly.
Letitia shook her head. 'Theoderick don't think so, and I don't neither. Nope, it's a waste o' good money, that's what it is. An' money's tight. It don't grow on trees.'
Zaccheus looked at her steadily. The babbling of the creek suddenly sounded like
a loud rushing in his ears. 'Does this mean,' he asked huskily, 'that you don't want to help send Ma to the clinic?'
'I wanna help Ma,' Letitia said carefully, 'but me and Theoderick, we ain't gonna help with Doc Fergueson's bills. And we ain't helpin' with no fancy clinic either.'
And that was that.
Zaccheus took a deep breath. So . . . He had no choice but to take matters into his own hands.
11
Phoebe Flatts had been waiting impatiently by the window for two and a half days now, and she still hadn't seen Zaccheus. A cold panic was beginning to grip her. Perhaps he wouldn't show up at all. Maybe her charms hadn't worked. Maybe she had scared him off. Maybe . . . Oh! There were a hundred . . . a thousand possible maybes, and if she dwelled on them, she knew she would go out of her mind.
Hearing the steady clip-clops of a mule and the creaking of a wagon, she parted the lace curtains and peered out for the thousandth time. Her heart soared. It was him!
She jumped to her feet, stopped in front of the mirror to pat her hair, and hurried out onto the colonnaded porch. She virtually glided down the wide steps, lifting her skirt so that the scalloped lace hem wouldn't drag on the ground.
She was in front of him almost before he hopped down from the wagon, her face flushed and glowing with relief.
He studied her intensely, if only for a split second. He hadn't seen her since she and the reverend had picked him up at the railroad station, but it had been night, and the lights had been dim, casting long, tricky shadows. Now, in full daylight, he could see that the lighting at the railroad station had, in fact, been unflattering. She was far more beautiful than he had dared remember. Just looking at her brought a lump to his throat.
She had, he thought, the most extraordinarily beautiful face he had ever seen. It was startling in its fine-boned delicacy. And it was this very delicacy which gave her such a charming appearance: her beauty didn't threaten as it would have had she been taller or larger or more imposing.
Her face was a perfect heart shape, with extraordinarily high cheekbones and a refined nose which was beautifully shaped and delicate.
Her lips were full and naturally pink. Her spun-gold, whitish satin hair gleamed richly, pulled smoothly back from her face and falling in a cluster of thick curls from the back of her head down to the nape of her neck. She was wearing her finest dress, a concoction of white lace which she had made over the winter, with Arabella's help. Overall, the effect was so virginally pure that Zaccheus was at a loss for words.
Around her neck she wore the sterling chain with the pansy charm.
'Hello, Zaccheus.' Phoebe's voice was low and husky, and it was at that moment that he knew he was going to marry her.
'Hello, Miss Phoebe.' He took both her hands in his and smiled down at her, for the first time aware of how short she was.
'You mustn't call me Miss Phoebe,' she chided carelessly. 'To you I'm plain Phoebe. You must call me that.' She gazed at him challengingly, her eyes sparkling. 'Now, greet me all over again.'
'Hello . . . Phoebe,' he said softly.
'There! Now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?' She favored him with the whitest, pearliest, most radiant smile he had ever encountered. It seemed to light up her entire face.
He found himself blushing under her gaze. Now that she had broken any existing formalities between them, there were a hundred things he wanted to say to her . . . needed to say to her . . . but he was unable to put any of them into words. At least not just yet. He had come here on a far more important errand. 'Is . . . the reverend home?' he asked.
She shook her head. 'He's over at the church.'
He nodded. 'I've got to see him right away. Soon as I'm done, I'll come over and see you? Phoebe?'
She looked up into his face and smiled, her eyes steady and unwavering. 'I'll put on some coffee. We'll have it as soon as you're back.'
He smiled. 'Thanks. I won't be long.'
The clapboard church seemed smaller than he had remembered, and the trees around it had grown fuller and greener in his absence. Both double doors in the front yawned wide.
Once inside, he stood at the back, hands on his hips, and glanced around. The interior was aglow with the familiar rainbow of colors from the stained-glass window above the altar, and he could hear a steady scraping sound coming from near the front of the sanctuary. He wrinkled his nose; the odor of fresh varnish was sharp, acrid, and offensive. Reverend Flatts and a young man were bent over: the youth sanding down a pew, and Reverend Flatts brushing honey-colored varnish onto one which had already been sanded smooth.
Reverend Flatts raised his head when he heard Zaccheus approach. Carefully he laid the brush on top of the open can of varnish, wiped his hands on a rag, and stepped out into the aisle. 'Zaccheus!' he exclaimed pleasantly. 'My boy.' They shook hands warmly and the reverend's florid face became concerned. 'And your mother? Is she feeling any better?'
Zaccheus shook his head. 'No, I'm afraid not.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. She's a fine woman.'
'Yes, sir, she is,' Zaccheus replied. He compressed his lips and shifted his weight nervously. For a moment he studied his feet. 'Reverend Flatts? Could we go somewhere and talk?'
Reverend Flatts glanced behind him at the youth sanding the pew. 'Oh. Of course. Right back here.' He took Zaccheus' arm and led him to the vestry. Once inside it, he closed the door. 'Have a seat, son,' he said gently. He gestured to a wooden spindle-backed chair.
Zaccheus sat down, hands clasped in front of him. 'I know the Howe name doesn't mean much around here,' he said quietly. He looked up at the reverend, his eyes steady, clear, and blue. 'I was wondering if you might help me. I don't know who else to turn to.'
'Yes, of course. Any way I can.' Reverend Flatts slowly took a seat opposite him and looked into his face. 'Well?'
Zaccheus cleared his throat. 'I need to get a loan at the bank.'
'And the purpose of this loan?'
'Doc Fergueson says there's a private sanatorium in Asheville, North Carolina. He thinks it'll help my ma.'
'But it's expensive,' Reverend Flatts guessed.
'Yes, it's very expensive,' Zaccheus said bitterly.
Reverend Flatts nodded and glanced at his pocket watch. 'In that case,' he said, 'we'd better not waste any time. Let's go see what we can accomplish before lunchtime.'
No more than ten minutes later they stood outside the Farmer's Bank. Zaccheus halted momentarily to smooth the front of his shirt, making certain it was tucked neatly into his trousers, then lifted each foot in turn, wiping the dust off his shoes on the back of his trouser legs. He looked at Reverend Flatts.
'Are you ready?' the reverend asked in a kindly voice.
Zaccheus took a deep breath and nodded.
Reverend Flatts clapped a hand on his back. 'Don't be nervous, son,' he advised. 'Mack Collins is a tough businessman, but a scrupulously honest one.'
Zaccheus smiled gratefully, and together they climbed the two steps up to the door. 'After you,' Reverend Flatts said.
Zaccheus went inside, followed by the reverend. He looked around curiously. In all the years he had lived in Muddy Lake, he had never once set foot inside the bank, and it held both awe and mystery for him. Awe, because this was where people put their money for safekeeping, or borrowed it for whatever purposes it was needed. Mystery, because he had always wondered what this place looked like, and because having money to take to the bank—however minuscule the amount—was something the Howes never had.
He saw a polished mahogany counter with a single teller's cage protected by thick brass bars. Behind the bars stood a thin, myopic-looking man who wore very thick glasses and resembled nothing so much as an undertaker. Behind the man Zaccheus noticed a big iron safe cemented into the wall, much like the one he had glimpsed in the rear room of the jewelry shop in St. Louis.
And there was a big desk off to one side, right under a small window. Like the teller's station, the window, too, was barred.
M
ack Collins, the man sitting behind the desk, was the antithesis of a man bearing such a strong, tough- sounding country name. He looked much like the teller, which wasn't unusual, considering they were brothers, except that Mack Collins was older and even more delicate-looking, leaving one with the impression that he was part praying mantis. He was unearthly pale, with translucent skin stretched tautly over sharp, angular cheekbones. White eyebrows, stiff as wires, topped his eyes, and thinning white hair swept back from his high forehead. His insectlike appearance was emphasized by his long, bony extremities.
Reverend Flatts took Zaccheus' arm, propelled him toward the desk, and cleared his throat. ' 'Morning, Mack,' he said cheerfully.
The banker looked up from the paperwork he was shuffling, grumbled something under his breath, and got slowly to his feet. His eyes were a peculiar light gray and suspicious, so intense and startling they seemed to pierce straight through you. 'Reverend.' He held out a pale, palsied flipper of a hand. 'Parkinson 's disease,'' Reverend Flatts had told Zaccheus on the walk over. ' 'It makes him tremble all over. Don't take any notice of it. '
'This is Zaccheus Howe, an associate of mine,' Reverend Flatts said quickly in his clear, resonant voice. 'You've probably heard of him. He's the bright young man who wrote the hymn for our church. He is currently studying at Center Hall College in Tigerville, Virginia, to become a minister.'
Mack Collins slowly shifted his piercing gray gaze in Zaccheus' direction. 'Pleased,' he said concisely. He extended a trembling flipper and they shook hands.
Collins waved at the two red leather captain's chairs facing his desk. All three men took a seat and Collins came right to the point. 'Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?'
'Zaccheus is an up-and-coming young man,' Reverend Flatts sermonized carefully in his most sincere voice, 'one with a brilliant future, if I say so myself. He won a scholarship to the college, which, I assure you, is no small feat. To date he's never had the need of a bank.' He smiled pleasantly. 'But that's now suddenly changed.'
'That's mighty fine,' Mack Collins said with such a lack of conviction that Zaccheus had the sinking, and accurate, feeling that Collins' only interest lay in the contents of a well-stuffed purse.
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