The Northern Reach

by W. S. Winslow

  There was movement in the hall, and William Lawson stepped through the parlor doorway. “It’s all right, Willy. We’re fine,” Wesley said without moving his gaze from Frank. He had hardly blinked at the outburst. William gave Frank a warning look and backed out of the room.

  Wesley closed his eyes and laced his fingers together; he might have been praying. He said, “It was a difficult situation, Frank. A scandal. You’re old enough to understand that, I think.”

  Eyes open, he held Frank in a watery gaze. When he spoke his voice was softer, tinny. “After your mother left, I followed her to Wellbridge and tried to bring you back home. You don’t remember? But Stella, well, she was upset, I suppose, frightened, and she said she’d go to court, and the papers, with stories, scandalous untrue things, that would have been, well, they’d have ruined the family name for good. It would have killed Mother.…”

  “No,” Frank said. His body couldn’t move, but his mind raced. His father was talking about blackmail. But Mumma would never lie. Wesley was the liar. Frank’s hands curled into fists, his nails dug into his palms.

  Wesley spoke slowly. “What she did, Frank, whatever her sins, I’ve forgiven her as our Lord teaches. You see, sometimes love is a selfish thing. Your mother wouldn’t be parted from you, even though she knew we could give you a better life, an easier path. She had to live with that, just as I’ve had to live with my own errors.” Wesley looked at his hands. They were cupped in his lap. He seemed to be melting into them.

  Feeling like he was back in the schoolyard, boiling with rage, Frank leaned down, grabbed Wesley by the lapels, and pulled him halfway out of his chair. When he spoke he was shouting. “You’re the selfish one, not her. You could’ve gotten me back if you wanted. You could’ve seen me, but you didn’t. Not once. You’re the one needs forgiving.” Frank dropped his father back into the chair, wrenched open the door, and slammed it behind him. Nearly blind in the dark hall, he felt his way toward the light.

  His uncle was waiting for him at the front door and extended his hand toward Frank. Between his thumb and forefinger were two twenty-dollar bills. Frank had never even seen one before. Without looking at William, he took the money and jammed it in his pocket. He hated himself already.

  Frank ran back to town and stopped when he reached the river. At the foot of the bridge he picked up a handful of pebbles and walked halfway across. The angle was wrong for skipping, and he was too tired to try, so he dropped them, one after another, into the water and watched the fading sunlight play upon the ripples.

  He stood at the rail until the daylight faded to blue, thinking of Mumma and of scandals and of sin and forgiveness. Frank didn’t want to believe what his father said about his mother, but if it were true, he figured there was a good reason for what she did. In the end, he thought, Wesley was right about one thing: Your good name matters. His mother never even had that.

  A very forgiving congregation. His grandmother’s voice scraped the inside of his head. They weren’t. No one was, not when they knew your secrets.

  The sun was down when Frank turned back toward Bangor. Safe in the empty dark, he wandered the streets until his mind was quiet. At Lawson & Sons, now buttoned up against the night, Frank took his usual position across the street; his fingers followed the grooves in the elm-tree bark while he fingered the crumpled bills in his pocket with the other hand. He bent to pick up a rock. It was heavy, round, and cool in his palm. He tossed it in the air to get a feel for the weight, then stepped back on his right foot, cocked his elbow, and let it fly, just like his father had taught him all those years ago. The plate-glass window in the front door shattered, obliterating the Lawson name. Frank savored the destruction only for a second or two before he walked back up the hill.

  YIELD

  PARADE, 1924

  August 16—In the first-ever daylight march in Downeast Maine, approximately 100 members of the Ku Klux Klan rallied in the town of Wellbridge, sporting white robes and peaked hoods. In the scorching heat of the noonday sun, the Klansmen paraded the length of Main Street, drawing a sizable crowd of onlookers, both for and against. Although such marches have been contentious in other cities and towns around the state, the Wellbridge event was without incident.

  Among the participants was Pastor Manfred Bell, minister of the First Church of Christ’s Glory and the religious leader, or the Grand Klud so-called, of the local KKK chapter. Mr. Bell traveled down from Wonsqueak Harbor in his runabout to help lead the march, which included members of his family and most of his congregation. An outspoken supporter of the KKK, Mr. Bell proclaimed to this reporter, “Virtually the entire town of Wonsqueak has joined us, and every day we see growing hunger for our message of temperance, 100 percent Americanism, and pure Protestant Christianity in the neighboring towns.”

  Onlookers included Wellbridge Sheriff Wilfred Titcomb, who remarked, “It’s plain they like to provoke, but we will not stand for violence here.” When asked his opinion of the proceedings, the sheriff said, “I think most decent people would disagree with what they say and do, but if a grown man wants to pay ten dollars to join a club so he can prance down Main Street in a white nightdress and a Halloween hood, that’s his business.”

  From beneath the shade of an elm tree, Mrs. Oliver Tunk of Wellbridge asked, “When have Catholics ever done any harm? Deviltry, that’s what I call it, just a bunch of hooligans.”

  The prevailing view of the onlookers was mostly one of agreement with Mrs. Tunk, although there were a goodly number of Klan supporters in the crowd. One of the marchers, who declined to remove his hood but gave his name as Deacon Tainter of Wonsqueak Harbor, stated, “We are not against Catholics or Jews or anyone else so much as we are for the rights of native-born, true Americans and the sovereignty of the King James Bible.”

  At the registration booth, which was run by the Women of the KKK auxiliary, the line to join stretched down the block. Leaflets distributed at the booth invited all interested parties to attend a “Family Klam Bake” that evening, to be held on the beach adjoining the Edgecomb farm on the East Point Road. When asked about the nature of the event, F. Eugene Farnsworth of Portland, the group’s chief in Maine who holds the title King Kleagle, allowed as how there would be picnicking, lemonade, and games for the children as well as speakers and hymn-singing. He refused to say whether there would be a cross-burning, as is common at such events downstate; however, Catholic priests in the area warned their congregations to stay at home after dark, and several local residents reported a large wooden crucifix burned well into the night.

  —DOWNEAST WEEKLY TIMES

  TEMPTATION, 1925

  Did she even exist? Since they’d been assigned to the same table in study hall back in September, Royal Edgecomb hadn’t seemed to take any notice of Edith Tainter, not when she cleared her throat, not when she rattled the pages of her Latin book. Nor had he spoken to her when she passed him downstreet, standing on the sidewalk outside the Criterion Theatre surrounded by other seniors, mostly girls, and all from the smart set, smoking and laughing before the picture show.

  None of them took any notice of Edith, and why would they? She was a skinny freshman in a baggy flour-sack dress that was already unfashionable when her mother made it for her older sister five years before. “Modest,” Mumma said. Ugly was what Edith called it, but it was one of the three she owned, so she wore it, once a week, without fail.

  Royal told anyone who’d listen, and there were plenty who did, that the minute he graduated he’d be leaving podunk old Wellbridge to enlist in the Army Air Service and become a pilot, see the world. Tall and black-haired, with downcast brown eyes, Royal was born, in Edith’s opinion, to wear an aviator’s uniform and white silk scarf. No matter that the Great War was over and peace was here to stay, the modern world would always need men patrolling the skies. Anyway, that’s what she heard him tell Sylvia Clough, who sat on his right and was his usual conversation partner between shushes from the librarian.

  The Februar
y morning Royal spoke to Edith, she was anything but prepared, hunched in front of her cubby, struggling to get out of her snow boots, her red tam o’ shanter dripping melted snow down her neck. Such was the difficulty of pulling her feet from her too-small overshoes that her glasses had fogged, and though she’d have recognized Royal’s voice anywhere, having it tickle her ear from up close gave her a start.

  “You’re Edith, right?”

  Resisting the urge to crawl inside the cubby, she jammed her foot back down into her boot and whipped off her hat and glasses before looking up. Speaking was out of the question.

  “Your father was over to our place yesterday, for a meeting, the Klan, you know? And to look at our boat. My pop’s thinking of selling it, but only for the right price,” he said, puffing up. “It’s a sloop, from down Camden way. Built for some summer people.”

  Jubel Tainter was a terrible snob about boats and wouldn’t have been interested in any but a fancy one, a Friendship sloop or the like. Knowing her father, Edith figured he’d tried to get it for a song. She was relieved he hadn’t stopped in to see her at Grammie D’s house on the way to or from the Edgecombs’.

  Unable to come up with any kind of intelligent reply, Edith said, “Oh,” and wiped away the sweat that had begun to collect on her upper lip. Her cheeks, she knew, were burning scarlet, but there was nothing to be done about that.

  Royal pulled a red apple from his jacket pocket and took a bite, then offered her the unbroken side. She took a ladylike nibble and handed it back. Royal consumed the half with her teeth marks in one bite and wiped the juice from his chin with his shirtsleeve.

  “Won’t you miss having a boat?” she asked.

  Royal swallowed and said, “I don’t care about boats one bit, especially sailboats. It’s planes I like—cars, motorbikes, anything with an engine.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “How come you weren’t with him?”

  “Um, I stay here, in town. With my grandparents. It’s too far to travel every day. From up in Wonsqueak. Where my parents live. There’s no high school there.”

  “Well, come on along next time,” he said. “Your pop’ll be back.”

  The bell signaled first period and Royal strolled away, whistling “Hinky Dinky Parlay-Voo” with the squish-squash of his boots keeping time.

  That night at supper, when Edith mentioned her father’s visit to the Edgecomb place, Grammie D crowed, “Can’t you just picture that? The right righteous Deacon Jubel Tainter dickering with a rumrunner! For a boat that’s soaked up more bathtub gin than salt water, no less.”

  Grandpa shrugged.

  “Wasn’t five minutes after they passed the Prohibition that Pete Edgecomb started sneaking Canadian whiskey into town, but since he’s married to the sheriff’s sister, no one ever bothers him. ’Specially since he pretends to be in that foolish Klan. The Prohis must be on to him if he’s selling that sloop, don’t you think so, Randolph?”

  Grandpa stopped chewing long enough to agree. Grammie D plowed on, “Listen to me, Edie, you stay right away from those Edgecombs. Bad apples, every one, rotten to the core.”

  “Royal’s not rotten. He’s going to be an aviator.”

  Grammie looked at Edith, then at Grandpa, then back at Edith.

  “Like that, is it? Well, I don’t have to tell you what your father’d do if he thought you was keeping company with any boys, Klan or no. He’d have you out of school and back home like that,” Grammie D said, and snapped her fingers. “And nothing I can do to stop him. So unless you want to kiss your education goodbye, you’d best stay right away from that Edgecomb boy.”

  Her words hung over the table, heavy as thunderheads in the summer sky. The meal continued in silence. When the plates were clean, Grammie said, “I never saw anyone so crazy for sitting in church as your father. He wasn’t always that way, you know. The Congregational was plenty good until he started with that cross-burning holy roller Bell and his Ku Klux Klan. Can’t say what’s gotten into your mother either, she used to be sensible. You ask me, the both of them’ve got too goddamned much religion.”

  Edith couldn’t argue with her grandmother’s assessment of her parents’ “awakening,” as they called it, but she had no intention of staying away from Royal. She couldn’t have cared less about Prohibition, what the Edgecombs drank, or whether they worshipped Jesus Christ, golden idols, or the devil himself. It was a small rebellion, her first ever, a secret flame of sin that flared in Edith’s chest and warmed her head to toe.

  LUST, 1927

  “Holy moley, there’s Royal Edgecomb,” Silla Trout said right out loud. Luckily she and Edith were beyond his hearing, seated on a hay bale at the Grange Hall Harvest Dance. Edith hadn’t seen Royal in the two years since he’d graduated, and certainly not since his accident, but she’d have known him anywhere. He was still himself, just more so, taller and broader, his hair cropped close. The downward tilt of his eyes was more pronounced, and even through his rimless spectacles she could see—no, feel—something ferocious in them. It seemed to radiate from him and his new friends, surrounding them in a predatory glow as they surveyed the scene at the dance, which had seemed exciting to Edith before but now looked silly.

  In the middle of the hall, a group of teenagers was trying to do the Charleston to “Camptown Races” as rendered by the Fairleigh Ramblers String Band. It was slightly less disastrous than their previous attempt with “Tea for Two.” Beefy Gladys Renfrew, who claimed to have done both the Charleston and the turkey trot at tea dances at the Bridge Point Country Club over the summer, was dragging poor Henry Baines, and both his left feet, around the dance floor while some other kids attempted to reproduce the steps from the latest Charley Chase picture. The whole school was mad for modern dancing.

  “I hear he almost never leaves the farm anymore,” Silla continued, now hissing into Edith’s ear. “Since the accident, I mean.”

  Edith had heard the same thing, that Royal’s dreams of flying died in the car crash that crippled his father and killed his little sister, the homely one with the red hair, and since that night he’d kept to himself, working the farm and looking after his parents. Word was, it had been Royal behind the wheel.

  “See the scar, Edie? I heard his cheek got sliced right open. They say he hit his head so hard it ruined his eyesight and that’s why he couldn’t be an aviator.”

  Edith had heard all of this before. Her parents attended the funeral for the little girl but left the reception scandalized when they realized liquor had been slipped into the cider.

  Royal slid along the side wall and wedged himself into a corner, watching the flailing and shimmying on the dance floor and looking, well, hungry was the only way Edith could think to describe it.

  Her mouth dry, Edith picked her way through the crowd to the punch bowl and lined up for a refill. She was wondering whether Royal would recognize her and trying to figure out how to get his attention when she felt something warm and solid pressing against her back. A voice, smoky and pitch-thick, purred in her ear, “Edith.” She could smell liquor and knew she should step away, but instead she turned to face Royal, making sure the breasts she’d developed in the past year grazed him before she stepped back.

  “Hello, Royal.”

  “You want a real drink, I got something better’n punch,” he said.

  Mrs. Largay filled Edith’s cup; Royal waved off the proffered ladle. Up close, she could see his scar, still faintly speckled with stitch marks on either side, like bird tracks in the snow. Some fellows’ looks would have been ruined by a mark like that, but Royal’s were improved. He could have been a pirate or a gunslinger, and when he grabbed her wrist to lead her away, her skin tingled under his fingers.

  He pulled her through the crowd into the Grange Hall kitchen, past the oversize pots and pans that hung from the ceiling, the massive white cookstove, and the jumble of knives and meat grinders.

  Once inside the pantry with the door closed, Royal lifted her up and set her on the counter. Edi
th should have been offended at his presumption, knew better than to stay there, but the heat of him seemed to be melting her, turning her bones to butter. He topped up her drink with whiskey and took a long pull from the flask. “Drink up.”

  It was Edith’s first taste of liquor and she barely managed to choke it down. Even mixed with the sweet red punch it was horrid and burned her throat, but she finished every drop. When Royal smiled at her, that hungry look returned. After refilling her cup, he nodded at her to drink and set the flask on the counter. He put a hand on each of her knees, pushed them apart, and stepped between, watching as she sipped. By itself the liquor was much worse, but she didn’t want him to think she was a baby, so she forced herself to swallow. Up close, Royal’s features looked distorted, like a photograph that had been torn up and glued together wrong.

  “All grown up, aren’t you, Edie. What, sixteen? Used to be a scrawny sack of knees and elbows, but look at you now.” He ran his index finger down the front of her dress, then back up again, carelessly flicking her nipple on the way to her collarbone. “Built for sin.”

  Edith’s heart was slamming so hard she was afraid Royal would feel it. She was warm all over and knew she should run, or at least push him away and cross her legs; instead, of their own accord, they wrapped themselves around his hips and locked at the ankles. Royal’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but instead of kissing her, he laughed. After another drink from the flask, he reached around to his back, separated her ankles, and stepped away.

  “A man likes a little sport, you know.”

  He winked at her, then turned on his heel and returned to the dance, just left her sitting on the counter like a fool.

  She was still there a minute later when Henry Baines walked in. They knew each other from school, and he was always trying to start a conversation. Henry was a nice boy, but she couldn’t imagine how he’d ever grow into those ears.

  “Hiding out from Gladys,” he said, “before she breaks all my toes.” He had a friendly smile, and in any other situation she’d have giggled.