The Evidence Against Her

by Robb Forman Dew

  He hadn’t brought it up again. He didn’t interfere with how she dealt with that deep underpinning of dread that was spreading through the family. And she probably had the right idea. It never did any good at all to prepare yourself for the worst; it was just as awful whether you had imagined it ahead of time or not. He knew Lily too well to offer false cheer.

  Finally, as he sat regarding the statue with less amusement, Warren felt thoroughly sad and disenchanted with everything—his father’s terrible behavior and tiresome cynicism, his uncle Leo’s stuffiness and his unfair criticism of Warren himself. Warren was sick of thinking about the war, tired of worrying about his family, and he leaned forward and rested his head wearily in his hands. All Warren allowed himself to think about was that he needed to be without Scofields for just a morning. Warren wanted not to be in the company of his father, or Uncle Leo—each one so certain he had the only right slant on things. Each one unshakable in his convictions, turning out opposing opinions on just about everything—notions as plentiful and absolute as a handful of silver dimes, exact and elaborate and perfectly shaped.

  “I’ll tell you, Warren,” his father had said to him as the two of them had their supper at the hotel a few nights earlier, “I can’t say a thing anymore to Leo. He’s awfully righteous. Mad at me all the time. He always has been, and it’s made it hard all these years to be at the Company. But now . . . he’s gotten close-minded. He’s gotten old and arrogant. Won’t listen to a single idea.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Warren said. “If you’re careful not to—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Warren! The man’s obstinate as a mule.”

  Warren was tired, too, of keeping tabs on his uncle George, amiable as he was, but who was also armed with that caustic Scofield wit so handy for avoiding inconvenient requests. Warren did feel a pang of remorse when he thought about his mother, to whom it meant so much that he attend church whenever he was in Washburn. On the other hand, if she had not gone off with Aunt Audra and Lily for such a long trip his father would never have fallen into this state. That particular Sunday morning he was worried about Robert Butler and thoroughly tired of his whole family, and he decided to take his car out for a spin and just see where he ended up. He wanted to get out of town into the countryside and clear his head.

  But after his second flat tire he supposed that right there on Newark Road was where he was going to end up, and he sat on the running board relieved at the quiet of the morning without the turmoil of forgotten umbrellas, misplaced gloves, the hurried rush to be on time, the long negotiation of the walk to church with much pausing and chatting and then once more progressing until other friends were encountered. And he was relieved to be spared the exertion of paying attention to the meaning beneath any words exchanged between his father and Uncle Leo. He looked out at the farmland all around him and thought that it was a relief to be un-Scofielded for a little while. He braced his back against the car door and enjoyed the sudden heavy warmth of the early spring sunshine.

  Warren sat there wondering about what it was—if anything—he actually believed in. To what, if anything, he could turn his devotion. And he was feeling a little pleased at the leisurely intricacy of his own clever mind. He was just leaning back pondering the idea of religion, speculating about God, and thinking that there wasn’t any reason in the world for him ever to move again. That he might just sit exactly as he was night and day for the rest of his life. He was savoring this indulgent little bout of self-pitying contemplation when he looked up at the clop-clopping sound of a horse coming along the road.

  A good-looking saddled but riderless horse came around the bend just down the road. Warren got up and watched for a moment, but the horse was calm enough, and Warren began to walk unhurriedly toward the animal, hoping not to spook him. He didn’t speak; he only began a soft chucking call to the horse, who looked his way a little warily.

  • • •

  Bandit had steadily put a good distance between himself and Agnes, getting ahead and then pausing, craning his neck around, lowering and bobbing his head inquisitively. Just as she would be almost close enough to catch his reins, though, he would gather in his feet and set off a few paces at a fast walk. Agnes had fallen far behind, but she had thought for sure Bandit would stop at the bend, because that was the turnoff to the Dameron place and as far as she usually rode him in this direction. She trailed beseechingly after him, calling his name softly for a while and then just following along after him in a state of increasing misery.

  She was so hot. She had shrugged out of her wool jacket, and she held it and her hat over her shoulder, suspended from one crooked finger. With her free hand she pulled the pins out of her hair, which was still caught snugly on her neck. She just let the hairpins drop along the road, and her hair fell into damp, tangled clumps around her shoulders, hanging unevenly, some of it caught up in pins she couldn’t extract one-handed. She straggled along, still breathless and beginning to notice that she hurt pretty much all over. Her damp skirt wrapped around her boots, hampering her as she moved, and tears streamed down her face. She didn’t know how she would ever catch up to Bandit; she hadn’t even thought to put a lump of sugar in her pocket.

  She continued on toward Washburn without thinking about where she was going until she came around the bend and saw that Warren Scofield had caught hold of Bandit and was coming in her direction to see what had happened. At that moment what Agnes truly believed was that nothing worse could happen to her ever again.

  Warren guided Agnes along to his car, where she sank down on the running board just where he’d been sitting, and he untacked the horse, eyeing Agnes to be sure she was all right. The two of them, the horse and the girl, were in quite a spectacular lather. Warren turned the horse out into Jerome Dameron’s small fenced front pasture and put the saddle and tack in the automobile. Then he came around to be sure Agnes was as fine as she said she was.

  He had never in his life seen anything like the sight of her coming toward him along the road. Her face still glistened with tears; her hair sprang free in a black mass around her head, drifting around her shoulders as she moved. Her face was flushed, and she and her horse, too, gave off a musky, mysterious scent like old apples and vanilla. In the heavy air he was reminded of flinging himself down in the cool grass of Robert Butler’s mother’s garden at age nine or ten in the heat of late summer. All his boggy senses of that Sunday morning were jolted alert, and his weary dissatisfaction dropped away at the drama of her sudden disheveled appearance—she seemed to him just then the embodiment of all that was not a Scofield, and he looked down at her, fascinated. “I’ve never known a horse to smell so good,” he finally said.

  Agnes caught his stunned expression, and she was so mortified by her drenched skirt clinging to her boots with every movement, the sleeves of her blouse darkened with the soapy residue of lather that had slid off Bandit in foamy sheets, that she could not stop her tears, which embarrassed her even more, although she made no sound of crying. He asked if he might sit down, as though he had ushered her into the parlor, and he took his place next to her and gave her his handkerchief to dry her eyes. She was so abashed that she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” he asked once more.

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. No. Just my pride, as my father would say,” she finally mustered, with an attempt at a smile. Then she gathered her wits a little, although she seemed to be unaware that she was trembling all over. “I’m just . . . surprised. But I think I’m fine. I was just riding in to church. But it got so hot. . . .” They were both silent, so she went on. “And I was riding aside to Lucille’s. . . .” Her tears started again, although her expression was wide with surprise, not sorrow, and she shook her head in embarrassment. Warren looked away, out at the countryside, as if he hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m glad I was here, then. I was just sitting on the side of the road feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Oh
. Yes,” Agnes said, with a little more attention, “you’ve got a flat tire.” She had just taken in the fact that the car was listing toward the ditch at the right front.

  “The second one in two miles. But I think it was providence,” he said. He was sounding more like he always did, and he had a quirked smile at the corner of his mouth. “I was sitting here pondering the state of the world. Wondering where we all fit. It’s the best way I could find to put off fixing the tire. And there you were off to church. Now, I think it was fate. Or maybe just good luck. For me, of course. It surely wouldn’t be divine intervention that your horse would throw you.” He had lapsed into a gentle jokiness.

  “Oh, no,” Agnes said dispiritedly. “Bandit didn’t throw me. He didn’t even balk. I don’t know what happened. I forgot to keep my toe down . . . . I lost my purchase. I just fell off because I was so . . . I haven’t ridden sidesaddle in a long time.” She had thought that all the Scofields were out of town, and now that the very one of them whose good opinion she cared most about had come upon her in such a state she was numb with hopelessness. She gave up any bit of deception, any thought of making a good appearance, any pride at all.

  “Well, I didn’t mean that it was good luck that you took a fall.” But then he paused for a minute and turned a serious expression her way. “You’re sure you’re all right? Can you take a deep breath? I’ll get the tire patched up and take you in to see Dr. Hayes. He might be at church, but we can wait at his house.” He looked at her carefully and saw that her breathing was trembly and shallow still. “Unless it hurts too much?”

  She was finally getting her breath back a little and stopping her tears. She drew a long, shaky breath, and it did hurt, but she looked up from under her hair and saw him studying her with concern and she held up her hand to ward off his scrutiny. “Wait,” she said. “Just let me . . . Wait.” She straightened a little and pressed her hand tightly against her ribs as she arched backward and drew in another, longer breath, but she huffed a small exhalation of surprise at the sharp twinge that shot through her.

  He stood up at once and hovered over her. “Let me get the tire changed and I’ll tell Jerry Dameron your horse is in the pasture and we’ll find Dr. Hayes.”

  But Agnes waved her hand to dismiss the idea while still clutching her side with her other hand and pressing her elbow tightly against her midsection. “No, no. It’s all right. I just have a stitch in my side,” she said. “It just came on. Just now. I knocked my breath out. Then I was trying to catch Bandit.” She didn’t speak for a moment while she took account of how she felt. “It’s getting better. I’m much better,” she finally said. She couldn’t bear the thought of Warren Scofield delivering her to town in such a state, but the sharp pain had made tears come to her eyes again. Warren’s face became grave in sympathy, and it made her smile all of a sudden while tears still washed her face in shiny rivulets, glistening above her cheeks.

  “I really am all right,” she said more calmly. “I’ve knocked my breath out before. Haven’t you? When I was little. It takes a while.”

  He sank down gingerly beside her once more, and she turned sideways to brace her shoulder against the fender for more support. She leaned her head back to try another deep breath. “Oh, it’s going away. It was following Bandit . . . then probably sitting down made it worse. It caught up with me.”

  Warren watched her still, though, seeing her small hand pressed against her damp blouse just above her waist. He looked at her for a bit too long, although she had closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate on breathing. He followed the line of her breasts as she inhaled, and he was mesmerized by the shadowed hollow at the base of her throat, just visible beneath the banded collar.

  “Well, I’m glad I was here,” he said, without teasing and in a curious, soft voice so that she opened her eyes to see him. He looked at her frankly for just a moment and then shifted his gaze to the countryside.

  “Before you came along I was just thinking how disappointed my mother would be if she knew I hadn’t gone to church this morning. She’s off visiting every relative we have from Florida to New York. All the women have abandoned the family,” he said, getting back a little of his note of teasing. Agnes didn’t comment. “I was feeling ashamed of myself,” he continued. “My mother once told me that she couldn’t ever be happy if she didn’t believe that God watches over her every minute of her life. Do you think he sees me down here playing hooky? Do you think that, too?” He asked as if he really wanted to know.

  She still leaned against the car, but she was no longer so shaky. “I don’t think he was paying much attention to me this morning,” she answered with a weak attempt at a smile. Warren laughed and relaxed a little and sat on exactly where he was. She was surprised by his question, but she didn’t consider it overly personal as much as she felt shy at giving any answer to it at all.

  The fact was it was a question that had really and truly never crossed her mind. If Agnes had any strong beliefs at all it was an absolute faith in the happy virtue of what she imagined was the orderly running and comfortable regularity of any of her friends’ households. Lucille Drummond’s, for instance, or Sally Trenholm’s. Agnes was convinced of the inevitable serenity of the lives within. Even more was she awed by the general impression of the intertwining lives, the complex and satisfying existence of all those many Scofields. Over her lifetime Agnes had conceived a fierce belief in the possibility of a tidily ordered existence. Days and days—years—without a single bout of drama. Her admiration for what she perceived as an ordinary life was so ardent that it rendered the idea of banality transcendent.

  She sat in the warm sun next to Warren Scofield and thought briefly of her mother’s idea of getting dressed up for church. “Well, I never thought about that, I guess.” She looked away at the long dirt road, the long grasses barely moving in the still, hot morning. “I never thought about it at all, really.”

  Warren turned to catch her expression just as she turned to see if she had answered what he wanted to know, and without any thought at all he leaned forward and kissed her, and she sat very still at first. Then she leaned her head back against the door and her hair spread behind her in a spongy cushion as Warren bent to kiss her once more.

  Beyond the fence Bandit stopped browsing his muzzle over the new growth struggling up through the dried grasses and lifted his head. He paced the perimeter of the pasture and then came around again and began to nibble once more at a patch of green. Occasionally he lifted his head, though, and nodded restlessly in their direction in uncertainty and unease.

  Part Three

  Chapter Nine

  THAT SAME SUNDAY in April when Agnes took a spill from her horse and straggled after him around the bend, eventually running into Warren Scofield, Catherine Claytor developed increasingly strong cramping and light bleeding as the day wore on. Only Edson was at home with his mother, and he finally took it upon himself to telephone Dr. Hayes, who came out to the Claytor place late in the afternoon. He restricted Catherine to limited activity for the full term of her pregnancy: as much bed rest as possible, no stair climbing, and certainly no travel whatsoever.

  At the time, Catherine had not minded the idea very much; it seemed to her an answer as to what would happen next, the answer to the question of what, if anything, she ought to do on the domestic front in the aftermath of that terrible morning when Agnes had rushed from the room and Dwight had left for Columbus without another word to anyone. But as the days rolled on she grew increasingly despondent. Her bedroom was relocated downstairs to the small back parlor, and from that location Catherine had discovered fresh sources of dissatisfaction. She fell into a doleful brooding over sundry little daily concerns, convinced that nothing was being properly looked after in the household, and she said so whenever anyone was nearby, and, of course, as a result, everyone avoided her.

  Only Edson escaped his mother’s condemnation, which did him no good at all with the rest of the family; even Mrs. Longacre suddenly mi
strusted him, and he had always been her favorite of the Claytor children. But Catherine developed a genuinely keen, if belated, maternal devotion toward her youngest child, and Edson was not yet beyond the age of reaping deep pleasure at the surprise of his mother’s affection. When he appeared hesitantly in her doorway she urged him to come in, her voice persuasive, and when he settled tentatively on the chair beside her bed—literally on the edge of his seat—she did her best to entertain him.

  One afternoon in early May, Catherine was propped up in bed relating to Edson the complicated story of the sad reason her aunt Cettie had never married after her fiancé died in the Civil War, and how she had used her wits to establish a remarkably successful millinery and dressmaking business. Agnes made a rare appearance in her mother’s doorway; she entered the room with a sort of brisk self-importance and an air of urgency, but she settled at her mother’s dressing table and became involved in the little drama her mother unraveled for them.

  Finally Catherine leaned back against her pillow with a regretful shake of her head and let her eyes slowly close in resignation over Aunt Cettie’s fate. Agnes sat up straight and leaned forward in her mother’s direction.

  “I wanted to talk to you, Mama,” she said, “about Warren Scofield. I expect I’m going to become engaged to him.” She spoke matter-of-factly while looking at her mother, but Catherine only opened her huge eyes and gazed slightly past Agnes out the window. Agnes thought that possibly her mother hadn’t heard her, that she was still wrapped up in the lives of her family in Natchez. Catherine didn’t say anything at all, but she finally turned a slight, conspiratorial smile in her daughter’s direction, and Agnes smiled politely back at her, although she didn’t elaborate on her news. She had merely offered the information as a fact.