by John Dalmas
He changed the subject. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, because you're marrying her, but I had a crush on Mary since the eighth grade. In high school, a couple times, I asked her to go out with me, but she never would. She never went out with anyone. People thought she might end up in a convent, but I guess all she needed was to meet the right man."
The door opened, jingling the bell, and Hansi got up. "Sorry I talked your arm off," he said. "Congratulations on getting engaged." Then he went to the counter to wait on the new customer.
* * *
Helmi Dambridge had come to Nehtaka from Finland at age five. By age seventeen she was an exceptional beauty who had scandalized her family and their Lutheran pastor, and titillated the rest of Nehtaka. The young men of the community found her particularly interesting, but she was interested only in those with "prospects."
Her first marriage was to the handsome young owner-skipper of a sealing ship, who arrived back from an expedition to the Aleutians to discover her gone. She was living with a sawmill owner in Longview, a man equally handsome and with even more money, who didn't sail away and leave her for months on end. Her husband promptly filed for divorce, and when the decree was final, his rival married her. But now, with a legal claim to her fidelity, he too became jealous, on one occasion to the point of blackening her eyes and loosening some teeth; she thanked him by plunging a letter opener into his abdomen.
Her lawyer provided more than legal services, and afterward they married. Twenty-five years older than she, he was totally devoted to her, while she had learned something from her first marriages. It helped, of course, that he had a very lucrative practice. Unfortunately he developed a heart condition, and at age thirty-six she found herself single again, a widow.
Still beautiful, accomplished in the bedroom arts, and with many friends in Portland society, the condition was temporary. She soon married Andrew Dambridge, a fifty-year-old bon vivant who had coveted her for years. Dambridge had built a considerable fortune through activities in railroads, lumber, and real estate. He'd also developed a reputation as a ladies' man, but with Helmi in his bed, his philandering dwindled almost to nothing. After a few years, problems of health reduced both his business and bedroom activities, and he died of an aortic aneurism on their ninth anniversary.
Most of his fortune he had willed to the children of his first marriage, but he'd established a very considerable trust fund for his second wife. He was not, however, a man who liked to lose possessions, so the trust fund carried the proviso that if she married again, she'd lose it.
She had no intention of losing it.
She'd continued her life in Portland's upper crust until the Great Depression eroded her trust fund rather severely. In the spring of 1931, she sold her Portland mansion and bought a nine-room home in Nehtaka. She had it modernized, then moved in, a storied and somewhat reclusive figure who lived alone with a housekeeper and custodian, traveled a lot, and largely ignored local doings. The townsfolk, who of course knew nothing of the trust-fund proviso, expected her to find another millionaire and leave again, but she failed to cooperate.
* * *
The Widow Dambridge was Mary Preuss's aunt, her mother's eldest sister. When Helmi had moved back to Nehtaka, she'd established limited connections with her family, including Mary, appearing occasionally at family events. But mostly she kept to herself. She was in her studio, painting an Aegean shorescape from a photograph, using memory for the colors, when her maid informed her that Mary was in the parlor.
Helmi sailed down to meet her. "Mary! This is a surprise!" she said. "Sit down, dear, and tell me why you're here."
"I'm going to be married. And—I thought you could advise me."
Helmi laughed. "Shouldn't you be talking with your Aunt Siiri? She's been married to the same man for twenty-five years, and very happily as far as I know."
"I have talked with her. But it seemed to me that..."
"Yes?"
"That there are things you could advise me on better than Siiri could."
"Hmm. Interesting. What kinds of things?"
"Well—I love him a lot, and I don't want him to be disappointed. You see."
Helmi was careful not to smile. "No I don't," she lied.
"I want to be good in bed for him."
"Ah. And you suppose I was good in bed."
"I think you must have been."
The aunt laughed again. "I was, my dear. I seem to have been born without inhibitions, and brought enthusiasm to bed with me. Those are the basic ingredients—those and imagination; if you lack them, you must develop them. And I had experienced husbands who knew what they wanted, so I learned from them.
"This fiancé of yours—is he experienced?"
"He's been married before. To a very beautiful lady; he showed me a picture."
Helmi raised an eyebrow. "Really? I'd like to meet this young man. He is young, I suppose?"
Mary read her aunt's skepticism. "Twenty-eight," she said.
"Where is his first wife?"
Wanting to avoid strange and incredible explanations, Mary adjusted the truth. "She drowned. She was riding her horse across a river and the ice broke. The current swept her under it."
Helmi studied her niece for a moment. "Bring him to supper tonight," she said firmly. "At 6:30. I want to meet him."
Mary felt trapped by the invitation—order actually.
"I'll see if he can come," she said. "He works for Dad; he's a deputy. Sometimes he works at night."
"Call him. There's the phone." Helmi pointed. "I need to know now, so I can tell Lempi what to fix for supper."
Mary went to the phone and called. Three minutes later the invitation had been accepted, and the cook/housekeeper given instructions in a rattle of Finnish.
Helmi turned back to Mary, smiling again. "Now for your questions," she said. "Let's go up to my studio, where we have more privacy. Lempi is shy about using English, but she understands it somewhat; Eino's been teaching her. And visitors are so rare in this house, she might decide to eavesdrop."
* * *
Macurdy arrived with Mary, wearing his uniform and driving Fritzi's 1932 Desoto. He'd bought a suit, but didn't want to wear it before the wedding.
Helmi made him feel welcome, and the food, Macurdy thought, was as good as anything he'd ever eaten. After supper they stayed for over an hour, talking. Helmi's reason for inviting him, he realized, was to check him out, but at the same time she put him at ease. He answered her questions without creating complications, and increasingly her aura reflected liking and approval.
Before they left, he excused himself to use the bathroom, and when he was out of the room, Helmi put a hand on Mary's arm.
"My dear," she said, "I'm truly happy for you. I believe you chose well."
* * *
Hansi Sweiger decided to go back to Germany, which made his father so angry, he refused to drive him to the depot. So Macurdy threw the youth's three suitcases in the back of a patrol car and hauled him to the train. Expecting never to see him again.
8
A Major Change in Plans
Mary and Curtis wanted an early date for the wedding, and no one tried to talk them out of it. Nor did anyone suggest a lavish ceremony. Nehtaka's Lutheran community, largely Scandinavian and Finnish sawmill workers, loggers, small farmers, and their families, would have frowned on that kind of display, especially in Hard Times.
Food, though, was another matter.
Fritzi was an important county official, and Macurdy something of a celebrity, while Mary's maternal family, the Saaris, were locally prominent. Wiiri Saari had talked with Fritzi about a buffet luncheon, a voileipäpöytä, with lots of invitations sent out. They agreed there would be no booze. Fritzi was, after all, the sheriff, and while Congress had passed an amendment to repeal prohibition, the necessary three-fourths of the states hadn't ratified it yet: Liquor was still illegal.
The wedding was held in Holy Redeemer Lutheran Church at 10:15 am, on Saturday,
October 28, 1933, and the buffet at 11:30 in the high school gymnasium. Axel Severtson had been sent an invitation for his loggers, and many had shown up, most of them a little oiled on bootleg liquor, but well behaved. The Saari and Severtson clans were on hand to see to it without the sheriff having to get involved.
The rowdy element was a major Pacific storm front that crashed the party about noon, led by skirmishers of rain and the rumble of approaching thunders, followed directly by the main assault force: a hard, cold, wind-driven deluge. By that time the bride and groom had sneaked out—been spirited to the depot by one of the numerous Saaris—and were on their way to Hood River for a five-night stay at the palatial Columbia Gorge Hotel. Transportation, lodging, meals, and money for tips were wedding gifts from Helmi, who held significant stock in the resort.
* * *
The storm overtook them on a train in the terminal yard at Portland, and they arrived at Hood River in a downpour. A redcap hustled their luggage to a hotel limo, and Curtis tipped him (he'd been coached by Helmi on tipping etiquette), then the grinning couple rode to the hotel.
A doorman met them under the entrance canopy, whistled for a bellman, and thanked Macurdy for the tip, making him feel like nobility. The bellman deposited their luggage in their room, and Curtis tipped him. By that time a maid arrived, and lit the gas fireplace. After Macurdy had tipped her, the couple found themselves alone.
First they explored the large room—big bed, fireplace, comfortable chairs, drop-leaf table, luxurious sofa, a bathroom with a very large tub, and french doors opening onto a (just then) rain-lashed balcony overlooking a dimly seen, rain-lashed Columbia River. Then they busied themselves briefly with unpacking their suitcases (also gifts from Helmi), and hanging up their clothes. When they'd finished, they went back to the French doors, and holding hands, watched the storm.
After a minute, Mary rested her head on Curtis's shoulder, and turning, he put his hands on her arms and kissed her, gently at first, then more passionately. She'd rehearsed this moment in her mind, but found herself abandoning the script, unbuttoning her husband's shirt, kissing his chest. Next she found herself cutting short the sofa scene before the fire.
"Curtis," she murmured, "let's take off our clothes."
"That's a wonderful idea."
That didn't take long either, even with frequent glances at each other. Pants, shirt, dress, undergarments, stockings were draped over the back of the sofa. Then, slowly, glowing, they went to each other and embraced, feeling the other's body against their own, lips meeting, tenderly now.
"You're beautiful, Curtis," she breathed.
He chuckled. "I'm the one supposed to say that."
"Am I really? Beautiful?"
"As beautiful as any man could hope for."
She stepped back and pulled the covers to the foot of the bed. "The beautiful Mrs. Curtis Macurdy wants her gorgeous husband to make love to her."
"Mr. Macurdy's been looking forward to this," he answered. Again they embraced, kissing, then lay down together.
Both had learned from their tutors, and Curtis from his previous wives. Both were also naturally talented, and each loved the other very much. They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, or soaking in the tub, or petting on the sofa in front of the fire.
Finally they dressed again and went down to supper. Afterward they danced, something they'd learned during their brief engagement. On their way back to the elevator, the bell captain asked if they'd like a beverage in their room, compliments of the hotel, and Macurdy said yes.
It arrived almost as soon as they did—champagne, with an ice bucket and long-stemmed glasses. Mary had never drunk before; the bubbles went up her nose, and she got the giggles. It was late before they slept.
* * *
It was nearly 10 am when they awoke, languorous and somewhat sore, their morning kisses soft and loving, but not passionate. They ate breakfast by a window in the hotel restaurant, overlooking a river mostly in sunlight, the storm having migrated east to Idaho. Curtis, feeling experimental as well as famished, discovered cheese blintzes, and told Mary he hoped she'd learn to make them. After helping him eat one, she promised she would.
Afterward they walked the pebbled paths through the hotel gardens, which were somewhat bedraggled from their rain-battering, though gardeners were already out transplanting. Next they took a long carriage ride along the river, ate a midafternoon lunch, then stopped at the gift shop, where they bought magazines and a copy of Sunday's Portland Oregonian. Finally they returned to their room, where they made slow love.
It was already night when he found a notice in the Oregonian that shook them both.
* * *
Woman Injured at Wedding
Klara Preuss, mother of Nehtaka County sheriff Fritzi Preuss, was struck and seriously injured by a car outside the Nehtaka High School gymnasium, where she had bees attending her granddaughter's wedding luncheon. Mrs. Preuss was seriously injured. Egil Nordby, of rural Nehtaka County, was arrested and charged with intoxication and reckless driving.
* * *
Curtis phoned the depot, made reservations on the early morning train, arranged an early wakeup, then phoned Fritzi to let him know they were coming. At 7:42 the next day, they were on their way back to Nehtaka.
* * *
Klara had a broken right hip and multiple fractures of the thigh—very severe injuries at age 72—and while her life seemed unthreatened (barring a thrombosis of course), Doctor Wesley said she wouldn't walk again.
Helmi had talked Fritzi out of telegraphing the newryweds. "Call them on Wednesday," she'd said.
Now that they were back, they talked the situation over with Fritzi and Doctor Wesley. Because Grossmutter would be unable to shop, keep house, or cook, they'd move in—take the front upstairs bedroom—and Mary would handle the cooking and housekeeping.
Curtis had no idea how important this would be to him, how critical to what would be the defining experience in his life on Earth.
9
The Peaceful Years: Husband, Student, Lawman
When Klara Preuss arrived home from the hospital, a hospital bed had replaced her old one. It was Mary who looked after her, but it was Curtis the old woman asked for. "She says you can help her," Mary explained.
"But I can't talk German!"
"She says bloodstoppers can help bones knit."
Curtis blinked at that. Probably he could. Certainly he shouldn't have overlooked the possibility. He just didn't think like a shaman, he told himself. Between Arbel and Omara, he'd learned, if not always fully mastered, a number of healing techniques, procedures, and principles. And from those could infer others.
He started by examining the fine structure of Klara's aura, and as a basis for comparison, examined and imaged mentally the thread-like energy lines around his own body and Mary's. Then he adjusted—normalized—the energy lines around Klara's.
They didn't stay normalized long, but while they did, healing progressed at a much increased rate, and normalization persisted longer with each treatment. At the end of her first week at home, Dr. Wesley visited, and commented on her surprising progress. At the end of the second week, he said he'd never seen anything like it before. After the third, she spent much of her time in her new wheelchair, and ate in the dining room or kitchen with whoever else was home.
Meanwhile the auric field around his father-in-law's right arm was quite distorted. Fritzi admitted that it ached chronically, especially when he tried to sleep, and agreed readily to let Curtis treat it as he had Klara's. The results were excellent, and surprisingly quick.
Macurdy began to feel quite proud of his shamanic skills, especially when Klara began relying on her cane almost entirely, inside the house, taking to her wheelchair mainly for trips outside. He was doing with the help of analysis what Arbel had done largely by intuition.
* * *
Mary had anticipated problems with her Grossmutter—that having run the household for so long, she'd try to enforce h
er ways on her granddaughter. To Mary's surprise, however, Klara seemed pleased to let someone else run things. Not surprisingly, the old woman delighted in her grandson-in-law. His only shortcoming was that he spoke no German, so she set about to teach him. When they were in a room together, she'd point at or touch or slap an article and name it: der Tisch! the table. Die Kaffeekanne! the coffee pot. He was not only to repeat it, but pronounce it correctly, even if it took a dozen repetitions. Her repeated admonition was, "Du musst das richtig sagen!" (You must say it right!)