by Gary D. Svee
“Wasn’t anything to hold Beulah to the pig farm, so she came down here. Only thing she brought with her was the shotgun.”
The sheriff whispered, “Is that how it happened, Nelly? Did he just fall into the sty?”
Nelly’s eyes flashed. “That’s how it was told to me, Sheriff. I’ve got no reason not to believe it.”
Drinkwalter nodded. “And Sally?”
Nelly leaned back in her chair, her eyes on the darkened window. “I got up one morning and came down here to start the stove. Ole hadn’t left kindling in the bucket—that’s so unlike him. He takes care of us so well. But he forgot to put kindling in the bucket that one morning, so I opened the door to go out to the shed. Early spring it was, like March or April, and I saw what I thought was a bundle of rags beside the door.”
“But when I stepped out, Sally looked up at me. Poor child, she was almost frozen. Her face was white as snow and eyes black as two pieces of coal. She didn’t say a word to me, just huddled down there shivering, so I gave her my hand and helped her into the house.”
“She just sat there on the chair shaking. I didn’t know if she was frightened or cold or just worn out, or what. Well, the other ladies were getting up by then, and they started mothering her like she was a stray cat or something.”
“By then I had a fire going, and fixed her some eggs and bacon and toast, and you’d swear that she had never eaten before, she was so hungry. Once we got her warmed up and fed, we gave her a bath. Her hair was dirty and stuck together with cockle burrs, but it combed out real nice. Black, it was, and shiny, and if she hadn’t been so afraid, she would have been pretty, really pretty.”
“She was about the same size as Betsy, and Betsy had some clothes left over from … before she took up the life. Betsy was pleased to give them to Sally. Said she would never have any use for them.”
Nelly’s face wrinkled into a map of pain. “That’s the thing, Sheriff. Once you take up the life, there’s no going back. There’s no forgiveness for a woman who has taken up the life.”
Nelly sighed, reaching up to rub the back of her neck. “Anyhow, Sally told us she’d been married to this man…”
Nelly’s face worked as though she meant to spit. Her eyes softened then, and she turned to face the sheriff. “It’s the same with all of us. Just the same.”
Nelly jumped to her feet and stepped to the stove, bringing a blue enamel coffeepot to fill the sheriff’s cup and her own.
“She just got tired of the beatings.”
Nelly took her seat, dropped one elbow to the table, and propped up her cheek as though she no longer had the strength to hold up her head. “What is it about women that makes men want to beat us? What makes big, strong men take their fists to us?”
Drinkwalter shook his head.
“You wouldn’t hit a woman, would you?”
“No, but tell me about Sally.”
Nelly nodded. “She and her husband had been living up near Whitehall. One day she just started running. She caught a ride with a teamster, and he … had his way with her and then kicked her out of the wagon. So she walked the rest of the way. All the way down here. She knew what this place is, but she thought she might be safe here.”
“We all took to Sally. She was a real lady. She stayed here for a while and cooked for us. We had real sit-down dinners, and she showed the ladies how to hold their forks and pass biscuits. But she wanted to go back to Chicago, where her folks were.”
Nelly paused for a moment. “That’s all any of us want, to go someplace else and get started where nobody knows us or what we are. You don’t know what it’s like to walk down the street and have men say things they do.”
Nelly shook her head. “We all want out, Sheriff. We all hope that someone will come along and look past what we are to see what we can be.”
“Sally was that for us. She was everything we wanted to be. We wanted her to go home and to find a good life with a good man. We took up a collection for her. She took the train to Billings and found a job there. She wrote us every week, telling us how everything was. I’d read the letter aloud, and while I was reading, we were carried away from this.”
Nelly’s arm swept around the room.
“And then she started writing about this man who kept following her. Every time she looked up he was standing there. He frightened her. It was his eyes, she said. They were flat and dead as though he were hollow.”
“The letters stopped, but she still scribbled us notes whenever she could. That man had put her on the street. He said all women were … whores … and she might as well be taking money for it. He kept all the money, Sheriff. He kept everything. But she started hiding money, saving up. She was going to get away on the train and go as far as her money would take her.”
A tear threaded its way down Nelly’s cheek. “And then we didn’t hear anything. We kept hoping she had gotten away. We would talk about where she might be, what she might be doing, but now …”
A sob racked Nelly’s body. “But now you tell us she’s been killed.”
“Nelly, did she mention the man’s name in any of her letters?”
“Yes, it was … Jack. Jack something.”
“Jack Galt?”
“Yes, that’s it—Jack Galt.”
“Nelly, they ran Galt out of Billings, and he’s come here. He’s living here now, Nelly. That’s what I came here tonight to tell you.”
A long, keening wail as primitive as a Montana wind escaped Nelly’s lips.
“He’s coming, isn’t he, Sheriff?”
“Yes, Nelly, he’s coming.”
12
Nelly Frobisher hadn’t dreamed the dream for years, but it came back to her that night. She twisted and turned in sweat-drenched sheets, watching the scene play darkly through her mind in grays and blacks. There was no light in this dream.
It was dark, dark as the belly of Jonas’ whale. She huddled in the coal bin in the basement, smearing coal dust on her face to hide in the darkness. She knew he would be coming, and that thought seared her eight-year-old soul.
It was Saturday, and on Saturday her mother volunteered to clean the church for Sunday services. It was Saturday, and he would be coming for her. She had asked her mother to take her to church. She was old enough to work. She would work really, really hard if her mother would take her to church.
But her mother said Saturday was a gift for her little girl, a respite from rising early for school during the week and for church on Sunday. The little girl had screamed in her mind then. She didn’t want to sleep in on Saturday. If she slept in on Saturday, he would be coming for her, he and that terrible thing of his. But while she was screaming that in her mind, she was saying, “Yes, Mother,” as though her mother had given her a great gift.
Her mother was always giving gifts. The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union met weekly in her home, and each time she served them cookies and cake as they spoke of the evils of demon rum. She made clothing for families “in need,” and always she was the first to bring dinner to a bereaved family.
And sometimes the little girl thought she was a gift that her mother gave to him on Saturday mornings. Sid, she might say, I have a gift for you hiding somewhere in the house. This is my gift to you, Sid, for working so hard all week to provide for us.
He was awake. She had heard the floor creak under his weight. He would go first to the kitchen and drink a cup of coffee. And then he would come looking for her.
He seemed to think that it was a game, calling to her in a little child’s voice as though he were playing with her. The little girl didn’t want to play. She wanted to run away, but that would make her mother sad.
She didn’t want to make her mother sad. Her mother gave her warm breakfasts and sent her to school in clothing that smelled of the sun. She didn’t want to hurt her mother, and that’s why she didn’t tell her mother what her father was doing to her.
“You don’t want to make your mother feel sad, do you?” he would say.
“You don’t want to make her feel bad.”
And always the little girl would shake her head. No, she didn’t want to make her mother feel sad. Feeling sad hurt so much. It hurt almost as much as when he took his thing and … No, she didn’t want to hurt her mother.
She heard a cupboard door close in the kitchen, and a whimper primitive as life tore from her throat. She grabbed her mouth, digging her fingernails into her flesh, willing her mouth to be silent, to not give voice to the terror that crept about in the little girl’s mind.
She followed the soft sound of bare feet to her bedroom door, and she heard the door scuff open. She could hear him murmuring then, a singsong child’s voice. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew them by rote.
“Hey, little piggy, no sense to hide,
Papa’s coming to take his bride.”
Nonsense words sung over and over and over.
She whimpered again, and tears ran down her face, cutting rivulets through the coal dust. The steps stopped, and she could feel his ears searching the house, trying to find her. She took a deep breath, holding it so that he wouldn’t even be able to hear her breathe.
“Hey, little piggy, no sense to hide,
Papa’s coming to take his bride.”
The door to the basement opened then, and a shaft of light stabbed into the darkness.
“I hear you,” he said, taking the first step down the stairs. “I hear you, my little pumpkin. Now, let’s see where she might be hiding. Could she be hiding in the corner? No, she’s not in the corner. Could she be hiding under those burlaps sacks? Nope, she’s not there.
“Do you suppose she might be in the coal bin? I’ll bet she’s hiding in the coal bin.”
“Hey, little piggy, no sense to hide,
Papa’s coming to take his bride.”
The little girl screamed then. She screamed and screamed and screamed.
“Nelly, what’s wrong. Nelly, wake up. You’ve just had a bad dream. Wake up, Nelly.” And Nelly Frobisher, Eagles Nest businesswoman, awoke sobbing. She hugged Beulah to her. “He’s coming, Beulah. He’s coming,” she sobbed.
Mac stepped around the door to the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter was standing, back to the door, and staring through the window to the blue sky. The sun had scrubbed all the clouds away, leaving the sky azure. He turned smiling when he heard Mac’s heels on the floor. “Now, there’s one sorry son of a bitch,” the sheriff said.
“Takes one to know one.” Mac grinned.
“How’d school go today?”
Mac’s face wrinkled into a question mark. “It was good. Everyone was … nice to me.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”
Mac grinned again.
“I have one letter from the commissioners.”
Mac’s face wrinkled into a question.
“Been here long enough to recognize the stationery,” the sheriff answered.
Max nodded, taking the envelope. He opened it with a wooden letter opener lying on the desk and began reading:
“Dear Sheriff Frank Drinkwalter:”
“It has come to our attention that you have hired the son of the widow McPherson as your part-time deputy. As you are aware, we approved your plan to hire a part-time deputy, but your choice is simply unacceptable. Deputies must be full adults if they are to provide the taxpayers full value for their dollars. We have asked around town and have found a suitable replacement for the McPherson boy. Sonny Ingram is a strapping youth, and while employed daily at the Emporium, he would be more than willing to spend his evenings in the county’s service.”
“To expedite this matter, we have already spoken with Sonny Ingram. He will report to you this Wednesday next.”
“We are pleased to have been able to help you in this matter.”
Mac’s eyes jerked to the sheriff’s face. The boy was stricken, as though he had learned of a death in the family.
Drinkwalter shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Mac. Sonny is Sam Goodman’s nephew. I suspect he’s about to lose his job at the Emporium. I heard Hank Brittle complaining about him the other day. Sam just wants to find Sonny a new job before he gets fired. He did the same thing to get Sonny a job at the Emporium.”
“Can he do that?”
“Take your job and give it to Sonny?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I’m the elected sheriff. I can hire and fire anyone I choose. The commission cannot interfere with the operation of my office, except at budget time, and by the time that rolls around, Sonny will already have been fired and Sam will have had to find him another job.”
“Nobody is going to fire you, Mac. That’s my word, one sorry son of a bitch to another.”
Mac tried to grin, but the effort failed. He hadn’t realized how much his job meant to him.
Drinkwalter read the expression on the boy’s face.
“Don’t worry about it, Mac. We have enough on our plates. Don’t have time to worry about something that isn’t going to happen.”
The sheriff turned and took the envelope from the shelf, offering it to Mac. The boy took the letter and held it to his nose, closing his eyes so that he could concentrate on the scent. Nearly a minute had passed before he said, “Roses. It smells of roses.”
Sheriff Drinkwalter smiled. “Yes, roses. I suspect she’s been working in her rose garden. I wish I could be there with her.”
The sheriff sat silently for a moment. “Mac, have you ever thought about an apple pie?”
Mac cocked his head, trying to see around the corner the conversation had taken. But the sheriff didn’t say anything, so the boy answered, “Sure, every time I walk past Charley Goodman’s apple tree. I think about the apple pies Ma used to make when … we had an apple tree out back. Ma’s apple pies were always so good. The crust was flaky and the apples just right and—”
“That’s right, Mac. Apple pies are built of apples and flour and shortening and cinnamon and sugar and the heat of an oven and your mother’s special touch.”
“But the thing of it is that if you laid all those things out on the table, they wouldn’t be much to look at, would they?”
Mac shook his head.
“It’s only when they come together in the right proportions under the direction of someone like your mother that an apple pie is made, a really delicious, warm apple pie.”
Mac swallowed. “Yes.”
“That’s the way I feel when I look into Catherine’s eyes, Mac. Being with her makes me something more than I am by myself. Do you know what I mean?”
“No.”
“I thought you had something of the poet in you.”
“That’s dumb. Comparing a woman to an apple pie.”
“I don’t know how to say it any better, Mac. I know what I want to say, but I can’t put words to it. I guess that’s your job, to put words to it. But how can you do that if I can’t make you understand?”
Mac hesitated, and when he spoke it was barely more than a whisper. “I know what you mean. When Pa left, we thought he would come home, but when he didn’t, it seemed as though I had been torn apart. I hurt so bad that I went into my room and took off my shirt to see if I was bleeding.”
“I didn’t think I would ever be me again, not what I was before … and I’m not. I’m not the same. But Ma and me … we make an apple pie together, too.”
Mac turned to stare into Drinkwalter’s eyes. “It’s hard to go to school when I know that the kids are going to laugh at me. I couldn’t do that if it wasn’t for Ma. I know it would hurt her if I didn’t go, and that would hurt me, too.”
“Sometimes when she has spent a long day over the washtub, I can feel her back hurting. She puts her hand on her hip and throws her head back like she’s reading something on the ceiling when it’s really bad. My back hurts then, too.”
Sheriff Drinkwalter smiled. “Sometimes, Mac, I don’t know if you are fourteen or eighty-four.”
“I’m fourteen, skinny as a
rail, and dressed like a scarecrow.”
“Not anymore.”
“Still skinny as a rail.”
“Yes. Would you read the letter now?”
Max opened the letter. He performed the task carefully, placing the letter opener exactly where it had been on the desk, slipping the letter from the envelope as though he were celebrating Eucharist.
“‘Dear beloved,’” Mac said. “She opened it with ‘Dear beloved.’”
Drinkwalter nodded.
“I received your latest letter with great dread. I was so accustomed to Mr. Deakins’s hand that I had come to think of it as your own. After the long break in your letter writing—two weeks is a terribly long time, isn’t it?—I thought someone was writing to tell me something terrible had happened to you. I couldn’t see how that might have happened without my knowing. Even though we are so far apart, we are still together.”
“Sometimes as I am walking down the street, I smile for no reason. I think then that you are experiencing something pleasant or funny and that I am sharing that experience with you. Saturday last, I was so taken with the trees’ tender shades of green that I thought you must have been sharing that thought.”
“I’m terribly sorry about Mr. Deakins’s death. He had so become a part of our lives. I have his photograph draped in black on the mantel in my mother’s home.”
“Perhaps you remember the picture. He had just taken you trout fishing. You are holding one end of a string of beautiful trout and he the other.”
“I am taken with how young you look in that picture, and I wonder how you and I have changed. Perhaps when we come together after all these years, you won’t remember me, and I, with age-weakened eyes, will walk past you on the station platform, wondering whatever kept you from me.”
“I know those thoughts are whimsy. Although the years have stretched on interminably, I suppose that having been apart for ten years is not so terribly long. But how different the calendar and the heart.”
“Sometimes, I think you are a fantasy, something I created in my mind to carry me through these difficult years of caring for my mother. But then I feel the touch of your hand or recall your laugh. I realize then that the creation of someone like you is too grand for me. If I could work my feelings toward you into bronze or canvas or stone, people would come from miles around to marvel at it.”