by James Scott
THE DRESS SHOP in Watersbridge didn’t open often. A sign in the window proclaimed in flowery script, FOR BOUTIQUE APPOINTMENTS, PLEASE SEE MR. JAKOB ROTH, MERCANTILE. When Elspeth peered in, however, a woman bent close to a dress on an armless torso, pins in her mouth. This woman, the same woman who had waved to her—one of the only small kindnesses she’d met in Watersbridge—was also captured in dozens of photographs in the back of the store. A tiny light appeared in the dark, almost forgotten place Elspeth had reserved for God. Bells signaled her arrival.
“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked. Elspeth said no, and the dressmaker remained focused on her work. “That’s okay. How can I help you?”
“Something simple,” Elspeth answered. “For my wife.” The store wasn’t much bigger than the room she’d shared with Jorah, one side lined with bolts of fabric on long spindles, another contained shelves loaded with folded dresses, some labeled with a name in the same fluid script as the sign. The occasional glinting pin and a few small scraps of fabric, too small even for a pocket, dotted the floor.
“Would you like to come back with her?” the woman asked. She fixed the hem of the dress an inch higher, stepped back, tilted her head this way and that, and undid the pins to let the hem fall back to its original length.
“She’s not here,” Elspeth said. “But she’s about my size.”
The woman glanced back at her—the first time she’d done so—removed a piece of lace from an embroidered box, and spun it around the neck of the dress. “Have many people noticed?”
Elspeth stopped protesting before she could even start. Her broken nose pulsed. Her vision went black, then white, then a hazy confusion of both. “Not many, I hope.”
“People don’t pay attention to anything but themselves these days.” She emitted a grunt of exasperation at the dress and wrapped the lace around her hand to tidy it. “You stopped binding your bosom.”
Elspeth noticed her shirt dipped in the center, a subtle shadow, nothing more.
The dressmaker chewed on the end of the tape measure she had around her neck. She removed a dress from one of the shelves. The fabric was heavy but beautiful, a deep blue, shiny but not ostentatious, with careful buttons and clasps. It looked expensive, but between the flood of emotion and fears that overpowered her, Elspeth couldn’t object. The woman tapped the nameplate affixed to the now-empty shelf. ROBERTSON, it said. “Dead,” the dressmaker said. “Don’t worry about the cost—I’ll be glad it can go to someone.” She got out a sheet of paper and wrote a note in her long, looping scrawl and once finished, she folded it twice and handed it to Elspeth. “Take this to my husband at the mercantile. Only him. Only Jakob.”
Luck had proved so hard to come by that she didn’t dare spoil the miracle by asking questions. Instead, she offered her thanks and started to lift the dress by its shoulders to let it fall to the floor, but the woman pressed Elspeth’s hands together. Hers were small and chilled. “It will fit.”
CALEB HAD EXPECTED Elspeth hours ago. He couldn’t stand Frank’s pained expression any longer and he’d moved to their room. For close to an hour he soaked himself in the bath, his fingernails never ready to give up their thin crescents of dirt. He used them to comb his hair, flattening it down, though pieces shot up in places, like weeds poking through a stone walkway. From the shelf above his bed he selected the nicest shirt White had given him and his cleanest trousers. With some spit and a sock he tried to clean his shoes. After he tucked his shirt in, he figured out how to button his suspenders to his pants and drew them up over his shoulders, where they fell slack. Once he finished, he sat on the stool, afraid he would muss his pants and wrinkle his shirt. So he paced, following the paths of the warped floorboards.
A low boom echoed through the hotel. A crack extended down one of the windowpanes as the explosion reverberated through the building. It felt like the detonation had come from within himself—as if his heart or his stomach had finally given way to the constant pressure. He passed a hand up and down his torso to see if he was still whole. Out the window, he could see down the thoroughfare to the church at the tip of the green, and next to it, a crowd.
“WELCOME BACK,” JAKOB said when he saw Elspeth. “I trust the Colt pistol is to your liking?”
Rather than responding, Elspeth handed Jakob his wife’s folded note. His smile faded. She worried that she’d been turned in by the dressmaker, and that any one of the pistols in the case between them could be turned on her.
“Okay,” he said. He ran his thumb and his index finger along his moustache, and then wiped his hand on his shirt. “Let’s find what you need.”
The thunderous boom shook the store, and Jakob caught a glass that fell from a shelf behind him, but elsewhere came the sound of items crashing to the ground. Elspeth’s knees buckled and she latched onto the counter. She saw her own wild expression reflected in the glass.
“They’re dynamiting graves,” Jakob said, “for the icehouse workers.” He stepped out from behind the counter, and called, “Seth, take inventory of what’s been broken. Isaac, listen for the bell.”
From the depths of the store came matching shouts, “Yes, Papa.”
The note had been left on the counter, Jakob’s moustache wax marking his fingerprints. All she could make out before following after him down the overcrowded, labyrinthine aisles was the word husband.
CALEB LEFT THE Brick & Feather, his patience gone, and marveled at the great number of people outside; more, it seemed, than ever before. In the graveyard behind the church, the crowd would back up as one and the dynamite would sound. When the mass of onlookers moved, Caleb prepared himself for the shaking of the earth.
A large man unhitched his nervous horse outside the barbershop, and Caleb stopped to run his hand along the beast’s muzzle. The horse’s muscles relaxed, the tension dissolving into leftover anxious quivers. “You like horses?” the man said and dabbed sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, his hair pasted to his scalp by the moisture. “You have a way with them.” Caleb thanked him and the man said, “This is Art. I don’t think I’ll be able to calm him ’til they’re done making those graves. Best to bring him home and let him worry there.”
Caleb watched the crowd back up again and he laid his hand along the horse’s brow, standing on his tiptoes even though the horse had lowered its head to him. The explosion came and went and the horse snorted, nothing more. The man patted it along its flank. He fished something out of his pocket and handed it to Caleb. HANK WALSH, BREEDER OF FINE STALLIONS, it read. “If you ever need a job, son.”
Caleb played at the edge of the card with his thumb, holding it between two fingers, and a frost settled over him—he couldn’t imagine going to work for someone like Hank Walsh or even owning a fine horse. Caleb couldn’t picture anything at all outside of the feverish crack and flash of gunfire. He knew as he wandered down the crowded road that he would never pass a day without seeing killers exiting his house, Emma’s limp body, or Jesse’s dull eyes. He threw the card into the muck so he didn’t waste any more time on it, and watched the water seep into the paper and the letters run.
The bells on the door to the mercantile rang. The boy his age came sprinting from the aisles, and another who looked like an even smaller version of their father trailed behind him, then caught up. They wrestled and jostled to be first behind the counter, the larger one winning out and shoving the other to the floor.
“Can I help you?” the boy asked, out of breath.
Caleb took the Colt from his pocket. The boy stuck up his hands and he and his brother laughed. Caleb didn’t understand what struck them as funny. “You know,” the boy said, “I’m making like you’re robbing the store.” The brothers laughed some more. Caleb tried a chuckle, but it came out like a cough.
“I’d like to trade in this pistol.”
The boy whistled. “No one’s ever turned in a Colt Army model before, have they, Isaac?”
“No, sir, Seth,” Isaac answered.
Caleb said that he wanted the money to spend in their store, and the boy explained to him how much he could give him, considering Caleb had payments left, and they shook hands on it. Seth, the older of the two boys, brought Caleb to an aisle not far from the counter with Isaac following close behind. The first vase Caleb saw he loved. A yellow daisy had been painted on a blue jug, and Caleb thought it to be the exact type of thing the Shanes were sure to have in their home. He also picked out some cloth napkins—“A big seller,” Seth assured him, with Isaac nodding for emphasis—some salt and pepper shakers in the shape of horses, and a needlepoint that said MOTHER in scripted letters that he would hold in reserve, just in case.
He clutched the final item in his arms, even as Seth wrote them up, and presented Caleb with a sheet to sign. Caleb scribbled something on the page—too excited to re-create the fine circles and lines Frank had taught him—and grabbed his packages. A note drifted to the floor from the counter, and Caleb bent to pick it up. He couldn’t help but read it. “This man is in danger of losing his wife. My dear husband, we are to reconnect them. Love.” He almost told the boys how sad the note sounded when he handed it to them, but decided against it, figuring he’d rather they didn’t know.
JAKOB AND ELSPETH shared the load of parcels they’d settled on—an overcoat, two hats—one for winter and one for spring—gloves, perfumes and powders, undergarments, boots, and a couple of dresses, not as beautiful as the one she carried under her arm, but fine enough for everyday wear. They unburdened themselves on the front counter, and Elspeth sorted through everything, unable to believe this sudden rush of good fortune. The older of the two boys stood next to his father, a smile on his face.
“What’s happened, Seth?” Jakob asked. “You look awfully pleased.”
“That boy was here and he traded in his Colt pistol,” Seth said. “No one trades in a Colt. Isn’t that right, Father?” Jakob inspected the gun and the paperwork. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, Seth, no,” Jakob said and placed the paperwork in a file behind the desk. “Sir, I think your son just came in here and sold a pistol.”
Jakob tore several sheets of butcher paper from a roll on the counter, pulled a knife from his belt, and sliced a dozen even lengths of twine. Elspeth’s nerves jumped and twanged, and she wished for the men to hurry up.
“He bought a vase and some other things for his mother,” Seth said.
Elspeth busied herself wrapping the dresses to hide the tears that threatened to form, folding the paper over with firm creases. “Wonderful,” she said. A foreign joy spread through her. She thought of her trips back to the house, tromping up the hill, a portion of her bag and its weight devoted to her children, to the gifts she’d present them. “His mother will be thrilled.”
“Seth,” Jakob said, “go find your brother and make sure he doesn’t need any help.” The boy didn’t protest but lingered a bit, tidying the top of the counter before Jakob gave him a light pat on the rump that sent him on his way. Once he’d gone, Jakob continued wrapping Elspeth’s packages, his tongue stuck out in concentration. “Pardon my saying so,” Jakob said. “But your son, he could use some more time with his mother.”
Elspeth inhaled, surprised, her nose flaring with pain. “I suppose you might be right.”
The shopkeeper tied the last package tightly, and slid the neat stack across the counter. “You see,” he said, “he told me she was dead.”
“I’m sorry he lied,” she said and picked up her items. “Things are not always easy.”
CALEB’S EARS TINGLED without his hat; he’d been afraid to muss his hair. The road that had been endless with guns at his back only took him a third of an hour to walk, and before he could prepare himself he’d arrived at the Shanes’ home.
Out of the reach of the dynamite, Caleb could only hear the slightest pop and the earth withstood the intrusion; the house appeared as sturdy and solid as ever. Yellow light poured from the windows even though a fraction of sun still topped the slate roof. The statues he’d seen half frozen in the dark appeared to be poking their heads out of the snow with curiosity, wondering about the small boy with combed hair bearing gifts.
He stood there for a good while—until the sun extinguished itself beyond the horizon and the cold crept out of the shadows—before he could force himself to the door. The first rap of his knuckles wasn’t loud enough to hear. He cleared his throat, which squeezed itself shut every time he thought of meeting his real mother. His second knock brought a scuffling of boots and the low sound of voices from somewhere in the house.
Paul answered the door, his coat on and his dark hair pressed beneath a hat. When he saw Caleb, he stepped back and placed a firm hand on Caleb’s arm and took him into the house. He removed his hat and coat and let them fall to the stone floor of the hallway in which they now found themselves.
“Kelly,” he called, “Martin.” He laughed and put his head on Caleb’s shoulder while he hugged him, his hair soft on Caleb’s neck. He led Caleb into a large kitchen, the ceiling high and striped with huge beams. A weak fire smoked at the far side of the room, which contained the table Caleb had seen through the window and a series of shelves full of dishes, bowls, and cups. The middle of the room held a countertop crowded with the beginnings of a meal, jars and eggs and white paper, unfolded and holding a thick steak, the blood bright red in the creases. They stood by the stove, which exuded heat. A door to their right opened, giving way to Martin Shane pulling his suspenders up onto his shoulders, which made Caleb suddenly self-conscious of his own sagging low. He shrugged in his coat, trying to situate them better. A wide smile split Martin’s face.
“Sam,” Martin said. He clapped his hands.
Paul put a quieting finger up to Martin. “Tell me your name again,” Paul said.
“Caleb.”
Martin’s expression darkened and he looked askance at Paul. “Caleb,” he said, his mouth drawing out the syllables. “Of course. So good to see you here.” His smile returned. He pushed Caleb’s hair back, and Caleb wished he’d combed it back to begin with, if that’s what they wanted. Martin ran his fingers across Caleb’s bruises and Caleb tried not to wince. “Kelly!” Martin yelled. Paul never let Caleb leave his grip, almost as if he thought Martin would break him if he let him go. Martin, for his part, continued to paw at him. “You’ll stay for stew?” he asked. He pulled Caleb’s coat from his arm, and it was all Caleb could do to keep hold on to his presents, switching them from hand to hand while Martin yanked the other side of his coat off.
A door creaked and the men turned as a group. There in the doorway, wearing a black dress, her hair knitted up in an intricate bun atop her head, stood the woman that had stopped Caleb’s breath. Her presence stunned them all, and Paul lost his hold on Caleb, who stumbled forward. Kelly opened her arms, and he, uncertain at first, went to her and settled into her embrace. She got down on one knee, and he perched himself on the other, though he was nearly as big as she. Her cheek was cool and smooth against his. She smelled like cooking, like baking bread.
“I’m Kelly,” she said into his ear.
Paul said, “Welcome Caleb.”
Kelly rocked him in her arms. He’d never been so engulfed by another person and he wished he could sleep there, and that all his travels and all his worries would disappear into the night like a quick exhalation.
CHAPTER 15
People had waited on her for most of her life, Elspeth thought while she bathed. After leaving the relative comfort of the van Tessel estate, someone had always awaited her arrival: Jorah had waited in the woods and in their incomplete house; Mary and then the rest of the children—growing like grass in her absence—had waited for their mother to appear over the lip of the hill; Caleb had waited for her amid the gruesome bodies of his family; and he’d waited for her to find the men responsible. This last task she had spent little time on, wary of her own tenuous place in Watersbridge and dis
tracted by her work on the lake, by Charles, and by the idea of another baby. And now, she waited on—and prepared for—Caleb.
She leaned back and dipped her hair in the water, letting it rush in around her ears, shutting out the world. She rolled over and scrubbed her face hard with her hands, the pain immense, the calluses on her palms scratching her cheeks, and emerged without the smudged complexion that had given her the shadowed look of a man. To her hair she applied some of the oils and powders she’d received from Jakob and brushed out the knots and gnarls. It was as short as Caleb’s and she swept it to the side and pinned it in place. The room filled with the scents of crushed mint and rose hips. Soft and loose, the dress felt strange on her body, much different from the stiff constraints of the pants she’d worn to the lakeside—sweat- and mud-caked as they were. In the room’s lone chair, she had the odd sensation of her feet growing heavier and she stood to avoid the Devil’s tug. She speculated on the gifts Caleb had purchased for her, and these imaginings made her buoyant. Besides overused and broken items from the van Tessel children, the only gift she’d ever received had come from Jorah on one of his few voyages into civilization. He’d come home with a torn ear and a dark bruise on his neck, and presented her with a velvet box of hairpins. On the end of each, a small animal had been cast and painted with a careful brush. She, in turn, had passed them along to the girls, who didn’t like to waste them in their hair, where they could not see them, preferring to use them to fasten flowers to their chests. The memory soothed her. Perhaps an hour later, she patted down a pocket of air in her dress. One hand clasped a shard of the broken mirror that hung in the hallway while the other dusted powder onto her cheeks, lessening the severity of her black eyes.