Until Tomorrow

by Abbie Williams

  “Thank goodness the morning sickness is almost gone,” Tish said, catching me for a hug even though we’d just seen each other at work yesterday. She looked so pretty in a Christmas sweater of holly-berry red, her belly just beginning to show.

  “Just like Camille told you,” I reminded her. “Second trimester for you pretty soon. You’ll be starving from now on.”

  “Right,” Tish giggled.

  Since Halloween, we had seen nothing more of Derrick, though Tish had been a wreck the first week after the fight, anticipating he’d come storming into the law office, prepared to sue Case for the damage he’d sustained – Derrick’s ribs had not been broken, but his jaw had been dislocated. When he didn’t appear by the following weekend, she relaxed incrementally.

  Surprisingly, Robbie had texted Tish the very next day, Friday the first of November, to berate her for allowing Case to get into a fight with #2, their code name for Derrick; inspiration for this designation came from Derrick being second-tier in numerous ways, including his status as the second son; while his older brother Franklin Yancy enjoyed the comforts of daily life in Chicago, Derrick had been sent west to conduct less pleasant business. Tish speculated early on that this was potential for a large inferiority complex.

  When Tish demanded to know how Robbie had learned of the fight, he explained that Fancy Pants (a.k.a. Christina Turnbull) had known. Now that our father had apparently ended his affair with Christina, she had once more been seeking out Robbie’s attention. He told Tish he was going to milk it for all it was worth, get even better insider information; Tish hadn’t so much as poked fun at Robbie’s ridiculous innuendos, instead responding, “Just be smart about it, buddy.”

  The third week of November, Al told us he’d heard that Derrick had flown back to Chicago from Billings, Al assumed for the holiday season. I was tremendously glad Derrick was out of Montana for numerous reasons, including the fact that both Case and Marshall were looking for even the smallest hint of a reason to kill him. No exaggeration there.

  Wy had helped Clark add leaves to the dining room table earlier this snowy afternoon, increasing its potential seating space as much as possible for our Christmas dinner. Marshall and I had been responsible for the table settings, using the red-and-green plaid-patterned linen and Faye’s good white china that only ever made an appearance during the holidays. It had been Marshall’s idea to put a little sprig of spruce, tied with a red ribbon, at the top edge of each plate.

  “I’m impressed,” I’d teased, watching him tie the ribbons into neat bows.

  “Sometimes I amaze myself,” he said.

  “If I find a pine needle in my food, I’m blaming you guys,” Sean said to us.

  Jessie and I helped Clark get the food to the table; Becky and Tish were both pregnant, and so we told them to sit and relax. Garth went around the table pouring wine, while Quinn followed with ginger ale for everyone not drinking alcohol. The table groaned under the weight of ham (carved by Marshall) and turkey (carved by Sean), mashed potatoes and gravy, and every other side dish imaginable. Cooking had been a family affair that began at dawn.

  There were fifteen of us at the table, including baby Tommy in his high chair and a girl from Wy’s class named Hannah Jasper, with whom he’d gone on several dates earlier in December. She had wispy blond hair and flushed easily, much to her detriment in a family of men who loved to tease their youngest brother. Apparently once upon a time Wy had tried to kiss her and aimed wrong, kissing her earring instead.

  Once everyone was seated, Clark said a simple grace, “Dear Lord, we are so thankful to be here together at this Christmas feast. Please bless each of my sons, all seven of them, and the dear, lovely women they have chosen as partners in life,” Marshall squeezed our linked fingers, as Clark continued, “And next Christmas, little Tommy will be especially grateful for his two new playmates, when he gets a chance to be a brother and a cousin. Lord, please continue to look after my sweet Faye, my dear love. I know that she would be so happy to see how her family has grown in the past ten years.” I squeezed Marshall’s hand tightly as Clark concluded, “Amen,” echoed quietly by all of us.

  “When can we open presents?” Sean demanded.

  “Are you five years old?” Jessie teased him.

  “Not until after dessert, same as always,” Clark reminded.

  “I see you guys hung your stockings,” Becky observed, indicating the mantle.

  “All except for Marsh,” Wy said.

  “Mine is hanging where it should be, which is next to Ruthann’s at our place,” Marshall explained.

  “We set up a little makeshift mantle,” I added, smiling. “We strung a garland across the kitchen window.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t have your own stocking,” Marshall said to me, still seeming rather stunned by this fact.

  “At least, not one she could use for Christmas,” Tish teased, and I blushed, sensing Hannah watching me, probably just grateful that someone else at the table had such telltale emotions. My sister went on, “Our stockings got lost in the move from Chicago years ago, and after that Santa just piled our stocking things on an armchair beside the tree.”

  The Rawleys each had beautiful forest-green wool stockings, complete with embroidered name plates on a fluffy white backing. Faye had made them – hers was still kept in the Christmas box, though they didn’t hang it any longer. She’d even made one each for Case and Gus, who spent all of their Christmas holidays at the Rawleys’ after their own mother died.

  “I can knit,” Becky offered. “I’ll make one for everyone, for next year.”

  “Here, baby, eat up,” Case said to Tish, ladling extra gravy onto her turkey.

  She smiled at this gesture, smoothing her hand tenderly over the back of Case’s head. She said, “I just hope our daughter has your hair.”

  “You’re thinking a girl?” Becky asked excitedly.

  “Aunt Jilly confirmed it,” I explained. “She’s never wrong.”

  “But Tish knew already,” Case said, smiling at my sister.

  “Can you guess for Garth and me?” Becky asked, pressing a hand to her bulging belly. She was due in February. “I’m hoping for a girl, too.”

  “But Rawleys make boys,” Wy said as though everyone should simply know this fact, speaking around a mouthful of stuffing, seeming to forget that he had a female guest at his elbow. Hannah fell into a giggling fit at his words, her entire face turning the shade of a sliced watermelon, covering her mouth with her knuckles.

  It was too much for Sean, who said wickedly, inspiring everyone’s laughter, “No baby-making for a few years yet, you two. Damn. Wyatt, you listen to me, buddy.”

  Wy blushed as brightly as his date. I happened to know, since Wy told me almost everything, he and Hannah had only just recently kissed – this time on the mouth, no earring interference.

  “I have to agree with Wy though,” Garth said, winking at his wife and then addressing his adorable, round-faced son, “You’re getting a brother, aren’t you, baby boy?”

  “When we had the ultrasound in Billings, they thought they saw a little tiny penis,” Becky said. “But it’s so hard to tell…to me those pictures just look like gray static…”

  “Hold up now!” Sean choked out around a mouthful of ham, lifting both hands into the air; Quinn helpfully pounded on his brother’s back. Sean wheezed, “Becky, don’t let me ever catch you using those words to describe a Rawley’s penis…”

  I couldn’t stop laughing, along with everyone else; poor Hannah covered her face, shoulders shaking. I hoped she was a good sport.

  “Hey, that is a good point,” Marshall agreed, and I flicked his knee under the table.

  “Honeybunch, we’ve been over this,” Garth teased his wife.

  “Well it is teeny-tiny, at first,” Becky insisted. “Not like yours, honey…”

  A sudden knocking on the door startled all of us, cutting off the good-natured laughter; the dogs, lounging near the warmth of the fire
like furry throw rugs, leaped to attention, barking furiously. It was dark as charcoal outside, no telling who was suddenly here at dinnertime on a Saturday the week of Christmas, with no warning. I hadn’t even noticed headlights.

  Quinn got to the door first, as his chair happened to be closest. We all looked over as he opened it, shooing back the dogs at the same time; though they went ballistic at the sight of this intruder, the rest of us stared in wordless shock as we beheld none other than Derrick Yancy, standing in the open door dressed in a black wool greatcoat and tweed scarf. He’d grown a goatee since we’d seen him last, and if he seemed surprised to observe so many people staring blankly at him, he gave no outward sign. I saw his dark eyes fixate intently upon Tish before moving instantly and apprehensively to Case, who almost knocked over his chair as he stood up.

  “You’d show your goddamn face here?” Case demanded, his deep voice low and harsh. His control was hanging by the thinnest of threads, his hands curled into fists. Tish’s wide, anxious gaze flashed between her husband and Derrick – I knew she, like me, was envisioning a violent physical confrontation, right in front of everyone.

  Quinn had his hands full trying to quiet the dogs; Bender, especially, was agitated, snarling viciously at Derrick. Clark stood up and as he did, all of the rest of the men, including Wy, simultaneously rose, their sheer physical presence as potently threatening as loaded guns. I looked up at Marshall, whose eyes had narrowed, his shoulders taut, and then back at Derrick, whose chin was now a hair higher than normal. I had to give him credit, at least fractionally, as he didn’t instantly retreat; he refused to answer Case’s question and instead cleared his throat, saying stiffly, “I didn’t realize the entire family would be here.” I realized I had never seen Derrick sober; he seemed like a different person.

  Clark commanded the dogs to be quiet, and they fell silent at his voice. It was abruptly still enough that I could hear the fire crackling. Marshall curved a hand gently over my right shoulder. A twig snapped in the hearth, loudly, sending a shower of red-hot sparks into the air. As though this was his cue to speak, Clark asked evenly, “What is your business this evening, Mr. Yancy?”

  Derrick shifted and reached into his breast pocket; for a horrible instant I imagined him extracting a handgun. Instead he had something that proved almost worse, though for that moment it was simply pieces of paper, folded as though to slide into a business-sized envelope.

  “My business is brief, and I will be on my way,” Derrick said calmly, and though I assumed he meant to keep his eyes on Clark, they strayed again to my sister, who was angry enough that sparks similar to the ones in the fireplace flared from her gaze. As though speaking just to her, Derrick said, “It’s actually quite fortunate that all of you are here.”

  “Spit it out, Yancy,” Case ordered, low and dangerous, and Derrick’s composure flickered as he looked now at Case, the loathing between the two men almost visible in the air – their two lives, long connected in ways I could only imagine, with Tish in the middle, unwittingly.

  “I have here a copy of the deed to my family’s acreage, which I have been searching for without rest since I first arrived in this godforsaken place,” Derrick said, squaring his shoulders. He walked to Clark, at the head of the table, as he spoke, seeming to draw all of the air in the room with him. He placed said document into Clark’s hands; Clark unfolded the paper while the rest of us observed, as though we were audience members watching a drama play out on a theater stage.

  “Thomas Yancy homesteaded this land, as you can plainly see,” Derrick said. “And he never sold it, not in his lifetime. In the event of his death, the land passed to his two sons. As this deed clearly states, the land upon which we are currently standing belongs to my family, as it has for well over a century.”

  Still calm, Clark said, “This land was purchased by Grant Rawley in the nineteenth century and I have proof of this bill of sale, in document form.”

  “False, as are those purchase claims of one Henry Spicer, on the adjacent property. That land was unlawfully taken from Thomas Yancy after his murder. Stolen,” Derrick clarified, growing more heated with every word. I had the sense that he felt he was speaking about his own father, rather than a long-dead ancestor.

  “That is bullshit,” Case said with certainty.

  “Explain your justification for that claim,” Tish demanded of Derrick. “Where is your proof?”

  “Oh, it’s my honor to provide justification,” Derrick said caustically. “As I will, in the court proceedings,” and he indicated another document, “that will follow if you do not comply with our stipulations to vacate the allotted land within sixty days. Consider this your service of process notification.”

  An eruption of angry words at the table. Derrick would be lucky to make it out retaining all of his limbs.

  “Who’s representing you?” Tish demanded. She had flown around the table to study the claim over Clark’s shoulder. And then I saw her face drain of all color.

  “Turnbull and Hinckley, of course,” Derrick said, giving her what was meant to be a smile, though it sent a bolt of coldness down to the pit of my stomach. He added, “I’ll let you finish your dinner,” and though he didn’t quite run, he certainly didn’t linger. The headlights I hadn’t noticed earlier blinked into existence outside, resembling the eyes of a predatory animal, gazing hungrily into the Rawleys’ house and intent on claiming the space for itself.

  It was well after midnight before Marshall and I got home; he’d driven us through the snowy darkness. Jalesville was quiet beneath a heavy, starless sky and a quilt-layer of fresh powdery snow. Inside our little apartment, the fragrant balsam fir we’d chosen together after Thanksgiving twinkled merrily, its lights the color of candle flames.

  Upon it hung a variety of ornaments, some gifted by my family back in Landon, some from Clark, and a handful Marshall and I had chosen on our own; Nelson’s Hardware was the place in Jalesville for such things. We’d found a family of painted wooden cardinals we especially loved. Marshall had taken great care to hang the little nest with its two baby cardinals between the mama and daddy, and then he’d cradled me close and kissed me, rubbing my belly as he whispered sweetly, “Maybe by this time next year.”

  We were so in love that I could not fully express it in words. The joy of it pierced my heart in a hundred thousand places.

  In the glow of our Christmas tree, we settled our coats on the wall-mounted hooks that Marshall had hung back in September; amongst other ways in which the apartment was lacking, it did not have any closet space. We vowed that as soon as Marshall had graduated and we were married, we would build a beautiful, well-organized and efficient cabin. We’d spent many a cozy evening evaluating sample blueprints online, and had even picked out the building site, a quarter-mile from Clark’s house.

  On land that we were now supposed to vacate by the end of February.

  I slipped my arms around Marshall’s waist and pressed my face to his back; he was wearing his forest-green flannel shirt, the material soft against my cheek, and he covered my arms with his and held. I loved how I knew his every last piece of clothing, down to his socks and underwear. I wore his sweaters all the time, and kept them out of the washer (we took our laundry to Clark’s on Friday nights) so that they would retain the scent of him; throughout any given day, I would periodically tug the collars of those sweaters over my nose so I could smell him. I knew it touched him deeply that I did this, and he loved to tease me that he kept a pair of my panties in his coat pocket, for a similar reason.

  Before we left Clark’s, it seemed there was nothing that hadn’t been said already this evening, the festive mood having vanished into a black hole of disbelief and fury. Only Garth, who had built his and Becky’s house on their own land, gifted to them by Becky’s family, was not in danger of imminent potential eviction. It was hellish.

  “It will be all right,” Marshall murmured, turning to encase me in his arms. He whispered, “I don’t know how exactly
, but it will. We have to believe that.”

  “Trust that psycho asshole to get the ball rolling during the week of Christmas too,” I said, rubbing my chin against his chest.

  “Hey,” he said, stroking my hair with both hands. “It’s our first Christmas together. No matter what, I consider that special. More beautiful than anything I’ve ever known.”

  One of my presents for Marshall was a little red bulb that was decorated with those exact words, Our First Christmas, 2013. It was also painted with two Canadian geese whose beaks were touching, and I knew he would love it. I whispered, “I do, too, sweetheart. I know we’ll do everything we can.”

  After perusing the documents Derrick had left behind, Tish had called both our father and Al, demanding to know what could be done. Neither of us had really spoken to our father since August; Tish left him two voicemails earlier this evening, as he didn’t answer, and Al was on vacation in Colorado for the week, visiting his children. Tish left Al at least three messages and would have kept going strong except for the fact that Case insisted, gently but firmly, that she needed to rest. I knew that Tish would do anything for her husband, and though she was reluctant to let up, Case had successfully gotten her calmed and headed for home an hour or so before Marshall and I left.

  What frightened me most was that Clark was so terribly worried, despite his flurry of activity unearthing legal documents from cabinets, spreading them chronologically on the floor before the fireplace; beneath this frenetic motion, he was concerned, fearful that perhaps the Yancys, especially the Yancys backed by a powerful Chicago law firm like Turnbull and Hinckley, had enough evidence to somehow prove ownership of the land. Marshall said the same thing as we lay snuggled in bed not long later, naked beneath flannel sheets and Faye’s patchwork quilt, snow falling like feathers at the window. Neither of us could sleep.