The Stills

by Jess Montgomery

  His hand shakes a little as he lifts the kettle. Had she rattled him that much with her drawn gun? As he pours into the cup, the tea identifies itself by its aroma: chamomile.

  He brings the tea to the worktable—back already in the kitchen after serving as the children’s table at Thanksgiving dinner; had he helped Mama return it?—and turns up the wick on the lamp, chasing darkness from the room. Exhaustion rolls over her like a boulder, and she sits down hard on a kitchen chair. She picks up the teacup, breathes in the soothing steam.

  “Nana said that this is the tea you would need when you got home,” Benjamin says as he sits down across from her. “Your mother agreed—though they quibbled over how much sweetening.”

  Despite the weariness crackling in her bones, the sorrowful turn Thanksgiving had taken, Lily smiles. She takes a sip, savors the sweet yet light tea, the warmth slipping down her throat. “Let me guess—Mama said one teaspoon honey; Nana said two.”

  Benjamin laughs. A dimple appears in his right cheek. The deep timbre of his laugh is surprisingly easy and soothing. “Yes. And Mrs. McArthur prevailed.”

  It is strange to hear her mother referred to by her formal name. And it is strange to hear his Cleveland accent—smooth as a planed plank of wood with just an occasional splintery twang now and again. She realizes how little she knows about him. She isn’t even certain what, exactly, he’s doing for the Bureau of Mines over in Rossville.

  And she realizes that she’d like to know more, imagines for a moment simply saying: Well, that wasn’t an entirely typical workday for me. Tell me more about what you do.… She’d sound ridiculous. So instead, she says of the tea, “Doesn’t taste like it.”

  Benjamin lifts an eyebrow. “I added an extra dollop after your mother went up to put the children to bed.”

  Now Lily laughs. She takes another sip. As she puts the cup back down, the clink makes a tinkly echo in the kitchen. She stares at him, as if the sound asks all the obvious questions: Why is he still here? What happened after she left—between Marvena and Jurgis, and the others?

  But Benjamin has his own question. “How is Zebediah?”

  Her heart warms that Benjamin remembers the boy’s name. “We got him to the hospital in Chillicothe, prob’ly just in time. The hospital doctor got him quickly to a room, and injected him with small doses of insulin.” Lily shakes her head, recollecting how thin yet shuddery the boy’s breath had sounded, like a gossamer curtain between this life and the next, stirred by deep winds. “He had not regained consciousness by the time we left. Dr. Goshen thinks it may take a day or two.”

  “So his condition had nothing to do with drinking Marvena’s moonshine?”

  “It was made worse by doing so. But in a way, it saved his life. Brought the condition forward.” Lily sighs. “But that doesn’t mean what she is doing is OK.”

  “I thought you find Prohibition foolish?”

  “I do. But I still have to uphold the rule of law. My opinion can’t dictate what I enforce—or don’t—or who I bring in or help. And I’m not on the side of deceiving her spouse, of keeping important information hidden.” She looks down at her cup. Will he read in her look that she’s experienced such deception?

  “Will the boy be all right after he’s home?”

  Lily describes the Harkins family situation.

  “That poor family,” Benjamin says when she finishes. Benjamin’s eyes glisten in the coal-oil light, and he looks away. Lily’s eyebrows lift. It is rare to see such emotion manifest in a man. Daniel was always so stoic and hard. She takes another sip of tea and considers. Her face reflames at the realization: this softer approach intrigues her.

  Then she admonishes herself. She must be really weary to let her mind wander so. She has enough to deal with: not least interrogating Marvena. And most alarming, trying to find out the truth about what Ruth had told her as she gave her the revenuer’s badge: When Zeb got home, he wasn’t making much sense … said this came from a fella he found up by Mrs. Sacovech’s still … the fella was hurt. Plus, she has the meeting in the morning with Special Agent Barnaby Sloan, from the Columbus field office of the Bureau of Prohibition. She’ll have to tell him about the badge. She hopes he’ll just say, Oh, we’ve had an agent or two come down this way the past few months. Must have fallen off a lapel.

  But she knows better than to think it will be that simple.

  She should get to bed, sleep a few hours before pursuing these tasks. But there’s one question that’s going to keep her awake if she doesn’t ask it. She drinks the last of her tea and then says, “Thank you. But why are you still here, Mr. Russo?”

  Benjamin’s eyes glint with a spark of hurt at the formal use of his name. He clears his throat, says, “After you left, everyone else did, too, abruptly. It was probably just as well—though Jolene and Frankie were particularly upset at parting sooner than they expected.” He smiles, shakes his head. “I grew up with three older brothers, no sisters, so I didn’t know girls could wail so loudly, as if life was ending.”

  Lily smiles, both at his good humor and at his tiny divulgence of personal detail.

  “I lingered to help your mama and Jolene with the cleaning up,” he says. “They didn’t seem to mind the help.”

  Lily glances around. Indeed, everything is in order. She’s relieved at the notion of no household chores awaiting her. But it is unusual that a man would volunteer for such work. Her eyebrows rise, questioning such beneficence.

  Benjamin grins. “I have to clean up after myself all the time. I rent a bedroom from Mrs. Lumpkin, but it’s up to me to do my own cooking, and she doesn’t tolerate a mess. Plus, my own mama didn’t stand for boys not doing household chores.”

  “Good for her.”

  “And I’m always happy to help your mama,” Benjamin says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

  Ah. Of course. Occasionally, Mama and Lily run into Benjamin in Kinship and she watches the two strike up a conversation. They’ve become friends, of sorts. They have, after all, Lily’s brother Roger in common. Every now and again, Lily used to catch Mama asking Daniel about Roger and how he had fared in the army—up to that last terrible second. Daniel was always soothing: Roger had friends. Everyone liked him. He died quickly, no pain.

  Benjamin’s expression retreats into seriousness. “I was going to leave hours ago, but as we were finishing up, a knock came at the door.…” He hesitates in a way that only portends bad news. Lily braces herself.

  “It was a man who introduced himself as Abe Miller. There was another man with him—though it was clear Miller didn’t want him at the door, told him he was supposed to have waited in the automobile. Lily, the other man was Luther Ross.”

  For a long moment, Lily stares at Benjamin. Surely she’s not heard properly.

  Luther Ross—her deceased husband Daniel’s half brother—would not dare come to her county, what’s more to her house, would he? Luther and Elias Ross—Luther and Daniel’s uncle—had each played a role in events that led to Daniel’s death. She could have tried to bring them to justice through the law two years before, but doing so would have upended the community in hateful ways, the thought of which still makes her shudder. And so, after reluctantly accepting George Vogel’s help to enforce their demand, she and Marvena had made them agree to leave, never come back.

  But now … Luther Ross was back in Bronwyn County.

  Coming to her door late on a snowy Thanksgiving night.

  And if Luther Ross is with Abe Miller—George’s top man, his right hand—then George has for some reason gone back on his promise to keep them away from here.

  How wrong she’s been to think she could banish them forever. Their faces—George, Luther, Elias—emerge from the recesses of memory. Specters that will always glimmer just outside of her mind’s eye, haunting her, for as long as they live. Maybe even after that.

  “What—what did they want?” Lily jumps up, as if to shake off the great pressure resting on her chest. She can
barely breathe.

  “Lily—my God—you’ve gone so pale. Here—let me help you to the settee—” Benjamin reaches for her, touches her arm.

  Lily jerks away—both shocked by the touch and how it ricochets through her and impatient at being patronized. “No! I don’t need to sit down! What did they want?”

  “Abe Miller said they were looking for Dr. Goshen. They’d gone to the doctor’s house and his wife told them he had come here with Ruth Harkins.”

  “Why did they need the doctor?” Lily snaps.

  Benjamin’s face shutters at Lily’s biting tone. “For Luther’s uncle, Elias. Luther seemed to believe Elias had a stroke or mild heart attack, but didn’t have his heart pills with him. He was desperate for any help he could find.”

  Lily sits back down, presses her eyes shut. She hears Benjamin rise, walk away, no doubt weary of the drama surrounding Lily and at last eager to get back to his boarding room. She can’t blame him.

  She forces herself to breathe, to focus on this news. How worried should she be about the sanctity of her home? Why is George Vogel in this area—and on Thanksgiving? As far as she knows, the only connection George now has to the area is his wife, Fiona, who grew up here. Fiona had been more acquaintance than friend with Lily, even when they both lived in Kinship proper.

  Something glints in her mind’s eye.

  The Prohibition agent’s shield.

  Which Zebediah Harkins had claimed to find near Marvena’s still.

  Surely this couldn’t be connected. Yet with Vogel in the area, surely it must be.

  Hot tears run up behind Lily’s eyelids, at the overwhelmingness of this situation.

  And a tiny voice teases her, with sorrowfulness at Benjamin’s departure.

  But then she hears his steps returning. She opens her eyes, gazes up at him holding a glass of water out to her. She takes it in both hands, as a child would—embarrassing, but she is shaking so that she can’t help it. She takes a long sip.

  Benjamin waits, says nothing. His presence is calm, relaxed. He’s not going to go anywhere, she realizes, but neither is he going to do anything other than wait for her to tell him what she needs.

  Lily takes another sip. Her shakiness settles. “Did either say why they are in Bronwyn County? Where they are staying?”

  “No.”

  “What time did they arrive?”

  “Just after three thirty p.m.” Benjamin nods toward the grandfather clock. “The half hour had just chimed.”

  So shortly after she and Doc Goshen and Ruth had left.

  “Did anyone tell them where we went?”

  Benjamin shakes his head. “I was about to—I was the one who answered the door. But by then Mrs. McArthur had come to the door, and she looked so spooked by the sight of the men.”

  Oh, poor Mama. Even Mama, whose instinct is to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, doesn’t like or trust Luther—he had, after all, made decisions when he ran the mining company in Rossville that led to a tragic cave-in, and both Lily’s father and Marvena’s then-husband had died while working on rescue efforts. Mama only knows of Abe Miller as a shadowy sight who has from time to time appeared in Kinship—and once, over a year ago, Miller had aided Lily only at George Vogel’s behest, because Lily had desperately turned to him.

  And George hadn’t said it then, but Lily knew that eventually he’d expect a favor of her in return. George never does anything without expectation of eventual recompense. Maybe he has some reason to bring Luther and Elias into his fold—and all he will expect of her is to accept their presence back in Bronwyn County.

  Lily’s stomach turns.

  She can’t do that.

  “So neither of you mentioned the Harkinses?”

  “No, Lily. They just turned around and left.”

  “Did you happen to see which way they went?”

  Benjamin shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry.”

  Lily clears her throat. “Did—did the children see them? Or hear them?”

  “I don’t think so. Jolene was back in the kitchen, and the boys were outside, settling the hens for the evening. I’m sorry for this bad news. I hope your uncle is all right. Daniel didn’t talk much about his brother—and just that brief encounter makes me see why—but he talked often about how kind and supportive his uncle Elias was. Like a father to him.”

  Lily’s heart squeezes at this revelation. Tears run up into her eyes. Oh God.

  “I wish I could tell you more,” Benjamin says. “I promised Mrs. McArthur I’d stay until you got back. She seemed so rattled.…” He pauses, adds more softly, “But I can still stay. Do you need me to?”

  Benjamin’s dark eyes gather her to him. Something flutters beneath her ribs, the twin wings of hope and nervousness. But Lily shakes her head—wrong feelings, wrong time.

  Disappointment crosses Benjamin’s face. But she doesn’t stop him as he walks to the mudroom. A gust of wind blows in as he hesitates after opening the door. “Let me know if you need anything!” he calls softly. Then the door clicks to.

  As Lily climbs the stairs up to her cold bedroom, questions shout for her attention. She shakes her head at herself; the loudest is the one she’s likely to never get to ask, one for Benjamin: What were you thinking about, sitting in my parlor in the dark, awaiting my return?

  CHAPTER 10

  FIONA

  Friday, November 25, 1927

  1:00 a.m.

  In the dismal dark, Fiona lies wide awake. Next to her, George sleeps deeply but not peacefully. He moans and occasionally cries out—“Oh! Oh!”—lost in some nightmare.

  Though it’s not unusual, Fiona has never brought this up to him or asked him about it. She’s speculated, of course: Something from childhood, from immigrating? She only has a sketch of George’s life from before he became George Vogel, the feared bootlegging kingpin, and what she knows is this: He grew up in Germany, immigrated to the United States with just his mother and distant cousin Klara, grew up in poverty in Chicago, somehow made it through law school, spent a few years in traditional practice, and then began finding ways to make legal loopholes work to his benefit. One previous, childless marriage ended in divorce.

  Klara could fill in many details. But she and Klara are not allies.

  Abe, too, could offer up details, if he trusted Fiona. But he does not.

  On the other hand, Klara and Abe are not allies, either. Maybe she could play them off each other, find a way to turn George’s trust toward her, and only her.

  Whatever torments some tender, deep part of George Vogel is not what keeps Fiona awake.

  Ice taps the windowpanes, as if the hand of the past is relentlessly knocking, asking her to let it in. And oh, how she resists, as if she can will away both weather and memories of her earlier life in Bronwyn County, memories that have, since entering the whirlwind of life with George, become so flat and distant, no more than flowers long ago plucked and pressed in between the pages of a book, near to crumbling into dust.

  Another moan from George, as his body jerks and twitches.

  Though she can barely make out his shape in the dark, Fiona looks over at him.

  Did you conspire to kill my dear uncle?

  She wants to know, and yet she realizes the answer doesn’t matter. Even if Aunt Nell is simply being paranoid, her belief makes her willing to help Fiona take control of George’s assets. That’s what matters. It’s the first step in getting George put away—for good. Even if he hadn’t been behind Uncle Henry’s death, Fiona is sure George has committed plenty of sins to justify miserable punishment and the loss of all he holds dear.

  Meaning money and power. Oh sure, he would say their child, but after the first flush of excitement wears off he will revert, quickly, to focusing only on money and power.

  But she has a little time, while he’s still caught up in that first flush. It gives her, as she’d thought yesterday, leverage.

  First, though, to shake his confidence. Stir doubts within him. Fiona gi
ves his shoulder a little shake and, when that does not break his deep sleep, a harder one.

  “Wha—what?” George bolts up, fists flailing. Fiona barely jumps out of the way before his hand lands on her pillow near her head.

  “Oh, oh, George!” she cries. “You were having a nightmare!”

  “I—I was?” His voice is thick, confused.

  Fiona sits up, lights the bedside lamp, turns the wick so just a dollop of light thins the darkness. Then she lies back down beside him, strokes his head. “You were…,” she says. She hesitates, hoping that she’s guessed correctly, that in his adult life other women have refrained from telling him about his troubled sleep patterns. “I—I’m sorry to wake you, but I’ve never heard you have a nightmare like this. I was sound asleep myself and your cries awakened me.”

  George sits up, fumbles for his glasses on the night table, puts them on at an askew angle. He stares forward, perplexed, as if clarity might stumble forth from the shadowed corners of the bedroom. “Have I, have I done this before?”

  Fiona exhales, relieved. He doesn’t remember having nightmares. Fiona leans into him so that her breasts press into his shoulder. “Not like this. This one seemed really bad.” She strokes his hair. “Do you—do you remember anything of it?”

  George frowns. “Something about running. A ball in the street. I—I think it was a nightmare I had when I was a boy. My mother would wake me occasionally—”

  A rapping on the bedroom door makes them both jolt.

  George swats her hand away, throws back the quilt, gets out of bed.

  “I’m sorry, I heard voices, saw the light under the door—” It’s Abe Miller. Fiona sighs, sits up in bed, pulls the quilt up to her chin.

  George steps back, impatiently shoos him inside. Abe keeps his eyes averted from Fiona as George shuts the door.

  “Turn the light up, Fiona!” George snaps, as if she is foolish for not anticipating that she should do so.