The Stills

by Jess Montgomery

Fiona sits quietly while Dr. Goshen presses a stethoscope against her back.

  “Just breathe normally, Mrs. Vogel,” he says. “I know my stethoscope is cold—but then your latest fashions don’t provide modest coverage. Relax.”

  Fiona forces her breath to ease, even as her hands and jaw clench. If only her problems were as simple as the fashionably low cut of the back of her modern dress revealing skin against which the doctor is pressing his cold stethoscope.

  Normal? Nothing is normal right now.

  Even getting herself here had required more than simply walking over to the doctor’s office after the train bearing Aunt Nell pulled out of the Kinship station. Such a direct act would have raised questions, even suspicions.

  “I’m going to shine this light in your eyes,” Dr. Goshen says. “Try not to blink.”

  So Fiona had faked becoming faint, falling back into Abe, who’d been sent with Fiona to drive her and Aunt Nell to the station, while George remained at the savings and loan and worked on putting his real estate holdings in her name.

  “Open your mouth. I’m going to check your tonsils.”

  Fiona is still astounded that George had gone that far. If she hadn’t been able to cast doubt on Abe and his dunderheaded loss of Luther, she’s certain she would not have been able to manipulate him to do so.

  “All right, I’m going to press your abdomen,” Dr. Goshen says. “Let me know if you have any tenderness.”

  Still, the realization that in a few days all that property would legally be in her name had sent her head spinning and her stomach churning as the train pulled away, and so it had not been hard for her to do a decent job of playacting her sickness.

  Abe had seemed reluctant, but Fiona knew he wouldn’t want her to tell George he’d refused to escort her to the doctor when she’d asked. Abe is sitting out in the waiting area.

  “You are perfectly healthy, Mrs. Vogel,” Dr. Goshen says now. “I see no reason for concern about your dizzy spell. I’m sure it’s due to the stress of saying good-bye to your aunt—and of being pregnant.”

  “I wasn’t dizzy when I was pregnant with my first child,” Fiona says. This much is true.

  “Well, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Oh my, yes, yes,” Dr. Goshen says—as if she’s the biblical Sarah becoming with child when already stricken with old age. Dr. Goshen makes a note. “And when you had your first child, you were—”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Well, quite a difference in age right there, yes?” He gives her a patronizing pat on the arm and makes another note.

  “The morning sickness is extreme, though. Is there anything you can give me?”

  “I can mix a mild tincture of bicarbonate of soda and aspirin. That should help.”

  Fiona studies him as he opens cupboards, gathers bottles, mortar, pestle. She notes the drooping dark bags beneath his eyes, the weary slope to his shoulders.

  As he methodically crushes and measures and mixes his ingredients, Fiona considers the question: Why would Luther—whose top priority is always Elias—have run off last night? What if Abe had been lying about that and something else had happened to Luther?

  If that was the case, then Fiona could report that back to George later. Abe is already in dangerous territory with George, as had been painfully clear in the meeting at the bank. Proof of Abe lying about Luther might be just enough to finally undermine Abe in George’s mind so that she could be rid of Abe once and for all.

  Then there is the matter of Uncle Henry. Elias had said that it was Dr. Goshen, after all, who’d claimed Uncle Henry had a stroke. If she can get Dr. Goshen to talk, just a little, about Uncle Henry, perhaps she’ll have a better idea of how much—if at all—to trust Elias.

  “I think,” Fiona says softly, “that Uncle Henry’s death might have affected me more than I realized.”

  Dr. Goshen stiffens, stops grinding down the tablets. A dull silence follows. Fiona lets it leaven for a few moments and then punctures it with a tittering laugh. “Isn’t it odd? Uncle Henry, healthy as can be, no issues, and then he just keels over one day—”

  “He had stomach issues,” Dr. Goshen says. He goes back to pummeling the tablets. “I was treating him for ulcers.”

  Aunt Nell hadn’t mentioned that. “Ulcers … did that contribute to his death?”

  “He had a stroke. He was worried about—farm concerns. Stress led to his stomach problems. And, I’m guessing, may have contributed to his stroke. So his tendency to worry didn’t help either issue, but an ulcer wouldn’t directly trigger his stroke.”

  Fiona considers. Uncle Henry was a worrier. But what farm concerns would he have had—until George and Elias showed up? “Aunt Nell never said anything about this.”

  “She didn’t know.” Dr. Goshen squashes each word of his reply, like it’s a troublesome bug. “Your uncle Henry didn’t want her to worry, too, and I respected that. I compounded my version of milk of magnesia for him every month or so—less magnesium hydroxide than the over-the-counter product, plus an analgesic. He’d find a reason to come into town, or I’d come by the farm on some excuse.”

  “So … other than the stomach ulcer, he seemed fine, the last time you saw him, a month or so before he—”

  “A few days before he passed, I came by with a new bottle of the medicine for him.” Dr. Goshen’s small smile manages to be both amused and sad. “I’d come by with the excuse that he was teaching me a few woodworking tricks. We were in the men’s group together at church, so your aunt didn’t question it.”

  Someone knocks at the door. “Yes?” Dr. Goshen says.

  “It’s me.” Mrs. Goshen’s voice filters through the door.

  “Come in.” He looks at Fiona. “My wife is better at packaging my tinctures anyway—less spillage.”

  The door opens long enough for Fiona to note Abe sitting in a chair directly across from the door. He gives her a little smile, a sharp look.

  Mrs. Goshen walks in, an ample woman as round as a turnip, swathed in a too-large modest brown cotton dress on which a pattern of blue flowers somehow makes the cloth even duller. She gives Fiona a stern look, then gazes back at her husband. “The other patients are getting restless. They’ve been waiting awhile.” The door clicks to.

  “I see,” Fiona says. “Well, we are certainly grateful for your kind concern today—taking me in ahead of your other patients. Goodness! I’ll be sure to tell my husband of your kindness. Oh—and we thank you for sending along the heart pills Abe and Luther requested for Elias. So, well, so kind of you to do so, without insisting on checking on Elias yourself.”

  Dr. Goshen looks stricken. “Well, he—he’s a doctor himself, of course. And—I’ve met him. Just a few times.”

  “Yes, of course. He’s doing much better now, with his heart pills.”

  “Oh, good, good,” Dr. Goshen says hastily. “I was going to ask.”

  No, you weren’t. “Thank you,” Fiona says, “but I’m not sure they’ll do much good if Luther doesn’t return soon. Elias worries so, about his nephew.”

  Dr. Goshen frowns. “Luther didn’t return?”

  “Odd, given how he’s always so concerned about his uncle,” Fiona says.

  Mrs. Goshen puts a lid on the bottle, brings it to Fiona. There’s a label affixed, with carefully handwritten instructions about how to take the medicine.

  “Did Luther say anything about wanting to go elsewhere, while he and Mr. Miller awaited your husband’s return? Somewhere he and Mr. Miller might have gone after they left here?” Fiona asks as she takes the bottle.

  “No,” Mrs. Goshen says. “They were quiet—for the most part—waiting in the parlor. My husband came home, saw they were here. Explained that he’d been summoned by a farm girl who said that her brother had been watching over some hill woman’s still, and taken ill, apparently drinking tainted alcohol. Mr. Ross became agitated, demanded to know who.”

  “And did you tell him?” Fiona asks. Ab
e had said they did not mention specifics the night before. Why would Abe—ever loyal to her husband—withhold such information? “You can trust me,” Fiona adds, smiling as beguilingly as she can manage. “When I tell my husband that I asked after Luther, he will appreciate knowing that you trusted me with the information.”

  Dr. Goshen looks stricken by her implication she’ll report everything to her husband. Even here, George Vogel’s reputation is formidable—and frightening.

  “I said I’d gone with Lily Ross to the Harkins family farm. That the girl, Ruth, accused a woman named Marvena Whitcomb Sacovech of letting her brother work for her keeping watch at her stand where customers could pick up their shine, and sadly, the boy—who has diabetes—had fallen into a coma. Luther wanted to know if the boy would come around. He seemed quite agitated. As soon as I finished the medicine, Luther looked at Abe and told him to get it to Elias—or he’d live to regret it. Then Luther took off running, and Abe followed.”

  A silence ensnares the room, as Fiona considers what she’s learned and as the doctor and his wife look at each other worriedly. Had they said too much?

  Mrs. Goshen’s hand—she’s been holding out Fiona’s bottle of medicine this whole time—starts to quiver. A light flashes off her hand. Fiona notices a ring, beset with a gorgeously cut sapphire. So sophisticated, for a simple country doctor’s wife. So at odds with the dull blue field of flowers on her worn brown dress.

  But then—hadn’t Fiona hinted, not so subtly, for Martin to buy her fancy things? Things a simple country shoe shop owner couldn’t afford? Had that been why he’d gambled, to give her the necklace, the cupboard, the fancy blue vase—all of which she’d later sell for pennies on the dollar?

  The only treasure she’d held on to was the candy dish from her youth—besides, with the chip in its side, it would not sell anyway.

  Fiona shakes her head to clear it as she takes the bottle. She turns a thin smile on the doctor. “Thank you. I will have my husband send payment if you’ll just tell me how much—”

  “Oh, no need.” Dr. Goshen waves his hands. “Consider it a … a … congratulatory gift.”

  Fiona tucks the bottle into her handbag. She does not wait for either Dr. or Mrs. Goshen to open the door for her. She readies her thin smile and direct gaze for Abe and opens it herself.

  CHAPTER 15

  LILY

  Friday, November 25, 1927

  2:00 p.m.

  Branches fly into the windshield of Lily’s automobile. She clutches the steering wheel with her left hand, bracing herself, and throws her right arm across Marvena’s chest to hold her back.

  Lily hears a sickening pop as her automobile jolts to a stop. For a moment, in the thudding stillness, Lily stares at the branches covering her cracked windshield. Then looks over at Marvena, eyes wide with shock but all in one piece. Darts her gaze back to the windshield. Thank God no branches had broken through, stabbed them. Assesses the view as best she can through branches and windshield cracks. They’re at the bottom of the ravine. Better than her automobile being caught temporarily in thick branches, only to plunge farther.

  Pain shoots through Lily’s left shoulder, so swift and intense that she’s nearly overcome by nausea. Oh—the sickening pop was dislocation. She moans.

  “C’mon, Lily.” Marvena’s voice, like her tug on Lily’s coat sleeve, is gentle, coaxing.

  Lily’s door is stuck, so she slides out after Marvena. Lily notes the crumpled front end. She’s not going to be able to drive her automobile for a while. “You all right?”

  Marvena nods. “Might have a few bruises later from you holding me back so tight—hey!” She catches Lily as she starts to slide to her knees, and Lily yelps.

  “Dislocated my shoulder,” Lily says. She grits her teeth, tries to roll her shoulder back in place. Gasps, as the pain worsens. “Need you to get my shotgun out, unload it.”

  Marvena complies as Lily eases out of her overcoat, lets it fall to the ground. When Marvena turns back around with the unloaded shotgun, she gasps at the sight of Lily’s skewed shoulder.

  Lily sinks to her knees on top of her coat. “Use the butt end.”

  “Lily—”

  “Make it fast. And don’t go all gentle on me.”

  Lily stiffens her left arm, grasps her wrist tight with her right hand. Grits her teeth.

  For a moment, Marvena is so still that Lily fears her friend has frozen in shock at the situation. But then she swiftly hits Lily’s shoulder. Lily yelps in blinding pain, but as her vision returns she feels her shoulder back in place. Throbbing, painful, but such a relief.

  Marvena helps her up, gets her into her overcoat, gathers tote bags and weaponry. Then both women stare up the steep bank. Marvena takes Lily’s right elbow, and Lily starts to shake away—I can do this myself—but then she lets Marvena help her.

  At the top of the rise, they stare back. The automobile is barely visible, and soon, with the falling snow, the gap created in the brush by their accident will be hard to spot. Marvena pulls the red knit scarf from her neck, ties it around a nearby branch.

  She grins at Lily. “Don’t need the tow truck sliding around later, looking for your T. Now, how far out of town you reckon we are?”

  “R-r-reckon f-f-four miles,” Lily manages. Her teeth are chattering hard—not so much from the cold wind as from shock of their situation just now hitting her.

  Marvena hooks her arm through Lily’s uninjured arm, starts them in the direction of Kinship. “You were ’bout to tell me something, afore that patch of ice rudely interrupted.”

  Lily’s mind is blank, and then it comes back to her. She bites back a groan. Now, of all times, to tell Marvena about Luther’s presence—his visit to her house last night with Abe, his visit with a bureau agent to her office, her suspicions that Luther is trying to not only outwit George but set up both Lily and Marvena.

  “Or I reckon I could sing a hymn to pass the time,” Marvena says, the offer a jovial threat. Her sweet daughter, Frankie, had inherited her lovely voice from her father, Marvena’s first husband, a coal miner who’d died alongside Lily’s father a little over three years before, trying to save other coal miners in a cave-in caused by poor decisions Luther had made.

  Tears, not just from the brisk wind, sting Lily’s eyes.

  There’s not going to be an easy or right time to fill Marvena in—other than immediately, and that chance is past. And Lily’s already forgiven Marvena for moonshining again, especially knowing her reason.

  Maybe Marvena will forgive her for not filling her in immediately.

  Lily stares at the toes of her boots, crunching on the icy road. She swallows back another wave of pain-induced nausea and says as carefully as she walks, “Well, what I gotta tell you isn’t gonna be easy to hear.”

  * * *

  The white clapboard church is barely more distinctive than a ghost perched in the cleared dale below, surrounded by bare trees with limbs stretching up to the gray, snow-swirled sky like arms raised in prayer. Though impatiently waiting for the plain wooden door to open, for Marvena to appear and wave her on down, Lily is grateful for this moment to be silent. Still.

  When Benjamin comes up alongside her, Lily stiffens, not ready for the moment to be shattered by conversation.

  But he is silent, other than panting from his trek. From his slight smile, she gathers that he isn’t silent only to catch his breath. He, too, knows how, and when, to be still.

  It is not uncomfortable, this being silent and still in each other’s presence.

  Better than the last silent half mile of Lily and Marvena’s walk into Kinship, after Lily finished explaining about Luther.

  Once at the town’s edge, Lily’d sent Marvena to ask one of her deputies to loan Lily his automobile—after all, she still needed Marvena to guide her to the church. Expressionless, Marvena nodded and walked off. Lily then went to Kinship’s only mechanic’s garage to arrange for her automobile to be towed back. Then she’d gone to the courth
ouse, left a message with the commissioners’ office that she’d wrecked her own automobile and would need a loaner until hers was fixed and would like official permission to request a loaner from the one automobile dealer in town. In her office, she’d allowed herself the luxury of dry-swallowing two aspirin and, quickly but shakily, made notes about what had transpired, what they’d learned from Zebediah.

  When she emerged onto the courthouse steps, Marvena was waiting for her, but not with the deputy Lily’d requested—with Benjamin Russo.

  I reckon you’re not just going to loan me your automobile, Lily’d said to Benjamin at the bottom of the steps.

  Benjamin had shook his head. No, ma’am. Marvena told me about the wreck—

  Doesn’t mean I can’t drive—

  Didn’t mean to imply such. But your shoulder could use a rest.

  Well, clever. Marvena knew Lily’d not goad her to talk in front of Benjamin.

  But Lily’d accepted riding in the back seat, while Marvena sat up front with Benjamin to give directions. Truth be told, sitting back there and closing her eyes for the ride had done her good. But when they got to Rossville and needed to start walking, Benjamin parked his automobile and got out with them. Lily had said, Thanks for the ride, but we don’t need your help. He’d just grinned: Need to stretch my legs.

  Now Benjamin breaks the silence, quietly asking, “What are we waiting for?”

  “Marvena didn’t expect people besides the pastor and his wife to be here and she wants to ease the way,” Lily says. Since tersely claiming she’d run into Benjamin on the way to the deputy, all she’d said to Lily was, Wait here, when they got to the top of this hill. “Or so I’m guessing. She wants me to get the information I came for, without scaring anyone.”

  Lily hopes Marvena can find someone at the church to confirm what Zebediah had told them, that he’d brought the revenuer here. Could she have some luck, discover the revenuer is here?

  She shifts her stance, then winces. Climbing the hill with one decent arm was simple, but going down to the church in the clearing, she’d need balance. Tricky, with her left shoulder still throbbing. As she looks around for a branch that might be suitable as a walking stick, she notes Benjamin pulling out a cigarette and a silver Zippo lighter.