A Desperate Hope

by Elizabeth Camden

  Jack paced the ground before the ruined tractor. “Planting a second camp so close to Duval Springs is waving a cape in front of an angry bull. If the state stops construction on the Timberland camp, I’ll bet this pointless vandalism will stop. We all know someone from Duval Springs probably did this,” he said with a sympathetic glance at Alex.

  Throughout the lawsuit to stop the reservoir, Jack had been a surprising ally. He showed up to every court hearing to lend his support, even though his family’s property lay well above the flow line. Most of the people who lived above the flow line thanked their lucky stars to have escaped the looming demolition, so Jack’s support was rare and welcome.

  Alex rubbed at the tension gathering in his forehead. He’d spent the past five years in a lawsuit to spare his town and had emerged tired, beaten, and demoralized. His final act as mayor was going to be closing down the town he loved. It was a job he never wanted, but he couldn’t turn it over to anyone else. He loved this place too much to abandon it during its final days.

  Soon his valley would swarm with thousands of outsiders. The lumberjacks had already moved into the historic hotel where Alex lived. They dragged in mud and left cigarette butts everywhere. And more workers were on the way. A team of businesspeople were coming this weekend, and he resented them even more than the lumberjacks. At least the loggers were hardworking people who sweat for every dollar they earned, not like the pampered office workers.

  “Mayor Duval?” the sheriff asked. “Do you have any recommendations for getting this tractor removed and repaired?”

  “Ask the state to get it out,” he replied. “Let’s see how much they care about anyone or anything in this valley.”

  He turned to start walking home, savoring the breeze and the first hints of yellow and scarlet tingeing the forest canopy. This would be his last autumn in the valley. To the outside world, he projected confident bravado, but in the quiet chambers of his mind, he mourned another good-bye. It seemed each day brought another “last.” His last apple harvest, the last opening day of school.

  Jack pulled up alongside him, joining him on the walk. “I’m sorry they dragged you up here to deal with state business.”

  Alex smiled and gave Jack’s shoulder a quick affectionate clap. They’d become friends over the past few years, which was a surprise after the acrimony of the strike. Jack had been the company’s chief enforcer and had hired a crew of strikebreakers, which had inflamed the valley. Yet after the conflict was over, Jack had been the first to extend a hand of friendship to anyone on the other side ready to accept it. Most hadn’t, but Alex had.

  “Sometimes I wish it were possible to turn the clock back to a time when the rest of the world didn’t know this valley existed,” Alex said.

  Jack nodded. “I know it’s cold comfort for you and everyone else in Duval Springs, but you’ve got my sympathy. I can’t speak for Garrett’s quarry, but I’ll do my best to find work for anyone who needs a job after the town is gone.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” Alex said as they continued walking. He didn’t know what he would do after Duval Springs was gone. Closing down the town took all of his attention and energy.

  All right, that wasn’t really true. He just didn’t want to think about it. The coming year would be a long and painful slog ending in the destruction of the town that was part of his soul. Thousands of outsiders would descend, each delivering their own special torment as they cleared forests, burned down homes, and evicted people who’d lived here for generations. The lumberjacks were merely the first wave. Next came a team of businesspeople to start planning the demolition.

  The outsiders were on their way, and Alex would be waiting for them.

  Alex worked late in his town hall office, for the lumberjacks at the hotel meant it was rowdy in the evenings. Living in a hotel wasn’t ideal, but Alex had moved there six years ago after his brother’s fourth child was born. It was too cramped for Alex to continue living in the family home over the tavern, so he moved into a room on the fourth floor of the historic Gilmore Inn, the landmark building in Duval Springs.

  It was after dark when Alex headed back to the hotel, but a light still burned in the schoolhouse. That was odd. There was no cause for anyone to be in the building this late on a Friday night, and it worried him. The recent spate of vandalism had him on alert, and he slid alongside the building to peek inside the illuminated window.

  It was only Marie Trudeau, the French teacher, still working at her desk. As mayor, Alex had keys to all the public buildings in town, so he let himself into the building and walked to her classroom. Mrs. Trudeau had been his favorite teacher when he was in school. She was everyone’s favorite teacher, and he didn’t like to see her toiling away so late.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re still working,” he said as he stepped inside the classroom.

  She sighed as she closed her book. “My Latin is not what it used to be. I need to study each evening to keep ahead of the students.”

  He could only offer a pained smile. Last month their Latin teacher had left for a new position in Albany. People had been leaving town ever since Duval Springs lost its final appeal, and it was becoming a problem for the school. They no longer had a Latin, chemistry, or arithmetic teacher. Other teachers helped with the lower-level classes, but three students were aiming for college next year, and they needed a Latin teacher.

  Mrs. Trudeau had stepped up to the plate. She never asked for a raise in salary or relief from her other duties. She rolled up her sleeves, stayed late, and got the job done. This nation was built on the tireless work of mild-mannered, middle-aged women like Marie Trudeau.

  “I’m grateful to you for hanging in with us,” Alex said.

  A spray of wrinkles fanned out from her eyes as she sent him a sad smile. “After all this town has done for me? I will be loyal to the people of Duval Springs for as long as they need me. I know this isn’t how either one of us wanted to end our time here, but I will be steadfast until the last hour of the last day.”

  He glanced away so she wouldn’t see the sheen in his eyes. With all his heart he loved this place, and what an irony that his last act as mayor would be to dismantle the town. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. The task should be done by someone who cared, not a faceless bureaucrat sent in by the state. His ancestors had founded this town two hundred years ago, and he would be the one to lead the exodus out.

  There were eight more months until the end, and he would savor every day. It promised to be a hard, bittersweet time, but there would be joy as well.

  “Hercules is hosting a send-off chicken dinner at the tavern tonight,” he said. “Will you come? My treat.”

  Mrs. Trudeau seemed shocked. “Who is joining the army?”

  “Vincent Gallagher. He always planned to inherit his father’s sawmill, but that obviously can’t happen. He’s joining the army instead and will be off for Cuba soon.”

  And a send-off chicken dinner was a tradition in Duval Springs for any man shipping off to war. It had begun during the French and Indian War, when nine young men were treated to a farewell chicken dinner. At the end of the night, each man wrote his initials on the wishbone from his chicken, then hung it on the scrollwork railing behind the bar. That night set a precedent. The bone would stay on the rail until the soldier returned to take it down.

  Tonight, it would be Vincent Gallagher’s turn to place his wishbone alongside others from the American Revolution, the War of 1812, the Civil War, and dozens of other skirmishes. During times of war, the scrollwork was always heavily strewn with wishbones as the sons of Duval Springs left for duty. Most bones were claimed when the soldiers returned to a raucous celebration hosted at the tavern, but not all. Dozens still remained, each one representing a soldier who never came home. It was an odd memorial to their fallen soldiers, but a fitting one.

  “Close up your books and come to the tavern,” Alex urged. “This is likely the last chicken dinner send-off we’ll ever have.” Another last
.

  Mrs. Trudeau took his arm, and they headed toward the tavern, where friends and family of Vincent Gallagher had already gathered.

  The tavern was lively as Alex and Mrs. Trudeau stepped inside, the atmosphere an odd combination of festivity, nostalgia, and sorrow. In the past five years, the people of this valley had grown tightly knit as they fought to save their land from the state’s seizure. Now that the battle had been lost, it seemed each evening in the tavern carried a special sentimentality as people began moving away, the town’s numbers dwindling a little more each month.

  “Hey, Alex,” someone in the back of the tavern bellowed. “Have you got a new chemistry teacher for the school?”

  Since he had become mayor, people regularly brought up town business whenever Alex arrived at the tavern, but now wasn’t the time. “This is Vincent’s night, Elmer.”

  “But it’s my boy’s senior year, and he needs to get into college. And he’s not the only one. What about your nephew?”

  “Don’t worry,” Alex vowed. “No kid in this town will be held back for want of a chemistry class.”

  “Or a Latin class,” Mrs. Trudeau added.

  From behind the bar, his brother Hercules slammed down his mug. “My son is going to college next year,” he vowed. “He’s had a picture of the Harvard campus on his bedroom wall since he was twelve years old. I gave all my kids nice, normal names—John, Bill, Mark, and James. That way they can go wherever they want in this world without having to lug around a ridiculous name like Hercules. Good names for good kids! John Duval is going to be the first boy in the Duval family to go to college. That’s one dream the state can’t seize.”

  A few of the men gave hearty cheers of endorsement, but the applause tapered off as Sally, Hercules’s wife, came out of the kitchen with a platter of roasted chicken surrounded by potatoes and vegetables. The platter masked her huge belly, for Sally was due to deliver her fifth baby soon.

  “Where’s the man of the hour?” she asked. It was a rhetorical question, for Vincent Gallagher sat at the center table in the chair of honor, surrounded by his family.

  “I’m not going to be able to eat this whole chicken,” Vincent said as the platter was laid before him.

  “Make a dent,” someone hollered from the back.

  “Please eat,” Vincent’s mother coaxed, looking on the verge of tears.

  At least the active fighting was over, but American troops were headed back to Cuba for a second occupation after the government they installed following the Spanish-American War collapsed. Alex disapproved, for memories of sweltering in Cuba were still with him.

  Would he have become the man he was today without his service in Cuba? He’d been a beaten, penniless kid when he joined the army, but the service taught him to be a man. What an irony that in banishing him from the valley, Bruce Garrett drove Alex toward the ultimate proving ground. Cuba and the army turned Alex into a leader so he could return home and stand up against his archenemy.

  After dinner Alex stood on the seat of a chair and raised his mug. “A toast to Vincent Gallagher,” he called out.

  It took a moment for the crowd to settle down, but soon every eye in the tavern was on him. He cleared his throat and settled his nerves, for he got ridiculously sentimental over good-byes. He and Hercules could both be real watering pots during farewells.

  “Vincent, we are proud to call you a son of Duval Springs,” he said firmly. “I wish I could say the next years are going to be easy, but sometimes it’s the hard things in life that make us great. The army will demand nerves of steel and a heart of gold, but you are about to join a brotherhood. War takes a man places no one else can follow, but we”—he nodded to the other veterans in the tavern, Dr. Lloyd, Dick Brookmeyer, and two of the quarrymen—“we understand, and we’re going to be pulling for you. And we’ll be waiting to welcome you home. Now go hang up that wishbone!”

  There was plenty of foot-stamping and calls of approval, but a quiet voice sneered just behind Alex’s shoulder. “So says the war hero who single-handedly won Cuba.”

  Alex let the insult glance off his back. The rivalry between him and Oscar Ott went back to their childhood when Alex had hidden Oscar’s slingshot so he couldn’t use it to torment stray cats. Oscar retaliated by planting stolen licorice sticks in Alex’s schoolbag in a failed attempt to frame him for theft. Oscar was now an accountant for the Riesel Cement factory, but his resentment of Alex still smoldered.

  For the millionth time, Alex wondered if it was Oscar who had snitched on him and Eloise all those years ago. It would be in character with Oscar’s bone-deep resentment of anything Alex valued or accomplished in life.

  Could Oscar have been behind the trench dug into Mountainside Road? If so, he’d probably try to frame Alex for it. Someone in the valley was out to cause trouble, and that person was willing to play dirty.

  Alex needed to be on guard.

  Eloise selected her wardrobe for the four-month assignment with care. The prospect of heading into Duval Springs was daunting, and she laid out her clothing like a soldier preparing for battle. She draped gowns, blouses, petticoats, and walking suits over every available surface in her apartment while her maid watched from the corner. Tasha Sokolov was a terrible maid but a welcome companion. For the most part, Tasha sat on a padded footstool and bounced baby Ilya on her knee while Eloise did the packing.

  Tasha had arrived from Russia with no family, no husband, and no money, only a baby in her womb. There but for the grace of God go I, Eloise thought the first time she saw Tasha huddled outside a soup kitchen. Eloise brought Tasha home that very evening and gave her a job, and the young woman had been here ever since.

  “Don’t take the brown coat. Too boring,” Tasha said in her heavily accented voice. “You must take the red one.”

  Eloise’s crimson wool cloak with fur trim was warmer but would look wildly out of place in a rural village. Her many years of peering down into the village had showed prosperous but plainly dressed people, nothing like the extravagant frills indulged in by the ladies of Manhattan. But Eloise enjoyed being finely turned out and added the scarlet cloak to the stack of things to take.

  So far, she’d selected three tailored suits, four walking gowns, and an assortment of blouses with coordinating skirts in serge and wool. Then there were matching boots, scarves, and gloves. She had become a lady of consequence and wanted the world to see it.

  The one thing she wouldn’t take to Duval Springs was Tasha. It was probably time for Tasha to have Ilya on her own for a while, because Eloise had grown far too attached to the baby.

  “Have you told the landlord you are leaving?” Tasha asked as she lifted the fussy baby higher on her shoulder. Little Ilya had been teething for days, and little pleased him.

  “Yes, of course,” Eloise responded. “I’ve already paid the rent through December, so you should have no difficulties.”

  “You must also pay the gas bill before you leave,” Tasha said. “It will be cold by December.”

  “I’ve already taken care of it.”

  Tasha’s smile was serene as she went back to rocking the baby. Eloise hated to acknowledge it, but Tasha had only become her friend because the work was minimal and Eloise paid well. It would be nice if she could develop friendships like other people, but it had never been easy for her.

  Soon Ilya’s whimpers morphed into wails. Tasha sighed and rocked him harder.

  “Here, I’ll take him,” Eloise said, reaching out for the baby. Tasha handed him over without complaint, and Ilya immediately stopped crying.

  “Sometimes I think he loves you more than me,” Tasha said a little wistfully.

  “Nonsense,” Eloise said, even though it was probably true. She had been a part of Ilya’s life since the hour he was born and had lavished adoration on him. Still, she wished that his lungs weren’t quite so healthy. Did all teething babies suffer this terribly?

  “I’ll get some whiskey to rub on his gums.”

&nbs
p; Eloise gasped. “You can’t give whiskey to a baby!” She turned away, adopting the pacing motion that seemed to give Ilya the most comfort. She would leave for Duval Springs in the morning and already missed the chance to soothe the baby.

  “A little whiskey never hurt a baby,” Tasha said. “In Russia my parents pickled potatoes in vodka and gave them to teething babies to suck. It can keep a baby happy for hours.”

  How different Eloise’s childhood had been. Her first home had been a sprawling country mansion with thirty rooms and endless hallways and corridors, but no children to play with. She had been born late in her parents’ marriage, and they never wanted anything to do with her. It was a lonely, isolated world. She amused herself by racing down the long hallways, stomping to hear the echoes reverberating through the vacant corridors. Eventually her father would emerge from his study and tell her to be quiet. “Go back to your room, little cuckoo bird,” he would say.

  Back then she had loved it when he called her a cuckoo bird, for he’d always been so frosty, and she was thrilled he’d found a pet name for her. When she grew older, she learned that the cuckoo was a tricky creature that snuck into an unsuspecting bird’s nest to lay its egg, then flew away, leaving the chick to be raised by someone else. It was a cruelly appropriate nickname for her, as she later learned that Thomas Drake had no role in her conception. Bruce Garrett was her real father, although to this day he insisted she was merely his ward.

  The baby’s wail shattered the old memories, and she resumed her rocking pace, patting Ilya’s back.

  “Shh, my precious boy,” she crooned. “You are my brave Galahad, my Ivanhoe, my d’Artagnan.”