When Silence Sings

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Jake looked at her as though she’d sprouted horns. He sighed heavily, stood, and began carving the roast. He slapped two slices of pork on her plate, cut some more, added them to his own plate and sat back down.

  Mack picked up the knife and pointed it at Jake. “Don’t mind me, brother, I can help myself.”

  “I reckon you can,” Jake said, piling sides onto his plate.

  Dishes made the circuit around the table. Only the click of serving utensils and the soft splat of food hitting china disturbed the silence. As they began to eat, Serepta looked from one son to the other. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” she asked. “It’s rare for both of my boys to sit at my table of an evening.”

  “You suggested I talk to Jake about working together to further your empire,” Mack said.

  Jake grunted. “Guess my little brother wants to make sure he gets a piece of the pie. ’Course, I don’t exactly need his help.”

  “Don’t you?” Mack curled his lip as he moved to sip from his water glass. “And who’s responsible for recovering the bulk of our missing shipments?”

  Jake’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “Oh? Hasn’t Mother told you? I’ve managed to find quite a bit of the missing liquor and have either returned it here or arranged for it to be shipped by rail as originally intended.”

  Serepta watched the interaction between the two men. There was an undercurrent that seemed to go deeper than sibling rivalry. Her sons might as well have been having a fistfight with their words, and yet she couldn’t quite read the undercurrent.

  Jake clenched his hands and flexed his fingers. “Well, aren’t you the golden boy. Want to tell me how you managed to discover the missing goods?”

  Mack popped half an egg into his mouth and chewed, his eyes sharp on his brother. Once he swallowed, he patted his lips with a napkin. “You could say a little birdy helped me find the missing crates.”

  Jake looked as if he were going to explode. Could he be so angry simply because his younger brother had succeeded where he failed?

  “And did you find the thief?” Jake asked.

  “He’s being taken care of as we speak.”

  Jake glared at Mack, then looked to Serepta. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The tension that had been building suddenly melted. Jake relaxed, reached for a biscuit, and began buttering it. “Well then, sounds like we might should work together to make sure something like this doesn’t happen ever again.”

  Mack chortled. “That sounds like a fine idea.” He raised his glass in mock salute. “Partners.”

  Jake forced his lips into a smile. “Yup. Partners.”

  Serepta narrowed her eyes at her sons. There was more to their talk than she understood. Sometimes the first step to learning what one most needed to know was realizing what one didn’t. While she was glad her sons seemed to be willing to take on a measure of responsibility, she didn’t trust them. Not fully.

  She’d talk to Charlie tonight, after everyone had gone and she was certain Emmaline was asleep. The thought was so pleasant it almost brought a smile to her own face.

  chapter

  twenty-one

  Colman sometimes found his keen hearing to be a blessing, but this night he wished he were deaf. Maggie’s cries were loud enough for someone in the farthest corner of the hotel to hear. Shoot, his father might could hear her on the far side of the river.

  Sweat popped out on his forehead and trickled down his cheek to slide into the collar of his shirt. He was sweating almost as much as Maggie. Almost. Ivy, on the other hand, looked like she was out for a Sunday stroll on a cool summer evening. She was calm, serene, and perfectly in control. Maggie, eyes wide and mouth gaping, seemed to be trying to breathe in Ivy’s peace with each gasp.

  “I cain’t do this much longer,” she panted.

  “’Course you can. Just think about what a gift you’ll have when you’re done.” Ivy motioned for Colman to wipe the girl’s forehead with a cool cloth. He dipped the fabric, wrung it out, and dabbed at Maggie’s face.

  Then she threw her head back and hollered. Colman felt as though his innards were curling in on themselves. He summoned every ounce of his strength to force himself to relax and tend to his duties. “Is she gonna be alright?” he whispered to Ivy.

  “Maggie’s going to be fine,” Ivy said with a stern look. She then grinned. “And if I’m not mistaken . . . come on Maggie, one more push. You can do it.”

  Maggie gritted her teeth, screwed up her face, screamed loud enough for folks in Glen Jean to hear, and just like that a child entered the world. Colman froze as he watched Ivy lift the babe in the air. He’d seen cows and pigs give birth and had seen many a chick hatch, but this . . .

  The child’s face wrinkled, its eyes squinched tight, and then the little chest rose and a cry filled the room. It was the most beautiful sound Colman had ever heard. More beautiful than the ping of a perfect train wheel. More beautiful than Ivy’s singing the day he escaped from that dark cave. More beautiful than his mother’s voice. It was perfect, and he was pretty sure he’d never heard perfection before.

  Ivy smiled at him, and it occurred to him that he’d never seen perfection before either, but this might be as close as he’d come. He no longer saw her as different. All he could see was pure joy in her smile, her eyes, and . . . he could swear he heard singing somewhere in the distance.

  “Let me hold my babe.” Maggie lifted her head and watched Ivy. “Is it a boy? I had a notion it would be a boy.”

  “Yes indeed, a healthy boy.” Ivy laid the child across his mother’s breast, and Maggie stroked his little head, examined his hands and feet, and snugged him close.

  Colman took in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Looks like a fine little man. And with a fine head of red hair.”

  Maggie shot him a look. “What of it?”

  “Nothing. Just haven’t seen that much hair on a newborn before.”

  Ivy giggled. “How many newborns have you seen before today, Preacher Harpe?”

  Colman flushed. “This would be one,” he said, and grinned big enough for them all.

  Mother and babe slept while Ivy kept watch over them. Colman eased from the room into the hall. He supposed he should go on back to his dad’s knock-kneed house clinging to the mountain across the river, but he was too wide awake to rest. And he felt a connection to the three souls in the room behind him that made him reluctant to stray far.

  He crept down the back stairs thinking he’d just step outside for some fresh air. In the darkness he got turned around and realized the exterior door he was looking for was somewhere to his left. He stopped to get his bearings, and in the stillness he heard . . . mumbling. He moved closer to the sound coming from a door and stopped again. While there was likely to be gambling, drinking, and other nefarious goings-on in the Dunglen at just about any hour, this sound was different.

  Colman closed his eyes and listened. It was a man’s voice, slurred some and growing a bit louder. He eased back into an alcove and watched as the door to what he figured was a storeroom opened. A man stumbled through the doorway, bottle in one hand, the other hand bracing against the green plaster wall to catch himself from falling.

  “Stealing the same liquor I stole. Ma always did like him better.” A bitter laugh. “Well, I ain’t played out yet. She don’t really like anybody, ’cept maybe that orphan child.” The man grunted and pushed himself to standing. As he peered owlishly into the dark hall, Colman realized it was Jake McLean.

  He was standing not twenty feet away from the man who’d murdered Caleb. He tried to think what he should do. Tried to remember the burn of anger he’d felt the day he learned of the killing. But he found the sharp edges were worn now. Hate had given way to sorrow and regret. He was sorry for Jake, standing there drunk and mumbling about who-knew-what. He seemed more pitiful than evil.

  Jake took a couple of steps away from Colman before veering back into the wall. He stopped, slid down to a sitting
position, and thumped his head against the plaster several times. “Gotta get back on top. Can’t let Mack win. Think, think, think.” He bumped his head each time he said the word.

  Colman replayed what Jake had been saying. Had Jake stolen his own mother’s liquor shipments? Could the sons of the most powerful person in southern West Virginia be undermining her strength? And to what end? He’d never thought Jake was smart enough to take on his mother’s empire, but Mack . . . that one was sharp. What were Serepta’s sons up to? And did it even matter? If they all turned on each other and destroyed the McLean hold on the region, that would be a good thing.

  Or would it? Who would step into the vacuum left behind—Webb? Colman wasn’t sure that would be any better.

  Jake was snoring now, whatever plan he’d had when he left the storeroom lost in his drunken brain. Colman went to the door Jake exited and pushed it open. It was a storage space sure enough, blinds pulled down over the tall windows letting in dim light. One corner had a bed and chair in it, along with a crate of McLean liquor that had clearly been sampled. Repeatedly. Looked like Jake had been hiding under the Harpe family’s nose for some time.

  Colman walked back out, found another exit door, and stepped into the predawn morning. Rain crows called from the trees on the steep mountainside beyond, and the dew covering the grass wet his boots as he strode along. He watched the last of the stars fade as the sun rose higher. He’d just witnessed a miracle of life, followed closely by one of circumstance. What were the odds of his stumbling upon the hiding place of Jake McLean in addition to learning some powerful information even Serepta didn’t likely know? Now he was going to have to do some thinking and praying about what, if anything, should be done about it.

  Mack had taken to working at a table in the far corner of Serepta’s office. She hadn’t wanted him there at first, but after a few days his quiet presence and the scratch of his pencil became, if not welcome, then familiar.

  It was time for Charlie to take cash payments to some of the men who helped smuggle her liquor. She unlocked her right-hand desk drawer and started to pull out the cashbox when her eyes flicked to her younger son bent over a ledger, recording coal shipments for the month. She’d never had anyone present while she was counting out cash, not even Charlie. She thought to ask Mack to leave the room, then changed her mind. She thumped the metal box onto the desktop. Mack glanced at her and then quickly focused on the ledger again. She lifted the lid and began counting out bills into three stacks—no, four now that Jake’s man Ellis was part of the group. She took out four envelopes and tucked the money neatly inside them, noting that she would need to replenish her coffers soon.

  “Mack, will you take these to Charlie for delivery? He knows who they go to.”

  Mack set down his pen, stretched, and rose to join her. “Charlie’s gone to town.”

  Serepta frowned. Charlie never went anywhere without telling her first. “What for?”

  Mack shrugged. “Didn’t say. He just said to tell you, and I guess I forgot.”

  She frowned more deeply. “He knew I needed him to deliver these payments.”

  “I’ll take them.” Mack leaned on her desk. “I’m assuming you’re paying whoever helps you get our liquor where it needs to go. Jake mentioned a fellow named Ellis—who are the others?”

  Serepta tapped the stack of envelopes against the desktop, thinking. It wasn’t a good idea for too many people to know her business. Then again, if Mack really was going to step up and take a leadership role, it just might be time to begin letting him in on a few details. “Fine.” She listed the names and explained where he would find the men and how the transfer took place. Mack listened attentively, tucked the payments inside his jacket pocket, and set off, whistling. Serepta watched him go, eyes narrowed. She’d consider this a test, and if Mack failed her, she’d cut him off without thinking twice.

  Colman headed across the bridge toward his father’s house once he made sure Ivy and Maggie had breakfast. He’d feel better if Ivy came with him and left the Dunglen behind, but he guessed being alone in a rickety house with two single men wasn’t a whole lot better. He got her to promise she wouldn’t leave the room until he came back for her. He could tell, though, she thought he was being silly.

  A train thundered into town, and soon a handful of folks disembarked at the station. One of them looked a little like Mack McLean, but that wasn’t likely. Or was it? Colman adjusted his path, heading toward the station. If Mack had come to town to meet up with Jake, he wanted to know about it.

  “Well if it ain’t the turncoat.”

  Colman had little choice but to stop when Don Fenton stepped in front of him. He hadn’t seen his cousin by marriage since Caleb’s funeral.

  “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show your face around here after running off to join the McLeans.”

  “I’ve been preaching to them.”

  “Hunh. Is that what you call it?” Don fished a packet of snuff out of his pocket and deposited a pinch inside his lower lip. “Way I heared it, you been consorting with the enemy pretty hard since you went missing.”

  “The Lord loves them the same as you and me.” Colman wasn’t altogether certain he believed that, but he knew he was supposed to say it. He tried to move around Don, but the other man wouldn’t let him.

  “I’d say the devil loves ’em even more.” Don grinned, liking his own joke. “Why are you back here anyhow? They’ve done replaced you down at the station. Johnny and Elam tried to put in a good word for you, but everyone knows they’re tetched, too.”

  Colman peered toward the depot, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who looked like Mack. Surely a McLean wouldn’t be so bold as to show his face in the middle of Thurmond.

  “You lookin’ for somebody?” Don spit onto the sidewalk.

  “Webb still got men out hunting Jake McLean?” Colman figured if he couldn’t get past Don, maybe he’d get some information from him.

  “Like I’d tell you anything about what Webb’s up to. Now, there’s a man who knows what family means.”

  Colman considered how Webb had treated his own brother. Shoot, he’d been awful rough on Caleb growing up. It was only after he died that Webb began talking about him like he was a saint and the best son who ever lived. Colman pictured Caleb the way he’d seen him last—laughing and a little bit drunk, with his arm around a girl and his ever-present hat tilted way back on his head . . .

  Colman’s eyes widened. “Don, it’s good to see you. I’ve gotta run.” He whirled and began trotting up the steep hillside toward his father’s house, leaving Don Fenton to scratch his head and watch him go.

  chapter

  twenty-two

  “Red hair you say?” Colman’s father rinsed the pan he’d fried eggs in for breakfast. “Not many redheads round these parts.”

  “But there was one in particular.”

  Dad frowned. “Oh. You mean Caleb? You saying he’s the daddy?”

  “I don’t know. Just seems like a fair chance. What with him spending so much time over at the Dunglen.” Colman yawned. He needed some sleep. “And the girl was real touchy when I mentioned that young’un’s hair.”

  His father shrugged. “What of it? He ain’t around to take responsibility.”

  Colman rubbed his gritty eyes. “That babe might be a Harpe, though. Seems like that’d matter to some folks.”

  “And not to some others.” Dad wrung out his dishrag and hung it on a hook. “Son, whyn’t you get some sleep? You look like something the cat drug in.”

  Colman laughed. Maybe he would lie down for a minute. He trailed into the bedroom, kicked his boots off, and stretched out. He’d just rest a little while and then he’d go back and check on Ivy.

  Voices woke Colman. In spite of his keen hearing, living alongside the tracks had given him the ability to sleep through dynamite. But there was something in the cadence of the lowered voices that had jarred him awake.

  “My son wouldn’t take up wi
th a common whore.”

  Colman sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. If he didn’t miss his guess, Uncle Webb was sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Guess you don’t remember what it was like to be a young buck.” That was Dad.

  “Don’t try to tell me what I was like twenty years ago,” Webb hissed. “And don’t try to sully my son’s—your nephew’s—name.”

  “Can’t see how bringing new life into the world is sullying anything.” Dad’s voice had risen to a normal level.

  Webb cursed. “Where’s that turncoat boy of yours?”

  Silence.

  Colman pulled on his boots, finger-combed his hair, and eased out into the sitting room. “Howdy, Uncle Webb.”

  His uncle draped an arm over the back of the kitchen chair and looked Colman up and down. “You have enough of running with the McLeans? Come crawling home on your belly?”

  Colman straightened his spine. “Do I look like I’m crawling?”

  Webb snorted. “You look like you been rode hard and put up wet.” He turned away. “Guess you aren’t quite as pitiful as you was the last time I saw you.”

  Colman straightened his shirt collar—the shirt Ivy made him. “What if that child is your grandson?”

  Webb whirled back toward him and squinted. “What do you care?”

  “Caleb and me used to be real close when we were young’uns.” He lowered his head. “I guess our lives went different ways as we grew, but the notion that he has a child . . .” Colman looked up again, straight into his uncle’s eyes. “That notion is a comfort to me now that he’s gone.”

  Webb turned away. “If that’s so, then you and me have different notions of what brings comfort.”

  If Colman wasn’t mistaken, tears glistened in the older man’s eyes. “The only thing that would bring me comfort is having my son alive and well.” He stood, pushing his chair back with such force that it almost fell over. “You can tell that woman over at the Dunglen that she won’t get anything out of me.” He stalked out the door and soon disappeared down the side of the mountain.