The Haweaters

  How does it not? “Some women have pride.”

  Anne slaps the table. “We all have pride.”

  It would be pointless for George to argue. He settles in opposite his wife, trying not to notice she hasn’t stopped fiddling with her rings since sitting down. “And her hair is so wild I’d be surprised if she even owns a hairbrush. I think she just spits on her fingers and combs them through the tangles. I’ve heard some women do that, I just never thought I’d meet one of them.”

  No one moves or speaks or breathes. They’re all thinking the same thing but no, Anne hasn’t even come close to running out of steam. “That’s not even the worst of it. When I brought Eleanor my clothes, I glimpsed a multitude of bruises around her neck and wrists that looked very much like a man’s fingers. They’ll be her husband’s, unless I miss my guess, or possibly Charlie’s. They’re each as bad as the other. Tell me you asked her about those, my love.”

  “You know I did.”

  “And she said they were caused by her labours, right? There’s no chance. We all do more or less the same chores and yet she’s the only one who ever wears black and blue and green on nearly every visible part of her body. It’s a travesty. That woman will be dead before long if no one does anything to stop what’s going on over there. Mark my words.”

  George would rather not. He’s growing weary of this conversation. Actually, he was weary of it the first time they’d had it more than two years past and it hasn’t picked up any shine in the dozens of repeats since. Seriously, what does Anne want him to say that he hasn’t already said? “Done my best. Can’t force a woman to accept help who doesn’t want it.”

  Like hell he can’t. But he won’t. Not this time. Not when the stakes are so low. And certainly not when Annie and Laban are fidgeting. With their fingers. Their cutlery. Their clothes. He’ll have to stick them in cages if dinner isn’t served soon.

  But Anne is ignoring her children. Actively. Stubbornly. She leans towards her husband and volleys a whisper. “Still, my love, you’ve got to try.”

  “Not right now I don’t.” And he means it. George doesn’t need all this aggravation at the dinner table. He wants to relax his mind and organize his thoughts. If he doesn’t, tomorrow’s trip to the north lots will be a complete waste. All it takes is a forgotten tool or a mistimed deed. “I’ve tried. You know that to be true. I’ve offered her shelter on many occasions. I even offered to book her passage back to Erin so that she can be with her kin. But Eleanor has made it clear those things would only cause her more peril. I even went so far as to pay Charlie’s fine, as you yourself insisted, so as not to cause that family financial hardship in addition to the public shaming the boy so rightly deserved. I get no more for my efforts than you do. And I’ve risked far too much trying to help a woman who clearly doesn’t want my help, at least not as much as you want it for her. If Bryan ever finds out what I’ve been up to, there’s sure to be blood. Is that what you want?”

  Sometimes he thinks it is. And yet, truth be told, George would have paid Charlie’s fine without his wife’s insistence owing to Laban not being forthright about the horses having trespassed into Bryan’s pasture. That was Laban’s doing and the boy rightly deserved a beating for the carelessness that led to the breach, even his father must concede that.

  George glares at his son, then he glares at Anne, who interlaces her fingers and gestures for him and the children to do the same. Finally. They bow their heads. “What I know, my love, is that Eleanor Bryan is growing old before her time. My word, I’ve never seen a woman look so ancient unless she’s been on this planet eighty or ninety years and I know for a fact she’s only a few months older than me. It’s such a waste. You can tell from her bones she used to be beautiful.”

  George sits silently while his wife spends grace praying for Eleanor’s eternal soul. Exhaustively. And exhaustingly. When she’s finished, he changes the subject to one he hopes will inspire glee. “Which one of you remembers skating on that ice rink the winter before we left Owen Sound?”

  His daughter brightens. “I remember it well, Father. I dare say we borrowed blades from the Johnsons down by the hollow and when Laban stepped onto the ice, he didn’t even get his second foot down before falling backwards. When the silly goose tried to get up, he fell again. He spent the whole day falling.”

  Laban passes the potatoes to his mother and accepts the basket of bread from his father. He’s glowering. “That’s what you remember? Because what I remember is that those blades were rusty and wouldn’t tie onto my boots properly. You got the good blades, which is why you stood and I fell. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  Anne sees wisdom in throwing water on this argument. “Well, my darlings, I’m quite sure we can all agree that one of the best decisions we ever made was to buy those blades off Mr. Johnson before we left the mainland. They came in handy for sliding across these lakes in the dead of winter. I dare say it would’ve added twice the time to our journeys if we had to shuffle across the ice in our boots.”

  Anne accepts the bread from her son and passes the bowl of steamed spinach to her daughter. “Which one of you remembers the earthquake?”

  This time it’s Laban who brightens. “Me. I remember how the walls swayed and that doll – the one with the china face – it slid sideways off the shelf.”

  Laban is referring to the doll Anne has been dragging around since she was a young girl and not to any that had been given to Annie. China faces or not, not one of those had lasted a month. George looks hard at his whirlwind of a daughter. She won’t be outdone by her brother. “I could see circles wobbling in my milk and I remember thinking that something in my bowl was suddenly alive, so I stuck my fingers clear down to the bottom to see if I could grab hold of it. Mother got so mad!”

  Anne smiles slyly at George. “Yes, Mother did.”

  Laban eyes his plate and mumbles. “Then Father left Owen Sound without us.”

  Anne, George, and Annie all stare at him. It’s his mother who speaks. “Laban, darling, those two things aren’t related. If you think back you’ll realize that they didn’t even happen in the same year.”

  Laban mumbles a little louder, his eyes never leaving his plate. “But he did leave.”

  “Only to come here, darling. There wouldn’t have been a home for us to live in if your father hadn’t boarded here with a total stranger in order to get the roof up and the walls on.”

  Not necessarily in that order, George thinks, as he shoves the bowl of caramelized onions into his son’s hands and waves his wife into silence. She can defend him when he’s dead. Until then, he’ll do it himself. “Wasn’t the hardship it could’ve been. Sloan not only took me in as a boarder, he helped build this place for reasonable wages. Good man. Honest. Hardworking. Fell behind in his own labours to make sure I’d be able to bring you all here before that first snowfall.” George pauses and smirks. “Can you imagine how things would’ve turned out had I roomed with Porter instead? You’d all still be squatting in Owen Sound and this house would be nothing more than a dream.”

  Or a nightmare. But everyone laughs, his wife the hardest. “That is so true, my love. With all those children running around, it would’ve been chaos. How many of the little ones are there, anyway? Eight? Nine? Good heavens, there are so many I can’t keep track of their names so I just call them all John, even the girls.”

  More laughter erupts. Only George is grim. He slathers butter onto a thick slice of bread. Gloom always follows any mention of that ingrate Porter. Even when he’s the one who mentions him. The man needs to be removed from the planet once and for all. The sooner the better. Should’ve done it today in the barn. No good can come of letting a man like that think he can match his betters. “The father can’t even sign his own name. Got to use an X. Shameful. Won’t never be anything more than a labourer without knowing his own name when he sees it written on a piece of paper. No en
d to the misery that’ll cause him in the long run.”

  Anne sees fit to protest. “May I remind you that Mr. Porter owns his own land, my love? I believe that makes him a landowner, not a labourer. It’s an important distinction that’s best not forgotten.”

  George fists his cutlery. Anne is all fire today. He’ll take her to task for it later when the children aren’t around. Or the servant. He takes a generous bite of buttered bread. Then another. Out of the corner of his eye he spies Ellen hovering by the sideboard. Ostensibly she’s arranging a plate of biscuits and two berry pies, but her silence combined with her molasses-like slowness alerts him to the possibility she may be eavesdropping. He raps the butt of his knife on the table. “Tell me, Ellen, you been hearing any noises at night?”

  Ellen turns to her master, wariness straining her features. “What sort of noises, sir?”

  “Horses, carts, the sound of voices or labour. Anything that might suggest someone or a couple of someones may be stealing water from our creek under the cover of darkness.”

  Ellen can’t hide her relief and, to her credit, doesn’t try. She carefully reviews her memories. “No, sir. Nothing like that. Hear the wind sometimes and the crickets and the frogs, but no grunting nor snorting nor cursing nor any other noises such as men make when they do anything more taxing than staring at their own feet.”

  What an odd way to put it. Not that George was expecting normal from a girl who just last week threw rocks at a star she judged to be winking at her. He tries again. “Not seen anyone moving around in the moonlight? Maybe going to or coming from Bryan’s place?”

  Ellen shakes her head. “No, sir. Only the ghosts.”

  George lays down his knife and considers not pursuing his enquiries further. Then he asks a question he knows in advance he’ll regret. “Which ghosts would these be?”

  Ellen gestures northward. “The ones that live in the bush over yonder, sir. Seen them more times than I can count. They’re bright and wavy and when you asked about sounds, I was trying to remember if they make any. I mean, in my head they scream, but I don’t think anyone else can hear that.”

  George reminds himself that Ellen hasn’t volunteered any of this. He asked and she’d been duty bound to reply. That makes the folly his. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear about the screaming. I hope you won’t be hearing it further.”

  Ellen looks placated. Then she looks alarmed. “No sir, that’s not a good thing to hope for at all! Do you not know that ghosts steal the souls of the recently departed? It’s only when they capture them that the screaming stops.”

  Good Lord, what an imagination this girl has. George finishes his bread and pushes back his chair. He’s had more than enough of this foolishness. “I’m wondering if there will be tea with dessert. I don’t see any laid out.”

  Ellen looks troubled. “I can see you don’t believe me, sir, but I’ve lived on this island longer than everyone hereabouts and I know more about these ghosts than anyone still living. When they turn up, it means death is near. No truer truth than that.”

  No truer truth. George considers this as he surveys the table. He’s contemplating the platter of meat, but no. Best to leave the remainders for tomorrow’s excursion to the north lots. “And there’s no chance these ghosts you’re speaking of are caused by swamp gas?”

  “I believe not, sir. I believe they’re caused by the sickness up at Mr. Boyer’s.”

  Sounds reasonable in an Ellen sort of a way. It’s Anne who protests. “Ellen, we’ve had more than enough of this nonsense for one meal. I’ve told you before, there are no such things as ghosts. God wouldn’t allow it. If you’d truly taken Jesus Christ into your heart you’d know that. Now go fetch the tea, then clear the table. In precisely that order.”

  The thumping of Ellen’s boots on the wooden floor underscores her dejection. Anne aims her fork at her husband. “Just so we’re clear, my love, this whole thing is your doing.”

  George is amused by the suggestion. “How do you figure?”

  Anne jabs the air with her fork. “It’s simple, dear. Somehow you’ve got it into your head that Charlie Bryan has been stealing water from our creek based on nothing more than some argument Laban only half heard. It’s likely that discussion was about something else entirely and yet here you are interrogating a servant. Worse, my love, you’re expecting her to give you answers that conform to the conclusions you’ve drawn in your head. That’s no way for a lawman to behave, not even a retired one, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  George rearranges his utensils in an attempt to diffuse his mounting rage. “The best way to discover the proof of a crime is to ask questions of those who might be able to provide it. That’s the very definition of how a lawman should behave.”

  “I understand, my love. And let’s say Ellen provides you with the proof you’re seeking. What will you do then?”

  Isn’t it obvious? “Then I’ll act.”

  Anne leans forward, still pointing her fork. “What you mean to say is ‘Then the law acts’.”

  George shakes his head, which admittedly isn’t the best way to placate a woman brandishing cutlery. “I mean what you heard.”

  Anne retracts her fork, placing it precisely one thumb-width from the edge of her plate. Then she lays her palms flat on the table and spreads her fingers. “George, my love, I revere you almost as highly as I revere God, but I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that you’re not the law up here.”

  Remiss works fine for him. “You’re reminding me of nothing I don’t know, but they’ve got a revolver over there and pretending they don’t isn’t going to change the facts to what you want them to be.”

  Anne presses down on her hands as if preparing to rise. “It’s not about changing the facts, my love. It’s about what you’re intending to do about them.”

  Plenty. “This isn’t the first time I’ve faced the threat of violence. I know what needs doing and I know how it needs to be done. You’re going to have to trust me on this. My wits haven’t failed me yet.”

  “No, dear, but they have come close.”

  Laban and Annie have been looking from one parent to the other as they follow each volley of this dispute. Now they’re blatantly staring at their mother. As is George. All are wondering the same thing. “When?”

  “You know when, my love. What was that murderer’s name? The one who plunged into the river by the jailhouse and almost escaped when you were bringing him in for questioning.”

  That old chestnut. “Hall. His name was William Hall. What a sorry character he was.”

  Anne lifts her hands from the table and drops them in her lap, apparently having thought better of rising. “He may have been a sorry character, but he had the gumption to go for his gun when you tried to arrest him, my love. If you hadn’t secured it at the last possible second, I dare say that would’ve been the last of you.”

  George waves off his wife’s concern. “His arrest was never in doubt.”

  Anne’s hands are back on the table, only this time when she presses down, she really does rise. “Although I’m sure that’s probably true, I must confess it did concern me a little when I learned that at one point Mr. Hall’s son held the gun on you while Mrs. Hall secured your wrists with your own handcuffs. I’m just wondering, my love, where your wits were then?”

  It’s Laban who answers. “He didn’t need them, not with such accomplished assistants.”

  Laban takes particular care with that final word. George turns on his son. “What do you mean by that?”

  Laban blanches and looks to his mother. Not seeing a cautionary signal, he continues on in a voice that’s just this side of fracturing. “Well, Father, what I mean is, you weren’t the only constable in Owen Sound. There were others who could’ve assisted you. Instead you brought two men who between them never held a badge. There were lots of rumours as to who those men were
and why you brought them with you on police business.”

  George should be putting a stop to Laban’s word-flood, but it’s rare for the boy to challenge him and he’s curious how far his son is going to take this. “Go on.”

  Laban’s voice is thin and tight and small. But oddly persistent. “They say Hall did dirty deeds for the higher-ups in town until one day he demanded money to stay silent about their misdeeds. Soon after that, a man was murdered in one of the boarding houses and the people Hall tried to blackmail accused him of doing it.”

  Laban has come remarkably close to the truth and that causes George to wonder who talked. Because someone clearly had. To his son no less. And that someone will have to pay for their treachery. “Is there more?”

  Laban takes a quick breath. “Yes, Father. When you and your assistants grabbed Hall, word is he knew he wasn’t going to make it to the jailhouse alive so he tried to escape. I never did hear the end of that story. Did he make it to court or did some tragedy befall him before that could happen?”

  George leans in close to his son. “What do you think?”

  Laban gulps. “Think too many people were saying it for there not to be some truth in it, Father.”

  Too many people. So his son didn’t get his information from a single source. Well, doesn’t that beat all? George stares hard at his son for several seconds. Then he throws up his hands. “Not going to argue the point. But I have every intention of eating my dessert in peace. And since I can’t very well dismiss Mother, I’m dismissing you. Go fetch the horses. And make sure Bryan’s cattle are nowhere near our fields. Take the dog with you. And your sister.”

  Annie thumps her chair. “But, Father! Why me? I’ve done nothing to warrant being excused.”