The Haweaters

  Annie frowns, not quite believing Mother has sussed her out.

  “My beautiful girl, please don’t make me call you twice. You won’t like how that ends.”

  Then again, maybe she has. Annie jumps up and smooths her dress, then strolls into the parlour as if out for a promenade on a warm summer evening. Mother rises from the bench and crosses to the sofa where she kneels and dips a rag in a bowl of water. She wrings it out, then presses it firmly to Father’s forehead. Not once does she look at Annie. “It’s so lovely to see you, darling, and in such a pretty dress. Now go help Ellen with her chores until I say otherwise. I won’t have you lazing around like some fatherless child when there’s plenty of work to be done before this day is through.”

  Annie stamps her foot. “Mother, please, must it be me who does it? I’m absolutely certain this is why we have a servant.”

  “Annie, darling, I love you as only a mother can, but if you question me again you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

  Mother slips the medicine from her pocket and takes a generous swig. Soon she’ll be as placid as an early morning pond. Annie just has to wait her out, so she heads for the summer kitchen, fully intent on sashaying out the back door at her earliest opportunity, but as soon as she waltzes through the kitchen door, she stalls. “Not this again.”

  Ellen is rubbing the end of a sheet against the washboard. One basket is brimming with sheets she’s already tortured the grime from, while a second is filling with the sheets she’s just now working on. “Yes, this again, miss. There’ll be more for you to hang the minute these are on the line, so you best be quick about it.”

  Annie rolls her eyes. “Did you not notice the calamity in our parlour?”

  “Notice the calamity in your parlour near every day, miss. More blood than usual, I’ll grant you that, but that only means more linens for us to scrub and hang. Now scoot.”

  Ellen kicks the basket sideways. It skids to a halt by Annie’s feet and she blinks down at the crumpled mountain of whiteness. “Do you ever feel as though your life isn’t working out the way God planned it?”

  Ellen stops scrubbing and grips the sides of the boiler. “My hands are permanently chapped. My feet have so many callouses I can’t figure out whether there are any bones left inside them. And I daily hear backtalk from an insolent girl who got a horse as a gift for no reason other than she was born. When you can say all those things, then we’ll talk about the waywardness of God’s plans, miss. Now grab that basket and get to hanging or I’ll report you to the missus.”

  Annie punts the basket all the way to the back door, then hoists it up onto her shoulder just as Ellen says the one thing guaranteed to make everything worse. “That preacher is stopping by for tea later today, so you best get a move on. We need to get you in your finest dress by noon.”

  Annie stomps out to the clothesline Ellen has strung between two towering birches. It takes two full hours for her to hang every sheet and shirt and apron Ellen has scrubbed raw, during which time she witnesses Doc Francis come then go twice. Now she spots him returning a third time with Mr. Boyd at his heels. There’s no way she’s missing this. Annie pitches the clothes pegs into the basket and sprints for the kitchen door. By the time she breaches the parlour, Doc Francis is perched on a footstool with his ear on Father’s chest. He raises his head. “Mr. Amer, I am directing you to stay indoors for the next two weeks. The sun is no good for you in your present condition. It will only sap what little energy you have left.”

  Mother is hovering. “Thank you, Dr. Francis. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate everything you’re doing for my husband. Shall I continue with the compresses?”

  “They are not likely to do any good. They are also not likely to do any harm, so please do as you wish.”

  As Doc Francis examines the stitches in Father’s scalp, Mr. Boyd leans forward. The lawman has been standing at the foot of the sofa since before Annie exploded into the room and, as the doctor begins to wind fresh bandages around Father’s skull, Mr. Boyd makes an observation. “Andrew Porter said something interesting out on the road.”

  It’s not in the least bit clear who Mr. Boyd is addressing and so no one makes so much as a move to respond. “He said he ran into you, Doc Francis, when he was on his way to Manitowaning. He further said he told you the Bryan men had been badly injured and were likely to die. And yet instead of tending to them, you came here to attend Amer’s wounds first. I’m wondering why that might be.”

  Doc Francis finishes securing the bandage. “I was summoned here by the elder Mr. Amer. It was and is my duty to tend to Mr. Amer as my first priority. Had the Bryans summoned me, I would have gone to them first. That is the custom. Since the Bryans sent no one to fetch me I saw no reason to alter my plans based on gossip I heard on the road. Mr. Porter said his piece, as he always does, but it did not escape my notice that he was on his way to fetch the law and not me. The only one to fetch me was Mr. Amer’s field hand. So this is where I came first.”

  Mr. Boyd considers this. “But surely you had to pass by the Bryan place to get here.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And did you not see the commotion around their front door?”

  “I did. Get up.”

  Father makes an elaborate display of struggling to his feet. Once upright, he sways and looks set to topple when the doctor grabs him by the arms and steadies him, as Father must surely have calculated he would.

  Mr. Boyd presses on. “Surely you could figure both from what Porter said and from the commotion outside the Bryans’ that someone in there must be in a bad way.”

  Doc Francis releases Father and slowly backs away. Father takes a shaky step forward and then another. It’s not yet a success, but it’s not a failure either.

  Doc Francis turns to Mr. Boyd. “I saw to the Bryans directly after coming here. Much as I suspected, there was nothing for me to do there. Their injuries were too grave. I could have applied some stitches, I suppose, but those would only have served to comfort the women.”

  “And you knew all that before you attended them?”

  “Mr. Porter was not sparing in his details.”

  “So your assessment is they’re likely to die.”

  “Is it not yours? You have seen them. Surely you formed an opinion.”

  Mr. Boyd turns away. “Not an educated one.”

  “It need not be educated. Your eyes can see as well as mine. Charlie Bryan is in a dying condition and will no doubt be freed from this life by the time I return.”

  Mr. Boyd watches Father shuffle across the parlour. When he reaches the far wall, he steadies himself before turning. Meanwhile, Mr. Boyd returns his attention to Doc Francis. “Did Charlie Bryan say anything to you?”

  Annie is most interested to learn the answer to this question, so when Doc Francis tilts his head to one side like a dog that’s not quite understanding his master’s command, she takes not a single breath. “He said nothing to me nor would he have been able to say anything to anyone else with the sort of injury he sustained. He was likely insensible from the moment the bullet struck his forehead and anyone who says otherwise is telling stories for purposes I would not care to guess at.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I am sure that when I examined the boy, blood and brains were protruding from the depression in his forehead. When I probed the wound, I found the injury went clear through to the back of his skull. Those two things together tell me that his brain is no longer intact and what is left of it is swelling to a point no man can survive. There is no chance he had anything to say with such calamity inside his skull.”

  Mr. Boyd leans towards Doc Francis. “Dr. Francis, please mind your language. There are women present.”

  Doc Francis waves his arms in the air. “Women are always present. They have more of a stomach for these things than men like to think. Not o
ne of them has fainted yet and it is not likely any of them are going to either.”

  Annie shifts her eyes to Mother, who doesn’t look in the least like she’s broaching a swoon, at least not on account of Charlie’s protruding brain matter. Her many swigs of medicine are a different subject entirely. It’s the other thing Doc Francis said that has Annie’s brain in a swirl. Charlie is not likely to survive. Until this moment, Annie was certain that he would and that, in the fullness of time, he would join with her in the romance she’d been planning since the day of the sugaring bee when she had first seen him smile. It would’ve been discreet romance at first with them stealing glances at bees and socials and, whenever possible, arranging for rendezvous in the bush. But then, on a date most pleasantly decided between them, they would flee their disapproving families to take up positions on the lake boats, she as a cook and Charlie as a deck hand up above. She had it all planned out and, in her mind, their future together was well on its way to taking shape. Annie is only just now coming to the realization that none of what she had planned will ever come true.

  Mr. Boyd is clucking like a clock. “That being as it may, you’re telling me that anyone who says Charlie spoke to them would be lying.”

  Doc Francis gives a brisk nod. “Not only is the younger Mr. Bryan incapable of speech, there is no reason to believe he is able to understand a single thing that is going on around him, not even his own death.”

  Annie takes this in. So does Father, who pauses mid-parlour. At first Annie thinks this is because he’s run out of steam, but then she notices the intensity in his eyes and their focus on Mr. Boyd. “Does someone claim Charlie said something?”

  Mr. Boyd bristles. “Dash it, Amer. I have no duty to answer that question. You know how the law works, or at least you used to. Anything that may’ve been said to me will go into my statement for the court. There will be no special privileges this time.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Boyd, I don’t mean to interrupt your fine words, but I can’t help but wonder what Mr. Bryan has to say about this whole sorry affair?” It’s Mother who asks this. The men stare at her as if she’s a mermaid who’s just now jumped from the sea. A minute goes by before Mr. Boyd directs his answer to Father. “He said not a word to me, although I gather he had a few things to say to Sam Sloan and Andrew Porter which may not be to your favour. But it’s not just what he said that’s of concern here. I was dispirited to discover he took an awful beating before he was shot and I believe he suffered a broken wrist, maybe some broken ribs, and his scalp is such a nest of cuts that I couldn’t hardly count them all. I would further not be surprised to learn his skull is fractured, maybe even in a couple of places.”

  Mr. Boyd looks to Doc Francis for confirmation. “I would have to examine him further to say for sure, but everything you say could be true. Mr. Bryan took a terrible beating and I cannot imagine he was standing when the bullet struck, not from the angle it entered his body. He must have been on his knees or even down on the ground. I am not sure what the point of shooting a man while he is on the ground is unless there was a need to ensure he never rose again.”

  Father rallies. “Neither of those men were shot. Their wounds were caused by a knot in the club. Best not let your imagination run wild.”

  The room falls silent. Annie can’t fathom why her father insists on acting the fool by sticking with a lie that no one whose brain is properly screwed in could possibly believe. Does he really think he can change the facts to suit his version of reality? She would’ve thought he had more sense than that, but clearly not.

  Doc Francis pulls himself up to his full height and swats the air. “It would be best if you did not repeat that assertion further. You forget – or maybe you do not yet know – that the bullets did not exit either man. They will be found on autopsy, so it will be better for you if you do not attempt to carry this lie forward. I will gladly testify that it is the head wound causing you to make such outlandish claims, but the court is not likely to believe me if you persist in your claims beyond what is reasonable.”

  This drops Father to the sofa. “Doc, how long have you known me?”

  Doc Francis’s lips move and his fingers dart, then snap. “I am inclined to say eighteen years or something close to it.”

  “Since we were both young men in Owen Sound.”

  “It might be a stretch to say we were young.”

  Father gives the heartiest of chuckles. “I’ll grant you that. But here’s my point: Have you ever known me to lie?”

  Doc Francis stares at Father for such a long time that Annie fears his brain must surely have shut off. “Not that I can recall.”

  “So then why do you think I’m doing it now?”

  Doc Francis swats the air twice, then tilts his head. He appears to be taking advice from his invisible companion before venturing a response.

  Father does not wait for it to come. “I’m telling you, knotted wood is to blame for those holes. And let’s not forget Bryan’s age in all this. Old men commonly fall to troubles young men rise from. Hell, I’ll wager Bryan would be stumping his fields right now if he were twenty years younger.”

  The look on Doc Francis’s face is priceless. He waves his arms and snarls and just as he’s about to scream something truly awesome, Mr. Boyd grabs him by the shoulders and shakes some caution into him. It’s the lawman who ends up yelling the awesome thing. “For pity’s sake, George, there are witnesses.”

  Father’s hand flies to his forehead as if reacting to an invisible knife that’s just now been punched through his eye socket. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. There are several people who saw the confrontation between you and the Bryans last night, so you best be careful how far you try to stretch the truth.”

  Father is shaking his head. “What people? Porter? Because he’ll tell you anything that comes into his head if he thinks there’s a possibility of scandal. Ask anyone. Ask yourself, for Christ’s sake.”

  Mr. Boyd’s voice grows sharp. “It’s not just Porter. It’s his sons also and Eleanor Bryan and her little boy and more besides. I have been here not two hours and the few stories I’ve heard don’t match with what you’ve been saying.”

  “But do they match with what each other is saying?”

  The expression on Mr. Boyd’s face tells Annie that Father has correctly guessed that the neighbours are telling tales in conflict with one another. That would be a win for him. Annie’s just not certain Father deserves to mark the win, not when one of the people who’s likely to die is the boy she had set her cap for. She tries to will away that thought and all of the others that flood forth when she calls Charlie to mind.

  Annie bows her head. She can’t think about Charlie and the future she’d dreamed for them just yet because if she does, she’ll be forced to think about something far more troubling: that she had known Charlie no longer had the revolver. He’d told her so yesterday and she could’ve conveyed that information to Father, only she’d chosen to remain silent. Why had she done that? Because she didn’t want to alert Father to the fact she had met Charlie in the bush, that’s why. It would’ve put all of her plans – her entire future – in jeopardy before she’d even had the chance to run it all past the boy of her dreams, and she couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Father is again speaking. “Come on, Boyd. This is me you’re talking to. You can’t possibly think I went over to the Bryans’ for any purpose other than to retrieve my horses. I know the law. I don’t attack men who’ve thieved from me. I report them to you and let you do what needs doing.”

  What needs doing. Annie takes this fully in, as does Mr. Boyd. “I allow that I warned Bryan just yesterday that his boy’s temper was likely to bring about violence. It didn’t appear to me then that he planned to heed me. It looks less so now, but I can’t ignore the statements of those who claim to have witnessed a battle. However it may’ve started, two m
en have been fatally wounded and the two who helped to get them that way are still standing. That doesn’t look good.” Mr. Boyd looks around, frowning. “Where’s Laban? I’d like very much to hear what he has to say about all this.”

  All eyes shift to Father. Annie can’t wait to hear what his response will be. Surely not the truth, since the whole point of sending Laban into the woods was to conceal him from the very man who’s seeking him now.

  Father shrugs. “My guess is he’s hiking up to Little Current to check on a shipment of tools that should be coming in this very day on a steamer from Collingwood.”

  As if Father ever needs to guess where Laban is. The silly goose always goes where Father tells him to go and often without question or resistance. Something inside Annie ruptures and, before she can rightly stop them, words come racing from her lips faster than she can think them. “Don’t be silly, Father. You know full well that steamer isn’t meant to arrive until Thursday, so Laban cannot possibly be on his way to meet it. I’m absolutely certain he must be elsewhere. I dare say Mr. Boyd should form a posse and go looking for him.”

  Mr. Boyd nods towards Annie, his eyebrow raised. “Do you often tell your daughter your business?”

  Father’s voice is as flat as she’s ever heard it. “Never do. Ignore the girl. She has quite the imagination. Laban’s like to be at the docks already. Possibly even on his way back, dragging a heavily loaded hopper. Would probably appreciate some assistance.”

  Mr. Boyd nods. “I’ll go check, but for now we should get back to the Bryan place and see how things sit there.”

  By “we” Mr. Boyd means him and Doc Francis, who he just now taps on the shoulder. At first, the doctor hardly responds. He just stares at Father like he’s trying to burn a hole straight through his chest. Then he pivots and storms out of the room, muttering and striking the air. Mr. Boyd lingers over his goodbyes and when he finally leaves, Father turns to Annie. “Thought you had more sense than to go against your kin.”