A Dark and Lonely Place (10 page)

He slumped into a chair and rocked, as though in pain, hands tightly clasped. “It can’t be true.”

“You haven’t seen that girl for a long time, son. Only way to know for sure is to go on over there, see her parents, her friends. If the news is bad, I know you’ll take it like the man you are and pay your proper respects.” She touched his face gently. “I’m so sorry, son.” She hugged him close.

His heart filled with love for the tiny, worn woman in his arms. It always had. He’d hoped to pattern the life he intended to build with Laura after the one his parents shared.

“You’re right, Mama. I have to go. But if it’s true, I’ll doubt myself
for the rest of my life. I always had a way of knowing things, always have, Mama, you know that. I swear, if Laura was gone, I’d know it. I’da sensed it. I’da seen it in my dreams.”

She nodded. This boy, the golden child among all her children, had a gift, a sixth sense, an innate way of knowing the truth.

How could he sleep? He left that night. His mother packed up some food and gave him her Bible to carry with him.

“Remember, son, Jesus is our rock in a weary land.”

He could not imagine Laura’s strong life force and spirit gone forever, cut down by illness in the bloom of youth. If she had left this earth, he would know it, feel it. He had never doubted that she’d be there when he returned. How could he live in a world without her in it? She can’t be dead, he told himself over and over during his five-day journey through wet and windy weather. A river flooded, a bridge washed out, constant rain, mud everywhere: the weather matched his mood.

He stopped at a stream about a mile from her stepfather’s house to shave, change into his good suit, and put on his tie. The weather had cleared, a good omen.

His heart pounded as he approached. The house looked occupied. Wash fluttered from a clothesline. Chickens pecked in the side yard. Thank God, he thought. They’re here. If she’s alive, I might see her now.

A scrawny yellow dog charged down off the porch and barked.

John ignored the animal and was halfway up the front steps when the door swung open and a woman stepped out. Laura’s mother, a bit heavier, a little older since he’d last seen her.

Her hands flew to her throat. “Good God! It’s John Ashley all filled out and growed up. Look at ’im now!” She looked sallow and washed-out in the harsh afternoon sun.

“Whatcha want here, Ashley?” Laura’s stepfather stomped out behind his wife. He wore boots and overalls and waved the same damn shotgun.

“Laura,” John said, her name a prayer on his lips. “I came back for Laura.”

“Oh, Jesus, he doesn’t know,” the woman murmured.

“She ain’t here, son,” the man said. “Laura’s gone.”

A wound opened in John’s heart. He felt it bleed.

He swallowed, fought to catch his breath. “Was it the yellow fever?” His voice broke.

The couple on the porch stood transfixed for a long moment. The man cut his eyes at his wife. “That’s right,” he said slowly. “The yellow fever. It was the yellow fever.”

The woman reacted, as though startled, then turned to John. “I’m sorry. Laura always spoke so highly of you, son.”

“You got no business here now, boy.” Her stepfather glared, then stepped back inside. His wife followed, after a brief, mournful glance over her shoulder.

John knew the cemetery. There was still enough light left to find her.

He stumbled, searching through the headstones, read and reread the words, familiar names, so many from his childhood.

He found a headstone inscribed with the words “Beloved Teacher.” He had never known Miss Peters’s first name was Helen. But where was Laura? Did she lie here too, beneath the weeds? He couldn’t find her. Which fresh, unmarked grave, still adorned with wilted flowers, was hers? He knelt beside a new grave, a lonely gash in the earth. Is she here? Head in his hands, he tried to pray but forgot the words. He longed to touch her, hear her voice, see her face.

If she is here, I can’t find her, he thought, then got to his feet and left.

Numb, eyes wet, paying scant attention, he ran a buggy wheel off the road and broke the axle. He trudged three miles to the blacksmith shop, paused outside, wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked in.

“Glad you didn’t quit early, Pete.”

“Well, if it ain’t young Ashley. Good to see you again, John. Look like you just lost your best friend. What’s the problem?”

John sighed. “Without bad luck, I’d have no luck at all. Where’s Randy?” The shop was empty except for a lone customer in the back. Pete’s son, Randy, had worked for his father and planned to one day take over the family business.

“Moved down to Palm Beach to look for work.” The burly middle-aged blacksmith spoke gruffly. “Thanks to
Mister
Henry Ford.” He angrily spat out the name.

John looked puzzled.

“Ain’tcha heard? Accordin’ to
Mister
Ford, every man with a job’ll be able to afford onea his Model T automobiles, putting men like me outta business.”

“It’ll never happen.” The other customer spoke up as he approached. “Horses won’t never go outta style, Pete.”

“Damn right,” John agreed. The tall, sandy-haired fellow looked faintly familiar.

“How can they call it progress when it puts people outta work?” the blacksmith asked plaintively.

“You’re John Ashley.” The sandy-haired fellow reached out to shake his hand. “Remember me? Your old friend, Edgar Tillman.”

John had a vague recollection. They had never been close. Tillman’s family, from New York, had been somewhat shunned as Yankees. Most Floridians had fought for the Confederacy or had kin who did. John remembered Tillman as neither scholastically nor athletically gifted, not even a fair rifle shot. More follower than leader, he was otherwise inoffensive, despite being a Yankee. He carried a bit of a paunch for a man his age.

Tillman’s face colored. “Got myself a wife a few years ago, John. Didn’t waste no time. Two little ones now, a boy and a girl.” His prideful smile revealed good teeth but too much of his pink gums.

After John described his axle problem to Pete, Tillman spoke up again. “Pete can’t get to it till mornin’, so why not come on home with me for a good home-cooked meal? You look worn out, John. You can stay a day or two till you’re back on the road.”

Grateful for the generous offer from an old acquaintance he barely remembered, John agreed.

They rode out to Tillman’s place on the outskirts of Fort Myers. John stepped out of the buggy and stretched. The small, well-kept house had a front porch that faced east and a flower-fringed vegetable garden. A red-gold sun was slowly sinking beneath the horizon.

“I’ll put up the horse,” Edgar said. “Tell the missus I’ll be right in.”

John nodded and watched him walk away. He seemed far more comfortable in his own skin now than he’d been as a boy. Edgar had found his way into manhood, most likely through marriage and family life. Some men never grow up, he thought wistfully, until they settle down with a good woman. That’s what his mother always said.

Rows of cheerful pink periwinkles bordered the path. John wearily climbed the five plank steps and crossed the porch to the front door. He turned to look; Edgar was unhitching the horse by the barn. John knocked, then again with three sharp raps.

“Who’s there?” A woman’s voice came from behind the door.

“John Ashley, ma’am. A friend. Your husband is putting up the horse.”

The door flew open.

Eyes alight, lips parted in surprise, she looked graceful, blossomed, and beautiful, in a blue dress with three tiny pearl buttons at her throat. The raven hair had been chastely pulled back, but unruly tendrils had fought free in the moist warmth of her kitchen and curled around her face.

He stared, as though in a dream. She’s tall now, he thought in disbelief, almost as tall as I am. Memories flooded as he drowned in the scents of rose water and orange blossoms and the aroma from a bubbling pot on the woodstove behind her. His heart stuttered, then pounded quick and hard. He felt as though he’d seen a ghost. He
was
seeing a ghost.

Her eyes misted. She blinked rapidly and focused somewhere over his shoulder.

“Did you bring your wife with you, John?” Her voice trembled.

He found it difficult to speak; when he did, his voice was husky. “I can’t believe it’s you, Laura.” He moved toward her.

She shook her head and stepped back. “Your wife?”

“Thank God, Laura!” Emotion deepened his voice even more. “I thought you were dead.”

“Your wife!” she demanded. Her voice rose, along with her stubborn chin.

“Wife?” He frowned impatiently as though she’d spoken in some foreign tongue. “What wife? I have no wife. I came back for you. They said you died of the yellow fever.”

She bit her lip, eyes wide. “Margie Haggert’s cousin wrote her from Pompano that John, one of the Ashley boys, had married. I saw the letter myself.”

“Maybe she meant Bill. He married a Pompano girl. Didn’t you get my letters?”

“No.” She wilted.

“Bill’s wife, Lucy, told me last Sunday that you had died of yellow fever. Today your stepfather told me it was true.” He recalled the shifty-eyed stare of the man on the porch.

They moved into each other’s arms and fit perfectly, as though they had never been apart. She felt soft, warm, and alive.

“John,” she murmured into his sleeve. “I waited so long.”

“Wasn’t all that long,” he said, “before you took up with a Yankee.”

She pushed him away and struck him hard across the chest with her fist.

Catching him by surprise, his guard down, the blow left him gasping. She always was the strongest girl he knew. That was one reason he loved her.

He caught his breath and laughed aloud. “That the best you can do, girl? Come on, hit me again, hard as you can, Laura. Give it all you got, little girl. Right here.”

He stuck his chin out with a giddy grin and tapped it twice with his index finger. “Make me see stars. Then I’ll know it’s true—we’re alive and we’re together.”

She shuddered, fists clenched, her eyes leveled at him like loaded weapons.

“Okay!” he said. “Better yet, go get a gun. Come on, girl! Shoot me!” He slapped his right hand to his chest. “Shoot me! Right here. Now!” He felt the beat of his thundering heart. “I’ll die happy.”

“Be careful what you wish for! Damn you, John Ashley! Why didn’t you come back? Why?” Her eyes darted to a shotgun that stood next to the door.

“Laura?” His grin faded. He raised his hands like a prisoner. “Don’t kill me now, river girl. Not yet. Don’t make me bleed all over your clean floor before I get to kiss you.”

She took a deep breath and opened her mouth at the sound of boots on the porch. The door creaked open and Edgar stepped inside. He wore the look of a road-weary man happy to be home at last. He did a double take. “You two know each other?”

A shout ended the silence that followed.

“Daddy!” A tiny girl, with her mother’s black hair staggered across
the room on chubby, unsteady legs. Edgar swept her up, hoisted her high, then higher, as she laughed and squealed, then lowered her to his broad chest and held her close. Over her tiny shoulder, Edgar’s questioning eyes refocused on his wife and John Ashley.

“There’s beef stew for supper,” Laura announced.

John cut his eyes at her, then addressed his host. “I met Laura when she was five. We went to school together.”

“Small world.” Edgar chewed his lip, eyes speculative. The little girl squirmed in his arms. He set her down, as a wail came from another room.

“I’ll get the baby,” Laura said.

Edgar watched John stare after her. She returned moments later carrying a chubby-cheeked boy with sandy ringlets and a healthy howl. His father smiled, and the infant stopped crying.

“How is my little man?” Edgar gazed fondly at his son. Laura’s eyes caught John’s, her expression resigned.

They dined at a rough pine table after Laura removed the kerosene-soaked rags tied to each leg to repel crawling insects.

John had eaten little since that Sunday supper but only picked at the savory beef stew with potatoes, onions, carrots, and peas. To him it tasted like sawdust and felt as difficult to swallow. Laura ate sparingly as well, while she and John politely discussed old schoolmates, neighbors, and friends. She inquired about his sisters, especially Daisy, everyone’s favorite. The air between them felt thick with tension, but Edgar, focused on his meal, didn’t seem to notice, though at one point he did stop chewing and asked, “What brings you back to your old hometown, John?”

“I was looking for someone,” John said.

“Find ’im?” Edgar asked.

John shook his head. “A day late and a dollar short.”

“Is the coffee ready?” Edgar asked his wife.

Laura’s hand brushed John’s as she served coffee and homemade arrowroot cake. He fought an urge to kiss the inside of her wrist, her palm, and each fingertip. Lips dry, he gazed into her eyes and knew she read his thoughts.

She whisked the children off to bed as the men laughed, sipped
whiskey, and talked like old friends about fishing, hunting, and home-steading. Edgar poured them each another drink, loosened his belt, and relaxed at the head of the table. His eyes proudly roved the modest room, as though he were lord and master of the manor.

He is, John thought wistfully. He has everything. He has it all.

“So, you fancied my wife when she was a girl,” his host finally said, as though reading his thoughts.

John hesitated only a moment. “I won’t sit at your table and lie to you, Edgar. Laura and me . . . we were childhood friends.” He paused to toss down his whiskey neat, aware of his gross understatement, then took a deep breath and swallowed to ease the burn. “But”—he licked his lips—“when she was in her teens, all I ever thought about was her.”

Edgar smiled. “I know the feeling.”

“That’s when my father moved us away.” Confession concluded, John scraped back his chair and shrugged on his jacket. “I’ll be moving on tonight, Edgar. I understand. Thank you for your hospitality, and your wife for the fine meal.”

“Sit down!” Edgar gestured impatiently and raised his glass. “Half the men in this county felt the same way about Laura at one time or another. I invited you here and I’m a man of my word. My door is always open to you, John. We didn’t have the chance to spend time together years ago, but I heard the stories about you and your family. I know your reputation. We have no problem. After all,” he said, “I’m the one who got the girl.” His wide smile exposed his teeth and pink gums.