Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (13 page)

Chapter 29

“I
spy!” yelled little Victor with glee.

The top story of the house could be glimpsed from the downside of Hebo Mountain. Sean reached over and tousled the boy’s hair. In spite of the adventure of going to the valley, the boy was obviously as excited to return home to Blair as he was. The trip was the only time Sean had been apart from Blair since the day they were married, and the intensity of his homesickness for his wife surprised him. A wave of inexplicable anxiety washed over him at the mental uttering of her name, and something spurred Sean to get home fast. He applied more pressure to the gas pedal.

On final approach, Sean could make out the figures of three people on the front porch, but none of them Blair. He saw his mother, well enough on that day to leave her bedroom in favor of the front porch swing. One of the figures was obviously Will, who was identified by the three quarter curl of his handlebar mustache. Sean had to strain his eyes to make out the third person. His anxiety quickly turned to dread. The noisy auto ground up the gravel drive. Sean pulled the red tricycle out of the back and lifted Victor down so he could play with it, and then he walked quickly to the porch, stumbling and nearly falling over a large rock, giving away his nervousness. At the top step, his brother grabbed his hand in an effort to steady him as much as to welcome him home, but the crack in Will’s voice gave away a level of emotion Sean had never witnessed in his brother before that moment. It made Sean’s legs feel like they were formed of water.

“Little brother, I can’t spare you any pain, so I might as well come out with it. Blair has left you.”

“What?” Sean was incredulous. “What happened, Will? And what’s he doing here?” He jerked his head in the preacher’s direction.

“Listen, Sean.” He pulled his brother over to a bench seat. “I left yesterday morning early to see to the milking, and Blair was in the garden, makin’ it ready to replant the strawberries. When I came back for dinner yesterday, there was no meal and there was no sign of Blair. Looks like she left her gardening right in the middle of her work. She left for somewhere without even seein’ to Ma’s care. She didn’t put the garden tools away…” His eyes relayed his concern for the absence of his sister-in-law, a woman he had come to love and admire. “Sean, she ain’t come home all night. Nobody’s seen her.”

Sean looked accusingly at the preacher, and he half rose with a threatening posture. “What did you do, Preacher? If she’s gone, it’s gotta be your doin’. You tell me what you’ve done or, so help me God, I will kill you!”

“Bah!” retorted Bowman. “Whatever you say. I’ll be makin’ it known to the whole town how you mistreated my daughter. That’s the reason she’s left you, Sean Marshall, and for no other cause.” And then the preacher uttered words that sucked the wind from Sean’s sails. “It won’t do for my grandson to remain in this violent atmosphere. I believe he’d be better off with his grandfather, his only blood relative. My attorney agrees that it is right for the boy to come with me immediately.” He descended the porch stoop and continued down the walkway to the drive, Bible in one hand, prepared to retrieve his grandson.

Sean was dumbfounded by what the preacher had said. He looked around wildly, seeing confusion in his mother’s silence and grief in his brother’s. By the time he realized that the preacher had left, the old man was within reach of Victor. Sean bolted down the walkway and twisted the old man around.

“I don’t care what you say! I know you, Preacher. I know what you are! You’ll not put your hands on my son. You hear? I know that if somethin’ foul has happened to Blair, then you surely had a hand in it. You’ll not get my son, you louse!”

“Your son? Was it you then, Sean Marshall, who was the rapist? Did we hang the wrong man?”

Sean seethed. “I ought to kill you where you stand. No. I should have killed you four years ago, when I saw what you did to your own flesh and blood.”

The admission surprised Bowman. The preacher’s eyebrows lifted in a way that told Sean the old man had believed his black secret to be sealed.

“That’s right, old man. I saw you down by the river. I know what you are! And I’ll see you in hell before I let you have my Victor.”

“Well, you might find it to be a lot like hell, Marshall. But it will be a court room where I’ll be seein’ you. Mark my words, Victor is mine.”

Sean reached for the man, but a stronger arm stalled him.

“Let him go, Sean. We will fight him legally. I want to give that miscreant a knuckle sandwich too. You can’t imagine the garbage he’s been spoutin’ to our ma ‘bout the way you treated your wife. Ma knows better, of course, but I tell you, Sean, that man is no preacher. He’s evil. We’ll get him, Sean, legally. So don’t give him anything to use against you in court by using violence now.”

Will shook him by the shoulders, unsure whether the glassy stare in his brother’s eyes had kept his ears from hearing. They both watched as the preacher picked the small boy off the tricycle and carried him off to his car. Victor didn’t cry, but he did look frightened, and his cry for help was a quiet one emitted from behind wide, questioning eyes.

Chapter 30

“I
want my twi-shwicle!” Victor looked up at the fat man dressed all in black.

Bowman looked over at the boy, scowled. “Bah! We will not be needing anything from the Marshall family. Not after what they done to your ma, Victor.”

“Mommy?” Victor’s bottom lip had begun to quiver and his eyes brimmed. The dark man said nothing. Victor missed his mommy. He had not seen her in two days’ time and that was the longest the child had ever been separated from her. High pitched
hnn, hnn, hnn
’s escaped the little boy’s closed mouth as he rocked and soothed himself, and tried to keep himself from crying aloud.

“I won’t hear it, boy. Are you a big boy or are you a baby?” He glanced sideways and saw the small child had already lost his battle with self-control. Tears were freely sliding down his hot little cheeks.

“I want my mommy,” he cried.

“Your mother is gone, Victor. Sean Marshall drove her away. You may as well accept that you will never see her again.”

“You’re mean! And scary! And
old!”
Victor screamed at Bowman, who did not bother to answer or even turn his head toward the youngster.

“I want my daddy!” The four-year-old wailed and crossed his arms petulantly. He didn’t like the dark man.

Bowman casually reached over and back-handed Victor across the face. It doused the boy’s tears and crying like flour on a grease fire. He was stunned. Victor had never been hit before.

“I want to go home,” he sniffed.

At that moment, Bowman’s buckboard turned left to penetrate the dank, shadow-struck ingress to the squalid cabin. “Behold, Victor Bowman, you are home,” the preacher said.

Chapter 31

N
ext to Cindy on the train was a finely dressed young woman returning to her home in Chicago, and she had a gift for gab, as she phrased it. Cindy did not want to be unfriendly, but she did wish that the woman would grow bored with her and take up gabbing with someone else for a spell. She tried laying her head on a pillow against the window glass and feign sleep, but the woman was not to be put off.

“Well, I guess I’ve told you all about me. What about you. Cindy, right? Where are you headed?”

“Indiana. To visit my aunt there.”

“Oh,” the young woman said in evident disapproval. “Not much society there, you know. I can’t imagine leaving easy country just so to visit Hoosiers.”

“Easy country? Why would you call it that?”

“Oh, I meant no offense. It’s a good thing, I think. Oregon is…countrified. It has the feel of lemonade stands and church socials. Easy country is just a
nom de guerre
, what city folk in Chicago call hinterlands like Maine and Oregon.” She pronounced it “Or-ee-gone.”

“Oh.”

Cindy realized that she was not going to have an opportunity to sleep. So, she reasoned, she might as well put out a glad hand to Percival and learn something about being in a society. She tucked the pillow under her seat and crossed her hands in her lap cordially.

“So, what’s Chicago like?”

And for the next few hours, her newfound friend, Percy, devoted all her leisure in exposing Cindy to glimpses of the Chicago lifestyle.

Cindy was conditioned for trouble, which would certainly be a surprise to Percy, who considered life in the rural Oregon country as the daughter of a Baptist preacher to be “easy.” Percy’s misconceptions made Cindy want to snort with contempt. But when she stepped from the train and rested her eyes on the landscape of Chicago, everything was notably different from what she expected. Smoke-laden air carried along enticing smells from food specialties of at least three different countries. Brick structures jutted out among wide, people-filled streets, some towering sixteen stories high. Some structures were just steel skeletons of what promised to be. The men wore suits and bowties beneath their coats, and the women all wore fancy, touch-me-not finery. Will would have called them all “lollapaloozas,” but Cindy thought they looked swell. She looked down at her own modest dress she had donned for comfortable travel and immediately determined to change her appearance. Why not? Blair was gone. Cindy needed a look all her own.

As she stood, admiring the city, hearing the noises and laughter of people on their way to and from jobs, shopping, dining and Lord knew what all, she became aware of a clanging that was growing louder, drowning out the other sounds until someone yelled, “Look out, miss!”

Cindy stepped back to see a bright red-and-brass street car bearing down on her. She had been standing right on the track, though she had not noticed it through the light covering of snow.

Chicago was everything Cindy could have hoped it would be and so much more. She breathed the city in and exhaled with satisfaction.

Indiana. Fiddlesticks.
I belong in this city.

She hefted her satchel and started down a very busy street, looking for the first order of business: a place to live. Within minutes, she found a three-story brick building with elegant glass-etched double doors from which hung a placard reading, “Room for rent. Ring bell.”

The buzzer bellowed with a hollow, gonglike sound. It was necessary for the buzzer to make a good deal of sound in order to be heard over the sewing machine’s clatter from the first floor renter. Mrs. Warrington, an aging widow who never lost hope of finding another husband, primped before her mirror before hurrying down the stairs to welcome the visitor. Oh how she hoped it would be a renter for the top floor room in the back. That room had remained vacant for all of the last two months. Without the revenue from the back room, her overall profits were slight at best. She opened the door with a flourish and a grand smile.

“Won’t you come in, my dear? Are you here about the room?”

She gave Cindy no opportunity to respond, as she continued prattling on. Cindy began to suspect that perhaps all of Chicago’s womenfolk chattered nonstop.

“It is small but comfortable.” She led her up three flights of stairs. “We get steam heat from the building next to us. The bed has a lovely set of springs, and the bathroom is only one floor below, but of course, you have your pitcher and basin here. I was formerly collecting three dollars a week, but I could let it go for…” She sized up the potential renter quickly, taking note of the humble attire and lack of coiffure. “You may have it for two fifty.”

The strangely quiet girl was attentive and polite as the landlady continued with the advantages of renting a top floor room in the back. She was more than surprised when the silent girl opened a purse crammed with bills and handed her five dollars for two weeks’ rent. Mrs. Warrington tended to regard any cash-carrying person as generally trustworthy until proven otherwise, so she did not require the usual exchange of references. The room was rented for cash, and that was information enough.

Chapter 32

March, 1932

Cloverdale, Oregon

I
n the early part of the twentieth century, protections for children came from nongovernmental societies, if they came at all. In rural areas, which Cloverdale, Oregon was, activists for the SPCC’s (Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children) were nowhere to be found. Small town rural governments witnessed shocking increases in the number of child cruelty, abuse and neglect reports, as well as in the number of calls for reform. The government’s answer, “Juvenile Courts”, took up the wider-umbrella of “Child Protection”. The success spread quickly, and by 1919, Juvenile Courts were in every state but three. Politicians saw to it the remaining hold-out’s joined up in short order.

The judge, in the case of Bowman v. Marshall, was an elderly gentleman who sported both a full mustache of solid white and a pair of bifocals through which he would survey a witness with an expression of mild curiosity. The white hair lent the judge an air of wise perception while the bifocals caused witnesses, mostly those conceiving of ill testimony, more than a little trepidation.

Will Marshall was an honest man, and as he testified his sincerity could not be questioned. Still, the judge made him nervous to the point that he began twirling that handlebar mustache of his, unintentionally conjuring a slightly fiendish image.

“You say, Mr. Marshall, that you never saw your brother strike his wife or in any way harm her during the four years of their marriage?”

“Uh…yes, sir. That’s a fact.”

“Did Mrs. Marshall seem happily married to you, sir?”

“Blair? Yeah. I mean, no one ever saw her happy until she married my brother. Then, after that, she didn’t want anything to do with the preacher, like she was scared of ‘im.”

“Please do not make any suggestions to the court, young man.”

“I…yes, sir. Sorry, Your Honor.”

“Are you acquainted with the plaintiff?”

“How’s that?”

“Do you know the Reverend Bowman?”

“He’s no reverend. He’s only a preacher because my ma and pa built him a church and the congregation said it was all the same to them if he wanted to preach for ‘em.”