Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (18 page)

Will was staring at the ceiling. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his ankles crossed over one another, and was twirling his mustache with one hand while flicking each of his fingers with his thumb on the other hand, over and over again.

“Will? You angry with me? You look angry.”

“No, brother, I ain’t angry with you. I’m angry with me.” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, immediately feeling the rhythmic rumble of the train on its tracks—not an altogether unpleasant sensation at all. “Did you believe that landlady we talked to? I mean about Blair leaving owing her money?”

Sean sat up, studied his brother. Then he contemplated the floor. “I don’t know. We ain’t in any position to call her a liar.”

“Yeah. Except the more I think about it—about her, that is—I think, she don’t strike me as the kind of landlady that a homespun girl like our Blair could pull one over on, move out all her stuff and herself without that woman knowing about it. D’you think that really happened?”

“Are you sayin’ you think Blair was there all along?”

“No, not necess—well, maybe.” He gave his brother a thoughtful squint. “I think that woman knew where Blair was, though. I think she just told us that story to pick some money from our pocketbooks.”

Sean didn’t answer right away and when he did it was only to let out a heavy sigh.

Will said, “I know you don’t know your head from your heart where your wife was concerned, and you probably don’t know whether to jump up and yell, ‘let’s go back!’ or—”

“Is that my heart or my head talkin’?” Sean interrupted.

“Why don’t you answer that one?”

“Well, I guess that sounds like the rash sort a’ thing a heart would say,” Sean said.

“Right. So then, little brother, what does your head say? Because whatever you think we ought to do, that’s what we’ll do.”

“You wanna go back and call on one of them girls, you old birddog,” Sean smiled weakly.

“Naw,” Will reached into his front pocket and withdrew several calling cards with dainty handwriting scrawled across their faces. He fanned them at his brother. “I only kept ‘em as a kind of reminder of our trip—even though I know we, we didn’t find…we didn’t do what we came here for—but, well Sean, it’s the only time we ever went
anywhere
. They’re just souvenirs. To tell you honest, fancy-type ladies of the big city don’t interest me much. They’re pretty and fresh, and a little more worldly-wise, but they wouldn’t hold a shine standing next to an Oregon girl. Guess I’m old-fashioned,” he shrugged. He tucked them back into his pocket. “But, my offer’s still good.”

Sean studied his brother for a moment, then moved his gaze to the darkening landscape whizzing past their compartment’s window. “Will…I love you, Will. And I know our failing to find Blair would eat at you, because you would always wonder if we did enough—heck, you’re doing it already. I don’t want that. My head says we did what we could, and then some. Another day didn’t make any difference, and another week probably wouldn’t either. Chicago’s just too big a city for hide-and-seek. Remember, Will, she don’t want to be found. For whatever reason, Blair had reached her limit. An’ our pocketbooks also have a limit. I wish it wasn’t so, but…” He shrugged and turned back to Will. “Like it or not, we have other responsibilities. It’s spring, and we gotta get back.”

Chapter 40

May, 1933

Cloverdale, Oregon

B
owman was getting a little twitchy. Otis was late. He
hated
the man—he’d thought about killing him. But, Otis was six-and-a-half feet tall, and even though he was thinner than broth, the man was strong as an ox from hefting all that swill and ale. Besides, Julius was no longer confident in his own strength and agility. He was old, portly, and his hands shook when he waited too long for a nip. He extended his hands out in front of him and watched them jitter. He looked over at the boy, saw he was watching him intently. The preacher dropped his hands and busied himself by getting a fire ready to go in the woodstove for later, in case temperatures dropped.

It was a surprisingly mild May for the Oregon Coast. The day before, temperatures reached sixty-eight degrees. It was cooler today. Bowman glanced over at the boy. Victor was looking at a picture book given to him by a lady from church. The cabin held no other books or toys for the boy. In truth, the preacher didn’t really know what to do with him. Julius Bowman had fixed his entire adult life’s sights on getting a son. But Bowman had always assumed there would be a mother to care for his heir.
How Blair could run off and leave her son behind, I can’t fathom. A female dog wouldn’t willingly run off on her pups
. Here he was doing twice as much laundry and having to worry about proper nutrition for the boy, and whether or not the cabin was warm enough. All the chores Bowman was loathe to do were doubled with the boy around. And the preacher had to hide his nips—in his own home! He could not have the boy slip up and say something in public about the preacher’s minor indulgences—or the way his blasted hands shook when he went too long without a nip. Children will say anything at anytime, Bowman had learned in the year spent with Victor under his roof.

Where in hell was Welby?

Victor lifted his head from his picture book when he heard the sound of Mr. Welby’s truck coming up the long drive. The little boy squeezed his eyes shut.

“Victor, I need you to think about your truths,” Bowman told the boy.

“Nooooo”, Victor started to sob.

“I won’t hear it, boy!” His deep voice boomed, scaring Victor straight out of his chair. “You will go into your box on your own, or my hand will help you.”

The five-year old climbed inside the box, closed his eyes and began sucking his thumb furiously. The preacher rolled his eyes heavenward as he dropped the lid. Just then there was a familiar knock on the door.

Bowman crossed the room in three steps and yanked the door open as he barked, “You’re late. It’s about time you—”

“Preacher,” Otis greeted him. “This is my son, Lytle. That’s a family name on my wife’s side. His nickname is Tiny. Thought he and Victor could play together. They’re the same age. Boy don’t have any friends.” Otis looked around the cramped, rustic cabin. “Where is he?”

“I, I…well, uh, he is being punished. It’s not an opportune time.”

Otis dropped his head to his left shoulder and kind of squinted at Bowman, like he often did. “I don’t care. Get the boy.”

Bowman grumbled but he did as he was ordered. He trudged over to the box and lifted the lid. “Did you think about your truths, boy?” he asked with relative indifference. He was humiliated by Welby and was sorely licking his wounds.

“Yes, grandfather,” Victor answered hurriedly as he scrambled to his feet.

Bowman grunted. “You have a friend to play with.” He jerked his head toward Welby’s boy.

Victor looked at Mr. Welby, then to his son, and a great smile spread across the boy’s face—likely the first in a year’s passage of time. He jumped out of the box and ran over to the boy. “Hi! I’m Victor. Do you wanna play?”

“Is
that
your room?” the little boy wanted to know.

“No. I don’t have one,” Victor said.

“Oh. Do you have any toys?”

“No.” Victor looked ashamed. He looked at his feet.

Tiny looked up at his dad. “How’r we supposed to play, Daddy?”

Otis Welby wasn’t the world’s best father. But stick his own flesh and blood in a buggy old banana box, he never did—and never would. “Your marble bag is in the truck. You boys go on out and shoot some for a little bit an’ let us adults jaw awhile.”

When the door closed Otis faced the preacher. “That’s pretty low, Julius. Ya stick the boy in a box. Ya don’ have a single toy for ’im. I hate to think I kep’ my mouth shut during his Juvenile Hearin’ for this. I don’t give a hot ticket how much you hate his pa, I won’t be party to it.”

Bowman walked to the kitchen area and sat down heavily in a chair at the table. He glowered at Otis Welby. “You’re late,” he growled again.

“I got your swill right here,” he opened the door a foot and retrieved the brown jug he had set on the stoop, carried it over to the table and set it down. He kept his hands firmly on the jug. “I got deliveries tomorrow. I’ll be hitting the roadhouse last. If you are interested in riding out there with me, I could stay and enjoy a cold one for a spell, if you’re of a mind to—”

“Yes. I’ll ride to Grand Ronde with you,” he cut Otis off. “Ah, but, what about Victor? He can’t come with us anymore…gettin’ too keen. Er, your wife, would she look after Victor?”

“She would. Be by about noon to fetch him. I’ll come back for you around 1 or 2.” He squinted again at Bowman. “Get some toys for the boy, Julius. That’s an order. Ya hear me?”

Chapter 41

“B
aby goats!” Victor yelled with glee as he hopped off the truck bed. He couldn’t remember ever having so much fun as he just had riding on the flat bed of Otis Welby’s delivery truck. The boys held on to wooden sides that Otis had added to the flatbed to keep his cases from tumbling off, and they yelled and shrieked with joy as the truck bounced and dipped its way up the dirt road, way up the highest hill, to Welby’s camp. When the Welby property came into view, Victor thought they lived in the biggest fort he’d ever seen. It looked like they made their fort the same way Victor made his make-believe forts, out of available furniture, pillows and blankets. “Wow!” Victor yelled. “You’re so lucky,” he told his new pal, Tiny, which made Tiny Welby smile.

“That’s my mommy and my baby sister, Nedra.” Tiny pointed out the toddler and his mommy in the middle of six baby pygmy goats. The goats were trying to nibble on Nedra’s shoe laces and hair, and one had a hold on her diaper on the backside and was pulling up on it, causing the little girl to belly laugh and nearly topple. Nedra’s mommy was laughing too, sometimes swinging a bottle around and sometimes twirling with her baby girl.

“Can we play with ’em too?” Victor wanted to know.

Tiny had a hammock for a bed, which Victor thought was the best kind of bed to have, now that he knew what a hammock was. The wall that divided Tiny’s room from his baby sister’s was heavy blankets. The boys were playing marbles on Tiny’s side of the blanket. This time, Victor had his own marbles to play against Tiny, and he was winning all of Tiny’s marbles.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” Tiny said. “You won my favorite marble. You wouldn’t even have marbles of your own if my pa hadn’t told your pa—or grampa.”

Victor blinked rapidly. He didn’t want his new friend mad at him. He’d thought he was supposed to try to win all the marbles. “I don’t want to take your favorite marble, Tiny. I wasn’t going to keep any of ’em. Honest,” he said. He held out all of his winnings for Tiny to take. The boys picked up the rest of their marbles and put them in their leather pouches, pulling the strings tight. “Your daddy tol’ my grandpa to get me the marbles? Why?”

“My pa said it was wrong you din’t have any toys or nothin’. So he tol’ your—isn’t he your grampa? Why did he call you his son?”

“He called me that ever since he took me away. He said he was my mommy’s daddy and…I don’t wanna talk about it.” He had one of Tiny’s metal trucks and was running its wheels across the floor. It took only a few seconds before Victor realized he did want to tell his only friend something he’d been growing afraid of. “Sometimes I can’t remember what my mommy looked like. I used to see her in my dreams. She was the prettiest mommy in the world. But I don’t have those dreams anymore. I haven’t in a long time, and now I can’t remember.” He looked up at his new friend. “I miss my mommy.” Victor’s eyes had started to mist.

“Where’s your daddy?” Tiny asked.

“I don’t know,” Victor sobbed a little. “My daddy was Sean Marshall, but grandpa said I’m not aloud to say that anymore.” Victor wiped at a sniffle.

“Why not?” asked Tiny.

“Grandpa doesn’t like him.” Victor tried to say that like it didn’t matter to him, and he spun the truck wheels again and shrugged like he didn’t care, but the loss of his hero at the tender young age of four was too much for the little boy, and tears spilled over. “He never came to get me.”

Chapter 42

August 14, 1933

Nestucca Bay, Pacific City, Oregon

W
hen Sean and Will finally arrived, the party was in full swing. El Tjaden had taken over as ‘the smoker’. He’d learned the art well from watching Angus all those years. The alder-smoked salmon, skewed on the long stakes set in the sand by the bay’s shoreline, were giving off enticing aromas that made everyone’s stomach rumble with anticipation. The clams and oysters were baking in a pit covered with seaweed. Corn ears in their husks and potatoes in their skins were lying right on top of the hot coals in the fire pit. Sean pulled off his shoes the instant he jumped from his shotgun seat in the shiny new family car. Not waiting for his brother, his bare feet dug into the cool sand. He walked straight up to Elrod and punched him on the shoulder, his smile wide.

“Say, how goes it JXN3?” Sean pronounced it, “Jackson three.”

“What? You mean it?”