Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (24 page)

Mr. Abelbaum was not well-liked by children. It was by design. The Abelbaums were not fond of children, so they were cranky around them, and that kept the neighborhood kids away. What the Abelbaums were fond of was their garden. They raised twenty-two different colors of iris, and the hydrangea went as high as the house eaves. There were several varieties of lily; numerous shades of tulip; and, of course, the clowns of the garden, daffodils. They sprayed children who got too close with their garden hose and sprinkled the vegetable side of the garden liberally with slug killer, which Tiny Welby swore killed his dog. The rumors about the Abelbaums’ many evil deeds grew with atomic proportion. So it was inevitable that two lonely, rowdy boys who happened to have little supervision, would choose the Abelbaums as targets for their hostilities that night. It was really Tiny’s idea, but Victor went along with it.

“They killed my dog, man. C’mon, Victor. They deserve it.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

And they climbed to the top of the garage, over the peak, and onto the eastern side of the roof overlooking the garden. Systematically, the boys ripped the shingles off one by one and threw them into the garden. They kept mental score of how many plants they each wiped out with direct hits, giving bonus points if a ruined plant was one of Mr. Abelbaum’s prized irises. Before they knew it, they were out of shingles.

“We better get out’a here before someone sees us. Geez, Tiny. Look at the mess we made of old prune face’s garden.”

“Who’s there?”

A voice cut through the night about the same time the beam from a flashlight found the boys on the bare roof. Tiny was so startled that he slipped. He scrambled and clawed for something to hang on to but was falling too fast down the slick pitch. He landed at the feet of Mr. Abelbaum, on top of a pile of damaged shingles, holding his leg under him and rocking back and forth, crying that it was broken. The flashlight beam caught a surprised Victor, and he knew he was in trouble, big trouble.

“Come on down from there, you ruffian. I see ya. You’re that preacher’s grandson, ain’t ya? Yeah, that’s you. Get yourself down here before I call the police.”

“I already called them.”

Another voice joined the first. It was Mrs. Abelbaum.

Victor carefully climbed down from the roof. The minute his feet touched the ground, Abelbaum grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him into the bright light of their meager kitchen.

“What about Tiny?” Victor pleaded, trying to turn around and look after his friend who had still not gotten up off the ground.

“He can sit there ‘til the police come. Ain’t gonna strain myself toting another hoodlum inside.”

Victor was shoved into a straight-backed chair. His eyes squinted in the bright light of the kitchen as he looked around. From the way they kept their yard, Victor had expected the inside of the house to look sort of fancy. His eyes found Mr. Abelbaum’s face. It was not a pleasant face to look upon under normal circumstances. But now that Mr. Abelbaum was agitated…

“I figure I got about thirty dollars or so tied up in that roofing that you and your friend ruined. I figure my garden’s probably worth another thirty or so. Now you’re gonna tell me how you’re gonna pay for it, boy.”

“It was Tiny’s idea,” Victor ventured.

“It was Tiny’s idea,” Abelbaum mimicked cruelly. “Your friend’s family lives like dogs. They don’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out of. His daddy makes illegal swill and spends most of his time in jail. Everyone knows that. No siree, I ain’t wastin’ my time tryin’ to squeeze blood from a turnip. This is your problem, boy. Ought’a pick your friends better.”

Victor looked out the open back door to the garden area, and saw that his friend had bugged out on him.
Busted leg, huh Tiny?

“I don’t have any money, either,” Victor pleaded. Victor was too old for the box, but not for the switch. Even though his grandfather could not muster hard blows anymore, he could still switch him pretty good.

“You better think of something, boy, or I’m gonna have you arrested.” Mr. Abelbaum informed him.

The two old folks stood with their arms folded firmly, scowling at him like he was covered in cow dung.

“Maybe…could I use your phone?”

The old man pointed to a generic black Bakelite phone mounted on a nearby wall.

“Do I just dial zero?”

The old woman nodded, exasperated. He reddened at the thought that the Abelbaums, who were obviously poor folks, had a telephone in their home but the cabin he lived in still did not. He felt inferior in their presence, and it angered him some. He heard a switchboard operator ask him for the party he was calling. He glanced back at the Abelbaums. They were still scowling at him. He turned his back a bit so they could not see his discomfort.

“Could I have…uh…the home of Mr. Sean Marshall?”

The phone started ringing on the other end, and then someone answered. It was a woman’s voice.

“Uh, hello. I…uh…is this the residence of Sean Marshall?” He tried to speak so that the Abelbaums could not hear him.

The woman said she would call Mr. Marshall to the phone. Victor’s heart was pounding painfully in his chest.

“This is Sean Marshall speaking.”

“Uh…hi…uh…Mr. Marshall?” Victor’s voice was shaking now.

“Victor, is this you?”

“Yeah…uh…I’m sorry I’m calling so late, sir.”

“Can you speak up, Victor? I can’t hear you too well.”

“Uh, Mr. Marshall? I…uh…I’m in a lot of trouble. Can you help me?”

Sean almost laughed. “What’s the trouble, boy?”

And Victor told Sean all about the vandalism that he and Tiny Welby had inflicted upon the Abelbaums.

“I don’t know why we did it. It was stupid. I just can’t let my grandpa find out, Mr. Marshall. You don’t know what he’d do to me.”

“I’m afraid I can imagine.”

When Victor was done, he waited for Mr. Marshall to speak, trying not to let Sean or the Abelbaums hear how heavy he was breathing. His hand was slick on the molded handset, and he wiped the sweatiness across his blue jeans.

“Stay where you are, Victor. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up.

Victor turned around to the Abelbaums, who were eyeing him suspiciously.

“He said he was coming right over. I think he’s bringing money,” Victor mumbled softly.

Chapter 51

“W
hoa now, brother. Let’s stop and think a minute here. I don’t want to see you racing out of here all excited like Victor’s suddenly gonna become the boy he was when he was four years old. He’s almost a teen, a wild child, and he hasn’t so much as cussed in your direction in years.”

“He’s my son, Will. And he’s in trouble. What’s to think about?”

“You’re taking money you saved for your tuition. You’re already enrolled for spring. God a’mighty. Think about it. This is not your problem.”

But Will knew that he was beating a dead horse. Victor had called Sean to ask for help. It was a dream come true for his brother, and Sean didn’t have many dreams left. Will only hoped the boy would read the love behind the gesture and would not hurt Sean that time. Sean was counting out the money he kept in that old wooden box of his. He was removing nearly all of what he had saved.

Will shook his head miserably and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll drive you.”

Chapter 52

“S
o our little Cindy is from Tillamook County, Oregon. I’ll be. And you say there was only one death of a local resident as a result of all that devastation six years ago?” Chester Lasley whistled low. “A man can’t ask to have things narrowed down much more than that now can he, Stu?”

“No sir, Mr. Lasley.”

Lasley set down the few typed pages of the research his assistant had gathered from the newspaper Lasley partnered. “This Tjaden fellow then was the friend she lost. And the man who was with him, the injured fellow, is named Marshall. That’s no freak coincidence. But is he her husband, father, brother?”

“No telling, sir.”

“No. No telling. Hmm.” He paced around his plush front room apartment on Chicago’s east side. “Cindy Marshall has some of Chicago’s most important men wrapped around her little pinkie. If I were to even be hopeful of becoming governor of this fine state, I’m going to need those men on my side.”

“Sir, yes. But if I may remind you, your reviews and editorials have alienated more than a few.” Stuart Piston stood ramrod straight beside the leather wing chair Lasley had vacated.

“Yes. But that is exactly the reason why I need Miss Marshall to champion me to her consorts. I need some means of control over that woman.”

“Well, sir, she does seem fond of you.”

Lasley snorted. “Fond of me! Ha! Fond of my money, you mean. She only takes clients who can afford her exorbitant rate these days. She makes more money each day on the stock market than I do. She doesn’t need to prostitute herself anymore. She does so only when her outrageous fee is met. Even then she is sometimes…particular.” Chester Lasley spun himself around with a mean glint in his eye. “Stuart, we’re going to Portland, Oregon. This Tillamook Burn is still big news. I believe I’d like to peruse the devastation and perhaps sample logging camp cuisine for my readers.”

Stu blustered and nervously patted his oiled hair. “But, Mr. Lasley, Tillamook is a long ways from Chicago society. We know nothing about logging and lumber. I’m certain conditions will be…somewhat crude, sir.”

“Think harder, Stuart. We would not need to leave the luxury of my private Pullman railroad car if we choose not to. Arrange it. I wish to leave immediately.”

He hid his grimace. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Chapter 53

September, 1939

Portland, Oregon

W
hen Chicago’s own Chester Lasley rolled into town in all his pomp, it was a day to remember for many Oregonians. A welcome crowd, formed at Portland’s Union Station, was awed by the ornate splendor of his Pullman Car. Replete with striped awnings, silk and brocade in the drapes and upholstery, crystal chandeliers and wall sconces, and gold leafing on the Victorian age furnishings, the car was a world of contrast from a western logging camp. But the gathering was soon disappointed in Mr. Lasley. He emerged from the Observation Deck as though of royal blood, stood at the decorative railing with his silly looking Afghan hound, waved crisply, and then ducked back inside his luxurious womb, never glimpsed again by the locals and commoners who had traveled great distances to see the man.

“Ah, these admiring fans can be so tiresome. Have you located this Marshall fellow?” He did not bother to take his eyes from the magazine.

“The fellow lives in a small coastal town approximately ninety miles southwest of here, Mr. Lasley. If you like, we can hook up with a train going right into Tillamook. That would put us within twenty miles of his home. Apparently, Mr. Sean Marshall is considered fairly wealthy for these parts; he’s an artist.”

“An artist? Wealthy? Why on earth would a relative of his prostitute herself?”

“Perhaps he is not a gentle man with the ladies, sir. Miss Cindy could be a runaway.”

“Yes, perhaps. And yet she said he was someone dear to her. See that we get to Tillamook, Stuart. Tonight.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Chapter 54

“F
ifty, fifty-five, and sixty. That square things for ya, Martin?” Abelbaum made a point of recounting the money in front of Sean.

“It’ll do. Mind you, we’re makin’ an attempt to be charitable here. Perhaps your young hoodlum son will take this opportunity to straighten himself out.”

“And we do appreciate your charity, Martin, Emma.” He nodded in the wife’s direction.

She crossed her bony arms and sneered for her reply.

“Don’t we, Victor?” Sean continued.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It won’t happen again.”

An idea occurred to Sean. “Martin, perhaps it would do Victor good to see how much work goes in to a garden like yours. Maybe he could arrange to spend his free time over here, helping you put it right.”

Victor wanted to scream. They were paid what they asked for to keep quiet. Why did Mr. Marshall have to go and offer his labor too?

“I ain’t fond of kids,” said Martin Abelbaum.

Thank you, God
, Victor prayed inwardly.

“But seeing as how I got little time left to replant everything, and I have a garage needs roofin’ now…”

Victor’s head was shouting,
No! No! No!

“Fine then. Victor. I want you to promise Mr. Abelbaum that you’ll come over whenever you have free time and help clean up the mess you made. You hear?”

He glared at his boots and mumbled his, “Yes, sir.”
Dang Sean Marshall anyway.