Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (37 page)

Lorette was so grateful to the stray for putting a smile on Sean’s face that she gorged Cinders on table scraps. Stuffed and content, the dog curled up on the braided rug next to Sean’s ham radio set and rested, keeping one watchful eye on her new master. Every now and then, Sean would reach down and pet Cinders on the head or tousle her ears. When it came time for Sean to turn in, Cinders jumped up and beat him to the bed, making herself at home at the foot of his quilt. “Oh no, Cinders. Until you’ve had a bath, you sleep on the floor.” He laughed good-naturedly when the dog sulkily jumped down to the floor with her tail between her legs.

The next morning Sean rose with a touch of nausea and decided he had eaten too much cake at the wedding. He had felt himself giving in to melancholy, as Rebecca and Evan’s reception had worn on, but when he ate the chocolate wedding cake with its impossibly rich butter cream frosting, he’d felt his mood brighten. So he’d kept right on eating it. If he thought about it, he’d been neglecting his diet and exercise for some time. There were some things his doctor said he could do in the way of light exercise and light chores, but Sean hadn’t bothered. He’d been lolling around for quite a spell. He looked at the pooch who had sneaked up onto his bed in the middle of the night and was currently sleeping soundly with her head on his pillow. Perhaps if he had come upon Cinders sooner, he could have benefited from walking her daily. Perhaps today was the day he would begin to take better care of himself. He had to smile as he watched the little dog sleep. “Brother!” Sean said aloud. Just standing there was making him light-headed and short of breath. He knew he should eat something solid, but first, Cinders would get her bath.

“Cinders, it’s high time you had yourself a bath, girl.” The little dog was comfortable in the bed, but she dutifully raised herself and followed her new master out the bedroom and across the parlor to the front door. Lorette met them at the door. “Morning, Lorette. Giving the pup a sorely needed bathing,” he offered her.

“Sean, why don’t you let me do that? Your color is a bit off. It worries me. Are you feeling alright this morning?”

“Oh, my belly’s feelin’ a little pinched, I guess. I ate too much cake yesterday. But I’m fine.
Really
,” he added when he noted her disapproving look. He led the dog outside to where the hose was tied up. He removed the soap bar and a currying brush from his back pocket. “Okay, girl. It’s gonna be a bit cold at first.” He turned on the hose and doused her.

To her credit, the canine stood still for the bath, even though the combing had to have tugged uncomfortably at her fur. When she was done, tangle-free, sweet-smelling, and soaked, she ran back into the house, shaking the water from her fur excitably.

“Well now, my little princess. Don’t you look pretty?” Lorette tied a pretty bandana around the little dog’s neck.

The dog preened and seemed to delight in the compliments.

Lorette looked out the front door. “Where on earth is your master now? I swear that man just goes and goes.” She went out the door looking for Sean, fully prepared to admonish him for so much activity before he’d even broken his fast. She spotted water trailing down the drive in great rivulets. Rounding the corner of the house, she saw first the bottoms of his boots and she raced the remaining distance. “Oh, dear Lord. Mr. Marshall! Sean!” She patted his cheeks and lifted his head.

He was unconscious but alive.

“Please wake up, Sean! Please! Oh, Lord, please don’t let him die. Oh Lord!” She hefted him over her shoulder and carried him to the house. She laid him across his bed and fetched cool water. Then she called for the doctor.

Chapter 82

T
he physician snapped his doctor bag shut. “He needs complete rest. His heart has suffered a sizable attack. He can’t take much more.”

“Yes, sir.” Lorette twisted her dishcloth nervously in her hands.

“Give him meaty broths, and lots of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t let him get out of this bed. I’ll be back to check on him in a couple of days. He is out of danger for now.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll watch him very carefully.”

The doctor left. The instant Lorette locked the deadbolt behind him, she fell into a parlor chair and sobbed. She peered into the shaded bedroom where Sean Marshall labored to breathe. Oh how she’d grown to love the man. She’d loved Will too, but that was different. She could not bear to lose Sean as well, and so soon. Cinders rose on her back feet and laid her head in Lorette’s lap for a petting. The home nurse smiled through her tears and obliged, thankful for the company.

Two days later, the physician visited, as promised, and was happy to see the color improve in his patient’s face. This nurse apparently knew what she was doing. He pronounced Sean healthy enough to take short bouts around the house, but he was to be restricted to indoors. It would not do for Sean to develop a cold in his weakened condition. He would surely develop pneumonia and would have no strength to endure it. Cinders jumped from Sean’s bed and ran into the kitchen where Lorette and the doctor talked over tea. The little dog went over to Lorette’s chair and sat next to it. Lorette quietly slipped the little tail-wagger a bit of her crumb cake.

“Cute little beggar. Is she yours?” The doctor asked.

“No, no, she followed Sean home on one of his walks—at the cemetery, sake’s alive. Won’t leave his side, except for food and such. The lass was in a state when he found her—or, she found him, as I heard him tell it. But she cleaned up right smart, didn’t she?” She reached down and tousled the little dog’s ears. Cinders preened as if she knew what they were saying about her.

“Was she sitting on the grave of her master, I wonder? Perhaps she had nowhere else to be,“ the doctor said. He shook his head in sad sympathy for the pup.

“I wondered the very same thing, doctor. But now I think perhaps she is an angel. One thing I do know is, they needed each other. I believe she is good for him. Maybe my broths are not the only reason Sean is perking up, I dare say. He’s quite taken with her,” she told him.

The doctor cleared his throat. “What I am going to say has no bona fide medical findings to support it. But, I think I see a like-mindedness in you, Lorette. I believe the canine is capable of extending a man’s life. I base the theory on several of my own findings: first, I have seen illness depart shortly after loneliness departed, in a patient who was given a puppy as a gift. She has been well ever since. Next, it is a fact that a canine must be taken out and walked, several times each day, which would require the responsible pet owner to get up and out of doors and move. Regular, reasonable exercise and fresh air is monumentally important to good health and long life. And finally, I personally know of several elderly persons who admit to living for their pets. They do not wish to leave them orphaned or they worry for their care, much as if they were their children. It is frankly astounding how some people will cling to life for the canines they love. As I said, medical science can not confirm such an assertion, but I know it has merit just the same.”

Lorette slipped Cinders another bite. “Oh, I am absolutely certain of it, doctor.”

“As you feel Sean getting stronger, when he is ready for light exercise, accompany him on short walks with the pup. Be sure he is bundled up, this weather is a fluke. It is still winter.” He rose and reached for his hat. He thanked Lorette for the tea and patted the little dog’s head. “She’s a dark beauty, isn’t she? Her eyes tell me you are correct, Lorette. She’s been through it, poor little thing. But this one is much stronger than she appears, eh?” To the dog he said, “you take care of Mr. Marshall, girl.”

Cinders wagged her tail. The people laughed.

“Call me if you need me, Lorette. But I think he is in good hands—and paws.”

Chapter 83

T
he summer of 1945 was long, dry and hot. The Tillamook Burn exploded again, convincing loggers and citizens alike that the tragic region was under a six-year jinx. It didn’t seem to matter that laws were constructed to require spark arrestors on machinery and to ban burning and logging during dry conditions. Nor did it matter that the country was at war, and salvage logging was a war industry. Such laws were widely ignored. The fact was, the logging industry was of no substantiality to the fire of ‘45, at all.

The people of Oregon were convinced that a major fire would happen every six years, certain that nothing would alter the fact. The outbreak of 1945 only succeeded in lending credit to this anxiety, since the freak blow-up was caused by, of all things, a Japanese incendiary balloon. It had, incredibly, floated thousands of miles across the Pacific Ocean, apparently coming in contact with nothing on its journey until it reached the sands of Manzanita Beach where the surf met the forest. The explosive device seemingly had but one destined purpose: the igniting of another fire in the Tillamook Burn.

They’d been talking about Tillamook’s six-year jinx on that afternoon, and gradually the conversation came around to Victor.

“Victor changed his name to Marshall, legally,” he smiled. “Wendell tells me he is a natural on the trading floor. He’s going to turn out alright.” Sean rasped to Rebecca. It was May again. The boy was nearly eighteen.
That would make it the year of 1945,
Sean figured. He could never break the habit of telling time by his son’s age, no matter how far away his son was or how long he’d been gone.

“How long has it been, Sean?”

“Since I’ve seen him? You were there that day. Victor ran away four years ago. Never even got to say good bye to him.” Sean hacked mercilessly. Rebecca jumped up for more water.

“I’m so sorry, Sean,” she said.

Sean reached out for her hand. “Beck-wheat, I think it’s time we phoned Wendell. I want to look upon my boy, tell him I love him. I want the chance to say good bye.”

Sean started the telling three days ago. Rebecca only let him go on a few hours at a time so as not to tire him too much, though she was as anxious to hear the whole story as Sean was to tell it. She didn’t doubt its veracity, but it was a dreadful true life account.

Rebecca could hear bustling about in the kitchen. Lorette was awful good to Sean. She’d be bringing his lunch soon. Rebecca thought the woman was a saint. She was putting off her marriage to that nice attorney, Charles Reynolds, for as long as Sean needed her.

It won’t be much longer,
Rebecca thought sadly.

Sean’s voice broke her out of her grim reverie.

“Did I tell you the preacher started that second fire in thirty-three?” Sean asked as he looked out the window and could see only darkness at two in the afternoon.

The smoke had so darkened the skies of the Oregon coast, that folks were complaining their chickens were laying at all odd hours, something that only added to their labors. Rebecca sighed. If Sean were right, then she’d lost her first husband because of the man called Preacher Bowman. She followed Sean’s gaze out the window. The sight was nothing short of ominous. Folks talked of the portentous sequence of the great fires, 6, 6, 6, saying it was the mark of the beast. After all she’d heard in the last few days, she was beginning to believe that perhaps one of Satan’s soldiers had been present in Tillamook County, existing in the disguise of a preacher man. How depraved that concept was.