Part III

 

1.

Jacob's mother didn't allow him to say a word before she started in on him. Her venom left him temporarily speechless.

"You've got a lot of explaining to do Jacob Mitchell Fowler!" Still dressed in her funeral clothes from hours earlier, she bolted from her kitchen chair, her eyes puffy and red. She was angry. Angrier than he had ever seen.

He stammered, searching for his voice. Ellie cringed behind him. He hadn't noticed Louise Bradshaw right away, but now he saw her sitting at the kitchen table and rubbing her expanding belly. As his mom tore into him, Louise remained seated and quiet.

"Where were you two? Do you have any sense at all, running off like that? Did you ever think how scared I'd be?"

"But, Mom--"

Her slap silenced him.

His hand went to his stinging cheek. His mom's expression immediately drained. She'd never struck him before. Never once in all the times he had angered her.

"Oh, Jacob, I'm so sorry. I… I thought you were gone, too, like Jimmy. I couldn't stand the thought of not having my sons."

He still rubbed his cheek, smarting more from bewilderment than pain. His mom pulled him into a hug, and he could feel her trembling against him. She felt so fragile. While she had always seemed made of granite, her bones were now balsa wood.

"Mom, I'm sorry. We won't run off again. I wasn't thinking."

Ellie stepped forward to face his mom. "We went to Greta's."

"You did what?"

"We went to her house," Jacob said, then felt the need to explain. "We went to see if Greta knew anything about our brothers."

"She said Jimmy's close, Miss Fowler. Maybe even in town somewhere. He's somewhere close, and he wants to come home."

Louise flinched at hearing Jimmy's name. She still didn't speak, but her attention seemed more acutely focused. Her hair typically fell across her shoulders in unruly waves; now it was pulled back behind her ears. It made her brown eyes more prominent and stark.

"Of course. I should have known." His mom brushed one of Ellie's blonde braids behind her shoulder. Her emotions switched yet again, this time shifting from anger to understanding. Jacob was confused. "Are you two hungry? I can whip something up. Supper won't be for a couple hours still, but I don't mind."

"Mom, it's true. What Greta said. Jimmy's still here. Somewhere. We need to find him."

"That's not possible."

Jacob tried to decipher the meaning of his mom's words. He could only come to one conclusion. Seeing Louise sitting weepy-eyed at their kitchen table, seeing how sad, how utterly exhausted his mom was, it could only mean one thing: someone had discovered his brother's body.

"Sheriff Bergman was over not more than an hour ago with the news. Which reminds me, I'm going to have to run to town to let him know you two are back and okay."

Ellie caught his attention as she shifted from one foot to the other. Sympathy gleamed in her deep blue eyes. He could easily read her thoughts; she knew why Bergman had come, she'd been through this before. Jacob listened to his mom, but wanted to put a break on the words coming from her mouth. As long as he didn't hear the words, then they couldn't be true. His brother wasn't dead. Couldn't possibly be.

"The sheriff just heard back from Peoria. The recruiting office has a record of Jimmy signing up two days ago. Do you know what this means, Jacob? Your brother is safe. He's safe as long as he's not sent somewhere to war, but at least we know he's alive. I'm going to take a strap to that boy, just as soon as I get a chance, I'm going to whip that boy raw. Running off like that, running off scared and spineless. Just like his father."

His mom hugged him again, and her strength had returned. Her balsa wood bones were instantly granite. She squeezed so hard it felt like she would break his ribs. He didn't think she would ever let go, but when she did, he turned and noticed fresh tears on Louise's face. Looking at Ellie, he was certain she mirrored his expression: shock, dismay, disbelief.

"I'm glad to see you both home safe, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm angry with you or that what you did was wrong. You're both grounded from leaving the yard until I decide otherwise. Until you prove you've learned some sense.

"So can I get you something to eat, or can you wait until supper?"

 

 

2.

Cooper had yet to set up bedding in any of the upstairs bedrooms. Instead, as the sun dipped below the trees, he built a nest of blankets in the entryway. He felt more comfortable here, resting in clear view of both the front door and the pipe organ in the back room. He might have bought the house, but he still felt like a stranger within its walls. Watching the shifting moonlight toying with the shadows on the ceiling, he continued to parse Greta's words from earlier today:

There's an unpleasant undercurrent in this town. It will pull at you unexpectedly, dragging you under its surface.

A mysterious and corrupt member of his new community was holding a boy against his will. For some reason, this thought didn't startle him. He knew he should react differently. With anxiety maybe, with alarm, definitely.

But he didn't.

Those other matters didn't reach him within the security of his new home. Those petty squabbles, those lost little boys of no consequence to his own life--nothing could reach him here. He closed his eyes, his mind reeling with fatigue.

He heard his own voice from far away, as if he held a paper cone pressed to his ear:

I think you should be ashamed for what you're doing to those kids… how can you look at yourself in the mirror?

Then Greta's soft, whimsical voice, as if in reply:

We all have tales we want left untold and forgotten.

 

 

Cooper opened his eyes with a start. Someone was knocking on the front door. He blinked, his mind thickly slowed from sleep. When his mind cleared, he saw a maroon entryway carpet beneath his blankets. A small table he had never noticed before was in the corner by the door. At its center, a vase held a mass of long-stemmed wildflowers slumping along its rim. He could smell the sweet pollen from the yellow petals, the tang of fresh-cut stems.

Again, the knock repeated, this time with a desperate air. Two knocks, pause, one knock.

He moved to his knees, craning forward, waiting for any other sounds coming from outside. He heard none. Maybe he had dreamt the noises, the sound leaking over to his waking mind. Perhaps the wind raked a tree branch against the house.

He wasn't aware of the sound coming from the pipe organ until its mournful dirge sighed to silence. He looked to the back room, and was startled to see an old woman. As she walked toward him, she flexed her fingers as if they pained her. She seemed oblivious of his presence as she neared.

"Um, hello?" Cooper said, his voice scratchy in his throat.

She rushed by, the maroon carpet softening her steps, unfazed. She opened the front door a crack before swinging it wide. A Negro man hesitated, but stepped inside. His shoulders were broad and sweat dripped down his forehead and around the curve of his chin. His taut limbs relaxed slightly when the door closed behind him, his relief evident.

Eunice Blankenship moved swiftly, the man apprehensively a step behind. It really was her, Cooper realized; the fragile frame of her face was identical to her younger self captured in the daguerreotype he'd found. They went through a side room, down a flight of stairs, to a back hallway. Cooper found himself standing in the basement hallway next to late night visitor. Even though he was close enough to touch his shoulder, he didn't seem aware of Cooper's presence.

Eunice had disappeared around a corner. But Benjamin--yes, His name is Benjamin, Cooper realized, Benjamin remained behind. He was staring at a mirror on the wall, unmoving. It was hung at an angle to allow people to not only view their reflection, but also to see the stairwell without being seen. Cooper was off to the side a foot away. While he could still move, not even Benjamin's eyes twitched.

"It's time to go, Benjamin," he said aloud, his voice dry with apprehension. Then in a quieter voice to himself, "I remember now. It's like every other night. Every night since I came to Coal Hollow."

He waved his hand in front of Benjamin's eyes, but he still didn't move. "You need to follow Eunice. She's in the back room. Your family is behind a secret panel in the wall. Seeing them again is the happiest moment in your life. Seeing your wife. Your father-in-law."

Cooper could hear his own voice, could feel his muscles humming with anxiety. That was it. Benjamin could have been a statue.

"Benjamin?" He reached out to touch the Negro on the shoulder.

Before he could, the man moved. As he turned toward Cooper, he was certain Benjamin's eyes would meet his. But they panned by, unseeing, checking the direction Eunice had gone, before returning to the mirror, this time turning slightly to see up the stairwell.

This was not supposed to happen. This wasn't how it happened every night in his dreams. Benjamin always moved down the hallway, catching up to Eunice. Never hesitating, never doubting. But this once he kept his eyes trained above, his nervousness resurfacing.

A crash came from upstairs. Something slammed into the front door, and the splintering wood sounded like a crying animal. Someone was axing their way in. Benjamin thought about it--Cooper could see it in his eyes--he was going to confront whoever was so maliciously breaking into the Blankenship's home. Confront them and save his family from discovery.

A jumble of voices came from upstairs:

"You sure this is the place?"

"Of course we are. We're professionals, Mr. Parkins."

"We've got our sources."

"Your sources are niggers, Cartwright."

"Old Willy'd give up his own daughter to stay free. In fact, he had a cousin hiding not far from his house in Lewiston, awaiting instructions for the trip to Toronto, he gave him up."

"He sure did. Stupid nigger. We took his cousin, and a few more darkies, besides."

"That's enough, Leo. Let's just get this done."

"I just want what's mine," Parkins said.

"Enough. Both of you. This is the place. Now, Parkins, you'll get your niggers, we'll get paid, we'll be on our way. Simple enough.

"Now, everybody spread out. The reverend and his wife gotta be around, with it pissing rain out, they're bound to be inside."

The floor above creaked with thundering strides as they began their search. Someone ransacked the kitchen. Glasses shattered, bowls crashed into walls, cast iron pans hammered the floor.

"Kitchen's clear," someone said, chuckling.

After listening to the intruders, Benjamin hesitated. Cooper could tell the Negro was weighing his odds. He stepped toward the stairway, paused, then retreated down the hall Eunice had taken.

Cooper trailed behind him, feeling like an eavesdropper on these strangers running through his house.

But it's their house. Isn't it?

More voices came from upstairs; Cooper could no longer tell what they were saying, but the menacing tone didn't bode well for the Blankenships' fate.

When Cooper caught up, Eunice was standing next to the open panel in the wall. She was speaking with Benjamin, with the people already in the hidden room. "You need to hurry down that tunnel. It leads to another house not far from here. They'll help. It's dark, sure, but you'll have a chance."

"I don't know what to say." He loomed over her; Eunice's forehead nearly reached his armpit. "I don't even know your name."

"Call me friend." Eunice touched Benjamin's shoulder, squeezing it. She guided him down to the hidden room.

As footsteps crashed down the basement stairs, Benjamin clambered into the opening. The brief voices from inside the low opening were joyous, yet ultimately sad. Dark-skinned hands pulled at him, futilely helping him inside.

Eunice replaced the panel, and instantly the wall looked whole and unremarkable.

She then looked at Cooper.

Instead of her eyes trailing away, they lingered for a second. She blinked; in that moment he saw her life, her anguish, her understanding that, while she devoted her life to preserving life, there were people who didn't give a damn about her mission; that and so much more was evident in a single gleaming blink.

He only turned away because he heard the frantic rip of metal slicing through the air. All he saw was the machete blade coming down from its full arc.

The image froze in his mind's eye, would remain there always; rage, hatred merging with madness. The wielder's eyes pulled wide, full whites glinting like silver dollars cast carelessly to a rain puddle.

Cooper threw his hands up as if to ward off a fatal blow, but the blade rushed by his forehead, pressing cold air to his brow, before tearing with a meaty thud into Eunice's skull.

"Christ, we might've needed to speak to her," another man said, pushing into the room.

She moaned submissively, but otherwise, seemed unaware of the mortal wound. Her brow furrowed in consternation, then disappointment.

She fell to the floor, dead before her body could settle. Cooper reached out for her, but his hand seemed to float away from him like dense fog. Then he was drifting on a breeze, rising above the violence. Eunice's killer didn't notice him.

He can't see me.

Cooper tried yelling, but was voiceless, tried waving his arms, clapping his hands, but was helpless. A person's been murdered in my house, and I can't do a thing to stop it. He screamed in frustration.

The machete wielder's hatred was no longer present. He laughed softly as if embarrassed at hearing a dirty joke in mixed company. His eyes were twitchy, too small for his head; rain blending with sweat dripped from the brim of his hat and face. A plug of chaw strained his cheek. He did not look like a killer. Under different circumstances he would've appeared apologetic as he leaned over to wedge his knee against Eunice's cheekbone for leverage. As he worked to free the machete, her cleaved skull protested like a still-green log fighting a wood axe. Blood flowed freely, seeping into the dirt floor.

"Hey, Vic, we found the reverend," said a man hefting a fire axe as he ran into the room, almost stepping on the body. "Ho'boy, looks like you found the wife."

The momentary quiet left the basement, chaos sweeping in like a violent tide. Two more men poured through the narrow doorway. Their rain-drenched leather riding coats flapped at their knees. One man carried a long-barrel shotgun. Another had a pistol in each clenched fist and iron shackles tethered to his cowhide belt. They were identical. Brothers of Eunice's killer. They were triplets.

"She resisted," Vic Borland said, unable to hold back a wicked grin. "I swear she did."

"Conspirator, was she?"

"You know it, Leo. Just another nigger-lover. I think she was a mite unstable, too."

"Tried to gouge your eyes?" the third brother chimed in.

It's like a damn game to them! Cooper raged, his ethereal body trembling.

"Yeah, even tried kicking my balls. Had to put her down like a sick dog."

"Well, good for you," the axe-wielder said, then spit a glob of chaw into Eunice's blood-speckled face. He pulled back and kicked her hard in the ribs. "Whore."

Another two men entered the already cramped room: a hulking fair-haired man forcing the Reverend Horace Blankenship inside by a painful armlock.

Black-eyed and nose-bloodied, Blankenship cried out when he saw his wife.

A toe-head boy stood in the doorway, face blanched and rain soaked. He silently took in the bloody sight. A pink-faced man appeared behind the boy, his fingers flittering at his breast.

The employer of these monsters, Cooper thought. Parkins.

Removing a handkerchief from an interior pocket, Parkins mopped his brow. He refolded the elegant fabric and held it to his lips as if nauseated.

The reverend didn't look at his wife, instead keeping his eyes raised heavenward, seeking solace or rescue from his God. Eunice's blood continued to spread as her body jerked through a final spasm. Her bowels released a pocket of gas and the triplets laughed.

"Cartwright, did it have to come to this? What happened?"

Still holding his armlock on the reverend, Cartwright glared over his shoulder. "You wanted this, Parkins. We're almost done. We'll get the information from the good reverend, then we'll get your property back."

"I never agreed to murdering innocent people."

"None of us involved is innocent. Nobody."

"But--"

Cartwright cut him off. "You know our reputation, know we're the best doing what we do. You knew the consequences of setting us on a trail. You hired us. You did this."

At hearing the exchange, the boy ran from the doorway to a corner and wretched, trying his best to stifle the embarrassing sound. The other bounty hunters shook their heads, slapped each other on the shoulder and laughed at the boy's weakness.

Cartwright released the reverend, shoving him against a wall. The old man slumped to the floor, rubbing his shoulder, staring at his wife's body. Blankenship crossed himself, clasped his hands together and began to pray quietly, yet intently.

Cartwright took a single step toward the brothers, and though they each had twenty pounds on him, they became quiet and sullen, looking at the floor, unable to meet his eye.

He went to the boy, placed a hand on his shoulder. "This is how things are done, Jasper. You wanted to come along. If you're going to be a part of this, I need you to be strong."

The reverend's gaze leveled at Cartwright. "You… you bastard! He's your son? You willingly led your son into Hell's embrace?" A vein throbbed at his temple, his limbs trembled. He squeezed his hands together even tighter, his voice rising, "Dear heavenly Father, I beg of You Your forgiveness, for my own sins and the sins of these vile men!"

Cartwright took two strides and kicked the reverend in the temple, sending him groaning to the ground.

"Damn it, look what you made me do." Cartwright sounded tired, but resolute. "You don't understand, that's all. Jasper's going to be in the family business."

With blood leaking from his ear, Blankenship closed his eyes again and continued praying, his lips moving without a sound.

"Ethan, time's ticking. We better get what we came for," the axe-wielder said. He seemed less frightened of Cartwright than the bounty hunting brothers. More on his level.

"Old Lewiston Willy mentioned a hidden room somewhere."

"You trust that nigger?" Parkins asked, keeping his eyes from taking in the mess on the floor.

Cooper still hovered above the melee like cigar smoke, swirling through the room in languid circles, unable to shut his eyes of sight, unable to shut his ears of sound.

Uncomfortably, Parkins squatted next to Blankenship, moving as if his riding gear had chaffed his delicate skin. "Where they at, nigger lover? Where's this hidden room? Let us know and we'll be peaceable. Just tell us where my property's at." His voice was southern-sweet. Cooper could picture him sipping lemonade while sitting on a porch swing, not a care in the world.

"You have no right!" Horace Blankenship cried, his eyes still held skyward. Cooper didn't know if he was admonishing his attackers' brutality or his savior's lack of empathy. "Cartwright, you and your heathens are going to hell, God as my witness, you will burn for eternity in Satan's fire!"

The room was quiet for several seconds, all except for an occasional splatter of spit tobacco juice and quiet whimpers from the boy in the corner.

Cooper, still circling, a fly caught in the tow of an autumn breeze, shifted about the room. He saw Parkins's bald spot, Cartwright's tight-lipped grin, the machete, the fire axe, the guns, Eunice's blood swirling on the floor as he moved, everyone ready for an escalation of violence if given cause. Cartwright placed a hand on Parkins's shoulder. The southerner backed away to stand with the others. Cartwright leaned over to whisper something into the reverend's ear.

The old man shook his head emphatically. "No. No, I can't do that."

Cartwright looked at his men, shook his head. He waved for the axe-wielder. "Scully, get what we need from him. Make it quick. Trail's going cold."

Blankenship didn't flinch, nor did he look to confront his interrogator. His lips trembled in prayer, spittle gathering on his lip.

The axe swayed low to the ground as he sized up the reverend, choosing a choice spot for his strike. The swaying increased, building momentum. Choosing Blankenship's left foot, he stomped on his ankle, holding the limb steady.

The air stilled with anticipation. Cooper's swirling stopped. He couldn't catch his breath; it built in his chest as a molten pain. Before the axe could sever the reverend's foot, a slight sound broke the loaded silence: a glass jar's hollow ping as it toppled over.

Cartwright's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Hold on, Scully. I think we've found our quarry!"

A forced quiet filled the room. The throb of blood rushed through temples. Adrenaline quivered muscles. Then they heard it. They all heard it. A scurrying sound, like animals of the night cowering through shadows and afterthoughts. Even Blankenship stopped his babbled prayer and looked at the wall with the hidden panel. He started crying afresh.

Leo Borland raised his weapon, finger twitching to pull the trigger. "They're in the wall!"

"Hold on." Cartwright grinned wide enough that the parting of his sun-weathered lips revealed straight, white teeth. "Scully, why don't you have the honors."

The axe-wielder sprang forward, the others clearing a path. He threw the axe back in a half swing and sent it crashing against the hidden panel. The wooden plank disintegrated. He went to his knees, shoved aside the debris.

"It's a damn tunnel," Parkins said, astonished. "You get after 'em before you lose them darkies again."

"They're your niggers, so that means you're coming with, Parkins," Cartwright said.

They passed a lit lantern to Leo Borland, and he and his long-barrel shotgun leapt for the hole in the wall. He almost immediately pulled out. "That was a piss jar they got back here. Aw, the fuckin' thing tipped over, now I got nigger piss all over my britches."

The riders laughed. "Leo, get your ass back in there," Cartwright said. The triplet spat, scrunched up his face, then disappeared. Without another word from Cartwright, another Borland brother fell to his knees to take up the pursuit.

"What about this piece of shit?" Scully asked, grabbing Blankenship's sleeve.

"Chop him like kindling," Cartwright said, then turned to his son. "Jasper? Son, you coming?"

Scully's axe left the toe-head boy transfixed but wary, as if the iron head was a living and temperamental thing. Cooper wanted to call out to him, or to at least shield him from this horror, but was helpless to do anything but hover.

"Jasper, you come along. You don't want to see this."

The boy scurried down into the darkness. Cartwright nodded to Scully, then grabbed Joss Parkins by the collar, not at all as would be expected of a hired man with his boss. Parkins tried to pry free, but was too weak in comparison. He gave up, stooped over, climbed into the opening, his disgust at crawling through a piss puddle expressed as a whiny, petulant sigh.

Cartwright entered, his hulking form blotting out the lamp light as their group advanced. The room filled with murk and shadow, the stench of piss and fear.

Blankenship closed his eyes, his lips moving through the desperate throes of a final prayer. If God ever heard him, Cooper would never know.

Scully crossed himself, then spit into his palms and rubbed them together. He took up his weapon and brought the honed edge down at the reverend's shoulder, his thrust held in check by his desire for accuracy. The axe still easily split flesh and bone.

Blankenship's eyes shot open.

Scully stomped a boot against his chest, pulled the axe free, striking again quickly, this time more assuredly, severing the man's arm. The limb thumped to the ground. Arterial blood sprayed from the reverend like a gushing garden hose.

Scully moved faster than the reverend could react. Horace Blankenship's words were done. He would never utter another prayer, wouldn't have the chance to start pleading for his life. Scully launched his weapon straightaway at the reverend's neck, full force, a wickedly wild swing more apt to clear a century's old oak. The axe cleaved cleanly; the reverend's head cartwheeled, hit a wall, came to rest near his wife's body.

Scully waited for Blankenship's body to slump to the floor--a long five seconds--before jumping into the hidden tunnel, his maniacal laughter echoing, chasing him into the chasm.

Alone with the reek of death wafting to the basement rafters, something tugged at Cooper's chest, at the root of his soul. A physical wrenching of his body from his ethereal drift. Scully's laughter simmered from the tunnel's opening. Cooper whirled toward the sound like a dropped leaf being sucked by the wind, unable to stop his descent as he flew into the pitch-black tunnel. Once therein, he learned everything.

 

 

3.

Ignorance was his first key to success as a lawman. Turning a blind eye fortified his position, allowed him to command the respect of those more ignorant than himself (which was most of the town as far as he could tell), allowed him to rise from the glum squalor of his upbringing, allowed him to have gainful employment when so many good men had no chance for the same.

Yet he couldn't go on lying. Not any more. He was done doing Thompson's bidding, and through extension, whatever dark force commanded Coal Hollow's doctor.

Sheriff Bergman was done with Coal Hollow when he spoke Thompson's words--his outright lies--to Jane Fowler. No, her son wasn't in Peoria, wasn't signed up for the army, or hadn't, for crying out loud, joined a traveling circus. Bergman wasn't even sure if Jimmy Fowler was still alive. If he was, the sheriff had a pretty good idea where he was being holed up, and if he was there, then he might as well be dead.

So, folks respected Doc Thompson, so what. So what if the doctor got Bergman elected a decade ago by his simple endorsement. So God damn what. He was no God. Coal Hollow was godless. Ignorance couldn't keep a person from that unpleasant knowledge. In a town struggling to survive, godlessness and ignorance went hand in hand. He was done with both.

He gassed his Plymouth around a bend just north of town. He was planning on heading north as fast as he could, putting as much ground as possible between himself and Coal Hollow. He had no intended destination, only a desire to get away. He humored himself by thinking he was heading to his cousin Tilley's house in Fargo. But that was just a direction to follow. He couldn't think so far ahead as to know where this would end.

How far does their influence reach?

Chicago, Milwaukee, Fargo? Could they send their shambling, rotting agents a thousand miles to slit his throat?

Dawn warmed the horizon. People were rising to milk and feed their animals. No one would know that he'd quit this town. No one would've seen his hastily written letter explaining a family emergency in St. Louis that needed his attention.

The Plymouth followed the road's bend to the long straightaway knifing northward.

Movement near the road's edge drew his bleary vision.

Deer. He slammed the brakes, the car's semi-balds sliding through loose gravel.

No. Not a deer, he realized, losing control of the car. "No!"

The old man stood stark still in the middle of the road. The last thing Bergman noticed before the impact was the wide grin on Jasper Cartwright's face.

The car crushed into his hip. The impact sent him airborne, flying backward away from the road, limbs trailing his torso as if he were being yanked by a rope tied about his waistline. He landed in a wall of thorny bushes, snapping branches, rattling leaves free to blanket the ground.

"Shit." Bergman punched the steering wheel hard enough that a bone broke near his wrist. The car's engine died, flooded. Pain grated the nerves in his broken hand like a coarse file working a suppurating wound.

"Shit-shit-SHIT!"

The sheriff shifted the dead car into park, opened the door and made his way to the wall of bushes, cradling his hand against his chest.

Jasper was hidden fairly well. It was only his liquid-wheezing breath that revealed his position.

He was in obvious pain, but as Bergman stooped to his side, the old man began to laugh. The jerking movement must have thrown his body through an incredible agony, but he couldn't help himself.

The poor man must be in shock.

He lifted Jasper's head after he started gagging on his own spit. "Jasper, what were you doing? Wait, don't move. We gotta get you help. What were you doing in the middle of the road so damn early in the morning?" Bergman rattled on, afraid to acknowledge to himself that his opportunity for escaping Coal Hollow had just come and gone.

Jasper blinked rapidly. Gathering his strength, he said, "They were coming for me. I heard 'em."

"Who? Who was coming for you, Jasper?" He didn't know if he should trust the old man's words. He could be delusional, raving as his mind tried to flee the painful ruins of his body.

"Collec-collectors. I heard them. From my room at the Calder place."

Bergman knew about the Collectors. They were some kind of miners' mythology that would've faded away but for the perpetuation of Greta Hildaberg's stories.

"It's okay, Jasper. No one's coming for you. No one but Dr. Thompson, that is."

Jasper's breath came in fitful spasms, a panting that punctured his words. "I'm… I'm dying. It's my… m-my time."

Bergman said the softest words to come to mind, "I'm sorry I didn't see you." What he wanted to say was a lot harsher. Words that would, in the end, forcibly reveal the real reason the old man had been in the road. He held back out of respect for the old man.

"No. Understand me." Jasper reached out and grasped Bergman's arm near his broken wrist. The sheriff gasped at the pain, wanted to strike out at him, but instead, he unhinged Jasper's fingers, placing them on his other wrist, then patted his hand. "It's my time, but the Collectors wouldn't let it be. They were coming. I-I-I heard them."

"No one's coming for you," Bergman repeated.

"I wouldn't let them take me."

"What are you talking about?" He wondered if he was just wasting time, questioning a raving man on the verge of death. Because that's what he was, right? A dying man? A man he will have killed, inadvertently, sure, but killed just the same. A thick white bone protruded through the fabric near Jasper's belt buckle. The cradle of his hip or upper thigh bone--the wound was too mangled to distinguish. Blood sopped his pants and was creeping up his cotton shirt. But the flow was slowing. His face was paling. There would be no time to reach Dr. Thompson. Even if he placed Jasper in the back seat of his Plymouth, Jasper was a dead man breathing.

Jasper's breath came as shallow pants punctuated by pain that even shock couldn't dull.

"I worked there three summers."

Bergman decided he would make Jasper as comfortable as possible in his final moments. He tried to pry some of the wiry thorns from his skin, but they were dug in, not ready to let go. He lifted Jasper's head and placed it at the crook of his elbow, trying to ease the old man's pain, knowing it was an impossibility.

"Three summers toiling gets you eternal damnation. I was just a kid. So long ago."

Bergman nodded, not understanding his words, but willing to listen to his final testament.

"I wanted him to come to me when I was down there in the mines, but he never did. He… he would never leave that place, his people. And I could never return. Not after what I saw down there when I was a boy. But I'd worked three summers in the mines and the Collectors were coming to take me to that place. I-I-I never could bring myself to go to the Underground. Not even with my family there."

Bergman understood. Even his ignorance couldn't prevent his understanding. After all, he did grow up in Coal Hollow.

Waves of pain choked off Jasper's words. His panting breath became dry heaves. "Th-tha-thank you."

Jasper Cartwright breathed his last breath, smiled, then was dead. The old man felt weightier in his arms than he should. Bergman saw the gore on his own clothes and felt sick to his stomach. Could he drive Jasper's body to town? Could he explain his roaming north of Coal Hollow, riding the quitters' road out of this place?

The truth was, he couldn't. They would know, even if they had to prize the information from him, they would know.

Sheriff Bergman took some of the broken branches, placed them over Jasper's body.

Such a nice man. He deserves better.

He covered Jasper's unseeing eyes. He considered fetching the shovel he kept in the car's trunk for snowy days. At least bury him.

No. He did this to himself. He wanted to end his life before the Collectors could take him. Let him rot in the open air. Not down below.

His decisiveness wavered, but if Jasper Cartwright could make such a grim final decision, so could he. He stepped back to check his handiwork, inspecting the bush from different angles. He saw no trace of a body. That should last a full day, long enough for him to get beyond their reach.

Keeping an eye on Jasper's resting place, Bergman backed all the way to his car. He couldn't be happier when the Plymouth grumbled to life on the first try.

Are they real? His wrist throbbed as he pulled the car straight, once again heading north. Do they really take dying miners moments before death?

At first cautious, he put steady miles behind him. With untold stretches waiting, he accelerated. Road dust plumed from the tires, obscuring what remained behind. Speed blurred the vibrant green leaves skirting the road into a living wall, intermittent tree trunks and pockets of earthen farm fields the only indication he actually moved.

 

 

4.

At dawn, Jacob's mom roused him from a deep sleep, her smile too wide, too forced.

"Rise and shine, Jacob! Come get something to eat."

The morning air was damp and cool as he took his seat at the breakfast table. His mom brought out glasses and a milk pitcher, then placed a rasher of sizzling bacon on each plate already loaded with biscuits and scrambled eggs. She practically danced as she moved.

She was acting as if nothing happened yesterday. She hadn't slapped him in anger for leaving the house without permission. They hadn't buried Ellie's brother. Greta hadn't told them that Jimmy was alive and held against his will. None of this could have occurred by judging her chipper mood. It was as if she wanted today to be like any other day. But it wasn't. After yesterday, their lives would never be the same.

The addition of the confounding news passed on by Sheriff Bergman only complicated matters. It had to be a lie. Either Bergman had lied, or Greta didn't know what she was talking about. Jacob had put too much faith into Greta's words over the years to doubt her. So the onus was all on Bergman. Most times Bergman was lucky to show up in town with his shirt pressed and his face clean of crumbs, but you could always count on him to tell you the truth. Not anymore. Any stock the sheriff once had, Jacob now deemed worthless. Jimmy wasn't off in Peoria, preparing for wherever new soldiers went. Greta's words had only confirmed their conclusions.

Ellie sat across the table from him. They exchanged a questioning look before her eyes moved to a fourth place setting Jacob had yet to notice. About to ask who would be joining them for breakfast, Louise Bradshaw came out from his mom's bedroom.

"With Louise getting far enough along, her parent's were finally getting suspicious. When she admitted it, let's just say they weren't as accepting as the Fowlers. She'll be staying with us for now on. It'll be a tight fit, and it'll be a snug winter with the baby arriving sometime around the first snow, but we always have room for family."

Louise walked from the bedroom to the table. She wore a long nightgown, and her hair was sleep-mussed. Holding a hand to her stomach, her face looked as white as bleached linen.

His mom placed a hand on her shoulder. "Feeling any better now?"

"Not at all. Thanks for the chamber pot, though. I'll clean it up later."

"What's wrong?" Ellie asked.

"Some women get sick when they're going to have a baby. It's natural. Almost everyone gets it."

Louise took her seat at the table. Her eyes widened at the sight of food. Bringing a hand to her mouth, she hurried away from the table and back to his mother's bedroom. A moment after she slammed the door, she heaved up whatever was in her stomach.

"If that's the way it is, then I'm never gonna have a baby." Ellie seemed appalled that women went through such travails.

Jacob's mom chuckled. "I was lucky. With you," she said looking at Jacob, "I never had a problem." He didn't want to hear any of this. Either about Louise and her sickness, or about when his own mom was expecting. It just wasn't natural. "Now, Jimmy, he was a whole other story. I was sick every morning for four months. Thinking back on it, it doesn't seem like much of a sacrifice, not for all the happiness he's brought me. At the time, it felt like an eternity."

"Mom, I'm trying to eat my breakfast."

"You are such a fussbucket. Fine, I'll reminisce later. When you two finish up, I want you to take a couple baskets down to the creek. Those peaches should be ripe about now. Make sure you check the ground, too. If any of them fell in the last day, they still might be good. There should be enough for some cobblers and jam."

"Sounds good," Ellie said.

"I remember, with Jimmy, I craved peach cobbler day and night. I'll make a batch with a crumb crust. I hope it settles things down a bit for poor Louise."

"Mom, speaking of Jimmy--"

"Oh, that boy… Reminds me, I'm going down to the post office today to see if he's sent us a letter yet." She sipped from her coffee mug, her eyes softening with whimsy. Jacob had been on the verge of bringing up Greta again but couldn't bear to. He didn't think he could convince her anyway.

"When you go out to the creek…" She paused until they both looked up from their plates. "Don't go venturing off where you shouldn't. We need to come together as a family. It's important now like never before. A baby's on the way. We need to mind the work around the farm and the household chores. Louise might not be much help with all that, but her job is to help that baby grow. Ellie, I want you to feel like you're a Fowler. You can stay as long as you want, and we'll treat you like family. But we also need you to work as hard as a Fowler, too.

"Jacob, you need to be the man of the family as long as Jimmy's away. We all need to work to keep this farm in order for when he comes home."

"Sure, Mom. We'll do what we can."

Ellie nodded agreement.

"Oh, and another thing, thanks for the flowers you picked. That was awful thoughtful of you two."

 

 

5.

Hours after his tumultuous nightmares began, a gentle breeze blew against Cooper's sweat-drenched skin, chilling him awake. He reluctantly opened his eyes, still tired from a short night's sleep and its accompanying onslaught of revelations.

His new house was the scene of a massacre.

The sun warmed the horizon as dawn lit the grimed front room windows. Sitting up, he stumbled to standing, shaking free from his tangle of blankets. He shook his head hard enough to loosen any cobwebs lurking as carryover from sleep. His cheeks flopped like those of a bloodhound. He then slapped himself hard across each cheek.

He felt finger welts rising in his beard stubble.

His mind reverted to the fact that a breeze had woken him.

A breeze.

Inside his home.

He walked along the long tongue-like carpet to the front door and jiggled the knob.

Nope. All locked here.

He did the same with the front windows, finding the same result.

All locked. All secure. No drafts strong enough to wake him could seep through the front of the house. Yet, cold still traced the skin of his neck. Like the memory of a touch. Pressure, cold and bracing.

He felt an inexplicable fear tugging at his nerves.

He listened to the house and heard nothing but the wind (from outside, where it belongs) slapping the side of the house. He felt no attenuating breeze (pressure, cold and bracing) against his skin. It had to have been the flightiness during his transition to waking. He could have carried something over from his dream.

Images hit him unprovoked and with frightening force.

Slaughter.

Rape.

Forced servitude.

He closed his eyes against their vileness, their suddenness, but the images lingered, flashes from his dreams.

Shrieks of agony.

The pleadings of a little boy.

The laughter of madmen.

He staggered to the back of the house, feeling faint, nauseated, torn between two realities. The psychic charge of the house assaulted him. The quiet solitude of his reality fought to stand next to the solid reality of the past. He reached for a wall to regain his balance. His hand landed against the framed daguerreotype of the Blankenships--young, devote, decades away from their senseless murders.

He straightened the photo, found some modicum of stability seeing their stolid faces. For a split second, the glass fronting the frame reflected the space behind Cooper. A space far from empty.

An ice cold breeze lapped at his cheek, and he realized it wasn't a breeze at all.

Pressure, cold and bracing.

When he turned, he was face to face with Eunice Blankenship.

"I-I'm so sorry," he said before he could think.

Her cold fingers left his cheek. Her facial features shifted with her movement: one moment a lithe young woman, the next, a haggard, toothless crone, her motions feeble with age.

You saw.

"Yes. I know everything."

Then you know.

"What do you mean?"

It's not over. We need your help. You need to finish what we couldn't.

 

 

6.

Picking fruit was a common chore for Jacob. If he wasn't picking peaches or strawberries or persimmons from his own property, he was off at neighbor farms picking fruit for three cents a bushel. As long as he could remember, his mom had taught him about the value of even a single penny. She would often say that if you gathered enough pennies and stacked them together, you could eventually stand atop your copper pile and reach out to touch the moon. He had taken on the habit of collecting his pennies and rushing home to stack them as high as he could. They never came close to reaching even a foot high before toppling. By the time he realized he would never build a tower high enough to allow him to touch the moon, he still enjoyed the sight of the copper pieces growing before him.

"She acts like she believes Sheriff Bergman." Ellie stood on a stool to reach the nearest branches.

The creek trickled ten feet from the last row of trees. The bent-grass trail left by his brother skirted the peach orchard. Jacob and his mom had followed it when they began their search, losing it soon after crossing the creek. The trail was gone now, fresher grass growing over his brother's footsteps.

"It's easier for her. There's no convincing her otherwise. It'll just start an argument. Once you start an argument with my mom, you might as well just admit you were wrong. She's stubborn."

"Sounds like someone else I know." Ellie picked an overripe peach and tossed it at him.

It splattered against his shirt, but he didn't do anything more than glower at Ellie's smiling face. "Well, even if she believed us, someone still has to pick these peaches before they rot. We need to build up our stores."

They filled the baskets to brimming, finding the fruit to be both bountiful and at the peak of ripeness. Before they started back, Jacob sized up the remaining fruit hanging from the trees. They could come back two more mornings and fill more baskets and still not get all of it.

"Ready?" He took one handle of Ellie's basket while she lifted the other. They would trek back to the house, then return for the other basket.

"Let's go."

They worked their way back to the house, Jacob slowing his pace to account for Ellie's shorter strides.

"I was wondering about Cooper," Jacob said, trailing off.

"I knew he had nothing to do with it from the moment I met him."

"I'm just not as trusting a person as you."

"I suppose."

"But still, if he had nothing to do with it, then he at least has something to do with finding Jimmy."

"What's cooking in your brain, Jacob?"

"I think I ought'a follow Cooper around, see if he knows more than he lets on."

"Your mom would pitch a fit if she knew you went off like that. Besides, Greta said he doesn't know anything."

"Maybe if I follow him around, I'll see something Cooper doesn't. Maybe I can help find out where my brother is before Cooper's supposed to."

"I don't know, Jacob. Greta would'a said you had something to do with finding Jimmy if you're supposed to."

They were silent as they closed in on the house. Jacob was trying to figure out how he could get away, at least for a little while, when Ellie dropped her basket handle without warning, spilling bruised fruit in a semi-circle.

"Ellie, why didn't you tell me you were going to drop it!"

Jacob glared at her, but she seemed unconcerned about the plight of the peaches. Her eyes were trained on the road, at a solitary figure walking toward the driveway.

"I… I think that's my dad."

 

 

7.

"Janie, you gotta believe me. I'm a changed man. I come for Elizabeth, now, and we ought to get home. We got work to do at the farm that ain't gonna get done on its own. Besides, we got fences between us need mending." Mr. Banyon had a fresh shave and wore a clean set of clothes, but his eyes were bleary red, as if he hadn't slept much lately. While always a thin man, he had a mangy, raw appearance. When he entered their house, Jacob had sniffed the air for any sign of alcohol. To his surprise, he didn't find the slightest trace.

Jacob looked from his mom to Mr. Banyon, then back again. Ellie peeked out from behind his mom as if she were a brick wall strong enough to turn away a tornado's wrath. His mom furrowed her brow, and she stared at Mr. Banyon, stared and didn't say a word for a long time.

Ellie's dad seemed to realize he still wore his hat. He took it off, pushed back his hair from his eyes and held the hat in front of him. His hands were shaking. He tried to hide it, but couldn't quite get a handle on it.

"I appreciate you looking after Elizabeth like you done. It was a kind and Christian thing for a neighbor to do, but we must be on. Come on Elizabeth," Banyon said, his voice strengthening. He extended his hand, trying to coax Ellie out from behind his mom. The girl didn't move.

"Your kind and Christian neighbors buried your son, and where were you?" Jacob said.

"Jacob, hush now."

"Janie, I can't explain how or why, but I seen the light. I know now how awful a father I been. I know this and I'm never going to walk that path again. I swear. I swear on Mabel's soul I ain't traveling that road again."

"When was your last drink, Charles? Is that why your hands are shaking? You need a drink? Want me to fix you a whiskey? Will that make everything better?"

"No more, Janie, I promise. I swear it."

"What happens when you can't stop the shaking, when your rage returns from deep inside and you need to let off steam? If you're not drinking, will Ellie take the brunt of your anger?"

"Three days, Janie, I'm sorry to say it's been three days since my last drink. God, I wish it could be ten years, or that I never took up the bottle in the first place. So much would be different. But I can't change any of that. It's all been lived. All that time is gone now. My wife is gone, my boy. All I got left is my Elizabeth standing there behind you. I need her, and I think she needs me, even though she's tough as shoe leather, that girl needs her Pa."

Mr. Banyon was weeping openly, tears falling freely down his cheeks. Jacob could see his mom's will bending. Her face softened, her eyes falling to Ellie. The girl looked so sad, as if she didn't ever want to leave. Maybe Jacob was reading his own feelings into her expression; he couldn't be sure either way.

"Elizabeth, girl, I'm sorry for letting you down." Banyon extended his hand to Ellie, and she took it cautiously, but didn't leave the security his mother provided. He hunched over until he stood eye to eye with her. "You've been so strong for so long. I promise you I won't let you down. I can't change what's past. All I can do is make sure it never happens. Tomorrow or ever again."

Banyon couldn't help it any longer. He covered his eyes with his still-shaking hands, blubbering like a child.

Jacob never thought he would see the day when Charles Banyon showed a hint of weakness, or even that he possessed the slightest bit of kindness within his soul. And here he was doing just that. He was feeling all emotional himself, as if he too would start crying. He bit his lip until the feeling subsided.

Ellie left his mother's side, and while small even for her nine years, her inner strength made her seem much older. She offered a quickly-fading smile, then once again took hold of her father's hand. Mr. Banyon hugged Ellie, hugged her as if she had just saved his life. The man sniffled away his tears and after wiping his cheeks with his shirtsleeve, seemed ready to get on with living.

"Thank you, Miss Fowler. Jacob, take care," Ellie said. She left the house, still holding her father's hand as if he were a child. Mr. Banyon didn't say another word, just followed Ellie as if she lent him the strength to take his next step.

"Are we just going to let her go with him?"

His mom closed the door, shutting out the afternoon heat. "I don't think we've got a choice. Charles has promised to dry out before, and has always ended up backsliding. With the dry laws, he sobered for a while. But temperance was never his strong suit. Not since Mabel died. A loss like that is hard to recover from. But somehow, looking into his eyes just now, I think I want to believe him."

"Mom, he won't ever change." Jacob could understand his mom's weakness for Charles Banyon. She of all people would understand the loss of a spouse. But how long could someone use an excuse? Can an excuse forgive being a sour spirited and altogether malicious person?

"I'll keep an eye on Ellie. We won't let him go bad on her. I won't let it happen."

His mom turned away from their discussion and parted the curtains of the front window. He joined her, watching Ellie and her dad walk home.

A door opened from one of the back bedrooms, and Louise walked out, her hand gingerly rubbing her stomach. Jacob gave her a glance, and when he looked back to the road, the Banyons had gone around the bend beyond their driveway, out of sight.

"I never felt so miserable in all my life," Louise said. When they didn't respond, she came closer, speaking up, "Where's Ellie?"

 

 

8.

Ethan Cartwright never aged, never felt the erosive power of the passing years. He wore his purple scar proudly, the lone physical imperfection the Underground had failed to remedy. It was a sigil representing his strength, his ability to outlive a wound that would surely kill most men. But, like all the others living here, the Underground's curative powers never reached his mind. There, in a mire of hatred, paranoia and egomaniacal self-reverence, his dreams ran rampant, inflicting damage that could never heal. And there, in his dreams, he saw one night played out methodically, one second after another unchanged from the night of its tolling. One night unembellished, a night of his reckoning, a night that informed his every waking thought.

Ethan woke with a start, the image of blood splashed across his son's cheek stained into his wakened vision. He pushed the blanket away and ran his fingers over his sweat-soaked chest. His scar burned. His fingers lingered there, as if they could smooth away the damage.

He blinked in the trembling candlelight. The image wouldn't leave him:

Jasper's cheek streaked with blood from his jaw to the fine blond hair over his ear, his eyes filled with sheer terror. Of all the details of that night, he could never remember whose blood tainted the pure white surface of his son's skin. It could've been any of the runaways. They'd all bled plenty. Or it could've been Joss Parkins, the slaves' owner. It could've been his own.

Ethan had been wounded deeply across the meat of his forearm, hacked straight to the bone. The younger runaway, Benjamin, had gotten hold of Vic's machete, and empowered and desperate, wildly swung the weapon. The first strike cut into his master's shoulder, the next struck Ethan's arm. Sinking to his knees while cradling his arm, Ethan's vision found Jasper. The boy, blood-splashed and unhinged, was cowering away, cowering not just from the rampaging runaway, but his own father, too.

"Ethan?" Thea touched his shoulder, and he was fully awake. "You can talk to me. Tell me what happened."

A minute lapsed. He finally turned to look into her eyes, but she didn't look away, even though she was obviously frightened.

He'd never spoken about that night, not even upon reflection with Arthur Scully, but now he found himself opening up. "We didn't know what would happen. After everything that happened, every one of us was exhausted and bleeding badly. We didn't go to the surface, not right away. We were too weak. Too ashamed of nearly losing everything to three slaves, a group including a skinny girl and old man. We learned enough the following morning, when we dragged Parkins to the surface. We'd thought he'd died, everyone did. How can you not die when your head's nearly cut off? But then, as we moved through the tunnels, he started moving. Turns out he did die, just not forever."

Ethan paused, seeing the scene plain as day. The details never eroded.

"It's okay. It's over."

"But it's not. Jasper's dying."

He saw in her eyes that she didn't know what to say. But she brought him to her, pressing his cheek against her chest. She ran her fingers through his hair.

He continued: "Parkins had died, sure enough, but he was rising. We thought we should get him to daylight, see if we might find a doctor for him. How else would we get the second half of our payment if he was dead? When we got to the surface, the sunlight seemed to melt his skin. He rotted before our eyes. We didn't know what to do. When he collapsed in front of us, dead now for sure, we went back below ground."

"That's when you saw the slaves?"

"We'd killed them. I saw it with my own eyes. Their blood was dry under my nails. I could smell it in my nostrils. But when we got back to where we'd left them, all we found were blood trails leading deeper into the ground."

"And you followed?"

"Of course. We'd never let a slave escape our bonds. We weren't about to start. We found them soon enough. Never let them out of sight after that." He pulled away from her, turning his back to her. He thought she might come to him again, but she didn't. For some reason this made him respect her more than he already did. "My mother lived less than a hundred miles from here. I moved her in town to watch after Jasper while we organized things Underground. Thea, he's gonna die. It's certain. I haven't seen him in so long."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's fine. I sent for him."

There was a knock on his door. Before he could reach the door, it opened.

He was angered over the intrusion until he saw the look on Leo Borland's face.

"What is it?"

"He's gone, Ethan. We were too late."

"What do you mean? He already… he was already…"

"No. He's alive, well, as far as I know. But he left this." Leo handed Ethan a small scrap of paper.

It contained three small words written in an arthritic script: You're too late.

Ethan tore the paper and fed it to a candle's flame. "It's over…" He turned away from Leo and Thea. He paced the room several times, then squared his shoulders and faced Leo. "Get your brothers, Scully, and three other trusted men. When you see Scully, tell him we're gonna move on that list we put together."

Leo didn't say he knew about the list, but his wide grin spoke more than words.

 

 

9.

Jimmy woke from a terrible dream. Woke from one nightmare right into another. He was trapped forever, a prisoner in his own town.

His dreams were getting worse, and the horrible details lingered longer after waking. In his dreams, Louise was on the verge of losing her balance at the edge of a cliff. She'd reach for him, her fingers grasping the air, and then gravity would take her, pulling her away from him. Her frightened eyes never wavered as she fell. Her screams, so heartrending, breaking apart, resounding, reforming until the wail was that of a colicky baby.

He blinked in the darkness, cold sweat slicking his face, his back. He thought he would be sick. Flat on his stomach against the cavern floor, the world spinning beneath him, bile seeped into the back of his throat, gagging him. She needed him. Louise needed him and he would do whatever it took to see her again.

But if he went to her now, she would be frightened of him, even more frightened than what his nightmares could articulate. If he could ever escape this hell, his flesh would quickly decay. Harold had told him the gruesome repercussions for leaving the confines of the Underground. The old Negro believed that God had seen such horrible sights in these caves that He had turned a blind eye on this little section of the world. Once He had made His decision, time dwelled on the second He left. Jimmy didn't know if he believed Harold. Jimmy wasn't raised religious, but there had to be some explanation.

"You had that nasty dream again, Mr. Jimmy?"

He didn't say anything to Harold. Didn't even acknowledge him. Since he learned he could never leave the Underground, Jimmy's thoughts had turned increasingly inward in an ever-tightening, darkening spiral. He no longer feared a beating from his captors, no longer feared the most agonizing pain. For the first time in his life--a life pursuing exhilaration and feats of daring--Jimmy no longer valued his own life.

It made him think about how he had once fallen two stories from the roof of Magee's Barbershop after attempting to walk the precarious edge from one side to the other. A crowd had formed at street level, gasping at his nerve. As soon as he lost his balance on the crumbling brick, the sighs turned to sharp shrieks. He remembered thinking as he plummeted that the onlookers were so full of fear, even though he was the one falling to the hard-packed ground below. Once his mom knew he would be fine after his broken ankle healed, she tore in to him like she had never before or ever since. Inside Dr. Thompson's office, she had cried over Jimmy's battered body, alternating between tears and rage. She pleaded with him, demanding to know why he wanted to die so much, why he couldn't value the life she had given him.

He remembered her reaction to his response more so than her words. She was appalled by his lack of remorse, shocked by his indifference, yet all he'd said was that he did value his life, and that was his reason for doing the things he did. He had told her that nothing made you value life more than risking it. She had stormed from Thompson's office, murmuring about how he was just like his father. It seemed like that was her response to everything he did, everything he said.

"You can't just let time slip away, let your dark thoughts consume you, Mr. Jimmy."

"Darkness. That's all that's left, Harold."

"Memories, they're gifts. Even with no other hope, if you keep your dearest memories to think back on, well, you're better than dead. Ain't nobody, not Arthur Scully, or the Borland's, or Ethan Cartwright his ownself can take them memories away."

"Memories fade, you've said so yourself."

"Time drags, sure, dulls details, but--"

"Shut up, Harold. I don't want to hear it," Jimmy snapped, cutting off Harold's words. "Leave me alone."

Harold didn't respond. Though their corner of the old stables was completely dark, he could clearly hear Harold scurry along the floor until he was close enough that Jimmy thought the Negro would attack him.

Let him come at me, Jimmy thought. I don't care.

Harold fumbled his fingers along Jimmy's arm until he reached his hand. He pried open his fingers and placed something in his palm. Without a word or explanation, Harold went back to his resting spot and settled in. It was a while before Jimmy considered the blunt shape in his palm. He turned it over with his fingers. It was a coarse metal file no longer than his ring finger. Harold had given him a tool for escape, and also the briefest glimmer of hope.

 

 

10.

Breaking up the bunch beans was women's work, and Jacob was at the kitchen table doing just that. With a basket of beans at his feet, he was slicing with a paring knife against a cutting board to break the beans. In Jacob's opinion, cooking was and always would be women's work. He scowled under his breath as he reached for the basket and collected another fistful of beans.

After working nonstop from sunup to sunset yesterday, his mom was off to Calder's for kitchen staples. Before she left, she declared through a stifled yawn that she would catch up on some shuteye just as soon as she returned. Louise was outside chatting away with her friend Mary, ducking the cooking duties with the excuse that she needed to finish a needlepoint doily thingamabob before the baby arrived. They sat on a wooden bench in the shade of the house just outside the kitchen, doing their needlepoints. The shade was ten degrees cooler than inside the house, and as they sipped lemonade, they buzzed about their gossip like flies in a pigpen.

With Ellie gone, and the other women occupied, breaking the beans and other unseemly chores fell on him. Before turning in last night, Jacob and his mom went over to the Banyon place to drop off Ellie's clothes. Of course it had been just an excuse to make sure Ellie was okay and to see for themselves if Mr. Banyon's sobriety had lasted another night. Much to their surprise, the Banyon place looked like a different house when they walked in. The floors and walls were clean. There weren't any dirty dishes piled up. Mr. Banyon was sober, but still shaky and bleary eyed. Ellie looked at peace being at home. She'd even laughed when her dad pretended to steal her nose between his middle and index fingers. She was too old for such humor, but any humor shared between them seemed like the healing kind. Still, Jacob didn't trust him. Jacob wouldn't admit it aloud to anyone, but he sure missed that girl. Even though things had seemed to be fine last night, he'd promised himself to stop in now and again to keep an eye on things.

It wasn't long before the gusting wind died outside and he could hear the girls' conversation through the open kitchen window. "I think she might'a fallen off her rocker. She doesn't seem to have a care in the world." It was Louise speaking. Jacob got up from his chair and crept closer to the window. He couldn't wait to find out who was off their rocker. "I know if it was my son," Louise said, pausing, "Or my daughter that'd gone missing, I'd be a little more concerned than she's showing."

Anger welled inside Jacob. He was about to rush outside to confront Louise, when Mary broke in, "But you all know he enlisted. He told you he was leaving, and then word came up from Peoria."

"I know. I'm glad he's safe, even though I'm mad as heck with him. But Lord knows I couldn't raise a baby on my own. With him taking off'n my family turning their back on me, I just can't help feeling, I don't know, insulted? offended? that no one gives a darn. As soon as I found out Jimmy was okay, oh I knew I could forgive him when he comes home. I can't wait to kiss him again. If I close my eyes, I can imagine his lips on mine. Then I can't help feeling that… that swooning feeling."

"It has to be love," Mary said, and they laughed in their chatty way. Their laughter quieted down, replaced by the sound of needles puncturing fabric and threads pulled through chintzy mosaics.

"So, are you settled in?"

"Jane gave me her room, which was nice of her, even though I feel bad with her sleeping on the sofa. I'll be here until Jimmy gets home, whenever that is, and then we'll get a place of our own. Just the three of us," she said happily. "I know the house looks small, and compared to my parents' house, it's about the size of a tool shed, but I'm welcome here, and that's all that matters. They care for me. Me and the baby. Now, if I could just shake off this nausea."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"No, it just comes and goes. Right now, it's none too bad. Doc Thompson told me I'd just have to tough it out. He's probably just punishing me for not seeing him sooner."

"It's good he saw you."

"I know. It just makes it all too real. And a Halloween baby, to boot. It is real, isn't it?"

A contemplative silence seemed to end their conversing. Jacob went back to the table to finish the beans.

"What about Jacob, how's he been?" Mary asked.

Jacob's ear perked up again at hearing his name.

"Oh, he's a bit of a devil." Jacob came close to speaking out, but bit his tongue. "Even so, I've never had a little brother. I guess how he acts is normal."

"Sounds like a little brother to me."

"You should know, with what four now?"

They both laughed again. "Well, I think he's cute. Doesn't he have the nicest brown hair?" Mary said distantly.

"Who?"

"Well, Jacob Fowler, of course."

Jacob's face felt hot, full of fire. His pulse raced; he couldn't believe his ears. Sitting back at the kitchen table, he fidgeted with the bunch beans, already done with the pile. For some reason, he wanted to appear busy. He couldn't remember a time when he felt so embarrassed with no one else in the room.

It seemed like the girls had forgotten about discretion as the volume of their conversation increased. He could hear their conversation all the way over by the kitchen table.

"Mary, he's what, two years younger than you?"

"I know, but two years from now he won't even give me the time of day. He'll be courting girls who bat their eyelashes just so and wear the nicest clothes, and talk eloquent like."

He edged to the corner of his chair, just far enough to catch a glimpse of Mary's blonde hair through the window. It was curly, a bit too long to be stylish, but still nice. He wanted her to stand up, so he could see how tall she was. Even if she liked him, he didn't think he could ever drum up the nerve to talk to her if she were taller than him.

If Jimmy was here, he'd know what to do.

He didn't know if he liked Mary. He'd never thought about her in that way. She was just Louise's mousy friend who hovered around demurely asking Jacob what he was up to. Thinking back on it, she'd been giving off signals since visiting the day of Louise's arrival. This whole time he thought she'd just been acting polite.

The pickup truck chewed at the driveway, tearing away his attention. It was his mom, fresh home from Calder's. He gathered up the bean scraps, clearing the table clean. When she came through the door, she immediately saw his look of guilt.

"What now?" She handed him a crate of canned goods.

"Nothing. Just finished up the beans like you asked." He took the crate to a counter and began unloading it.

"You sure nothing's wrong?"

"Everything's fine. How was the market?" he asked, trying to distract her.

"Got everything on my list. When you're done there, can you get the ice from the truck?"

"In a jiffy," Jacob said, heading for the front door.

A peal of laughter came from outside. Jacob looked over his shoulder cautiously, as if someone had told him to turn around with his hands up or he was going to get it.

From the look on her face, she suspected the reason for his harried expression. She held up an authoritative hand. "Jacob, wait a minute."

He rolled his eyes impatiently, but didn't leave.

"So, how do I let him know I like him?"

"Oh, Mary, there's ways of letting him know without letting him know you're letting him know."

Once again, the girls laughed. He wondered if their neighbors could plainly hear the conversation with them being so loud. His embarrassment would kill him if he didn't leave the house right away. His mom smiled at him. His cheeks burned hotter, the blush spreading like wildfire down his neck. Before his mom could say anything, he hastened out the door to fetch the ice from the truck bed.

Every day that passed without Jimmy's return, Jacob learned new ways to miss him.

 

 

11.

After carrying the ice block inside and unwrapping it from the straw-packed butcher paper, Jacob hefted it into the icebox. His rushing adrenaline made it seem half as heavy--the only consolation coming from his earlier humiliation. They would chip off pieces from the block as needed, for iced tea or lemonade, but otherwise, the ice would cool anything perishable inside the icebox for four or five days. Some families were having such a hard time getting by that they had to eliminate ice from their market order. Instead of keeping an icebox, they would store perishables in their well bucket, lowering it to the water's cool surface. His mom insisted on having ice, even if at times it seemed like an unnecessary indulgence.

Jacob removed the drain pan from the bottom of the icebox, dumping the cool water into a tub for washing the night's supper dishes. His mom would be on him if he didn't drain the melt water and it ended up overflowing. Jimmy used to perform this task, and like every other Jimmy chore, it had fallen on Jacob to take up the slack.

His mom hadn't said a word about overhearing the girls' chatter, for which he was grateful. She was scribbling away on a writing tablet when he finished with the ice. He gathered up the bean stems from the kitchen table to toss on the mulch pile his mom used to fertilize her expansive garden. Nothing in their house went to waste.

"Jacob? Got a second?"

"Sure." He left the bean scraps where they were. He wanted to get away from the house, putting distance between him and Mary, and the paralyzing thought of seeing her face to face.

"Sit down, please." She slid the writing tablet across the table. Scribbled in her stiff-angled script was a list of names.

"I was hoping you could do me a favor. I think it's high time we pulled out of our doldrums. We should always be sad over George's passing, but Jimmy is fine. In his own convoluted way, he's trying to make a man of himself by enlisting. If he's a man, then we should respect his wishes, even if we don't necessarily agree with them. We need to stop lurking about the house like we're in mourning." She played with the nub of pencil in her hand, as if deciding if she should follow through with what she wanted to say.

With the enthusiasm in which his mom had embraced Jimmy's supposed enlistment, Jacob had almost convinced himself of it as well. Thinking that way was easier, but deep inside he knew it wasn't true. Every day that went by with no letter from Jimmy, the harder it would be for his mom to believe. But as long as she believed, Jacob could pretend to believe also.

"What's the list for?" Jacob asked when she hadn't said anything for a while.

"It's an invite list. I've been thinking we should have a good, old fashioned potluck."

"A potluck? Here?" It was the last thing he expected his mom to say. He could scarcely recall more than a handful of times when they had invited anyone over. Their family was forever accepting invites to get-togethers, but his mom had always kept their home private. Whoever came to the house was considered family and in select company.

"I wish I'd been more open with our friends after your father died. I suppose I was too cautious. As the years went by, some of the townsfolk looked down on me for not remarrying. So I cut away from them even more. They couldn't understand a widow trying to raise two young sons on her own. But I've done it, and for the most part I think I've done a fine job.

"Louise can't raise her baby like that, it's too hard. For me, it was easier to close everyone out instead of risking one more person hurting me. Louise isn't like that. You know yourself, Louise needs her friends. She would just about crumble if she was alone."

"And the list?"

"I need you to invite everyone on that list to the Saturday afternoon potluck."

"I can take the truck?" he asked, trying not to get his hopes up.

"I suppose I'll have to allow it. If you walked, the potluck would've come and gone by the time you finished."

Her words freed him from invisible bonds. Except for the one trip to the Banyon house, he hadn't left the property since his reprimand for going out to Greta's house. He wanted to hug her, but instead took the list and quickly glanced at it. "I'll get on this right away. My chores are done. I weeded the garden, milked Polly, and mended the chicken coop."

Before she could change her mind, he was out the door and in the truck. It roared to life when he turned the ignition. He had to use all of his will power to not stomp on the gas and shoot gravel across the yard from all of his excitement.

The Fowlers were listed first. Initially, Jacob wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of hosting a potluck, but after thinking about it, he understood his mom wanted to accomplish more than just surround Louise with an understanding public. She didn't need to explain her logic; it was as clear to him as if he read it in a book. Have a get together. Invite Charles Banyon into a comfortable situation. See how he's handling being sober when the others would be drinking. It was almost as if she were offering Banyon a way out. If he screwed up, then Ellie could stay at their house while he stumbled home. Or, if for some reason he didn't louse it up, the neighbors could embrace him, embrace him how Louise would be embraced. Jacob wondered if he sometimes underestimated his mother.

Kicking up dust, getting away from the house for the first time in days, escaping Louise's constant updates about her never-ending nausea, he couldn't remember a time when he felt freer.

His thoughts still often centered on Jimmy, but as long as he had Greta's promise that he wanted more than anything to come home, he'd have to take her word for it, and wait for the day when he'd once again see his brother. He had never doubted Greta's word; she had never been proven a liar by anyone. But the truth was, he had little else to cling to at this point. He couldn't just go on make believing like his mom.

His mother had been hovering over him like a hawk since he'd returned from Greta' tree house, so he hadn't had a chance to follow Cooper. He thought about pitching the list out the window and heading straight for his house, but as he scanned the names while maneuvering the truck around a bend in the road, Cooper's name appeared at the bottom, just below a cross-out of his name.

So his mom had written down Cooper's name, thought better of it, then second guessed herself and added his name again. He'd be heading out to Cooper's house eventually, but since Jacob was closer to the Banyon place, it might be best to attack the list as efficiently as possible. He didn't want to risk angering his mother, not when she seemed in a better mood lately.

He pulled into the Banyon's long driveway. Coming to a stop in front of their house, he feared his suspicions of Mr. Banyon had come true. The man was tilted back in a rocker on the front porch. His arms hung askew to the sides of the arm rests, as if he weren't aware enough to move them back into a more comfortable position. He couldn't see the man's eyes--his head was tipped back too far--but he assumed they were closed.

The truck brakes needed fixing and screeched when he stopped. Mr. Banyon didn't stir.

Jacob hopped down from the truck and approached the porch. When he was standing three feet from Ellie's dad, he still couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. He couldn't smell alcohol in the air, but that didn't mean Mr. Banyon hadn't slumped in the rocker to pass out. He hoped all he'd done was pass out.

Keeping an eye on Mr. Banyon, Jacob knocked on the front door, the pressure of his knuckles on the weatherworn wood pushing it open on its rusty hinge. With his heart stirring mightily in his chest, Jacob expected to see some kind of upheaval inside. Gouts of blood sprayed across the walls. Ellie's body face down in a twisted heap.

The room unfolded in layers, leaving an entirely different, but still quite unexpected, impression.

At first, all he saw was wood. All hues of earth tones, from white pine to rustic mahogany, in all textures and shapes. Then he noticed the menacing-looking tools spread across any available open space: sharp-pointed awls, ragged-toothed saws. Tools to gouge with, rend apart, hollow out.

And the smell. Overpowering. Vaporous. biting.

He stepped back from the open door, catching his breath.

He heard a creaking board from behind him and spun around.

"You just walk in to any old house you choose?" Mr. Banyon's voice was sarcastic instead of biting. He sat up in the rocker, stretched his hands above his head and couldn't quite stifle a whine that could have been his muscles screaming awake. "Yeah, this one passes the mustard if I do say so myself."

"You're back to making furniture?" Jacob asked, halfway ashamed for the fear he'd felt. The other half of him still stood on suspicious feet.

"Sure am. Just taking a break when you pulled up. Testing out this new rocker, why, it put me out cold in five minutes." Mr. Banyon stood and stretched his back. He didn't look as shaky as when Jacob and his mom dropped off Ellie's clothes. His eyes were clear, even though he had just woken up. "I'm hungry, boy. Want something to eat?"

Mr. Banyon walked inside, leaving Jacob to contemplate alone on the porch. He hadn't seen Ellie yet, so he kept his guard up.

He remembered the reason for his visit and his mom's invitation list. He followed after Mr. Banyon, and when he could focus on something other than the clutter of furniture making, Mr. Banyon stood in the corner kitchen, cutting slices of bread for a sandwich. "Didn't know a boy your age should drive. Your mom know you're out driving?"

"She's the one sent me out this way."

"That so?"

Jacob didn't respond. Mr. Banyon finished making his peanut butter sandwich, and then consumed it in less time than it took to make. "I better make another. You sure you don't want any? Well fine, that's just more for me. I tell you, I haven't eaten this much since I was your age. Drying out gives a man his hunger back."

"Mr. Banyon?"

"Yes, boy?"

"Ellie around?" he asked, afraid to find out the answer.

"Out back. She got the mule hooked up to the grind mill. Most time you can just leave the beast to do his burden, but that mule is stubborn even for his namesake. She's out there prodding him along, grinding corn for meal right now."

Jacob walked through a maze of unfinished furniture pieces until he could see out the window overlooking the backyard. The glass pane shined with the midday sun. It looked clean enough to eat off of. In fact, the rest of the house was just as clean, if you discounted the small mounds of saw dust here and there. Ellie was outside at the mill Mr. Banyon had designed and built himself. She had a switch in here hand, but the mule seemed to be walking his perpetual circle just fine for the time being. As if she knew Jacob was watching, she looked over her shoulder, giving him a friendly wave.

"Boy? You just gonna stand all day looking out that winda'?"

"No, sir. Mom wanted me to invite you and Ellie to a potluck this coming Saturday. If that'd work for you."

"You know, that sounds great. Saturday?" he said, thinking out loud. He put down the butter knife coated in peanut butter and scratched his chin in thought. "Yeah, Saturday's free."

"Good. Around noon?"

"We'll be there noon sharp. That way I can drop off the hutch I'm building for your Mom." Mr. Banyon pointed to a beautiful oak hutch that looked to be about halfway to completion.

Jacob didn't know what to say. Mr. Banyon could see his surprise and laughed to himself.

"Don't say nothin', mind you, it's a gift for all the kindness she's shown my family."

Jacob nodded.

"It's like… what do you call it? Restitution? For all I've done."

The back door opened and in walked Ellie, all smiles and glowing cheeks. They exchanged pleasantries, and Jacob told her about the potluck. As they talked, she seemed about the happiest girl in the world.

Jacob had to beg off a prolonged stay. As they chit-chatted, Mr. Banyon treated him like an old friend, even though they had rarely shared a civil word before now. When Jacob was at the door, ready to leave, Ellie whispered into his ear, "He was mad when he saw that Georgie took his over/under, but that didn't last. He's really changed this time. It's gonna be fine."

"I hope so."

From inside the truck cab, Jacob waved to the Banyons as they stood on the front porch. Mr. Banyon's hand rested on his daughter's shoulder, and despite Jacob's continued concern, they looked like how a family should.

 

 

Jacob stopped in town and everyone he invited from the list accepted. Both Magee and Bo, as always tending their quiet barber shop, agreed that a potluck was just what the town needed to get on with things. Mr. and Mrs. Hauser accepted, as did the Nightingales. Both families expressed their relief at hearing the news about Jimmy's whereabouts. They said he'd come home strong and focused, ready for the challenges of providing for a family. Jacob fought off a knot forming in his stomach that tightened at hearing their words. He had to put on an agreeable expression just to get through all the well wishes.

Jacob found Sheriff Bergman's office empty, for which he was grateful. He would act as if Jacob was trying to trick him or make him look a fool. He decided he would invite the sheriff if he ran into him, but he wouldn't make much of an effort to make it happen.

Mrs. Nagy accepted for her family of eight, agreeing to bring a big platter of deviled eggs. Before he left their house on the edge of town, she let him know that word had been getting around that Jasper Cartwright had taken ill. In an ominous tone she mentioned that it didn't look good, and the oldest man in Coal Hollow would certainly be too weak to attend. While Jasper's name was on the list, Jacob agreed with Mrs. Nagy.

"I guess I won't drop by his room, then. It would be hard on him knowing he'd have to turn it down for the sake of his health." He left for the next name on the invite list.

Returning to the truck, he had to admit to himself that a stronger reason kept him from inviting Jasper Cartright. He simply couldn't bear to face a man who had always been a model of vitality relegated to a sick bed. He finished the loop through town, feeling confident in his improving driving skills, crossing off the names as he went. He didn't find Dr. Thompson in his office and assumed he was either caring for Jasper Cartwright or off on some other house call. He made a mental note to double back to Thompson's office as long as it didn't get too late.

So, only Cooper's name remained. His mom had been selective in who she invited. She had omitted Louise's parents. They wouldn't accept even if they were invited, so it was no skin off his nose. Plenty of other people from town weren't on the list, people who they didn't associate with. Hank Calder was too abrasive to have a good time at a potluck, while his daughter Thea was a complete snoot. But the absence of Greta's name bothered him the most. He checked his pocket watch. Since he was making good time, he headed to her tree house.

 

"Mom sent me out to invite people to a potluck this coming Saturday."

"But you came here." Greta didn't have any of her famous cornbread awaiting his arrival. She seemed surprised to see him.

"Of course, to invite you and Arlen."

"But your mom didn't ask you to invite me, did she?"

Jacob felt panicky. Could he tell her without hurting her? "Uh, no. I suppose not."

"I appreciate you coming here, Jacob. Most times people forget about Arlen and me, which most times is for the best. Sometimes it feels like people come over, hear whatever I have to tell them, then disappear until the next time they need to hear about my visions."

"I don't do that."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about you. You or your brother, or most the other kids in town. It's the adults who can live without me until they're desperate enough to climb those steps to knock on my door."

"Will you come?"

"I bet you thought it would be a good idea if I should just show up, maybe have your mom and me talk, is that it?"

"Well, if I talk to her about you coming, maybe she'll change her mind. I bet it was just a mistake, leaving you off the list."

"It wasn't no accident, Jacob. You're mom's no fool. Even if you asked and she changed her mind, she wouldn't want me to show. She doesn't want discussing of things when she's not ready to listen. No, it's better off. Next week you come by and we'll talk about what a nice time everyone had."

 

 

During the drive to Cooper's house, Jacob was angry with his mom. He wanted Greta at the potluck. More importantly, he wanted Greta and his mom forced in a situation where they might talk. Even Arlen could be entertaining at times, that is, for him being a nitwit bastard and all. Jacob was in such a foul mood he barely enjoyed the bumpy trip on the lightly-traveled dirt road to Cooper's.

He walked up to Cooper's wrap around porch. After repeatedly knocking on the door for more than minute, Jacob was ready to give up. Cooper was probably just not home. But Jacob wanted him at the party. It would be his first opportunity to be around him since that day at Greta's. The first time he could observe him and figure out his role in finding Jimmy.

Jacob was halfway back to the truck, resigned to having missed out on seeing Cooper, when the front door opened.

"Yes?" Cooper said, poking his head outside. At first sight, he appeared to have aged twenty years. When he noticed Jacob, he opened the door and stepped out, closing it before a single ray of sunlight could warm the floor inside. He brushed the white plaster dust from his clothes and hair, just now realizing how dirty he was. With most of the dust shaken off, his age reverted to normal.

"Hi, Coop. I was just stopping by to invite you to a potluck at our house."

Cooper blinked, as if just opening his eyes from a long slumber. "Potluck?"

"Sure. Everyone brings a dish, kinda like a big picnic."

"Okay."

Jacob waited further questioning, but Cooper simply stared at him vaguely, and seemed distracted. He glanced over his shoulder at a front window, but for just a second.

Jacob looked to where Cooper's gaze had fallen, and he would've sworn he saw movement coming from inside. Someone stepping out of sight, maybe, behind the sheer curtain. Or it could've been a breeze billowing the lightweight material.

But those windows are painted closed, Jacob thought, curious.

Cooper put a hand to his mouth and let out a harsh cough. "Sorry, I'm replastering the hallway leading upstairs."

Jacob turned from the window, drawn away from further wondering. Once again Cooper was quiet but impatient, and Jacob remembered why he was here. "It's this coming Saturday, at noon. It'll be fun."

"Okay. I'll be there." Cooper nodded then moved to shut the door. He looked up, as if something had just crossed his mind. "Beans."

"Beans?"

"Tell your mom I'll bring a pot of baked beans. I have a family recipe." He nodded once again and closed the door, leaving Jacob standing alone.

His thoughts returned to the shifting movement from the corner of his eye and Cooper's odd behavior. The only explanation that came to mind was Ellie's fear of ghosts wandering the halls of Cooper's house. The Reverend and Mrs. Blankenship. He gave the house one last glance, but it was as still as a photograph. Realizing how ridiculous he was for even considering the idea, he climbed inside the truck and headed home.

 

 

12.

Dr. Thompson was the first person to arrive the day of the potluck. During the week, Jacob's mom had run into the doctor while finishing up last second errands for the get together. He had almost begged off coming--what with the health of a few of his patients a concern of his--but his mom could be quite persuasive. By the time he pulled up in his Packard, the last of the damp morning fog had burned away, and it looked like it would be a fine day for the festivities. For his contribution to the potluck, the doctor brought along a crateful of homemade mulberry wine, his specialty.

"A little early in the day for this, I suppose," Thompson said to his mom.

"Nonsense." She stood at the cook stove stirring spices from her garden into a pot of boiling water. On the counter next to her were piles of cut vegetables and early potatoes. A freshly plucked chicken was in a baking pan on the kitchen table. "The glasses are in the cupboard next to the icebox. We're here to enjoy ourselves," his mom said, then turned to Jacob. "Can you bring in another armful of wood for the stove? I don't want to run short with everything that'll need warming."

His mom had run Jacob ragged with chores for today. He was tired, but it was his price to pay for all the wonderful food.

He went to the lean-to just outside the backdoor where they stored the stovelengths. Loading his arms with what he hoped would be more than enough fuel, he heard approaching voices. Girls' voices. He had little time to react when, quite suddenly, Louise and Mary Wilmot appeared from around the corner of the house. Just that quickly, Jacob was stuck facing Mary Wilmot. Louise didn't seem to notice him, not if her dour, preoccupied expression was any indication, but Mary's eyes seemed to brighten when she noticed Jacob standing by the door. He was trapped.

He didn't know how it happened, but the logs tumbled from his arms. There they were, at his feet, and he hadn't even moved to cause them to fall. He felt like running off to hide.

"Cripes," he grumbled, bending over to pick them up. He could feel his ears flaring red.

He expected the girls to laugh at him, but they kept quiet. But then the world seemed to shift beneath him. His stomach flipped and he felt a sudden pang of anger toward Jimmy for not being here to protect him.

Mary hurried over to his side and kneeled right alongside him. "Let me help you."

Jacob stood and placed a single log across his forearms, his palms facing the sky. Mary went about stacking the rest of the stovelengths in his arms. Louise stood nearby impatiently tapping a foot. Jacob's mind began to cloud, his reasoning cogs grinding to a halt. He didn't know what to do. As Mary bent over, her blonde braids fell forward, carrying along a clean and flowery smell. He came close to dropping the growing stack again.

Mary grabbed the last spindly log. When she stood to place it atop the pile, the stack was nearly to his chin. This older girl he hardly knew--who liked him, but who didn't know he knew--was shorter than him. The crown of her head reached the bridge of his nose, and when he looked down the slight difference in their heights, all he could do was offer a silly grin.

Louise, growing more annoyed with the passing seconds, cleared her throat.

It was like a spell was broken. Jacob, still smiling, turned to the door, but was unable to open it with his arms full.

"Uh, Mary?"

"Yes, Jacob?"

"Can you get the door for me?"

Mary stifled a giggle by pressing a hand to her lips, and then reached over and pushed the door open for him. Jacob went inside, feeling safe within the comfortable smells of the kitchen, away from this girl who made him act like he didn't have a lick of sense.

In no time, everyone else showed up. They all seemed to come in one burgeoning wave. Thompson's mulberry wine filled glass after glass. Other spirits joined the wine--harsh spirits as clear as spring water. The house was all abluster with people exchanging hellos while unwrapping dishes from wax paper or old newspapers. Dishes waited in line for the warmth of the stove or were stacked high inside the ice box. With the heat of the stove, his mom had asked him to open all of the windows. He couldn't help looking out every once in a while, searching and expectant.

For the first time since his disappearance, Jimmy seemed faraway. This made Jacob feel guilty as all get out, but he couldn't help it. He also couldn't help watching Mary flit about the yard as she kept an eye on the children brought along by the neighboring adults. A dozen kids, from barely walking, to a few years younger than Mary, were chasing each other, crying out in laughter and full of merriment. He realized the oldest kids were close to his own age. If they were so carefree and as riotous as any group of kids, why was he so preoccupied with Mary, a girl he didn't even know?

Every time Mary would look toward the window--her tousled blonde hair pulling loose from her braids by the children climbing on her--his question was answered. She was laughing and ebullient. Every time they shared a glance, his chest pulsed with heat and he would break eye contact with her. He still didn't know how to handle this situation. God, he missed Jimmy. He would put everything right.

"We're all done setting up." His mom's voice startled him. He stammered defensively, but she motioned him silent. "We just need to finish up with the food. Why don't you have some fun?"

Next, his mom would say something about Mary Wilmot, and without a doubt this something would be embarrassing. So many people were mingling in the kitchen; Mrs. Nightingale, the town's worst gossip, Miss Sinclair, his grade school teacher, the Nagys enjoying glasses of mulberry wine with their six kids out of their hair outside, and still others all becoming one blurring mass. Jacob felt like jumping through the window to safety.

Before she could get a word out, the front door opened and the Banyon's entered. The crowd swept them in, the women doting on Ellie, commenting on what a pretty dress she wore. Mr. Banyon motioned Jacob over to him.

"Boy, can you lend me a hand out at the wagon?"

Gratefully, he escaped outside, following Mr. Banyon to his mule-drawn wagon. He half-expected to find bottles of liquor in the wagon bed. He'd forgotten about the oak hutch.

Mr. Banyon had wrapped it in old blankets to secure it for the ride over. "Careful now. That's a five-coat finish, and the best I've done so far, if I do say so myself." Mr. Banyon stepped into the bed and slid the hutch to the edge where Jacob waited. It was heavy as blazes getting it off the wagon and through the front door, but hearing the townsfolk's appreciative cries as they set the piece down made it worth the effort.

His mom didn't say anything, at least nothing Jacob could hear. Once Mr. Banyon pulled the blankets away to show off the hutch's golden finish, he explained the whats and the whys of his gift. She hugged him. As they embraced, it looked like she was crying on his shoulder, but then Jacob could tell that she was whispering into his ear, giving him her thanks. Just like that, the townsfolk accepted Charles Banyon back into their fold, and just as quickly, acted as if his years of foolishness had never happened. Cash flowed at a mere trickle within the town of Coal Hollow, but within an hour, half a dozen people solicited his carpentry skills.

With Ellie happy about the drastic change in her father, and the rest of Coal Hollow setting aside their previous impressions of Mr. Banyon, Jacob decided he would withhold his judgment.

 

 

13.

Jacob lounged under the canopy of a tall shade tree a ways off from the house after finishing his second supper. The Fowler's house was modest, built for efficiency rather than large gatherings, so three makeshift tables had been set up outside to showcase the day's bounty. The white and red checked tablecloths snapped in the wind. People came, loaded plates, idling like grazing animals.

Just now feeling like he could move without bursting a gut seam, he couldn't remember a day when he'd eaten more. Fried chicken, lemony-seasoned catfish, roasted potatoes drowned in sweet butter, two slices of tart rhubarb pie, a slice of his mom's peach cobbler, cucumber salad with vinegar dressing, and more side dishes than he could count. Mrs. Nightingale brought along her cornbread, and though widely considered her best dish, Jacob didn't even give it a sniff out of deference for Greta. He had nothing against Mrs. Nightingale, and anyway, he was certain no one would notice his silent protest.

Raucous laughter shook the house. The wine had flowed since noon, and now it was getting on to evening with the sun falling from its highest point. Mr. Hauser had started to play his fiddle--his enthusiasm for the instrument far outweighing any natural ability. Even so, people were stomping their feet to the beat and clapping along. Jacob could see heads bouncing, hair lank with sweat, as people danced passed the open windows.

The kids stayed outside. Some reclined while recovering from too much food, others were tumbling and stumbling their way across the yard, working off their energies chasing one another.

A group of older girls had gathered around Louise, while children under their care played at their feet. Despite her discomfort, Louise seemed to enjoy the attention. She only needed to intimate a need--more cucumber salad, a cool cloth to place on the back of her neck--and one of her attendants would see to it. She had become a local celebrity of a sort. She was an anomaly. A young, unmarried pregnant woman not living with her family or future spouse. Even so, she had been welcomed to her neighbors' bosom. His mom had been right all along.

Three boys were playing a game of marbles in a dirt patch near the barn. Others were splashing in the creek out past their stand of peach trees. From the sound of it, they were hounding bullfrogs out from under the grassy overhang lining the steep shoreline.

Jacob was content right where he was. Everyone seemed so happy, but to him, it felt hollow. He couldn't go along with it any longer; from now on, he would stay out of it. Day in day out he had to nod and agree with his mom about Jimmy's whereabouts. It pained him to celebrate today when his brother was somewhere close. He wished he could switch places with him, no matter where he was or what was happening to him.

Slumping lower at the base of the tree, comfortable and full, drowsiness nearly overtook him. But then he saw Mary Wilmot walking in his direction. Yet a ways away, her delicate hands toyed with a blade of grass. She was alone, and no one else was near Jacob. He was her intended target, he realized. Her intended.

Before she could get too close, he quickly stood and returned to the house. He nodded in her direction without looking, kept walking, his heart beating faster. At the back door, Cooper was leaning against the frame, sipping iced tea.

"That was a close one." Cooper's eyes were clear and contemplative. He seemed to be one of the few sober adults.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Seems like a nice girl."

Jacob didn't say anything. Mary returned to the group of girls. Ellie and a group of the younger ones were playing tiddly winks. Mary looked disappointed at his hasty retreat, but not overly so. Louise sat on a tree stump, rubbing her belly and looking uncomfortable. Mary briefly chatted with her before they turned their attentions to the children playing in the grass.

"My advice, girls are confusing, at any age. Keep a hold of your wits, or one is liable to take possession of them."

Jacob didn't want to talk about Mary, or about girls in general. Not with Cooper. He didn't want to go inside either. As if on cue, his mom let off a loud peal of laughter, and now he certainly didn't want to go inside. He considered returning to the shade tree, but thought better of it.

Cooper took a long drink of iced tea. The melting ice chips clinked as he drained it.

Jacob saw an opportunity and went for it. Maybe he didn't need to leave home to learn about Cooper's role in Jimmy's discovery. The man was standing right in front of him. "Want another?"

Cooper nodded, handing the empty glass to the boy.

As Jacob entered the house, his mother stepped out, her cheeks flushed crimson, the remains of laughter perking the corner of her lips.

"Why, hello, Mr. Cooper."

"Oh, hi, Jane. Nice day. Great food."

"Thanks. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. I just needed some fresh air." She blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes. Her hands were on her hips as she scanned the children carousing across the yard. Seeing her so carefree and relaxed, Cooper could see a glimpse of the girl she was before the responsibilities of adulthood stole the last of her childhood.

A roar of laughter came from inside as the music stopped. Too-loud voices engaging in several conversations at once filled the silence.

"Yeah." Cooper laughed. "Everyone seems to be having a fine time."

Certain that the children were behaving themselves, she turned back to Cooper, smirking. "That would be Dr. Thompson's mulberry wine. He brought along two cases." Jane fanned herself with her palm in an effort to cool. "I didn't have any myself."

"Didn't I see you with a wine glass?"

"You caught me. That was just a prop. I'm not much of a drinker, but I didn't think I could enjoy myself if I didn't at least appear otherwise. Besides, Mr. Cooper, the day isn't about me. It's about Louise. Family. Community."

Before an uncomfortable silence could settle on their conversation, Jacob stepped outside with a tray with three glasses of tea. He gave one a piece to his mom and Cooper, and then took the last for himself.

"Thanks, dear. I was getting parched. Why don't you go off with the other boys. Me and Mr. Cooper are talking."

Jacob looked upset having so quickly been cast aside. Cooper was surprised at Jane's forwardness. He had planned on staying just as long as it took to have his drink, and then take off for home. He was beginning to feel the familiar pull of the Blankenship home. They wanted him home.

The boy gulped some tea before returning it to the tray. He slinked away toward the splashing sounds coming from the creek. They watched him leave before continuing. "Now, Mr. Cooper--"

"Jane, please call me Ted, or Coop. My dad is Mr. Cooper."

"Fine, Ted. Thanks for coming. We're not so bad, are we?"

"No, not so bad."

They both laughed, their eye contact lingering.

"Jacob's a great kid. I've seen how he is with Ellie."

"It's been tough sometimes, but you're right, he's a great kid. Both of my boys are."

"Children are a direct reflection of their parents. It's admirable, you taking on all that yourself."

"It wasn't by choice, trust me. I married Dwight a month shy of my sixteenth birthday. Jimmy came along a year later. I was so young when Dwight passed, I didn't know I was in over my head until the boys had grown and it didn't matter."

Cooper was doing the math in his head while trying to pay attention to what Jane was saying. Thirty-two. Jane Fowler was thirty-two.

A couple stepped outside, surprised at how dark it was getting. If memory served from his earlier introduction, their name was Nightingale. They were farmers. Mr. Nightingale used to also work in the Grendal mines before they shut down. He still carried a nasty miner's cough, and tended to hack away when he laughed, but he didn't seem put out by it. They seemed like a nice enough family.

"Children?" Mrs. Nightingale asked Jane. She leaned against her husband for both comfort and balance.

"I just saw the girls running around down by the barn. Ralph is probably down by the orchard with the other boys collecting lightning bugs."

"Thanks. Wonderful evening." At that, the Nightingales went to search for their kids. When they were off a ways, Mr. Nightingale growled into his wife's ear. She gave off a girlish shriek and scampered away.

Cooper, regaining the thread of their conversation, said, "Fifteen is awfully young to be marrying."

"I know, I know. One of the hardest things in life is to tell love to wait. Sometimes it hits so strong. When you're young, you just can't help it. I wouldn't do anything different, well, besides…"

After a moment's pause, Cooper chimed in, "Dwight?"

Her eyes drifted to the yard, the distant trees, seeing, but not taking anything in. "I've had years to think on it. I would've put my foot down. Not let him go." She turned to him, and her eyes were glassy, intense. "He was a few years older than me, but he seemed to know so much more. At the time, I didn't think I could convince him to stay, if push came to shove. Instead, he convinced me that the world needed him to join the fight. Since then I've realized that all he was was a scared boy. He ran instead of facing a life working in the mines."

"Sometimes it's hard to change a person's mind."

"Oh, I know. You can't change the past. I just sometimes wonder if Dwight would've stayed the same happy-go-lucky man I married if he wouldn't have gone. He was a changed man when he came home. Not just physically. He was weak and prone to pneumonia--that's what eventually took him from this world--but his mind had changed, too. I believe to this day his mind came back more damaged than his body."

"I've met people who fought in Europe, and not a one has much good to say about it. If they're willing to talk about it at all."

"When Dwight came home, I expected all sorts of heroic stories, but all was mum. His stories played out through his eyes. They darkened somehow. He didn't have to say a word." She stared off at the circle around Louise. There were fewer children playing in the yard. A couple here and there. Adults had filtered away to their homes, their kids in tow, waving goodbye to Jane, nodding to acknowledge Cooper. Nightfall was quickly descending.

He wanted to apologize for speaking about the war at all. He should've steered the conversation away from the sensitive subject, but he couldn't help wanting to hear more.

Then Jane blinked several times, and then turned to him, almost smiling. "You bought the old Blankenship place, right?"

"I'm about as surprised as anyone."

"Now, don't take this wrong, I don't mean any offense, but no one who seen you come into town would've thought you were in any position to buy a house like that."

"I'm not a wealthy man by any means. Mr. Prescott offered the property as a foreclosure. He just wanted it clear from the bank's balance sheet."

"So how do you come strolling into Coal Hollow, looking like a man who hasn't been settled for quite a while, and all of the sudden buy a house?"

Cooper was surprised at her candor, and it must have shown.

"I'm sorry, that's a bit personal isn't it? Can you tell I don't interact much with anyone but family? When you're the mother, it's always a matter of telling the children when to wipe their feet and when to sit up straight. The more direct you are the faster the results."

"Oh, it's all right, Jane, it's just a long story is all. I'm not from a wealthy family, just comfortable, and until a year ago I worked quite happily as a librarian in Chicago."

"A librarian?"

"We all have our secrets," he said and chuckled.

The sun had gone; all that remained was its weakening echo, and soon it would be full on dark. A concentrated soft yellow glow bound through the yard, accompanied by the giggles and whoops of children. The remaining kids were on the hunt, filling mason jars to the point they could've been used as makeshift lanterns.

"So why did you leave if you were so happy--there I go again. Don't answer that. I'm sorry," she said, patting his arm.

"Oh, I loved my job, but I just came to a point where I couldn't stand the silence."

"There would be a lot of that in the library business, wouldn't there?"

He laughed. Sure, the library had been quiet, but he had once savored the silence. Then, after meeting Velma Fortune--he still had trouble thinking of her as his grandmother--the silence had become palpably heavy. And with it came self doubt. Wondering who he was, what he was doing with his life. Wondering if he was denying who he was now that he knew his heritage. He had felt lost. A fraud. The silence became maddening.

"I once loved the quiet of the library and the occasional rasp of pages being turned… knowing people were seeking knowledge and enriching their lives." He finished the tea that Jacob had brought him, now watered down from the melted ice.

He suddenly wanted to leave, but couldn't find a way to break off the conversation. Jane seemed too close.

When he looked into her eyes, she seemed close enough to see the thoughts inside his head. He looked away.

"That changed?"

"Oh, yes, definitely changed."

The library patrons sought knowledge, and he missed joining them in the pursuit, but he'd made the right decision. His journey of discovery couldn't take place in the insular world of the library; that would've been impossible. Finding his rightful path could only happen in the real world with people made up of flesh and blood instead of ink and paper.

"Tell me about it." She leaned closer to him, he assumed so she could see him better in the dark. But the look on her face. Was Jane Fowler leaning in to kiss him?

Before he could find out either way, he started talking, "You see, my grandmother, I thought she had died when my father was young. That's what I was always told. But last year she came to live with us."

"That must have been exciting. A new family member coming out of the woodwork, so to speak."

"I suppose." He couldn't believe he was telling her any of this. But he couldn't stop talking, and she seemed so kind, and it had been so long since he had been so close to a woman.

"You see," he paused, looking at her face so close to his. Her eyes glimmered, her lips forming a brief smile. "Velma was weak when she came to live with us. She was dying."

"Oh, how horrible. Just meeting her, too!" Her smile tensed with sadness, then with understanding. After all, her Dwight had been so sick when he returned from the war.

"We made the most of her months with us. I got to know about a part of my family I never knew about."

"At least you had that time together." She placed her hand over his and squeezed. He expected her to pull away, but she didn't.

The last guests came by, a young couple with arms loaded with leftovers and a newborn set of twins, ready for home.

What was their name? Webster? Brewster? That was it, Cooper realized. Mr. and Mrs. Brewster. They seemed so young, but still somehow fully realized adults. They were set on their rightful path, a path they would follow unwaveringly and in its entirety. He wondered if they knew how lucky they were to be in such a position so early in life.

"Good night all," Mrs. Brewster said, the baby starting to squawk in her arms.

"Get those little ones to bed," Jane said, smiling.

"Thanks, Mrs. Fowler. You've set the standard for future potlucks," Mr. Brewster said. With arms burdened with a basket of cooling leftovers and an irritated baby, he leaned over, extended his hand to Cooper.

"Kent. Nice to meet you."

"You too, Coop. We'll be seeing you around town."

His treatment from the guests surprised Cooper. All with welcomes, well wishes and pleasant good byes. As if he were Jane's equal in the community's eyes; an accepted and respected neighbor. It surprised him even more how good this felt.

The Brewster's reached their truck. Kent revved the engine, and they were gone. They were once again alone. This time truly alone. Louise had retired when her gaggle of girls had dwindled. Jacob was probably in the barn, or still by the creek. All was quiet.

Sitting so close in the near-dark, Cooper could only make out Jane's profile, her delicate nose, her soft lips, a gentle crease at the corner of her eye.

"Family is the most important thing in the world. The only part worth mentioning, if you ask me." She turned to him. "I can't wait to have my family together again. But maybe I'll make due with news on Monday."

"Monday?" he asked, happy about the change of subject.

"A letter should be waiting for me. From Jimmy. It better be, or I'll raise a stink when I see him. I'd at least like to have a return address so I can send him the bundle of letters waiting for him. I'm afraid I'm not such a nice mom in some of them. I thought about pulling the harsher ones from the pile, but decided against it. I held my tongue with Dwight; I'm not about to do that with my son."

He watched her smile broaden, and it nearly broke his heart.

His pulse stopped racing, as if all at once his adrenaline had frozen solid between heartbeats, leaving a gnawing pain in its wake.

"Jane… Jane look at me. The kids were right."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice traced with anger.

"Jimmy's not in the army." His words erased any trace of her happiness.

"Not you too. He's in Peoria, in training--"

"No, he's not."

"How can you say such a thing?" she said, pulling away, standing, her hands on her hips.

"He's somewhere in Coal Hollow." He reached for her hand, and reluctantly, she let him hold her limp fingers. "Greta was right. I don't know how Bergman came across that information about Jimmy's enlistment--if he made it up himself or someone pressured him to lie--but that's what it is. A lie."

She pulled away from him, stepping from the back porch, striding across the grass. She started speaking--she would've even if he wasn't following: "I've never trusted that old witch. Never. And you--I obviously can't trust you either. Here I was thinking we were making some kind of connection, and then this."

Cooper closed the distance between them, continuing, "Jane, it's true. You can trust me."

"Don't use that word with me. You make it sound obscene. Trust."

"I have proof."

She stopped, her back still to him. After a long moment, the croaking of bullfrogs broke the silence. "Fine, show me this proof."

"We'll have to leave. Visit Greta."

"I told you I don't trust her."

"The things she told me, Jane, there's no other possible way she could've known any of it unless her visions have merit. As crazy as it sounds, I believe in her abilities, and I was beyond skeptical before I met her."

He reached for her, touching her lightly on the elbow, but she shrugged him away, hugging her arms in front of her.

She stared into his eyes, boldly, unflinchingly. He didn't look away. Perhaps she sensed his sincerity; perhaps her concern for Jimmy overrode all other matters. He didn't know either way, but in the end she squeezed his hand.

"Fine. Show me this proof. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to learn the whole truth."