Opal Page 9

  Daisy joined them after handing her little girl to Ruby, and Charlie laid his Bible on the wooden stand.

  ‘‘Someday we’re goin’ to have a man of God leading our services.’’ Rand looked up from plucking guitar strings. ‘‘You saying you aren’t a man of God?’’

  ‘‘I mean someone who’s got some training.’’ Charlie shook his head. ‘‘My ma must be dancin’ on the clouds watchin’ her hell-bent son lead a church service.’’

  ‘‘Now, dear,’’ Daisy chided.

  Charlie flinched at the sound of his wife’s gentle voice. ‘‘Sorry, but that’s what she called me.’’

  The choir took their places, ready to sing. ‘‘All right, on three.’’ Rand strummed three chords, and the music burst forth.

  Opal let her voice soar on the high melody notes while the others sang harmony. Singing was almost as good as riding. Either way she could forget about things like the drifter and Atticus and a meanspirited schoolteacher.

  The practice went well, and their singing at the service was even better. They sang full harmony on the ‘‘amen’’ and sat down. Opal knew they’d done well. Ruby was dabbing at her eyes, as were others.

  On their way home the rain took up again, and they huddled under the blankets to keep dry. After dinner even Rand took a nap, and Ruby sat reading near the fireplace. But Opal couldn’t bear to remain inside.

  ‘‘I’m going down to the barn,’’ she said to Ruby.

  ‘‘You want to bring in the eggs on your way back?’’

  ‘‘Sure. I’ll feed the chickens too.’’

  ‘‘Take the scraps for the pig.’’

  ‘‘Chickens like them too.’’ Opal felt a proprietary caring for the chickens, since they were considered hers.

  ‘‘You’re funny.’’

  ‘‘Thanks a heap.’’ Opal paused. ‘‘How about we make taffy after supper?’’

  ‘‘Good.’’

  Opal left the house, wishing she’d gone riding, rain or no rain. She scattered the potato peelings and eggshells for the chickens and dumped the slops in the pig trough.

  ‘‘Mabel, you stink.’’

  The sow, getting heavier daily, looked up at her, jowls bulging as she chewed with leftover oatmeal clinging to her long white snout.

  ‘‘Thanks for the gratitude,’’ Opal replied to the oofs of the pig.

  When she stood outside under the barn eaves she heard laughter from the bunkhouse. She ambled over and knocked on the door.

  ‘‘Come in.’’

  She stepped into a smoke-hazed room where three hands were gathered around a table, a kerosene lamp lighting their card playing. ‘‘You want to play?’’ Chaps stopped in midshuffle.

  ‘‘Sure.’’

  ‘‘Pull up a chair.’’

  Opal did so, taking her place with ease. ‘‘What are you playing?’’ ‘‘Five-card draw.’’

  ‘‘What’s the ante?’’

  ‘‘Nickel.’’

  ‘‘I’ll stake you.’’ Beans slid five nickels her way.

  Opal studied her cards, as did the others. ‘‘I’m in.’’

  By the time the triangle rang, she’d collected quite a pile of coins, even after repaying Beans for his stake.

  ‘‘Better keep that here. If Ruby knew I’d been gambling, she’d have a cow.’’ She shoved her winnings toward Beans.

  ‘‘Why didn’t you tell us that? We coulda done with matchsticks.’’ The door opened at the same time as struck by knuckles, and Rand stepped in. ‘‘You guys seen—Oh, there you are, Opal. Ruby was asking for you.’’ He took in the stacks of nickels, the guilty look on Opal’s face, and grimaced.

  Opal pushed her chair back. ‘‘We were just having fun. We weren’t playing poker. I taught them a new game, vingt et un.’’

  ‘‘Twenty-one?’’

  ‘‘I guess. But Ruby only told me I couldn’t play poker.’’

  ‘‘Looks like you did all right.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’

  ‘‘She’s good as Belle.’’ Chaps slapped the cards down in the middle of the table.

  ‘‘Cards like her.’’ Joe rose and snagged his hat off the wall pegs.

  They trooped out the door, laughing and teasing Opal about her skill.

  How do I ask them to stop talking about this?

  ‘‘We need to talk.’’ The set of Ruby’s lips later that evening made Opal flinch. If only she’d asked the guys not to talk about the afternoon, that look might have been prevented.

  ‘‘So you were playing poker.’’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘‘No, I taught them vingt et un.’’

  ‘‘Twenty-one is still gambling.’’

  ‘‘Just for nickels. You said no poker, and I didn’t play that . . . much.’’

  ‘‘Opal, what am I going to do with you?’’

  ‘‘But, Ruby, it was just us. That’s not gambling.’’

  ‘‘But you were betting?’’

  ‘‘Well, yes, but that’s just to make it more fun, a challenge. What’s wrong with that?’’

  ‘‘A true gentlewoman does not make money off her friends.’’

  ‘‘I never wanted to be a gentlewoman or a lady anyway. Besides, I read about people playing whist. They played for money, and they were aristocrats in England. What’s the difference?’’ Ruby sighed, the kind of sigh that let Opal know she’d better stop the discussion.

  Instead she gritted her teeth. ‘‘Well?’’

  ‘‘We’ll talk about this later.’’

  ‘‘What’s wrong with now?’’

  ‘‘That’s enough.’’ Rand looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

  Opal glared at Ruby first, then at Rand, before stalking from the room. How unfair could they be? And after she’d been having such a good time too.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘‘Hey, Jacob, you have company yesterday?’’ Marshall from the livery hailed him from the side of the house.

  Jacob parked his ax blade in the chopping block. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Well, strangest thing. A young woman with a little boy rented a horse and buggy yesterday for an hour, and she never brought it back.’’ He tipped his hat back farther on his balding head. ‘‘She asked for directions to your house.’’

  ‘‘Yes, my cousin.’’ The lie slipped so easily from his lips. ‘‘Said she had to hurry to catch the train.’’

  ‘‘You saw her leave?’’

  Jacob nodded. He’d seen the dust that churned up behind the wheels. ‘‘But she headed west. Didn’t tell me where she was going. She was in a hurry.’’ Careful, you are talking too much.

  ‘‘Think you could help me look for her? In case something happened, you know.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry, but her son is here. I can’t leave him by himself, and he’s still sleeping.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ Marshall stroked his chin. ‘‘Real strange, wouldn’t you say?’’

  ‘‘You sure the horse isn’t tied up down at the train station?’’

  ‘‘Be hard to miss. And if he got loose, you’d think he’d come back to the barn.’’ The man turned to go. ‘‘You hear anything, you’ll let me know? Horse thievin’ is a crime, you know.’’

  ‘‘She, Melody, Miss Fisher wouldn’t steal a horse. She’s honest as, well, as anyone I know.’’ How can you say that? She kept your son from you, lived a lie for the last seven, eight years. ‘‘I’d help you if I could.’’

  ‘‘I know you would, Pastor.’’ He nodded toward the door. ‘‘Guess your guest woke up.’’

  Jacob turned to see the boy standing in the doorway, dressed again in the clothes he’d worn the day before. ‘‘Good morning.’’

  Joel nodded. ‘‘Did Mama come back?’’

  ‘‘No, sorry. You hungry?’’ Jacob heard Marshall ride off. ‘‘I cooked some oatmeal, and I could toast some bread.’’ The breeze chilled his sweaty skin, so he took his shirt from the hook by the door and slid his arms into it.
/>   Joel stepped back to let him in, all the while keeping his sober gaze on Jacob. ‘‘She’s not coming back.’’

  ‘‘How do you know?’’

  ‘‘She said I was to live with you now. . . .’’ His voice caught on a sob. ‘‘But I want her to get better and come back.’’

  ‘‘Me too.’’ But Jacob had the same feeling as the child. Melody was not coming back. But, God, please don’t let her be dead. There had to be a good reason the horse didn’t return. What if there had been an accident?

  What if what happened to her was no accident?

  Get such broody thoughts out of your head, man, he scolded himself as he dished up the oatmeal that had been keeping warm on the back of the stove.

  ‘‘You like molasses on your oatmeal?’’

  Joel half nodded, half shrugged.

  ‘‘Well, what’ll it be?’’ Jacob dug a spoon down into the crock.

  Joel nodded and slid onto a chair. ‘‘That’s plenty.’’

  Jacob added milk and pushed the dish over to the boy. How could he call this stranger his son? He poured himself some lukewarm coffee and added sugar, something he never did, but right now life called for some sweetness. He’d never tried molasses in his coffee.

  Joel ate without speaking, all his concentration on the bowl and spoon and the action of bending his arm to move the spoon.

  He was small for his age. Jacob noted that and the pallor of his skin, as if he’d not been out in the sun. ‘‘You go to school?’’

  Another shrug. His son certainly hadn’t inherited his father’s love of conversation.

  ‘‘Was that a yes or no?’’

  ‘‘Used to.’’

  ‘‘Until?’’

  ‘‘Pa died.’’

  ‘‘When was that?’’

  Shrug.

  ‘‘Did you go back to your grandma and grandpa Fisher?’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Guess not. Where did you live?’’

  These shrugs were getting on his nerves.

  ‘‘In a town? The country? What state?’’

  A tear dripped off the boy’s chin.

  Jacob Chandler, where did all your ministerial skills hie off to? He’d never been accused of badgering a child, and he never would be, far as he was concerned, but that might not be the feeling this boy had right now. Jacob softened his voice. ‘‘Look, Joel, I need to know something about your life. Perhaps your grandma and grandpa are looking for you.’’

  Joel shrugged again. ‘‘They don’t like us.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ What is going on here?

  ‘‘You have any uncles, aunts, or cousins?’’

  Again that funny half shrug and grimace.

  ‘‘I’ll take that as either a no or you don’t know.’’

  If a child could cave in on himself, this one did. His spine curved, his shoulders hunched. Only his hands lay open and vulnerable, as if he were waiting for someone to fill them. Or was he letting go of all hope? Another tear tracked down his thin cheek.

  Heavens, does he have the consumption also? The thought struck terror like a spear into Jacob’s heart. He looked more closely at the closed-in bundle of misery. No bright spots on the cheeks, no coughing, no rattle in the breathing.

  He laid a hand on Joel’s shoulder to comfort him, but the boy flinched away. So much for that good deed. None of the children in his church acted like this. They ran up to him, chattering away as only happy children could. One even called him Pastor God, since the children were sure he lived in God’s house.

  Are you sure this is my son? He wanted to scream the words at Melody. But how could he dispute it?

  He squatted down beside the boy, keeping his hand on the back of the chair, though he’d rather wrap the child in his arms.

  ‘‘Can I get you something else to eat?’’

  Joel shook his head. ‘‘I’m going to watch for my mother.’’

  ‘‘Where?’’

  ‘‘Out there.’’ He pointed to the front door.

  But someone may see you. What did it matter? By now the entire village knew who came, who went, and who stayed. Lord, why am I so double-minded? You said you despise double-minded people who are blown about by the vagaries of life like a small boat at the mercy of the winds at sea. I’ve never been at sea, but I can tell you, I hate this feeling.

  The boy shrugged, but his eyes spoke volumes of pain and fear.

  Lord, what can I do to help him?

  Find his mother.

  How?

  Go look.

  But someone will stop me, and I’ll have to lie again, and . . . Jacob sagged under the burden of the lie he’d offered so blithely. But he couldn’t tell the truth either.

  ‘‘Look, Joel, you can watch for her through the window if you like, but I don’t want you to sit out there and catch cold in that brisk wind. How will that be?’’

  Another shrug, but this time accompanied by a slight nod.

  ‘‘Here, I’ll carry the chair for you.’’

  Joel barely shook his head, but another of those looks dug right into Jacob’s heart. He clamped both hands on the spindles of the chair back and dragged it to the window, almost daring Jacob to help him.

  He’s only seven. How can I leave him here to go look? I can’t. I don’t want to go look. Fear had not been one of Jacob’s sins before, but it had him by the throat now.

  He washed the breakfast dishes, put more wood in the stove, brought in an armful to fill the half-empty woodbox, paced the kitchen, stood in the arched doorway watching the boy stare out the window, and finally drew out a kitchen chair to hold his body while his elbows, propped on the table, held up his head.

  The weight of it all pounded like surf on a rocky shore.

  ‘‘Someone’s here.’’ Joel’s voice came as if from far away.

  Jacob roused himself and smoothed his hair back with weary hands before heading for the front door even before the knock came. Pulling the door open, he made sure he smiled at the livery man. ‘‘Come in, Marshall, come in. Have you learned anything?’’

  ‘‘I think you better step out here, Pastor.’’ He kept his voice low, nodding to the boy he’d seen in the window.

  At the somber face and tone, Jacob stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Fear manacled his heart.

  ‘‘I found the horse and buggy.’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘Up to the bridge. He was tied to a tree there.’’

  ‘‘You mean the bridge west of here?’’ His heart thundered so loud he could scarcely hear. God, no!

  ‘‘No sign of the woman. I’m sorry, Reverend. I think she jumped.’’

  ‘‘She could have met someone, and they took her onward.’’

  ‘‘True, but there was a bit of this’’—he held out a scrap of blue dress material—‘‘caught on the railing. If I remember right, she was wearing blue.’’

  Jacob closed his eyes, the memory of her seared on the backs of his eyelids. Yes, she’d been wearing a blue gown, covered by a dark wool cloak. The river was fierce there at this time of year, the thunder from the waterfall a hundred yards down a constant reminder of spring’s fury.

  ‘‘Will you set out a search party?’’

  ‘‘I thought to inform the sheriff downriver, at Donkenny.’’

  ‘‘I see. May God have mercy on her soul.’’

  ‘‘I got to feed and water my horse. Strange, why didn’t she just let him go back to town on his own?’’

  Because she was afraid someone would stop her. Jacob kept the thought to himself. Why, Melody, why? He kept himself upright by sheer force of will, though his entire being wanted to crumble and scream at the outrage.

  My fault. This is all my fault. How do I tell Joel that his mother threw herself off the bridge and into the river? That he needn’t watch and wait any longer?

  Do I not tell him at all? And live another lie?

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ Jacob shook Marshall’s hand.<
br />
  ‘‘I guess knowing is better than not. I’m sorry, Pastor. Her bein’ your kin and all.’’

  ‘‘Oh yes, of course.’’ Close kin. Of the most intimate kind. And my son in there is the fruit of that sin. He backed toward the door. He’s probably wondering why I don’t volunteer to help find the body. Jacob Chandler, be a man and say the right words. ‘‘I-I need to take care of the boy.’’ He waved a shaking hand and almost groaned in relief when Marshall took the hint and waved back as he headed for the road.

  Joel stared at him, waiting. Jacob shook himself, at the same time ordering some semblance of control.

  ‘‘The man found his horse and buggy.’’ Joel made it sound more statement than a question.

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Tears burned the backs of Jacob’s eyes.

  ‘‘Where’s my mother?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’ That at least wasn’t a lie. I don’t know where her body is, and if she killed herself, I don’t know where her soul is. Lord God, can I tell him she is safe with you?

  ‘‘I-I’m afraid she had an accident.’’ He crouched beside the chair so that he and Joel were eye to eye. ‘‘But we’re not sure yet.’’

  ‘‘Is she dead?’’ Joel’s eyes narrowed; his chin quivered.

  ‘‘I don’t know. All I know is that Mr. Marshall found his horse and buggy. That’s all I know.’’ When he laid a hand on Joel’s shoulder, the young boy flinched away.

  Joel kept watch from the front steps throughout the long day, ignoring the comings and goings of villagers, some who whispered in consideration of the hunched little figure. Others brought bread and cakes, accompanied by consoling pats and condolences.

  By evening Joel lay asleep on the couch, and Jacob didn’t bother to light any lamps, hoping that if anyone else came, they would think him not at home.

  Later that night he wrote two letters in the glow of the kerosene lamp. He tucked Joel into bed, walked down to the post office, and dropped the letters into the slot. One was for the deacons at the church that was no longer his, the other for the overseeing pastor of this district. Once back at the house, he gathered his few personal items and packed them in a carpetbag, leaving the house neat and ready for the next occupant.