Skip Rock Shallows (8 page)

“Hiram’s a pretty good help.” Lynn dropped her eyes, busying herself by making circles around the rim of her cup with her thumb. “I don’t want to put anybody else out.”

“I would be more than happy to help you.” Lilly laid her hand over Lynn’s. “It’s my job, you know.”

When Lynn raised her eyes, Lilly saw the sparkle of tears.

“Ain’t God good?” Lynn said. “I was praying for an angel just this morning and now here you are, sitting at my kitchen table, bold as brass.”

“I don’t know about the angel part,” Lilly said with a laugh, “but I do know God meets our needs if we but ask. ‘The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.’ That’s from James, I think.”

Lynn clapped her hands. “That’s my favorite Scripture. I can’t believe you just said that! See, you are an angel.”

“Tell me about your deliveries, Lynn. Do you have difficulty?”

Lynn tipped the pitcher and poured more sumac-ade into the cup over Lilly’s protestations. Now she would have to drink it. The pink tea was all Lynn had to share.

Lynn reached across the table and rubbed the crown of her daughter’s head. The little girl thumped her head backward into Lilly’s chest.
There will be a bruise under my collarbone tomorrow,
Lilly thought.

“You can see this one’s got a big head,” Lynn said. “Where Cleve was easy as pie, Dolly nearly kilt me.”

“How close to delivery are you?” Lilly asked although she could tell it wouldn’t be long.

“Three weeks, tops. She’s already dropped.”

“You know it’s a girl?”

“Yeah, Hiram did the yarn and needle test. You know, the one where you hang a darning needle from a length of yarn over a woman? If it swings it’s a boy, but if it spins it’s a girl? Well, mine spun like a top. I’ve never known that test to fail.”

“Hmm,” Lilly said. Another superstitious old wives’ tale. “Would you like me to check the baby’s presentation?”

“Please,” Lynn said. She went to the door and closed it. She cleared the table and spread a tattered sheet before she laid herself flat upon its surface, using another sheet for a drape.

The toddler played at Lilly’s feet as she palpated the huge mound of Lynn’s uterus. Unrolling her fabric tape measure, she noted the size from top to bottom and from side to side. Indeed the baby had already dropped. “I’m guessing you’re making frequent trips to the outhouse,” Lilly said.

“Funny how you forget about all them aggravations once the baby’s born,” Lynn said.

“As they say, if you remembered all of that, you wouldn’t have but one.”

“Ain’t it the truth?”

Lilly helped Lynn up and off the table. “I think you’re doing well. I don’t anticipate any problems with your delivery, but you know there are no guarantees. Things can change from one minute to the next.” Lilly folded the drape into neat squares. “This is your third, so you’ll likely go fast.”

“I’d be glad for that,” Lynn said, resetting her table.

“That is understandable, but a fast birth can be dangerous for both mother and baby. Do you have anyone who could come to help you for a while?”

“I could maybe send for my sister.”

“That would be good. In the meantime, what can I do to help?”

“You already answered my prayer. I can’t ask for more than that.”

When Lilly left the family, she had a quart jar of sumac-ade in her linen bag and a promise from Hiram to come fetch her when Lynn was in early labor. She also took away important lessons: Look for the easiest diagnosis first—it might be as simple as sumac juice!—and don’t assume a person can read. Actually, don’t assume anything.

Tern Still leaned in close to the wavy mirror in his rented room and applied a styptic pencil to the scrape on his chin. It stung like fire, but the wound clotted. He ran his thumb over the blade of his straight razor. Even though he’d stropped it good, there was the nick. He’d have to add a whetstone to his shopping list. That was the problem with moving around all the time. You never had everything you needed in one place. Something was always left behind.

He opened the top dresser drawer and fitted a key into the lock of a smallish wooden traveling case. He removed his gun and leather holster to get at a book that rested on the bottom of the case. Sliding the slim volume into a pocket of the black frock coat he wore on weekends, he replaced the gun and holster and turned the key. Once, he was quite the dandy in the high-buttoned jacket, which he had worn with a yellow silk vest and tan woolen trousers. Now, he liked it for its deep pockets and its knee length and because it hung loosely over his rough denim jeans.

Downstairs in the dining room, Tern took a seat on one of the benches at the long, picnic-style table. There were chairs at the head and foot of the table, but Tern never took one of those.

Mrs. DeWitt’s hired girl passed steaming bowls of grits and platters of eggs and ham and poured hot coffee into a dozen mugs. This room and board was the nicest Tern had ever stayed in. Mrs. DeWitt charged by the week, making it an easy come-and-go. Tern didn’t really like sharing his space with so many men, though—too many questioning eyes.

He sliced his over-easy eggs with a knife, then forked up a bit of yellow. The guy sitting to his left poked him and pointed with a utensil to the hired girl. “Cute as a bug’s ear. Wonder if she’d fancy stepping out with me.” The fellow’s name was Leroy, but all the men called him Elbows.

Tern smiled as if he cared. Instead of replying, he chewed his eggs and swallowed a gulp of coffee, burning his tongue in the process.

“A bunch of us are going into town later,” Elbows said. “Want to go along?”

“I’ll take a bye,” Tern said. “I’ve got a lot to do.” He nearly spilled his coffee when Elbows nudged between his ribs again.

“What’s to do on a Saturday night but bury the week with some white lightning? It’ll cure what ails you.”

Yeah,
Tern thought,
and make you spill your guts too.
Whiskey and secrets didn’t go together. “Thanks; maybe next week.”

Elbows flicked the collar of Tern’s frock coat with his nicotine-stained index finger. “You ain’t one of them Bible-thumpers, are you?”

Tern could feel the heat of anger creeping up his neck. It took all his thin patience not to knock the man’s hand away.

Suddenly the room was still. All the other men were craning their necks looking his way. “Hardly,” Tern said with a derisive snort. Planting his forearms on the table, he leaned in and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Say, did you hear the one about the government inspector who visited the farmer’s garden?”

Elbows’s face relaxed as if ready for the joke. “Can’t say as I have.”

“Story goes the government fellow visits the farm, taking particular interest in the corn crop. ‘Do you people have any trouble with insects getting in your corn?’ government guy asks the farmer. ‘We sure do,’ says the farmer, ‘but we jes fishes them out and drinks the squeezings anyhow.’”

“Doggies, that’s a good one.” Elbows laughed and slapped his knee.

“I’ve got a better one than that about the farmer’s daughter,” another guy said from his chair at the end of the table.

Now all ears were tuned his way.

Mrs. DeWitt appeared from the kitchen. “Take it outside, fellows,” she said.

Saved by the bell,
Tern thought as he headed outdoors, settling his cap on his head until it felt just right. There were rocking chairs on the broad plank veranda of the boardinghouse, but Tern was not one for sitting. Once he’d gone by the commissary, he’d swing by the livery station, get his horse, and head out. Apache would be glad for the exercise—all the pinto got weekdays was a quick ride.

The company store was a tricky place on Saturday mornings. Too many ladies in one place at one time gossiping and shopping. But Tern needed that whetstone, and the place would likely be closed when he finished his ride.

He stuck his hat in his pocket and went in. Men’s stuff was clear in the back. He wondered if that was on purpose. Holding his elbows close to his sides, he walked down the center aisle to a shelf chock-full of shaving mugs, rounds of soap, cheap cologne, brushes, and razors—and a lone whetstone. Fine with him; a whetstone was a whetstone. You didn’t need a selection.

He tested a brush against the palm of his hand. His had left some bristles in his shaving mug this morning; might as well pick up one of those too. The soaps had different scents—that one too much menthol, that one too spicy. He preferred just soap. Who needed it to smell like something else? What was wrong with just smelling clean?

So a brush, a whetstone, two soaps—maybe a new shirt? He only had three and they were looking worn. He paid Mrs. DeWitt extra for a clean and ironed shirt every day. He’d hate to give up that particular vice. He supposed it was a vanity—his penchant for neatness.

Cradling his supplies against his chest with one hand, he stopped at the display of men’s shirts. One was in blue-and-white-striped cotton with the new fold-down collar. It would look good with his gray suit, the one that was hanging in the closet at his place in DC. He reached down to feel the sleeve and dropped one of the soaps. It rolled across the oiled-wood floor and came to a stop against a decidedly feminine shoe.

He gazed from the foot to the face and nearly choked. It was her. It was Lilly.

She bent with a graceful dip of her knees and retrieved the errant round. “Your soap has run away.” Her smile dazzled him.

His mouth went dry and when he went to thank her, he couldn’t speak. She held out the soap. His hand brushed hers. Sparks ran up his arm, around to the back of his neck, and down his spine. He felt like she had set him afire. He dropped the soap again.

“Goodness,” she said. “It’s rolled under the counter.”

“I’ve got another,” he managed to say. His voice cracked like a schoolboy’s.

“So you do.”

“Yes,” he said. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face and dressed in some sort of soft roll caught up with a white ribbon. He searched for and found the shiny streak that started at her widow’s peak and shot through her hair like quicksilver. He’d been fascinated by that errant mark when he was a boy. Her heart-shaped face was like fine porcelain and her eyes were the same stormy gray of his dreams. She was taller than he imagined she would be but tiny—small-boned. Her waist could be circled by two hands. He’d give all the gold in Fort Knox to touch her again.

“I’m Dr. Corbett,” she said, sticking out her hand like a man.

“Joe,” he replied. “Joe Repp. Pleased to meet you.” Her dainty hand disappeared in his large, rough one.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around camp, Mr. Repp. Enjoy your shopping.”

And then she was gone. He stood in the aisle hardly aware of where he was. The very air around him seemed charged, and her fragrance lingered sweet as summer roses.

“Excuse me—” a woman’s voice interrupted his reverie—“do you want me to tally them things up for ye?”

His mind clicked into gear. A heavyset clerk had taken Lilly’s place. “Um, yeah,” he said, handing them over. “And one of these shirts if you don’t mind. Size large.”

At the counter, the clerk thumbed through a small pad and inserted a piece of carbon paper between two pages. “Do ye want to be on the books until payday?”

“No, I settle as I go.”

With the stub of a pencil, the clerk added up the charges. “Them shirts is expensive,” she said as if giving him a chance to back out.

“That’s okay.”

“You owe three dollars and twenty-seven cents.” She ripped out his copy of the receipt, wiped the smudges from her fingertips on the front of her apron, and tucked the tab in the shirtfront before wrapping his purchases in brown paper. She spun a string ball, cut off a piece, and tied the parcel closed.

He handed over three bills and change. “One of these soaps is under the counter yonder.”

“I’ll get it,” she said with an upside-down smile. “You come back now. Hear?”

It was a short walk to the livery station where Apache was boarded. Tern could hear the animal’s welcoming nicker before he approached the holding pen. He stroked the horse’s long nose, then offered him half an apple. Apache snorted thanks and crunched his treat as Tern shoved the brown-paper parcel into his saddlebag.

Once they were out of town, he let Apache set the pace. The horse’s muscles bunched with energy beneath Tern’s thighs as his hooves pounded on the macadam road. Tern leaned forward in the saddle and lightly slapped Apache’s long neck. “Feels good, doesn’t it, boy?”

It was early yet and the air was still cool and crisp. They veered off the turnpike and onto a lightly graveled side road that led eventually to the river. Tern kept Apache on the narrow shoulder and out of the deep ruts cut by the wheels of wagons. The forest on either side of the road was alive with colors. The pink and white of dogwood and serviceberry, the shadowy lavender of lilac, the varied shades of leafy green called singly for his attention like women dressed for a dance.

Tern’s mind wandered to the last party he had attended in Washington, while he was still clerking in the office of a congressman from Kentucky. He slacked the reins and Apache ambled along, stopping now and then to munch a bit of grass. One young lady in particular had taken a shine to him that last spring he was Tern Still. Elizabeth’s father was a diplomat, and her mother was a peevish, self-important woman who peppered Tern with sharply honed questions whenever he visited her daughter. She was singularly determined to get to the underbelly of his upbringing.

He was truthful but evasive in those days. Besides being a man who held his own counsel, he figured much of what Elizabeth’s mother prodded for was none of anybody’s business. He’d buried his past as deep as a seam of coal, and nobody was going to dig it out.

Truthfully, he’d never even missed Elizabeth. Though she shed pretty tears that night of the party, his heart had lightened the minute he walked through the French doors of her father’s mansion, across the sparkling terrace, out into the night, and into his new life as a federal agent.

His opportunity had come about following a series of underground mining disasters; there was talk in Congress of forming a US Bureau of Mines. In preparation, the government had been looking for men with experience in the coalmining field: educated, trustworthy men who were willing to go incognito to study and report back on the true working conditions in the mines. The Monday after the party he applied, and with a good word from his congressman, he was accepted on the spot. Now he could be anybody he wanted to be. His family history didn’t matter a whit. Except to Lilly, that was—it would matter more than a whit to her. He must see that she never discovered who he really was.

He leaned back in the saddle, the sun warm on his face, and let it all go. Who needed love anyway? For him, love was as ethereal and unattainable as a mirage. Ever since he’d met Lilly Corbett, he was like a man crawling across the desert on his belly, constantly denied a cool drink of water.

He gave a rough bark of a laugh at his own fanciful thinking. At the sound, Apache snorted, then trotted on up the lane, not stopping again until they reached the shallows.

Tern dismounted and picketed the horse up the riverbank in a more private spot. He loved this place for its quietude. There was something about the rushing water that cleansed his spirit and brought him back to plumb.

From the bank, he selected a small, flat stone and sent it skipping across the water. Ripples formed and broke, ever widening around the stone until it sank with a plunk. Not his best throw ever, but the rock had nearly made it to the far bank.

After ascertaining that he was truly alone, he retrieved his book from his jacket pocket. Later he’d find a fishing hole and catch a mess of trout to take back to Mrs. DeWitt, but for now he settled against the broad trunk of a sycamore and lost himself in the words of Henry David Thoreau.