Carol Ritten Smith (9 page)

“You’re the one with the problem.”

“Really. And what is that?”

“Your temper. I’ve seen it, and it’s not pretty.”

“When have you seen my temper?”

“With Bill. I don’t want Davy to be subjected to your rage.”

“Rage, huh? Yeah, I guess I raged a little. Bill doesn’t exactly bring out the best in me.” Tom raked his finger through his dark hair. “But you can’t honestly believe I would harm Davy. He’s a good kid. Some days, he chatters nonstop about you. He’s got you up on a pedestal, but in all honesty, I don’t know why.”

Beth tried to step around him, but his arm shot out and blocked her exit. When she attempted to duck under, he grabbed her arm and held her.

“Let me go,” she spat, stomping her foot. “I don’t have to listen to this.” She tried to wrestle her arm free, but he had a firm grip on her.

“Oh, yes you do! You may not like what I’m going to tell you, but it’s for your own good, so pay attention.” He leaned closer to her so those in the classroom wouldn’t overhear. “Grow up. Ever since we sat down to eat, you’ve been pouty and rude like a spoiled brat. You sat through lunch with your pretty little mouth puckered up tighter than a pig’s asshole.”

Beth gasped.

He never slowed down. “I was surprised you managed to eat anything at all. Too bad, because the food was good. But your company wasn’t worth one thin dime.”

Beth began to protest, but he cut her off. “Now, I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine. I really don’t care. But you seem to forget there are parents of children you teach here today and you’re not making a favorable impression.” He watched her face pale. “So, little Miss Schoolteacher, I suggest you start smiling as if you’re having a wonderful time.” His lips turned up into a wry grin. “If I can pretend, so can you. Now, I’m going out to find Davy, and you needn’t worry about his safety. He isn’t the Patterson I feel like turning over my knee.” With that, he released her arm and he went in search of Davy.

Beth was stunned, then incensed. In all her nineteen years, she had never had anyone give her a dressing down like that.
How dare he suggest I deserved a spanking!
Beth clenched her fists.
Who does he think he is, talking to me as if I were a child? Well, I’m not a child!
She fumed, stomping her foot. She was the schoolteacher and deserved respect! Imagining he was still standing in front of her, she stuck out her tongue.

Then, as if doused with iced water, Beth put her hands to her flushed cheeks. She
was
acting childish, terribly so.

As much as she disliked the man, she hated even more how she behaved. If she kept this up, she
could
be fired and then where would she and her brothers be?

Straightening her shoulders, Beth returned to the classroom, determined to keep a smile pasted on her lips no matter what.

When Tom returned ten minutes later, dressed in dry clothes and with Davy perched happily on his shoulders, Beth had a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him and a slice of pie cut for Davy. She even managed to smile at him, difficult as it was.

Tom lifted Davy over his head and plunked him in his chair. “Okay, squirt, let’s dig into that rhubarb pie, shall we?”

She interrupted. “Before you do, Mr. Carver … Tom … It’s all right if I call you Tom?” She hoped that by calling him by his first name, he’d seem less intimidating.

He nodded.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. And you’re right.” Oh, how those words scratched her throat. “I have exhibited very poor manners, and frankly, I’m embarrassed by my actions. I owe you an apology. From now on you will see a far more pleasant and mature side of me.”

Tom smiled. “Apology accepted. Now, would you please join us in a piece of pie … or are you too full after eating so much crow?”

She wanted desperately to throw the pie plate at him.

• • •

While the women cleared the dishes and made yet another pot of coffee, the men rearranged the desks and brought up a couple of tables and a few chairs from the basement. Soon folks began playing crokinole and cribbage while others played whist. Some were happy just to sit and visit.

Though the afternoon had turned out differently than intended, Tom planned to spend the evening with Abigail, but before he could ask her for a game of crib, she was sitting with three other women, playing whist.

Earl called across the room. “Wanna join us, Tom? We’re playing partner crib.”

“You bet.”

Three quarters of an hour later, Abigail tapped on Tom’s shoulder. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”

“You’re leaving already? It’s early yet.”

“I know,” she answered quietly, “but I’m not feeling well. I think I’d better go home.”

Immediately Tom became concerned. “I’ll get our coats.”

• • •

On his way to the smithy the next morning, Tom stopped by Abigail’s to see if she felt better. Smoke rose from her chimney, indicating she’d at least been up to stoke the fire.

When she answered the door, she looked haggard and worn, and large dark circles shadowed beneath her eyes. “Tom,” she stated flatly.

“I knew I should have stayed last night to take care of you. Looks to me like you should still be in bed.”

“I’m all right. I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Can I come in? Make you some tea or something?”

She hesitated, then without a word, stepped back. Immediately Tom saw the trunks sitting just inside the parlor. “What’s this?”

“I’ve decided I’m going to Auntie Bets after all. She’s getting older and could use the help. Besides, it’s time I made a change.” She turned her back to him and knelt beside an open trunk, tenderly wrapping her treasures in tea towels before placing them inside. “It just isn’t going to work out for us.”

Tom was stunned. She was leaving town? What had precipitated her sudden decision? Suddenly it dawned on him. “Does this have anything to do with my getting Beth Patterson’s lunch yesterday, ’cause that was an accident. There is nothing going on between Beth and me, I swear.”

She closed the trunk lid. “Oh, Tom, I know that. You’re too honorable a man to cheat on me, but I also know you’ve been pulling away. We haven’t made love in weeks.”

“But.”
But what?
he thought.
You were planning on ending the relationship. So she did it instead. That shouldn’t matter to you, should it?
Tom sank into a chair, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor between his boots while a heavy blanket of guilt shrouded him. “I’m sorry. I should have given you more.”

She touched his shoulder gently and he lifted his head to look at her. “You can’t give what isn’t in you to give.” Her eyes were shiny with tears.

“I do love you, Abby.”

“I know, but there are many kinds of love.”

Tom nodded. She hadn’t said it in so many words but she meant that his wasn’t the marrying type of love. And she was right.

“Tom, we’ve had some wonderful times together, but now it’s time to move on. And I’m okay with that.” She opened another truck and continued packing knickknacks. “I’m going to auction off my furniture in the spring. It would cost too much to ship it back East, and besides, Auntie wouldn’t have room to store it. Until then, things can just stay here. I’ll write Mr. Lanson when I get to Toronto. He can make the arrangements for the auction and the sale of the house.”

She explained all the details, but Tom barely heard, his mind too numb to take it all in. “When are you leaving?” he asked.

“I’m catching this afternoon’s train. It’s better this way. Postponing it will only make it worse.”

He started to speak, but she stopped him. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. My mind’s made up.” Her voice quivered and a solitary tear trickled down her cheek. “Just go. Please.”

He nodded and slowly rose. His heart ached with sadness and shame, with a heaping load of self-loathing mixed in. He closed the door silently behind him.

Though not one to drink, he headed straight to the Star Saloon and rattled the locked door until Sam Churning opened it. “Tom, you know we don’t open till noon.”

He ignored Sam’s protest and pushed past him. When he leaned on the bar, Sam sighed and relocked the door. “It’s a tad early in the day to start drinking, ain’t it?” he admonished as he rounded the tall counter.

Tom stared at him with dull blue eyes. “I didn’t come for a lecture. I need a whisky.”

The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “Sure thing.” He set a glass on the bar and filled it to the brim with the amber liquid.

“On second thought, leave the bottle.” Tom downed his drink with one gulp. He shuddered, refilled the glass, and emptied it just as quickly. Bottle in one hand and his glass in the other, he headed for a table in the back corner.

Sam stacked chairs on the tables and swept up last night’s debris. Tom spent more time staring unseeingly at the bottle than drinking its contents. By noon, when Sam unlocked the door and flipped the sign in the window to open, over half the bottle remained.

The first customer through the door was Lewie Hanks. He dragged out a tall bar stool, perched himself on top of it and then slapped his palm down on the counter to get Sam’s attention. Sam ignored him.

“Hey, I wanna drink.”

Sam moved down the length of the bar and stopped in front of Lewie. “Sorry, Hanks. Your credit’s no good anymore. If you want a drink, I need your money first.”

“But I kin pay ya this afternoon when I gets paid.”

“You telling me you got a job?”

“Yup.” Lewie stretched his arms cross the counter to grab the far edge. “Widow Craig is paying me a buck to haul her trunks to the train station. She’s going back East today. Guess that blacksmith of hers knows more about shoeing horses than riding his woman. Boy, give me half a chance, I’d climb on her and show her what a man can do.”

In three strides, Tom crossed the room, grabbed Lewie by the collar and yanked him backwards, sending the bar stool rolling across the floor. Angrier than he’d ever been in his life, he spun Hanks about. It was all he could do to keep from smashing his fist into Lewie’s ugly face.

“Tom!” he exclaimed with a nervous laugh, his voice cracking. “I didn’t see you there.”

Tom practically lifted him by his collar. “You worthless piece of horse shit.” He ground the words out between his clenched teeth. “If I ever hear you talking like that again, I’ll make you regret the day your mother whelped you. Got that?”

Lewie nodded, his little head bouncing on his scrawny shoulders as if it were attached by loose hinges.

He pushed Lewie backwards over the bar, closing in until their faces were two inches apart. “Right about now,” he began, his lips forming a menacing curl, “I’d just as soon rearrange your ugly face as look at it. So get the hell out of here while you still can.” Then he spun him around by the shoulders and pushed him toward the door.

Lewie fell, then half scrambled and half ran out the door as if the devil was on his tail, but Tom let him go, returning instead to his table. Standing, he poured himself another drink and tossed it back, then threw some coins on the table before leaving. “I’ll be back. Save the bottle for me.”

He found Abigail in the back bedroom of her house. She seemed startled to see him there.

“I guess you were expecting Hanks,” he said, his words beginning to slur.

“Tom, you’ve been drinking.”

“You’re damn right. I may have resigned myself to your leaving, but I sure as hell won’t let that vermin Hanks see you off. Show me what needs to go.”

The minute the train pulled away from the station, Tom returned to the saloon. It was busier now, but a table was vacant and he claimed it. When Sam brought him his whisky bottle and a clean glass, he said, “When this runs out, bring another. I plan on getting stinking drunk.”

Throughout the day and night, other customers came and went, but Tom remained at his table. The more he drank the harder he was on himself.
You bastard, if Abigail was good enough for you to bed, she should have been good enough for you to wed. And if you had been a man of any decency, dammit, you would have made her your wife before you made her your lover.
Tom had always thought of himself as an honorable sort of guy. That was until today. Now he realized he wasn’t much better than Lewie Hanks. He shoved his glass aside and chugged straight from the bottle. By closing time, he had accomplished his objective. He was too drunk to stand.

After the other patrons were gone, Sam nudged him. “Come on, Tom, it’s time to go home. I want to close up.”

“Leave me alone,” he slurred bitterly, slumping forward in his chair. His forehead thudded into the table and his arms hung limp at his side.

“This is handy,” Sam growled. “Now how am I supposed to get you home?” He left Tom passed out at the table, locked up the saloon and headed outside to the back door of Betner’s store. Earl, dressed in his long underwear, answered Sam’s insistent knocking.

“Are you crazy, Sam? It’s two in the morning.”

“I know damn well what time it is, but I need your help. Tom’s drunk.”

“So what? Fife gets liquored up every time his mother-in-law comes for a visit. Toss him out. The cold will soon sober him up.” Earl started to close the door.

“Not Tom Fife. Tom Carver. Widow Craig boarded the twelve-fifty-five with her bags, and he’s been drinking ever since.”

“Damn.” Earl stepped aside. “Come in while I get dressed and then we’ll haul him back here.”

Whichever woke him first, the bright glaring light beating on his eyelids or the irritating clicking noise echoing painfully in his head, Tom wished they would both go away and leave him to his misery. Eventually the sunbeam took sympathy and slipped away from his pillow, but the clicking continued until he could bear it no longer. He opened an eyelid a slit, and across the room silhouetted against the window, he could see Mary sitting in a chair. Realizing the vexatious clicking was made by her knitting needles, he groaned and then slowly closed his eyelid. Even that amount of movement caused his head to pound. His mouth was foul tasting, as if he’d swallowed swamp mud. He ran his tongue across his lips. “Mary,” he whispered painfully, “for God’s sake, must you make so much noise?”