Daughter of Australia (23 page)

“Alex? Psssh! We've kept you too sheltered, I'm afraid. A man must have a few harsh veins, my dear. He's not a man otherwise.” His tone grew stern. “You're young in more ways than years, Leonora. Some decisions are better left to your aunt and I.”

She looked at him, aghast. “Are you trying to force me to marry him?”

“No. Of course not.” Owen moved his gaze pensively over the buildings. “I can't force you to marry anyone. It's 1917, not 1617, after all.”

She put her hand on his and sought his eyes. “I'm sorry I've let you down, Uncle. But I've made up my mind.”

He turned to her, his face deep with pity. “It won't stop, Leonora.”

“What won't stop?” she asked, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

“Eleanor's obsession to get you married. She can and will make your life very, very miserable.” He sighed deeply. “This is important to her, Leonora. You marrying Alex. She will take away everything from you, dominate your life until you're clutching the first proposal that comes your way, just to escape. Alex is a good man. The next offer might not be as promising.”

She cringed at his words, the truth of them, knowing her aunt's wrath. Even worse was her uncle's passivity, as if he had nothing more to do with her treatment than the paint on the wall.

Owen read her thoughts, the soft parts around his eyes wrinkling, aging him. “I'm a weak man, my dear—weak when it comes to my wife. I love her, Leonora.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “There are things about your aunt that you don't know—things about her past, about what she has endured in her life. I don't think you could ever imagine what she's been through.” He shook his head. “She would die if I told anyone and I'll keep her secret to the grave. Even from you, I'm afraid.”

His eyes moistened. “I'm only sharing this with you because I would do anything to keep her happy. Anything. When she is upset, she panics and the old memories flood her.” Owen combed his beard with his fingertips. “I'm not a fool. I know she hasn't made life easy for you. She can be cruel. If you don't marry Alex, I won't be able to protect you.”

You've never protected me!
Her head swirled; her stomach hurt.

Suddenly, his whole figure transformed. He chuckled and seemed at peace again and she couldn't keep up. “My dear, life is about compromise. It's all about choices, weighing the benefits against the losses. It applies to business but works equally well in relationships.” He paused, his eyes boring into her. “If you agree to marry Alex, I am prepared to offer you something in return.”

The gears in her mind sped. What could he possibly offer that would make her change her mind? “The hospital?” she sputtered. “You think I would agree to marry Alex just so I could continue working at the hospital?”

He laughed heartily. “You dear girl! I'm talking about holy matrimony! Working eight-hour shifts cleaning bedpans? Huh! That would hardly be a fair trade. I never understood your devotion to begin with. No, I can offer you something much bigger, more important, than that.”

She shook her head, frustrated, tired of having her brain manipulated. Then he shifted again like the phase of the moon and stepped toward her, placed his palms on her cheeks. His voice came out very soft. “Don't forget I
know
you. I knew you before you became my niece. I know your history.” His eyes burned. “I know where you came from.”

Panic filled her. The mere mention of the subject chilled her blood. Her eyes blinked and she wanted to run away, the fear completely automatic after a lifetime of threats.

His voice quaked with remorse. “We took so much from you, dear child. But I can give you something back.” He pleaded, “If you marry Alex, I can give you a piece of your past. A part of you that you lost . . . that we took away from you so long ago. I don't believe you will be disappointed.

“Remember, with Alex you have a chance, a real
chance
at happiness.” Owen pulled out his gold watch, checked the time. “Just think about what I've said. The choice is yours.”

M
rs. Shelby peered out the window, her jaw dropped in horror. “Fire.”

James and Tom stepped closer, followed the trail of Mrs. Shelby's gaze in the twilight. They all knew the direction from which the smoke came.

“Damn fool,” she whispered. “With this dry he'll set the whole bush ablaze.”

James grabbed his hat.

“Let Tom go!” Mrs. Shelby ordered.

James shook his head. “I'm going. Alone.”

Mrs. Shelby looked at him a moment and nodded, then reached behind an old squatter chair for the rifle. “Shoot it twice if you need us.”

James took the gun and strapped it to his saddle with the whip, then set off down the dirt road, the dust clouding the Shelby homestead.

The dry had lasted and marked signs all along the route. Stingy grass held green near the roots while the tips gave up and dried to razor points. Where puddles had once formed under the ghost gums, cracked earth now veined. Hoofprints paved the trail with bumps, for the trek of the beasts to find the deepest water holes had lengthened.

James focused ahead to the smoke billowing white and swirling under the stars, clouding their points. The smell of charred wood strangled the air. The horse raised and lowered her head. James clicked his tongue, moved the horse at a trot past the rows of dead fields, the forgotten stalks blue in the moonlight that defined the O'Reilly property lines. He rode past the rusted plow, tilted on the edge, inert since the day the drinking began so many years ago.

The growing smell of flames signaled the fire was beyond the ridge. Black smoke mixed with black night; orange sparks rose and flickered. A small sigh left his lips. It wasn't the house. Flames would have licked the sky; the sound of cracking beams would have reached him by now. He crested the next ridge and touched the gun to make sure it was still there.

A few minutes more and the house became visible. The misery of the shack and the poverty of his childhood sank down to his heels. One half of the shack was black as night; the other glowed, illuminated by the bonfire. The horse stepped back with the heat and James dismounted, tying her to a tree. The gun showed hot with reflected flames. He reached for it, then took his hand away and walked empty-handed toward the fire.

Junk lined the ground under and around the fire—bottles, a flat tire, a hand drill, a broken chair. A wheelbarrow lay on its side, the front wheel in the flames.

The screen door slammed. Shamus stumbled out of the house, his arms filled with pots and spoons and hand towels up to his chin. He walked right up to the burning pyramid and dumped it on top, hardly flinching from the raised flames. He turned back to the house.

“What are you doing, Shamus?” James asked from the shadows.

The man turned and peered blindly past the light. “Who's that? Who's out there?” Then with a laugh, “Couldn't be me dear lost boy, could it?” Shamus walked toward the flames. His face lit white, his eyes dark rimmed and black. His beard hung scraggly against his neck.

James fought every urge to turn back and walked forward until he faced him.

“There he is! Surprised I ain't starved yet, eh?” Shamus opened his arms to give James full view of his body, his clothes dirty, his shirt ripped at the stomach. “What? Took me wife, now checkin' t'see if the ol' man's still 'ere?”

James bit his bottom lip and looked heavily at the man he didn't recognize. He held no more anger toward Shamus, only a rough pity. “Let's put the fire out, Shamus. I'll make you some dinner. Help you get cleaned up.”

“ 'Twas ye who killed her, ye know!” Shamus growled, and stomped closer. “Only fittin' ye help burn her memory.”

The sparks reflected in the man's dark, wet pupils. The smell of him—drink, vomit and excrement—was hard to stand. James turned his face away.

“Can't face it, can ye? Can't face what ye done, boy! But I'll remind ye, I will!” Shamus stumbled backwards, turned and hurried back to the house, returning with a bureau drawer between his arms. He threw it on the ground and bent forward, his body almost falling with the gravity. He held up a book. “Brontë shit! Last words she heard 'fore ye killed her.” He threw the thick volume onto the flames and reached back to the drawer. “See these photos.” He fanned them across his face. “Dead. Dead!
Dead!
” Shamus screamed, and flung them onto the fire.

“Stop it!” James went to grab the pictures, but they were already curling in flames. His breath came quickly now and his fingers folded into his palms, his nails cut into the skin.

“So, am I finally gonna see some fire from ye, son? Eh?” Shamus beat at his chest, clawed at it. “Come on, boy! Show me if ye turned a man yet.”

James closed his eyes. “I'm not going to fight you, Shamus.”

“Fight me? Huh! Fight me?” he screamed into the night. “With yeer sissy hands? I beat ye till I was too tired t'move me arm an' what ye do? Fight back? Naw! Ye laid there like a hacked chicken!”

The anger shook him, shook him so hard that his muscles nearly broke in two. “I'm not going to hit you,” James exhaled the words, a command to his own hands.

Shamus glared at him, his top lip twitching. Slowly, he reached back into the drawer and held up a small black book. “Well, well! Finally found it!” He laughed and raised the book in the air, waving it back and forth. Flames highlighted the gold lettering. James froze.

“Yeer precious Bible! But it ain't the word o' the Lord, is it?” Shamus opened the book and thumbed the pages with dirty fingers. “ 'Tis the word of yeer whore mum!”

His mind went black. James lunged for the book, struggled to pry it from the man's claws. But Shamus was a man possessed, fought till his arm was free to chuck it to the fire.

“No!”
James pulled it from the flames, tossed it to the ground, kicked out the embers.

Shamus laughed, held his side. “Stomp it all yeer like, she's still burnin' in Hell!”

The fire of anger moved to James's chest, thrust down his arm as he pushed the filthy body away. Shamus wobbled on his feet, stepped back, lost his footing and fell into a pile of trash.

James held the book tight in his hands, squeezed it to calm his pulse and stop the rage pulsing through his veins. He walked to the horse, tucked the damaged book into the saddlebag, then removed the rifle. He pointed high into the air and shot—waited a moment—shot again. The sound reverberated through the night. He wrapped the rifle back into the whip, his energy sapped. The anger left with the crack of the gun and all that remained was weariness.

James walked around the fire to where Shamus lay. “Get up.” He lowered his hand to pull him up, but the man's arms stayed still.

James knelt down and slapped the man's hairy cheeks. “Get up, Shamus.”

James reached under Shamus's head, curving the man's limp neck. A long sucking sound came from under his hair. A gush of warmth flowed over James's fingers, ran down his wrist and into his sleeve.

James dropped the man's head and fell back. A square scrap of wood lay next to Shamus's ear, the pointed nails black and dripping. “No.” James looked at his hands, red and tightening with drying blood. “No!”

Blood flowed in a black puddle toward his boots and he scooped at the horrid liquid, pushed with his fingers to stop it, grabbed Shamus's head to force it back in. “
God, no!
”

Shamus's face tilted distortedly to one side, staring at him with faraway eyes. James let go, dropped the head into the ground with horror, crawled backwards on his palms to get away from the blood that chased him. His hands convulsed as he raised them to his face, covered his eyes. But the smell of iron blood was too strong and he pulled his hands away, rolled them into fists and shoved them under his legs.

The fire snapped and burned near his right shoulder; on the other side, his body shivered with the cold body sprawled only inches away. “
No
.” James crossed his arms at his knees, pressed his forehead hard against them and closed his eyes to the fire, the blood and the death.

 

“Stand up, James.” Mrs. Shelby had her arms around his shoulders. He didn't know how long she had been talking to him, how long she had been there. He looked up suddenly at her face, her steady eyes. “Get up, son,” she said softly.

James stood slowly, his legs cramped. The smell of smoldering fire and wet wood was everywhere. He noticed the pile of debris smoking behind her, the staring moon. He remembered where he was and the nightmare slid back. He jerked his head around, but Shamus's body was gone, a dark rust stain etched in the dirt.

Tom came around the corner to his mother's side, a shovel in his hand. He didn't look at James, asked quietly, “Where you think?”

“The far field.” She pointed with her chin. “Put the plow on top t'keep the animals away.”

Tom stepped behind the house and Mrs. Shelby put her arm around James again. “Tom's takin' care of it. Makin' it go away.” She tried to walk with him. “Let's get you home.”

James stayed rigid and looked at the spot again. He turned to her, his throat raw. “I pushed him.” He blinked with the memory, flexed his hand with the feel of pulling at the book, pushing Shamus in the chest. “He burnt everything. Her pictures. Everything.”

James saw his hands, brown with blood up to the elbows. “He fell. But . . . there were nails,” he rambled. “I didn't mean to . . . tried to stop the bleeding . . .”

“James . . .” Her voice was distant, came from a far tunnel.

“He fell on the nails . . . the blood.”

“Look at me, James.” Mrs. Shelby's voice was soaked with tears and he looked up and met her eyes. “You did not do this!”

He shook his head, but she squeezed his shoulders. “Listen to me, James. Listen to me! Shamus died the day Tess did. He was just waitin' until his body caught up.”

“I shouldn't have left him,” James muttered. “I should have helped him.”

“You couldn't save him, James. That man had only one ending comin' to him. This,
this!
” she cried, and pointed to the bloodstain. “Was an accident. That's all. Shamus was gonna end his life one way or the other. Through drink or gun.
This
was not your doin'.”

Mrs. Shelby pulled him to her, pushed his head against her shoulder and hugged him. “This ain't your doin', son. This ain't your doin'.”