Timepiece (16 page)

A fine rain began to fall—a mist at first, which turned into a torrential downpour shortly before the ceremony. Few of the mourners held umbrellas or parasols, as rain in Utah was rare in December. David and MaryAnne stood uncovered, oblivious to the tempest. Mark raised his coat over MaryAnne and held it there the length of the service.

At the head of the cut patch of earth stood the same silver-haired priest who had presided at the wedding of David and MaryAnne four years previous, but his eyes reflected no memory of that happy day. An old man held an umbrella over him, shielding the clergyman from the rain. He raised a white book in his hands and the congregation bowed their heads. His breath froze before him.

“Oh Holy Father, whose blessed Son, in his love for little children, said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.' We thank thee for this merciful assurance of thy love, for we believe that thou hast been pleased to take unto thyself the soul of this thy child. Open thou our eyes, we beseech thee, that we may perceive that this child is in the everlasting arms of thine infinite love, and that thou wilt bestow upon her the blessings of thy gracious favor. Amen.”

MaryAnne stepped forward and, kneeling, placed a simple white flower on Andrea's casket while David held her shoulders. She quaked as the small wooden box was slowly lowered into the earth's cavity. There was a brief moment of silence before the priest dismissed the proceedings and David helped his wife to her feet. With wordless embraces, the crowd somberly filed past David and MaryAnne to pay their respects, then returned to the forgetful sanctuary of their own homes.

Officer Brookes sauntered into the bar, surrounded by the cold stares of contempt its patrons reserved for lawmen and bill collectors. Brookes was known in the tavern and, though not large of stature, had developed a reputation of being quick of gun and temper.

“Where's Cal Barker?” he shouted over the din. The room quieted, but there was no offer of the man's whereabouts. The officer walked over to a slovenly man nursing a tall brown bottle: Wallace Schoefield. He looked up at Brookes with a disdainful grin. His teeth were tobacco-stained and one front tooth was cracked sharp from a barroom brawl.

“Where is Barker, Wallace?”

The man leered at the policeman, then turned away, tapping his fingers on the slat counter. There were sudden footsteps behind him. Brookes spun around.

“Looking fer me?” Barker asked coolly.

“You're under arrest, Cal.”

“Fer?”

“You know what for.”

“Don't know nothin'.” His thin lips pursed in a confident grin. “It's my right, ain't it? To know what I've supposed to have done before I'm arrested for doin' it.”

“I'm arresting you for arson. And the murder of a child.”

Through the corner of his eye, Brookes noticed the surprise on Wallace's face.

“What child?” Wallace asked.

Barker stepped in front of Wallace.

“The fire set at the Parkin estate trapped their three-year-old daughter,” Brookes said venomously. “She is dead.”

Wallace turned to Barker, who, in turn, glared back at him, then at the officer.

“You can't come in here makin' accusations without proof. We hain't done nothin'. Don't know nothin' about what you're talkin' about.”

“You're under arrest,” Brookes repeated stolidly.

“I hain't going. Didn't do nuthin'. I have witnesses.”

Brookes lifted his gun to the man's chin, his eyes frosted with hate. “That's right, give me any reason, Barker. I have always wanted to kill you anyway.”

Barker looked into the man's fierce eyes, scowled, then walked out of the tavern ahead of the officer.

“There is an oft-misunderstood statement: ‘Misery loves company.' To some, it implies that the miserable seek to make others like unto themselves. But it is not the meaning, rather there is a universality in grief, a family of sorrow clinging to each other on the brink of the abyss of despair. . . .

“. . . I once heard it preached that pain is the currency of salvation. If it is so, surely we have bought heaven.”

David Parkin's Diary. December 17, 1913

Dark stratus clouds hung low and flat across the horizon in a gray, mournful pall. The naked and snow-gripped branches of the back estate bent in a frayed canopy to
frame the barren winter landscape. Even the sentinel evergreens seemed shaded in a toneless, dusty hue.

The roof of the gazebo lay shrouded beneath thick snow and the dead vines of rose bushes intertwined through the latticework of the structure, frozen and coated in ice. MaryAnne, cloaked in a heavy black bombazine shawl, sat motionless on the suspended swing as still as the clinging icicles that encircled her.

Catherine wrapped herself in a heavy wool shawl and followed MaryAnne's path to the gazebo. She kicked the snow from her pointed, high-laced leather boots and sat down next to MaryAnne on the still bench, breathing the frigid air that froze the nostrils as well as the exhalation. The two women sat at length in silence. Finally, Catherine looked over.

“Are you warm enough, MaryAnne?”

MaryAnne diverted her gaze and nodded.
Catherine looked ahead into the unending horizon of white, sniffed, then rubbed her nose. “I have tried to reason what to say that might be of comfort,” she said, her voice weak from emotion. “It is too lofty an ambition for words.” She fell silent again.

A solitary magpie lit on an ice-caked sundial, cried out into the gray winter air, then flew back into its cold grasp.

MaryAnne's eyes stared vacantly ahead.

“I have done the same,” she said softly. “I tell myself that she will live in my memory. There should be comfort in this.” She wiped her reddened eyes with her sleeve. “I should not say ‘live.' ‘Embalmed' is a better word. Each memory embalmed and dressed in grave clothes with a headstone marking the time and place as a reminder that I will never see my Andrea again.”

Catherine said nothing, but looked
somberly on, her eyes moistened with her friend's pain.

“There are things I do not understand about my pain, Catherine. If I had to choose never to have known Andrea or to have known her for one brief moment, I would have chosen to have known her and considered myself fortunate. Is it the unexpectedness that causes my grief?”

Catherine pulled her shawl up high enough to cover her chin. “How is David?”

MaryAnne swallowed. “I do not know how David feels, he says nothing. But I see the gray in his eyes and it frightens me. It is the gray of hate, not grief.” She shook her head. “It is not just Andrea's life that was taken from us.”

There was a moment of silence, then MaryAnne suddenly erupted in rage.

“Listen to me, Catherine! Our lives! My memories! My pain! It is all so selfish! One would think that it is I who had died!
Am I so consumed with myself and my own agony that I do not even know if I am mourning for what my little girl has lost . . .” She stopped, her mouth quivering beyond her ability to speak, and lifted a hand to her face. “Or . . . or what I have lost?”

Catherine closed her eyes tightly.

“The wretched fool that I am. Such a selfish, pitiful . . .”

Catherine grabbed MaryAnne's shoulders and pulled her into her arms. Tears streaked down both women's cheeks. “MaryAnne, no! Do not speak such! In what have you done wrong? Did not the mother of our Lord weep at the foot of his cross?!” Catherine pulled MaryAnne's head into her breast and bowed over her, kissing the crown of her head. She wept as MaryAnne sobbed helplessly.

“Oh, Catherine, my arms feel so empty.”

“Such darkness besets me. I crave MaryAnne's laughter almost as the drunkard craves his bottle. And for much the same reasons.”

David Parkin's Diary. December 19, 1913

An hour before sunset, Officer Brookes knocked with the back of his hand on the engraved glass of the front door of the Parkin home. Catherine greeted him.

“Hello, Officer Brookes.”

“Miss Catherine.” He removed his hat and stepped into the house. Looking up, he noticed MaryAnne, who stood on the balcony above the foyer silently looking down. He turned away from her sad stare.

“I'll get Mr. Parkin,” Catherine said without prompting.

David emerged from the hallway below. His face was tight and expressionless. He pointed to the parlor and Brookes
preceded him in. Once inside, David shut the door.

“Did you arrest Barker?”

“Yes, he's in jail. For now,” he added.

David looked at him quizzically. The officer rubbed his chin. “I am convinced that it was Barker and his men who set the fire, but there is no proof. There are no witnesses to the crime. At least none who will admit it. Barker has a half-dozen witnesses who claim that he and Wallace were playing cards at the time the fire was set.”

David fell silent for a moment as he digested the message. He leaned back against a cabinet.

“One thing more. Your Negro friend was severely beaten that same night—a couple of hours before the fire. Whoever did it left him for dead.”

David's jaw clenched in indignation. “Where is Lawrence?”

“He's being cared for at that colored
hotel on Second South. His face was swollen and it was difficult for him to speak, but he said something about a gold timepiece being taken. The one that belonged to Hatt's aunt.”

Brookes walked across the room and looked out the window into the crimson twilight. “We've got Barker in jail, but we are going to have to release him.”

“Can Lawrence identify who beat him?”

“The men were wearing hoods. But even if we could prove it was Barker and his friends, it still doesn't connect them to your fire. If someone don't come forward, there is nothing we can do.”

David felt a sickening rage blacken his mind. “There is always something that can be done,” he said half to himself.

A look of grave concern bent the policeman's brow. “I know you must feel the temptation real bad, Mr. Parkin, but don't you go taking matters into your own
hands. Your wife needs you. It won't do anyone any good.” The officer replaced his hat. “I'm sorry. I'll let you know if something happens. You never know. . . .” He walked to the doorway, then paused and looked back at David with a somber countenance. “Don't go doing something to make me have to arrest you. The injustice of this is already enough to make me vomit.”

When he had seen him off, David returned to the room and pulled a Winchester carbine from his gun cabinet. He took a pouch from the shelf below and slid two bullets into its chamber. MaryAnne suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“David?”

He turned toward her.

“What did he say?”

“He said there is nothing they can do. . . .”

MaryAnne quietly looked down,
cradling her forehead in her hands, then looked back up at David. “What are you doing?”

His eyes were granite. “What needs to be done.”

MaryAnne walked over next to him. “David?”