A Time for Everything (22 page)

Shrugging from his embrace, she took
two steps away — just out of reach — and said, “Thank you for your
kindness. I’m tired, so I’ll retire for the evening. Goodnight,
Harry.”

“
Goodnight,
Portia.”

The disappointment in his voice made
her wince. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, went back
inside, up to her room, and shut herself away from the
world.

~~~~

April 27, 1866

Dear Ellen,

Oliver Clemons is an
insufferable fool. He had the nerve to say black children didn’t
deserve to be educated. He even challenged me to teach Sallie Mae.
If the occasion arises, then mark my words, I will do just that.
Lydia’s pointless chatter is almost as intolerable as her father’s
hatefulness, but at least it’s harmless. I think Mr. Stanford
confronted Mr. Clemons after that first horrid display, because
he’s been quiet over supper ever since. I should probably thank
him, but I’m not sure how or if it’s proper to do so.

To show my gratitude, I am
putting extra effort into my work. Jonny and I are having lunch and
drawing lessons by the creek when the weather allows. He’s not as
interested in art as I hoped, but he confides his troubles and
dreams with me, and I’d not trade that for anything.

Lucy and Bessie are taking
on most of the housework themselves, but I’m pitching in when I
can. The gladiolas and daffodils are in full bloom, so I arranged a
centerpiece for the dining room table. It seemed to brighten
everyone’s spirits, even Mr. Stanford’s. He remarked that the table
hadn’t looked that nice in a long time. He smiles more often now,
though I’m sure Miss Clemons is responsible for the change in his
demeanor. No matter the cause, he seems happier, so I’m happy for
him. I hope his good spirits will lead him to pay more attention to
Jonny.

In the evenings, I am
joining the other ladies in the parlor to knit blankets and socks
for Miss Clemons’ charity. I think she is really sincere about it,
though she is planning monthly brunches and socials for their
‘meetings’. So long as the items go to a good cause, I don’t
concern myself with what she does. My priority is Jonny’s
education. He is such a bright and sweet boy…

~~~~

Saturday arrived
with
a bright blue sky and not a cloud to
be seen. Jonny escorted Portia on another riding lesson, which led
them along a trail that looped around the property. They ended up
at the top of a hill, surrounded by tall cedars. Portia could see
the entire town from there. She started to comment on the gorgeous
view when high-pitched giggles drew her attention back to the base
of the hill. Through the papery tree trunks, she caught glimpses of
Lydia’s yellow silk dress atop her horse. Beau’s hat bobbed in and
out of view beside her.

“
Let’s go,” Jonny said,
mouth puckered and eyes narrowed at the two riders below. He kicked
Jack with more force than usual, and the pony took off at a fast
trot down another path that wouldn’t intersect his father and
Lydia.

Portia kicked her snail of a horse
into something like a trot and followed after him. She wished she
could reassure him that everything would work out as it should, but
how could she? Uncertainty still hovered all around her, making the
future clear as mud.

Before she could coax the horse more
than a few yards, something wet dripped on her cheek. She wiped it
away. Thick, gooey liquid the color of molasses coated her
fingertips. Flies buzzed around her face. She shooed them with a
sweep of her hand, but a smell wafted in — the odor of decay,
blood, and burned flesh.

The horse lowered its head
to graze on whatever grew beneath the tree. Every bit of moisture
evaporated from her mouth, and though her mind screamed,
“
Don’t look, don’t look!”
her eyes drifted upward toward the treetops,
where a pair of feet spun in a lazy circle over her head. They were
bare and attached to a dead man. Another drop of blood hit her
forehead.

She screamed. Her horse reared, and
she fell backward, trying to grab hold of the reins, the saddle,
the horse’s tail, but she caught only air. The ground met her back,
knocking the wind from her lungs. Her horse galloped down the
trail, passing Jonathan. He turned his pony around to come see
about her.

Worry shrouded his face; he slid off
his pony and rushed to her side. Pushing herself up on her elbows,
she waved at him to get back. She tried to tell him to stop, but
she wheezed instead.

Jonny hit his knees. “Are you
hurt?”

Portia shook her head. Her eyes
flicked toward the body above them. Before she could stop him, he
looked up. A second later, he twisted away from her, fell on all
fours and wretched. Beau and Lydia galloped up the trail, bringing
their horses to a stop ten feet away. Without noticing the corpse,
Beau flew off the saddle and ran straight to Jonny.

Falling to his knees mid-run, he slid
the last few inches to his son and put his hand on his back. “What
happened?”

Beau pulled out his handkerchief as
Jonny coughed up the last of his stomach’s contents. He wiped
Jonny’s mouth and helped him up to his knees. In a rustle of silk
and petticoats, Lydia caught up with him.

“
Jonny — what happened?”
she asked in a breathy, shocked whisper. “Mrs.
McAllister?”

Portia pushed herself to a sitting
position and pointed upward. Beau and Lydia both turned their eyes
to the hideous sight in the tree. Lydia let loose a banshee’s
scream, both her arms making an X in front of her as though the
dead man might fall to the ground and come after her.

Beau took another look at the body.
Then he helped Jonny to his feet. Arm around his shoulders, he led
him away toward their horses and to his blonde houseguest. “Lydia?
Lydia, look at me. It’s just a dummy. Probably soaked in pig’s
blood.”

The breeze picked up. Portia dared a
look at the corpse as it swung lazily back and forth on its
creaking rope. Suppressing a gag, she finally noticed the crudely
stitched seams down the legs, sewn-together toes, and farther up,
the stuffed head adorned with only a stitched mouth curved upward
in a taunting smile. She tore her eyes from it and focused on
Beau.

He ran his hands up and down Lydia’s
arms, speaking in the calm, soothing tones he’d used with the
spooked filly. “Take Jonny to the house. Send Isaac out here.
Understand?”

Her pretty head gave a quick nod; she
put her arm around Jonny’s shoulders and led him to Jack. “Follow
me, Jonny, all right? Don’t look back.”

Once the two of them set off down the
trail, Beau hurried to Portia. He held out his hand and helped her
to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

“
No, just had the wind
knocked out of me. I’ll be fine.”

He held her hand for a few seconds.
When he released it, her eyes released the tears she’d been holding
back. She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her cheeks,
refusing to look at the ugliness she had discovered.

“
Why, Beau? Why would
anyone…?”

“
I don’t know, but I
intend to find out.”

~~~~

Crickets chirped
and
tree frogs answered the nocturnal roll
call as midnight closed in. Sitting on the front porch steps, Beau
waited for Harry. Like most Saturday nights, his closest friend was
out late doing God knows what. The lantern flickered softly beside
him, its wick turned as low as possible so as not to attract
attention. He rested the side of his head against the porch railing
but jerked awake at the sound of horse hooves on the drive. A few
minutes later, Harry staggered toward him. Beau turned the dial on
the lantern to raise the wick; light flared out to illuminate
Harry’s unsteady feet.

Wearing a grin fit for a possum, he
slid to a sudden stop about three feet from the porch. “You waitin’
up for me now? Am I in trouble, Pa?” The words wobbled from his
drunken mouth.

Without a sound, Beau got up and
carried the lantern to the cart he left in the drive. He reached
for the man-shaped lump lying in the back, picked up the corner of
a thick horse blanket, and threw it back. The bloody effigy they’d
found earlier that day smiled back with its nightmarish stitched
mouth.

Harry stumbled back, waving his nose
and coughing. “Shit, did you kill somebody?”

“
No, but I’m about to if
you don’t tell me why this dummy was hanging in a tree on the
riding trail.”

“
I don’t know nothin’
about that nasty thing. Why you askin’ me?”

“
Because when Isaac and I
cut it down, we found this on it.” He held out a blood-dampened,
wrinkled note.

Harry came close, snatched it out of
Beau’s hand, and retreated as far as he could. Holding the paper at
arm’s length into the lantern light, he squinted at the messy
handwriting, eyes growing wider as the seconds passed. He dropped
the note and smacked his forehead, fingers forking through his
unruly hair.

“
I… look, I’ll talk to
’em. Tell ’em I need more time. I’ve been savin’ up some
money—”

“
Who is it, Harry? Who’s
got you cornered this time?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down,
and he shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“
Pack your things and get
the hell out of here.”

“
What? Where am I gonna
go? Nobody around here gives a whit about us ‘Yankees’, and if I
leave town without paying… they’ll do worse than that, and they
won’t stop with me. They’ll get their money however they have
to.”

“
I swear to God, if Jonny
or anyone else gets hurt, you’ll wish it was you in that
tree.”

“
I know, and I swear I’ll
pay ’em. If I had a little cash to start with, that would settle
them down some.”

Beau removed his hat and waved it at
Harry to keep from knocking his teeth out. “Do you have any idea
how much trouble you’ve gathered since we came back? No wonder the
folks in this town have no respect for me or you. They see you
stumbling around drunk and on morphine when you ought to be working
’til your fingers bleed like the rest of us.”

“
We could sell that fancy
horse Lydia brought you.”

“
No one in Tennessee would
give us what she’s worth. We’ve talked to Deputy Bandy. He’s lent
me a couple men to patrol the place. Only trouble is, I’ve got to
compensate them for their trouble. The little bit I had saved for
Portia’s pay now has to go to them. So no, Harry — you’re not
selling my stock, and you won’t pilfer through the house this time
either. This one’s on you.”

Eyes wild and scared as a deer in a
hunter’s sights, Harry nodded. “I’ll put my calves up for sale on
Market Day. They’ll bring enough.”

“
And until
then?”

“
I’ll sell the
flintlock.”

Muddled as Harry’s mind was, Beau
never thought he’d let go of the only thing he had left of his
father. The house he’d grown up in had sold for lumber long ago,
the land long since parceled out. He’d kept very few mementos of
his dead parents, and most of those he’d already sold for one
reason or another. But that pistol he’d kept shut away in a special
case he’d handcrafted himself. It was the sole resident of a shelf
above the head of Harry’s bed. He never spoke of his folks, but
Harry’s memories were tied up in that Revolutionary War artifact
passed down through generations of Franklin men.

Beau looked at the dummy in the cart
and spat on the ground. “You should keep it.”

“
What do you expect me to
do, then? I ain’t got anything else.” Harry sounded sober and
helpless, his voice sharp with desperation. “I’ve never had
anything much to my name, so what’s one gun?”

Underneath the self-pity, Harry’s
shame came through loud and clear. Most folks would have thrown him
out a long time ago. But blood or not, they were brothers. Beau
didn’t abandon him on the battlefield, and his conscience wouldn’t
let him abandon him now. He’d provide a roof over his head, but he
had to make Harry face his own problems and deal with
them.

“
Fine, do it tomorrow.
Now, get your ass in the house and sleep it off.”

Harry scowled— probably feeling more
sorry he’d been caught than for what he did — and walked to the
house. Quietly, he climbed up the steps and went inside. The note
skittered across the drive in the midnight breeze. Beau caught it
with his boot, dug his heel into it and tried to smash it from
existence. But the proverbial threats were already planted in his
mind.

To Mr. Franklin:
The rich rules over the poor, and the borrower is
the slave of the lender. Slaves who won’t repay their debts are no
good to their masters. You have one week.

He got in the driver’s seat of the
cart and hauled the thing into the fallow field he couldn’t afford
to sow and set it on fire. Flames danced, eating through the fabric
and crackling the hay stuffing. Smoke curled ever upward, polluting
a perfect night sky sprinkled with silver stars.

Hands in his pockets, he stared
blindly at the inferno. His conscience slumped under the
Atlas-sized burden of protecting his family. He wouldn’t sleep
again tonight.