chapter 63

*Juliet*

Though it had come early with the whiteout squall Sam and I’d had on the Isle Royale, the winter started out like any other. Children and adults alike brought their snow gear out of the cedar chests and armoirs and prepared to salt the streets and sidewalks.

Driving was a bit more treacherous, but we’re used to this inconvenience, and with Julia still at home another year before kindergarten, Sam and I had only rare occasion to leave home anyway, weekly for mass and once a month for groceries and pantry staples. And it wouldn’t be the winter season without a few cold-weather aggravations as far as we were concerned. 

True to his word, with nothing else to do on the farm, Sam tore our bathroom apart and built a fine vanity with double sinks and a GE Textolite countertop. He made a special trip to the city and brought home and installed shining polished chrome fixtures with ceramic handles with a delicate floral pattern in them.

By Halloween, he’d moved the toilet, isolating it with its own privacy wall and opened up a bunch of space in the center, just like the bathroom in our state room on the steamer. Though he wanted to replace it with one of the new contoured tubs, I love the clawfoot one that’s always been in the house, so we compromised and he updated the fixtures to match the ones on the sinks.

Local school-age children had returned to school, including Junior, and for a while, this worried Sam a great deal. But when Halloween rolled into Thanksgiving, with the boy serving at the alter during Father Brennan’s services and living with him at the rectory, it seemed, outside the realm of an abusive household, Junior’s ill-behavior was not merely reduced, it completely stopped.

In fact, he was strangely serene and composed, attentive to his duties at both school and the church, and altogether as well-adjusted as one might hope for a child growing into a young man.

If November had felt like we were winding into another frigid winter, with children scarved and tightly bundled against the cold and frequent but mercifully brief snowstorms with little accumulation, December dawned unseasonably warm, with most nights not even dropping below freezing and many days above fifty and in the week leading up to Christmas, even in the low sixties.

“Sam?” Descending the stairs with Julia, I glance about the living room, decorated with evergreen boughs and ribbons, hand-made decorations, sisal bows and fragrant with dried clove-spiced oranges and cinnamon sticks. “Where’s Daddy gone?”

“I’ll find him!”

Julia darts away, racing through the dining room into the kitchen and I pause at the entry closet to get my wrap. The dried yellowed grass is visible since there’s no snow and a confused crocus has poked its head up from the soil in the tree ring beneath the maple out front.

“Mama! He’s over here with Ajax.”

Trailing behind her, I spy Sam through the mudroom window, his arms crossed over his chest and surveying the fallow fields thick with the stubble of corn. I can’t help but smile seeing him incline his head down and talk to Ajax. As I draw close enough, I can see our leggy shepherd sitting calmly beside him, his long nose tipped up, one ear not yet strong enough to stand of its own and flopped over, the other sticking straight up as if he was signaling a continuous right turn.

When the door opens, both turn, Ajax immediately trotting to me, his tail wagging eagerly. “Are you ready?”

“Let me grab a jacket.” Sam hurries in, crowding me and the dog in the mudroom as he closes and locks the door. “We’ll go out the front. It’ll be less muddy on the grass.”

Slipping my hand into his, I let him lead me through the dining room, Julia and Ajax running ahead of us. “What were you saying to the dog?”

“Not much that’ll make much difference. I was complaining. It’ll be hard to plow those stalks under if they don’t get some moisture to start them breaking down over the winter.”

We reach the entry and I wait with one hand on the front door knob as he grabs a light jacket from the entry closet.

“Are we taking Ajax?”

“Stew and Alice never mind. Do you not want him to go?”

“That’s fine.” Sam crowds closer, but I don’t budge. “Ready?”

I blink once innocently, then roll my eyes skyward and fix them on the red-ribbon bedecked bundle of mistletoe hanging above us.

“Mmmm,” he grumbles approvingly. “How could I forget?”

Wrapping both hands beneath my jaw, Sam tips my head up and presses his lips against mine. A lazily stirred heat radiates out of him making me feel warm and lightheaded. His tongue probes at the seam and I open my mouth to his. There’s the faintest rocking of his body against mine in the slow sensual rhythm he favors during sex and his tongue seeks mine, withdraws and seeks again, over and over in arousing mimicry and I melt against him, yield eagerly.

“Mama, we’ll be late,” Julia warns in her small high voice. “The big hand is on the four already.”

Releasing me, Sam glances at the mantle clock. “So it does. We’d best hurry, shouldn’t we? Wouldn’t want to miss Charlie Brown.” Sliding his hand down my arm, he wraps his over mine on the doorknob. “Come along, Mrs. Hammond.”

Nuzzling my neck as the door swings open and Julia darts through with Ajax on her heel, Sam whispers, “We’ll revisit this later.”

*Junior*

At a knock at the bedroom door, I turn from the chair at the desk. “Yes, sir? Is there something I can do for you?”

The elderly Father Brennan opens the door only part way, peering around it, and smiles to find me at the desk with the reading lamp on, the Bible open in front of me. “No, Jack. I’m retiring for the evening, so I’m turning the heating down—you might want to grab a blanket against the chill—and lights out at nine. We have things to prepare at the church tomorrow, bright and early. Only by the work of Grace can we be worthy of our Lord.”

“Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Jack.” Closing the door behind him, Father Brennan shuffles down the hallway to his room and a few seconds later, I hear the door click closed.

It’s taken some time to convince him I’m trustworthy and get folks to calm down around me, and some, like my father and uncle, even to an extent, Bill Gregor and Sam Hammond, still watch me like a fox does a field mouse before it pounces.

But most folks believe I was exorcised of a demon—a succubus, in fact—and restored by God’s grace to ‘sanity’. Under Father Brennan’s watchful eye, I continue to make progress towards a fully pious life.

Of course that’s all a bunch of utter malarkey.

Father Brennan snores so loud a thirty-two car train going full speed could drive through his bedroom and he’d never wake, and since he must be about three hundred years old and acts like it, he goes to bed very early and seldom wakes during the night. Even when he does, he doesn’t check on me anymore.

So slipping out or slipping Mary Ellen in is no difficulty. With as warm as the weather’s been, it’s easy enough to take Father Brennan’s car because he can’t tell the difference between old tracks and new ones on the grated drive. I just take the back roads and turn the lights out before I pass anyone’s house.

I don’t bother with the window anymore either—I give the decrepit old coot enough time to really get going sawing logs, then go right out the back door and over to the old barn Father Brennan uses now for his car.

Mary Ellen’s already there looking bored and kind of stupid like she always has and sitting on an overturned bucket low to the ground. She’s got that damn rucksack over her shoulder, so I’m sure I’m in for another round of her nonsense about leaving tonight, but maybe if I get to her fast enough or kiss her on the mouth, I can shut her up about it.

“Took you long enough,” she snaps moodily and gets to her feet as I stroll in.

“I come as soon as Father Brennan’s asleep. You know that.” I sidle up beside her, run my fingers over the visible peak of a nipple on the high tiny breasts she’s only now at seventeen beginning to have. “Would you rather I go back inside and leave you out here alone?”

“Ow!” Mary Ellen slaps at my hand, flinching away. “Don’t do that. I told you they’re sore.”

Pushing her against the barn wall roughly, I shove my hands under her wrap and grab them with both hands, catching the tips between my index and second fingers. She gives a whimpering groan—the kind of sound I really like—and I press hard against her, growing excited in my trousers. “I know what you told me. You still liked what I did to ‘em with my tongue though, didn’t you?”

“Jack, stop.” Pushing me away, Mary Ellen pulls her wrap tighter and starts walking towards the exit. “I told you, I’m leaving tonight. The train stops at our station at nine to pickup the outbound and deliver the inbound mail. I’m getting on it.”

Grabbing her arm, I yank her to me. “You are not. Stop playing this game. It’s boring.”

Shrugging me off her, she spits back, “It’s no game, Jack. I can’t stay here and have people know about this baby. It won’t take much to figure out it’s yours either—this place is too small. I’m going to the city.” She gives me her best puppy dog eyes. “Come with me,” she pleads.

I turn away in frustration, walk back to the bucket and take a seat. “For God’s sake! Will you stop with that, Mary Ellen!? You been carrying on about a baby for over two months now and you still look like a broom somebody left bristles up and hung a dress over. There’s no baby. And I’m not leaving.”

“Oh, I think you will,” she menaces, fixing me with a glare. “You want to keep these, you’ll be coming with me.”

At the far end of the barn, she dangles the tattered shreds of the stockings and soft cotton panties I stole off Juliet over the summer and kept hidden in the barn at my uncle's house. Before I can shut my fly trap from the surprise, Mary Ellen darts out the door. Leaping up from the bucket, I tear after her, determined to recover my prize.

For a girl in long skirts, Mary Ellen can haul and she's nimble as a fox zipping through the trees, lit up and easy to see by the high bright moon, so I have a hard time catching her before she’s made it the half mile from the back of the priest’s house to the train tracks.

The train depot—if that’s what you call the tiny wood structure nearly sixty years old and painted along the sides with the township’s name—is another quarter mile along the tracks to the north, but it’s not Mary Ellen’s plan to go there. Her plan’s to wait for the train to stop and slip into an open boxcar out of sight of the engineer, conductor or the trainmen. Which means she’s stopping here, just out of sight in the trees.

She ducks as I try to tackle her, and I see the train’s headlights coming along the tracks as I wheel and pivot. “You give me those back!” I demand.

“You’ll get them back when we get to the city.”

We both dart into the trees to avoid being seen as the engine pulls along the tracks, the brakes screeching and the train hissing as it slows to stop at the depot. Spotting an open boxcar as the engine goes by, Mary Ellen dashes out alongside, racing towards the car’s door.

Only she’s not going faster than the train. As I race along the tracks after her, I see what she can’t—some damaged protruding board coming at her fast from behind.

“Mary Ellen! Stop!” But it’s the wrong thing to say, because she does stop, then turns and a couple seconds after, the board hits her hard, flinging her away from the train to crash bodily into the broad trunk of an old oak.

Her eyes are glassy and fixed open and she’s already slumped to the ground by the time I reach her and squat beside her. Though she doesn’t look much different from the front than she usually does, there’s enough light from the moon to see the back of her head isn’t right and a dark stain’s seeping into the back of the patterned wrap she’s wearing. There’s no breath when I press my finger under her nose.

“Oh God.”

In shock, I roll backwards onto my seat, staring at her still warm corpse gradually crumpling to one side. Behind me, the train comes to a halt and I hear the crunching of the trainmen’s feet in the gravel around the tracks as they check the train.

“The siding’s come loose on car sixteen again!” a man’s voice shouts. “Get me a hammer, will you?”

Ignoring them, I stare at Mary Ellen, spying Juliet’s undergarments trailing out just a bit from the pocket of her skirt. Rising, I snatch them to me.

“Hey! What are you doing there?”

A bright beam of light whips towards me, catching me full in the face, and in that second, I realize, the trainman has seen me, hovering over Mary Ellen’s dead body and they’re going to think I killed her. Balling Juliet’s clothing in my hand, I flash into the forest, running as fast as I possibly can.

*Sam*

Beside me, Juliet hums It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year, the opening song from the Andy Williams’ show we just watched on the television at Stew and Alice’s. It’s shot against a scrolling painted winter backdrop as Andy drives his singing crew in an open truck towards a festively decorated picturesque studio town, complete with paper snowflakes, buildings draped in green garlands and a Salvation Army Santa ringing his silver bell beside his donation kettle.

Andy Williams is one of the singers Juliet loves most, with his ice cream smooth tenor and ever-present smile. The show was his Christmas production for his weekly series on NBC, and featured not only his parents, but his wife, Claudine Longet, the French singer-dancer-actress, his siblings, the Williams Brothers as well as the Osmond Brothers. The show’s full of corny jokes, dancing toy soldiers and candy striped mints, and my wife loves especially when Andy and his father play the piano.

“You should sing My Favorite Things,” I suggest. “You’d certainly do a better job than Claudine did.”

“What? Not a fan of the breathy accent, Sam?”

“I’ve seen and heard enough French women in my lifetime. And why would I want to listen to her when I could listen to my angelic wife sing?” Leaning closer, I kiss Juliet’s cheek, then Julia’s head, where she’s asleep on her mother's shoulder. “Did she even watch any of Charlie Brown?”

“I don’t think so. Between Stew and Alice’s brood and Ajax and the ball, I don’t think she was in the room more than a few minutes.”

“At least she had a good time.” On the far side of the seat nearest the door, Ajax is curled into a ball, sleeping too. “They both did.”

With no snow on the ground, the three mile trip from my brother’s house is quick, and I pull the truck as close to the veranda as I can, hoping to avoid the mud again.

“Why don’t we all get out this side? Should avoid tracking dirt in.” Opening the driver’s side door wide, I reach for Julia and hand Juliet the keys, then help her out. “Ajax.” I give a soft whistle and walking along the bench seat, he leaps out onto the ground before trotting over to the shrubbery and doing his business. “Come on, you,” I call, taking the steps carefully to avoid jostling my sleeping daughter.

Finished with his business, Ajax bounds up the stairs and skids to a halt, his hackles rising and his eyes fixed down the veranda towards the porch swing and where it turns to go around to the mudroom. A low growl issues from him. Both Juliet and I pause, peering into the impenetrable darkness and seeing nothing.

My eyes may not see what Ajax does, but my instincts agree with him. Something is out there, watching us.

“Get inside, Juliet.”

Immediately, she inserts the key, working the lock and quickly opening the door. “What is it?”

“Probably an animal. As warm as it’s been, the coyotes and bobcats can hunt for animals foraging the fields. Don’t let Ajax out by himself and keep an eye on him in the morning.”

We’re no sooner inside with Juliet locking the door behind us than Ajax gives a louder growl, his lips curled as he peers into the darkened dining room. Handing Julia to Juliet, I open the entry closet and retrieve a safetied pistol from the upper shelf. Releasing the safety, I chamber a round as quietly as I can and flip on the lights.

“Stay right behind me,” I whisper to Juliet. Easing forward with Ajax I move room to room through the downstairs, checking everywhere a person might hide.

Fortunately, there’s no one.

Relaxing a bit, I have my wife wait downstairs while I check the upstairs thoroughly, then return to find her humming quietly to Julia, rocking back and forth in the kitchen.

“Nothing?” she asks and I shake my head. “Must be an animal. It smells a bit musky. Maybe a skunk was by.”

I make one more thorough check of all the windows and doors, locking them, then putting on the safety, I remove the clip and the round and put the pistol back on the shelf in the entry closet. “Here. I’ll put her to bed.” Reaching for Julia, I make one more circuit of the downstairs, turning out the lights, then lead the way upstairs.