Mud Creek (16 page)

His father peered out at Violet, then at Albert where he dawdled like an idiot, emasculated by Violet and trembling with unleashed fury.

“Let it go, boy,” his father counseled. “She’s not worth it.”

Albert yanked away and stormed to the front room, pacing until his father left, too. He pressed his back to the wall and slid to the floor, wondering how he’d get even with the two Pendleton sisters. What on earth was he to do now?

Helen was out behind her house, watching a flock of geese heading south. They were a dark stain high up in the sky, and there had to be thousands of them.

She supposed they’d end up somewhere hot and warm, and she wished she could sprout wings and fly with them. The notion of picking up and leaving never ceased to hold its appeal.

It was a cold September afternoon. The wind whipped at her hair and coat, and big, fluffy clouds drifted by. Whenever they passed over the sun, the temperature plummeted, and she shivered.

The seasons were definitely changing. That morning, there had been frost on the ground, and the barrel at the corner of the roof, used to catch rain runoff, had had ice on the top. She’d had to smack through it with her fist in order to draw out a bucket of water.

The previous day, it had spit snow, providing her first genuine evidence that winter really would arrive. It would come soon and be brutal and last for a long time.

She sighed. They’d be trapped inside. Together. For months. How would they survive it?

The timbers of the failed barn raising poked out of the grass. Walt and Albert had tried to finish the job, but they weren’t carpenters. There would probably never be a barn on the ranch. Who would help build it?

Since the fateful evening of Violet’s transgression with Bob Dudley, James had stopped by for a few brief and difficult visits. Albert wouldn’t speak to him, and Walt was grimly courteous. Still, he persisted, dropping off venison from a deer he’d shot, bringing a bag of potatoes he claimed Mary didn’t need.

But no one else had called on them, and they’d received no invitations to any autumn social events. Who could blame the neighbors? What wife would want Violet within a mile of her husband?

James always found a quiet moment to ask Helen if she was all right, and she always answered that she was fine. Which was the truth, more or less.

Violet hadn’t left, and Albert hadn’t chased her away. He ignored Violet
and
Helen, being so furious that he’d taken to sleeping on his parents’ sofa.

She and Violet lived in the cottage—without him there to bark and criticize. She saw him at meals, but not many other times. He was tersely polite, but they had little to say to each other, and Helen was actually glad that he stayed away from her.

There was no marital duty to suffer at night when she was exhausted. There were no fights afterward, no recrimination for Helen when Albert couldn’t perform as he’d intended.

Though she assumed his animosity would wane, she didn’t imagine they’d ever share a bed again. Not after Violet had told him that she was aware of his humiliation.

Helen sighed again.

She’d pulled a knife on her husband. It was a shameful, bizarre memory, and she was still trying to comprehend her behavior. She didn’t know if she’d have stabbed him, but she’d been so enraged by his slapping Violet that any aggressive reaction might have occurred.

She’d altered into someone she no longer recognized, had grown tough and violent and impatient with those who were weaker than she was.

What would become of her? She was sliding down a perilous slope, and she couldn’t slow her descent into new territory. When she finally hit bottom, what kind of person would she be?

She’d been doing laundry, a row of undergarments strung across the line. The last petticoat was yanked down and tossed into her basket. She lifted it and started around the cottage.

She had to put the clothes away, then walk to Florence’s to cook supper. With the shorter days, the men came home earlier, so the meal had to be ready earlier. Then they’d sit in the front room, playing cards, reading or sewing, with Helen or Florence occasionally playing the organ she’d brought from New York.

But music delivered no joy to the household. There were too many undercurrents swirling. Too much animosity.

She’d separated herself from Albert as much as she was able, but she couldn’t escape Violet’s destructive presence. She didn’t talk to her sister much anymore. Violet had caused so much trouble, had created a breach in the family, in Helen’s marriage.

The neighbors hated them. Helen’s husband hated them. And Violet didn’t care.

She carried on as if no one’s opinion mattered, and to her, no opinion did. That was the sad, exasperating part. How could you reason with someone who had no shame? Whose moral compass was broken?

On top of it all, Violet and Walt had developed a strange relationship that worried Helen very much. They often strolled off together after dark, with Violet accompanying Walt when he slipped out for a smoke. They’d return much later, with Violet giggling and looking beautiful, her nose and cheeks rosy from the cold.

Walt looked different, too, younger, less severe.

Helen didn’t pry into what was happening; she couldn’t bear to know. Albert had noticed the odd friendship—his disgust was clear whenever they sneaked out—but he didn’t interfere, either.

They were perched on a powder keg, and the slightest spark would ignite their whole world.

As she approached her door, Carl and Robert were arriving home from school. They’d been attending for the past two weeks. They rode out before dawn, making the six-mile trek across the prairie to the tiny schoolhouse.

They waved, and she waved back and went inside.

She’d just finished folding the laundry when frantic footsteps pounded in her direction. She glanced out as Carl raced up, his expression panicked.

She hurried to meet him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s Ma.”

Helen’s heart plunged to her toes. She hadn’t been up to check on Florence since breakfast. After Helen’s fight with Albert, it was awkward to sit in the kitchen and pretend all was well. Florence’s attitude toward Helen hadn’t changed. She was pleasant and patient and intermittently crazy, but Helen felt terribly guilty, as if she should be blamed for Violet’s scandal.

Even though Violet was the miscreant in the entire, sordid affair, Helen knew what Violet was like. She should have restrained her sister, should have prevented any mischief, but she hadn’t, and she had to keep reminding herself that it was Violet’s disgrace and no one else’s.

If Florence was having difficulty, when Helen should have been watching her, it would be another reason to rue and regret.

“What’s wrong with her?” she inquired.

“She’s bleeding all over. She cut herself with Pa’s razor.”

Helen was aghast. “
Cut
herself?”

“Robert says please come quick.”

“Yes, of course, I will. Let me get my coat.”

She dashed inside, grabbed it and, on the run, stuffed her arms in the sleeves.

“Where is she? In the kitchen?”

“Yes, she’s seated at the table.”

“Was she like that when you walked in?”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention what had upset her?”

“Just…about the graves and the wind and such—like usual.”

They neared the house, and Helen slowed. She didn’t want to burst in like a madwoman, didn’t want to frighten Florence or her two sons.

She reached over and ruffled his hair.

“Don’t be afraid,” she murmured. “We’ll figure it out.”

She hesitated, then tiptoed into the kitchen, and alarm flashed across her face. There was so much blood! On Florence’s skin, on her dress, on the floor.

Swiftly, she wiped away any sign of dismay. She was the adult. Carl was ten and Robert twelve. She had to calm them. She had to take charge so they’d believe she had the situation under control. Even if she was terrified.

Robert had already found some towels and was pressing them to the worst of the cuts. Helen joined him, kneeling next to Florence on the opposite side.

He was a good boy, pragmatic, trustworthy, competent in a crisis.

Helen nodded at him, struggling to offer visual support.

“Everything will be fine,” she insisted.

“Sure it will,” he replied, glancing away, his doubt obvious.

“Florence,” Helen chided, “what have you done to yourself?”

“The wind was just blowing and blowing,” she responded.

She seemed quite lucid and assessed Robert and Helen as if she had no connection to them, as if they were nursing some other injured, deranged female.

“The wind was bothering you?” Helen said.

“Yes.”

It was no explanation, at all, unless maybe the perpetual sound had pushed her past her limit.

Helen peered over at Robert. “We need to fetch your Pa. Where are he and Albert working today?”

“I think they went to Mud Creek.”

“So he should be on the road from town.”

“Yes.”

She looked up at Carl. “I want you to saddle a horse and ride toward Mud Creek.”

She wasn’t certain she should send him after Walt, but then, she wasn’t keen on having him stand and observe as his mother bled to death.

“Yes, I can do that,” he solemnly stated.

“Ride as fast as you can. Find your Pa and tell him to hurry.”

“I will.”

He dawdled, shifting from foot to foot. He was scared and miserable and in desperate need of a hug, but there was no time.

“You go on now.” She pointed to the door.

“What if I get all the way to Mud Creek, but I don’t see him?”

“Then you turn around and come home.”

“Would you rather stay with Helen?” Robert asked him. “I can go.”

Carl considered, then shook his head. “No, I will.”

He ran out, and shortly, they heard him galloping away.

Once he’d left, the silence descended, and the horror settled in. Florence had nothing to say and neither did Robert. Helen made bandages from the towels, and they had an effect on the smaller cuts, but the deeper gashes continued to ooze.

Footsteps approached from outside, and she and Robert braced, expectant, but it was only Violet. She’d been out wandering, as was her habit. Helen had no idea where she went and didn’t care enough to inquire.

She peeked in, noted the grisly scene, and wrinkled her nose.

“What happened?” she queried.

“Florence is a bit distressed,” Helen answered.

“Distressed? Is that what you call it? Looks to me like she’s slashed herself to pieces.”

Helen’s fury soared. “Get out of here, Violet.”

Yet Violet didn’t leave. She leered at Florence. “Are you feeling better?”

“Violet,” Helen seethed. “Stop it!”

Violet smiled—as if the sight was funny—and Helen wasn’t about to let her taunt and snipe. Not when Robert was present and listening to her every word.

She stood and shoved Violet out the door.

“Go away and don’t come back unless I tell you you can.”

Violet snickered and sauntered off. As she departed, she muttered, “The crazy old bat. I can’t believe she had it in her.”

“Go!” Helen snapped.

Violet glared over her shoulder and shouted loudly, so Florence would hear, “Can you imagine what Walt will say, Florence? Have you thought about that?”

She laughed and kept on.

*    *    *    *

James had ridden into Mud Creek with Mary, and they were almost home when they saw Carl Jones cantering toward them. He was bent over the saddle, hurtling along, so he didn’t notice them.

It was late in the afternoon, the sun dropping in the western sky, but Carl was alone.

“What is wrong over there now?” he grumbled.

Mary shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Could be anything.”

Carl neared, and as he reined in, it was obvious he’d been crying. He swiped his cheeks with his sleeve.

“Mr. Blaylock! Am I glad to see you!”

“What’s happened, Carl?” James said.

“It’s my mother. She’s in a state.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“She…took a razor to herself.”

“She was cutting herself? With a razor?”

“On her arms and hands. She’s in a bad way.”

James tamped down a curse. “Who’s with her?”

“Helen and Robert.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Pa and Albert went to Mud Creek today. I was hoping to find them.”

“I don’t think they were in town, Carl. We were just there, but they weren’t.”

James fought off a shiver of dread, picturing Florence and her appalling deed. Helen was there with Robert. The boy was steady and reliable, but he was only twelve. Helen had to be frantic with worry.

Gad, what if Florence had killed herself? If she’d succeeded, James couldn’t leave Helen to deal with the consequences on her own.

He was tired and loathe to pass the entrance to his ranch, loathe to continue on to the Jones’s place where he would have to intervene in another mess. But he could hardly ignore the crisis.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said to Carl. “Mary and I will ride to your house to check on your mother.”

“Would you? I’d really appreciate it.”

“And you’re coming with us. It will be dark soon, and you shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”

“Helen told me to fetch Pa.”

“I doubt she’d mind if you cast your lot with me.”

“I will then.”

Carl’s alarm was palpable, and at James taking charge, he slumped with relief.

“I’m not certain you’d have found Walt in Mud Creek,” James said, “even if you made it all the way.”

“We couldn’t decide what else to do.”

“It was a good plan. We’ll assess the situation for him and get it under control for when he returns.”

He looked at Mary, silently inquiring if she’d accompany him. Florence was courteous to Mary, but Walt and Albert were spiteful and cruel.

If she refused, he wouldn’t blame her, but she liked Helen and Florence. And where their neighbors were concerned, she was as much of a fool as James. She couldn’t stand idly by when others were in trouble. It wasn’t part of her nature.