Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (3 page)

“Not much to pack,” Kick said.

“I think there’s more upstairs,” Maddie said, not really sure if it was true. They’d stayed at the house at least a dozen times, but she couldn’t recall it ever being so empty. Maybe it would seem different with more people inside.

Kick took a seat in the rocking chair. “I always liked this chair,” he said, pushing hard off the floor. Soon he was trying to see how far he could rock without tipping over, each swing squealing a little louder on the bare wood floor.

“Kick, stop it. Mother said no furniture.”

“Too bad,” Kick said, gracefully hopping out of the chair. “I’m going upstairs. You coming?”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

Kick stared at his sister for a beat and then jogged up the stairs.

Maddie glanced about the room, her eyes lingering on the rocking chair. She was glad they weren’t taking the furniture.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Maddie found her brother lying on the marshal’s bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Done packing already?”

“Look,” Kick said, pointing straight up. Maddie followed the direction of his finger to the uneven brown mark on the ceiling.

“What is it?”

“A leak. I mean, it was a leak—it’s dried up, now. But it must have been a good one to leave that big of a stain.”

“We should tell Gran’pa, make sure he knows.”

“He knows,” Kick said, smiling. “It’s right above his head. I bet it dripped on him while he was sleeping.” Kick tapped his forehead several times with a finger. He then stood up on the bed, never taking his eyes off the watermark on the ceiling, and spun to look at it from different angles.

“Looks like a witch from this side. Or maybe a cat.”

Maddie frowned. “You’re not supposed to stand on the bed.”

“I took off my shoes.”

Maddie stared at her brother, trying to mimic the glare she’d seen her mother use on more than one occasion.

“You ain’t Ma,” he said and dropped into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, which instantly propelled him into the air again and onto his feet directly in front of his sister. “Ma’s got crazy eyes.”

Maddie tilted her head down slightly. She was taller than Kick, just barely, but enough that when they met eye-to-eye he had to look up slightly.

“You’re supposed to do what I say,” she said.

“Says who?”

“It’s implied. I’m the oldest.”

“By three minutes.”

Maddie turned and walked away. “Not my fault you were born lazy.”

Kick stared after his sister. He could chase after her, try to come up with a witty retort, which Maddie would no doubt knock back at him, smarter and sharper … or he could see what else was hidden in the watermark above the marshal’s bed. Kick went limp and fell backward onto the bed.

“Hey, from this angle, it looks like a wolf.”

*   *   *

Joseph and the marshal arrived at the house to find few things packed. Kick had thoughtfully cataloged all the leaks, which he described for his grandfather in great detail. Maddie had managed to organize the kitchen, although she was quick to point out there was little in the way of edible food. Joseph had expected this, which was why he’d brought a few provisions from home. To the marshal, who had subsisted on Charlie’s cooking for half a week, day-old stew had never tasted so good.

The next morning, all were up with the sun to organize and pack the marshal’s belongings. He’d decided to bring only a few boxes of clothes, books, papers, and other artifacts of his years as a United States marshal. The rest would be stored in the attic. Anything too big to fit up the narrow staircase would stay where it was.

It was while his grandfather picked through an upstairs closet that Kick decided to ask the question that had been buzzing around his brain all morning.

“Did you really dig up a grave?”

The marshal popped his head out of the closet and stared at Kick, wondering if he’d heard the question right. The wide-eyed look on Maddie’s face suggested he had.

“Well, yes, I suppose I did.”

“Really?”

The marshal wondered who had told the kids, before deciding no one had. It was more likely one of them had overheard a conversation not intended for his or her ears, probably hers. Maddie would have told her brother, of course, and Kick simply wanted to know more. Who wouldn’t?

“Yup,” he said. “Several, in fact. Cracked open the coffins with an ax. Wasn’t hard; most of ’em were rotted through.”

Maddie was just as shocked as her brother, which was how the question escaped her mouth before she could stop it: “Why?”

The marshal hesitated. “I don’t know. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The marshal turned back to his search, leaving Maddie and Kick to work out a follow-up. Kick made a gesture with his hand, suggesting they should press a little more. Maddie shook her head.

“Of course,” said the marshal, poking his head out of the closet. “Probably best not to talk about it, least not around your folks. It makes your pa uncomfortable—ghosts and such.”

Both kids nodded.

“How about you get up to the attic, see if there’s anything worth rescuing ’fore we fill it up with the rest of this junk.”

“Sure,” said Kick, bolting up the narrow staircase on the right side of the closet. Maddie lingered for a moment and then followed her brother up.

The marshal waited until he could hear both kids moving around above before allowing a wave of anxiety to wash over him. He was forgetting something again, something important. It was closer this time. He thought the answer was in the house. He’d find it.

Someone would.

*   *   *

Joseph twisted the rocking chair around the turn at the top of the stairs and placed it in the corner where it fit snuggly against the sloping roof. With barely five feet of clearance at its highest point, the attic was also a tight fit for Joseph. Despite his superior senses, he’d already banged his head twice on the same overhead beam. If Kate found out—and she would—he’d never hear the end of it. Joseph started back down the stairs, but stopped on the second step, where his six-foot frame could stand without hunching over. He rubbed the back of his head.

“Still hurt?” asked Maddie.

“A little. How goes the search? Find anything interesting?”

“There’s a very nice saddle, but I assume that’s going to stay.”

“It is.”

“Everything else is old, broken, or both,” Maddie said, flipping open a large chest. “It’s too bad these dresses weren’t stored better, because some of them are very pretty.” Maddie held up a long yellow dress. The color was still vibrant, but the edges were frayed and the fringe had been eaten away.

“Those must have belonged to Martha,” Joseph said.

“I thought so.”

The twins had never met their grandmother. Joseph had known the marshal’s wife only briefly before she died, and at the time he was not the kind of man most mothers sought for their daughters. Still, she’d treated him fairly, some might say generously. Joseph hoped he’d paid her back in kind.

“How about you,” Joseph said, turning to look directly at a stack of boxes. Kick popped up from his hiding spot, a mischievous grin on his face.

“I found some more leaks. Oh, and this…” Kick picked up a small wooden box about eighteen inches wide and twelve inches deep. The top had decorative vines carved around the edges with a rose in the center.

“What is it?” Joseph asked.

“It’s a box.”

“Yes, I mean what’s inside it?”

“Oh,” Kick said. He flipped open the lid, revealing a cloth-covered interior but nothing else. “It’s empty.”

“Bring it here.”

Kick stepped over the clutter and passed the box to his father. It was heavy, probably too heavy for an empty box. Joseph ran his fingers across the lid, letting the carvings tell their story. He’d never encountered the box before, but knew right away that the marshal had made it. He recognized the cuts in the wood as coming from the same hand as had made the mirror frame hanging above Kate’s dresser. Joseph raised the lid. Most of the aromatic information stored within had been released the first time Kick opened the box, but Joseph could still pick out a single, earthy scent beneath the musty wood, and maybe one more—the ocean.

“See? Empty,” said Kick. “If the marshal doesn’t want it, can I have it?”

Joseph closed the lid and handed the box back to his son.

“Ask him.”

*   *   *

The marshal stared at the box in his lap. He didn’t have to open it to know what was inside.

“I’m sorry, Kick, but I can’t let you have this. Belonged to your grandmother, and I think your ma might want it.”

“Oh.”

“She used to keep seashells in it. I don’t know what happened to them.”

Kick’s eyes lit up. “I do! There’s a pile of shells up in the attic.”

“Well, why don’t you go collect ’em. If you see one you like, keep it. Maddie, too.”

“Thanks, Gran’pa,” Kick said, and darted back up the stairs.

The marshal turned his attention back to the box. He opened the lid and ran a hand along the cloth until he felt it give a little. There he pushed down, releasing the hidden latch that held the false bottom in place. The second lid lifted slightly, revealing a dark compartment. The marshal knew what lay inside. He hadn’t forgotten.

The marshal pressed the bottom back into place and closed the lid. He then unspooled the belt from his waist and wrapped it around the box, securing it tightly. It would come with him to Portland and he would never open it again.

*   *   *

Charlie arrived just before one o’clock with a horse-drawn cart and a basket of biscuits from which everyone sampled, but no one returned for seconds. They loaded up a half-dozen boxes and the saddle the marshal had refused to leave behind despite Joseph’s protests. The Wyldes didn’t have a horse, but the marshal felt that was a poor argument against owning a quality saddle.

A few neighbors stopped by to wish the marshal well, none of whom mentioned the business in the graveyard. Walter Peterson even returned the shovel and ax, which Joseph placed in the shed without comment.

An hour later, the marshal stood at the rail of the
Alberta,
watching Astoria fade in the distance. As the last hillside home vanished from sight, he felt a weight lift from his heart. It was as if the top button of his shirt had loosened, his belt unbuckled, and his boots kicked off—all at the same time. He felt good, relaxed, happy.

Joseph leaned on the rail next to his father-in-law.

“You’ll be back.”

The marshal shook his head. “No, I don’t think I will. But it’s all right. I should have done this a long time ago.”

Joseph smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“So am I.”

The two men stood silently at the rail for a time, enjoying the sun on their faces, the brisk air, and the sound of the river churning in the wake of the boat.

*   *   *

Were you to ask any resident of Astoria about May 17, 1887, he or she would have told you it was lovely. The sun shone brightly, hinting at the drier-than-usual summer to come. The fishing was excellent, the best it’d been in weeks. The Second Bank of Astoria opened for business, founded largely on “amber” gold. In short, it was a good day to be in Astoria.

It was a good day for all but one longtime resident who suddenly felt a huge weight fall upon him without warning. This man, a fellow of barely seventeen years, had never known such a feeling, had never felt such anxiety. With it came a memory of a day long since buried in the deep recesses of his mind.

And he remembered everything.

2

The Port of Portland was the busiest in the Pacific Northwest, second only to San Francisco in overall West Coast water traffic. For a time, it seemed Seattle with its expansive sound and natural shipping lanes would become the region’s capital of commerce, but the discovery of vast firestone deposits in western and central Oregon had changed everything. The city’s inland location and ready access to the deep waters of the Columbia River assured the amber rush would run through Portland.

Most of Portland’s waterfront property was not on the great river proper but rather on the banks of a prime tributary, the Willamette. A tri-city vote in 1861 had folded East Portland and Albina into the city, stretching it across the Willamette and south to the Tualatin River. The friendly annexation, coupled with the surge of immigrants and fortune seekers, helped Portland quadruple its population in less than twenty years. By 1887, nearly sixty thousand souls claimed the title “Portlandian,” many of whom saw their new home for the first time from the water.

In the 1870s, the arrival of a large steamship would have been an event most residents turned out to see, but by the end of the next decade, dozens of the big steamers were arriving every week. Smaller, passenger stern- and paddlewheel steamers coming from all points on the Columbia docked at the waterfront by the hour. The metropolitan harbor could accommodate a dozen riverboats and on many days its berths were filled to capacity with eager souls searching for a new life in the Northwest.

The irony was that passengers usually found it drier while on the water. The downtown streets regularly flooded during the spring thaw and when not swamped offered only muddy passage around the larger puddles. The steam-powered streetcars that were supposed to alleviate the public’s transportation woes ground to a halt when the water reached its normal April levels and sometimes stayed stuck in the mud until June. Newer construction—of which there was plenty—required raised sidewalks by city ordinance, although whether a few feet of dry would be helpful was hotly debated among longtime residents. In truth, the locals liked it wet. Most owned small dories or canoes for the wettest days and had little trouble navigating the raised scaffolding and planks that stretched across the streets like so many makeshift bridges. It was said that all one needed to survive the spring in Portland was a raincoat and a good sense of balance.

Kate Wylde was more than capable of traversing the slender downtown walkways, though on this morning her feet had actually touched ground on more than one occasion. Three days of sunshine and moderate temperatures had forced the floodwaters to recede slightly, which was not welcome news to those counting on the rain to keep the city floating through the annual Portland Rain Festival. Muddy roads and sunny skies were not welcome on a schedule of events that included cloud spotting and canoe races. For her part, Kate was not displeased by the appearance of the sun, but a strong sense of civic pride meant she hoped to see the rain return, perhaps tomorrow or the day after that.