Quiet Dell: A Novel (56 page)

“The town will not blame him, or the family. See her words, there? The whole town, towns around, I shouldn’t wonder, went to the funeral . . . at the home. Respect. They did not believe him guilty of anything. He was visited by misfortune.”

“He believed himself guilty. That is clear.” Eric paused, as though to be certain. “He said, ‘I knew it then,’ but what did he know?”

“Wasn’t it ‘God help me, I knew’—or words to that effect?”

“Yes. As though he knew things he should have told, or could not tell. But the phrase implies not what Wilko did, but what the son did, before Wilko saved him that day in the lake, and afterward. He didn’t send the boy to the Midwest until Harm was eighteen.”

Emily let the dog jump down to his basket under her desk, and moved her hand across the page. “A suicide cannot repent, in most religions. It’s as though he sacrificed himself, in shame or despair or—”

“Or he simply couldn’t live with what he knew, and took the burden with him.” Eric folded the clipping and note back into the envelope, and held it out to her. “What will you do with this? You will tell William?”

“Of course, but not today.” She put the envelope in her purse. “Oh, Eric, it’s quite odd. William and I are meeting at the children’s
graves in Park Ridge. The footstones, with their names and dates, have been set. It seemed long enough after, that the graves might be quietly marked.”

He took her hand. “Have you been there, since the service? No need to answer; I see it in your eyes. Not often, I hope.”

“No, but I have no church but St. Luke’s graveyard. I take Duty there, near Christmas, in thanks for Mason. And on her birthday.”

“You mean, Annabel’s birthday. Which is?”

“It is today.” She was putting on her hat, a straw hat with a brim, and a light sweater, for the warm afternoon was cloudy.

“Emily, let me take you for a drink, or a coffee. Don’t rush off, into all this.”

“I must. We have an appointment. William will be waiting.”

“Then I’ll walk you to the train, and ride out with you, and take the next train back.”

“Eric, not necessary. But you may walk us to the train, and if we have time, there’s that outdoor place in the Loop, just by the station.” She gave him Duty’s leash, and the dog ran before them.

•   •   •

The station in the Loop was a mere three blocks. They tied the leash on a café chair and Duty claimed his own cushion. Eric insisted on coffees with shots of whiskey. They sat with steaming cups and doll-size glasses.

“It’s a beautiful day, really, just brisk enough.” Emily looked above them, at the lifted canopy of a fenced tree. “A day with such news must be windblown, to give one hope, to compensate.”

“Emily, what we cannot know, we must accept. It is the end of the story.” The dog rested his head on the table. “You see? Duty rests. Coffee, Emily, but first the whiskey, together.”

They touched glasses and drank, one go.

“It’s good that you’re leaving tomorrow, Emily. The timing couldn’t be better. You remember we have a date at nine tonight; Charles and I will be collecting Duty and his baggage.”

“Oh yes. The visit to the graves is a brief ceremony, of sorts. It’s very pretty, the graveyard, wooded and small.”

“If I remember, it’s just across the park from William’s several acres. You’ve never seen his wife, or the house?”

“Nor do I need to. Catherine is his first obligation. I benefit by the man he became, in loyalty to her.”

“It’s a bit too Mr. Rochester for comfort.”

“Not at all, Eric. He says she’s very placid, like a child, doesn’t know him, doesn’t speak, anymore; it’s the course of the disease.”

“He’s lucky in that, at least.” Eric took her arm. “Don’t listen to me. It’s no one’s luck; it just is. What happened to her could happen to any of us. He’s lucky in you, and Mason, and he knows it. You’ll stop off to visit Mason at school, on the way to New York, and the crossing?”

“Yes. A train to Mason, then on to New York. William has business in Paris. We’ll take Mason for a month, in the summer. You and Charles must come and stay.”

“We shall, cousin.” He leaned back in his chair. “As for school, I feel responsible, as the alum who suggested the place. Mason does like it, doesn’t he? He tells me so.”

“Are you surprised?”

He clasped his hands. “I try not to have expectations. We can’t imagine what it’s like for him, or where he came from.”

“I know exactly where he came from.” She saw for a moment, very clearly, the snowy alley behind the Gore. “And you were there, Eric, with us.”

“That was our passage, one world to another.”

“Perhaps. I’ve come to believe it is one world, as they say. Mason worked very hard with his tutors. And thank you again for coming with us to the interview, when he applied.” She tapped Eric’s shoe with hers. “And your pistons helped, of course.”

“Pistons should be good for something, other than turning crankshafts.”

“We agreed he’d give it a year, and he’s thriving. He never had friends, boys his age. A Chicago classmate of William’s teaches
Latin there; we hear they’ve already moved Mason up a class.”

“And with Paris . . . French will come.” Eric shrugged, playful, and grew serious. “I know you wanted him nearby, but I think the school will serve him.”

“He does write descriptive letters; I save them, and phone him once a fortnight. I miss him, of course.” She drank her coffee. “Eric, I must go.”

“I know you must, but truly, this interlude is my comfort.” He lifted Duty down, gave Emily the leash, and kissed her, both cheeks. “I’ll see you this evening. That’s a lovely dress, by the way. It so suits you.”

She only smiled, and took his hand for a moment.

•   •   •

She walked from the Park Ridge station, enjoying Duty’s familiarity with the streets, fences, corners. They walked past the Eicher house, though Duty no longer stopped there, and two blocks on, to the parklike cemetery opposite St. Luke’s. It was always quiet and empty, well tended by invisible hands, for she’d never seen anyone here but William and herself. She reflected that she was wearing her wedding clothes, the only wedding clothes she might ever wear, and was quietly happy. It was private between them; they’d agreed not to plan their vows, but to say the words that came to them, and to size in advance the rings they would exchange, both family possessions that required no purchase. She could see him the moment she came in through the gate. The graves were not far along the little road. He stood to meet her.

•   •   •

Nearly a year ago, William had arranged that a simple stone bench be placed under a tree near the graves. They sat there now, Duty at their feet, and turned toward one another.

William took her hands.

“Emily, I saw you there, at the edge of a dark place. I loved you then but could not dare hope. There was no time, yet you stood to meet me, in that office where years of my life have disappeared,
and I knew that every passion within me would find answer.” He slipped the ring onto her finger. “This sapphire ring was my mother’s, and I choose it for you because the star within it, always visible, is so like you, the reason for my life, and the truth within me.”

She kissed him once. She’d thought words might elude her, but they came easily. “William, I shall stay with you forever. Mason is ours; we will make a chance for him, a life. I will help you uphold your responsibility to Catherine. If she dies before you, we will marry. If you die before her, I will not attend your funeral, nor will Mason. We will grieve together, for we love you deeply, abidingly, always. How strange life is, that goodness might assert itself, insist on existing, begin from such a terrible thing, in such a dark field.” She saw him through tearful eyes and put the ring on his finger, a man’s gold band with an onyx stone. “This was my grandfather’s ring. It is yours, that we may lead long lives together, in a heartland of our own.”

He gathered her to him, his forehead against hers. “Shall I kiss the bride?”

“Yes, please.”

A sprinkling rain began. Sheltered under the pine, they looked into the woods. Old gravestones carved with illegible words stood amongst the trees, leaves and vines trailing near. Not speaking, they stood and walked a few steps to the children’s graves. The small footstones were white marble, fitted to the earth, and the grass upon the graves a paler green, the soil still slightly raised. Duty dashed forward, rustling the fallen leaves. Emily, her eyes blurred with rain and tears, saw wafting movement in the trees opposite, a flash of white. She thought of a child playing, but of course no child was here. Duty ran into the thicket, where the younger growth left patches of clearing, as though to follow.

They called for the dog, and began walking through the woods, among the gravestones. They could hear him nearby, running through layered leaves. Emily glimpsed again some white scrap amongst the young trees, moving weightlessly as though blown about. Then nothing, only the lovely thicket itself, full of wild growth and saplings the wind had planted. The trees’ thin, wand-
like branches nearly met overhead, intermingled greens barely tinged with color.

“There,” William said, and took her arm, for the ground was wet and the leaves slick with moisture.

Duty sat, as though waiting for them, half upon a dirtied piece of white cloth. William bent down to retrieve it. “It’s a scrap of something. See here, it was hemmed once, along this edge.”

Emily took it from him. It was silk, so worn she could see her fingers through it. She held it to her throat, then folded it in half and tied it to the limb of a young birch.

“A flag to mark our way,” she said.

He took her hand, and they turned to go.

Only four characters in
Quiet Dell
are wholly invented. Lavinia Eicher, beloved grandmother, proponent of “dreams that see past us,” and Emily Thornhill, modern professional woman, are homage to my own loving, intrepid mother, Jane Thornhill (Phillips), who first told me the story of Quiet Dell. She was six years old when her own mother walked her past the scene of the murders: “a dirt road in the hot sun, lined with cars on both sides as far as I could see, and people taking the place apart piece by piece for souvenirs.” Randolph Mason Phillips, imagined orphan gifted with a new life, is offered in loving remembrance of my father, Russell Randolph Phillips, whose Randolph County grandparents gave the land for Phillips Chapel and Phillips Cemetery in Coalton, West Virginia. Eric Lindstrom, journalist whose (then necessary) secret life in no way impedes his perceptions, is inspired by dear friends and by my own niece, Amy Phillips, lawyer and Cornell grad, who continues to shelter many and live her life courageously.

Deepest thanks to Yaddo, in whose summer refuge this book was mostly written, and to Yaddo’s founder, Katrina Trask, who lost her own children and created good from grief. Thanks to the MacDowell Colony, the Rockefeller Foundation and Bellagio, the Bogliasco Foundation, and the Liguria Study Center, for time, support, and encouragement. Thanks to my literary agent and friend of thirty years, Lynn Nesbit, who found this book a home with the miraculous Nan Graham at Scribner. Thanks to the late Robert “Red” McQuain, family friend, who knew I referenced the Quiet
Dell crime in my first novel,
Machine Dreams,
and gave me a small envelope he found in an antique dresser at his home in Rock Cave, West Virginia:
Piece of soundproof board, used by Harry Powers during his notorious Murdering in the fall of 1931, Aug. 28.
Thanks to excellent book person Bill Long, of Chicago, who helped me locate Reta and Paul Kikutani, of Park Ridge, Illinois, whose home, purchased by Reta’s parents in 1932, was the Eicher home for so many years. Thanks to Reta for showing me the Eicher playhouse and barn/workshop, for sending photographs of the playhouse mural Asta painted for her children, and for telling me, “This is where they were happy.” Thanks to my friends from childhood, the late Susan Harper Hitt, and Elizabeth Randall, who insisted we stop by the Clarksburg library on one of my visits home, helped me copy dozens of newspaper accounts, and walked with me in the green woods at Quiet Dell.

Special thanks to the invaluable David Houchin, Special Collections Librarian at the West Virginia Collection, Clarksburg-Harrison Public Library, who helped locate 1930s newspaper sources and advised me on contacting permissions. Thanks to Robert Sayre and Deborah Sayre Stoikowitz, grandchildren of West Virginia photographer Floyd E. Sayre, for permission to reprint his beautiful images pertaining to the crime at Quiet Dell. Thanks to the West Virginia Division of Culture and History for allowing me to purchase copies of the Powers trial documents and portions of transcript quoted in the trial. Thanks to Brian Jarvis, publisher of the locally owned
Clarksburg Exponent Telegram,
who allowed me to quote numerous short excerpts from 1931–32 coverage of the Quiet Dell case. Thanks to Martha Mendoza, who guided efforts to credit AP sources, to the Associated Press,
The Mason City Globe-Gazette, The Sumner Gazette,
and
The Ames Tribune,
for permission to quote original articles, and to King Features Syndicate, for permission to reprint the photograph of Duty. Thanks to Seek Publishing for permission to quote from
Remember When, 1931, A Nostalgic Look Back in Time.
Thanks to David Lang, extraordinary composer of
The Little Match Girl Passion and Other Works,
for permission
to quote lines from
“again (after ecclesiastes)”
and
“love is strong.”
Thanks to Dorothy Gosse and Elvira Hebell, who researched 1930s documents in Iowa. Grateful acknowledgment to E. A. Bartlett, author of the 1931 account
Love Murders of Harry F. Powers (Beware Such Bluebeards),
published in 1931 by the Sheftel Press.

Special thanks to my first readers, Pamela Rikkers, Annabel Lee, Anita Ruthling Klaussen, the late Irene McKinney, Marcelle Clements, and to my husband, Mark Stockman, who lovingly encouraged this “secret book” over years of research and writing.