The Outcasts (10 page)

They reached Frost Town in a few hours—a German settlement with its own post office and school—and were directed by a livery hand to a large farmhouse fronting the bayou. The farmer who lived there was named Muller, and he led the men into the simple parlor, where his wife served them coffee and warm biscuits.

Muller said, “Mrs. Shenck has been deeply marked by the deaths of her husband and children. She is better in the body, but in the mind…” He pointed to his head and twisted his finger against his temple, like a screw being worked into a board.

Muller’s wife led them upstairs to a bedroom, and, after knocking softly, she opened the door and gestured them into the room. Nate followed Deerling and saw a woman reclining in a small bed, propped up against several pillows, staring out the nearest window. She turned her head to look at them with swollen eyes, and Nate removed his hat. He lingered by the door, not sure where to stand, but Deerling took the one chair in the room, moved it next to the bed, and sat.

“Mrs. Shenck, I’m Captain Deerling of the Texas Rangers, and this is Officer Cannon of the Texas State Police. We’re here to talk with you about the men who killed your family. Are you well enough to tell us what happened?”

She nodded uncertainly but remained silent. Nate watched the subtle movements of her body turning away from Deerling, and she placed a shielding, protective hand over her chest. Nate would have approached the woman more carefully. As with a battered horse, a wounded person had scant resources left even to keep the body upright, the eyes directed forward, and the mind balanced. He thought a good place to start would have been just to hold her hand for a while.

Finally she said, “There were three men. They came into our house one day. They had guns.” Her voice was low, the words softly accented. She took a sip of water from a glass next to the bed with shaking hands. “They said if we caused them no trouble, if we didn’t try to run away or tell our neighbors, they wouldn’t kill us.”

Deerling asked, “How long did they hold you?”

“They stayed for five days. I and the children cooked for the men, and they would come and go, two men leaving and one man staying behind.”

She became silent again, her focus softening as her head tilted towards the window. Deerling placed a hand on her arm, startling her.

She licked her lips and reached for the water once more. She said, “One night we heard them talking about a farmer who found gold coins on his land. Some sort of pirate treasure, he said. They bought him whiskey, to make him careless. But the farmer wouldn’t say precisely where the gold was.”

Deerling asked, “Who was the farmer?”

She shook her head. “They never said his name or where he was from. The leader of the men, this McGill, became angry with them for speaking of such things in our presence. But seeing I was scared, he took my hand and looked into my eyes and promised me that no harm would come to me or to my family.”

She clenched and unclenched her fingers entangled in the shawl around her shoulders. She stared wide-eyed at Deerling and said, “I believed him.”

Watching her pale and disbelieving face, Nate remembered seeing the same expression come over a Confederate deserter, a man at the end of a line of deserters about to be shot by his former comrades and thrown into a ditch. He thought of his own daughter and tried to imagine what her dying would do to him. And then he tried to imagine her being shot in his presence.

To comfort the woman, Deerling reached out and clasped her two hands in his. “Mrs. Shenck, thank God, you’re still alive.”

She began to breathe queerly, her gaze panicked, and Deerling stood up, alarmed. “Are you in pain, Mrs. Shenck?”

The woman thrashed on the bed, making sounds like an animal in agony, and Nate thought to fetch Mrs. Muller, but the woman fixed her eyes on him and he became very still, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He saw clearly the bruised flesh on her face and wasting tautness of the skin on her arms, and she whispered, “I am not alive.”

Mrs. Muller appeared at the door and ushered the men from the room. They went downstairs and were joined on the porch by Mr. Muller. The three stood for a while absently watching the looping banks of Buffalo Bayou, listening to the shrill weeping from the woman upstairs.

Muller said, “The devil shot her last of all. First the husband, and then the two children. The killer made her watch.”

Deerling asked, “Do you have any idea where these men went?”

Muller said, “In her ravings she said Harrisburg, but…” He shrugged, turning the palms of his hands up.

Deerling worked his hat in his hands. “Take the train west from Harrisburg and it stops at Alleyton and a few cotton farms. To the south, the railroad goes to Galveston.” He turned to Muller. “There’s nothing important in Harrisburg except the railroad depot.” He stopped for a moment, gnawing the inside of his cheek, and looked at Nate. “What do you think?”

“Well,” Nate said, shifting his weight to the stronger leg, “there must be drinking places in Harrisburg. Places where cotton farmers who have money to spend gather. Maybe our farmer is close by.”

Deerling nodded and said, “That’s where we’ll start, then.”

The two men thanked Muller, and within a quarter hour, they had turned south again, heading to Harrisburg.

L
ucinda sat, listening to May sing. While the girl’s voice was not unpleasing, it had a curious lifelessness to it, as though the words were devoid of meaning. She was singing “Lorena,” a tune over which Lucinda had seen hardened men weep, thinking of their lost wartime loves. This in the cathouses where they were being entertained, their hands on the whores they had just had or were about to have.

Jane played the accompaniment on the square piano that had been shipped by barge from Galveston a few months earlier and that, surprisingly, had held most of its tuning.

Lucinda stole a look at Bedford Grant, the girls’ father, standing next to Jane and turning the pages of the music folio. He had been stiff and formal at dinner, a meal of chicken and mainly dumplings, and it had taken a great deal of effort on Lucinda’s part to help him keep his half of the conversation alive. She suspected that he had not had female company at his dinner table, other than his daughters, in a good while. She also suspected that his looser manner after the meal and his ruddy complexion were thanks to a furtive trip to a whiskey jar kept somewhere in another room.

He looked up at that moment and smiled, the open grin of a father’s pride. Lucinda gave him a slow smile in return, and he blushed a deeper crimson, quickly returning his attention to the sheet music.

After acquainting herself briefly with Bedford, she thought him a shy but intelligent man, flattened and embattled by the brutal uncertainties of life. He had, it seemed, failed at everything he had ever set his hand to, as speculator, merchant, and now probably as farmer, although, in recounting his past to Lucinda, he had framed his failures as “mistimed ventures” brought to unsuccessful ends by the inability of the South to secure secession.

For a short while he was even a bookseller, which explained the sagging shelves filled to overflowing with books. It also explained why May, who came so rarely to the schoolhouse, was so informed. Both sisters had the best possible library on subjects as varied as history and the natural sciences, and there were more than a few novels.

Earlier in the evening, Lucinda had pulled one of these novels from a shelf, its spine partially eaten by mice, the pages spotted with black mold grown from the damp air, and read the title:
The
Woman in White.

May, standing next to her, exhaled dismissively and asked, “Miss Carter, have you read this one? Well, don’t bother. It’s a very tiresome plot about madness and confused identities.” She pulled another book from the shelf,
Lady Audley’s Secret,
and handed it to Lucinda. May traced the title with a finger and whispered into Lucinda’s ear, “She is a very bad woman.” Lucinda quickly looked at the girl’s face and saw her eyes creased in mischief, and they laughed together.

Lucinda, lost in these thoughts, became aware that May had finished singing. She clapped politely and, rising, said, “Thank you, May. That was quite lovely. But it’s late, and I should leave. I thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Grant.”

He stood staring at her blankly for a moment while his daughters looked expectantly at him until he realized he was supposed to do the gentlemanly thing and walk her back to the Wallers’ home.

She said good night to the girls and, for the first fifty yards, tried to match Bedford’s rapid pace. It was a clear night, but the path was still pocked from the recent rains. She slowed and finally stopped, calling out to him to assist her.

He ran his palm over his forehead, saying, “How thoughtless.” He held out his arm for her to take and slowed his stride. “You must forgive me, Miss Carter. It’s been a while since we’ve had a guest.”

“Not at all, Mr. Grant. I am, I’m afraid, all too used to the pace of the country.” She tightened her hold on his arm. “And you have been accustomed to the rattle of cities. What an interesting life you’ve led.”

The corners of his lips turned downward. “If penury can be called interesting, then it has certainly been that.”

“But you’ve provided a wealth of experience and knowledge for your girls.” She slowed her walking even further; they were approaching the Waller house too quickly.

“Yes, I have given them that, but my rootlessness has also made them easily distracted and, in May’s case, a bit feckless.”

“May is my brightest student, Mr. Grant.” She paused, leaning slightly into his arm. “When she is in school.” She smiled up at him, and for the briefest instant, he stopped walking and stared openly at her face.

Blushing, he abruptly let go of her arm and gestured for her to continue in front of him. She walked ahead, listening to his uneven breathing, taking note of his sudden embarrassment. The Waller house appeared at the end of the road, lantern light streaming brightly from the front windows, as though the house had been readied for a battery of holiday guests. She knew that the family would be waiting up so that Lavada and Sephronia could press her with questions about the evening.

She stopped and turned. “Mr. Grant, May has written a very good essay on one of the local legends. I’d like to submit it to the newspaper at Harrisburg. But…” She paused.

“Yes?” he asked, taking a step back.

“It’s about the legend of Lafitte’s gold in Middle Bayou. Are you familiar with this legend, Mr. Grant?”

He looked at her, his features indistinct in the dark. “Bedford. Call me Bedford, please.”

“Very well…Bedford. Do you know this legend?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, May has a tendency to embellish. Before I sent the story to the paper, I wanted to make sure it was…”

“True?”

“Yes, true.” Lucinda inclined her head, waiting for his answer.

“Yes,” he offered absently, staring at the tips of his shoes.

A yipping sound from behind caused them to turn, and they watched a coyote trotting across the road. The animal looked at them, head lowered, with a sly, open dog-smile.

“An opportunist,” Bedford said quietly, watching the animal disappear into the tall grasses.

Lucinda looked at him, unsure of his meaning.

“He’s hoping we’ll weaken. He wouldn’t attack us outright, but he’s watching, waiting for us to become…compromised.” He turned to face her again. “We have a very thin hold on civilization here in the bayou, Miss Carter. There are twenty ways to die from one Sunday to the next.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the Waller home. “Despite the efforts of Euphrastus to keep life civilized.”

Lucinda looked at the house and discerned the outlines of three of the Wallers peering through the windows watching them, the two women from the second floor and Euphrastus parting the curtains at the parlor. Like dolls propped up in a dollhouse, she thought.

She felt Bedford’s eyes studying her, and when she turned to face him, his lips turned up sadly. “We’re all opportunists in a way, wouldn’t you say, Miss Carter?”

She answered his smile cautiously. He held out his arm for her to take and then walked her to the door.

He placed two fingers lightly on her hand to still her. “I would ask if I’ve troubled you with my talk, but I believe I have not. I will request of you, though, not to send May’s essay to Harrisburg. May is repeating only what she has heard the locals say. She knows nothing beyond that.”

She looked at him, a knot of disappointment in her throat. “I see. Then the story of the gold coins is not true.”

“On the contrary, Miss Carter, it’s quite true.”

Her breathing quickened, but she worked to keep her face calm. “Call me Lucinda.”

He ducked his head, pleased. “Lucinda.”

“And just how do you know it to be true?” She put her hand gently on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Because…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Because I’ve seen it.”

Her grip tightened on his arm. “What have you seen?” she asked, her eyes wide.

He stepped abruptly away, looking stricken, almost fearful. Touching the brim of his hat to her, he said, “Someday perhaps I will show you. Good night, Miss Carter. Lucinda.”

Lucinda watched him for a while from the doorway as he walked rapidly along the path. When she entered the parlor, she saw that Euphrastus had abandoned his post at the window.

The next morning included the usual Sunday prayer service and Bible reading by Euphrastus. The women had been uplifted in their excitement about a possible blossoming romance between the new teacher and the widower. When questioned, Lucinda smiled serenely and told them what a kind and intelligent man Bedford Grant was.

Euphrastus, however, seemed put-upon and dour, casting long reproachful looks in her direction. She had been aware, of course, of his desire. He had sought every opportunity to encounter her alone: at the school, on the paths, and even inside the house. He came upon her once, seemingly by chance, as she was coming down the stairs. Nodding politely, he brushed past her, his arm trailing along her thigh.

Normally, she would have encouraged this behavior. The man was a fool and could have been easily handled. But she didn’t need him, only the good opinion of his wife, who would, no doubt, fan the rumors of a budding courtship between Lucinda and Bedford, thus helping to make it so.

She had woken up that Sunday morning with a headache, and she struggled to keep the impatience from her face as Euphrastus read to them Colossians: “‘Put to death, therefore, immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed.’” She had a rush of compassion for the Wallers’ son, Elam, imprisoned in his chair parked next to his father, forced to listen to interminable lectures and punishing Bible readings, week after week, month after month.

As soon as she could, she walked along the path to her hiding place, welcoming the warmer air of the greenhouse pressing against her skin. The weather had begun to hold the biting tang of coming winter, and the low, heavy clouds were returning.

She seated herself and began writing a letter, but soon she heard a rustling sound, as though an animal was rooting around behind the greenhouse. She picked up a loose board as a club and opened the door, then cautiously walked behind the building.

Seated with his back pressed against the wall was the black man Lucinda had seen crossing the field. He was smoking, and he gave her a heavy look.

They regarded each other for a moment. He said, “This is my place.”

“Oh?” Lucinda crossed her arms. The odor of tobacco made her want to smoke as well. “I thought this belonged to Euphrastus Waller.”

He snorted through his nose and continued looking at her. “Do they know you’re a sportin’ woman?”

She thought perhaps she had misheard him, but the throbbing band of the morning’s headache tightened and turned sharp, stabbing her behind her eyes.

“I’m not passin’ judgment. I’m just askin’.” He flicked ash away with his fingers, watching her closely.

She stood transfixed by the expanding glow of the lit end of the cigarette, her mind frantically searching for the ways in which she could have revealed her true profession in Middle Bayou. The blood pounded in her face and she raised her voice in outrage. “How do you dare to insinuate—”

He shrugged. “Myself, I could give a goddamn. It’s not my business.” He stared off across the fields, dismissing her as though she’d become invisible.

The smell of the tobacco had turned acrid, making her nauseated, and using the walls for support, she turned and walked back into the greenhouse. She bent down to pick up her things and leave, but she felt light-headed, and empty spaces began seeping into her field of vision. As she reached her arms out for balance, her legs weakened, and she fell hard onto her backside, breathing raggedly. The familiar heaviness at the back of her tongue was followed by spasmodic shakes in her legs and arms, the small muscles at the base of her neck.

Her head jerked back, the rest of her body following the momentum, and she was vaguely aware of her head grazing the sharp corner of a packing crate. She lay faceup, twitching, looking at the glass ceiling, at the images of the dead soldiers floating disconnected above her, the blank spaces where their eyes would have been pale and ill-defined.