The Storm (30 page)

Eric ignored her and reached into his pants pocket. “Let's see what we have here. What do you think, boy? Would you like this shiny nickel?”

Patrick hung back and looked up at Molly. “Is it all right, Mama? That's a lot of money.”

She hugged Patrick. “It's okay, son. You can show it to your pa when we get home. Tell Mr. Eric thank you.”

Jaq couldn't resist, so she made Patrick pose again, with his nickel and his big grin.

Eric was in a better mood than she'd ever seen him, definitely better than since they'd been in New Hope, so she tried to enjoy his high spirits. Maybe it was best for him to join the service. She hoped his good mood hadn't come from a bottle, but he didn't smell like it had.

During supper Eric sat next to Patrick and described his adventures at the recruitment stations, directing most of his comments to him. “We went to this big schoolhouse in Dallas, and my cousin had to get undressed and stand in line forever. And after the doc said he was in good shape, he had to dress and line up again and hold his hand up in the air and swear he'd be a good soldier. I waited out front most of the time, with more guys standing around than you could shake a stick at. Some of them in Dallas were coughing, and in Harrison too, when I had my physical, but the doc said I'm as fit as a fiddle now, and…”

Jaq recalled her Aunt Anna's warning about the influenza when Eric mentioned the crowds and the men coughing, but the trip did seem to have done him a world of good. Maybe her aunt was overreacting.

Patrick seemed totally taken in, and even Molly appeared to enjoy Eric's company. But when she and Patrick left soon after supper, Jaq was so sorry to see them go. She and the McCades had heard far too little laughter in this house. Only when Molly visited did the place fill with music and merriment. But she couldn't come often or stay nearly long enough to satisfy Jaq's craving for her presence.

The house seemed to shrivel. The wind died, and the pines surrounded her like a heavy curtain that smothered her and provoked memories that refused to leave her in peace.

*

A cool breeze caressed Molly's arms as she held the reins and half listened to Patrick chatter and the mules clomp back toward the farm. She shivered. If—no,
when
Jaq left New Hope, she wouldn't return.

Molly had fallen for her so gradually she only now realized how desolated she'd be when Jaq no longer lived here. The sweet sounds of violins and the beauty of the melody had lulled her so completely that before she knew it she had been pulled into the symphony of feeling that Jaq had created in her. Now it was nearing its climax, blaring French horns and trumpets announcing Jaq's necessary departure. Everything would be over all too soon except for the brief finale. Then the music would end, the musicians would put away their instruments, and the music hall would be as empty and quiet as death.

When that happened, Molly would slowly place her heart into its velvet-lined case, close the lid, and lock it. She flicked the reins and stared into the dark forests that lined the road.

Molly trembled in the October breeze as she trudged out to the barn to milk, her forehead warm. Resting her head on Nellie's side, she slowly pulled the cow's tits.

“Patrick hasn't been himself lately, Nellie. His cough worries me. I suppose we had too much excitement at Jaq's. We better go to bed early tonight.”

Then she felt herself falling away from Nellie, tumbling into a nightmare of Papa in the Galveston hurricane. Drowning, her body drenched, her lungs exploding, she clutched something. She kicked to propel herself away from the green-black depths and her nose burned, her lungs shut down.

*

Jaq placed a damp washcloth on Molly's forehead. The aftermath of Eric's special supper replayed constantly in her mind, like the familiar old nightmare of running away but never escaping.

Coughs like machine guns had wakened her. “Here, Eric, take this spoon of honey.” She'd rushed from room to room, up and down stairs till dawn. “Angus, try this cough syrup.”

Jumping out of bed, dashing downstairs, they'd worn themselves out. Eric twisted, turned in bed, like he was clawing a living creature inside his chest. Sweat soaked Angus's sheets.

She'd bathed their blue faces, their chests. Offered sips of water—they pushed it away. Coughs turned to gurgles. Eric and Angus drowned in their own juices.

Eric sprawled across his bed, one arm flung above his head, the other clutching his throat. Blood covered everything—sheets, pillow, floor. Eric dead in an instant, dead and growing cold, like—No! Just like Henry. Eric's blond hair matted, blue eyes staring, accusing.

“I killed them,” she screamed. “I destroyed them both. Like Grandfather.”

It came back to her in a storm. Her mother accusing her of causing her grandfather's death. The sound of the wrench as she lashed out at Henry. She shook away that horror, gazed at Eric again—prone, face blue, chest and the once-white sheets red.

I've killed him too, without a wrench.

He might be alive if she'd given in, been a true wife to him, given him a son. He wouldn't have reenlisted. But she'd been willful, as Mother had always accused her of being.

She sat on the porch and craved a cigarette. She'd quit months ago when her supply ran out, would rather smell Molly's freshness than smoke and ashes. The wind moaning through the pines broke the hush, a welcome companion.

She'd disliked Eric and Angus at times, felt like a prisoner. But they weren't bad men. Death had felled them like trees during a hurricane. The silence around her when the wind stopped was as loud as after the Storm.

The next morning, she telephoned one of Eric's uncles in a nearby town. “I know we've never met,” she said, “and I hate to tell you, but Eric and Angus both died from the Spanish flu last night.”

She never wanted to give someone such news again.

They came and helped with the funeral. They wanted to go to Dallas, where Eric's uncle and cousin had died too, but were afraid. Aunt Anna was right. They all had to be careful. The flu could wipe out the entire community in a week.

Two days after the funeral she was at the cemetery, trying to make sense of what had happened. Gus and Kate ambled up, pulling the wagon loaded with a coffin. The buggy followed, and Mrs. Russell climbed out. The preacher, with a small group of mourners who looked like family members, conducted a brief service. Several men lowered the pine coffin.

Mrs. Russell's dry eyes glinted like the steel of a Confederate sword. This woman had endured war as intimately as she had, and she felt a momentary kinship.

But where were Molly? And Patrick? And Mr. James? The death of the McCade men had inundated her. Who was in the pine box?
Don't let it be Molly
. She and Patrick had been so full of life when they'd eaten supper together.

If she hadn't been so hell-bent on leaving East Texas, Molly and Patrick would have stayed safely at home. They wouldn't have visited the McCades when they delivered the flu.

She had said she loved Molly, but she hadn't called to ask about her and Patrick. She'd exposed them to a terrible disease then hadn't even considered that they might be in danger.

She stared at the wagon again to make sure it didn't contain another coffin, but it was empty.

The small group clustered around the small grave. The chill wind—the first cold snap of autumn—made her shiver, but Mrs. Russell's iron expression made her cringe. “Who is it?” she asked a stranger at the back of the small group as gently as she could and held her breath.

The young woman, obviously one of the family, sighed. “Uncle James. I'm sure sorry to hear about old McCade and Eric. They deserved better.”

“Thank you. But where's Molly? And Patrick? Why aren't they here?”

“They're back at the house. Almost lost them too. Aunt Hannah's staying with them. Grandma's too worn out. Molly doesn't know about Uncle James yet.”

“Can I help? It's so lonely in the McCades' house now. I need something to do.”

“That's right neighborly of you, Miss Jacqueline. Grandma will make a ruckus, but she'll appreciate the good deed.”

She'd sat beside Molly's bed for two days and nights, willing her to feel better, as Molly had done for her when she was injured. Molly had braved her mother-in-law's anger by inviting her to stay. She could still feel Molly's touch as she'd cleaned her wound and rubbed salve on her. If only Molly would open her eyes, speak to her—but she just lay there, as white and fragile as a gardenia blossom. Patrick was still sick too, and she couldn't bear the thought of losing either of them.

“I'm sorry, Molly,” she said as she held her limp hand. “It's all my fault. I should have listened to Aunt Anna's warning. I should have insisted that Eric and Angus not go to Dallas, and I should have never let you and Patrick near them.”

How could she tell Molly about Mr. James? Would Molly be strong enough to take the news?

She'd never dreaded anything more, but a green shoot of hope broke through the brown dirt of her solemn mood. Mr. James was dead.
Molly was free.
She could leave the farm and Mrs. Russell now, take Patrick with her, and do whatever she wanted. But what would that be?

Would Molly blame her for Mr. James's death? Would Molly react to her the way her mother had reacted after her grandfather was killed during the Storm? Jaq couldn't imagine Molly acting like that, but Jaq had killed Mr. James as surely as she'd killed Henry and the others. She couldn't bear to hear Molly lash out at her like Mother had. She wanted to remember Molly as kind and gentle, not angry and vengeful.

*

Someone pulled Molly's hair, dragged her from the dark water. Clutching her pillow, she burst into light. Jaq stood over her, brushing her hair—a weeping angel.

“What's happened? Why am I here?”

“Thank heaven you're finally awake. I've been so worried. If something had happened to you too—”

“What do you mean? Has Patrick—”

Jaq's desolate expression puzzled her.

“It's Patrick, isn't it? Where is he? I need to see about him. Help me. Please take me to him.”

She tried to rise but sank back onto the feather pillow. Vaguely she recalled slipping off the milking stool and lying there until strong arms carried her to bed. She'd hung like a sack of potatoes, murmuring, “I'll tend to the milk later.”

She'd just needed a short nap, then she'd separate the milk, clean the buckets…Mother Russell would make a cutting remark about letting the milk sit, but…Patrick, where was Patrick?

She drifted into the roiling water again, the current tossing her like a jellyfish. Still she clung to something, refused to let go. Strong fingers pried it from her, and she spun toward a dark vortex. A soft hand stroked her hair, kept her from drowning.

*

“Whoa, Nellie. Come back here and let me milk you. I know you're used to Molly's soft hands, but you'd better get used to mine. Humph. You'd think after almost a week, you would be.” She jerked Nellie's tits so hard and fast the streams of milk almost turned the bucket over.

“I'd never tell a living soul, Nellie, but I wish the good Lord had taken Molly instead of James. I felt right sorry for her when she was out of her mind with the fever, talking about her pa and some train and begging him to take her and save Patrick. She musta thought she'd lost Patrick but didn't even care if James or me was sick.”

She eased close to Nellie and fell into the soothing rhythm of milking. “If it'd been me laying there out of my head, I'd have been worrying about Calvin. He was such a good man, God rest his soul. If the War hadn't come along, he'd have graduated from that college he thought so much of and probably be president right now. At least he'd have made a professor so he could've kept his nose stuck in a book, instead of fighting on the front lines in Atlanta, then trying to make ends meet in this new, strange place.” She switched to another tit, and a stream of warm milk hit the bucket like a shot.

“Losing Calvin was the worst thing ever happened to me, but something tells me Molly won't feel that way about James. Of course, now that Patrick's the only grandson I have left to carry on the family name, I intend to do everything in my power to keep him close. Even if it means having to put up with Molly the rest of my life. Sure will be different around here without James, though.”

She finished milking Nellie and sat staring at the milky foam. A tear crept out the side of one eye, and she let it roll down her cheek.

“At least Clyde's still alive and kicking. Hmm. Maybe he'd want to pair up with Molly when he gets home. Help him get over losing his wife and kids to this dern influenza, and give Patrick a ready-made pa. Maybe I can make that happen, Nellie.”

Another tear sneaked out, and this time she swiped it away.

“Yes, sirree. That'd be best for everybody involved.”

Molly stretched as the coo of a mourning dove outside the bedroom window woke her. She'd had such a good night's sleep, but what had been happening? How long had she been asleep? She recalled milking Nellie and feeling exhausted. She must have been sick.

She rolled over to slide out of bed and saw someone sitting across the room, her head propped on one hand, seemingly asleep. Jaq. How wonderful to see her. But what was she doing here? She had to talk to Jaq, to make sure she was okay, to touch her…Her feet hit the creaky boards of the bedroom floor, and Jaq's head snapped up.

“Jaq. What in the world? Where is everyone?”

She looked like she wanted to run away. “Patrick's in his room, and Mrs. Russell's in the chicken pen.”

“Well, where's Mr. James? What's today? Is he in the fields? I expect he's had his hands full with the cotton picking—”