Chapter 20: Serious Discussions

1873

"Caroline," said Mrs. Williams, coming quietly back into her kitchen, "my dear, you have a visitor." Two worry lines had appeared above her sharp nose and her voice had an unusual stiffness.

The young woman dried her hands on her apron and went into the front room of the Williams' farm house. There stood a well-dressed man of middle years with bushy sideburns and polished boots. To Caroline he looked vaguely familiar. He smiled at her. A round diamond glittered in the middle of his silken tie. He smelled of the barber shop.

"Mrs. Williams," he said with a small nod of his head, his fawn-colored hat in his hands, "I am MacNeal Holmes. As you may know, I have purchased your father's old place, bought it at the auction, lovely home, fine piece of land, well cared for. My property adjoins. We were neighbors."

"Yes," said Caroline, incredulous, "I was told." She felt acid rising in her throat as the man stood before her, obviously hoping to be invited in.

"Well, miss, excuse me, ma'am," Holmes said as calmly as he could, excited by the young woman's beauty as well as his goal, "as you may also know, I am a widower. My good wife died several years ago, and I hoped..."

Caroline held up her hand and shook her head, feeling disgust.

"I was going to suggest, " Mac Holmes hurried on, ignoring the shocked look on Caroline's face.

"No," Caroline said, working to control her voice as she stepped away from the man. "I can't imagine why you are here. I have no interest in you or your problems. Please leave."

"I've heard about your father's recent difficulties," Holmes said with a small, unpleasant smile. "I thought you might appreciate, well, a better future for your children. I am a very wealthy man, and I am not yet forty."

"Never," Caroline said hoarsely, turning on her heel, a knot in her stomach. She stalked from the entrance way, leaving MacNeal Peter Holmes turning the brim of his hat through his hands and wearing a determined look on his face, a look that combined his lust, hate, desire and discomfort.

"The time may come," he said loudly as the older Mrs. Williams reappeared. Now she stood at her kitchen doorway with her arms folded, silent, tapping her foot, her gray eyes boring holes in him. He nodded to her, put on his hat, adjusted the brim and left, closing the front door very gently.

Up in Luke Williams general store, Caroline's father hunched over the checker board where he now spent most of his days. He pursed his lips as if he were worried, glanced up at his white-haired opponent and pushed one of his black pieces to the right, leaning back with a frown, hoping he was not showing his eagerness to make the next move as he laid his trap. The other player paused briefly and then jumped him and took his black man from the board. Mr. French immediately pushed another of his pieces into harm's way and again his opponent took the bait. In the next move Mr. French took three red men from the wooden board and said, "Crown me, please."

The farmer facing him pushed all the remaining checkers together, dug in his waist pocket and then dropped a dime into Mr. French's outstretched hand. "Done it again, by golly," he said. "Thought I had y'that time. Dang bust it!"

"Another?" asked Mr. French who handed the dime to Luke Williams and was given a fresh mug of foaming beer.

"Maybe Sa'day," the man said, rising and stretching his back. "You are absolutely the slowest, meanest an' mos' aggravatin' player I ever seed. But I'm gonna beat 'cha."

"Just careful," said Mr. French, downing the beer and wiping his mouth, the back of his hand reminding him that he needed to shave more often to keep his beard properly shaped. "Careful and thirsty."

"Want a sam'ich?" Luke Williams asked. "Got some good ham. Hope done it Sunday, a whole ham fer jes' the two a'us."

"Don't have the price," Mr. French said with a slight smile.

"On the house. I was jus' gonna make myself one. You like mustard?"

"No, please, let me earn it." Mr. French rose from the homemade checker board and found the push broom. He started on the far side of the store and worked his way toward the front door with very small shoves of the wide broom, raising little dust. When he had covered the whole area, lifting each chair at the four tables where men usually sat drinking their beer in the late afternoons, talking crop yields under twisted reels of sticky flypaper, he pushed the accumulated dirt out the front door and then vigorously swept the roof-shaded porch, frightening the ever-present sparrows.

He wiped his hands on his britches and sat again at the table with the old checker board, its worn squares darkened with pencil. He arranged the men into starting position as Luke Williams put the sandwich before him on a piece of brown paper and fished a good-sized pickle from the barrel.

"Want a game?" Mr. French asked. "Just for fun."

Luke shook his head. "Naw," he said, "you're too damn good. I ain't never seen you loose less'n you meant to." He drew two glasses of beer and placed one in front of Mr. French.

"Thanks. Pay you after the next game," Caroline's father said. It was his habit to drink up the dimes he made as fast as he made them.

"Remember that feller," Luke Williams leaned back, scratching himself on the back of the chair, "canned goods salesman he was, tomatoes I think, you lost two or three games to him, raising the ante each time, double or nothin', and then y'beat the pants off him for five dollars. Took every man he had off the board. Should'a seed his face. You'd a'thought he stuck his hand in a buzz saw."

Mr. French smiled, chewing his ham sandwich, enjoying the crusty fat.

"You don't mind me asking," Luke Williams said, "ain't 'chu never goin' back to work?"

"I owe too much," Mr. French said. "I've got a dozen judgments against me. If I work, every cent will go to my creditors. What's the sense? If we still had debtors' prisons, that's where I'd be."

"You could move. Go out West somewheres. Start over."

Mr. French nodded. "I've thought of it, but I'd hate to leave Caroline and her children."

"You ain't helpin' them much." Luke raised his eyebrows and looked over his spectacles at the ruined man sitting across from him, his face showing both regret and defeat.

Caroline's father nodded, absorbing the criticism, as two farmers entered and greeted the storekeeper with waves and head nods. Both showed heavy chaws of tobacco in their stubbled cheeks.

"How about a game?" Mr. French looked up hopefully. "Ten cents to a quarter says I can beat you."

"Ain't got time," one of the men said. "Sides you're too darn good."

"Spot you two men," said Mr. French.

"Your two-bits to my ten cents?" said the man, shifting his chew to the other side of his mouth.

Mr. French nodded and the farmer sat down and moved a front-row red piece after Mr. French set two of his worn black men to the side of the board and put up his one and only quarter, the same quarter he had been using all week.

"Daddy," said Caroline as they sat around the table finishing their late supper of soup and soda crackers. "Guess who was here today."

"It's getting to feel like winter. About froze my ears off coming back from the store. Soup was just the thing, ma'am." Mr. French turned his attention to his daughter. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said. "I wasn't listening."

"Mr. Holmes came by this morning," Caroline said, looking at her father over her soup spoon and noticing that his beard was turning gray and that he needed to shave his cheeks and neck.

"Who?" asked Mr. French with a frown.

"Mister M. Peter Holmes, the blackleg smuggler or whatever he is, he bought our farm at the sheriff's sale."

"He did?" said Caroline's father. "Oh yes, Holmes. Isn't he the fellow that Robert... ?"

Caroline nodded, feeling her anger bubble up. "He certainly is."

"What did he want?" asked her father, setting aside his napkin. His head ached, and he was more than ready for his bed.

"I'm not sure," Caroline said, almost sorry she had mentioned the subject.

"Yes, she is," said the elder Mrs. Williams, returning from the kitchen with more soup. Both Seth and his sister refilled their bowls and smiled at their mother, trying to pretend they were not attentive to the conversation.

"Eh?" said Mr. French, rather bleary eyed after another day of beer drinking and checker playing.

"He wanted Caroline," said Mrs. Williams. "It was clear as day."

"I don't understand," said Caroline's father, licking at his lips and wrinkling his high forehead. He scratched his ear, feeling lost.

"He wants her for his wife. He wants your grandchildren." Mrs. Williams spooned up another ladle of onion and potato soup for herself. Her voice was unnaturally harsh. "He's got your house. Now he wants them."

"I can't believe it," said Mr. French. "She's still in mourning."