Down by the River (13 page)

“That George,” Vern said. “He can’t screw up a turkey too bad.”

Tom took that to mean yes and went to make his offer to Cliff. That didn’t take too much arm-twisting, either. “Rocky?” he asked.

“No thanks, Tom. I’ll just enjoy the quiet.”

George had put up a sign in four churches around the valley: Free Thanksgiving Meal. He did this every year. While his mother-in-law tended the turkey at his house, George and his family served a meal to anyone hungry. Not everyone in the café that afternoon was too poor to fix their own meal, but most were. There were men, women and children who were having a hard time keeping life together in the cold of winter. They were rounded up by preachers, social workers, cops, firefighters, shelter operators, neighbors and friends. Tom made it his routine to go to the only bar in the valley and make sure those old boys had a belly full of decent food before they wasted the rest of the day in drink. They had a much better chance of holding their liquor after a solid meal. In fact, they might just get sleepy and go home.

The café was full of people Tom had never seen in town, never seen before. Sam was having a cup of coffee, so Tom slid onto the bar stool next to him to visit a spell.

“I heard a roar just west of here and someone said there were thirty or so Indians out there, cooking and eating,” Sam said.

“Not quite thirty,” Tom said with a laugh. “Not everyone could come this year.”

“Ah. That’s why it was quieter than usual.”

“You want to come out? Sample some of my mother’s pies?”

“Sorry, Chief. I have plans of my own. I just wanted to stay close in case anyone needs help at the station.” He smiled. “And, too, I want to see that grin on old George’s face. I think this might be the happiest day of the year for him. Nothing gives that boy a rush like feeding people who need to be fed.”

While the MacAlvies and Cliff enjoyed their turkey dinner, Tom took advantage of the time to run by the Craven farm. There was something about holidays and domestic abuse that seemed to go hand in hand. Even though the central abuser in this family was dead and buried, Gus Craven had left a legacy in five young sons.

Tom saw the curl of smoke from the chimney and the soft lights shining from within, though sunset was at least an hour away. When Tom’s booted foot hit the first step on his way up to the porch, he heard the crack of an ax. He froze, listening. It came again, and a few long seconds later, again.

He followed the sound around the house to the back. There he spied Frank. It didn’t escape him that Frank, the one who most often tried to protect his mother from his father’s violence, had a mean streak of his own to contend with. It was obvious as he split log after log, the sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air, that he was trying to work off a temper.

Tom leaned against the house and watched. Maybe this was a technique learned in some of the anger-management sessions the boy was having with Jerry Powell, the local counselor. When you feel it coming on, chop wood. Or was Tom getting this mixed up with his own youth? Lincoln had a lot of wood-splitting set aside for his own boys.

Jeremy Craven, age thirteen, stuck his head out the back door. “Frank? Ma says it’s ‘bout ready.”

“Yeah,” he said, putting another log on the stump. That’s when he saw Tom leaning against the corner of the house. He stopped with the ax in the air, paused there, then let it fall and split the log. The young man, though still too tall for his frame, was getting some nice shoulders and biceps on him. “What you doing here, Chief?” he asked.

“Just thought I’d stop by,” Tom said. But they both knew why he was here. Checking on things. Letting Frank know he was never too far away.

“Why, Tom Toopeek,” Leah Craven said, coming out the back door while wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What in heaven’s name you doing all the way out here?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she said to her son, “That’s gonna be enough wood, son. Thank you.”

Enough wood to last till spring, Tom thought.

“You having a nice holiday, Leah?” he asked.

“We sure are, Tom. Awful nice of George’s family to take over the café today so that we might have our family holiday together. Will you come in for coffee?”

“Thanks, Leah, but didn’t I just hear Jeremy announce dinner?”

“It’s close, Tom, but I’d be honored if you’d step into the kitchen while I fix up the last of the trimmings.”

“I’ve got my own dinner waiting. And half the state of California at the table.”

“Lincoln was in the café the other day saying you had brothers and sisters coming.”

“Three brothers, one sister, all married with children. One day your table will boast even more than that,” he said, meeting eyes with Frank. The hard glint was finally working its way out of Frank’s eyes. “Can I help you stack up some of that wood, son?” he asked.

“It’ll keep,” Frank said.

Tom knew better than to ask about his anger-management therapy, but Frank didn’t know he knew better, so he waited tensely. Then Tom said, “I couldn’t help but notice, Frank. You’re getting a pretty impressive set of pecs there. You been working out? Or you get those muscles chopping wood?”

Leah laughed softly. “He’s been working out, all right, Tom. He’s got his work at the café, does most of the farm chores, and without his split logs, we might freeze to death.”

Frank looked away, a slight stain charging his cheeks. But there was also a little lift at the corner of his mouth.

“Take care, now,” Tom said, turning to go.

“You, too, Tom. My regards to the Toopeek family.”

“Regards,” followed a soft male voice.

In homes around the valley, people bent their heads over tables full of food and gave serious thanks. At Chris Forrest’s house, with his sons up in wheelchairs at the dining room table, he thanked God for their lives. In a house refurbished and rebuilt by his friends and neighbors, he was a man forever changed. Yet not changed enough. He prayed for strength.

At Leah Craven’s house, where the gift of a turkey sat on the first dining room table she had ever had, her children looked on hungrily while she insisted they bow their heads and thank God for their bounty. She silently prayed her sons would be spared the legacy of abuse and that one day they would bring wives and children to her table.

And at Jurea Mull’s house two tables sat dressed. Sam had brought a card table and folding chairs to add to the kitchen table Jurea already had. He fished out some old linens that hadn’t been used in years and made them a gift to the Mulls. Then he helped Erline cart the little ones and all the gear that went along with them to the Mulls’ house next door. Just as they prepared to carve the turkey, there was a knock at the door.

When Jurea opened it, she gasped in wonder and covered her mouth. Charlie MacNeil, one of the counselors at the Veteran’s Hospital, stood there with Jurea’s husband, Clarence.

“We thought it might be nice if Clarence could have a meal with you and the children,” Charlie said.

She embraced her husband lovingly. She had only seen him once a week, and very briefly each time. His action to return the embrace came very slowly, but it came.

“He’s a little buzzed,” Charlie said, “but he said he feels pretty good today.”

“I feel pretty good today,” Clarence repeated.

“He’s getting better every day,” Charlie said.

“I am, Jurea. I am.”

“Mr. MacNeil, will you come in to dinner?” she asked.

“I can’t, Mrs. Mull. My family’s waiting. But I’ll come back for Clarence in a few hours, if that’s okay.”

“You take your sweet time,” she said, touching her husband’s face and arms and shoulders. “God is so good to us today.”

Grace Valley Presbyterian wasn’t as full for the Thanksgiving candlelight service as it was most Sunday mornings. The crowd was modest, in fact, which some would say was a blessing. Jurea Mull and her children stayed at home to have every possible moment with Clarence before Charlie came to pick him up, but Sam helped Erline take the little ones. It was only Erline’s third service in the valley, and to be honest she had started going for the free nursery that was provided. If the candlelight service had been her first, it might have been her last.

June, Jim, Elmer, Myrna and Morton attended, because Myrna had said, “Get your coat, Morton, and let’s get this over with. Let the town see you’re not buried in pieces in my garden. Yet.” June and Elmer had exchanged nervous glances until they saw a large grin break onto Morton’s face. In that particular tug-of-war the adversaries were equal, as it was just beginning to become obvious.

Tom Toopeek and his brothers John and Carl attended with their parents while the wives stayed at home with the million or so children at the house. Truth to tell, the men were not just good sons, but grown men sick of the commotion and looking for a way out of doing cleanup after the turkey.

John and Susan Stone were there with their daughter, as was ex-clinic nurse Charlotte Burnham and her husband, Bud. The Barstows were present, sitting in different pews, and Birdie and Judge were there, as was Jessie and her father.

Harry Shipton seemed to be looking at his toes all night. When he did look up, it seemed he was on the precipice of some terrible grief. A few of his congregation had been worrying about him, anyway, and now his behavior made them think that the family member in trouble had perhaps passed on. Then came the sermon, and they were sure.

“On this day of Thanksgiving, let us each take stock of what the Lord has so generously given us and not only thank Him, but endeavor to deserve His bounty. It’s true that most of us are not capable of
great works or charitable contributions that will change the world. There are those among us who don’t even have the wherewithal to be of much help to one another. If that be the case, brothers and sisters, then let us look inward and see what we can do for ourselves spiritually, to deserve the Lord’s bounty. If there are amends to make, let’s take the opportunity to make them. If there are bad habits to change, better ways to adopt, then give thanks that there is another day to do so. And if there are debts to be paid, let’s at least make an accurate list of accounting and thank God there is another day to work, another week, another month. And if there is no work to do, then let us give thanks there is an able body to look for work.

“And if all is lost, pray God gives us the will to carry on. Let us pray,” he said, and bowed his head.

“Not much of a sermon,” Elmer whispered to June.

“I think Harry’s depressed,” she returned. “Maybe he has Seasonal Affective Disorder. It’s been so cloudy and dour.”

“He’s from the Bay Area, June. He knows all about clouds.”

As the pastor bid everyone good-night, he was asked so many times if he was all right that he found himself apologizing for the sermon. “I had hoped it would be uplifting, but it was just the opposite. I’m going to have to try harder!” He laughed at himself, but there was no humor in his expression at all. It was completely forced.

“Harry, is that family matter getting worse? You got some relative real sick?” Sam asked him.

“I’m afraid so, Sam,” Harry said. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it. Pray for me?”

“You bet your life, Harry,” Sam said. “Let me know what else I can do to help, hear?”

“That’s all, Sam. Just your prayers and good faith.”

W
hen the Thanksgiving leftovers were down to the gizzard and a hardened pie crust, Morton said to Elmer, “I suppose I should think about going back to Redding.”

“Not without checking with Myrna,” Elmer returned, though in truth he was tired of having a roommate.

“I’m not inclined to pressure her into asking me to stay on in Grace Valley,” Morton said with a slightly injured air.

“That’s not what I was suggesting,” Elmer said. “Call her up and say exactly that same thing to her and see how she responds.”

Morton did so. He had no expectations whatsoever. With Myrna, it was best that way, for to call her unpredictable was an understatement.

“If you leave, it won’t be long before someone is digging up my yard again, looking for you.”

“The climate is a trifle…cool here.”

“Oh, Morton, you’ve always been so high maintenance,” she said, but in fact it was she who was a lot to deal with. “Do you want to stay? I never bothered to divorce you because I assumed you were dead. Since you’re not, you might use that second-floor porch in the back for writing. Where you used to take your pipe. But it’s up to you, I won’t grovel.”

“Grovel?” he asked. “You’ve barely been civil!”

“I have a little pique to work through. If you don’t have the patience for it, then you might as well go now.”

Morton hadn’t even bought a return ticket. He was, if nothing else, an optimist. Elmer drove him out to Hudson House, where he reclaimed that back porch and told Myrna he was having his belongings, modest though they were, shipped from his small apartment.

Then Elmer set about the cleaning of his house, delighted to have it to himself again. He phoned June and told her the reunion had taken place and that never had he known two more peculiar people than his sister and her estranged husband. “They’re a sideshow,” Elmer said. “And I hope she doesn’t give in to temptation and put something in his tea.”

When June’s eyes opened lazily on Monday morning her first thought was that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a long weekend off, not to mention a holiday weekend. Those were usually the worst. But she hadn’t heard a peep out
of John. Either it had been a very quiet weekend or John had gotten assistance elsewhere. Though she had hastened to tell him she was available, he had only to call.

She had to confess she felt better rested than ever before in her life. Not only had she worked just three afternoons last week, but it appeared Jessie had lightened her load even further by reducing her usual number of patients when she was in the clinic. And they seemed to be managing just fine. Without her.

With a sigh, she sat up and dangled her legs off the side of the bed. Well, the time off had done her good. She’d managed to make a number of purchases for the baby, including paint, wallpaper and a chair rail for Jim to use in redecorating the room that was to be the baby’s. She’d had time to finish the two novels she set aside months ago. And she was definitely up to speed on her baking and had had some quality time with her family, including evenings and nights with Jim, settling into a very domestic routine.

But enough was enough. It was her town. Her clinic. Her patients.

She went to the kitchen and peeked into the living room to where Jim sat in the easy chair beside the fire, his steaming coffee cup on the table beside him, his newspaper in his lap and one dangling hand dropping over the side to pet that traitor, Sadie, who stayed close to him as though he might get away otherwise. For the millionth time she said to herself,
This can’t be happening. This just isn’t real.
But it
was real. He was real and he was there. He was unconflicted and calm, taking everything in her complicated life, in her complex little town, in stride. He was not intimidated by the rigors of pregnancy nor by her slightly anxious elderly father nor her wacky aunt and uncle.

In all those years she thought she’d lost out on the one chance she had to marry happily and live in Grace Valley because she let Chris get away, little did she know she was saving herself for this, for Jim. Had she known and been offered a clear choice, would she have had the strength and wisdom to do it?

She went to him. When he saw her coming he tossed the newspaper to the floor and made room for her on his lap. She curled up there, her arm around his neck. He growled bearlike, nuzzling her. “I weigh a ton,” she said, but not too apologetically.

“A lot of woman,” he said. “But not too much for me yet.”

“How are you so good?” she asked, marveling.

“It’s the company I keep. What are your plans for the day?”

“I’m going to go to work, whether they like it or not. And I’m going to leave you alone so you can paint and paper the baby’s room.”

He rubbed her belly. “Do I have to do that today?”

“No. Why?”

“I just want to make sure you’re not going to come home all pissy if that room isn’t ready today.”

She frowned. “Do it in your own time, as long as the baby doesn’t have to smell paint and paste.”

“You got it, sweet cheeks.”

When June got to the clinic, everyone remarked on how well she was looking, and they acted surprised to see her. “I thought you were only working a few afternoons a week,” Jessie said.

“You must be feeling better than ever. You look fantastic! But we’re all caught up here, so you can have the morning if you like,” Susan said.

“Now that Morton’s not underfoot, I don’t have much else to do,” Elmer said.

And finally John weighed in with “Shouldn’t you find something more relaxing and less taxing to do?”

So it was with great deliberation that June called an office meeting for noon. Maybe they had been right and she’d needed some time off, because she was now her old self again, much in possession of confidence and resolution. They came, as instructed, to her office and stood around her desk, looking down at her. She folded her hands atop her desk, looked up at them—John, Susan, Jessie, Elmer—and said, “You’re the best. The absolute best. You were right, I needed a little break, if for no other reason than to get used to the idea I am having a baby and have a partner. Someone I have enjoyed getting to know better. But now you have to listen to me. Now that I know there are ways we can adjust if I need time off for medical or even personal reasons,
I’d like you to let me back into the schedule without any more plotting or conspiring to keep me away. Because I’m a little emotional sometimes. And if I think I’m not needed—”

“Oh, no, that’s not it!”

“Nothing could be further—”

“It’s only a temporary solution!”

“It’s just not the same without—”

They all protested at once, but she heard each one. She put up her hands. “I know, I know, your hearts are definitely in the right place. While I can, I’d like to see patients. And I want to share on-call duties with John and maybe help a little before the Stones are at each other’s throats again.”

To that Susan smiled, and there was no mistaking it—the Stones were once again romantically on track. “Don’t you worry, June,” she said, and slipped her hand behind John. She slapped a little jump out of him.

“Nevertheless,” she said. “Now, go. Get lunch while you can. And Jessie, build a little more equity into our schedule. Aren’t you studying for finals?”

“I am, June. No problem there.”

“You’d better get A’s, that’s all I can say.”

They started to file out, and June, shaking her head with amusement, bent to the task of writing in a chart. Then she heard her father clear his throat and she looked up. “Dad?”

“It’s time for you and I to have a talk, too,” he said. “I think I’ve been very patient.”

Though she knew exactly what he wanted, she said, “What is it?”

“Marriage. Has the subject crept into your dialogue with the father of my grandchild?”

“Of course it has, Dad.”

“And…?”

“The fact is, we’re very comfortable with the way things are.”

He frowned. “What idiocy is that talking?” he demanded. She could tell he was trying to keep anger from his tone, but it was sneaking in. There was no confusion. He wanted them married. Period.

“Dad, sit down.” He did, but not happily. “I don’t want to defy you or hurt you or make you in any way embarrassed. But I’m very independent, and so is Jim. I know my limitations, and since I share the parentage of this baby with Jim, we’ll parent together. No problem there. But we’re just not ready to make a lifetime commitment. Despite the fact that I’m pregnant, we are really in the early stages of getting to know each other and, well, we’re going to enjoy the process. Do you understand?”

He looked at her for a long time over the rims of his glasses. His bushy eyebrows bounced up and down a couple of times and his bald head grew pink. His expression was not one of understanding. “You’re just full of crap,” he finally said.

The days were getting shorter, entering into December. The rains were steady and the river
behind the café was swelling, rising. George and Sam spent a lot of time out back-marking its progress. That could’ve been one reason there were so many locals taking their meals in the café. Every winter and spring they stood ready lest the Windle overflow. South of them the Russian River flooded almost every year. Flash floods sweeping suddenly over roads and through gulleys without warning took property and lives all over California. This winter the unseasonably warm days far outnumbered the cold. Snow in the mountains melted, began to run down the mountainsides, then froze up again. This condition was bad for flooding.

Frank Craven had his classes down to mornings so he could work every afternoon. It was partly the weather, partly the time of year and partly being tired all the time, but he was morose. He washed dishes, swept floors, hauled trash and was learning to do a little short-order cooking on the side, but he was thinking about that last counseling session he’d had with Jerry Powell. Not his anger-management group, but his one-on-one.

“When you get angry like that, do you talk to a family member? A friend?”

Frank had smiled cruelly at Jerry. “I got no friends, Doc,” he said. “You oughta know that.”

“How would I know, Frank?”

“Why am I here? Because I get in fights! I get in fights because my dad beat us all up for my whole life and finally my mom killed him. You think there’s
anyone in Grace Valley wants to hook up with someone like me?”

“I don’t know, Frank. Maybe it’s not the history so much as the attitude. Maybe you keep people back with all that rage.”

Yeah, he was thinking, sweeping up behind the grill and the ovens. People better stay back. ‘Cause if they stay back where they belong, they don’t get hurt.

The shadows outside were getting long. Most people were home for dinner. Leah waited tables all day, then went home to be there for the younger boys before dark. When the weather was wet and cold, George took Frank home. When it was decent George might let him go early and he rode his bike the five miles.

George didn’t keep regular hours at the café. Rather, it served the town in a way. He’d watch to make sure the regulars either had their meal or weren’t looking for one. He’d check to see if the lights were off in the clinic, church and police department, then he’d lock up. If there was a town meeting, a big game or a town fair, George would make a bunch of extra pies, put on the coffeepot and open up for business, because he was pretty much the only game in town. Summers he stayed open later. In winter, when people were driven inside by the dark and cold and wet, George went home unless he was needed. Tom and June, and now John Stone, all had keys to the café in case they needed anything, like a big load of ice to tend to emergencies.

There were only two people in the café besides Frank and George, and they were close to leaving. Sam and Harry Shipton had had some dinner, their plates almost empty when George gave them each a second cup of coffee. Frank grabbed the trash from the biggest compactor and dragged it out behind the café in the soggy, wet night. He heard a cat wailing a high-pitched scream. Cats fighting in this weather? Not too bright, he thought. He heard it again, but it sounded more like a woman than a cat, so he looked around, but didn’t see anything. The rushing of the swollen river behind the café made it hard to hear anything clearly.

He opened the door to go back inside when he heard it again—children crying and someone yelling—so he let the door fall closed and sprinted down the street, past the church and around the corner. He didn’t even think about what he was doing, he was simply compelled to find out who was yelling. His shoes hit each mud puddle with a huge splash that wet his jeans up to his thighs, but as he heard that sound—a sound familiar to him—he ran faster. Two blocks. Three.

There it was. Jurea Mull and her son were yelling and banging on a door they couldn’t get open. In front was that old broken-down truck he’d seen at Sam’s station. It was him, the guy they all believed had robbed George. He’d come back, and by the sights and sounds, he was making trouble at the house where Sam had put up the wife and kids.

Frank felt his heart hammering in his throat. All the beatings came back to him and he remembered how his daddy, once tanked up, didn’t care how small a kid was. His mom had taken the brunt of it all those years, keeping him away from the kids. Frank’s legs moved so fast down the street back to the café he could’ve set a new record. He crashed inside, slamming the door against the wall.

“It’s him!” he said to the men within. “That guy that robbed the till! He’s back, he’s beating on his family, sounds like.” Then he grabbed the only thing handy and took off again. He wielded a large umbrella.

Frank could hear the footfalls behind him and knew that the men had come to help. When he got to the house he yelled at Jurea. “Get back! I’ll kick it!”

“No!” she screamed. “There’re little ones! They might be at the door!”

He hadn’t noticed that Clinton wasn’t there till he came back with a crowbar. Clinton limped up on the porch of the little house and, without a word, applied the crowbar to the large plywood square that covered the window. Once a few nails were loosened, he grabbed the wood, gave a tug and tore it off the window frame, exposing the occupants inside.