On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch (13 page)

Again, Tory wasted no time in communicating his sympathies to Franklin.

Chapter 9

T
ORY
took refuge in Franklin’s correspondence. They ameliorated his loneliness. As the weeks passed, they exchanged more letters. The letters grew lengthier and lengthier. Tory lived his days and nights riding on a cloud. When not reading Franklin’s latest correspondence, he reread the previous ones until the bulb in his Edison lamp flickered and weakened. He floated about the house, taking care of his chores with his head full of Franklin. His entire life that spring and summer passed immersed in Franklin Ausmus’s world.

Every nine or ten days a new reply arrived. Immediately after reading one, Tory would compose a response. At that point in their correspondence, neither showed modesty by waiting a respectable period of time before responding. Other than that awful occasion when Franklin had encountered Henri Bilodeaux, each of their letters was dated the day they had received the previous one.

Tory learned more about Franklin’s homestead and his companion, Wicasha, the Lakota Indian whom Franklin often referred to as his “good friend.” At first, Tory shuddered to think that a white man might choose to befriend an Indian, but he found Franklin’s manner of expressing his affection for Wicasha touching. Soon, Tory envisioned the Indian his friend also.

Moonlight Gulch became Tory’s home. Like in any well-crafted account, he visualized himself surrounded by the same mountains and pines Franklin wrote about. Much affection and awe for his hallowed homestead flowed from Franklin’s pencil. Other than Walt Whitman, Tory had never come across anyone who expressed a love of the earth like Franklin Ausmus.

In turn, Tory wrote Franklin details of his life in Chicago, his dreams, his hopes, his fears. He had wanted to mention Joseph but decided it was best to keep that part of his life secured inside his heart.

Guilt for masquerading as a woman irritated Tory at times, yet he allowed the excitement of Franklin’s letters to reassure him that they were only corresponding as friends. Neither had declared a romantic affection for the other, although Franklin had alluded to wanting to “settle down with the right girl” more than once. Tory did not wish to carry his writing to such a grandiose level. What matter if “Torsten P.” was a man? They had written each other kind, earnest letters, and that was what mattered, as far as Tory was concerned.

Tory was not always available to intercept the letters. Twice Mr. Persson rang the door chime sooner than scheduled, and Tory, each time occupied with a demanding chore, failed to free himself swiftly enough to reach the door. Fortunately, his mother had handed him the letters with no questions. Both times she had gazed at the envelopes with narrowed eyes, but she seemed too preoccupied with maintaining the boarders who came and went with the breeze to worry.

The warmer months swept a hectic pace to Tory’s life on Chicago Avenue. Summer meant floors needed scrubbing, windows needed washing, furniture needed waxing. If his mother wasn’t hollering for him to finish some task, his father demanded more of his time in the bakery. Although his father had hired a girl to help out on weekends, Tory, to his frustration, squandered more hours training her for the position than he ever had baking.

By midsummer, Tory’s enthusiasm for Franklin’s letters failed to wane. But they seemed to slow in frequency. Exactly two weeks had passed since he’d last received a response. There hadn’t been such a long gap in their correspondence since Franklin’s run-in with Henri Bilodeaux. One day while free from chores, Tory waited for Mr. Persson on the front stoop, eager to see if Franklin had sent another letter.

When Mr. Persson arrived that day, the postman said with a taut smile that he carried no letters for Tory. The next day, and the next, were more of the same. The following week, again, no correspondence. At one point, Postman Persson grew gruff with Tory. With a glower and a grizzled voice, he informed Tory that he should wait for the letters in the door slot, followed by the cord chime, and to stop bothering him.

Days turned into weeks. August passed. Tory worried something awful might have happened to Franklin. Had the wretched Henri Bilodeaux raided his homestead and harmed Franklin in some way? How could Tory find out what had happened?

He was the first to race to the door whenever he heard Mr. Persson ring the cord, often brushing past his mother along the way. But no letter from Franklin came. By the second week of September, there was still no letter. Tory wracked his brain with worry and grief. Perhaps Franklin had grown tired of Tory’s overly faithful writing or found a more likeable correspondent?

Surely others must have responded to Franklin’s advertisement in
Matrimonial News
. Some small-town tart like Clair Schuster. Maybe Franklin’s rejecting him was for the best. What had Tory to give him? Tory had misrepresented himself the entire time. He hung his head in shame and dejection.

But finally, Tory was unable to keep from pestering Mr. Persson. He approached the postman as he limped his way down Chicago Avenue, his canvas sack by his side. Tory took care to slow his pace so as not to appear frenzied like in previous weeks.

“Mr. Persson, may I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course, Torsten.” The postman retained a guarded voice.

“I’ve been getting letters, or at least I had, on a regular basis. You know because I have bothered you so much for them. But suddenly those letters have stopped coming. I’m surprised I haven’t received any recently. Do you know anything about them? They are postmarked from Dakota Territory with the sender Franklin Ausmus.”

Mr. Persson’s face went white.

Tory knitted his eyebrows. “Tell me,” he insisted. “What do you know about them?”

“I don’t know anything,” Mr. Persson said. But Tory detected a slight twitch in the postman’s upper lip.

“Please, Mr. Persson. If you know what’s happened, tell me.”

Mr. Persson avoided Tory’s gaze. Red streaks broke out along his neck and cheeks. “Your father insisted I burn any letter addressed to you from the Dakota Territory,” he said in a rush, as if to get it out once and for all. “I’m sorry, Torsten. He gave me no choice. He was adamant. Said it was in your best interest.”

Tory could barely form the indignant words that ricocheted inside his head. “You… you burned… Franklin’s letters?”

“I’m sorry, Torsten. I truly am.”

“You… you had no right. It’s… it’s against the law.”

“I really do apologize. I did try to change your father’s mind, but he insisted.”

Tears boiled in Tory’s eyes. “How many were there? How many did you destroy?”

The postman appeared flustered. He glanced toward the whitewashed sky from under his cap. “I… I don’t know. I guess maybe four, five. I can’t recall.”

The street swayed. Tory hated everything and everyone on Chicago Avenue.

“Please don’t say anything, Torsten,” the postman said. “If the postal service finds out about this, I’ll lose my job. Please don’t tell them. I’m a veteran.”

Tory glared at Mr. Persson. “Franklin’s a veteran too.” He scurried off to the bakery next to the house. Once inside, he shouted for his father. The new counter girl reported that he had gone in the house for a short rest.

When he failed to find his father inside the house, he shut himself in his bedroom and composed Franklin a brief letter, explaining why he had failed to reply in such a long time. The poor man must think Tory had rejected him. And yet Tory had thought Franklin had done the rejecting. Pencil clamped in hand, he nearly tore the paper while he scribbled an apology. With the letter sealed in an envelope and clenched in his fingers, he raced downstairs. Mr. Pilkvist, his face twisted, waited for him at the bottom.

Tory slowed. Inhaling, he descended the last few steps like a watchful fox, his hand loose on the handrail.

“What is this shouting, Torsten? I hear you near all the way to the mercantile.”

The anger, like a steam engine, pressurized inside Torsten. “You had the postman discard my personal letters,” he spewed at his father. “Why, Pappa? Why?”

“I do not like the tone you take, Torsten.”

“Never mind my tone, Pappa. Why did you do it? Please, tell me. Why?”

“I not like you writing that person, whoever he is. Silly skräp, writing to strangers in far-off lands. There are more important things to do. You waste time and energy with such nonsense.”

“It’s my personal business. You had no right to interfere.”

“I have the right to do as I see just in my own home,” Mr. Pilkvist sputtered back. “I have a business here. I look after our welfare. First your silly nonsense with that boarder Joseph, and now—”

“Don’t mention Joseph’s name like that, Pappa. He wasn’t just a boarder. You know nothing about him.”

His father’s eyes widened. “What is that in your hand?”

Tory’s heart stopped. Before he could conceal the letter he had written Franklin behind his back, his father snatched it from him.

“No!” Tory grabbed for it, but Mr. Pilkvist held him back. “Please, Pappa,” he shouted. “Give it to me. You have no right to read my private letters.”

Mr. Pilkvist pivoted his shoulder, blocking the letter from Tory’s reach while he tore open the envelope. Tory had no choice but to stand by and watch his father read. The farther his father’s eyes traveled down the page, the redder his face became. Mr. Pilkvist’s eyes narrowed into black dots, angry tears glassing over his blue irises. Grunting, he tore the letter into pieces and balled the scraps into a tight fist, which he shook at Tory.

“Why do you write this to some cowboy? Tell me now. Why do you write this?”

“He’s not a cowboy.”

Tory’s mother shuffled into the entrance foyer, but she refrained from nearing them. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyes darting from Tory to her husband.

“Nothing to concern you, Anna. This is between me and my son.”

“But you speak so loudly.”

“We are done here. It is all over with, once and for all.” His father unleashed a barrage of Swedish expletives. In English, he said, “I will take this skräp to the incinerator where it belongs.” He flexed his fist in Tory’s flaming face. “And you, Tory, you no longer write such nonsense, understand? As of now, we put this behind us and get back to business. Right now, I need you in the bakery to help. Get your head out of the clouds and come with me. Come with me now!”

“No, Pappa. I won’t. I won’t come with you ever again.”

“Torsten!” His mother scurried to the steps and reached for him, but he slipped from her slender fingers as he turned to dash back upstairs.

In his bedroom, Tory grabbed for his satchel. He tossed in whatever clothes fit without concern for wrinkles or snags. Through reddened eyes, he noticed his mother standing by the threshold.

“What are you doing, Torsten? Why are you packing?”

“I’m leaving, Mamma. I’m a man now. I’ll be twenty next year. I can make my own way. I don’t need either one of you anymore.” He dug inside drawers, dressers, closets, throwing in anything he might need that would fit—socks, slippers, cologne box, comb.

He stopped long enough to fling his mother a steaming glower. “You’re the one who told him about the letters, aren’t you? Those two you intercepted. You told him about them.”

“Tory, I only think of your best interest. You’re my son—”

He rooted through his desk drawer for his tablets and pencils. And for Franklin’s letters. He dug and dug. “Where are my letters from Franklin? I had many more in my drawer. Did you take them too? Did you?”

“No, Torsten. I not do that.” Her cheeks colored a deep red.

“You’re lying.”

“Torsten—”

Tears blurred Tory’s vision. “Why, Mamma? Why did you take them?”

She remained quiet, shaking. “I… I had to, Torsten,” she finally said with a quavering voice. “When your father found out about the letters from that cowboy, I assumed you had more hidden away, so I find them before he do. I was trying to help you. I didn’t read them. I didn’t.”

“Where are they?” Tory demanded.

Mrs. Pilkvist lowered her head. “I put them in the incinerator.”

Red-hot flames flashed before Tory’s eyes. “How dare you rummage through my things and destroy them.”

Tory’s father stood behind his wife, a grim look on his round face. “You do not use such insolent voice to your mamma, Tory. She do what is right. Like what I do with that book of poems that are filled with nonsense. Like what I will do with this letter.” He raised his fist, where the torn bits from the letter Tory had written still protruded between his clenched fingers.

Chewing on the anger that burned his lips, Tory snapped his bag shut and put on his derby. “I’ll never forgive either one of you for what you’ve done.” With a cursory kiss on his mother’s tear-moistened cheek, he nudged past them and fled downstairs.

“But where will you go?” his mother called after him through the balustrade. “What about us here? The business?” She pulled on her wetted face. “My children have all gone. They have all deserted me.”

Tory stopped by the front door and scowled at his mother. “I’m sorry, Mamma, but I can no longer live in this house. Not after everything that’s happened. If neither of you can respect my life, then I’ll find a place where others will.”