The House on Seventh Street (26 page)

When she saw the reproduction of her and Winna's childhood bedroom shining in the light from the dormers, Chloe gasped and pulled back as if she were afraid. Winna took her hand and they followed until they stood beside the wicker beds and matching night tables with the little-girl lamps.

Seth spoke first. “I made this little scene.”

Chloe was crying. “This furniture came from our house in town—before we moved to the country.”

Winna looked confused. “How did you know how things were placed?”

“For some reason, I don't remember, your father and I came up here for something. He saw one of the beds and told me it had belonged to his daughters. He started looking for the rest of the furniture that went with it. He said it would make him happy to see the beds, the dresser, and little rocking chair back together again.”

“Yes,” Chloe said. “It's our old room.” She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of one hand.

“But the bedspreads and sheets?” Winna said.

“He looked for them,” Seth said. “Did he get the right ones?”

“I don't exactly remember, but they look pretty close.”

“Well, he went around looking in old chests and boxes—I could tell he was on a mission, like he was on a treasure hunt—until he found these. I helped him make the beds.”

Winna sighed and shook her head. “I can't believe he did this. I found it not long after I came back. I didn't mention it to you, Chloe, because it had really upset me.”

“At the time—as we were putting it all together—” Seth said, “I thought your father was kind of memorializing your childhood. He seemed earnest and single-minded as we worked. At the time, I thought he was missing you.”

“He must have cared about us,” Winna said.

“Maybe he cared about you. He disinherited me,” Chloe said.

Seth looked at Chloe. “The last few years he was forgetful. I really think he forgot that he'd left you out of the will. The man I knew wouldn't have let that will stand. Besides, he described you to me lovingly. He didn't say, ‘I love one daughter and I disinherited the other.'”

Chloe sat down on the faded pink satin bedspread. She picked up the baby doll Winna had dropped. “I remember you.” She looked up at Winna and said, “Remember baby Jennie?”

“Of course,” Winna said. “We all laughed at you because you loved her so much that you rejected the new doll Santa brought that Christmas. You broke that doll's shiny new heart.”

“Shouldn't we dismantle this little scene?” Emily looked troubled.

“No!” Chloe tucked her doll in under the coverlet. “Let's keep it. Daddy wanted it this way.”

1915

THE YOUNG
MAN
had lost count. Just the same, he wanted another Manhattan and waited eagerly for the dining car attendant to return to his table. Having passed through the miracle of Glenwood Canyon where tracks cut a narrow swath above the Colorado River, he had been on the train for several hours speeding through miles of majestic mountain scenery. The train had entered the granite walls of the Royal Gorge, narrow as a tunnel at its base, widening to a few hundred feet at its top some thousand feet above the Arkansas River.

Over the past five years, Adolph Whitaker had taken the train once a year from his university in the East to Grand Junction and back. Nature's magnificence and man's engineering wonders had always delighted him—but today his mind traveled elsewhere.

The dusky evening light masked the mountains. He could see his image reflected in the window glass. The face mustached, dark wavy hair cropped close, a grave expression he could not hide even behind his spectacles.

He had grown used to the sound of the rails and, though the train rocked side to side, he no longer heard them. The bell clanged a warning as they passed through a small town. He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. They would be in Denver in less than two hours. Motioning the waiter to his table, he ordered another drink.

Earlier, the porter had wanted to make up his bed for the night. Whitaker had picked up the smaller of his two bags and gone to the club car. He drank alone, speaking to no one. When a couple of dandies had threatened to intrude on his solitude, he left for the dining car.

Entering the long narrow space—one aisle with tables seating four crowded to the right—he headed for a table for two on the other side. He tucked his bag under the table and pulled out the chair. Though he was not hungry, he had ordered the trout. When his waiter presented it to him with a flourish, he could not eat. The fish, with one eye fixed on him, had lain there untouched, growing cold among the peas and Denver potatoes.

Confused, tragically lost, he could not believe what had happened. The cruel disappointment from the only woman he had ever loved. Her goodbye had been a betrayal. After all he had worked for, all he had abandoned and then risked for her, she had, in one sudden breathless sentence, sent him away from her forever. She had literally fled.

The waiter appeared with a tray. He placed a white coaster on the tablecloth where he centered the Manhattan. His black hands reached to light the candle lamp and return the red rose in a silver plated budvase to its place against the window.

The cold sweaty glass already in hand, Whitaker thanked the waiter with a coin and was glad when he was gone. He sipped his drink slowly, letting its dark sweetness burn his tongue as it rolled away to his throat. He cast his eyes around the dining car, at the people seated near: a young woman alone with her back to him—her hair bobbed—a table of four that looked like a family—mother, father, and two daughters, the youngest with an absurdly large white bow at the back of her head. He could feel the liquor in his fingertips now and the white bow seemed to dance on and off the girl's head.

He downed the last few drops and absently took the cherry into his mouth. The sweetness made his stomach turn. Suddenly, alert to the feeling that someone watched, he looked behind him. Seeing nothing but diners and waiters—no faces he knew—he reached under the table for his bag and stood up to go.

The bones in his legs seemed to melt. He straightened his back and inhaled a deep breath as he carefully navigated toward the front. He wanted to return to the Pullman car and his bunk—to sleep. Nauseated and thinking a breath of fresh air would do him good, he redirected himself toward the back of the train and the observation car.

Choked with smoke and jovial travelers—mostly men and a few girls with skirts above their ankles—he moved through the crowded car bumping shoulders. Singing boisterously, everyone appeared to be in their cups.

“Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, and smile, smile, smile.”

Avoiding eye contact, he plowed his way through.

“What's the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile, so pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, and smile, smile, smile.”

At the very end of the train, he opened the door to the observation deck and stepped out into the warm night air. Abruptly assaulted by the violent roar of steel wheels on steel tracks, he looked back through the window in the door. No one looked his way. His whole body could feel the speed, the great power of the train as it raced toward the city.

The small deck was empty. He put down his bag and, alone with his thoughts, reached for the railing to brace himself. He tried to focus on the dark landscape. Silhouettes of pines and mountain ridges edged in moonlight came into view as the train withdrew from the mountains.

The things I've done for her. He could feel the precious bag full of jewels leaning against his feet and wanted to open it. Tears wet his cheeks. The chances I've taken. What now? He thought of his future alone. After what I've done, I will have to get away—to hide in Mexico, or Europe perhaps. My crimes have made me rich, but what good is it without her? There will be no comfort for me. Sobbing, absorbed in the debacle he had made of his once promising life, he raised one hand to remove a handkerchief from his pocket. It wasn't there.
Someone might come and see me shedding tears like a woman.

Someone had.

Unnoticed, a tall man wearing a lightweight coat had appeared just outside the door. The rush of the wind and the grinding of the train against the tracks had provided cover for his entrance. Standing in the shadows, against the back of the car, he waited.

His nose dripping, his cheeks wet with tears, Adolph Whitaker searched again for his handkerchief. The car lurched to the left. He reached out for support. The car shuddered, then lurched again as if it wanted to shake him loose—as if a hand had reached out to throw him off balance.

The railing slipped from his hand. He stumbled. Just then, two strong arms took hold from behind. He turned and glimpsed the face of a man he knew. With chilling certainty, Whitaker realized he was going to die. He knew the arms that grabbed him would push him over the side of the speeding train.

It happened so fast he had only the brief sensation of disaster, then falling, his tears suddenly stopped by the sound of his own last cry.

Edwin Grumman picked up the small black suitcase, threw it over the side, and disappeared into the crowd of happy travelers.

KAREN VORBECK WILLIAMS is the author of
My Enemy's Tears: The Witch of Northampton
, a historical novel based on the life of her eleventh great–grandmother, who was accused of witchcraft in 1675. She is a prize-winning photographer and Master Gardener living in Rumford, Rhode Island. Learn more at
http://www.karenvorbeckwilliams.com/
.

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