Winter's Reckoning

WINTER’S RECKONING

by Adele Holmes, MD

Chapter One

MADDIE

Her ancestors were healers. Mysterious, wise, noble. They championed their ideals and frequently stood accused for them. Some were legends.

She doubted such people still existed in 1917.

Madeline Fairbanks wished for a smidgen of her forbearers’ grit as she filled her medical bag. A man had been dispatched to retrieve her. His report was harrowing, an incident unheard of in their sleepy rural community.

“They need you right now, Maddie.” The bald man pranced in place as though he stood on hot coals. “Gunshot injuries in town. I don’t know who done it.”

“Gunshot? How many are injured? Anyone dead?”

“Bloody mess for sure. Can’t say if anybody’s dead.” He rubbed the peach fuzz on his shiny scalp. “Minute I pulled up, everybody yelled to go get you.”

Her mind spun as she prepared herself for the task ahead. The bumpy wagon ride seemed interminable. But when she was delivered to the scene, the butterflies in her stomach flew away, and she fought to suppress her giggles.

The deputy sheriff had shot himself in the foot in the general store of Jamesville, a town with one foot in the grave itself. Maddie lamented the state of the latter much more than the event of the former.

Deputy Henry perched on a bench in a back room, waving his bloody-footed appendage in the air like a flag on the Fourth of July.

“Looks like the bullet went straight through,” Maddie said. To hide her grin, she held her face close to the wound she inspected. “Now how in the world did this happen? Bank robber shoot you?”

She enjoyed antagonizing the young officer—there was no bank left in Jamesville.

Maddie doused the lesion with moonshine, and he cursed under his breath. She straightened, tugged at her wire-rimmed spectacles, and leaned back against the rough wooden wall of the dusty Southern Appalachian mercantile.

The tip of his holster was blown open, and gunpowder streaked down the right side of his jeans.

“Did you shoot yourself in the foot with your own gun?” She spoke loud enough to ensure the crowd gathering in the store heard.

He flared his nostrils and bunched up his mouth as though he might spit at her. A tan campaign hat propped on his belly rose, trembled, and fell with each ragged breath. She challenged him in silence with a gaze over her glasses as she shoved cotton batting into both sides of the wound and squeezed his forefoot tight between her hands.

In response, he placed his hat onto his head and pulled the strap taut. His eyes bulged when Maddie released the pressure to reveal the damage. Hemostasis was achieved, but the top of his foot gaped a thumb’s width. She could have stuck her pinky finger straight through—back to front—but didn’t want the large man to pass out onto the floor.

“You’re lucky the bullet went in and out without breaking any bones or tearing any major vessels. Bullet’s gotta be lodged in the floor out there.” She pointed toward the doorway, along a path of bloody footsteps.

He nodded and glanced sideways at his foot. His gaze ricocheted to the ceiling, and his face became as pale as the pile of faded newspapers stacked on the floor beside him.

“Deputy, when I came through the store, I saw Renetta Morgan out there. She’s been my apprentice for a while now and is pretty good at tending wounds.” Maddie clipped a string and re-threaded her needle. “You lost a lot of blood waiting for me, when Miss Morgan was right here and could’ve done the job.”

“Ain’t no colored woman gonna tend my injury.” He spoke through clenched teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Maddie’s toes curled in her boots, and she bit her tongue to keep a nasty retort from sliding off the tip of it.

She tied the last knot and opened a jar she pulled from her black leather bag. A spicy, warm aroma filled the room, covering the metallic odor of the blood. But not, Maddie noted, the rancid smell of his foot. She leaned to rifle through the stack of newspapers, flicking hair—prematurely gray at only forty-six—out of her eyes with a free hand.

“Here it is.” She extracted a page from the bottom of the pile and poured a whitish powder out of the jar into the paper. She twisted and wrapped it just so.

Deputy Henry leaned in.

“A mixture of willow bark and ginger root for the pain.” She ran her index finger along the words she had arranged to be seen on top of the packet. “And this article is about the importance of education. After you take all the medication, you might read about the benefits a secondary school could provide the youngsters in our town.”

He shut his eyes and wagged his head once.

“You can read, can’t you, Deputy Henry?” A bit of Boston Brahmin accent clung to her southern drawl.

“’Course I can.”

“Of course you can.” She smiled at him, batting wide eyes.

On her way out, she nodded a closed-lipped “good day” toward the general direction of the gawkers, most of whom jockeyed for position to get a peek at their sole law officer, disabled in the storeroom.

Of more interest to Maddie was the snaggletoothed old woman creaking back and forth on the rocker outside, muttering to herself.

“No forks . . . all spoons and knives. All spoons and knives in the persimmons this year.”

Maddie wrapped her woolen cardigan tightly across her chest. “Gonna be a cold winter, you say?”

“It’ll cut like a knife.” The old woman squinted toward the sky. “Like that bone-chilling wind that ushered in the darkness last night.”

CARL

Carl Howard rode into the lackluster town at dusk. The stores along Main Street were uniformly empty, and as he was losing hope for dinner, a flicker ahead caught his eye. The Jamesville Mercantile—as the sign proclaimed—leaked light from its windows and, as he realized upon pushing the swinging door, an enticing aroma of split pea soup wafted from a kettle on its potbellied stove.

“Good evening.” A middle-aged man in red suspenders greeted him from a table in the corner.

Carl nodded in the man’s direction. There was no one else, except a lone clerk behind the counter in the store.

“Can I help you?” the clerk called out.

“Bowl of that soup will do it.”

As Carl spoke with the clerk, another man entered the store, took one look at the suspendered one, and retraced his steps back to the door.

“Tom Price,” Red Suspenders called out. “You’re the man I was looking for.”

“Yep?” The man swiveled back around.

“I hear the deacons are looking for a new pastor at Trinity?”

“Yes.” He softened his stance. “I’d hoped the tristate conference would send us a replacement, but it looks like they’ve abandoned us.”

“Too bad about Reverend Lawrence skipping town. That have anything to do with your Tuesday night boys’ club?” Red Suspenders stood to face the man he called Tom, and Tom—taller by a head—spread himself wide.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Evans.”

“Right.” Evans scraped his chair back and stood to leave. An empty bowl on the table rattled as he rose. “And how’s that wife of yours doing?”

“Too fat and sassy for my liking.” Tom stepped to the counter to spit tobacco into a jaded copper spittoon. “But I don’t guess there’s much I can do about that, is there?”

Evans emitted a laugh that shook his belly and slapped Tom on the back as he walked out the door.

Tom still scowled after the man when Carl approached.

“Tom Price?” Carl held his hand out. “Deacon at Trinity Church of Jamesville?”

“Yes, and you are . . .”

“Reverend Carl Howard. The tristate conference sent me to be your new pastor.”

Carl strutted through the parsonage wearing nothing but a black clerical robe he found in the wardrobe. It was too long, and somewhat snug at the waist.

The previous pastor must have been tall and thin.

Through the kitchen window, he spied his stallion poking his huge head through the top of the stable gate. Carl opened the back door and leaned out.

“Good morning, Zephyr! Looks like we were both lucky in the housing department this go-around,” he shouted. “Let me get settled in, then I’ll tend to you.”

Shoulders shook in silent glee as he inspected the kitchen, the hearth room. He stopped to sit on each piece of furniture, peer into every ceramic crock, and open and shut all the doors.

Wagon wheels crunched in the distance, and he ran to the bedroom, shucking the robe onto the floor. He returned clothed, marched to the front door, and—after straightening his collar—stepped onto the porch as a wagon loaded with hay passed by. The driver, a thin man with a black handlebar mustache, never looked Carl’s way. Carl’s shoulders slumped.

Zephyr neighed, and Carl sprinted for the stable. Though barely forty, Carl sprinted for only a few things. His horse was one of them.

“Well, look over here, you’ve a good supply of hay—some of it alfalfa.” Carl found a pitchfork and served breakfast to his best friend.

While the horse munched, Carl cleaned and oiled the bridle and saddle. He curried the animal and brushed its mane and tail. After Zephyr had eaten all he wanted, Carl watered him and tacked him up for a ride to town.

The mercantile looked like a different place in the daylight. People swarmed like bees. Carl lined up at the counter reserved for the white folks and inventoried the crowd. A clerk was on hands and knees scrubbing at red streaks on the floor. Over in the colored line, a pretty young woman stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. Her gaze met his, but when Carl nodded and smiled at her, she straightened up and looked away.

Second in line ahead of him, now at the counter, was Evans in his red suspenders and rolled up sleeves. He plopped his order over his shoulder like a tow sack. Carl smelled coffee beans when the man stopped to introduce himself.

“I’m Randall Evans, the newspaper editor.” The man stuck out a beefy hand. “We’ve not properly met.”

“Reverend Carl Howard.” He squeezed Randall’s hand harder than necessary. “Will I be seeing you at church?”

“I’m not one of your followers. Catholic by raising.” Thick brown locks of hair tumbled across his forehead. “But I wish you the best, nonetheless. Many good people that I care an awful lot about worship there.”

“So, your newspaper leans away from the Protestants?” The hair on Carl’s arms bristled.

He and Randall stood eye-to-eye. Carl gave the man’s hand another tug.

“No, sir.” Randall pulled back on the hand Carl had captured. “It leans toward the truth.” He freed his hand with a twist and said over his shoulder as he walked away, “Whether it’s popular or not.”

The store was quiet. Customers peered at Carl.

“Good day, Mr. Evans.” He strived for singsong nonchalance.

Carl brushed off his sleeves and perused the offerings in the store. The chatter in the room returned to its previous level of buzz.

Chalk on a blackboard proclaimed black-eyed peas and cornbread to be the offering of the day, and his stomach rumbled.

He figured after the coming Sunday, the church ladies would keep him fed. For now, the diner would suffice.

“I’ll have one of those work coats and a pair of Levi Strauss’s denims,” Carl said, when it was his turn at the counter. He stood back, arms and legs held out for inspection. “Whatever size you think I need.”

“Medium . . .” The clerk stroked his whiskers, looking from Carl’s head to his feet. “Maybe large. Short in the length, for sure.”

Carl rose onto his tiptoes.

“New pastor, eh?” The clerk wrapped Carl’s purchase in brown paper and tied it with string. “Be with us long?”

“That’s up to the deacons,” Carl said. “But I’m certain they’ll be delighted with me. Many folks say I’m the best preacher they’ve ever seen.”

Carl arrived at the church building at noon on time. Tom unlocked the door, and Carl marched up the stairs to the pulpit.

“This’ll do mighty fine.” He patted an old wooden lectern that hit him mid-chest. “Now, Tom, what do these people need to be quaking in their boots about?”

“Excuse me?” Tom’s face was blank as he tugged at his ear.

“You’re the head deacon, no?” Carl bent his elbows, palms open to the ceiling. “Surely there are some issues that need to be tamed?”

“Hadn’t thought of it that way.” Tom gave the first smile Carl had seen from him.

It was brief.

“We’re a pretty low-key bunch of people. Most of us get along fine.”

“Surely somebody’s messing around with somebody else’s wife?”

“Nope.” Tom cracked his knuckles and stared out a window.

“Anyone thieving?” Carl ran the edges of a red and gold parament through his fingertips. His eyes drooped as he drew air and touched it to his cheek.

Tom shook his head and gazed at the tombstones outside.

“Incest?” Carl dropped the ornate fabric he caressed and twirled on his heels, inspecting his new domain.

“Lord, who knows?” Tom extended his long, thin fingers. “I reckon this congregation’s not got any real big problems.”

The sanctuary smelled of beeswax, old books, and decaying lilies that sagged in a glass vase full of murky water. Carl plodded down from his pulpit and settled into a pew, shielding his eyes from a ray of sunshine stippled with floating detritus. He pointed for Tom to sit.

“You see, for us to be effective leaders, we need something to lead the people either toward or away from. What do they truly love; what are they most afraid of?”

Tom did not sit.

“I guess we like to keep it peaceful; every once in a while, the coloreds might get too uppity or the women a little bossy.” He scratched his head. “I’d say that’s mostly egged on by either Randall Evans or Maddie Fairbanks. But there ain’t ever any violence or anything like that.”

“Hmmm.” Carl tapped his fingertips together. “I’d like to meet with the deacons once a week.”

“Sure.” Tom flipped the church key into Carl’s lap and strode toward the door. “Wednesdays are best.”

He’d forgotten all about Wednesday night services. “Does Trinity have a midweek meeting?” Carl straightened his spine, and his words became louder with each step Tom took away from him.

“Not anymore. Deacons can meet Wednesday mornings.” The door slammed behind him.

“Whew.” Carl wiped his forehead and slumped into a pew. He hadn’t preached a sermon in ten years.