Pat Sayer

Bend with the Wind

Chapter 1

John was like a gander flying off with the geese. It didn't matter where they were going as long as they took him someplace other than where he was at.

1851

The Stillman Farm

Morenci, Michigan

"John was shot in the head. I'm sorry, folks."

The man who organized wagon trains for the 49ers did the telling. He didn't mince words. John Robert Stillman's body was buried in the desert in the Utah Territory. He was on his way home from California.

Robert Stillman didn't know what to do. He watched his grandmother dig her crooked fingers into her husband's arm. He waited for any sign of pain on his granddad’s face, but the man held steady. Too steady.

Jake fixed his eyes upward on the cross beams. Robert looked up, just to be sure. He understood; the room was squeezing small on his brother. Again.

He thought Mr. Joseph Phelps enjoyed the tragedy, or at least the telling of it, and he wondered how many times he had told the tale and to whom. He felt pulled to the man more than his telling, though they both scared him. He knew his family didn't like the man.

Phelps' eyes held no discernible color. Robert would have accepted gray, as it was painted on all things Michigan with texture and regularity. He thought color must wash out from lying.

It was only clear that his mother was listening by her worsening agitation. Alma wrung her hands until they got away and flew to her head, smoothing her hair and arguing with the few strands that refused to cooperate. Then they went back to wringing.

“Dead! He's dead? How could he do this to me?” she wailed.

She spun on her heels as if there were someplace she needed to go. Alma learned from her husband that leaving was easy, but like everything, it was different for women. All she could do was remove herself while remaining in place. Robert had seen that same look on his father’s face. His mother wanted to fly.

Everyone breathed easier when she placed her hands on the table, her head bowed. It looked as though she was taking comfort in a prayer. It didn’t last long. Without warning, Alma picked up two glass bottles and hurled them against the hearth, shattering them to bits.

That was Phelps’ sign to leave. Robert caught him moving in a practiced sidestep toward the door. When it opened, Robert shoved past the man and shot through the gap. The boy stopped, spun around, and grabbed hold of the latch. With more power than seemed possible in a body too small for its years, he smashed the door into the unlikable man’s pointed face.

Shock raced along the planking of the porch and jumped into the boy. Robert bolted, carrying his feelings and his mother’s screams. He could still feel the raw-hewn wood in his hands, frightened by the force he had wielded against it. Shock and fear, pounding, found a home in his heart. Obeying an inherent sense of duty, he removed them from the farmhouse. And from her.

“Why, that little ruffian!” Phelps sputtered. Outrage spilled from his thin-lipped mouth as blood seeped through his handkerchief.

“He’s not a ruffian, Joseph. He’s my grandson, just a boy who heard you tell him that his father’s never comin’ home. Good day to you, sir.” Samuel was finished with the man. He pulled his daughter close.

Jake ran outside for air. And for his brother.

“Robert!”

The way his name shouted after him, Robert thought it must be in danger. Since he had brought it along for nine years, he figured trouble must be chasing after him, too. He pushed himself, his strides becoming frenzied and his breathing shallow.

Jake watched his little brother run from all of them. It was a different kind of day. Instead of catching up with him, he jumped two steps off the porch and started down the farm lane to Ira’s cabin.

****

Alma’s mother swept up the shards and splinters of glass, then handed her daughter a mug holding a couple of pours. The women eased into their chairs, rocking in abstract unison.

“I’ll be seein’ to the boys,” Samuel said to his wife. "Ira should've been here."

"It's Sunday. Go easy tellin' him," Mary said.

Alma looked over at the jug; her crystal blue eyes, always striking, were now plain-glazed.

“You might as well bring that jug close, Alma. It’s gonna be a long night. Oh, he doesn't have to know."

The new widow continued staring at the charred remains of a once well-constructed fire. A thin layer of greasy ash coated the hearth. Alma worried about embers snapping free from an imaginary blaze and burning down her house. Holding tight to the fire shovel, she was ready to scoop them up and return them to their nest

A shine peeked up at her from a slice of glass. When Alma stabbed at it with the shovel, it broke into tiny glimmers. She tilted her head and listened to the sound of shattering.

Mary knew that coiled look of rising madness on her daughter’s face. Oh, it was all too much. The old woman’s pain returned, and Mary pressed her hand to her chest. Taking a slow breath, she filled the space around her heart so those stickings would have less room to dance. She brushed away a new fill of tears and reached for her daughter.

Alma cared for her mother, forgetting her troubles real and imagined, for a few kind hours.

****

Ira waved to Jake, but his smile faded when he saw the boy’s face.

“Hey now. What’s all this?”

Jake leaned against his uncle, unable to talk.

Ira remembered the last time Jake lost his words. It was nearly three years ago, the day John said goodbye. He put his arm around his shoulders and gentled him to his bench.

“I’m right here, Jakey.”

****

Samuel hoped Jake and Robert were with Ira. He couldn’t chase after both boys at the same time.

~Damn it, John, what were you thinkin’? Gold.~

He came upon a branch that dared crowd his path. He kicked at it, his curses landing as hard as the blows, and then boot-stomped it until it lay cowering at the edge of the farm lane.

~Why didn’t I stop him?~

****

Jake watched Samuel and Ira talking, their words just out of earshot. One man’s arms swiped at the air while the other’s remained crossed. After a few minutes, Samuel took the spot next to Jake, who continued pulling at little splinters on the porch post.

“This is gonna sort, Grandson. I know, it’s a terrible thing.”

He tried to reassure him that his mother was in the good care of his grandmother.

“What about Robert?”

“He’ll come home when he’s ready,” Samuel said.

“He hasn’t come back?” Alarmed, Jake got up and squared his shoulders.

“Now, where you off to?” Ira asked.

“I have to find my brother.”

“Jake, you even know where to—”

“I’ll find him, Granddad.”

Jake stopped at home. He scanned the meadow to the tree line, the last place he saw him.

“Where's he at?”

****

“They didn’t bury him. How’d them rushers know that was John?” Ira asked.

“They came up on what was left of his wagon and knew it right off. Someone found his hat in the scrub. One of 'em told Joseph Phelps what he knew when they got back.”

“Phelps." Ira hawked and let fly over the railing. "Man's a cheat. You believe him?” Ira asked.

“Willy Carson, you remember? Came out of the Catskills. His father--"

"I remember."

It was important to measure the telling by the man. The Carson family was well-considered, and one of the first to settle in the county.

"He's the one who told Phelps. He found the wagon. Now, John ain’t here. If he’s not dead, Ira, where is he?”

“It’s gonna be tough runnin' the farm without him,” Ira nodded, trying to accept the truth.

“It’s been tough. We’ll make do."

“I should’ve gone with him.”

“Yea, then you’d both be dead. You gonna pass that old jug or what?” Samuel asked, his head weighing heavy on his hands and elbows.

Ira tugged on his flat cap, securing it as if walking in a high wind, then reached for the whiskey.

The men watched the dying light shine on those strong places where the tree bellies touched the soil. It was the spot that separated what was seen from what was hidden, no different than people, showing their outsides and hiding what they carried deep. Like the roots of a tree.

Needing a sign that the common order of life had changed with John’s passing, the men’s ears perked up at the sound of the last bird call. The robin’s trill sounded more like a lament than a cordial parting.

They sat on the porch until the jug knocked hollow.

****

He collapsed in the wood lot. Eyes closed, Robert remembered his father’s hands under his armpits, swinging him forward and backward. He felt his body go limp in his papa’s arms, laughing, and flopping like a rag doll.

Around him was a changing landscape, fall colors teasing away the green. Robert needed to believe that John would appear if he put his heart and soul into calling him. As hard as he tried, neither screams nor prayers could change the shifting of the seasons on the land or in the young boy’s life.

"Papa!"

Robert’s voice bounced from the crag to the edge of the fence rails before disappearing, unheard, into the evening sky. He grabbed, pulled, and ripped leaves, grass, and weeds until the dirt filled the spaces under his nails and darkened the creases on his palms and fingers. Exhausted, he laid his head on the upturned soil, using dying plants as his pillow.

He felt something break inside of him, like shattered glass.

****

Jake looked twice at every rock lying humped in the swale. He scuffed along for hours, thrashing the brush with a stick, sending critters scampering into the night. He needed their help to alert his brother to his presence; his voice was strained from shouting.

When the gibbous moon disappeared behind the churning sky, he rested, sitting cross-legged with his stick held upright like a staff. With clouds pulling thin, the moon snuck a peek at the brave boy walking the earth, sleepy and alone.

“The moon is a guide showin’ us the way, boys.”

John's words came softly to his mind.

“Come on, pay attention. You need to find your brother. JAKE!”

The boy’s heart jumped him awake, and he looked around, the shadows now menacing.

“Papa?”

A moonlit trail cut a swath along the back of the wood lot. Curious, Jake followed it. His brother lay crumpled on the ground. The golden light cradled Robert's body and kindled his hair, black as night. There were piles of shredded weeds strewn all around. It looked like an animal had been setting burrows near the boy’s head, crafting a crown for him.

After climbing over the worm fence that he and Ira built, Jake kneeled next to his little brother.

“Hey.”

Jake grabbed hold of Robert’s shirt and rolled him back. There were dirt smears on his face. Little whistlings sounded with every breath.

“Since when do you have nothin' to say? Huh? I been lookin' all over for you. We got to be goin’ home.”

Unresponsive, he pulled the boy to a seated position, but his body, like dead weight, tried to return him to the ground. Jake placed his hands under the boy’s armpits and heaved him onto his feet. Robert thought of Papa and got ready for the rag doll dance. Then he remembered and slumped against his brother.

“I’ll help you, but you gotta walk. We got to be goin’.”

“I can’t, Jake.”

“Course you can. Papa wouldn’t like me leavin’ you out here all alone.”

“Papa left us. Now he’s dead!” Robert screamed.

Shocked at hearing those words out loud, and for the first time, the boys stared at each other. The brothers knew to never speak ill of the dead, especially at night. They worried Robert’s outburst might compel inimical spirits to conjure their father from the other side. Robert didn’t need to ask his brother if he felt the spirit moment. He saw the fear and his mother in his crystal blue eyes.

They expected to see a haint looking like Papa, standing with his hands on his hips and glaring at them from under the same flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hat. Robert couldn't stop the images flying through his head. There was a small bullet hole, and then half his father's face was blown off.

Their heads snapped to the left. They peered into the shadows under the trees, the branches swaying in a sudden breeze. Oh, they heard it all right, but they couldn’t spot it. Jake reached out and took hold of his brother’s arm.

“Whippoorwill,” Jake said under his breath to keep his brother steady. He knew the stories.

“Jake, those stories true?” Robert whispered.

“Nah, don’t be stupid,” he said, but in a hush.

The cry of the whippoorwill at night, a warning that the bird was getting ready to fly after and catch the soul of someone newly dead. Jake listened to his brother's ragged breathing and watery cough.

~Whose soul is he after?~

When Robert began to tremble, Jake stripped off his shirt and refitted his braces onto his bare shoulders. Two sizes too large, he pulled it over Robert’s head. He didn't bother with tucking and helped him climb into the sleeves. The words of a story tumbled out of him, which he spoke a tad loud, reaching for courage.

“Oh, that Phelps, damned fool. What does he know? Did they find Papa’s body?” Jake pressed the boy for an answer as he rolled up his cuffs.

“No.”

“Anyone see what happened?”

“I heard him too, Jake.”

“Well, that’s right. I know you did. I’m just saying. Think about it, Robert. That was just a drunk prospector tellin’ Phelps some crazy story. We know Phelps cheated Papa on his supplies. All this on his tellin'?

“There was a wagon busted up on the trail. So what? That could’ve belonged to anybody.”

As Robert listened, some color returned to his face. His brother kept on.

“I'll bet them rushers were the ones who stole his gold, tellin’ everybody he got shot by Indians. He’ll show up, you’ll see. Now, don’t you believe everythin’ you hear.”

Jake got excited by the telling. For a few moments, he believed that it might be true. Robert felt hopeful that his father might be alive until he saw the pain on his brother’s face and his upper lip stuck in a familiar pout.

Robert knuckle-punched his brother in the arm, then sank into himself. It was the only time Jake didn’t hit him back. The moon hid behind the darkening clouds, allowing the night to swallow them whole.

“Now, you listen good,” Jake started, having to help him up again. “I ain’t sleepin' out here. I mean it. Now!”

Robert straightened up. Jake lightened his grip on the boy, wanting him to stand on his own two feet. The tenacious diggings of woodchucks had softened the soil. With the dirt-stuffed holes and rocks, Jake tapped his stick as he walked, a blind boy routing through the dark.

"How can you know which way—"

“Grab my trousers and walk behind. Go on. Can’t have you smackin’ into a tree.”

~I don’t know what else to do; I don't even know which way to go. Everyone’s always expectin’ too much from me.~

“Robert. Listen.”

The boys heard faint but steady clangs punching through the dark.

“There’s trouble,” Robert said.

“We’re the trouble. It’s Ma. She’s helpin’ us find our way.”

“Howdya know it’s her?”

“I can hear her voice in the ringin’.”

Robert wanted to be like Jake and feel easy about their mother. He wanted to hear her voice as safe and kind, but the ringing was mixed up with the sound of shattering.

****

Alma, shivering, banged the bar on the iron triangle when the moon clouded.

The call to help woke her father, asleep in Ira’s cabin.

“Ira, you hear that?” Samuel called out, pulling on his boots.

“Ira!”

He threw Ira’s coat over the man, drunk, and passed out on his bench.

He made his way up the lane as best he could.

“What’s wrong?” he shouted over the clanging when he saw the lantern on the porch.

"Boys aren't home."

“Your mother?”

“She’s waiting up.”

His head throbbed, made worse by the racket and too much whiskey.

“Alma, it’s late; she can’t be—”

“She won’t listen. Said she’s—”

“Samuel, I’m waitin’ up for those boys,” Mary called out from the door

~A helluva day.~ He held his tongue.

“Go on in, Alma. I’ll take over.”

“No, Pa. My children lost their father today. I won’t have them thinking they lost me, too.”

The light chased across the fields, quick as the clouds, giving Alma a rest.

****

Jake tapped the brim of Robert’s cap, just like Papa. The two walked side by side, marching in a rhythmic sway across the pocked field. They heard it again, that damned bird. Looking at each other, they started to laugh.

“Jake?”

“Huh?”

“Ah, nothin’.” Robert bit the inside of his lip.

Jake stared long at his brother, looking even smaller inside his shirt.

“You know, you really can be a nuisance,” Jake tossed the familiar gibe at him. “I swear, I’m gonna have to be watchin' out for you the rest of my life.”

“Jake?”

“What!”

“I knew you’d come for me, Jake.”

********