Daisy needed to get back to the Library of Congress. She simply had to find out what had happened to Trudy. Where to start? She went to the Rare Book Reading Room and found the librarian who had helped her the last time. The librarian recognized her right away.
“What can I do for you today?” she asked, coming up to Daisy in the roped-off area where the old card catalogs were kept.
“I’m looking for more stories by Harold Henderson,” Daisy answered. “I’m fascinated by him and his writing.”
“Let’s see what we can find,” the librarian suggested. She led the way to her computer and ran a search while Daisy stood on the other side of the gleaming wooden counter and watched the other researchers in the reading room. “Yes, he has written a few other stories. We have a couple on microfilm and a couple available to read in here. Which would you like to look at first?”
Daisy answered without hesitation. “The ones in here.” The librarian made some notations on a piece of paper and asked Daisy to have a seat beyond the velvet rope in the reading room while she waited. Daisy sat down at a table by herself, looking around at the beautiful, calm room. The walls were a dusky rose color which tastefully complemented the ivory shades on the table lamps and the simple chandeliers that hung far above the readers’ heads. Windsor-style chairs were set up at each table and in one corner of the spacious room there was a stack of special cribs for reading rare, old documents. The cribs were shaped so that a book could be studied in a slightly open position without needing to be held by a reader. This cut down on the number of times people had to touch the books.
The librarian returned ten minutes later with two more dime novels. They looked much like the one Daisy had been reading at home, and each cover listed a number of stories that could be found inside, along with the authors’ names. Sure enough, Daisy noticed Harold Henderson’s name on each volume.
The hours flew by while Daisy sat at the table in the Rare Book Reading Room, poring over the words Mister Henderson had written. The more she read, though, the more disappointed she became. There was nothing about a widower, anyone named Sheppard, or children left wondering what had become of their stepmother. There was no mention of Washington or the Nebraska Territory. Mister Henderson’s tales were typical of others in the dime novel genre, including society romances and western adventures.
“These books don’t have what I’m looking for,” Daisy told the librarian at the end of the day.
“Don’t forget about the microfilm,” the librarian said. “I’ll write down the call numbers of the other stories by this gentleman and if you can come back tomorrow I’m sure they can help you in the microfilm room.”
Daisy accepted the piece of paper the librarian handed her a few minutes later and left the library just as it closed for the day. She was looking forward to going home and trying to finish the story Harold Henderson had written.
But she didn’t get as far as her apartment before her cell phone rang. It was Jude and she was hysterical about something.
“Jude! Slow down! I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Daisy said.
“Mark John just called. He’s at the police station. He wants me to come down and pick him up,” Jude said, sniffling and breathless.
“Why is he there?”
“He didn’t say.”
“So why are you calling me? Get down there!”
“I’m on my way now. You’re on speaker phone while I drive. What do you suppose the police want with Mark John?” she asked. Daisy figured Jude just wanted someone to talk to while she drove; Daisy couldn’t blame her. She would want to talk to someone to keep her from becoming unglued, too. As she recalled, she had phoned her mother when she had been taken to the police station after Dean had died.
“Could be anything. Could be nothing,” Daisy said, trying her best to soothe Jude’s frayed nerves. “Maybe Mark John witnessed a car accident. Maybe he called them to report something and they have follow-up questions. I wouldn’t worry about it until there’s a good reason to worry.”
She waited for Jude to process what she had said. “I wonder if he complained to the police about Brian following us that day,” Jude pondered.
“I don’t know. It seems like Mark John would have reported it right away if he was going to. And if the police had questions they would have asked him sooner than this. But you never know,” Daisy said. She really didn’t think that was why Mark John had been called to the police station, “Besides, would Mark John really call the police on his brother-in-law? He doesn’t seem the type.”
“You’re right, he’s not the type. He would talk to Brian directly if he had to, but he wouldn’t ask the police to do his dirty work for him.”
“It’s probably something else, then. Hopefully it’s nothing. Maybe this is a good way for you two to get talking again,” Daisy suggested.
“I hope so,” Jude said. “Daisy, I’ve got to go. The traffic is terrible and I’m just too distracted right now.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” Daisy said, then hung up.
So Mark John was at the police station? She was dying to know what had happened. She rolled her eyes and scolded herself. You’ve become such a gossip. She walked the rest of the way to her apartment and made a beeline for the dime novel. She intended to finish the story that night.
Armed with her white gloves, a pillow, and a glass of iced tea a full arm’s length away, she sat down on the sofa next to the lamp so she could see the print easily.
The children held a whispered conversation before going downstairs the next morning. They decided not to ask their father where he had gone the night before or what he had been dragging in that large sack. He had seemed angry lately and they didn’t want to raise his ire toward them. They still wondered, though, what had become of their stepmother.
With the stepmother gone, the Widower Sheppard determined that it would be necessary to send the children to school. They did not want to go. Their stepmother had been teaching them to read and write and although their father did not believe they were learning quickly enough, they had a hard time keeping up with the studies their stepmother had assigned them. They did not look forward to attending school, where the school mistress might get angry with them for not being smart enough or quick enough. The girl was especially concerned.
But they did not have much time to brood over their father’s decision because the following week they started school. They hoped their fears would be unfounded, but sadly, they discovered that the teacher did, indeed, believe they were slow learners who would have to work very hard to catch up to their schoolmates.
The sister had a particularly hard time in school. She found reading and writing much harder than when her stepmother had taught her, and the arithmetic was difficult, too. Before long the girl, who would leave the house every morning with her brother to make the long walk to the school house, had determined that she would no longer attend school. The brother would continue walking and the sister would leave off in a field nearby, hidden by tall grasses so the teacher would not see her. They continued in this way for more than two weeks, the brother allowing the Widower Sheppard to believe his daughter was attending school regularly and allowing the teacher to believe that Mr. Sheppard had elected to keep his daughter at home.
Then came the day when the boy had unsettling news for his sister. They had an agreed-upon signal that they used when the boy was getting close to the field where the sister spent her days. He would let out a long, low whistle and she would answer with an identical whistle. When she met up with him he was breathless from the news he carried.
“Teacher said people in town are talking about Father,” he said.
“What are they saying?”
“That he’s an outlaw.”
“An outlaw?” his sister asked in a low voice. “What makes them say that?”
“They say he’s been running from the law since he killed his first wife and that now he’s killed his second wife.”
“They must not know Mama was his second wife and our stepmother was his third.”
The boy shook his head in response. Then he asked the question they had both been mulling over since the night they saw their father dragging the sack away from the house. “Do you think our stepmother was in that sack? Do you think he killed her?”
The sister nodded slowly. “Where else could she have gone? Even though we weren’t her real children, she still would have said good-bye if she had left us.”
“Not if she was afraid of Father. Not if she didn’t want us to know so we couldn’t be punished for not telling him where she was going.” His sister hadn’t thought of that.
“Why wouldn’t she take us with her?” the sister asked.
“Because we’re not her children, silly. She couldn’t just take us from our own house and our own father.”
The children were quiet for several long minutes, each lost in thought. Finally the boy spoke. “I’m beginning to forget Mama,” he said, his face drawn and sad.
“So am I.”
“I remember that she was lovely, but I don’t remember what her face looked like,” the brother said, a wistful smile on his face.
“She was lovely,” the sister replied quietly, squeezing her brother’s arm.
When the children arrived at home, the father was there to greet them. This was unusual, since he often worked until sundown.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“School,” the boy replied. His sister didn’t answer.
“I see. And you were also in school?” he asked his daughter.
She looked at the floor and then at her brother, then she answered her father truthfully, as she had been taught always to do. “No, Father. I did not go to school.”
“Why not?”
“Because the lessons are so very hard and I am behind and the teacher is hateful.” She covered her mouth with her hand because it was so unkind to talk about her teacher that way.
Widower Sheppard gave her a hard glare. “I have heard in town that you were not attending school. Have you no respect for my authority?” His voice was steadily rising.
“I do, Father,” the daughter replied in a small voice.
Then the father reached out and hit her in the face. He had never done anything like that before. The daughter brought her hand to her cheek, which burned with pain. She couldn’t cry, so surprised was she by what her father had done.
The sister could see her brother from the corner of her eye. He clenched his fists. The father noticed. “Don’t think I won’t do that to you, boy,” he said in a quieter voice. “You two are going to learn to obey me. I am your father.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
“That’s better,” the father said. He turned his attention to his daughter. “Now go get something on the table. I’m hungry.”
She scurried away into the kitchen and fixed plates for the small family. They ate in silence until the father announced, “I have decided that we are going to move.”
“Again? I mean, where are we going?” asked the boy.
“New York City. I grew up there and I still have family there. They will help me take care of you two.” The sister and brother exchanged glances. They were not sure how they felt about moving so far away.
“When will we leave?” the boy asked. The girl had said nothing since her father struck her.
“As soon as possible,” the father answered. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Neither of you has to go to school anymore. We’ll enroll you in school in New York when we get there.”
He left through the front door, letting it slam behind him. The brother and the sister stood up slowly, clearing the dishes from the table.
“Why do you suppose we’re moving?” the boy asked.
“You heard him. Because he has family in New York and he needs their help looking after us.”
“No one looks after us here.” The two children were silent for a long moment, then the brother spoke again. “He killed her, didn’t he? That’s why we’re leaving.”
His words hung in the air between them. “I think so,” she finally said.
“Are you afraid?”
“A little. He’s never hit me before.”
“I wish he was dead.”
“Don’t say that,” the sister cautioned in a whisper. “You never know when he might be listening. But I wish he was, too.” The brother smiled a little bit at that.
“We’ll have to pack our things,” the brother said. “I’ll start in my room now. It won’t take me very long.”
The girl packed her things that night, too, in a crate she found in the back room of the house. Neither child had any toys, so their possessions were minimal. When the father returned late that night the children pretended to be asleep.
The next morning they told him they had packed their belongings already.
“Good,” he answered. “Because we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“So soon?” the boy blurted out. His sister shot him a look of reproach.
“Don’t disrespect me, son,” the father warned. He went to the back room and came back with two large crates. “Fill these,” he instructed his children. “I am going to make sure the horse and wagon are ready to go.”
“What if everything doesn’t fit in those two crates?” the girl asked, knowing full well everything would not fit into the crates.
“We leave it behind,” came the curt answer. Then the father left without another word to his children.
It was left to the boy and the girl to decide what to take and what to leave behind. There were a few small keepsakes that had belonged to their mother and a few belongings of their stepmother. They wondered if they should try to get her things to her family, but they knew there would be no time for that. They left their stepmother’s things behind, hoping her family would eventually retrieve them.
The family did not own many books, but they all went into one of the crates. A large pot they had always used for cooking went, too, along with their plates and cups. Next into the crate went the locked box the father kept under his bed. He kept the family’s money in there. Next the children packed the quilts and linens. None of the family’s furniture would make the trip. Sleeping in the wagon would be uncomfortable, but they had done it before.
The next morning they were awake long before the sun was up. The father hurried the children into the cool summer morning and hopped up onto the wagon seat, leaving them to sit in the back. With a “Giddap!” the family was on its way.
They made haste leaving the town behind, then the father allowed the horse to slow down a bit and walk at a more leisurely pace as the small family made its way east.
It was a long trip to New York, made worse by the late summer storms that buffeted them as they traveled. It was a boring trip because the children did not speak much to their father and he almost nothing to them. They spoke to each other in low voices so as not to disturb their father, and never about the topics they yearned to discuss, such as the family’s sudden early morning departure from the town in Nebraska or the townspeople’s suspicion that their father had killed his young wife and the wife before her.
Upon arriving in New York several weeks later, the children were met with yet another surprise. Their father said he no longer wanted to be known as Mr. Sheppard but instead wanted to be called Mr. Sweeney. They were also never again to discuss their stepmother.
“I don’t understand,” his daughter told him. “Is our last name Sweeney now, too?” she asked, indicating her brother with a wave of her hand.
“Yes. I have enrolled you both in school with the name Sweeney, so I expect you to use it from now on.” He gave them a grave look. “Not only that, but I don’t want to hear that you’ve ever again used the name Sheppard.” Both children knew better than to ask why their father had made the decision to change their last name. They already knew.
It was getting harder and harder for them to be with their father, wondering about the things he had done. His status as an outlaw scared them, but they took some solace in knowing they would be hard to find with their new last name. They never spoke of it to anyone.
The children found that living in New York was exciting and interesting. They lived in a house that was much smaller than their home in Nebraska, but they did not mind having less room. Back in Nebraska they had enjoyed living on the plains with wide open spaces and fresh air; there was not as much space in New York, and far less fresh air.
But there were things New York had that Nebraska didn’t: one was the number of playmates. There were children everywhere in New York. They came from families with different customs and even different languages. Another difference was the school. The children attended a large school where they were divided into grade levels. The teachers were not as mean as the teacher in Nebraska had been. And finally, there was family nearby and the children learned that they had cousins and aunts and uncles whom they had never known existed. It was exciting to learn about their new family.
One day the daughter was sweeping the parlor in their house. The father was nearby, reading a newspaper. Without thinking, the daughter recalled aloud an incident when her stepmother had taught her to read something by using a newspaper. It was the first time either child had mentioned the stepmother’s name and the brother, who was reading a book near the fireplace, looked up sharply. The girl glanced at him and he gave her a warning look.
But he needn’t have bothered. The father had heard his daughter’s words. Very slowly, he laid aside his newspaper and rose.
“What did you say?” he asked his daughter, walking toward her with deliberate steps.
She stammered a response. “I— I was just remembering the time our stepmother taught us a word in the newspaper.”
The father advanced a bit closer. “Have I not asked you never to mention her?”
“Yes, sir. I am very sorry, sir. I forgot.”
The father had reached his daughter and stood staring down at her, his eyes gleaming in anger. He kept his voice low as he told her, “Hand me your broom.”
She did as he had asked and stepped back. She knew what was going to happen. With one quick movement, he struck the side of her head with the broom handle. She fell to the floor, unconscious.
When she came to, she was still lying on the floor. Her brother was by her side, crying and begging her to wake up. His face wore a look of terror.
“What happened?” she asked, keeping her eyes closed because her head hurt.
“Don’t you remember?” her brother asked. “Father hit you with the broom handle because you mentioned Trudy’s name.”
Daisy gasped. Trudy. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Her suspicions had been correct--this was an account, written years later, of Trudy’s story. It had to be. If it weren’t, it would just be too much of a coincidence.
She finally had her answer. But how did this story in the dime novel come to be written? There were far more questions than answers. She kept reading, even as her mind reeled from her discovery.
Try as she might, the young girl could not recall what had happened in the seconds before her father hit her.
“We have to leave,” the boy urged.
“We can’t leave. Where will we go?”
“We’ll think of something.” The boy helped his sister to stand up and together they hobbled into the bedroom where the sister lay on her bed and quickly fell asleep.
She did not know how long she slept before she was awakened with a start by a noise next to her bed. Shrinking back in fear, she saw her father sitting beside the bed in a chair he must have dragged from the parlor. He was staring at her, his eyes red-rimmed. He was sniffling. She waited for him to speak because she did not know what to say to him.
“My darling daughter, I am so sorry. Please forgive my actions,” he said, lowering his head into his hands and sobbing. “May God forgive the way I have treated you.”
The young girl did not know how to respond to such a show of sorrow. She had never seen her father in this state. She searched her hazy mind for the appropriate words to say.
“I forgive you, Father.”
The man sitting next to the bed cried harder at hearing these words. “Thank you, my child. It will never happen again.”
And she believed him.
But alas, it did happen again and again over the months and years that followed. As they grew older, the boy and the girl came to know when their father was in a violent mood and they would be very careful about the words they spoke in his presence, if, indeed, they spoke at all. The father never beat the boy, but he beat his daughter frequently. Try as they might, the two children never found a way to leave their father’s house. They could not go to their relatives because they might tell the father where his children were. They could not leave to live on the streets because it was far too dangerous to face the violence out there. The violence they knew at home was preferable to the violence they had heard about on the New York streets.
Despite all that has been said, though, the story does have a happy ending.
The boy grew up and found a job as a carpenter, just as his father had before him. The girl became a schoolteacher and married a man who lifted her out of the sadness and violence of her home and brought her happiness and joy. The father died mercifully in his sleep one night after his children had moved away. His funeral was attended by three people—his children, who were there to assure themselves that their father was dead, and the man who had been hired to dig his grave.
A life of misery—creating it and living it—had finally ended.
The boy and girl, now a man and a woman, never found out what had happened to their stepmother, though in their hearts they knew. Their father had killed her as sure as he lived.
There are times when justice does not seem to visit those who are deserving of it, both the good and the evil. Justice was never afforded the stepmother, and the father never had to face its wrath. The man and woman who were his children contented themselves with the knowledge that the father would have received his justice in the hereafter.