MONDAY MORNING, TEDDY is running a fever. Mam is worried enough to want to take him into town to see Dr. Thompson. But Father says he won’t go into town. He tells me to hitch Ulysses and Mae to the wagon and for me to take them, meaning I will miss yet another day of school—which is fine with me, given the name-calling I suffered on Friday and the heathen poem Miss Carmichael expects me to recite today.
Our wagon is really just an open cart that we use for carrying supplies. The weather is drizzling and cold. Mam settles herself on the bench and holds the baby bundled against her in a blanket. Father puts an oilskin over her head and shoulders. For a moment, I think he’s going to tell me to move aside, that he will take Mam into town in my place. For a moment, I think Mam will ask him to. But neither one of them says anything. I whip the reins, not too hard, and tell Ulysses and Mae to geddup. Father stands in the rain watching us go.
Mam stays silent while we ride, but I can feel her worry. I know she’s thinking about the little girl between Annie and Isabel. She called that baby Marie. She died when she was just a few days older than Teddy is now. I know she’s worrying about how she’s going to pay Dr. Thompson, too, because with customers seeming to spurn us and our mill all week—and with Father making visits to Doc Barrow’s Roadhouse—the jar in which Father keeps his earnings has been emptier than usual.
DR. THOMPSON’S OFFICE IS at the back of an apothecary he runs on Nooksack Avenue, across from the new hotel that went up last year. The rain has turned the street to mud that sucks at the wagon’s wheels and slows Ulysses and Mae down. It seems that we will be trapped forever in this jostling cart with the misty rain coming at us sideways, but at last we’re there. I take hold of Teddy while Mam climbs down from the wagon. He feels like a feather in my arms. He mewls and cries, wanting Mam. I’m relieved when I put him back into her arms. She tells me to come into the apothecary with her out of the rain, because she doesn’t need two sick children on her hands.
The shop has a whole wall of shelves filled with bottles and jars of various sizes, containing all sorts of powders and liquids. Mrs. Thompson is behind the counter, weighing something that looks like dried ragweed on a scale. She’s older than Mam and on the ample side. Well fed, as Father would say.
“Good morning,” she says, without taking her eyes off the scale. When she finally looks up at Mam, she sees in her face that something is seriously wrong. She comes around to our side of the counter and takes the baby from her. Peeking under the blanket, she coos to him.
“What a fine boy you have, Mrs. Gillies,” she says. But you can tell that she’s just trying to make Mam feel that everything is going to be all right—when, in fact, she thinks that Mam has good reason to be concerned. “Bring the baby and sit by the stove, dear. Dr. Thompson is with a patient. He shouldn’t be very much longer.”
Mam thanks Mrs. Thompson and does as she says. There are two chairs, but I don’t feel right about sitting in the other one, dripping wet as I am and muddy from the splatter kicked up by the wagon’s wheels. Besides which, it’s too hot beside the stove, and I don’t like the medicine smell that fills the room. Anyway, all the time we were traveling from our farm, I was forming an intention of my own. “I’m going to see to Mae and Ulysses,” I say.
“Don’t be standing out in the rain,” Mam warns me.
I go outside and check briefly that Mae and Ulysses are hitched firmly to the post so that I won’t have told Mam an out-and-out lie, then I keep walking across the street to the new hotel.
The Nooksack Hotel is as fancy as it comes in these parts, three stories tall with a spiral staircase winding upward from the lobby to the rooms. Mr. Hopkins, the manager, is behind a long raised counter. He peers at me funny through his eyeglasses when I walk in. I nod to him like I’m here on important business, which I am. I’m headed to a small office off the other side of the sitting area—the telegraph office.
Since Father doesn’t want to hear about the Sumas Indians coming together just across the border, I have decided it’s my duty as a citizen of Whatcom County to tell somebody in authority about what Joe Hampton told me. Mr. Moultray would be my first choice, but he is located another two miles away at The Crossing. Mr. Osterman is closer at hand, here in town. The door is closed, but through the glass panel I can see him at his desk with his back to me, and I can hear him tap-tapping away at his machine.
The telegraph works by sending little bursts of electricity down a wire strung from pole to pole to Ferndale, then Bellingham Bay, and from there all the way to California and beyond. The electricity is made inside a battery—a glass jar filled with copper and zinc and water that somehow starts a current. Then the operator uses a key to transmit the bursts of electricity in a code of dots and dashes. The code stands for the alphabet. For instance, in Morse code, the letter A is one dot followed by one dash, the letter B is one dash and three dots, and so on. I don’t know them all, though. At the receiving end, there’s another telegraph operator who understands the code and copies down the message that’s being sent, letter by letter.
I know all this because Miss Carmichael once invited Mr. Osterman to the school to tell us about his job. It seemed to me to be about the best job a fellow could have, sitting at a fine desk all day sending and receiving important messages. It’s a job that earns respect, not the least because it’s modern and scientific.
When Mr. Osterman stops tapping at the little black key and sits back in his chair, I knock on the door. I guess I’ve startled him, because he jumps a bit. But when he sees who it is, he waves me inside. He seems in a hurry though, like he doesn’t have time to talk to me.
“What can I do for you, George?” he says.
He straightens the papers on his desk while he talks. He keeps his office neat and tidy, like his trimmed moustache and his freshly laundered clothes.
“There’s something you need to know, Mr. Osterman.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
“Joe Hampton says the Sumas are getting together. They’re thinking about getting even, about attacking, because of—” I remember in the nick of time Mr. Moultray telling us not to speak about what happened. “Because,” I say, knowing he’ll catch my drift.
Of all things, Mr. Osterman smiles.
“Does he now?” he says, acting like there’s nothing in the world to be concerned about.
“Joe says their tillicums are coming from all up and down the Fraser River. He says …” I stop myself from speaking the forbidden name. “He says the boy told his mother that he was innocent.”
This last piece of information makes Mr. Osterman’s smile vanish. His brow furrows. His hands stop tidying the papers on his desk.
“He was lying, of course,” I add quickly, mindful of the poor reputation we Gillies have acquired of late, and wanting to show him that I am on the right side of things.
“Who else have you told this to?” he asks.
“Nobody, sir.”
“See that you keep it that way. The last thing we need is a lot of scare talk.”
“But, sir, they intend to kill one of us. Joe ought to know. He’s kin to Louie Sam—” I spoke the name! “The boy,” I say in a hurry, correcting myself, “he was some kind of cousin to Joe.”
Mr. Osterman gets up from his chair and steps toward me, looking me in the eye.
“Listen to me carefully, George. I know you want what’s best for your neighbors and for your family. I know you want to keep them safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So don’t go around spreading that dead Indian’s lies about what happened. It just confuses people. Makes the Sumas think they got a case, when they got none. Tell your pa not to start spreading stories, either.”
“But the attack—”
“They won’t attack. I happen to know that the Canadian authorities are at that Sumas gathering at this very moment, talking them out of it.” He nods toward the telegraph key. “Nothing happens around here that I don’t know about. Now you get on to school, or wherever you’re supposed to be.”
He turns his back to me and sits down at his desk. I know he wants me out of there, but there’s another reason I’ve come to see him. I’ve been thinking that maybe there’s a way I can earn a little money to help pay Dr. Thompson.
“Mr. Osterman?”
“What is it?”
“Are you still looking for help?”
He turns around in his chair.
“Help with what?” he says.
He’s irritated, and it rattles me.
“Help repairing the telegraph line.”
“What are you talking about, George?”
“Like you were going to hire Louie Sam for.”
My voice cracks as I say his name. I did it again! Mr. Osterman’s brow darkens like a gathering storm. I feel like a fool. I feel like running out of here before Mr. Osterman’s temper explodes in my direction. But the strange thing is, all of a sudden Mr. Osterman stops being mad. He’s friendly and nice.
“Thanks for the offer, George, but when I took a good look at the line that day, I realized we can get by until the summer. That’s why there wasn’t any work for …” He doesn’t say the boy’s name.
“But … you said you turned him away because you didn’t like the look of him.”
At that, his temper flares. He raises his voice. “Don’t tell me what I said!”
I feel myself go red. I’m standing there like a fool, not knowing what to say. Then he calms down a little and tells me, “I was mistaken about needing to hire that boy. I only regret that poor Mr. Bell paid the price. Go on now,” he says. “Git!”
I head back through the hotel lobby and go outside, keeping my eyes to the ground, burning with embarrassment. Pride goeth before a fall. I went into the telegraph office all puffed up with my big news, and I’m coming out feeling like an idiot. Why did I think that anything Joe Hampton had to say was worth passing on to somebody like Mr. Osterman? Why did I ever bring up repairing the line? But I could have sworn that Mr. Osterman told Sheriff Leckie that he sent Louie Sam away because he was ill-tempered. I don’t remember him saying anything about him changing his mind and deciding there was no work for him, after all. I must have heard it all wrong.
It’s raining harder now. Outside the hotel, there’s a small man in a long canvas coat tying off a horse at the hitching post, his face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. I turn my eyes away so that if it’s somebody else important, he won’t see me here. That’s when I get a good look at the horse. It’s Mr. Bell’s gelding, the one that Pete and I rode up to Canada. Now I can’t help myself from looking to see the man who’s riding him. Only it isn’t a man. It’s Mrs. Bell—Annette—Pete’s more-or-less stepmother. I guess somebody decided the horse should go to her. She looks me straight in the eye and smiles.
“Howdy, George,” she says, with that Australian twang of hers. Her boldness comes across as unseemly. “Where have you been hiding yourself?” she asks me.
I stumble for a reply. “Nowhere, ma’am.” Then, “I have to fetch my mother.”
I reach the middle of Nooksack Avenue before I stop and glance back. I can see Mrs. Bell through the telegraph office window as she goes in to talk with Mr. Osterman. She’s heated up about something, pointing out the window. Mr. Osterman looks outside—directly at me! The next thing I know, he’s outside on the boardwalk in his shirtsleeves, despite the rain coming down.
“George!” he calls to me. “On second thought, there’s no reason to wait on those repairs until summer. Come see me around noon on Saturday. I’ll get you started. How does a dollar and two bits a day sound?”
It sounds like the best thing that’s happened in a long, long time. My heart takes a leap, I’m so excited.
“I’ll be here!” I tell him. “Thanks, Mr. Osterman!”
“You’re welcome,” he says. “Come prepared to work hard, now.”
“I will!”
I head over to meet Mam at the doctor’s office, suddenly walking on air. I must be in Mr. Osterman’s good books, after all, or he wouldn’t have given me the job. Maybe now we Gillies can start living down our reputation as Indian lovers. Maybe now we can all get back to the way things were, before.
WHEN I WALK INTO THE drug store, Mrs. Thompson is behind the counter handing Mam a bottle of Dr. Thompson’s special patented medicine to help ease Teddy’s fever. Mam has to ask Mrs. Thompson if she can pay for it next week, and Mrs. Thompson says all right. She’s nice about it, but I know Mam hates having to ask. Once we’re settled in the wagon and headed back out of town, I tell Mam not to worry, that soon I’ll have the money to settle our account.
“And how might that be?” she asks.
“Mr. Osterman’s paying me to check the telegraph line,” I reply. I’m so excited I could burst. But instead of being pleased she looks wearier still, like now she has one more thing to worry about. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“I am, George. I am. Just be careful how you tell Father,” she says.
“Don’t you see, Mam?” I tell her. “The fact he gave me the job means he’s forgiven Father. Now everybody will be friends with us again.”
I have seldom heard my mother speak in anger, but it bursts from her now.
“Your father needs forgiving from God, and sometimes from me,” she says, “but never from those hooligans!”
Hooligans! And not a word about me finding a paying job. I thought she would be pleased.
“They’re not hooligans,” I tell her, “any more than Father and I are!”
“You talk like you’re proud of what happened to that boy,” she hisses, wrapping her shawl tighter around the baby as though she needs to protect him from me.
For a moment I can’t speak. I don’t know if I can keep my voice steady.
“I’m not proud of it,” I say at last, and my voice breaks just as I feared.
I’m aware of her looking over at me, but I keep my eyes straight ahead to where the motion of Mae’s and Ulysses’s hindquarters is blurred by tears. She reaches out her hand and squeezes my arm.
“You’re a good boy, George,” she tells me. “I know you’re a good boy.”
I wipe my nose on my sleeve, and Mam doesn’t remind me not to. I’m grateful for the drizzle that disguises the wet running down my cheeks.
BY THE NEXT MORNING, the tonic has made Teddy’s fever go down, but he’s still not feeding right. He sleeps all the time. Babies are supposed to sleep a lot, but Mam says they should wake up hungry and yelling for food, which Teddy does not. She is worn out with worrying. If Father is worried about Teddy, he doesn’t show it the way Mam does. I think I know why. Speaking for myself, I am not attached to Teddy the same way I am to my other brothers and sisters. If he’s going to die, I don’t want to feel bad, the way I did with Baby Marie.
FIRST THING AT SCHOOL ON Tuesday, Miss Carmichael makes me recite that poem by Mr. Emerson she made me learn—in front of the entire class. Pete and Tom snicker, but Abigail tells them to hush up, and they do. On Wednesday, the boys invite me to play catch with them at the lunch break, like they normally would. The mill stays quiet all week, though, so maybe we Gillies haven’t been completely forgiven like I’d hoped. But it’s been a mild winter and the farmers are busy getting a head start on their spring wheat. Father has started ploughing, too, which keeps him occupied and improves his mood. I mind what Mam said and wait for the right moment to tell him about me working for Mr. Osterman.
I’m in the shed milking on Thursday evening when Father comes in to hang up the plough for the night. I watch him take handfuls of oats from a sack and put them in a feed bag.
“Ulysses is getting a treat tonight,” I say.
“Aye, he’s earned it. We finished the lower field up to the creek.”
“That’s good.”
Father is on his way out of the barn with the feed bag, whistling softly. This seems as good a time as any.
“I got a job,” I say. I keep pulling on the cow’s udders. He stops, turns back. I look up at him and tell him, “With Mr. Osterman.”
He studies me for a long moment, but he isn’t mad. Not yet, at least.
“What gave you cause to speak to Mr. Osterman?”
“I went on Monday when Mam and I were to town, to tell him what Joe Hampton told me about the Sumas attacking us.”
He peers at me.
“About what?”
“Joe says the Sumas are gathering … on account of what happened. But it’s all right. Mr. Osterman said not to worry about it, that he knows from the telegraphs coming through the line that the Canadians have got the situation under control.”
“And why did you not think to tell your own father about this before telling Mr. Osterman?”
“I tried,” I say, not wanting to tell him why I did not succeed.
I wait for his anger, but it doesn’t come. For a moment, he seems unable to look at me. I tell him, “Mr. Osterman said not to tell anybody about the Sumas lest it starts a scare. He told me to tell you the same.”
“Did he now?”
“I told him about Joe saying Louie Sam was innocent, too.”
Father takes a step toward me. “What’s that?”
“Joe said Louie Sam told his mother he didn’t murder Mr. Bell.”
“And Mr. Osterman told you to keep quiet about that?”
“That’s right.”
I can see that Father is thrown.
“You’re to stay away from Mr. Osterman,” he says. “Do you ken me?”
“But I’m working for him, repairing the telegraph line. He’s paying a dollar and two bits a day—enough to pay for the doctor, and Teddy’s medicine.”
Father shakes his head. He’s building up steam. When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous.
“You think I’m not capable of paying for the doctor?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir! I mean …” Nothing is coming out right. “I want to help,” I say.
He’s quiet for a long moment. He won’t look me in the eye. Then he says, “I appreciate that.”
He goes out to give Ulysses his feed. Quickly, I pour the milk in my pail into the collecting barrel and follow him outside with a lantern. He’s inside the paddock scratching Ulysses’s ears while the mule eats from the bag of oats he’s holding up for him. Mae noses up to them, wanting her share. He pats her neck, but pushes her away. I know this much about how my Father thinks: rewards must be earned.
“Why don’t you like Mr. Osterman?” I ask.
“Who says I don’t like him?”
“Father, why don’t you?”
There’s a long pause. I’m taking a chance pressing the point, but I know that for some reason he is distrustful of Mr. Osterman. Maybe it’s the dim evening light that lets him admit that I’m right.
“I heard a story about him,” he says. “Seems he spent a goodly amount of time drinking at the Roadhouse when he was younger, before he acquired respectability. One night, he and a mate by the name of John Quin drank corn whiskey ’til they passed out, so Doc Barrow put the two of them in a room to sleep it off. Only problem was, come the morning, Quin wakes up dead.”
He gets a wry smile, but I don’t see what’s funny.
“What killed him?” I ask.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Some people say it was the whiskey. But it’s curious how people seem to wind up dead around Bill Osterman.”
“He’s nice to me,” I tell him. “Everybody looks up to him.”
“You watch yourself around him. That’s all I have to say.”
Ulysses has finished his oats. Father takes the feed bag into the shed, and I go into the house. Mam is in the rocking chair by the stove with Teddy in her arms. He’s sleeping again.
“I told him,” I say. “About Mr. Osterman.”
“What did he say?”
“To be careful.”
“Aye,” she says, pulling the blanket up around the baby’s head. “That’s always good advice.”