Roslyn’s father was a small-time criminal and a drunk. Her mother died when she was very young, and she had few memories of the woman. Her childhood, as a result, had been her father’s world. They lived in Steilacoom, a town Roslyn’s dad boasted was the “westernmost place in the known world.” Even as a small child, Roslyn found this statement nonsensical, but she liked the sound of it anyway. It was a romantic notion, to live in a something-most place, instead of a desperate frontier town populated by people who’d failed to make a life for themselves anywhere else. Her father was no exception. He was a blacksmith by trade and had a shop that he and Roslyn lived above. But business—when he bothered to open the shop at all—was slow. The reason for this, Roslyn would eventually find out, was that her dad was not regarded as a very good blacksmith.
So, he spent the majority of his sober hours engaged in various schemes. He was a crook, but a friendly one. Most of his capers did not pan out, and those that did resulted in only minor losses for the victims. There was horse trading, pig in a poke, and the solicitation of funds for can’t-miss investments that never materialized. It seemed to Roslyn everyone in Steilacoom knew what he was up to, and they simply didn’t care. A longtime acquaintance of her father’s once remarked to her, “Someday somebody’s gonna up and stab your old man if he doesn’t watch out.” But he said it in such a playful way, she couldn’t help but laugh along with him. She was eight at the time. As it turned out, a decade later, someone would stab him. It was in a bar and he’d been caught cheating at cards. The man who did it was the very same acquaintance who’d predicted such an end.
Roslyn had a vision of her father’s death six months before it happened. Though she warned him the event was coming, he did not listen to her. No one ever listened to her. And after that, she stopped trying to warn anyone about anything.
What little money Roslyn’s dad earned, either from blacksmithing or grifting, he drank. He didn’t drink at home. He was a social drinker (unlike his daughter, who would prefer to drink in her own company, once she found the knack for it). He spent his evenings out on the town. He wanted to have a good time and for others to have good times too. When he had the funds, he bought rounds for whoever else was available to drink with him. As a result, Roslyn’s childhood was one of deprivation, sometimes even outright hunger. She didn’t blame her father for this. After all, everyone in Steilacoom was poor. It wasn’t until she was older and living on her own that she realized she’d been poorer than most. Still, she wasn’t bitter. Her father was a kind man. And when he was present, he was a loving companion who asked her each day to tell him everything she’d learned in school. Sometimes he’d ask it twice if he was totally sauced, but Roslyn didn’t mind repeating herself. Everyone had their faults, she thought. Her dad’s were not the worst.
What must Barton’s father have done to him that Barton did not feel the same? In the brief years when she’d taught school, Roslyn had seen the horrors adults could bring upon their children. Had Barton’s upbringing been that way? And if so, did it give license, or at least meaning, to the misdeeds of his adulthood?
Roslyn considered this as the train plunged west through the fading light of the September evening. Barton had, mercifully, fallen into a deep sleep almost as soon as the train departed Spokane Falls. Roslyn was left to her own thoughts in silence. Mostly, she watched him as he slept, trying to reason out some explanation for the man and his behavior. It was too simple to write him off as insane. He was mad now, yes. But he hadn’t always been. In fact, for the years she’d known him only as her customer, he’d seemed exceedingly, dully normal. Still, whatever darkness had emerged in him after the fire had always been there. It must have. Roslyn refused to believe a good person could turn so quickly, over so little.