Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

Ariah opened the door to the pheasant pen and stepped inside.

"What are you doing here?"

Pritchard turned to look at her. In his hand he held a bucket of feed. "Good morning. Seamus said Uncle Bart wanted me to take care of his pheasants awhile. Do you know what's going on? I can't believe Uncle Bart would simply up and resign like this."

Ariah glanced away, afraid her husband would see the pain in her eyes and guess its cause. That Bartholomew had asked Pritchard to see to the pheasants instead of her deepened her agony. She felt as though a knife had been slipped between her ribs, straight into her heart.

"Give me the bucket, Pritchard. I'll take care of this. You'd better get to the light."

"Gladly." He handed over the feed. "I don't know how you can stand it in here. It stinks, and I'm always waiting for those darn birds to swoop down on me."

"They spend most of their time on the ground, Pritchard, so they aren't likely to 'swoop down' on anybody."

"Swoop on up. Will you be bringing my lunch?"

"Don't I always?"

He looked at her askance. "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

Ariah sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I seem to be a bit edgy today for some reason."

Sensing that he had the advantage for the moment, he bent and kissed her full on the lips. She tasted like marmalade. "Umm, you taste good enough to eat. I missed you last night. Why did you go to bed so early and lock the door?"

Ariah moved out of his embrace and began to scatter the feed. "I wasn't feeling well. It . . . it's my woman's time. You know . . ."

"Oh." Disappointment washed over him. He had hoped to make tonight the big night when their marriage would become real at last. Besides, after being with Nettie, it took days for his hunger for sex to diminish and now that Uncle Bart was gone, it would be impossible to get into to town again until a replacement arrived.

"Does that mean you'll want to sleep alone until it's over?" he asked.

"I think it would be more pleasant for both of us."

His mouth formed in its usual pout. "All right. I'll see you later when you bring lunch."

Ariah didn't bother to watch him go. Her vision had blurred with unwanted moisture. Was this how it would be the rest of her life? Making excuses, lying, to avoid intimacy with her own husband? She wasn't certain which she dreaded more, a lifetime with Pritchard, or being found by Uncle Xenos. The only thing certain was that neither could be as bad as losing Bartholomew.

All night she laid awake pondering how to get word to Bartholomew that she would leave Pritchard. She even wrote a letter to be posted to his brother's house at the first chance. But there would be no chance until the next time they needed supplies, which was a week away. Unless she took it to the post office at Barnagat herself. It wasn't much farther than when she went to the beach. She could do it. And that way, neither Pritchard nor Seamus would know about it.

♥ ♥ ♥

Pritchard kept his head down as he walked to the light. The shadows of half a dozen ducks crossed the boardwalk in front of him, colliding with his own shadow, but he didn't look up. There were always birds flying around. Loons, pinheads, grebes, murres, herons, gulls. Nuisances. Extra work due to the messes they left on the tower. More than once, seeing the reflection of the sky in the gleaming glass, one had smashed into the panes. Not only did that require cleaning up the carnage, but also replacing the broken glass.

With Uncle Bart gone, Pritchard would have to work longer hours. It wasn't fair. Losing Aunt Hester must have scrambled the man's brains. Pritchard couldn't remember him ever being so selfish and inconsiderate. The Tillamook Kings would likely replace Pritchard if he couldn't get to the practice sessions and games. The mere thought made him damned angry.

Along with losing his place on the team, he would lose his excuse for going into town to see Nettie. That sure wouldn't make her any happier. Matters had been bad enough since he'd told her his marriage was consummated now and could no longer be annulled. He'd had to talk long and hard to get her to accept the new situation, what with her being so sure there was a baby coming and all.

At first he hadn't actually believed in the baby. It wasn't so much that he thought she was lying, as that he didn't reckon she could know so soon. But after his last visit, he had to figure she was right. She was vomiting into the chamber pot when he arrived and he remembered Stuffy complaining how his wife did the same when she was carrying their boy. Pritchard had wanted to turn right around and leave, but Nettie begged him to stay. After awhile she assured him she was feeling better and even began stroking him through his trousers.

"It's mostly smells what make me puke, not sex," she'd said when he'd objected.

After that, he didn't stop her caressing hands; they felt too good. But he did have something on his mind he needed to get off before he could really concentrate on the pleasure she was giving him. "Honey, are you sure . . .? I mean, is there any chance this baby might, well, might not be mine?"

"Prit, how can you ask that?" Her face puckered up like she was going to blubber worse than a sou'wester. "I told you when you first come here that I didn't have no reg'lar fella. Once I met you, I never wanted no one else. Don't you believe me?"

He put his arms around her and drew her to him.

"Sure, honey, sure. I just had to make sure, is all. Don't cry. You know what it does to me when you start crying."

He moved her hand back to his groin. "See, your big sugar stick is going soft already."

"I can fix that." She opened his pants and freed him from his underwear. "Long as I know you still love me, I can show you there ain't nobody fer me but you." Lowering her head she proved her words.

"Oh, God, Nettie. I do love you, I truly do."

Afterward, at the game, she had screamed every time he appeared on the field. It had filled him with pride, yet he'd worried that she would lose the baby if she kept jumping up and down like that.

Since that night, he found himself thinking about the baby a lot. In little more than half a dozen months he would have a son. A thrill sang up his spine at the thought. Unless things changed, however, it would be a bastard he would be unable to claim, and that made him feel low.

Pritchard reached the wooden stairs to the lower level of the bluff where the light sat, and skipped down them, slipping slightly on moisture left behind by the night air.

The way things were going with Ariah, he feared he would never have any legal children. Somehow, when she was over her "woman's time," he would have to find a way to get her to let him make love to her, once and for all.

Maybe he should take her to another game. She hadn't enjoyed the one he'd taken her to in Astoria some weeks past, but it had rained and they'd had only an umbrella to keep the water off. Besides, the game had been a shutout so it hadn't been very exciting. She'd enjoy the next one a lot more.

The irritating thing was that they wouldn't be able to go anywhere until a replacement for Uncle Bart arrived. Of all the lousy times for Pritchard’s wife to be indisposed, on top of not being able to see Nettie. Damn Uncle Bart!

♥ ♥ ♥

"Bartholomew, what brings you in?" Max Hennifee wiped non-existent stains from the bar with a wet rag and smiled at his newest customer of the day. "Other than the mornin' tide, that is," he added by way of a joke.

Bartholomew leaned an elbow on the polished mahogany bar and rested a foot on the brass footrail. As usual, Max's bony wrists were hanging out the bottoms of his sleeves. The man was so tall and skinny, there wasn't a shirt he could afford that had sleeves long enough.

"It's a long story, Max. Got any coffee?"

Max set a heavy stoneware mug of steaming liquid in front of him and shoved back the nickel he'd laid down.

"Best keep that nickel if this is all the business you're getting these days," Bartholomew said, glancing around.

Max stroked the long, waxed spikes of his mustache. "Well hell, it's allus this way at nine of a mornin'. Give her an hour, reg'lars 'll start showin' up then. Meantime, whyn't we sit down? You got the look of a man what needs to sweep the dust outta his mind."

They carried their coffee over to a corner table. Outside, Big Charlie was readying the Henrietta II for a trip to Bay City. The crew members were haranguing Charlie, saying that his latest female conquest was not only over the hill, but through the valley and halfway up the hill beyond.

"Gol-durnit, you bilge-breathed bits o' barnacle shit, how in hell old do you think I am?" Big Charlie yelled. "You oughta carve my likeness in whalebone, 'stead o' hecklin' me. Ain't ever' man my age can still get it up, you know."

Max Hennifee chuckled. "Ol' Charlie reminds me a-that nephew o' yourn, Bartholomew. Why is it men never 'preciate what they got at home?"

Bartholomew sipped his coffee and said nothing.

"Dang it, Bartholomew, shouldn't a-said that, knowin' what it was you lived with so long."

Bartholomew shrugged the comment off, along with the unintended offense. When he still said nothing, Max eyed him speculatively.

"Run out on yer job, din't ya?"

Bartholomew's mouth stretched in a thin smile. "Have you taken to reading minds, Max?"

"Enough to know what you're pining for cain't be found in no graveyard, on account o' she's still alive and kickin'."

Bartholomew looked up in surprise at the gaunt, shabbily clothed man sitting across from him. The wisdom and insight of Max Hennifee never ceased to amaze him. "What makes you say that, Max?"

"Seen the way you looked at 'er at Eastertime. Like she was ever'thin' you ever wanted to eat or drink or own or hold dear to yer heart, all rolled up in one pretty package."

There was a slight increase in the sag of Bartholomew's shoulders. What had happened to the veneer of cool indifference he had worked so long to develop to hide his emotions?

Ariah. She was what had happened. The mere thought of her had blood pumping through his veins and his heart singing. His love for her was too strong to hide. The thought didn't make him feel very hopeful for his chances of living happily without her.

"Run out on her, too, haven't ya?" Max said.

"She belongs to Pritchard, Max. My presence there was interfering with their marriage."

"Why you suppose that be, Bartholomew?"

"What are you getting at?"

Max fetched the coffee pot. He refilled their mugs, set the battered old pot on the table and resumed his seat. Outside, the Henrietta II was steaming up the slough toward the bay, leaving wakes in the water behind, and a growing silence. A mongrel stuck its nose through the open doorway and gave a hungry whine. Max stomped his boot on the plank floor and waved a long arm. "Get, you ol' fleabag." The mutt vanished.

As if the long moment of quiet hadn't interrupted their conversation, Max said, "Seen the way she looked at you, too, Bartholomew. If her marriage weren't goin' good, 'twas on account o' her feelings fer you, not ’cause o’ you. What makes you think leavin' like ya done is gonna wash them feelings outta her, easy as rinsing suds from a dish?"

A customer sauntered in, giving Bartholomew an excuse to avoid answering. Max fetched the man a beer and swapped a few words with him before returning to his friend.

"Point I be tryin' to make, Bartholomew, is that you being there or somewheres else ain't likely to make a hoot n' a holler's difference to what's inside that gel's heart. Did ya love yer mother any less oncet she was in the ground? Hell no. Absence makes the heart grow fonder; so the saying goes. Not t'other way around."

"That may be, Max, but the only way I could have stayed on there was to move her out of Pritchard's house and into mine. I couldn't do that to him. Say what you want, but the boy is still my nephew and he never intentionally hurt anyone in his life."

"What's it gonna do to 'Riah once she finds out what her husband's a-doin' behind her back? Don't know if you kin call that sort o' hurt intentional or not. But even if she don't care a fig 'bout Pritchard, her pride's gonna take a bruisin' from it, you can count on that."

Bartholomew sighed. Max was right, as usual.

"At least that's one thing my leaving will accomplish," he said a bit testily. "Until the Lighthouse Board can get a replacement here, Pritchard's trips into town have come to an end. Maybe he and Ariah will grow closer now and Pritchard will no longer need to come to town for his . . ."

He couldn't finish. His insides spasmed with pain at the thought of Pritchard and Ariah together that way. Suddenly restless, he walked to the doorway to fill his lungs with clean, sea-salty river air. The stench of fresh dog feces filled his nostrils instead. Turning back inside, he asked, "When's the next steamer due in?"

"Twelve noon from Astoria. One-thirty from Portland. You expectin' yer replacement this soon?"

"Not really."

He had sent Biggs into town yesterday morning with a wire for the Lighthouse Board and although he wished they could take action this fast, he knew better than to expect it. Only if they happened to have a man already free and handy could they have gotten him on this morning's steamer. That was about as likely as Pritchard being named the Father of Altruism.

Maybe next year they'd be able to take care of such matters over the telephone and see results a great deal sooner. But Tillamook didn't have phone service yet. Or electricity. It was probably what city folks would call a one-horse town, but that suited Bartholomew fine. He had never cared for big cities.

Over the next few days, Bartholomew tried to keep himself occupied helping Cal around the dairy. There was always plenty of work for another pair of hands, and he liked to feel he was paying for his room and board. But as morning rolled sluggishly toward noon, with the predictability of the tides, he inevitably found himself standing somewhere, a shovel or a harness or a milk can in his hand, staring off toward town. At that point, Cal would take the shovel away from him and tell him to ride into Tillamook to meet the boat from Astoria, or the stage from Yamhill. It was the same today, as he sat at the breakfast table.

A letter had arrived from Ariah three days after he'd left the station. Bartholomew had stared at it a long time before he tore it into tiny pieces, unopened. She would have pleaded with him to return, or to take her with him, and he didn't trust himself to resist. He knew she believed with all her heart that she loved him, but she was young and he had all but seduced her before she even met Pritchard. The boy hadn't had a fair chance at all. Bartholomew prayed everything would turn out for the best, eventually. Even so, he worried whether or not he was doing the right thing.

All the distance in the world could not stop him from missing Ariah. He thought about her every waking moment, dreamed of her at night. He caught himself listening for the sound of her voice and sniffing the wind like a hound to detect her scent. The only way to survive giving her up was to go somewhere new where he wouldn't be reminded of her.

"Bartholomew."

"What?" He looked up into Amy Goodman's worried face.

"That's the creamer you're drinking out of." She nodded at the pitcher he held to his lips.

He flushed with embarrassment. She took the creamer and placed it back on the table. Jacob and Robert snickered, but Mrs. Goodman remained sober.

"Yesterday, right there in the washroom, you were trying to shave with a butter knife," she said. "Now, you aren't a stupid man, Bartholomew. What is it has you so all-fired preoccupied that you can't tell cream from coffee?"

"He's pining," said Jacob.

Robert jabbed his brother in the ribs and they giggled.

From the head of the table, Calvin sent his sons a stern look of disapproval. "You boys appear to have had enough breakfast. Why don't you go fix that fence where the bull kicked it in?"

"Aw, Pa, that old bull'll rip us to pieces if we go near that field, same way he did Grandpa. You know he hates us."

"Only because you tease him half to death anytime he's penned up. Maybe by next year, when we get a new bull, you'll have learned to leave well enough alone. Now, get."

After the boys had left, Calvin turned his compelling gaze on Bartholomew.

Of all Martha Noon's sons, Calvin most resembled their pa. Considering that, Bartholomew often wondered how he could love Cal so much. Their father had been a hard man who believed only discipline kept a man on the straight and narrow. And the way to discipline for his boys lay in the razor strap, which he applied freely and with vigor. As the youngest and the last of her children, Martha had tried to protect Bartholomew. The more she sheltered and petted the boy, the more liberal Jacob became with the strap so that Bartholomew came to know its sting far more intimately than his brothers.

But although Cal had the look of their father, his temper was entirely different. Cal was a good man, kind-hearted and gentle spoken. So, out of respect, Bartholomew now remained quiet under the man's piercing scrutiny.

"You're a fool, little brother," Cal said at last. "Why don't you go back and get her? She loves you. You know it, I know it, and everybody knows it. Except that dolt she married."

"She's his wife. I have no right to interfere."

"You have no right deciding what she should or shouldn't do, yet that's exactly what you're doing. Pa beat his code of honor into you so thoroughly that now you're forcing people around you to abide by the same rules that trapped you in a cold, loveless marriage for over seven years. Is that what you want for Ariah?"

Bartholomew raked both hands through his dark curls. His voice was ragged and tortured. "Dammit, Cal, I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know what's right. I only know I didn't have the heart to tell Pritchard I was taking the woman he loved away from him."

Cal shook his head in disgust. "That boy doesn't know the difference between love and what satisfies the itch in his crotch. I never thought to see the day you refused to fight for what you wanted."

"You saw that day a long time ago, Cal," Bartholomew said wearily. "Two days after I married Hester, when she barred me from her room, and I let her."

♥ ♥ ♥

To Ariah, the days had never moved so slowly. With Bartholomew gone, there was more work than ever. Enough to keep her busy from sunup to sundown, with not a moment in between for pining over Bartholomew. Yet he was never off her mind. She fed the pheasants and wondered where he was now. She sank her arms to the elbow in hot sudsy water and thought how feverish his touch made her body. She bottled fresh English peas and remembered the sweetness of his kisses. She yanked weeds from tidy rows of snap beans, carrots and onions, and cursed him for ignoring her letter.

Whenever she was able to break away from the station, she escaped to the woods or the beach accompanied only by Apollo. Her journal bulged with bird feathers and pressed flowers. A jar of water holding agates and red and green jasper sat on a windowsill where sunlight glorified their gleaming colors and translucency. Japanese glass floats lined another sill.

"Holly Hector, Ariah," Pritchard complained. "Why in hell do you have to keep dragging in all this junk? It's getting sand in everything."

"As long as you don't find sand in your food, your bed or your underpants, I don't think you've much to complain of," she retorted.

"Except that pretty soon we won't have room left to move around in," he said, unchastened by her words. "At least throw out the snail shells. I can't imagine why on earth you'd want them."

She looked at the limpets that reminded her of tiny Chinese hats, at the chink, unicorn, whelk, and cockle shells that littered a table, the sand dollars, piddock fossil and water-polished petrified wood set among knick knacks on a shelf, and said nothing, knowing he would never understand the beauty she saw in them.

Yet all the beauty in the world couldn't fill the gap Bartholomew's absence left in her heart. She lived for only one thing; the arrival of his replacement. As long as Pritchard and Seamus were shorthanded, she couldn't abandon them, but the moment they no longer had to work extra hours and could see to their own meals and laundry, she would pack her bags, endure the horror of the boat ride to Tillamook, and track down Bartholomew. And no matter what he said, she would never allow him to leave her again.