Shadow by the Bridge Page 3

  But would my father kill to protect us? I heard the answer in my head:“Of course he would.” I shoved the gun under my bed and opened my bottom drawer, pulled out a dark wool blanket, and draped it over the gun so my mother wouldn’t see it if she meddled around in my room to clean. But I still had to watch her closely; she was always cleaning something.

  There was a noise downstairs. I heard the door shut in the kitchen.

  “Fritzy,” my mother called out.

  I stood at the top of the stairs and didn’t answer. I wanted to hear what they were going to say about the viewing.

  “I guess he’s not here yet. Maybe he headed over to the store,” my mother said.

  “Junior said that he had left about fifteen minutes ago. So I’m sure he’ll be back shortly,” Uncle John said.

  “It is dinner time, so he’ll be hungry when he finally comes home,” my mother said.

  I sat down on the top step and listened. Then I crept down three more steps. My eyes rolled over the trail of mud, down the stairs through the parlor, and into the kitchen. The dirt trail meant that a load of trouble and I would be spending some time together this afternoon.

  “I’ll warm up the stew I made last night. Do you want some coffee?” my mother asked as one of them moved a chair over the wooden floor.

  “Yeah, I’ll have a cup.”

  I heard another chair move.

  “Ella, you didn’t say much on the ride back in. Are you all right?” Uncle John asked.

  “I’m just really shaken up, that’s all… It was hard being back in a funeral parlor. And I never expected the woman to be in that kind of shape. I mean her face… it was just the most disturbing sight. I’m still shaking,” my mother answered in a quiet voice.

  “It was an awful sight,” Uncle John said, and then he coughed to clear his throat.

  “Fritzy was right. He knows I don’t like the sight of blood,” my mother admitted. “I almost fainted.”

  I shook my head.She should have listened to me.

  “How could someone… I can’t even imagine the suffering she must have endured.” My mother’s voice faded.

  “She didn’t suffer, Ella. By the shape she was in, it was a quick death,” Uncle John assured her.

  I nodded.It was a quick death.

  “The funeral director said that she was in her late twenties or early thirties… my age,” my mother said in a concerned tone. “It’s so upsetting; she may have young children waiting for her to come home.”

  “She could, but we may never know,” Uncle John said.

  “I’m not sure showing her is going to help anyone identify her,” my mother said. “Her face isn’t recognizable.”

  “Someone might be familiar with her clothing. That’s probably why they set her handbag on the back of the casket too. They’re showing all that they have to show.”

  “That has to be it. And there were so many people. The news must have been in all the papers throughout western New York,” my mother said.

  “I heard a few people say that they traveled over an hour or more,” Uncle John said.

  “I just feel so awful for her family. It is such a tragedy.”

  “They have no idea who she is yet?” I whispered to myself as I crept down another step.

  “Well, Fritzy should be home in a little while. I wanted him to start today, but he can always start tomorrow.”

  “I think I’d rather have him start tomorrow. He could use the rest. I’m not sure what it is, but he hasn’t been himself the past few days. I know he wasn’t feeling well, but it’s not like him to be so quiet and distant.”

  “Maybe something has him rattled.”

  “You’re probably right. He was really scared the night Helen came over and told us about that poor woman.”

  “That could be it,” Uncle John said. “Listen, I really should be heading back to the farm. Are you going to be all right here alone?”

  “I’ll be fine; I’ll lock the door when you leave.”

  I heard a kitchen chair move again.

  “By the mud all over the floor, it looks like Fritzy must have stopped home and traipsed through the house with his muddy boots again. I’ve told him hundreds of times to take off his boots at the door. He doesn’t listen very well. He only takes them off when I am in the kitchen watching him.” My mother sounded deflated. “He’s just like his father.” She began to weep a little.

  There was silence.

  “Ella,” my uncle said in a feathery voice.

  “All the mud… it’s all through the house,” my mother sniveled. “Peter used to do the same thing. He would forget to take his boots off no matter how many times I reminded him,” she said. “And I miss his muddy boots.”

  “I know, we all miss him.” My uncle’s quiet words held me still. “But it does get easier over time.”

  “It’s hard to believe that it’ll already be a year in December that he’s been gone,” my mother said softly.

  “It’s already been fourteen years since Ruthy died. You have to believe me; it becomes easier as the years pass.”

  “I have my moments here and there. But today was the first time I’ve been in a funeral parlor since last December. Being there brought all those feelings back, as if it was Peter lying there.”

  “That’s understandable,” Uncle John said. “It hasn’t even been a year yet. It takes time.”

  I didn’t hear them talking. All was quiet.

  “I know one thing; Fritz will bring in enough mud for the both of them. You don’t have to worry about that at all,” he said. Then he chuckled softly.

  My mother laughed and cried at the same time, and then blew her nose.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Uncle John asked. “I can make a call and stay for a while.”

  “No, I don’t need you to do that. I’ll be fine. It is the oddest things, things like mud on the floor—of all things, mud.” My mother chuckled. “I should be crying because now I have to clean up all this mess, not because I miss it.”

  “It hasn’t been an easy day,” Uncle John said, “for either of us.”

  “No it hasn’t,” my mother agreed.

  “Okay, I better be on my way… only if you’re all right with me leaving, though.”

  “Yes, yes, now go on. I need to make Fritz his dinner. Don’t you want to eat before you go?”

  “No, I don’t feel much like eating,” my uncle replied.

  “I know, neither do I. But I’m sure Fritzy will be hungry when he finally decides to come home.”

  I heard the door open.

  “All right then, ring me if you need to.”

  “I will,” my mother replied in a calmer voice, no longer weeping.

  “I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe Fritzy will be up to helping then. And I’ll check with Florence on my way out to see if she needs him tomorrow morning. I’d rather he helped her out first.”

  “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye now.”

  The door shut.

  I didn’t want my mother to know I was listening. She always said that it’s not polite to eavesdrop. So I crept over to my bedroom window, opened it an inch at a time, and stepped out onto the roof. The only window in my room was perfectly placed for sneaking out. I crawled across the roof and prayed my mother didn’t hear me as I grabbed the thick tree branch hanging over our second-floor rooftop. I climbed to the center of the maple tree.

  “Hey, Fritzy!” A voice called out from below. “Why the hell’re you climbing out your window in the middle of the day?”

  It was Leon Chapman. “Would you hush?” I gestured with my hand and whispered loud enough for him to hear me. “I don’t want my mother to know I’m up here!”

  He stood there with his hands in his front pockets, chuckling because he knew I was up to no good.

  Leon had just turned sixteen last year, before my father died. It was then that he started to act like a big brother to me. He brought me hunting a few times. He also taught me
how to hop a moving train at Belknap Crossings. Helen Wilson found out and rushed right over to my house to report the latest Linden news to my mother; my mother was not pleased. She told me if I ever did it again, I would be punished like I’ve never been—whatever that meant. But I was in no hurry to find out.

  From the treetop, I could scan all of the thirty-five houses in Linden.

  “Would you scram before my mother sees you talking to this tree?”

  “What’s wrong with talking to a tree?” Leon laughed.

  “Real funny, Leon. Now scram before my mother looks out the window!” I said as loudly as a whisper could be.

  “No, I want to know why you’re sneaking out your window.”

  “Get away from the damn tree before my mother sees you!” I pointed toward the post office as I began to climb down, branch by branch. Small dead sticks broke and fell to the ground.

  Then I jumped out of the tree and looked around. No one saw me. I met Leon, who was waiting for me in front of the post office.

  “So you’re sneaking out of your window in the middle of the day… Why?” Leon asked as he lifted up his cap. Then he itched his reddish-brown, wavy hair.

  “I was listening to my mother and Uncle John talk about the viewing of that lady that Frank Harlow found on his farm. The viewing was this morning. And I didn’t want them to know I was home.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard about that. Did they figure out who she was?”

  “From what it sounded like, I don’t think so.”

  “What a horrible way to go… I mean, her face.” Leon shook his head and looked down at the dirt road.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the post office. “So where you headed to?”

  “The post office. My father’s waiting for a letter from the bank,” he replied. “So you been doing any hunting since I saw ya last?”

  “Just a little trapping, but ain’t got nothing yet.”

  “I was looking for you the other day to shoot some turkeys. There were about eight turkeys in our back field on Monday.” He nodded his head and made a tisk sound out of the side of his mouth. “You missed out.”

  Maybe I did miss out. But I wasn’t going to let him know that. Leon always enjoyed razzing me whenever he could. “I’ve been trying to trap some foxes, but I ain’t had much luck. I was hoping to have enough pelts to make a coat for my mother for Christmas.”

  “Do you know how many that would take?” Leon let out a laugh.

  I shrugged my shoulder. “Well, no… not really.”

  “I’d say you’d need at least fifty or more to make a coat, a small coat.”

  “That many?” My eyes widened. “Well, I guess she won’t be getting a fox coat this Christmas,” I said, disappointed.

  “Looks that way.” Leon shrugged his shoulders. “Well, my father’s probably wondering where I am.” He started to walk toward the post office steps. “I’ll come find you when I see the turkeys again. Or a fox… if I can trap a few foxes, I’ll give them to you for your mother’s coat.”

  I nodded. Then I flashed him a quick smile. “That would be swell, Leon. Thanks. Come and get me if you see ’em.” I turned around, and I headed back toward my house. As I stepped onto our side porch, I grabbed the cold, tarnished door knob, and jiggled it. It was locked. I reached in my pocket to grab my key and saw Mom rushing toward the door with a dirty towel in her hand. I knew a load of trouble was waiting for me in the kitchen.

  Five

  Three more days had passed, and no one knew any more about the lady who lay dead in the casket at H.E. Turner’s Parlor.

  “Fritzy,” my mother called out.

  “I’m in the barn,” I yelled back.

  Moments later, my mother was standing in the barn doorway, holding her purse and watching me climb up the bales of hay. “I thought I saw you run in here. Did you just get back from Florence’s?”

  “Yeah,” I replied as my eyes swept every nook of the barn.

  “What are you doing up there?”

  “I saw a tomcat run in here, one that I haven’t seen around our yard before. He jumped onto the hay and then disappeared,” I replied as I searched between the hay bales.

  “I’ve seen a couple strays running around here too. Leave them alone.” She gestured with her hand. “They’re good for catching the mice.” She stepped inside the barn and looked around.

  “We don’t need more of them. If they start having kittens we’ll have a whole mess of them running around.”

  “What’re you planning to do with it when you finally catch it?” she asked.

  “I’ll take it over to Chapman’s. Heck, they won’t even notice,” I replied.

  “Did Florence say when her brother would be back?”

  “No,” I replied as I listened for the cat.

  “Did you ask?” my mother asked in a slightly lower voice.

  “Didn’t think of it.”

  “Well, try and find out tomorrow so I can let Uncle John know, all right?”

  “Yeah, I will.”

  “So, what did you and Junior help Florence with today?”

  “We worked in the orchard, cutting dead tree branches,” I replied as I climbed onto another bale of hay.

  “Frankly, I don’t know how Florence runs that farm by herself.”

  “Well, shedoes have help.”

  “I know, but she’s old enough to be my grandmother, maybe even my great-grandmother.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged my shoulders as I pushed one of the bales over toward the wall so I could see between the two stacks of hay.

  My mother casually walked over to the bundles of straw and looked up at me. “All right, since you haven’t found the cat, do you want to come with me to Morgan’s?” Mom asked. “I need to pick up my grocery order. Martha said that her coffee order would be in on the noon train and your Uncle John is coming for supper. You know he likes his coffee after a meal.”

  “I guess I’ll go.” I began to climb down. “I want some candy,” I mumbled. I liked to visit Grandma Harrison. Martha and Gerry Morgan had two sons: Harrison, who was given Martha’s maiden name, and Cliff, who seemed to inherit Martha’s musical talent. Grandma Harrison told everyone to call her Grandma, so that’s what we did.

  Since I could remember, Grandma spent her days sitting in her rocking chair by the window with her apron pockets stuffed full of candy that she’d hand out to all the children.

  Cliff and Harrison were grown. Harrison was in his twenties. He moved to Buffalo at the end of last summer for work. Cliff was a few years older than me, and he spent most of his time on his studies and piano lessons. Cliff told me that after he graduated, he was going to the Eastman School of Music in Rochester. I told him that he sure had some big plans for himself.

  My mother and I left the barn and headed down Linden Road. As we crossed over the railroad tracks, my mother glanced up at the cloudy sky. “It’s starting to rain.” A cool raindrop hit my bottom lip, and another hit below my eye. “I was hoping the rain would hold off until we made it back home,” my mother said quietly.

  “I felt a couple drops, too.”

  “If it rains any harder, maybe Merle can drive us home.”

  The question waiting to slide through my lips made my heart pound a little harder. “So, did you find out any more about the lady who was found on Harlow’s Farm?” I asked as we walked up the steps onto Morgan’s long wooden porch.

  “No, but Martha or Helen may know something,” my mother replied, holding the door open for me.

  “Hello, Fritzy,” Martha said. Her cheery smile spread across her round face. “How’re you today?”

  “I’m swell, thanks.” I nodded, smiling back at her as I removed my cap. Grandma Harrison wasn’t sitting in her rocking chair. “Is Grandma here?”

  “She’s upstairs lying down. She has a headache,” Martha replied as she began to unpack one of the many crates piled next to the counter.

  Martha Morgan was plump as warm dough and stood
about three fingers taller than me. She also wore dark colored dresses every day. Either that was the only one that she had, or she had a closet full of identical ones. And she always wore her hair short, which was different than most women, who wore their long hair wrapped on top of their heads like a nest.

  I reached over, and I set my cap on the side counter that was lined with seven stools. The store was where the neighbors from the area gathered after supper to listen to radio shows. Once in a while, my father would go to the store to listen to the shows too. Then he’d head over to the Mill to play cards and drink cider with Senior and Anton Mitchell. My mother became angry at him if he had too much cider.

  I once asked my mother why she never became angry at me for drinking cider. She said that was because the cider I drank was fresh and that the cider my father drank turned men into drunkards.

  “Fritzy.” Martha pointed to the small glass bowl next to the register. “Grandma left some butterscotch candy: take some,” she said before turning to my mother. “Ella, how’re you doing today?”

  “I’m well, thank you. How’re you?”

  I grabbed a piece of candy, and I popped it into my mouth. “Thank you,” I said as I swirled the hard candy around with my tongue. I sat down on a stool, reached across the counter for my cap, and set it in front of me.

  “I’m doing well,” Martha replied to my mother with a smile as she pushed the bowl of candy toward me.

  “Where’s Merle today?” my mother asked, sitting down on the stool next to me.

  Merle Smithers was a friend of mine. He started working for Martha over the summer, after he turned fifteen. More than half the men in Linden worked on farms, but Merle never wanted to do that type of work. He hung around the store almost every day last summer. He helped Martha unload the crates as she filled the orders. She finally decided to hire him as a clerk.

  “He has the day off today. He left with his parents to visit his cousins.”