Julia Spencer-Fleming - Out Of The Deep I Cry

He was a beautiful boy. He fastened his eyes on the table, not like a kid disobeying his mom, or like a shy child. It was as if, Clare thought, he didn’t even see her.

“When we meet somebody new, we say ‘hello,’ ” Debba went on. “Can you say ‘hello’?”

His gaze was still on the table. “H’lo,” he said, still ignoring Clare. He tapped the fingers of one hand in the palm of the other and circled them around.

“Sure, you can draw. Get up on your chair.”

Skylar headed for where Clare had been sitting, and she jumped out of his way. He climbed into the seat while his mother laid a stack of blank papers and a pencil in front of him.

With fierce concentration he bent over the paper. “Whatcha drawing, Scoot?” his mother asked, although it was obvious. Under Skylar’s pencil a bus was emerging, startlingly accurate and in perfect perspective.

“Grammy’s bus,” he said. “The tires, the windows, the door, the lights…”

“Mmmm. I like your busses.” Debba stroked his hair while the boy finished one picture, thrust the sheet away, and started another. The second bus was identical to the first. Clare watched Debba’s hand, rising and falling, like a benediction said over and over. What was it like to love that fiercely? How much would you be willing to pay to make your child healthy, wealthy, happy, wise? What would you do to protect your child? As she watched Debba reach over and slide a box of crayons toward Skylar, tempting him with color, she knew the answer: anything .

Friday, April 9, 1937

Dead and gone. Niels Madsen contemplated the phrase as he turned the pages of the Ketchem file. It implied first the one, then the other. Turning that natural order around was going to be difficult. He squared the papers within the green baize folder and pressed the yellow button on his intercom.

“Miss McDonald, will you send in Mrs. Ketchem now?”

A moment later, he heard the tack-tack-tack of heels on wood, and his office door opened. He stood up, came around his desk, and crossed to greet her.

“Mrs. Ketchem.” He shook her hand, gesturing to one of two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. “Make yourself comfortable.” He studied her from beneath half-closed eyes as she sat down and smoothed her dress over her knees. His awareness of fashion didn’t extend much beyond an approving nod at his wife’s purchases and an occasional groan of pain when he got her bills, but even he could tell Jane Ketchem’s brown wool dress was several years out-of-date. Her shoes, polished to a shine and neat below her crossed ankles, were worn at the heels.

“Can I have Miss McDonald get you some coffee?” he asked, seating himself behind his desk.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Beneath her hat, he could see the gray threading through her glossy brown hair. They had met a few times over the years-he had drawn up the papers when she and Jonathon bought their farm and had advised them when the Conklingville Dam project was buying them out. Jane had had a fresh farm-girl sort of beauty in her younger days, the kind that should have aged into plump cheeks and soft jowls by now. But the events of her life had laid waste to that softness, and the forty-one-year-old woman looking calmly at him from across his desk was drawn, sharp. Someone he didn’t recognize.

He folded his hands. “What can I do for you today?” he asked, redundantly, because he knew what she must be here for, had known it as soon as his secretary had shown him the name in his appointment calendar.

“I want you to have Jonathon declared legally dead.”

“It’s been seven years now, has it?”

“It has.” Her face was still calm, but he could see her hands tightening over her purse, the leather also polished but worn, like her shoes.

He leaned forward. “I don’t want to offend you, Mrs. Ketchem, but if we’re going to pursue this, we’re going to have to touch on some personal matters, so I’m just going to jump in with both feet.” He softened his voice. “Are you in financial straits? Because-”

“The life insurance company went under. Yes, I know. I got your letter, and another one from them, and I certainly haven’t forgotten either. No, I’m not facing the poor farm.” She glanced down at her out-of-date dress. “Though I suppose that’s another thing folks in this town like to speculate about. Truth is, I’m keeping a Scotsman’s grip on whatever comes in. I want my daughter to go to college.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A laudable ambition.” He touched the file on his desk. “You do realize that if we petition the court of probate to rule Jonathon dead, it won’t be cheap. My retainer alone is one hundred dollars, and there may well be expenses and fees beyond that, depending on how long it takes.”

She nodded. “I know. I asked your secretary what your price was when I asked to see you.”

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Ephraim Ketchem going to join in the petition? To help you with the cost?”

“No.” Her face softened a fraction. “They’d just as soon go on hoping he’ll turn up one day. The good Lord knows I can understand their feelings. There’s nothing hurts as bad as the death of your child, and if they can keep on pretending he’s alive…” She shrugged. “It’s a comfort to them.”

A hard, cold comfort, Niels thought. “Do you worry that you’ll be taking that away from them if we succeed in having Jonathon declared dead?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. He could see the beginnings of fine lines, the slight extra droop where her eyelid would someday sag onto itself. She startled him by opening her eyes and staring directly into his. “I love Mother and Father Ketchem dearly, and I wouldn’t hurt them for the world. But I’ve been saying that my husband is dead for seven years. It’s what I told Chief McNeil the day after Jonathon disappeared, and I knew it was true then as I know it’s true now. They choose to believe otherwise. I don’t think anything I do will change their minds.”

“What about your daughter?”

“Her father disappeared when she was barely six. She missed him something fierce at first, but seven years in a child’s life is forever. I can’t even recall when she last mentioned him. And now she’s getting to an age where she can hear the gossip, and be hurt by it, and I don’t want her to go through what I’ve had to go through.” She let her purse drop flat on her lap and leaned forward, her hands curling over the edge of his desk. “For seven years I’ve been not fish nor fowl nor good red meat. Not a widow and not a wife. Every soul in Millers Kill either pitying me because they think my husband abandoned us or wondering what I did to drive him away. I can’t have a cup of coffee with my brother-in-law or have Father Wallace pay a call without setting tongues clacking all over town. My friend Nain once overheard Tilda Van Krueger saying in the beauty shop that it was mighty convenient having an absent husband, because if I turned up in a family way, I could just claim he stopped back in for a visit.” She took a deep breath. “I want my respectability back, Mr. Madsen. I want to be able to set up a memorial stone for my husband and put him to rest once and for all.”

Niels Madsen thought about his client while he strolled home for a 12:30 dinner with his family. He paused at the walkway to his home, square and roomy and comfortable, and thought about her keeping her own roof over her head instead of moving back in with her parents or in-laws, as so many other women would have done. And when Marion, his oldest, danced past him with the suggestion of a kiss and an “Off to Helen’s house” tossed over her shoulder, he thought about the difficulties facing a single mother of a growing girl.