Etagere (1) Widow Margaret Hendricks was relieved she quit crying and shoved the lacy handkerchief into her pocket. The end of the procession neared the completion of the journey as it turned at the "Y" in the road. Atop his steed, the Sheriff looked on. Thirty-three fringed, horse-drawn surreys and one hearse trotted underneath the filigree iron Chester City Cemetery sign, clippety-clopped five hundred feet farther and stopped near a pile of newly dug dirt. Horses snorted and stopped. Mourners soon lined the rocked lane. Dressed in funeral garb, ladies stepped down and ambled across the grounds in small groups toward the gathering place just beyond the hill. Yellow cabbage butterflies danced and white fuzzies floated through the air. A black fence surrounded the Hendrick's family grouping of graves, which sectioned their plots off from the rest of the cemetery. The shade was so lush, sun-deprived grass grew sporadically; the dirt spots were adorned with sparsely clusters of grass and dandelions. To her amazement, graves filled over a decade earlier were topped with cracked soil. Southern Illinois needed a soaking rain. After all, she wanted to listen to the consoling words of the preacher. She drew a shuddering breath and momentarily concentrated on two gray squirrels which scampered about atop tombstones. She turned her attention to two black birds which flitted around and eyed the group. Her eyes followed the bored caretaker, who was obviously satisfied with his payment. He arranged a fedora on top of his bushy brown hair and casually backed from the crowd to smoke a cigarette and watch the traffic move up and down the Mississippi River. He tamped a Chesterfield and rested it on his lip. Without too many noticing, he walked a hundred feet or so to the south where he stood behind a tall granite stone, scratched a wooden match, and inhaled the blue smoke. A black horse neighed as Mrs. Crooney belted out her version of "Amazing Grace," and Margaret realized she'd taste the salty tears for years to come. It was truly a sad day for the town as well as for Margaret: a young healthy man, her husband was. A lone bullet took Mr. Hendricks down during a saloon hall brawl. He was only twenty-seven, two years older than her and a successful businessman; a friend of the small community of Chester. The Sheriff of Johnson County promised to find out who was at the bottom of the murder. Although, it was rumored that James was a gambler of the worst kind, betting upwards of twenty dollars a hand. �No matter, Margaret thought. A man should not die at the hands of another. Only God had the right to take life. Too many other ways to die ravaged the population: diseases like white fever, yellow fever or diphtheria. The young Widow Hendricks gazed upward into a surreal burst of sunshine through the treetops and weaved lightly on her feet--she felt a little faint. She gasped and lost her sense of balance. "Steady there," said a lady. Folks to her side and standing immediately behind, braced the Widow, afraid she would collapse. "Angels," she uttered gazing upward. Folks whispered, "She's out of her head in grief." "Or because she's with child." �Like angels with their heads bowed in prayer, overhead limbs drooped while not-too-distant white ash copses were laden and top-heavy with green foliage. The damp air hung heavy in the early afternoon and there seemed to be little relief in sight, that day at least. Death in families happened to other families, until two days earlier. She was only twenty-five years old, already a widow and also six months pregnant. People whispered; she heard their words of disbelief. Occasionally they stood in small circles, dolefully gazing her way and wondered how she would manage without a husband. The farm work was too hard for one woman to manage. Fifty to sixty friends, neighbors and family members surrounded the freshly dug grave as Reverend Martin delivered the Christian eulogy. Deeply touched men held their hats to their hearts and women's line of vision rested on the casket. The pain of her fresh loss weighed heavy and each spoken word of gratitude was difficult to execute. She daubed a fresh batch of tears not hearing the preacher's latest words. Her precious husband appeared unlike himself in life--so pasty white. Pressing a kiss to her hand and then to his forehead, she remembered her Uncle Walter's body and his similar unearthly skin coloration. �It was all she could do to keep from crying out and begging him to stay. But she realized the effort would of course be futile. James Wilhelm Hendricks was gone forever. The political environment was conducive to such drunken brawls, especially since the Eighteenth Amendment was passed and bootleggers took over the sales, making and distribution of whiskey. In her opinion, the United States Congress killed her husband--at the very least they were partially to blame. She didn't want the preacher to know her opinion, of course. There was no need to stir up a hornet's nest, so she would keep her opinion's silent. But congressmen and senators abandoned the overseeing of whiskey- making and made it illegal for consumption, making and selling. Anyone knew that when such a pastime became illegal, people were drawn to drink; since it was forbidden they experienced a great rush of excitement doing something sinful. Much to her dismay, James Hendricks often visited the lowliest of roadhouses and imbibed a lot during slow winter months when there were less chores. And, she didn't want to think about the saloon hall women who frequented those places. She knew they were part of his darker side and she almost successfully shunned all such hurtful thoughts. After she and her husband took care of three general stores, the crops were safely in and he didn't have to be out in the fields plowing or seeding, her husband drank, caroused and befriended persons of dubious character, whom he would not invite home. Most assuredly she'd shower her wrath down upon him. The singing and prayer part of the service ended and the Bible-packing crowd quietly ambled to their surreys. A few escorted the Widow to her carriage and like a game of follow-the-leader, the folks trotted their horse led surreys to the Hendrick's home for food and light conversation in remembrance of James Hendricks. When her thoughts strayed the last two days, she wondered who she should hire to help--a hired hand of sorts. The help she had at present surely wouldn't stay, she thought. It was a problem which had to be solved right shortly, because planting season was in full swing and soon the harvest season would start. The crops needed tending, especially in September and the general stores needed managing right away too. And, most importantly, she was with child. Loosely corseted, she wore a black ankle length dress. The waist rose high to accommodate her rounded mid-section and the sleeves were long. Upon her head full of chestnut hair, she wore a dark wide brimmed hat. She also wore black lace-up shoes, and the large diamond brooch her husband gave her their first Christmas together two years earlier. Most folks thought she was pretty, but she didn't necessarily think so. She was slender, reedlike--even willowy. When she wasn't pregnant, her waist was slim which flared into agilely rounded hips. Her facial bones were delicately carved, her mouth full. The wind whipped color into her cheeks. Her hair was drawn up under her hat into a gibson. Even though she was tremendously grieved, she held herself with pride and confidence. Occasionally tears found their way down her cheeks. Surreys stopped in the yard and road, men hopped down and helped their women down and a couple men helped the Widow Hendricks to the ground. Several townswomen, their arms wrapped around her waist, escorted Margaret to the steps of the Eclectic Manse Hendrick's home. The people-filled sitting porch faced the Mississippi River. Folks who prepared food waited inside. A few people stood in the parlor and two whining children waited impatiently near the front stairway. Red Watson approached her from a conversing small group nearby. � "May I have a private word with you, Mrs. Hendricks?" His questioning gaze almost bore through her. "In private, please," he told the other women. "Please?" Even under the scrutiny of his eyes, she managed a tremulous smile of sorts. She untied the hat under her chin, "Listen--Mr. Watson--I--" The disgruntled ladies moved into the sitting parlor and one uttered, "I'll declare. How rude he is." They hurled him a glare of disgust. Towering over her, hat in his hands, his voice insistent, his eyes sad with moisture, he said, "You have my deepest condolences, Mrs. Hendricks." He bowed. Unused to such gentlemanly gestures, she blushed for all to see, she drew in a quick breath of utter astonishment. "Thank you." she said traipsing across the eight foot wide hall to the richly upholstered settee, with him following. She removed her hat, gently placed it in Mrs. Smith's waiting hands and cast her eyes downward. "I appreciate your sentiments." "When you are ready may I come over to talk business with you?" "Business, Red?" she asked astounded. He added in a lower huskier tone, "Just talk. Nothing more. Perhaps I can help you. You'll need help, you know." Lips parting in surprise, she was absolutely not interested in letting him run her life, was she? No. What was wrong with her? She glimpsed his classically handsome features. How awkward this meeting was, she thought. "Let's not discuss such a thing today. It's improper. Excuse me," she whispered angrily. Her shoes clunked as she crossed the wooden floor. She felt a dozen sets of eyes on her as she entered the sitting parlor. Aggravated, he exhaled hard and headed through the door with his hat in his hand. He went out and thumped his hat onto his head as three curiosity-seeking ladies entered. "What was wrong with him?" asked one of the ladies. Eleven Weeks Later Mrs. Smith put the laundry basket upon the kitchen floor and padded down the front hall wiping her hands on her apron. The grandfather clock bonged and the morning sunlight streamed in the windows. The housekeeper gazed through the glass a moment before she rapped on the door frame. "Mrs. Hendricks?" � Glancing up, standing in her favorite room, the Widow Hendricks arranged items in the �tag�re: a place for material remembrances of days gone by. Her deceased husband's diamond cufflinks which she had given him the night of their first wedding anniversary would be a fine addition to the other figurines, plants, artwork and heirlooms. She closed the glass door and looked toward the door. "Yes Miss Smith?" "I need to talk to you about my cousin doin' the farm work." She guessed at what Miss Smith would say next. She secretly shuddered. "What, Miss Smith?" Margaret picked up a book and rounded a shelf of gold framed lithographs. "Go ahead. . . .and just say it." "I know you're in a bad way here. With child and all. Well. Mrs. Hendricks. Me and my cousin, as soon as you have your baby and all--we'll be movin' to Texas with some relatives down there and--" She burst into tears. "I hate to leave you and all, Mrs.--" She sighed. "It's all right. I can manage. Don't cry." She'd have to hire new help and it was a step she hated to take. She crossed the room to the hurting housekeeper and drew her head to her chest and hugged her warmly. "Please. I can manage. Don't cry. I will find help." Patting the woman's head, she didn't know how or where to start looking, but she would look and find a hired hand. "I'll give you extra money, since you've been so wonderful." Margaret refused to accept help offered by Robert Donaldson. He was in love with her properties. "Please forgive us. We have to go." "I hate losing you. But I'll be fine. You have a good trip and I hope you find a place to work soon after you arrive." A pain shimmied through her lower abdomen and almost brought her to her knees. "Oh, no. Miss Smith." "What is it?" "I-I think. I don't know. Maybe it's time. Yes." She gasped "I'll send my cousin after the ladies and the midwife. You're sure, Mrs.?" The pain resembled her monthly, but was alot harder. "Ohhhh. Oh yes--definitely yes--I'm sure." Miss Smith's steps disappeared down the hall and then out the front door. She ran-walked to the barn and with arms waving she caught hold of her cousin's arm. As Margaret peeked outside she watched him mount the mare and ride at a fast gallop toward town just as the second pain came. Doubling over, she walked down the hall to the room she readied for the birthing process. It was time for her to be brought to bed, and she was ready to lie in for the duration of her delivery, birth and recovery. With solemnity, she retired to the bedroom, closed the shutters and took her place on the bed, utilizing the customs of child birthing. God, she wished James was there and she hoped the mid-wife hurried. ~*~*~ Red Watson occupied a seat in a high stakes poker game at the Running Dog Roadhouse--his roadhouse. The smoke was so thick, he wheezed. It was one of four he owned in the immediate vicinity: a money-maker for sure it was. To keep the thirsty clientele happy, he brought in excellent quality Canadian whiskey from Toronto, rum from the Caribbean and home brew from the locals and Kentucky. Al up in Chicago sent him down an occasional truckload of good stuff they get in up there like French champagne. Some people he trusted made and ran whiskey to him. He paid off all the law enforcement officials within the surrounding counties and he hadn't yet found a Prohibition Agent he couldn't bribe. A few of them handed in their badges and started working for him. Most of them were darned good help. �Red was thirty years old and already earned enough money to easily retire. He dreamed he'd build a nice house--one of those Eclectic Manse houses that folks bought from a catalog, of all places. They were the type of house a person sees in magazines with nooks and crannies to store stuff--especially in the attic. The slanted ceiling bedrooms of ruffles and pillows caught his eye: he envisioned her under him in one of those fancy bedrooms. He liked the idea there was a back stairs for the help and a front stairs for the guests. The woman he admired most owned one of those houses right along the Mississippi River: Margaret Hendricks. Did she have any idea about how he dreamed about her? Perhaps some day when she was over her grief, he could go to her house all dressed up and court her; like a proper man does a nice lady. To win her he'd take her flowers, write love poems and maybe later, she'd have him. She was so alluring the few times she was in his midst. No one knew, how she affected him, but the aura stole his breath away. She was gentle spoken--serenly wise and had the highest of morals. In her expressive face he saw both strength and delicacy. The last time he saw her a curl escaped the silky mass of her chestnut mane. � He'd been in the saloon hall business for a long time and met a lot of nice looking women but he never once met a woman as handsome as her. True, she was his dead friend's widow, but she was freed from marriage. As far as he was concerned, she was fair game. If she needed time, he'd give it to her. He understood why she shunned him the day of the funeral, to most of those church folks who were there, he was a villain. Sobeit. Let them think what they wanted. Trying to confront her with business the day of the services was a damned fool mistake. He cringed. �He wondered if she knew he kept fifty slot machines running around the clock for the off duty railroaders and coal miners. What a life he had. He only lacked one thing: a good woman--Margaret. He was no good. Least that's what his folks told him and he almost came to believe them. And, the truth of the matter was that he didn't like manual labor, but instead liked to lead others so they tended to the dirty work. He also was hurting, but most didn't know it. He lost a friend--a good friend, who played 5 card stud with him--Jim Hendricks. Through Jim he learned about Margaret. Damn, he hated to see ol' Jim be put six feet under. He lifted his hat and ran a splayed hand through his thick mane and threw in his cards. "Deal me out. I need some fresh air," he told the boys. The chair noisily scratched the floor as he sauntered toward the door. The sun shone brightly that morning. He lifted a cigar to his lips and scratched a match on his boot. He watched a wagonload of women pass. "Where're you off to?" "The Widow Hendrick's." He pulled his horse by the reins. "Come on boy." he led the horse to the water and rubbed his mane. "So she's havin' the baby." ~*~*~*~*~*~ In the darkened room, the last hard push delivered the baby into the hands of the mid-wife. "Here he comes. A boy." "Oh my God. Thank you. A boy." �What was seconds seemed like hours as the mid-wife worked to get the baby breathing by lightly holding it upside down and smacking its blue rump. "I'll take him in the kitchen, Margaret." The silence became unbearable. She gazed about the room the second the baby departed the birthing room. "Why isn't he crying?" she said hoarsely to the midwife. "Tell me why? Where'd she go with him?" "Calm down." One of the ladies from town came to her side and squeezed Margaret's hand. "It's going to be okay. The mid-wife's working with the baby now."
Copyright © 2002 Karen L Snyder |