Widow Margaret Hendricks, relieved she quit crying, shoved the lacy handkerchief into her pocket. The end of the procession neared the dug-up dirt pile as it turned at the "Y" in the road. The Sheriff looked on. Thirty-three fringed, horse-drawn surreys and one hearse clippety-clopped underneath the filligree iron Chester City Cemetery sign, clippety-clopped five hundred feet farther and stopped near a pile of newly dug dirt. Mourners 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 sucked in 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. At least the animal's antics cheered her.

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 diptheria.

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 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 alot during slow winter months when there was 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 accomodate 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 Eceletic 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 digruntled 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 incredulously.

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.

Aggravatedly, 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 étagère: 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 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 Carribean 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 Eceletic Manse houses that folks bought from a catalog, of all places. They were the type of house a person sees in magazines with all the 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 felt and 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 runnin' 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."

"Working with him? Oh God. Please. Let me have this baby. God.Please. I'll do anything. Please. Where didn they take it. Please tell me where?"

"The baby's in the other room. You want me to go see what's going on?"

"Yes." Margaret resumed praying.

The lady motioned the second woman to hold Margaret's hand. "I'll be right back." Within five minutes she came back solemn-faced. "I'm sorry--he didn't m--"

The pain of birthing gone, a gutturral sob burst forth from deep within her as she writhed in agony. First she lost her husband and barely three months later she lost her baby boy. "God let this happen," she screamed angrily.

The ladies tsk-tsked out of her hearing range and stayed with her even as she punched the goose feather pillow until it burst at the seam. Feathers flew.

Just as many babies and adolescents of the times passed away, her baby boy departed also for heaven. In thought, Margaret lost track of time--emotional darkness surrounded her. Two hours later the mid-wife whispered through the door into the dark room, "Margaret. I'll take him to the undertaker. You gonna be all right, honey?"

Margaret opened her mouth, but couldn't speak--she couldn't move.

The lady from town said, "I'll stay here."

An image filled Margaret's mind. The Chester City Cemetery. The grave yard was filled with tiny stones. She visualized one more--her son's stone. How could she go on?

Part 2

Everyday living was harsh if not almost impossible and Margaret could end the pain very easily. The draining agony she experienced strangled all the joy from her life. It was a week before Christmas and she didn’t care the holiday was at hand. Her hurt worsened, it seemed and she constantly remembered the joyous times she’d previously spent with James and also the holiday she could have been spending with her baby. Who was there to celebrate it with her? No one. Normally she would have decorated a tree, wrapped small limbs of fir with red ribbon on the banisters and simmered cinnamony apple cider on the stovetop.

On the feather bed, flat on her back, dressed in a white nightgown, Margaret’s hair spread over her ivory shoulders and across the pillow. Reaching across the bed to where James once slept, Margaret grabbed and covered her head with his pillow, futilely whiffing remnants of his fragrance. Knowing her cries would go unheard, she screamed into the pillow, cursing God and pounding the mattress all the while thinking of him.

Fifty bleak days passed since the day of her baby’s funeral and Margaret had moved from the birthing room downstairs, to her regular bedroom upstairs and into the bed she and James shared. Realizing she should get back into step with the rest of society, she balked; for it would be difficult, if not impossible to resume normal living. Life as she once knew it disappeared.

Worried out-of-state relatives sent her mail, begging her to write them soon, but being heartsick, she was unable to respond. Stacks of letters brought in by well-wishing, sympathizers were piled unopened atop the etagere.

In recent days, when the preacher’s surrey suddenly appeared on the road, she refused to answer the door and hid when his knock rattled downstairs; she hoped he’d go back to his buggie thinking she was out-of-town.

She figured out a temporary cure--whiskey and she didn't remember ever drinking the stuff. During the latest bout of crying, the fourth time that morning, she searched high and low for James’ whiskey supply; and he probably thought it was forever hidden. Determined, she tore towels from linen closets, shoes from crates and cans from cabinets. Under the staircase, under a chest, and atop a mantle she felt around until she found the sealed, labeled bottle. “Ha-hah!” Liquor would surely make her feel better, she thought. That’s why men drank. And she would drink to escape the horrendous pain. She uncapped the clear bottle and lifted it. The brown, potent liquid sloshed beyween her lips and blazed a path to her tummy, until she gasped and spit part of it out. “Gawd. Shooo.”

Soon humming strange tunes, that morning, lying in bed, she drank until her stomach ached and she gagged. An hour and a half later, knowing she was sick, Margaret staggered downstairs to the back door, turned the knob and briskly swung the door open as wide as she could. Icy air swirled inside rustling her hair and bed dress. Face pale, she leaned outside and noisily vomited into the snowy pathway. “Oh God. Oh God.” Back inside, the door closed she held herself up using the counters and made her way to the sink. Relieved, she pumped a glass of water and rinsed her mouth.

”Damn my life all to hell.” She dragged herself back upstairs to the marriage bed and picked up the bottle. Drunken, raspy words spewed from her mouth. “This shit doesn’t work,” she said and lugged the bottle down to the front door. Cursing, she turned the ornate brass knob and crossed the porch. The ice stabbed the soles of her feet, but she didn’t care and barely felt it. Overhanded she threw the whiskey bottle into the pristine snow, it landed neck up alongside the walk. Feet red, she awkwardly ran back through the still-open door and shut it behind her. Chilled to the bone, she hurried back to the bedroom and climbed into bed.

On her side, her head on the pillow ticking, she stared at the unused wash basin. Downstairs the clock bonged twice and the dreary afternoon visited her once again. She needed to build a fire in the potbelly stove, but she couldn’t. She pulled the wedding ring quilt up under her chin. Her arms felt heavy, she was too tired.

Who was she kidding? She should go get the rope on the back porch, tie it under the stairwell and make a noose. All pain would end if she used it on herself. Sure. She could drag a footstool under the noose and step up. Around her neck she’d slip the rope. It was time to follow through with the plan she’d built in the back of her mind, she thought. Soon the pain would end and she was blotto enough to follow through and hang herself. Pouf. Dead. Problem's over.

Rising to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, her bleeding foot touched the carpeting. Yes, she would kill herself and join her husband and baby son. She rose, walked to the top of the stairs and descended until she was back on the first floor. Through the house to the porch she ambled. Scrounging through crates, she lifted a thirty feet length of rope out, opened the door, dragged it through the kitchen to the front hall. Suddenly, she wasn't really sure she could do it, she thought and turned.

Ba--rrooooom. Chucka-chucka. An outside noise? Her head turned toward the door. Somewhat sobered, the noise caught her attention. Immediately she stopped and listened as the din increased. What could the deep rumbling be? Brow crinkled, Margaret dropped and abandoned the rope on the front hallway floor.

Margaret strode barefooted through the sitting parlor and peeked through the lace curtains wondering who came for a visit driving a car. She wouldn’t answer the door. Whoever came to pay her a visit would surely give up and leave shortly. Surely to God they wouldn’t stand and knock forever like a few of the ladies from the church. A motorcar approached on the snow-covered lane and she gasped at the unusual and rare sight of a black, shiny automobile. She'd never seen one that shiny. Only ten people in the county owned a car, the last count.

Having a visitor was out of the question. She hadn’t bathed or brushed her hair, since she couldn’t remember when. Surely visitors weren’t coming. Besides, Margaret didn’t know anyone who owned a car nearby. Most assuredly, the driver was lost. Much to her horror it stopped in front of her house so she locked the door. The rumbling quieted, the door opened and a well-dressed man rose from the driver’s side. Dressed in a dark suit and tie, he was carrying a hat. With a hearty push he closed the door with a thud and high-stepped through the snow, stopping to gaze at the half-full whiskey bottle. Shaking his head, he leaned over.

She was like a barn owl seeing the first morning light; the reflected light from the snow hurt her eyes until she squinted. “Ahhh.” She glimpsed the man’s face; he was her husband’s friend, Red. God, she thought. What is he doing here?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The concerned church ladies confided that she probably wouldn’t answer the door and from their observation on various visits made during the delivery of her mail, she was not in the best of spirits.

For him there was no turning back. Sure she’d seen him by then, he plucked the whiskey bottle from the snow, uncapped it and smelled the contents. “Phshuu.” His brow furrowed and he was glad he didn’t over-indulge. Hoping she hadn’t started the nasty habit, he tossed it back into the drift and dusted snow off his leather gloves. Even though the church ladies were probably right, that she’d ignore his knock, he’d try anyway. Never giving in to defeat, believing he was right, Red tamped his hat tightly onto his head, pulled his coat shut and shoved his hands into his pockets. Besides, he owed his deceased best buddy a favor to boot. Margaret captivated his male sensitivities and he couldn’t shake her aura from his mind.

Tracks led to the barn, so he figured she at least fed and watered the livestock and chickens. No smoke rose from the chimney and he wondered if she fed herself, let alone the animals.

In his lifetime, people--family and friends--acted this peculiar way before. In fact, graveyards were full of victims of suicide. The horrible debilitating emotional sickness overcome them most often after a tragic loss. In fact, his mother was one who became despondent when his daddy died. For days on end, she pined over his demise and stayed in bed. Finally she lost her mind over the years, often reliving the memories of him and her together.

Wearing imported Italian boots with heavy socks, Red climbed the slick steps and crunched across the porch more determined than ever to lead her back to emotional well-being. Besides, he wanted ask her to a movie for a short term goal and he didn’t want to think about the long term goal yet. One step at a time, he thought he’d take.

Breath vaporizing, his nose cavities semi-frozen, he rapped the doorknocker and waited. He turned and gazed up the almost-frozen Mississippi. Ten seconds passed then thirty seconds and soon a minute went by. “Margaret, I know you’re in there. I came by to wish you a Merry Christmas. Hey.” he shouted. Again, he rapped and waited a reasonable amount of time. “I’m coming in one way or another.” He rapped twice. “It’s not beneath me to break in a front door!” He stepped back and glanced through the parlor window. The curtains shimmied. “Um-hm. Okay. If this is how you wanna play your hand, then--” He stepped forward, turned the locked doorknob until it rattled. “I’m goin’ to play mine.”

”Answer this goddamned door.” Concerned, Red pressed his face to the glass and cupped a hand to the side of his temple. Without a doubt, Margaret was inside and without realizing it yet, she would recuperate. He’d make sure of it. He spotted the rope ten feet from the door and gasped, hoping she was still alive.

Heart racing he asked, “Out of curiosity, who’s takin’ care of your businesses? You owe it to Jim to keep his interests goin’?” Silence. “Think of Jim, Margaret.”

With all his might, thrice Red body-slammed the door with his right shoulder and side, but it was too heavy. He didn’t want to break the glass until it became a last resort, because busting up a ladies door didn’t seem the proper thing to do.

After descending the steps, Red high-stepped through a crunchy drift, around the side and to the back of the house. He climbed the steps and crossed the screened-in porch. “Damn it, Margaret. Don’t hide. Come out.” Silence prevailed as the lonely wind whipped the snow around the yard. “Don’t make this harder than it should be. Hear me?” He turned the knob and went inside. The pot-bellied stove stood cold in the kitchen. “I’m going to visit you awhile, so I guess I’ll make a fire. Where’s the kindlin’?” Noisily, he opened the door and put kindling and logs inside. His voice softened considerably and said. “I think Jim would want me here.” He scratched a match and the tiny fire grew radiating a little heat. In the pantry, Red checked the food supply and brought out a Mason jar of green beans. When it was warm enough, he shed his coat. He lit a few more room stoves.

He left the kitchen. ”I love your house!” he yelled up the stairs and kicked the rope aside. “You ought to come down where it’s gettin' warm. I’m making myself at home. Didn’t think you’d mind.” Staying on the lower level, he checked each darkened room, pulled the doors closed and stopped by the parlor organ and pecked the tune “Home Sweet Home”. Each window encountered, he drew the drapes aside and allowed the shocking sunlight infiltrate the room. “How long have you been in here, like this, Margaret?” She responded with silence again.

”How about if I make us some dinner? We could have some wine and light conversation is all. You have a guest, you know. So you might as well come on down.” Eyebrows rising, he heard the ceiling creak a little every few seconds. Definitely, she was upstairs and on the move. “What have you got that I can cook? Chicken?” She appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down. She looked haggard, but still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For life is sweet, but afterlife is death. This is the end of every man's desire.--[1866] By Charles Algernon Swinburne 1837-1909

Shuddering with dread, she had to face him, from halfway down the highly polished staircase. Margaret stopped cold, not descending another step, barely keeping her eyes off him, forcing her line of vision onto a golden frame of a lithograph which hung on the far wall.

”What’s going on with you, Margaret?” he asked.

”I have no idea what you are talking about.”

With much thought, a few seconds later, she lowered her eyes, glimpsed him and again raised her line of vision to the chandelier, as though one long stare at him would blind her for life. After drawing a wrinkled lacy handkerchief from under the quilt, she cleared her throat and blew her nose. Soon she asked shakily, "May I ask what you doing here?” She paused. “This is my house, you know, Mr. Watson," she added incredulously, fully aware of him. His hands attached stubbornly to his hips. Was he confronting her or was the situation completely the opposite? Was she confronting him? She continued, “You broke in the back door and was going through the whole lower level, Mr. Watson. Didn’t you?”

”I felt I should.” The rope she almost used a moment ago lay snaked at his feet.”I had my reasons for coming in.” He wagged his head in disbelief.

A few awkward moments of silence passed and a new batch of tears formed. "Why are you--?"

“I’m here out of concern.”

”You care about me?” she said."You don't know me, do you?"

"Jim talked about you. I thought he had something special's all."

"Oh."

Silence prevailed a couple of minutes. After crossing the sitting parlor she watched him as he gazed out at the Mississippi, obviously deep in thought. A shock of afternoon sun burst through the western windows where he stood, penetrated the crystal figurines housed in the étagère. The resulting splash of color mesmerized her; a dozen prism rainbows illuminated the hallway in a breathtaking display which eerily outlined and darkened his strong body as he came back into the hallway.

She could see that locking only the front door could not keep him away. Why was he determined to involve himself in her messed up life? An act of aggression of sorts, he must have waded through the thigh deep snow, around to the unlocked back door--entirely out of his way. Did he suspect she considered suicide? Why couldn’t he leave her alone and let her put an end to her misery? Besides, she would not allow such a man into her life, even if she felt happy.

”Ready for dinner?”

Calmly she said, "No. Mr. Watson. I need to be alone. I believe you should leave."

”I can’t leave just yet,” he said with quiet emphasis.”I have reason to believe you’re a danger to yourself.”

She agreed without putting up a fuss. He was absolutely right and she lightly nodded. "All right." The shadow of his beard, gave him a masculine appearance. His profile was strong and rigid and probably had turned many a lady's head in his day. Drops of moisture, which was once snow, clung to his thick chestnut hair. She did not want to look at him. Why didn’t he just leave? He walked back toward her abandoning the window, he slipped off his coat and his suit jacket as though her her negativity and searing comments didn’t deter his cause. Loosening his tie, Red hung his hat and wrap on the coat stand as though he were staying for supper and there was no further discussion, regardless of whose house he occupied. She wished she had a telephone, like a few people in town; but would she actually call the sheriff?

Walking away, he turned leaving his eyes on her until seeing her was no longer possible. His face scrunched questioningly. “What’s all the blood for? Here. On the floor?”

”I cut my foot,” biting her lip, she looked away.

”How did you do that?” His voice lost its steely edge.

”Outside. On the porch.”

His head wagged and his index finger and thumb grasped his chin. “Ahh. That’s how the whiskey got out there. I see.” Leaning on the wall, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, his boots clunked on the wooden floor until he stopped in front of a dead fern.

Strange and disquieting thoughts of lust raced through her mind. She didn't know him too well and her mind flooded with warnings about being with him. She rigidly held her tears in check--it was not the time to cry.

For a second or two he studied the lifeless plant and poked a finger into the dry soil. "It's dead," he said as the clock bonged once on the half hour. "It hasn't been watered."

Guilt crept in. She didn’t take the time to water the once alive plant, perhaps thinking only of her problems. Looking down at him she realized Red was a massive presence--a totally self-confident man. Few men she’d ever met carried themselves with such finesse.

"Mind if I look at this?"He walked three feet farther and dragged an index finger across the Victrola.

"Go ahead."

“This play music?”

”Yes.” Long steamy nights flew through her mind.

She was a new widow and not in the market for a man--especially him. In fact, what was worse, she was the widow of his best buddy. His being there was wrong; it had only been eight months since her husband passed away?

Suspiciously, her eyes followed his athletic strides up and down the front hallway, because she felt he was up to something and she was in the center of his plans. She hated to admit it, but the clean light look of him impressed her, but she'd die before she'd let him know she approved. Besides, the man probably figured he had the monopoly on virility and in actuality, he broke every law in the book concerning illegal whiskey and gambling. In town she heard the talk of his women friends, the guns and the shootings. He gambled worse than her deceased husband, she'd heard and God knows what else the man was mixed up in. Rumors about him traveled six counties in each direction. Her eyes followed him as he paced before her. "What are you going to do now?" she asked exasperatedly staying on the stairs as though her the soles of her feet were glued down and she could not move. He didn't have a return for her comment. "There is a law against this, isn't there? House breaking and entering,I believe?"

With an air of command his deep voice uttered, "There's a law against other things too." He paused, much to her horror and toed the rope. "Like this." He leaned over and picked its end up and waved it before her. "And if Jim were here, I'd tell him his tastes in whiskey is foul. Out there in the snow. You been drinkin' that vile stuff?"

She flinched at the tone of his voice. Her voice rose in surprise at his accusation. "I don't-- but I just tasted it." She didn't know how to respond to his insolence. "It was bad. I agree."

Grumbling, he dragged the uncoiled rope to the back door, opened it and tossed it into a corner of the screened-in porch. “Nothing is that bad.”

"Listen. Mr. Watson. I--"

"Red."

The surge of affection scared her. She said turning her face away, "Red, then.” He eyes wandered back. “I don't think it's right for you to be in my house like this. Night's a-comin' and I--"

”You eat and I’ll leave.”

Nodding, she said, “All right then.” She tasted salty tears and his male aroma reached her; he smelled of an intermingled mix of Burma Shave and some exotic cologne; he smelled so manly and dressed up in fancy clothes. Surely he didn’t buy his clothes nearby.

"I'm here today to check on you. Number one: I owe it to Jim to look in on you. So I will not pay attention to a 'no' or a 'you must leave,' " he said clapping his hand to rid himself of imaginary dirt. "So. With that out of the way, I’ll fix dinner." His eyes rose to take in her expression and he offered her a heartwarming smile. “Okay?”

”I guess so.” She managed a small tenative smile an wondered if he was capable of such a feat as capturing a chicken. "I'm sorry.” Three fingers moved to her lips as she thought. “I know you mean well. But-- I'm not able to be neighborly. I'm really down. In my mood, you see. And, I can't--" She sunk to her rearend onto the stairsteps, her forehead touched her knees keeping herself wrapped herself pappoose-style in a colorful pinneaple quilt. "I'm not right I guess you'd say--right now, I'm not." Tears emerged which she thought had long left, returned.

"Don't try to be friendly. Don’t try to do anything on my account. I'm just here. Stay right there.” He waved her to stay put. “I'll find the skillet and pot." He slid a muscular arm into his dress coat's sleeve. "Do you know how long it's been since I chased down a goddamned chicken?" He laughed with an adventurous toss of his head, his pearly, devilish smile broadened and caught her eye for a moment.

The smile still trembled over her lips. she sniffed even though her nose was completely stopped up. She regarded him with a speculative gaze and he absolutely showed no signs of relenting, confounding her.

He cleared his throat, his head thrust down and he lowered his voice. " I haven't done this for a long time. Cook. Me a gambler. But with that said, here I go. Wish me luck." Resigned, he turned and strode to the door and said with eagerness in his voice. "I guess then I'll be back soon with the meat for supper."

Part 3

Evening arrived, kerosene lamps were lit, upstairs by Margaret and downstairs by her uninvited male house guest, who was neither a relative nor of course, her deceased husband. The downstairs grandfather clock bonged six times as Red Watson diligently cooked a dinner for two, sending appetizing aromas twirling upward, he asked up the stairs, “You have any wine glasses, Margaret?”

         ”Yes--the pantry.” The food scents tempted her and she actually wanted to eat his cooking. The man was being so nice trying so hard to help her--such a good friend of James, he was. She couldn't throw him out the door because his intentions seemed honorable.

         “I have rasberry wine in the car, hidden under the seat. And, I found your glasses. Finally.”

         Unknown to her friends, her husband often distilled liquor using berries he picked in nearby Miller’s woods: blackberries, rasberries and some little bluish little berries she didn't know the name of. He called his potent purplish spirits wine, but in actuality it was plain old everyday moonshine and was the whiskey she earlier vomited out the back door. In any event, she wouldn’t say her husband’s brew was rotgut because she really wasn't prepared to say anything derogatory about James. She was not a drinking person--social or otherwise, but her husband and Aunt Evelyn drank the hootch often. Many times, they stated their affection for it. After the funeral her Aunt took home bottles in her suitcase aboard the train--whiskey James left behind and she and her aunt found hidden here and there throughout the house and barn. It was too bad that she didn't give her the bottle she found earler atop the mantle.

         In a few seconds he yelled up the stairs, “I’m really going all out for this meal,” he said trying to cheer her.”You’re gonna see my amazing culinary talents.”

          She closed the door realizing he felt she was a bit of a challenge. Silence resumed as Margaret lit a room stove and a kerosene wall lamp. Disrobing, she tested the water with her big toe. It was moderately hot. Satisfied with the water temperature, she slid into the water and submerged completely, holding her breath. She had to recuperate and she would. Splashing water onto the floor, she rose gasping a few moments later. She first soaped herself thoroughly then her hair. “Mmmmmmm,” she said, scrubbing her head. She reached for a pitcher and rinsed all the soap from her long hair. The bath totally revived her spirit; the aquatherapy was with scented bubbles--a ten minute soak she enjoyed, rose, grasped a towel and stepped from the tub, toweled off and slipped in a robe. Her wet hair turban-wrapped, she slipped into fur-lined houseslippers, turned off the room stove, lamp and padded down the hall to the third bedroom on the right, stepped inside and closed the door and it dully clunked shut. Raising the wick, she scratched a match and held it to the wick of the kerosene lamp and replaced the glass. It was a warmly decorated room, wallpapered in a red and pink multi-rose print. Her bed was covered with quilts and large fluffy pillows edged in lace.

         For her sanity, if she decided totally against the suicide route, which she believes she did, she planned to move from James and her room to the room across the hall. Where she slept presented loving but painful memories to mull over, moments before bedtime--a very difficult time.Surely she could decorate the new room to her tastes, making it just as eye-appealing as the old room. Her mind was set.

          After hanging up wet towels, she brushed and pulled her damp hair up into it’s usual gibson, in front of the mirror on the dresser. That’s all right, her hair being wet, she thought, it would dry soon enough.

         She felt a lot better since Red visited that afternoon. The world seemed brighter, because of his caring enough to check on her and he seemed to be a warm, friendly human being whom she wanted to befriend. The world needed more folks like him.

         Pulling out a drawer, Margaret lifted her lingerie and searched for her jewelry. Realizing she hadn't cried for an hour straight through, she grasped a box which contained a long strand of gold beads and earrings to match. Maybe she'd feel better if she cleaned up and dressed up. Lightly she daubed a dot of Forever Love at her pulse points. She sighed when she held up the dress on a hanger and studied it closely; off the hanger the whispery fabric slipped and into her hands. It was a new style dress which hung many months in the back of her closet. James purchased it at Marshall Fields in Chicago and presented it to her on her birthday, July 22nd of the preceding year.

         Could she find the off-white pumps which matched? She sank to her knees and crawled on the cold floor into the dark depths of the closet, areached and grasped heels and brought them into the soft light of the room. She rose to her feet with the shoes.

         The house guest was an attractive man and she wondered why James never brought him home. Yes he was handsome and she would not deny it at all. As a matter of fact, any woman with eyes to see could behold he was a strapping speciman of manhood who could turn female heads wherever he stepped foot. How did she really feel about him? It was too early to entertain such ideas about men and dating. To her, they were almost dirty words--and James not cold yet in his grave.

          In the event she ever found another man, there were many facets of life and experiences she and James shared which would forever be sealed; their shared secrets were sacred. The sex they shared--was exhilarating and was one of those shared secret moments. But, sadly her life with James was gone. Their marriage and his life was like the rising steam off bath water. Their time together was over. Nonetheless, in her heart she knew God wanted her to pick up the pieces and she was free to remarry; but she wasn't ready to be married. Perhaps some widows healed more slowly than others. Then again, widows were supposed to finish their years the best way they knew how and so she would she'd pull herself from the depression. She could do it. From that moment on, she’d carry on with her life as a free woman and keep remembrances of James and the baby in her inner étagère. It would be difficult, but she would try to march with life’s cadence once again.

          Actually, she didn’t know what she really thought or felt about Red yet other than he saved her. For now she'd call him a friend and a good friend at that and she was eternally grateful. In all honesty, she barely knew him before the funeral. He must have thought a lot of James to come to her home to check on her.

         Red was interesting man, or so she thought. He seemed to harbor a restless spirit which intertwined into his personality showing up from time to time, especially during their first dealings in their first conversation, especially. At the very least, Red assisted her out of the dark hole of unrelenting grief which consumed her. She realized that she must step into reality about the situation and her widowhood. Being James best friend, Red was owed a warm welcome into the Hendrick’s house. Out of her mind and with much tenacity, she’d snubbed him horribly after the funeral. Her excuse being, her mental state was bleak. Her behavior was inexcusible. There was a time for everything; and it was the time for her to apologize for being such an ass. That evening she would present him with a few kind words of thanks during dinner and assure him she would resume her role in life by being an upbeat, practical and productive woman again and to not worry she would forget about taking her own life. She couldn’t believe she dragged a rope from the back porch with the idea of making a noose with it. Surely, she wouldn’t have gone through with the suicide.

         Memories of what had been and what could have been with James and her baby, would be left in the mind’s étagère. Red’s appearance was a godsend. His extraordinary influence breathed emotional life into her very being and she was indebted to him.

         Delicious smells continued to curlicue up the stairs and entered her room. She leaned out the bedroom door and yelled, “Smells good.” She hadn’t eaten a good meal since --since--she couldn’t remember. Her stomach growled and all the remnants of a hangover resulting from the morning’s drinking session miraculously disappeared, much to her delight.

         The dress still had the price tag attached to an underarm seam, so she clipped it off. It was one of the many presents James offered after one of his Chicago business trips. It was off-white and woolen. She kept it in the back of the closet because the hemline devilishly rose an unheard of six inches above the ankle. People in the area were not ready for women to wear such scandalously short clothing. With the dress, he also bought silly lengerie she was to wear with the peace offering. She couldn’t get over the structure of the brassiere as she held it up and examined it closely. It flattened her breasts which was unheard of before 1922. Why would women want to downplay the size of their breasts? However the boyish look was in vogue, and women everywhere abandoned the whale bone devices designed to slenderize a woman’s waistline, but constricting her waist and as a direct repercussion the bust size was enhanced. The contraptions’ demise wouldn’t be too soon for her, either. Men designed them. Why didn’t the men wear them, then? A woman wouldn’t design torture apparel. Margaret’s husband did not have a problem with her bust size. Oftentimes, he complemented their roundness and made her feel so womanly. She doubted any man could ever make her feel so sexy again and that part of her life ended. Pouf. Sighing, she stopped a moment, she examined her breasts in the mirror from the front and sides. Yes they were nice. Rising off her chest wall nicely upturned a little, she thought. He was right, they were good. One hand on each side of her panty’s waistband, Margaret shook and slipped into the medium-sized underwear. She slipped on the nylons and the white chemise. With much struggle she buttoned it all the way up. She wouldn’t wear the matching cloche, She shoved the hat box back into the top of the closet, closed the door and walked downstairs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

         Wearing her calico apron and holding a wine glass, he emerged from the kitchen and his eyes rivoted onto her body. “My god. Are you the same woman I saw earlier?” he said practically open-mouthed and unblinking. Without letting her respond he said, “I can’t believe this. Look at you.” He walked a three hundred sixty degree circle around her feasting on each square inch of her body. “I’d whistle, but that’s not enough. “I need to bring you an armload of roses or a box of pearls. Something--anything. Jewelry?”

         ”No. Please, Red.”

         ”I don’t know if I can remain a gentleman with such a beautiful woman in my midst. But god. I sure as hell don’t want to scare you off,” he said with sincerity.

         ”I’ve been smelling the food,” she colored fiercely.

         ”I didn’t mean to--aw. I’ll be quiet how’s that?”

         She appeared more delicate and ethereal than before with her damp wealth of chestnut hair with wispy bangs sprinkled across her forehead and he could lose himself smelling her fragrance. Dusty rose pinked her cheeks and the corner of her mouth pointed up more than it pointed down. He accidentally unleashed his eagerness on her, he guessed, and he should remain a gentleman with her.

          With a hand to the small of her back, he led her to the dining room and seated her beside his chair. "You look lovely." He lit the candles and served the meal of roast chicken, green beans, applesauce and corn bread. “I guess you can buy a lot fancier food in the restaurants,” he said upon seating himself.

         She lifted a dainty bite to her lips and ate the first bite. “It's good." It was the first food she had eaten for two days and she found herself hungrier than she'd ever been once she started eating.

         Watching her eat, he smiled, his eyes moved to her. “I surprised myself.” He poured her a glass of wine.

         ”Just a finger of wine. After what I drank earlier I--”

         ”All right.”

         They finished the meal and cleaned up together and retired to the sitting parlor. “I promised you that I would cook you supper and leave. So--” He put the glass down. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

         ”I really enjoyed the time today with you, Red,” she said as her cheeks heated under the intensity of his gaze. It was emotions she hadn't felt for years and it was as though her senses sprang to life.

         ”And I enjoyed talking to you. A lot, as a matter of fact. A whole lot,” he said in a gentle tone as a delightful shiver of want ran through him. His heart took a perilous leap when he gathered her into the circle of his strong arms and hugged her warmly and gently he rocked her back and forth in a generic brotherly way. He hoped she felt the same about him. “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see,” he whispered huskily. In the stillness of the big house, Red caressed and kissed her with his eyes without exchanged words. His lips found hers for the first time in a light kiss pressed to her forehead. Withdrawing, he pressed a second quick kiss to the end of her nose.

         As he walked into the hallway and reached for his jacket, she said, “I want to thank you. You’ve helped me get over this period in my life.”

         ”That’s what I came over for. The church ladies. And I was wondering about you.”

         ”I know. Bless their hearts.”

         ”So if I leave you, you’re gonna be okay?”

         ”I’ll be fine, I’m sure. I'm not going to do anything”

         He slipped on his coat as the clock bonged on the half hour after seven o’clock. He tamped on his hat. “I’m going to get out of here. I’ll be back--to check on you.” He paused thoughtfully “You think it's all right. I mean for me to check on you?”

         She nodded. ”I appreciate supper--and everything else.”

         He nodded. ”We’ve both been through a loss here, I guess. You especially. I've promised you that if you ate, I would leave right after supper. So I'm doing just that. But never mind that. Listen." He paused. "Are you spending Christmas Eve with anyone tomorrow night?"

         "Ah." Her eyes dropped to the floor. She forgot about Christmas. "Unfortunately, no."

         "I'll be back. Tomorrow night. That is if you don't mind. Do you?"

         "Okay. You can come back. Sure."

         "Great," he said grasping the door handle. "We'll do that and talk awhile or whatever you'd like to do." He smiled, opened the door and disappeared into the night.

~*~end~*~