Yes maam, very serious. The stamp on the outside says it came from Tacoma, out in Washington-not the one next door, but the western territory. Or thats where the message started, anyhow. I dont know too well how the telegraph works.
Me either, she confessed. But I dont know anybody in Washington.
Are you sure?
Pretty sure. She turned the envelope over in her hand, still unwilling to open it, reading the stamped mark that declared the station in Tacoma where the message had been composed.
You . . . you going to open it? Paul Forks asked, then seemed to think the better of it. Never mind, its no business of mine. Ill leave you alone, he said, and turned to go.
She stopped him by saying, No, its all right. A laundry boy bustled past her, prompting her to add, Let me get out of the hallway, here. No sense in blocking up the main thoroughfare. She carried the envelope to the back scullery stairs, where no one was coming or going at that particular moment.
Paul Forks followed her there, and sat down beside her with the stiff effort of a man who hadnt yet learned how to work around his permanent injuries. He was careful to keep a respectful distance, but the naked curiosity in his face mightve been mirrored in her own, if she hadnt been so fiercely tired.
Washington,
she said aloud to the paper as she extracted it from the light brown envelope and unfolded it. Whats so important out in Washington that I need to hear about it?
Read it, he encouraged her. Paul Forks couldnt read, but he liked to watch other people do it, and he liked to hear the results. Tell me what it says.
It says, she declared, but her eyes scanned ahead, and she didnt say anything else. Not right away.
Go on.
It says, she tried again, then stopped herself. Its my . . . my daddy.
Paul frowned thoughtfully. I thought your kin came from Waterford?
She gave a half nod that ended in a shrug. Her eyes never peeled themselves off the paper, but she said, I was born there, and my momma and father live there now, working a farm thats mostly dairy.
Paul mightve been illiterate, but he wasnt stupid. Father? Not your real pa, then?
Though she didnt owe him any explanation, she felt like talking, so she said, My daddy ran off when I was little. Went West, with his brother and my cousin, looking for gold in Alaska-or that was the plan as I heard it. For a while he sent letters. But when I was about seven years old, the letters just . . . stopped.
You think something happened to him?
Thats what we always figured. Except, it was strange. Her voice ran out of steam as she read and reread the telegram.
What was strange? Paul prompted.
One day Aunt Betty got a box in the post, full of Uncle Asas things, and Leanders things, too. Leander was my cousin, she clarified. And there was some money in there-not a lot, but some. There was also a note inside from somebody they didnt know, but it said Asa and Leanderd died on the frontier, of cholera or something. Anyway, when I was about ten, the justice of the peace said that my momma wasnt married anymore on account of desertion, and she could marry Wilfred. Hes been my father ever since. So I dont know . . . I dont know what this means.
The tone of her voice changed as she quit relating ancient history and began to read aloud from the sheet of paper, including all the stops.
To Vinita May Swakhammer stop. Your father Jeremiah Granville Swakhammer has suffered an accident stop. His life hangs by a thread stop. He wants you to come to Tacoma in the Washington territory stop. Please send word if you can make it stop. Sheriff Wilkes can meet you at station and bring you north to Seattle where he lies gravely wounded stop.
The letter sagged in her hands until it rested atop her knees.
Is that all? Paul asked.
Thats all. She stared at the letter, then looked up at Paul. And all this time, I figured he was dead.
It looks like he aint.
Thats what it looks like, yeah, she agreed. And she didnt know how to feel about it.
Whatre you going to do?
She didnt shrug, and didnt shake her head. I dont know. He left me and Momma. He left us, and he never sent for us like he said he would. We waited all that time, and he never sent.
They sat in silence a few seconds, until Paul Forks said, Hes sending for you now.
A little late.
Better late than never? he tried. He leaned back and braced against the stairwell in order to help push himself back to a standing position. Sounds like he might be dying.
Maybe, she agreed. But Im not sure if I give a damn. He left us . . . Jesus, fifteen, sixteen years ago. That son of a bitch, she mumbled, and then she said it louder. That son of a bitch! All this time, hes been out West just fine, just like he said he was going to be. And all that time, we sat at home and wondered, and worried, and finally we just gave right up!
He mightve had his reasons, Paul said, awkward as he stood there, uneven on his one real foot and one false one, and unsure exactly who he was defending.