“Mr. Lomax claims that the baby is in fact R.J. Holt’s, born to his mistress is my guess, which is why they’ve so far neglected to involve the authorities. The word kidnapping wasn’t used, but the insinuation was there.”
“That’s a lie. I found her left to die in the trees. Just like we were,” Everett says. “But at least we had each other,” he adds. “This child doesn’t have anyone except me. So Harris, you just cut me that cheque and I’ll make for—”
“It’s not quite that simple, Everett,” Harris says. “Because if I just let you run off, Mr. Lomax will make things difficult for me.”
“That’s why you sent for me, isn’t it?” Everett says. “Not because I asked for your help. He’s got your ass in the ringer, too.”
“May I interrupt this charming reunion to make a humble suggestion?” says the Irishman, who appears to be some kind of assistant, though Everett is astounded that a subordinate would employ such sarcasm with his employer.
“We’ll discuss this later, Mr. Feeney,” Harris says.
“Given Mr. Lomax’s faltering loyalty to R.J. Holt and his own downtrodden state, what if you offered him a good sum of money for the child?” Feeney asks Everett, ignoring Harris completely. “To my eye, that man seems ground-down enough to take it.”
“You think my pension and my inheritance together would be enough?” Everett asks.
“You’ve both forgotten this book he’s after,” Harris says impatiently. “He seems to want it even more than he does the child.”
“That’s the problem,” replies Everett. “I left the journal somewhere safe. But I told him I mailed it here. And even if I did have it, he’s not getting it. I believe the child’s mother wrote it, and it’s all the girl has left to tell her where she comes from.”
“You’ve read this journal?” the Irishman persists.
“As much as I was able,” Everett replies. “But I had it for some time.”
“And has Lomax laid eyes on it?”
“I can’t really say. I don’t expect so, seeing how it was the mother’s private diary and was bundled up with the child.”
“Then why don’t we fabricate one ourselves?” the Irishman says. “You could describe to me what it looked like.”
“Mr. Feeney is something of a writer,” Harris interjects. “But he won’t be involving himself in any of this. Now Everett, I really think—”
“You’ll need to point out the proper journal,” the Irishman interrupts. “Do you remember it?”
“Sure, I could give you a general sense,” Everett replies. “It was fine penmanship, though. With writing on every page. And Lomax needs it by tomorrow. You figure you could fill a whole journal in a night?”
The Irishman shrugs. “It won’t be my finest literary achievement,” he says. “But I’ll see what I can manage.”
SHOEBOXES
AFTER THE CYCLONE has done its worst and moved on, the storm doors are left immobilized by the rubble that was hurled against them. It takes Temple, Gertie, and the dozen remaining farmhands the entire afternoon to chip their way up through the library’s thick floor planks with a dull hatchet and a ballpeen hammer. When they emerge from the cellar into the haze of a dim, dusky sun, it’s as if the whole prairie has been tucked under an old brown quilt. As far as Temple can see, the dust has drifted into long, smooth hummocks that swallow all sound, the way snow does. She nearly screams, just to test if she could hear herself at all.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” Gertie says as they tour the ruins of Temple’s barn and house, including her fences and pens, which are all splintered and strewn across the torn-up land like a child’s discarded toys. Farm tools and the carcasses of wind-bludgeoned birds have been flung everywhere. A tree she doesn’t recognize pokes up through the windshield of her truck, its roots turned upward in the breeze like a demonic bush. And the library itself is decimated, now resembling a bare, wooden barge foundering in a great ocean of dust. The only landmark that remains upright is the willow near the house. Although a large bough has cracked off and most of its leaves were stripped, the trunk appears intact.
“I’m not sure this world wants us anymore,” Gertie says as they pick through the rubble for the few personal items they’ll bring on their long, dusty trek into Estevan. After they set out, they soon pass the shelterbelt of maple saplings that Temple and Everett planted together. Still too small for the wind