Carol Ritten Smith (3 page)

She could tell he was watching for a reaction and she was determined not to give him one.

Tom continued, “He asked me to come out to his place to have a look around. You know, to see if I could find any clues. And guess what I found?”

“Really, Mr. Carver, I don’t have time for guessing games. What did you find?”

From inside his trousers, Tom withdrew something small. “Your knife. Right there in Hoosman’s corral. Now how do you suppose it got there?”

“I have no idea.” She kept her face void of any emotion. “But thank you for returning it.”

“No problem. But be careful with it. I sharpened it for you.”

She refused to thank him for his trouble. She entered the school, gripping the pocketknife until her knuckles were white. She tossed it into her desk drawer, propped her elbows on the desk and leaned her head into her palms. Her head pounded. Had Bill decided after his unsuccessful foray at the Carver place to try to steal Hoosman’s horse?

Probably, and now his foolish actions had roused suspicions and she was left to deal with that contemptuous blacksmith. Beth massaged tiny circles along the sides of her tight neck.

“Is everything all right, Beth?” Davy asked, standing in front of her desk.

Oh yes. My one brother is a would-be thief, I’m a murderer, and we’re trusting a six-year-old with our secrets. Things couldn’t be better.
“Go back to your seat, Davy. Children, get out your slates.”

• • •

Freddie North remained after dismissal to complete his lines, but the moment the final word was written, he cleared out. “You’re going to be sorry,” he threatened over his shoulder before leaving.

Beth had no doubt he’d go straight to his indulgent father and give him a woe-be-gone story about his unjust punishment. Sighing, she grabbed her sweater off the back of her chair. “Come on, Davy.”

“Where’re we going?” he asked, retrieving a marble from under the washstand at the back of the classroom.

“To the bank.”

“For money for Bill’s horse?”

“That’s right. Now, when we get there, I want you to wait outside. I won’t be long.”

“Would it be all right if I go to Betner’s store to look around?”

“I suppose, but don’t be a pest. And don’t touch anything!”

“I won’t.”

• • •

Mr. North’s office was a small cubicle partitioned off by a three-foot high wall, and just as Beth had predicted, Freddie was expounding to his father. Turning her back to them, she marched directly to the first wicket.

“Good afternoon, Miss Patterson. How may I help you?” the male clerk asked.

“I’m here to see about getting a loan.”

“Oh, then you’ll need to talk to Mr. North. Please have a seat. I believe Mr. North is engaged at the moment.”

The uncomfortable wooden chair did little to ease Beth’s nervousness, nor did watching Freddie gesticulate wildly as he related the incident. Every so often she’d catch a word or two, and Mr. North would frown. She forced her attention elsewhere.

The bank was finished with rich, dark walnut paneling. Above the clock on the back wall hung a portrait of a prominent man bearing a remarkable resemblance to Mr. North, no doubt Mr. North Senior and likely the bank’s founder. Beth fortified herself with the realization that if the bank had been in business that many years it was because of sound business management. Surely Freddie’s sniveling would not thwart her chances of getting a loan.

Still, when Freddie sauntered past her on his way out, looking smug and satisfied, Beth worried.

After the teller advised him of Beth’s presence, Mr. North came forward and opened the gate to his cubicle. “Good afternoon, Miss Patterson. Please, come in.”

Reassured by his professional manner, she took the seat he indicated while he circled around the desk to his leather-padded chair. “Now, what can I do for you today?” he asked as he braced his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers.

“I’d like a loan to buy Bill a horse.”

“A horse.” He nodded. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Beth felt better.

North opened his top drawer and pulled out a form, then picked up his pen and dipped it in his ink well. “All right.” He smiled at her, putting her completely at ease. “Let’s see what you have for collateral. First item, property. You’re living in the old Grant place, aren’t you?”

“Yes. We’re renting. The school board made all the arrangements.”

“Ah, yes. I remember hearing about that. You have no other property?”

“No.”

North scratched a zero in the box beside the word
property.

“How about livestock?”

“Oh, we have a few laying hens.”

Mr. North smiled in an overly solicitous manner, as if Beth were a senseless child. “I’m sorry, but we don’t accept poultry as collateral. They die too easily. I was thinking more in the line of cattle, or pigs … or horses.” Then he laughed. “Oh no, of course you don’t have any horses or you wouldn’t be here for a loan, now would you?”

“No,” Beth replied, sinking slightly in her chair.

With a satisfied smirk much like Freddie’s, Mr. North filled in another zero on the form. There was no mistaking the enjoyment he derived from humiliating her, but Beth was willing to be humbled if it meant getting the loan.

After scribbling several more zeros, North put down his pen, and scratched his balding, aged-spotted scalp as if pondering the situation. He sighed in exasperation. “As you can see Miss Patterson, you are what we bankers call a high-risk applicant.”

“I understand,” Beth replied, understanding only too well. “But what about the money Bill and I make? Couldn’t we take a loan against that?”

“It is quite obvious that you and your brother’s earnings are barely sufficient.” He stared at her, as if waiting to see if she’d grovel for the money. Finally he inked his pen nib. “I’ll tell you what. Against my better judgment, I’ll lend you the money.” He scratched a few numbers on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk to Beth. “That should be enough and I think the interest is fair.”

Fair!
At first she thought he was joking, but the look on his face told her he was dead serious. She fought to keep her anger in check. “Mr. North, this is far higher than the prime lending rate.”

“Yes, I realize that. But the bank is sticking its neck out. That should be worth something.” North clasped his hands together on his desktop. “That is the term of this loan. Take it or leave it.”

Beth rose from her chair, no longer able to contain her mounting frustration and anger. “But that’s unfair!”

North also rose from his seat to meet her eye to eye. “Miss Patterson, kindly show restraint,” he said, flinging at her the very words she had Freddie write on the blackboard. “Now, if you are unwilling to accept these terms, then please leave my office. I don’t have time to waste with you or your brother’s petty wants.” He dropped into his cushioned chair and tossed Beth’s loan application in the wastebasket, indicating that he was quite finished with her.

Tears threatened, but she would not give North the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was. She picked up the paper he had written the figures on, tore it up and dropped the pieces. They floated down to his desk like bleached autumn leaves. “You may have the only bank in Whistle Creek, Mr. North, but there are other towns and other banks … with owners who would never permit their personal grievances to get in the way of their business dealings. They are far too professional. Good day!”

The bank was silent, so silent that when Beth accidentally knocked a pen onto the floor, she heard it bounce. Everyone stared at her as if stunned by her outburst. Holding her head high, she exited the bank and strode across the street to Betner’s store to find Davy. She marveled that her trembling legs could hold her up since her confrontation with Mr. North had sapped most of her self-confidence.

Inside she saw Tom Carver leaning against the back counter, visiting with Earl and Mary Betner.
Great. Him again.
A few feet away, Davy stood on tiptoe, peering into the glass jars filled with jawbreakers, all-day suckers, saltwater taffy, and licorice pipes.

Beth summoned forth the last of her poise as she approached the counter. “Come on, Davy, it’s time to go home.” She deliberately stood with her back to Tom. She was shaking and it wouldn’t take much to make her melt into a puddle of tears.

“Did you get the money?” Davy asked.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home.” She kept her voice low, hoping Davy would take the hint and drop the subject.

“But what did the loan man say?”

“Davy! Enough! We’ll talk about it later.” This time her voice held a stern warning.

“Oh, all right. Can I get a licorice pipe?”

“No.”

“They’re not real. They’re pretend. Those are just tiny red candies on the end to make — ”

“Davy! I said no!”

“But why not? I didn’t break nothin’, did I, Mister Betner?”

Without waiting for a reply, Beth grabbed Davy’s hand and dragged him outside.

• • •

Tom plunged the red-hot iron into the nearby bucket of water and, while waiting for it to cool, looked out the smithy’s wide open doors. Sure enough, the younger Patterson boy was sitting on the boardwalk across the street, tossing pebbles absentmindedly into a mud puddle. His narrow shoulders were slumped as if the weight of his plaid shirt was too much for him.

This was the third consecutive afternoon the kid had been there. On a nice autumn day like today he ought to be ripping around, getting into mischief with other boys his age. Tom considered going over to talk to him, then shook his head.
Mind your own business, Carver. The boy is none of your concern.

He shoved another piece of iron into the forge’s red coals. Blacksmithing was hot work and salty sweat ran down past Tom’s brows. He went to the water bucket and drank deeply from the dipper, then poured a second dipperful over his head. He flipped his wet hair from his face. Despite his resolve to ignore the boy, Tom dropped the dipper back into the bucket, and strode across the muddy street. He stopped directly before the lad, squatted down, and peeked at the forlorn face hidden under the mop of orange hair.

“Hey,” Tom said, “I’ve seen a happier face on a fishing worm.”

Davy shrugged his shoulders.

“Something bothering you?” Tom sat beside him on the boardwalk.

Davy shrugged again.

Tom hadn’t spent much time around kids, and since the boy wasn’t adding much to the conversation, he wasn’t sure what to say next. He grasped at an idea. “Would some candy cheer you up?”

Seeing a flicker of interest in the boy’s eyes, Tom stretched a leg out and reached his hand down his front pocket, fishing for a penny. “Here, take this and get yourself a couple of licorice pipes.”

“No thanks. My sister won’t let me.”

“Then get something else.”

Davy eyed the coin suspiciously as if he’d never known a stranger to be so generous.

“Go on, take it before I change my mind.”

The lad delicately extracted the penny from Tom’s palm, politely saying, “Thanks,” before racing to the general store.

Tom returned to work, soon forgetting all about the boy. A few minutes later, when he spied Davy standing just inside his shop door, he wished he’d left well enough alone. Last thing he needed was a pesky kid under foot. “Did you get your candy?” he asked at length.

Davy, fascinated by the forge and the glowing coals, stepped closer. “Yessir, jawbreakers. Want one?”

“No, you keep them.”

“You’re Mister Carver, aren’t you?”

“So they tell me.”

“I’m Davy.”

“I know who you are.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Sharpening this plough share.” Tom withdrew the iron strip from the forge, examined the color and thrust it back into the forge again. He cranked the handle on the blower.

“Why are you turning that thing?”

“To get the coals glowing hot.” While Tom worked, he explained the process of heating and hammering the metal. He couldn’t help being impressed by Davy’s myriad of intelligent questions.

“It looks like fun.”

Tom had never thought of his job as being fun, but he did find it rewarding. He looked up from his work long enough to smile.

Davy came closer to watch. “I could turn that handle for you if you want. Beth always says I’m a good help — ” Davy stopped mid-sentence, apparently having just spotted the dog sleeping behind the forge. “Oh boy! A dog! What’s his name?”

“Jack.”

“Can I pet him?”

Tom didn’t have the heart to refuse. “All right, come around this side, but don’t touch the forge. It’s hot.”

Davy tiptoed around the equipment and bent down to pet the dog.

“He’s getting old,” Tom explained, “and he doesn’t move about much anymore. He spends most of his time sleeping. Old dogs are kind of like old people. They need their naps.”

Davy lay down on his side near the dog, and stroked its silky head. Jack woke and licked the boy’s hand.

“Did you see that? He likes me! I wish I could have a dog. I never had a pet before.”

“Never?” Tom asked casually, remembering quite clearly Beth Patterson’s night-time venture into his barn. “Not even a cat?”

“Nope. But once I kept a pet mouse in a jar until Beth made me let it go. She said mice were dirty and I couldn’t keep it. Anyhow, I’d rather have me a dog.”

“Well, Jack will be your friend so long as you don’t play him out.”

“I won’t,” Davy vowed.

Tom expected the boy to be bored in short order, but Davy talked and petted Jack for some time. He was distracted momentarily by the hot metal sizzling and popping in the cold water.

“Wow!” said Davy. “Know what that reminds me of?”

“No, what?” Tom really didn’t care but he found himself unable to ignore the boy’s questions.

“Once, me and Bill had a fire going outside behind our old place, and Beth told us we had to put it out ’fore we burned the house down. So when she went back inside, we peed on it.” Davy giggled behind his cupped hands. “It sizzled just like that … only not so loud. Have you ever peed on a fire, Mister Carver?”