Butterfly's Child (19 page)

He was nervous on the road to Galena. If Frank had started off early to find him, he might catch up this morning. He could probably guess what direction he'd gone. Frank wouldn't want him except to whip the stuffing out of him and to get the picture. He pushed the tin deeper into his pocket. Would any of the family want him now?

He passed a farmer driving an empty cart, then a buggy headed the other direction, in it a man wearing a bowler hat. The man's eyes were distracted; he didn't see Benji. Closer to town there was more traffic; he kept his head down as he guided Kuro along the edge of the road.

In Galena he ducked into a dry-goods store, bought beef jerky and a hunk of cheese, a slingshot, a slicker, a horse blanket and a blanket for himself, a bottle of mineral oil in case Kuro developed colic. His money bag was considerably lighter; no sleeping bag until he found work.

Kuro could graze on wild grasses, but he also had to have oats. In the feed store across the street, a suspicious-looking man with a boil on his neck sold Benji a small sack of grain. “Where you off to, boy?”

“To see my grandfather.” It was a good answer; Keast would say he had his mind on straight. As he packed the saddlebag, he felt a burst of good spirits.

He pulled on the slicker and set out on the north road toward East Dubuque. He'd cross the Mississippi there and then he'd be in Iowa, his first state.

It was raining harder. Kuro's hooves made sucking sounds in the mud. Don't throw a shoe, he prayed. Benji had to let him walk now and conserve his strength.

He passed several houses on the edge of town, then it was farmland again. Up ahead he saw a wagon filled with bare-limbed shrubs and evergreens—a tree salesman. Late in the year for a tree salesman. He
hoped this was no one he knew. The driver was sitting in the wagon in a straight-back chair beneath a rigged-up canopy to keep off the rain. As he went by, Benji glanced at the man—a jovial face pursed around a cigar—relieved not to have seen him before.

The man removed the cigar. “Peach of a day, ain't it?” he said, then popped the cigar back in his mouth.

It was late afternoon, and raining harder, when he passed through East Dubuque to the bridge. Kuro shied at the bridge, but Benji urged him gently with his heels and they started across. The bridge creaked and swayed in the gusts of wind. Kuro shied again, knocking against the wooden rail. Benji looked through the veil of rain down at the river, at whitecaps in the boiling current. “Come on, boy.” He snapped the reins and Kuro reared, nearly unseating him. He jumped off and tried to lead him forward, but Kuro threw back his head and reared again.

The rain was drumming down so hard now it stung Benji's face; he could feel water seeping beneath the neck of his slicker. “Come on, damn you.” He tugged harder at the reins; Kuro danced from one side of the bridge to the other. There was a sudden blast of wind, and a sheet of rain hit them like a wave. Kuro flung his hindquarters to one side, smacking the rail so hard it made a cracking sound, then started to gallop. “Whoa!” Benji ran beside him, holding the reins; then they slipped from his hand, but he kept running, trying to stay even with Kuro. The boards were slick; if Kuro fell, he'd break a leg and have to be shot. But Kuro ran steadily, his hooves hammering against the bridge. Benji pushed himself faster, breathing hard, his chest burning. He caught one rein, jerking Kuro against him, then lost his grip and Kuro pulled ahead. If he lost his horse, he couldn't make it. Then, through the rain, he could see a street in the distance, brick buildings; thank God, they were almost there.

Kuro clattered down the curve at the end of the bridge and onto the street. He wouldn't go far. Benji found him around a corner, his ears flat against his head, rain streaming down his face like tears. “I knew you could do it, boy,” he said, putting his arm around Kuro's neck and rubbing his forelock. Whistling, he led Kuro down the street to find a livery stable where they could both stay the night. He was a samurai, on his way home.

Keast had crisscrossed
Jo Daviess County that day—a horse with glanders in Elizabeth; a report of hog cholera near Galena—and supper was already in progress when he returned to Morseville. He washed up outside the boardinghouse, went into the dining room, and took his place across from Lena. Smiling, she served his plate; he watched her beautiful hands, imagining her across their own dinner table next spring. She was set on marrying when the lilacs were in bloom, though he was impatient at the delay, an old man like himself. The wedding date had provoked their only arguments.

After supper, he and Lena took a brief constitutional, wrapped up against the chill. “It would be a fine season for matrimony,” he said, imagining them warm together beneath a pile of quilts. She laughed, as if he was joking. She had work to do for the next day's classes, so they squeezed hands good night outside the door of her room and—after he glanced around; no one in sight—he gave her a kiss. Her lips were willing, and her arms tight around him. It was hard to fathom why she'd want to wait.

In his room, he poured a glass of brandy and, with a sigh, sank into his chair with the latest issue of
Hoard's Dairyman
. There had been several cases of foot-and-mouth in Ohio; God forbid that it should spread here. He'd witnessed a plague in Wisconsin when he was a boy; there had been massive slaughter.

He put down the paper. This was no subject for the evening hour. He should be watching Lena in the firelight as she sat reading or sewing; he could distract her with a kiss on the neck and lead her to the bedroom.
Lena wanted children, as he did; it was high time for her too, at twenty-seven years old. Maybe she was harboring some doubts. He finished off the brandy.

As he crossed the room to refill his glass, he noticed that the bottom drawer of his desk was open. He pushed it shut with his foot, then turned to look. He hadn't opened it. He squatted beside the drawer.

The tin that contained Benji's photograph was missing and the box had been left unlocked. That wasn't surprising—he'd taken it a couple of other times, just to look at her face, he'd said—but it wasn't like him not to lock the box and close the drawer. He was careful that way. He felt in the back of the box for the boy's pouch of money; nothing but a blank space. He jerked the drawer all the way open. Keast's mesh bag of silver dollars was still there, so this wasn't a case of theft.

He walked to the window. It was full dark now, eight o'clock according to his watch, which had been losing time. Late for a visit to the Pinkertons; perhaps he should wait until tomorrow. He sat back down and stared at the drawer, an uneasiness starting in his belly. He could say he'd come to warn Frank about the foot-and-mouth disease, given that he'd been talking lately of investing in beef cattle. Not a moment to waste, he'd say, and that was the truth; Frank was prone to impulsive purchases.

He went to the stable for Ulysses and headed for the farm. On the way, a sprinkling rain began. A circle of light from his lantern bobbed along the road and illuminated the weeds in the ditches. He'd give Frank the intelligence about the cattle, then casually ask if he could speak to Benjamin, who was likely studying in his room, nothing amiss. Perhaps he was planning to buy a birthday gift or some such for his sweetheart and, not knowing the cost, had taken the whole pouch of money.

Lights were burning in the Pinkerton kitchen and an upstairs bedroom. Old Mrs. Pinkerton was cleaning the stove, scrubbing the surface as if her life depended on it. She nodded at the coffeepot and he poured himself a cup, even though it smelled burned.

“I suppose the children are in bed,” he said.

She bent over the stove, gripping the edges; the vertebrae of her spine looked painful beneath the cloth of her dress.

“What is it?” he said.

“Benji's gone.” She began to weep, pressing the back of one hand against her mouth.

He led her to a chair at the table. She needed whiskey—so did he—but Frank probably kept it elsewhere.

“Where?” He lowered himself to a chair, his legs unsteady. “Do you know where?”

She shook her head. Her eyes were swollen; she'd been crying for some time. “Benji showed around a picture of Frank and his Japanese mother. There's talk of it in town. Kate …” She bit her lip, tears streaming down her face.

“He wouldn't do that,” Keast said. “That photograph …”

She looked up, stared at him.

“What happened?” Keast said.

“Frank ran him off.”

Keast pushed back from the table and hurried outside. He led Ulysses to the barn. Just as he had expected, Kuro was gone.

He stood listening to the sound of rain on the tin roofs of the barn and shed. Out in this weather, no shelter. Why hadn't the boy come to him?

He rode Ulysses hard toward town, then took the road west. He might have been fool enough to strike out for California on twenty-two dollars. The business with the photograph made no sense. He tried to place the problem in the center of his mind, but it kept sliding away.

Ulysses stumbled. “Ho, boy,” Keast said, and gently pulled him to a halt. A horse could fracture a leg on this pitted, gully-washed road. He'd have to set out in the morning, with a reasonable plan. Though the boy could be anywhere.

He turned Ulysses back toward town. If only he'd come back on time today, Benjamin might have been waiting for him. He thought of Mrs. Pinkerton's tears, envying them. His chest was painfully full.

At the boardinghouse, he went to Lena's room, grateful for the stripe of light beneath the door. He tapped lightly and she came, in her dressing gown, reading his face. “Benji's gone,” he said. “God knows where.” She drew him inside and took off his wet jacket and trousers and shoes while he explained, and they lay together on her bed, the comfort of body against body.

The next day was
sunny, with a current of cold in the air after the storm. On the way out of Dubuque, Benji stopped to buy a compass for sixty-five cents, which left him just over fifteen dollars. He'd have to find work before long, and a place for the winter. They could die, caught in a blizzard.

He and Kuro headed west on the main road out of Dubuque, Benji whistling to tamp down his fear, until he realized that the tune was “The Ash Grove,” Flora's favorite song. She would know by now that he was gone. He could see her bent head as she walked away from the hollow tree where they sometimes left notes for each other. He'd write to her soon and explain. He thought of her pink lips, her hand in the grass close to his when they sat by the river last summer. He should have kissed her that day.

He pressed Kuro into a canter. He couldn't be mooning on this journey.

They passed houses that grew smaller with the distance from town, and then they were in farm country. The harvest was finished here, except for a few late threshers working the wheat. He paused at the edge of one farm, considering whether or not to ask if he could join in the threshing, but there seemed to be plenty of hands and the work would be completed soon. Maybe by the time he got to the other side of Iowa or to Nebraska he could find a job helping in a dry-goods store and live above it.

Several wagons loaded with pumpkins and sacks of coal rattled past. The men tipped their hats, though some looked at him curiously—a
stranger in a hurry; a Chink, he would look to them, with his light hair hidden beneath his cap.

What would they be saying about him in Plum River? He could see the men gathered around the stove at Red Olsen's store. I always knew that little Jap was sneaky, Austin Burdett would say. Red might take up for him, and Bud Case for sure, and Keast. Keast would know he hadn't meant any harm. His eyes stung; he pushed the image of Keast's rough, craggy face from his mind.

He put his heels to Kuro's side and they galloped past a farmhouse and a woman at the well, up a long hill.

He paused at the top of a rise. Below him was a wagon slumped partway into a ditch. A short fat man was standing in the road, yanking at the reins of his swaybacked pinto, but the horse didn't budge. When Benji got closer, he saw that it was the tree salesman he'd passed yesterday on the other side of the river. “Fool horse don't have the brains God gave a whore,” he said as Benji came even with him. “Shied for no reason atall and look what a pickle she's put me in, me already a day late—shoot, two or three days late—to deliver some prime apples.”