Justice (10 page)

He arrived in Iowa on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. In spite of the rain the day was warm, unseasonably so, and autumn's fallen leaves were plastered wetly to the sidewalks, streets, and curbstones. When Julian boarded the train in Montana, it was cold enough for him to wear his heavy
mackinaw; the fact that he didn't need it now added to the feeling that he wasn't merely in another state but in another country. He couldn't remember Iowa being this warm so late in the year, but perhaps his life there was so far behind him he could no longer trust his memory of the place or its climate.

On Wednesday evenings Reverend West taught a Bible study class at the church that wouldn't conclude until around nine o'clock. Julian decided not to wait inside the depot but on a sheltered bench out on the platform. This trip was business; he didn't want anyone—not even old friends—asking him what he was doing in town or how long he would be staying. He was not planning even to see his sister; certainly he could resist the temptation to walk out front and look up and down Schofield's main street to see what might have changed since he moved away. He told himself that he didn't give a damn about this town; he was a Montanan now.

The rain stopped around dusk. As the evening cooled, mist rose from the streets. In the light around the street lamps, fog swirled so thickly that the entire town looked as though it was steaming from a recently extinguished fire.

St. Paul's Methodist Church was at the edge of town, a massive stone building surrounded by cornfields on every side but one. There the town cemetery, its tombstones and trees, crowded right up to the church. The rectory, a handsome white frame house built in recent years to accomodate Reverend West and his family, was on the other side of the cemetery, on the way into town. Julian chose to wait in the cemetery where he could see all the doors of the church as well as the path toward the rectory. He stood under a huge
oak whose leafless branches steadily dripped rainwater. He was wearing his coat again, and to keep his mind occupied while he waited, he tried to see if he could feel any added weight on his shoulders as the wool of his coat absorbed those droplets of water. Then he gazed around him at the grave markers, straining his eyes in the darkness to make out what he could of the letters and numbers carved in the stone. The white limestone markers showed up better in the dark than the granite and marble tombstones, but limestone faded and eroded over time. In the oldest section of the cemetery the names and dates were barely readable. His father was buried near the only beech tree in the cemetery. Chiseled into the limestone was nothing more than his father's name and the dates of his birth and death.

Finally, through the side door closest to Reverend West's study, people began to leave the church and to walk toward town. As they passed the cemetery they spoke softly, but their voices carried perfectly through the damp, still air, and Julian could hear every word they said. A man said, “This weather—I tell you, it's a gift.” A woman—this voice Julian believed he recognized—said, “You most certainly will not, I says to her. Not in this dwelling.” He thought that was Mrs. Spark, a friend of his mother's, and he wondered if she was referring to her daughter Emily. Emily was Julian's age and they had been in school together. He remembered her as a plump, sullen girl who was so stupid that it pained him when she was called on to recite or read aloud in the classroom. Another passerby said, “Sometimes I envy those Catholics. I wish I could cross myself and be done with it.”

Soon the last of the churchgoers walked by, and the night was quiet again. The minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Reverend West. Julian wondered if the minister could have gone out another door. No, he knew the church: there were the wide front doors and the small door in back; no other way in or out, and the fog was not thick enough to hide a man. Julian would simply have to wait patiently and keep watching.

The church's wide front doors opened. A man stood at the top of the steps, as if appraising the night, and then he opened his arms wide and held them out. He was no doubt doing nothing more than stretching his limbs and taking in a deep breath of the humid air, but to Julian it looked as though he was beckoning, calling forth something in the night. Then he descended the steps with a nimbleness surprising in so large a man.

Julian waited to make certain of the minister's route—yes, he would walk the same path that the other townspeople had taken—and then Julian left his post under the tree and moved swiftly to a point at the cemetery's edge where Reverend West was sure to pass. The day's rain helped Julian move quietly; the fallen leaves that would ordinarily crackle underfoot made no more noise than his footfall on the sodden turf of the graves.

Julian crouched beside a huge spirea bush, out of the minister's line of sight. This same spirea, Julian remembered, had been in bloom on the day of his father's burial, the bush so covered with white blossoms that it looked as though it carried a load of snow.

The moonless night, the fog, the bush, Reverend West's massive girth, which made it difficult for him to look down at his feet—all these things worked together to make it possible for Julian to reach out unnoticed just as the minister walked by. Julian tried to grab the minister's ankle. He missed and got more trouser leg than ankle but it was enough.

Julian pulled back as hard as he could and the minister went down with astonishing ease, pitching face forward onto the dirt path. He made no cry, but landed with the thump of a sandbag dropped from a great height. Julian wondered if the man had been frightened into unconsciousness.

He didn't wait to find out. In his hand he had his father's straight razor, the carefully stropped blade open and ready, and he scrambled up onto the minister's legs, keeping him pinned to the ground.

Julian wanted to draw blood but he didn't want to injure Reverend West seriously, so he tried to slice through just the fabric and the first layer of skin. As he slashed out across the minister's upper leg and buttocks, he realized how difficult it was to gauge the depth of the cut. The blade was so sharp that it could easily have gone right through muscle and artery down to bone. He should have practiced at home on something—a burlap bag of potatoes perhaps, or a cut of meat wrapped in an old shirt—so he could tell exactly how much force to exert.

Now Reverend West began to make noise, but Julian didn't believe the minister had yet realized that he was cut or bleeding. The reverend was simply gasping, taking in great honking gulps of air. He hadn't gotten over the shock of the
attack; he probably didn't know whether he had been hurt or not.

Julian reached up and pushed Reverend West's head down into the dirt. “Don't try to get up,” Julian said. “Don't or I'll hurt you bad. Worse.” His hand slid to the side of the minister's head and caught his ear. I could slice it right off, Julian thought; I could cut it off and have it in my pocket before he even knew it was gone. And if he doesn't do as I say—

Reverend West made more gulping sounds. “I'll, I'll, I'll, I'll—” but Julian couldn't be sure if the minister was trying to speak or simply to breathe.

“Listen to me,” Julian said. He knew he had a high soft voice and he tried to deepen it. “
Listen
. You've got Lorna doing more than she's supposed to. You got her scrubbing floors and washing clothes. She's to watch your children. Only that. You hear? Lorna Hayden isn't to do anything but watch those young ones.”

Julian pushed himself up off the minister's great bulk. He felt he should do or say something else, but he couldn't think of what that might be. Did Reverend West know now that he had been cut? He must. Even if he didn't feel the pain—and maybe Julian had barely broken the skin—the blood's spreading warm wetness was sure to tell him, and a razor didn't have to cut deep to make blood flow like water. Unless the minister thought he had wet himself. At that thought Julian almost smiled. And then he knew what he wanted to say. “You don't have to look up. This here is Lorna's brother. Julian. You know me. Or you used to.” He wished he could add a verse or phrase from the Bible to impress the minister, but none came
to mind. Instead, Julian kicked Reverend West's ankle, and as he did, he noticed the type of shoe the minister wore. Hell, Bentrock's main street had gumbo thick enough to suck a thin little shoe like that right off a man's foot. “Remember my words,” Julian said. The command struck him as having an almost Biblical sonority.

Julian ran back through the cemetery, stopping along the way to pick up his valise under the tree where he had left it. He folded up the razor and dropped it into the bag, wondering all the while if perhaps he shouldn't keep it in his pocket where he could get to it quickly if he needed to.

The whole business was over so quickly. How long had it lasted, start to finish? A minute? Thirty seconds? Reverend West hadn't said a word, unless you counted those stammering, gargled sounds. Yes, Julian had planned on using the razor on the minister, or at least he had been ready to, but he imagined that might happen during the course of argument, that when he could think of no appropriate retort to Reverend West's fancily worded excuses and explanations,
then
he'd pull out the blade and hold it under the preacher's nose. But once he'd attacked, it just seemed to make more sense to cut
first
. After carrying the razor all that distance, Julian felt he had to use it.

On his way out of the cemetery he thought he ran past the section where his father was buried, but he couldn't be sure. He was running swiftly, fog still hugged the ground, and so many of the graves looked alike.

Back at the depot he remained out on the platform, where he could keep watch in every direction and be ready to run if
the police should come looking for him. When the night turned chill and a north wind blew away the clouds and mist to reveal a black starry sky, he wrapped himself tighter in his mackinaw and waited for his train.

The sky to the east had not lightened, but somewhere birds had begun to sing when Julian's train pulled into the Schofield station. He was the first to board, and once he was in his seat his relief was so complete that he fell asleep almost immediately. He had a dream that had troubled him since childhood.

In the dream he was standing by the shore of a lake or stream and reaching down for something—a coin or shining stone—just beneath the surface of the shallow water. When he put his hand down for the object, it moved away, as though his hand rippled the water just enough to carry the object out of reach. Or he put his hand into the water and suddenly the water was not shallow but deep, and the object was too far down for him even to touch, much less pick up. It had looked close only because of the clarity of the water. He knew in the dream that he wasn't going to be able to reach what he was after—he had known since early childhood—yet he couldn't keep from putting his hand in the water. He once told his mother about his dream, and she advised him to visit the bathroom before going to bed.

When he woke, the sun had warmed the side of his face that had been resting against the train's window. Outside he saw what he believed to be the planted fields and gentle hills of Minnesota, and he knew he was safe.

Lorna Hayden never joined her mother and brother in Montana, but she did not work long for the West family. A young man came to the house to tune the West's piano, and within a month he and Lorna were married. They made their home in Des Moines, where his father owned a music store, a business made prosperous by selling and renting band instruments to Iowa schools. Lorna and her husband did not visit Montana until they had been married for almost ten years and had three children.

Julian's mother moved into Bentrock, the nearest town, after their first winter, and she never returned to live on the homestead. Julian worked even harder, not only to keep the farm going but to make certain that his mother could live comfortably in town.