Patterns of Swallows (29 page)

And, it was true, she wasn't
finished riding out storms.

However, when the next storm
clouds showed themselves on the face of her horizon, no larger than
the size of a man's hand, she didn't recognize them for what they
were.

*
* *

"Walters, Watson, Weaver,"
Ruth muttered to herself, reading the names on the file folders in
the drawer of the metal cabinet. "Webster. There we go."
In a hurry, she snatched the "Webster" file out of the
drawer. She failed to notice that it snagged the file immediately in
front of it until the contents of the "Weaver" file spilled
on the floor.

She gathered up the loose papers
and hastily replaced them in their folder and back in the filing
cabinet.

She didn't remember the small
incident (how large some small incidents can become in retrospect!)
when she entered the records' room the next morning. She didn't
remember the incident when she saw the sheet of paper on the floor
mostly hidden by the desk.

She didn't remember the incident
when she frowned at the sheet of paper and picked it up. She didn't
remember the incident as she examined the paper for some clue as to
its identity and proper home.

She didn't remember the incident
until her eyes caught the name "Rahel Weaver" on the page.

She skimmed through a great deal
of legal jargon, trying to make sense of it in order to know what she
was looking at and where it came from.

But when she noticed the name
"Rahel Weaver" repeated and saw the signature of that
person, she remembered yesterday's small incident of the spilled file
and realized that the paper must have come from the Weaver file that
she'd accidentally emptied out onto the floor yesterday.

It had never occurred to her to
be curious about the Weaver file in the mill's records before. She'd
known in a vague sort of way that Joe Weaver had, at one time, worked
for Turnbulls'. She'd even remembered that Joe had met his end
through some kind of accident at the mill, but she'd given the file
no thought at all beyond those vague rememberings.

She replaced the stray sheet of
paper in the Weaver file without any plans of giving it another
thought, but it stayed in her mind unplanned, though barely
recognized at first as taking up any space in her thoughts.

She'd deciphered enough of the
cryptic legal message to realize that she had been looking at some
sort of financial settlement between the mill and Rahel Weaver, and
the figure following the dollar signs had caught her attention as
being a large sum.

She'd also noticed another of
the signatures at the end of the document besides those of Mrs.
Weaver's and Angus Turnbull's. Her brain only half-consciously
registered the clearly legible "Manuel Seneca," but it was
an unusual name, and Ruth's brain half-consciously registered it as
such. It also half-consciously registered that the unusually-named
Manuel Seneca had represented Rahel Weaver.

Several times that day, her
brain also half-consciously registered the question, "If she got
all that money, then why did she ...? I mean, why did the Weavers
live like they were so poor if they got all that money from the
mill?"

But the question only
half-consciously registered and by the next day, even it's
half-consciousness had been tucked away out of sight.

Ruth spent what time she could
in the garden in that early summer. When she came home from her work
at the mill, the longer summer evenings allowed her an hour or two
after supper to get her hands (and her feet) dirty. It was a nice
change from the pumps she wore to the office every day to feel the
rich, brown, loamy soil beneath her bare feet.

Graham's leaving had produced
two, nearly-immediate benefits. They didn't reconcile Ruth to his
absence. Nothing could do that, she was sure, but being able to live
on the farm again and the new comradeship in trouble she'd found with
her mother-in-law did help to pour balm on her aching wounds.

There was a third benefit –
the main one. But it was a benefit she didn't understand fully at
that time. There was another comradeship, one that crept over her
slowly, unrealized at first. It was that comradeship that did the
most to pour oil on her wounds. That comradeship is more infinitely
precious than any other and worth the aching wounds. But while the
wounds ache, it's very nearly impossible to see that infinitely
precious comradeship for what it is, and the natural tendency is to
turn on that comradeship as the cause of the aches and the wounds
instead of their healer.

But one way or the other, it was
good for her to be back on the farm, and Ruth found the capacity for
pleasure returning to her as she pulled weeds and staked tomatoes and
otherwise nurtured green, growing things in their large vegetable
garden.

Mom didn't find the same
pleasure Ruth did in growing vegetables though she tried to do her
share in the garden.

They worked together, Mom with a
hoe and Ruth pulling weeds by hand, in companionable silence one
evening after supper – until, for no apparent reason, a
question found its way out of Ruth's mouth before it had time to
register at any level above half-consciousness.

"Do you know a Manuel
Seneca?" she broke their respective reveries to ask her
mother-in-law, surprising even herself.

"Manuel Seneca. Manuel
Seneca. It sounds familiar. Oh, right! Manny Seneca. He was a
young hot-shot lawyer or thought he was. Set up shop in Arrowhead
for a little while. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular,"
Ruth evaded.

"Well, there must be a
reason in particular, or you wouldn't have asked."

"Then let's say, 'No reason
I should be bringing up.' "

"Something to do with the
mill, is it? Some business of Gus's, no doubt. Oh, I do remember
one thing about Manny Seneca. He was Joe Weaver's lawyer. His
widow's lawyer, I mean. When Gus was acquitted of Joe's death, Manny
went after his widow to try and get some money out of Gus in a civil
suit. Don't imagine it went anywhere. Seems to me they ended up
settling out of court, but I guess Mrs. Weaver couldn't have got much
blood out of that old turnip. She certainly didn't ever seem to be
in clover, even after the settlement. So much for having a hot-shot
lawyer."

"Gus Turnbull was tried for
Joe Weaver's death?" Ruth asked curiously, latching onto the
particularly intriguing tidbit of information her mother-in-law had
revealed as though in passing. "What do you know about that
case? I have some dim recollections of Mr. Weaver dying at an
accident at the mill. I remember that much. Of course, being in the
same grade as Bo, that left an impression on me. Then, shortly after
that, I remember asking Wynnie one time how come her dad was never at
home anymore, and I remember she was all upset at the question and
wouldn't answer it. I thought maybe her dad had left like mine had.
But then he came back after a little while. Then, I remember my
mother saying something to me about Wynnie's dad being in prison
because Bo's dad had died. I never understood any of it as a child,
though."

Ruth left off the part her
mother had added, that it was Gus Turnbull who should have been in
prison, that he was a crook who let other men go to jail for him. It
probably hadn't been a fair evaluation and didn't bear repeating.

"Oh dear, let's see now,"
Mom said, "I want to get this right, but it was quite some time
ago. How did it go? I remember Joe Weaver dying, of course. I
don't remember all the details, but it had something to do with that
old wigwam burner at Turnbulls'. You probably don't know what that
is. We had one at the mill, too, but by the time you were working
there, Guy wasn't burning scraps anymore. He was already shipping
all his chips out to a pulp mill. Why burn them if you can make a
little money off them? Well, Gus Turnbull started doing the same
thing shortly after Joe's death. Easier than fixing up that old
burner. But by then it was too late to help Joe. If only he'd
started shipping them sooner, but I suppose it didn't occur to him
until someone had died."

"Wigwam burner?" Ruth
questioned. "Oh, I know. That old rusty metal heap in the mill
yard. Does look like a wigwam, sort of. I can see where it gets the
name. But how did Joe manage to die on that thing? Doesn't seem
overly dangerous. Wasn't it fed by a conveyor of some kind?"

"It was, but ... let me see
now. How did it go? I know he fell to his death, somehow. You know
the ladder up the side? He fell from that. Must have broken his
neck or something. At any rate, he fell and was killed, and somehow,
it ended up being Norm Starke's doing."

"But what was he doing up
the ladder in the first place?"

"Well, that's the part that
was Norm Starke's doing. Something to do with the conveyor always
sticking or jamming or, anyhow, never working properly. Everyone
knew it needed fixing. But somehow, it never did get fixed, and Joe
Weaver always had to climb up that ladder on the wigwam to do
something to the conveyor to get the line moving again. Now why did
it end up being Norm Starke's fault? I should know. Guy and I
discussed it quite a lot after it happened. Guy took pretty stern
warning from it, I can tell you. Always made sure he checked over
all the equipment himself after that ... I'm trying to think ...
Why was it Norm Starke's fault? ... Oh! That's what it was, I think.
Besides something being wrong with the conveyor that should've been
fixed long before, there was something wrong with the ladder up that
old burner, too, and Joe let Norm know it. One side of it had come
loose and the other one was on the point of doing so. Or something
like that. At any rate, it was unsafe, and Norm knew it. And
apparently, a month or so before he fell, Joe had told Norm he
refused to go up that ladder anymore until it was fixed up again
properly. There were witnesses who overheard the whole conversation.
And Norm had said something to the effect of, "Then go up and
fix it yourself," and then threatened to take Joe's job if he
didn't keep the line running. Joe couldn't have fixed the ladder
himself, though, of course. It needed welding. Telling him to fix
it himself was just Norm being smart with him, putting him in his
place. So apparently, Joe just kept on going up that ladder, knowing
it wasn't safe, every time the conveyor acted up, and Norm never did
do anything about it. Either about the conveyor or the broken
ladder."

"So why was Gus Turnbull
tried for Joe Weaver's death, then?"

"Oh, right. I forgot that
part. Well, after Joe's death, there was a big hue and cry, as you
can imagine, with it being so pointless and preventable, and everyone
was crying for Turnbull blood over it."

"You're right. I can
imagine."

"Yes, well, after an
investigation, it was decided to prosecute, I guess. Make an
example of Turnbulls'. And the powers that be went after Gus first
with a charge of manslaughter, but he had some high-paid lawyers, and
it never could be proven that he knew anything about the faulty
conveyor or the unsafe ladder on the burner. Or that he knew
anything about Joe Weaver having his arm-twisted into climbing on
that thing to fix it all the time. Which, quite frankly, most
everyone thought was plainly ridiculous. That Gus didn't know
anything about any of it, I mean. Norm Starke was his foreman at
that time. Norm would only be acting under Gus's orders. And, for
pity's sake, what kind of an owner wouldn't know what kind of shape
his operating equipment was in? If he didn't, he should have been
found guilty of negligence right there. It should've been plain as a
nose on a face to anyone that the reason nothing was getting fixed
was because it was Gus who didn't want to put out the money or halt
operation in any way while things were getting fixed. Norm would've
had no reason for stalling on fixing the equipment. But Norm
testified that he hadn't mentioned any of this to Gus, that he was
acting on his own authority in telling Joe what he did, and so on.
The feeling around the town was that Norm had been paid well to say
so, not realizing that he was going to be charged after Gus was
acquitted. But that was what happened. He should have known how
that story was going to go. He was charged with, what was it called
now, criminal negligence? Or criminally negligent manslaughter?
Some kind of manslaughter, at any rate, I think. I can't remember
how long they gave him for it, but I do know he served six months of
the sentence. I remember everyone being quite surprised he was
sentenced to serve time rather than just having to pay money. But I
guess the courts wanted to make an example of him. It was a very sad
thing about Joe Weaver. It was a sad, sad waste of a life. So
unnecessary. So preventable." Mom shook her head.

"Then there was a civil
case, you said? Involving Mrs. Weaver? And that Seneca lawyer?"

"Oh, right. That's where
we started. Right. So, this young hot-shot, Manny Seneca, he
thought he'd make a name for himself or drum up a little business and
rake in some money and go after Gus Turnbull in a civil suit. Or
maybe he just wanted to see justice done, and he thought it hadn't
been done in the criminal courts. I don't know. At any rate, he
talked Joe Weaver's widow into hiring him. Poor dear. Her English
was so slight, she probably didn't understand much. Just knew that
her husband was dead and she was left with those six children. Or
five, at that time, with one on the way. I don't understand all that
legal mumbo-jumbo, myself. She was probably completely in the dark.
Just left herself in that lawyer's hands. Well, didn't seem to do
her much good, anyway, whatever she let herself be talked into.
Maybe the case against the mill itself wasn't very strong, and her
lawyer realized it once he'd looked into it. After all, Gus had
already been acquitted. Though that was on a criminal charge. I
think they could have made out a strong case in a civil suit that the
mill owner was certainly negligent, at the very least, if he didn't
know what was going on in his own operation. Anyway, they settled
out of court, from what I remember, and they must have settled for
almost nothing."