Sister's Choice (15 page)

Evan stared, mortified. He knew that in a simple farmhouse, such a knickknack was highly regarded.

Ellie held the vase up to show no harm was done.

“Good catch, Ellie!” Maggie laughed. Then noting the look on Evan’s face, she said, “All’s well, Evan.”

“I think that’s enough for today,” he groaned miserably. “We’d better quit before I destroy your house.”

“Oh, pshaw!” Maggie replied. “We’re just starting to have fun. We can move out to the barn where there is more room.”

“You will stay for supper, won’t you, Evan?” Ellie asked. “Zack will be joining us.”

“That is kind of you. If your mother won’t mind,” Evan replied politely.

“Zack can help us with the dancing,” Maggie said, hoping that was the encouragement Evan needed. “It will go much better with two couples.”

He merely shrugged, lacking the enthusiasm she had expected, but at least he hadn’t bolted.

After supper the lessons moved out to the barn. With two couples, the instruction went easier. Georgie joined them for a while and clapped the beat, but with the fall term of school now on, he had to leave after a short while to do his homework. The dancers lit a couple of lanterns and continued practicing until well after dark. Finally exhaustion signaled the end of the “party.” They collapsed onto some bales of hay, panting and laughing.

Evan laughed as much as everyone. At some point during the evening, Maggie could not tell exactly when, he had forgotten his inhibitions—and his two left feet!—and had begun to have fun.

It was Zack who reluctantly drew himself up and said, “With a little breather, I could go on all night, but I’ve got potatoes to harvest bright and early in the morning.”

“There’ll be another lesson tomorrow,” Maggie announced.

“Do you think I still need help?” Evan asked, a bit chagrined.

“You’ve got the reel down fine,” Maggie replied. “Now you have to learn to waltz.”

A stricken expression flickered across his face.

“Don’t worry, Evan,” Zack said, “the old folks don’t allow much waltzing. Many think it’s scandalous.”

“But there has to be at least one waltz,” insisted Maggie. “And with only one chance, you have to do it perfectly.”

Evan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the drips of perspiration from his brow. He cast a beseeching look at Zack. “You’ll be here for the lesson, Zack?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Zack answered.

Evan looked relieved. It would have been awkward if it was just Maggie and Evan practicing the waltz, even if they were only friends. Dad probably wouldn’t allow it anyway.

“Thank you,” Evan said. “And thank you for this evening. I don’t know when I have had such enjoyment with . . . friends.”

He seemed to honestly mean it, and Maggie believed him. Here he was, twenty-two years old and experiencing friendship for the first time. It made her appreciate her own friendships, though in truth she didn’t have oodles of friends either—Ellie, Zack, Tommy, and . . . now Evan.

Zack and Ellie left the barn, but Evan lingered behind with Maggie.

“You have been so kind to me,” he said.

“You know well enough I have an ulterior motive,” she replied.

“But you did say we were friends?”

“I did, and I meant it. I like you.”

He smiled. “Do you think it’s possible I never gave others the chance to get to know me? Was it my fault I never made friends?”

“That could be. I think anyone who got to know you would like you.”

They sat back on the hay bale, and Evan reached up and straightened his spectacles.

“Why are you doing that?” Maggie asked.

“Doing what?”

“Fiddling with your spectacles. You do it when you get nervous.” His surprised expression indicated he had not been aware of that.

“I don’t know. I suppose it makes me nervous to be too happy.”

“Whyever so? Is it like waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

“Perhaps.”

A thoughtful silence ensued. Then Evan said, “I went to Portland yesterday and spoke with Mr. Werth, the lawyer. He released the case to me. Then I visited Tommy and told him I’m taking his case.”

“How is he?”

“He seems all right, physically, that is. He also appeared rather melancholy. I, of course, don’t know him well enough to judge, but that was my impression. The sheriff said he had been very quiet and sullen of late. I feel there can be no more delays for Tommy’s sake. We must have the trial the next time the circuit judge comes through. That will be in about two weeks, I believe.”

“The sooner the better,” affirmed Maggie.

“Sooner, if it turns out well,” Evan said thoughtfully. “I am still uncertain about the exact direction of our defense.”

“You don’t think self-defense will work?”

“Without any eyewitnesses that defense is dependent on the mood of the jury. Almost all is based on Tommy’s word, and . . . well . . .”

“He doesn’t have the best reputation around here,” Maggie finished glumly.

“There is the possibility of proving legal insanity—”

“Evan, no!” Maggie gasped. “That would ruin Tommy’s life more than hanging.”

“It doesn’t have to imply that Tommy is a lunatic,” Evan explained. “The classic approach is defining insanity as the inability to distinguish right from wrong. In Tommy’s case this approach would not work, since it is obvious he does know right from wrong. But there are other more subtle definitions. The most plausible one is ‘irresistible impulse.’ This allows that a man might know an act is wrong but is driven to it by some uncontrollable—irresistible—impulse and thus cannot be held responsible for his actions. I can cite a precedent in
The
State of Iowa versus Felter
.”

“It still says Tommy is crazy.”

“Only at the moment the crime was committed. But, yes,” Evan admitted, “the insanity defense can be tricky. Psychiatry is hardly an exact science. I was able to be present to observe the trial of Charles Guiteau last fall—”

“That name sounds familiar.” Maggie’s brow creased in thought. “That was the man who killed President Garfield, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. His defense lawyers tried an insanity plea, but though the man was obviously deranged, there was no chance that the killer of the president of the United States would avoid hanging. Nevertheless, they might well have made a plausible case had the victim been any other than the president.”

“I guess you know what is best, Evan.” Maggie tried to sound confident, despite the fact that it made her cringe to think folks would believe Tommy to be insane on top of all else.

“I am not saying that is the best strategy,” Evan said. “I suppose I am merely playing devil’s advocate. Out here in the country folks do not have as deep an understanding of insanity as they might have in the city. It is a defense that could easily backfire. I plan to stick with self-defense, hopefully finding enough witnesses who can support the idea that Tommy had reason to fear his father.”

“Everyone knows his father beat him a lot. I don’t know how Mrs. Donnelly put up with it.”

“You must not blame her too much,” Evan said. “I’ve spoken with her and I believe she was kept in the dark somewhat about this, not only by her husband but by her friends, as well. Even Tommy tried to protect his mother.”

“What a sad situation,” Maggie said.

“You could help me, Maggie, by identifying folks who would be the best prospects as witnesses. Another thing, Tommy wouldn’t talk much to me when I spoke with him the other day. That didn’t surprise me, since he doesn’t know me well, but I need him to open up to me and tell me his story.” He reached for his spectacles, realized what he was doing, and self-consciously dropped his hand. “He might be more willing to talk if you were present during the questioning. I hate to ask it of you, but could you come into St. Helens with me tomorrow—”

“Of course I’ll come. I told you I’d help.”

“Can I come for you after breakfast, say around eight?”

“I’ll be ready.”

“Should you ask your parents first?”

“Oh, they won’t mind,” she said boldly. What she really meant was that she would somehow talk them into it.

Evan returned to the house with her to thank her parents for dinner and take his leave. Maggie had suggested he not mention the trip to St. Helens. She wanted to talk to them by herself.

It was her father who had reservations about the trip, but not for the reasons she’d imagined.

“I don’t want you getting any more mixed up in Tommy Donnelly’s affairs,” he said.

“But, Dad, Tommy needs all the help he can get,” she argued. “He needs the help of the community, his neighbors. And Evan needs my help.”

“You mean a man who graduated from a fancy Eastern college needs the help of a simple farm girl?” He arched his brow skeptically.

“Tommy won’t talk to a stranger, which Evan is to him, even though they grew up in the same town. Evan thinks it will help Tommy relax more if I am there. Tommy knows me and trusts me.”

“Calvin,” Mama put in, “I went to see Jane the other day and found her sitting at her kitchen table weeping. She tries to put on a brave front at Sewing Circle, but this is tearing her apart. If our Maggie can help Tommy . . . well, I know how you feel about the boy, but think of poor Jane.”

Sighing, Dad rubbed his face in defeat. He couldn’t win over both Mama and Maggie, but he did have another ready argument. “And what of you spending hours on the road alone with a single young man?”

Both Mama and Maggie laughed at this. Even Mama knew Evan was not threatening to a girl’s honor.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” huffed Dad.

“Dad, Evan is in love with Tamara Brennan. My honor is safe with him.”

“That is one young man who can be trusted, Calvin,” Mama agreed.

“Even though he is a Parker, Ada?”

“Florence and I have our differences,” Mama said, “but one thing we would both agree on is that we raised decent children.”

“Well,” Dad said with reluctance, “I’ll permit it this time.”

“Thank you, Daddy!” Maggie gave her father a jubilant hug and ran up to bed.

FOURTEEN

It had rained all night before Maggie and Evan’s trip to St. Helens, but it cleared a little with the dawn, and by the time they departed, there was only a light drizzle. Evan had his father’s rockaway, which had a roof and curtained sides, so they would stay fairly dry. Maggie wore a blue cotton print shirtwaist. She thought a trip to town warranted dressing up. Evan was, as usual, in a wool three-piece suit. Maggie wondered what he would look like in dungarees and a chambray shirt. But that didn’t matter because Tamara would no doubt prefer a suit on a man. However, Tamara was taken with Colby, who seldom wore a suit except on Sundays.

“Evan, have you ever worn dungarees?” she asked as they drove along. Her curiosity had just gotten the best of her.

“When I was a kid,” he replied.

“Do lawyers have to wear suits?”

“In Boston they certainly do.” He wrinkled his brow pensively.

She liked that he thought things over before speaking. It seemed to indicate he took her seriously.

“I think even in the West a judge would expect a man of the law to respect the court well enough to dress properly. You don’t want to get on a judge’s bad side. Judge Olsen, the county circuit judge, has a somewhat bilious reputation. I attended some of his trials when I was younger, and he never failed to find reason for complaint against the litigators. Although he gave me a recommendation for law school, I never had the feeling he thought much of me, either.”

“Do you think that will hurt Tommy?”

“Despite his quirks, Olsen is fair and impartial. He simply puts up with no silliness in his court—and his interpretation of silliness is broad.”

Maggie pulled back the curtain on her side of the seat and looked out. The rain had stopped, but the road was muddy. She had wondered how they would pass the two-hour drive into St. Helens. She knew from their previous encounters that Evan was an interesting person. Though reticent to talk about himself, he needed only a little encouragement to do so. As they drove, she got him to talk more about Boston and learned that though he hadn’t been entirely happy there, he had seen much of the city and was willing to share about the broader world. Her own existence was so narrow, confined to Columbia County with only one trip to Portland, that she was an apt listener, prompting Evan to share even more.

This led to a surprising discovery. They had a common interest in reading. He enjoyed the same kind of adventure fiction that Maggie loved. They were both avid fans of Mark Twain. Having both read
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
, they spent some time discussing the parts they liked best. Evan had brought from Boston a recent novel by Twain titled
The Prince and the Pauper
, which he said he’d loan to Maggie when he finished it.

They each had different reasons for their love of literature. For Evan, it provided insulation from a harsh world; Maggie, however, read to escape into new and exciting worlds.

Evan had visited London with his family years ago, and she questioned him thoroughly about that. “If I had known you were this interesting,” she said, “I would have made friends with you when you were a kid.”

“When I was twelve, you were just an eight-year-old kid,” he commented. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

In what seemed like no time at all, they were trotting into the main street of St. Helens.

“Do you want to stop by Dolman’s before or after the jail?” Evan asked.

Mama had not been able to let a trip to St. Helens pass without giving Maggie a list of items to pick up at the store. Mrs. Parker had given Evan a list, as well.

“Let’s go to the jail first.” She didn’t want to say it, but she preferred getting what was sure to be an unpleasant experience over with first.

When they arrived, Sheriff Haynes led them back to the cells. This time one of the other cells was occupied by a man who was sprawled out on his cot snoring loudly.

“Sheriff, I would like to confer with my client in private,” Evan said.

“Aw, that fellow’s out cold, sleeping off a mighty hangover,” the sheriff replied. “He won’t hear nothing.”