The Restless Soul
Bookkeeper, detective, soldier…stowaway? Walter DuBois’s life took some surprising turns.
MS Gausdal; photo: warsailors.com
Walter Dubois never knew Nils Nilsen, captain of the MS Gausdal, a Norwegian freighter en route from Venezuela to Cuba. The two did cross paths, however. It was on the morning of June 26th, 1949. The weather was clear with a warm breeze, so Captain Nilsen ordered the hatch coamings to be opened to air out the lower decks. His mood mirrored the weather right up until an agitated crewman informed him he was urgently needed in the hold. He went immediately, of course, and that was when he encountered Walter, or rather, Walter’s body.
Oddly, the only thing found on him was his identification certificate--no money or any other belongings. And after a brief examination, Captain Nilsen concluded that Walter had died from a fractured skull, which raised some questions: Was he robbed and murdered? Or did he fall while trying to stow away? These questions were never answered. After a cursory investigation, Walter was buried at sea. But as you’ll learn, there was much more to Walter’s life than his mysterious, and rather tragic, end.
***
We begin with an ad in the May 8th, 1920 edition of The Caller, the local newspaper of Corpus Christi, Texas: It read:
When you need a cold drink come to the
Uneeda Cold Drink Stand
417 Mesquite St.
(Walter M. DuBois, proprietor)
Now you have to understand just how proud of this ad Walter was. First of all, there was the spelling: You Need A as one word, U-N-E-E-D-A. His mother, Liliana, had objected at first, but he’d talked her into it. Which made him quite pleased with himself, although he hadn’t considered that she was just humoring him as doting mothers sometimes do (especially with their only child). The other thing he was proud of was how impressive it was to be the proprietor of anything at nine years old–okay, almost ten, which Walter was quick to tell anyone who asked his age.
Mesquite Street on September 14, 1919, following the hurricane; photo: Corpus Christi Caller Times
He was sitting in his stand, when he heard a car coming down the road. It was Uncle Al’s Model T. He and Walter’s father, Aaron, were helping out with the rebuilding after a hurricane had hit Corpus Christi the previous fall. They were taking a dinner break, and Walter waved as they pulled into the driveway.
“Hola, Papi, Tio Al!”
Practicing Spanish with Mother was one of the three good things (as far as he was concerned) that had come out of having to stay at home during the flu outbreak. (The papers had called it a pandemic, but Walter didn’t really care. He was just glad it was pretty much over.) Mother said that being able to speak Spanish honored her father, his Grandad Ramon, who’d emigrated from Spain almost fifty years ago.
“Your booth looks really nice,” said Uncle Al.
Walter grinned. “Daddy helped me build it.”
The second good thing about the pandemic was that he’d gotten to help out in Daddy’s workshop.
The front door opened and Mother came out. She gave Daddy a kiss, hugged her brother, and then turned to Walter. “Don’t you have something you want to ask your uncle?”
Walter hesitated. The third good thing about the flu outbreak was that Mother had taught him all about writing. She was delighted that he was good at it, which delighted him, but it also made him desperate not to disappoint her.
Walter saw Mother give Daddy a look.
“Well, go on,” Daddy said and gave him a nudge. “Dinner’s on the table.”
Walter was a bit indignant at being prompted, but knew better than to show it, so he spoke up. “The paper’s having an essay contest for this Liberty Loan thing in July...”
Uncle Al nodded.
“And I was thinkin’ I might write something about the army, but I don’t know much about it. Could I interview you?” Mother had told him to put it just like that, an interview.
A troubled look flashed across Alvaro’s face. He’d gotten back from the Great War more than a year ago, but memories of the trenches and the fighting still haunted him. Walter started to worry the answer would be no, then Uncle Al’s troubled look faded.
“Sure,” he said. “I’d be happy to do that.”
Walter was relieved and elated, but that soon ended as he realized everything he’d have to do over the next few weeks.
His father nudged him again. “Well, what do you say? Go on, time’s a wastin’ young ‘un.”
Walter was sheepish. “Oh, sorry. Gracias, Tio Al!”
***
Walter never thought his essay, “The Benefits of Enlistment in the Army,” would win any prizes. But it did–first prize, in fact, which still amazed him. The best part, though, was that Mother and Daddy (and Uncle Al and Aunt Minnie) were proud of him. Although he had to admit, the $75 prize money was pretty nice too. (By the way, $75 dollars in 1920, would be more than $1,400 in 2025.)
State Senator Harry Hertzberg. Image: By Texas Legislators - http://www.lrl.state.tx.us/mobile/memberDisplay.cfm?memberID=2433, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65345190
And now, he was about to read his essay in San Antonio. It was exciting, but nerve wracking too. And the auditorium was hot and stuffy, so he was sweaty on top of everything else. Before he knew it, though, Senator Hertzberg, who’d recruited him to do the presentation, finished his speech with: “So y’all remember to sign up for a Liberty Loan to keep our great country free!”
Then he turned to Walter and beckoned. “And now, let’s give a warm San Antone welcome to the youngest orator in America, Walter DuBois!”
Walter was nervous as he made his way to the podium. Senator Hertzberg lowered the mic, and Walter stepped up. He found, however, to his utter terror, that he couldn’t remember a single word of his speech. He breathed a sigh of relief, though, when he patted the nifty pocket inside his suit coat and felt the copy he’d put there. (He’d been a bit miffed when Mother had insisted he do so, but now he was very glad she had.) He took it out, unfolded it, and looked out at the audience. There, in the front row, were his parents. Mother smiled and Daddy winked and gave him a thumbs up. And with that, he began speaking.
***
The next eight years flew by with Walter doing all of the normal growing up things, so let’s fast forward to his high school graduation party. He appreciated all the work Mother had done to throw the party, but early on, he whispered to Uncle Al that they needed to talk privately.
They snuck out to the front porch where Uncle Al lit a cigarette.
“Now do I understand correctly that you got a job offer from Gulf Oil, but you want to join the army instead?” He asked, taking a drag.
Walter, who’d started smoking not too long ago, borrowed the matches and lit up as well. “Yessir,” he replied, coughing and blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth.
Alvaro hesitated. He looked like he was fighting some internal battle but said at last: “Take the job with Gulf. It’s in Galveston?”
Walter nodded, surprised and dismayed. He’d thought his uncle would be pleased about him joining the army.
Uncle Al fought another brief internal battle, then went on. “Your dad is sick. He and your mother didn’t want you to know, but I think you should.”
A cold shiver went down Walter’s spine. “Dammit, I shoulda known,” he said clapping a hand on the porch railing. “He’s been havin’ trouble gettin’ around…”
Uncle Al put hand on his shoulder. “They hid it from me too. Don’t kick yourself.” He paused and took another drag. “Anyway, they don’t need to worry about you being in the army, and Galveston is likely closer than wherever the army would send you.”
His tone turned sharp. “And don’t you dare breathe a word of this. Lilly would have my head on a platter if she knew.”
Walter had to agree. Mother’s temper was not to be trifled with.
He paused to let things settle a bit. It was one of those situations where all sorts of feelings and thoughts jumbled against each other. “Do you know what’s wrong?” he asked at last.
Alvaro shook his head. “Not for sure. Sounds like it may be his heart.”
Worry and guilt were at the forefront of Walter’s mind: He still wanted to join the army, no two ways about that, but if the best way to help his folks was to take the job in Galveston, that’s what he’d do.
And so, in August of 1928, Walter started a job as bookkeeper in the Galveston, Texas office of Gulf Oil.
***
Galveston in the late 1920s; photo: Galveston Historical Society
Another thing you need to know is that Galveston’s nickname at that time was, “Sin City of the Gulf.” And Walter learned quickly that it hit the nail right on the head.
He took a swig of gin and leaned unsteadily against the makeshift bar of his favorite speakeasy. Dad and Uncle Al had warned him about what he’d find in Galveston, and sure enough, they were right. All of the not-so-wholesome opportunities had been a shock… at first. But in the year and a half he’d lived there, Walter’d taken a liking to gambling, even though it’d made for some troublesome debts. And in the same spirit, he’d sampled the offerings at various bordellos and found that they were also to his liking. But tonight, it was just him and a few pals getting drunk.
Afterwards, Walter staggered back to his room at the boarding house and dropped into bed. He was dead to the world until the telephone in the hall rang early the next morning. He winced and groaned and put his pillow over his head, but going back to sleep was not to be. Shortly, there was an equally wince-inducing knock. He got out of bed, noticing he was still in his clothes from last night, and lurched to the door. It was Jake, who rented the room across from him.
“You got a call.”
It was Uncle Al. Dad had died early that morning. The shock brought Walter fully awake. It was far worse than he’d imagined.
“How’s Mother?” he asked.
“About as good as can be expected.”
“Give her my love.” He struggled for words. It felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach, but took a deep breath. “Tell her I’ll be home just as soon as I can.”
“I will. Take care, sobrino.”
“You too. I’ll see y’all soon,” he said and hung up.
Back in his room, he sat on his bed, reeling with a profound sense of loss. He allowed himself some tears. And when they finally stopped, he got cleaned up and went to get a bus ticket home.
***
As you’re probably well aware, funerals are almost always sad, somber affairs, and so it was with the funeral for Aaron DuBois. It was hard for everyone, but I’m sure you also understand it was hardest on Walter’s mother. As a dutiful, loving son, Walter did his best to console her, but it was weeks before she started to get back to normal, and even then, Walter soon realized that “normal” would never be what it had been before Dad died.
He stayed on in Corpus Christi to help out, but that was only partly to support Mother. After the stock market crash last fall, he’d figured his job would be on the chopping block. And sure enough, the axe had fallen. He didn’t say anything about it to Mother, though–she didn’t need any more on her mind.
Little did he know, however, he wasn’t fooling anyone…
“How’s your class going?” Mother asked as they ate dinner after church one Sunday afternoon.
“Pretty good,” Walter said. “You know, I never thought of myself as a teacher, but there it is.” He smiled at her. “And it lets me use all the Spanish you taught me.”
She smiled in return, and they ate in companionable silence for a while.
“I appreciate your staying on to help out after Daddy died,” she said and put down her fork. “But if you’re not going back to Galveston, you need to find something steady here.”
He looked away, clearly ashamed, so she took his hand.
“Now don’t you go feelin’ guilty ‘bout losing your job. It’s nothing you did. This Depression is putting lots of people out of work.”
Walter wasn’t sure he agreed, but was definitely sure that he never should’ve tried to fool her.
“I get a feeling you have something in mind,” he said and was glad to see an old familiar glint in her eyes.
“Just so happens I do. There’s an open spot on the police force, and Mayor Shaffer owes you a favor for those speeches you wrote for his campaign.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I could maybe put in a good word too.”
Walter laughed and wondered, not for the first time, just how many connections Mother had in city hall.
“What’ve I always told you?” she asked.
“That it’s good to have friends in high places.”
She nodded. “Yes, indeed. Especially when they owe you favors.”
***
Illustration of Walter DuBois by Charlotte Easterling
Walter, as you might’ve guessed, got the job on the police force, and in less than a year was promoted to detective, which, as it turns out, may have been a bit hasty…
For the first few months, he’d mainly handled thefts and possession busts, but then came his first missing persons case, which ended grimly. He showed up at the scene, a train yard, and tossed his jacket in the back of his car. (Detectives were supposed to wear jackets and ties on duty, but given the sweltering heat of late summer, shirtsleeves would have to do.) He flashed his badge to a uniformed cop keeping a small crowd behind a cordon, and hurried over to another detective near a train car surrounded by firemen.
He recoiled at the strong smell of gasoline and covered his nose.
“Is it the kid, Murph?”
The other detective, older and more grizzled, replied with a grim nod. They watched as two firemen in gas masks lifted a small, still body through the hatch in the top of the tank car. It was a local boy named Billy Smith who’d been reported missing yesterday and had been found just an hour ago.
“Good god,” Walter whispered. “Are we sure it’s an accident?”
Murph nodded again. “Not a sign of anything suspicious.”
Even so, Walter dreaded the thought of writing the report. He tried to focus on the details he’d need to include, but couldn’t take his eyes off that kid’s body being taken away. Then, he realized the next thing he’d have to do would be to pay a visit to Billy’s folks. That thought made his dread even worse, although he hadn’t thought that was possible. The only thing that helped was knowing Murph would be with him.
He spoke to a reporter from The Caller, then looked at Murph and sighed. “I guess we’d better get going.”
Talking to the boy’s parents was just as bad as he’d feared. He felt for them, but there was nothing he could do but tell them Billy hadn’t suffered. (He suspected that was a lie, but it was one he could live with.) He and Murph offered condolences.
Yeah, Walter thought, Lotta good that’ll do…
Afterwards, they quite understandably needed to unwind and headed to a speakeasy typically dominated by cops. Walter immediately slugged back a gin and liked the way it burned going down. It took a bit of the edge off, but the image of that kid, and his folks, kept intruding.
Murph refilled his glass and put a hand on his shoulder. “Today was tough. They’re not usually that bad.”
Walter nodded. He liked being a cop, and he was good at it. But today had shaken him.
One more will smooth things out, he thought and knocked back another gin.
***
Next, we’ll jump ahead to a hot, muggy day in May of 1935. The courthouse where Walter was in a hearing might have had air conditioning. But even if it had, he still would’ve been sweating, as he sat in the witness chair being questioned by the DA.
“I did not hit Chief Mace over the head, as alleged,” Walter said indignantly. “I hit him between the eyes with my fist!”
His lawyer, B. D. Rappaport, one of the most celebrated (and expensive) lawyers in the county, cradled his forehead in his hand. He looked to be in great pain. On the other hand, the DA, Daniel Forsythe, looked immensely pleased.
“I have nothing more, your honor,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.
Judge Westervelt managed to keep a straight face.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Rappaport?” he asked.
And Mr. Rappaport most certainly did. As he and Walter had discussed, he asked about the events the previous December, just a week after Prohibition ended, when Walter had fired his gun in a bar. Walter said he wasn’t there to cause trouble for anyone–he just needed to track down someone accused of assault.
“So, you were just doing your job. Is that correct?” Rappaport asked.
“Yes, sir,” Walter replied.
“Did you have anything to drink before you fired your gun?”
“Well… yes,” Walter said. “But I wasn’t drunk.”
Rappaport nodded. “And Chief Mace accused you of being drunk on duty? And that’s why you hit him?”
“Yes, sir! He’s always had some grudge against me, ever since I made detective!”
Rappaport gave him a subtle gesture to settle down. “And that’s why you got arrested and fired?”
“Yes, sir,” Walter said, doing his best not to sound resentful.
Rappaport proceeded to admit that Walter had a problem with alcohol, but that his record on the police force (before the bar incident and slugging the chief) was sterling. He followed up with Walter’s other good activities, such as teaching a Spanish class, participating in church fundraisers, and supporting his mother.
“And in conclusion, your honor, he has character references from Mayor William Shaffer and retired State Senator Harry Hertzberg.”
Judge Westervelt looked thoughtful. “Seems like we may have a situation where we can settle this matter without going any further. Do you gentlemen agree?”
Rappaport did. Forsythe, however, looked unhappy, but after a few seconds he nodded reluctantly.
“Looks like you may have a suggestion, Mr. Rappaport,” the judge said. “Care to share it with us?”
“Well, your honor,” Rappaport began. “It’s clear that Mr. DuBois getting fired from the police force has to stand.”
There was unanimous agreement on that point.
“But my suggestion is to drop the charges and send him to a sanitarium for rehabilitation from alcoholism. That way, he can get sober and continue to do good things for the community.”
Forsythe appeared to be weighing his options, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what would be best for his career. Still, he looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth when he said, “Agreed, your honor.”
Judge Westervelt banged his gavel. “So ordered. The charges in this case are dropped. Mr. DuBois, you will report to the Moody Sanitarium in San Antone as soon as arrangements can be made. And best of luck to you, young man.”
***
Ad for Moody Sanitarium; photo: Texas State Historical Association
Anyone who’s been in the hospital for an extended time can sympathize with Walter’s feelings about his time in the sanitarium. And although he was glad not to have to go to trial, and maybe jail, by the time he got out, he doubted whether he’d really gotten off so easy–aversion therapy had been hell. But it had worked. (Even a faint whiff of alcohol would make him sick to his stomach.) So he’d been grateful to get out of the sanitarium and back to Corpus Christi where he could start rebuilding his life.
Now let’s jump ahead to 1939, which also marked a little over 5 years of sobriety and holding down a job.
“Smells great!” he said as he walked into Mother’s kitchen. It wasn’t the one he remembered from childhood, but he’d gotten used to it. There was a glazed cinnamon cake on the counter and he opened the oven where a dish of enchiladas bubbled.
“Mmmm, my favorite.”
“Well, of course,” said Mother giving his arm a squeeze. “What else would I fix for my boy’s 29th?”
Walter patted her hand. Mother selling the old house had been hard, but getting to have the foods he’d grown up with softened the blow. Besides, he knew there was no question that she’d move into Robert’s house when they got married.
Walter realized that was three years ago and shook his head in wonder. He’d been ready to resent Robert, but found he just couldn’t bring himself to dislike the man. He was easy to get along with, and had a good sense of humor, but most importantly, he was good to Mother. She seemed happy again, and that was the main thing.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Mother said.
Walter looked up. “Oh, just thinkin’ ‘bout how time flies.”
“Sure does, but you’ve done a good job getting cleaned up and holding down a job.”
Walter’s smile was rueful. Memories of the sanitarium resurfaced, and yes, he was happy to have a steady job, but he was sick and tired of bookkeeping.
“Somethin’ eatin’ at you?” Mother asked.
Walter hesitated. He had an announcement but had intended to make it after supper. As usual, though, Mother was on to him.
“It’s the war, what with the Japanese, and that Hitler…,” he trailed off, then turned to her. “And I feel like grandad would’ve wanted me to go fight Franco.”
Mother shook her head firmly. “No. He left Spain to get the family away from that kind of trouble. He never would’ve wanted you to get involved.”
Walter was only a bit relieved. The larger problem remained.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but still, we’re in this war already; sooner or later it’s gonna be official. And I’ll be better off volunteering.”
Mother sighed. “I suppose you’ve talked this over with your uncle?”
“Yes, ma’am, and he agrees with me.”
“I figured that was the case.” She put her arms around him. “I know you wanted to join up a long time ago.”
That coaxed a small laugh from Walter as he thought: Of course you did.
“Have you signed the papers yet?”
“No, but I will soon.”
She didn’t reply, but hugged him tighter.
***
Walter was quite convinced that the Army was determined to keep him in bookkeeping assignments in hot, humid places for his entire enlistment. He’d done boot camp in Texas, which had gone about as well as boot camp can go. Then, thanks in part to knowing Spanish, he was assigned to an ordnance unit in San Juan, as a clerk–a bookkeeper.
Isley Field, Saipan, 1945; photo: USAAF
This led to being stationed at the B-29 base on Saipan (the Mariana Islands… the tropics) in yet another ordnance unit, as–you guessed it–a clerk. Although by that time, he’d come to grips with the fact that the army was nothing if not ironic. Still, it wasn’t all bad. The transfer included a promotion to sergeant, and the General had given his unit a commendation for their support in the Tokyo bombing campaign called Operation Meetinghouse.
He’d just gotten off duty and was hoping no one else was in the barracks tent so he could take a nap in peace. No such luck. Kowalski, a corporal who bunked next to him, gestured at Walter’s cot.
“Ya got mail, sarge.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Ski. I might’ve missed it.”
Walter picked up the letter and saw it was from his cousin, Jimmy Ellington (a Seabee stationed in Hawaii). He finished reading it, and much to his annoyance, Kowalski (who wasn’t blessed with an overabundance of perceptivity) felt the need to follow up.
“Good news?”
Walter rolled his eyes and muttered something clearly uncharitable. Ski just shrugged and went back to his comic book.
Walter left the tent and stopped to take in all the activity. Meetinghouse had ended in March, but that was four months ago, and the bombing runs hadn’t slowed down much. Something big was up, especially since curiosity was being pointedly discouraged. There were rumors about plans to invade Japan, which worried him, but he didn’t think that’d require quite so much hush-hush.
“I guess we’ll find out eventually,” he said to himself and headed to the mess tent for some chow.
As it turned out, eventually was just a couple of weeks. And what was up was indeed big–very big: the A-Bomb. The news said two Japanese cities Walter hadn’t heard of were completely destroyed in enormous explosions of heat and radiation. He didn’t entirely understand, but he didn’t need to. The war was over! No invasion, just V-J Day and then he was headed home!
***
Walter was honorably discharged and by early 1946 found himself back in Corpus Christi. He was glad to have some time to unwind and reconnect with his family and friends, but as fate would have it, his stay didn’t last much more than a year. Job options were limited mostly to much-hated bookkeeping. And despite his protestations, Mother had launched a well-meaning (but ill-fated) attempt to find him a wife. So, when he’d heard that Gulf Oil had opened a supervisor job in Venezuela, he jumped at the chance.
Hot and humid, again, he thought. But at least it’s not bookkeeping!
And thanks to his army experience, a good record with the company, and fluency in Spanish, he got the job even faster than he’d expected. So it wasn’t long before he was waiting to board his plane. He first gave Aunt Minnie a kiss, then shook hands with Robert and Uncle Al.
“Take care,” said Robert. “Give ‘em hell!”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Uncle Al pulled him into a hug. “Be careful. Don’t get mixed up in anything dangerous.” His voice broke, but he managed, “And be well, too, sobrino.”
A lump in Walter’s throat kept him from replying, so he simply nodded and smiled.
Then it came to Mother. She wept openly and gave him a kiss on the cheek when he embraced her.
“I sure hate to see you go.”
“I’ll be fine. Like I said, I just need a change of scenery.”
Mother nodded. There was nothing more to say. She’d tried to talk him out of it early on, but after several discussions, she’d finally made peace with his decision. “You take care now, hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. You do the same.”
He kept his arm around her until the boarding call came, then he released her and waved as he headed to his plane.
***
Caracas, c. 1949; photo: Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Detroit Publishing Company Collection
No one in Venezuela can make a decent glass of tea, Walter thought as he shook his head in disgust and poured sugar into the glass in front of him.
But it was a minor complaint. His job was a definite improvement over his other jobs. And the weather in Caracas wasn’t that different from San Juan and Saipan, so it didn’t bother him too much. What he really liked was the scenery–lots of very old and very new. And his favorite place to sit and watch the comings and goings was a cafe near the seaport. It’d occurred to him that he liked it so much because it reminded him of the port back home. Maybe this is a place I can make life for a while, he thought contentedly.
He sipped his tea, now properly amended, appreciating the coolness in the early evening heat. After a while, he went to wander the docks, avoiding the cargo crews and sailors–they tended to be a rowdy bunch.
Soon, the light was fading. About chow time, he thought and took a shortcut through an alley that led to a diner he liked, and thereby, his meeting with Captain Nilson.
***
Not long after, Robert came down the steps and joined Alvaro in the kitchen. A large cardboard box was open on the table.
“Is she ready?” Alvaro asked.
“Soon,” Robert said. “I’m sure grateful for Minnie’s help. I know Lily is too.”
Alvaro just nodded.
“I was just a friend of the family when Walter’s father died. This seems much harder for her. Stands to reason, I suppose.”
“It is,” Alvaro agreed. “With Aaron, she knew it was coming. She had some time to prepare…”
“And a body to bury,” Robert said.
Alvaro nodded again. “Yes. But it’ll help that there’s a gravestone.”
They continued looking through the box the company had sent. It contained Walter’s possessions: clothes, a few books, some newspapers and magazines and such.
“I wish we could get the police down there to investigate more. It just doesn’t make sense,” said Robert. “You knew him better than I did, but I can’t imagine he would stow away on a ship with just an ID. No money, not even a change of clothes or anything?”
Alvaro shook his head. “I know. Doesn’t make a lick of sense, but they closed the case. Nothing more we can do.”
Robert was hesitant. “Do you think he could’ve been robbed? Killed?”
“Maybe.” Alvaro looked troubled. “We’ll probably never know...” He trailed off when he found Walter’s unfinished letter to his mother. At first, he was unsure whether he should read it but shortly decided to do so. He finished and held his handkerchief to his eyes.
“She should have this,” he said at last, handing the letter to Robert.
“Yes, but after the service.”
They both turned as Lilliana started down the steps with Minnie supporting her. Alvaro went to open the front door, and Robert took her hand at the bottom of the steps.
“You look mighty pretty.”
She managed a wan smile in return and stopped after a few steps. “You know,” she said shakily, “I think he would’ve liked that he was buried at sea. He was always such a restless soul.”
Robert agreed and put his arm around her shoulders as he led her to the car. It was time to say goodbye.
1: Corpus Christi, Texas. 2: Galveston, Texas. 3: San Antonio, Texas (location of the Moody Sanitarium). 4: San Juan, Puerto Rico. 5: Saipan, Mariana Islands. 6: Caracas, Venezuela. 7: Havana, Cuba. The Gausdal was bound for Havana when Walter’s body was disovered. His burial at sea was in the Caribbean.
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Mistress of the House
Evelyn Wallace knew exactly what she wanted from her life. Along the way, things didn’t go quite as planned.
If there’s one word that describes Evelyn Wallace, it’s persistent. Through hardship, betrayal, and being a single mother, she never gave up. Why, you may ask? It was love–unconditional and unwavering. And it lasted her entire life. But as you’ll see, the road she traveled was lengthy and twisted.
***
In the summer of 1847, when Evelyn was 17, she and her family attended what would become a fateful church revival meeting in central Tennessee, where they lived. At that time, it was very rural, with a sparse population and few churches. So church revival meetings were pretty much the only opportunity for settlers to attend church services. Like most people, Evelyn’s family had traveled to be there (although not as far as many attendees had), and they’d set up camp for the four days the meeting would be happening.
Let’s be clear, though, this was not the kind of revival meeting (or tent revival) that came into being in the 1900’s. There was still a religious aspect, to be sure, but these meetings were in equal part social events that included providing a way for people to look for things like marriage partners, especially young people…
Lincoln County, TN; photo: landwatch.com
***
Because they were camping, all of the cooking was done outside over open fires. This is where we find Evelyn after the morning service of the first day of the revival meeting. Her Ma was getting annoyed. Or Evelyn thought that was the case because she’d almost tipped a pot of beans into the cooking fire.
“Oh for heaven’s sake! Go talk to the boy!” Ma said, doing her best to hide her smile.
Evelyn, for her part, tried to deny (with no success) that she was distracted by James Waite, the handsome young man who’d introduced himself and his two brothers, Bennett and Roger, just before the morning service. (They’d sat in the chairs in front of Evelyn and her family.) The three brothers, now standing together a short way away, were also encamped nearby, but they’d come from their home in Illinois to settle some family business matters, not specifically to attend the revival meeting.
Ma shooed her away, and Evelyn, blushing furiously, didn’t argue. She started to sidle her way toward James but hesitated. Maybe he was just being polite when he’d introduced himself. Then again, she thought he might’ve been flirting too.
Over the last couple of years, the socializing that was part of the revival meetings had taken on a different tone. It was no longer just catching up with friends and family who lived far away. Now it was also meeting potential husbands and wives (although Evelyn didn’t quite recognize it as such).
James saw her and excused himself from his brothers. He came over to talk to her, which made her blush even harder. She wanted to flee in a cloud of embarrassment, but before she could, he was standing right there talking to her.
“We won’t be here too long,” he said. “We came to sell off some land our grandfather owned. He died a few months ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Evelyn said.
“Thanks,” James murmured and looked away.
“Miss Wallace,” he said looking back awkwardly. “I’d be mightily pleased if you’d let me sit with you at the evening service.”
Evelyn, despite never having been to the ocean, could swear she heard it roaring in her ears. So, unable to find her voice, she just nodded…and blushed… and returned a slightly self-conscious smile.
Bennett and Roger, for their part, exchanged a knowing look when James told them he wouldn’t be sitting with them at the evening service.
***
To no one’s surprise, it was just six months later Evelyn excitedly announced that James had proposed and she intended to accept. Her Ma and Pa, on the other hand, were not quite as joyful. They wanted Evelyn to wait until she was 18 to get married. One thing they couldn’t deny, however, was that James certainly appeared to be serious. When his brothers returned to Illinois, James had stayed on to court Evelyn properly.
Even so, to Evelyn’s rather pointed frustration, it seemed that her Ma and Pa were incapable of accepting why they couldn’t wait the few months until Evelyn’s 18th birthday. When they repeated their demand for information, she had to exert considerable control to keep from snapping at them.
“Once again,” she said after taking a deep breath, “because James and his brothers are going to enlist in the Army to fight in the Mexican War.” (Which had been raging for almost a year at that point.) “He’s staying on here long enough for the wedding,” she went on, “and he’ll get us to his homestead in Arkansas, but he’s anxious to enlist,” she said, thinking that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t.
Ma gave her a dubious look but didn’t articulate what she suspected. Pa’s mind, on the other hand, went to a different matter. He pointed out, again, that the land James had was at least two weeks away (going from central Tennessee to central Arkansas). They were worried about her moving so far away, and although she would never admit it to them, Evelyn agreed. The long journey, in addition to the thought of being so far from home, scared her. And to make her fears worse, the land was in territory that had recently been cleared of the Native tribes who’d lived there for ages. She’d heard stories about the attacks in Tennessee when the Cherokee had first been driven out (leading to what would later be known as the Trail of Tears).
What if there are Indian attacks in Arkansas? She wondered with a thrill of fear.
One comforting thought was that her sister in Texarkana and her brother in St. Louis would come help her settle into her new home. And there were Wallace cousins living not too far from the part of Arkansas she’d be moving to. So Evelyn did her best to quell Ma and Pa’s apprehension, as well as her own.
“It’s just as far away no matter how many months I wait. I love him and want to marry him before he goes to war,” she said emphatically. Concern remained etched in her parents' faces, so she gave them both a hug. “I’ll be fine,” she said. Ma and Pa didn’t look at all reassured but reluctantly agreed that they wouldn’t stop her.
***
The next two months brought the biggest changes in Evelyn’s young life, starting with her wedding. It was happy overall, but the knowledge that she would soon be leaving for a new, distant home lent an underlying air of melancholy that went unacknowledged even as her journey to Arkansas began the next morning.
It took a little more than two weeks to get to their farm, and on the way, Evelyn constantly marveled at how lush and green the scenery was. Once they arrived, it hadn’t taken long to set up housekeeping, but despite the captivating landscape, it didn’t really feel like home yet.
I suppose that will come with time, though, she thought as she stood at the door of their little house, watching the sunrise.
The hills that surrounded their property were brightening and shifting from black to green as the sun came up. This was usually calming, but not today. She couldn’t fight down a feeling of dread knowing that James would be leaving that morning for Alton, Illinois to enlist. He’d arranged to meet up with Bennett and Roger there, and after they signed up, they’d start three months of training. What really worried her, however, was that after basic training, they’d be sent to fight in Mexico.
Washington County, AR; photo: TripAdvisor
She was struggling to hold back tears when he came to the door with his pack. He kissed her and promised to come back, then gently pressed his hand against her belly. She had told him the day before that she was expecting, knowing he probably wouldn’t be there when the baby was born.
“Now don’t fret,” he said. “Your brother should be here tonight, and your sister won’t be far behind.”
She nodded, and unable to speak, watched and waved until she couldn’t see him any longer. She lingered in the doorway for a while after that, hoping against hope he’d turn around and come back. But she knew that was foolish. For the first time since they’d met, she felt much too young for everything that was happening. She reminded herself that Ma had taught her everything she needed to know to run a household, and in addition to her brother and sister, her cousin Levi had sent his oldest son, Levi Junior, to stay with her and help out with chores. So she wasn’t alone.
“But none of them are James,” she said to herself with a sigh.
The sun was fully up now, so she shook off her dreary thoughts, smoothed her skirt, and cast one more longing glance up the road James had taken.
***
Not long after he’d left, Evelyn started getting letters from James. The first one described getting to the induction and training camp in Alton, and letters continued to arrive every week or two (mail service being what it was back in the mid-19th century). They didn’t stop even when James had been in combat. He wanted to be supportive during her pregnancy even though he was fighting in the war. In all of this correspondence, they made decisions about things like what the baby’s name would be: Mason, if it was a boy, and Madeleine, if it was a girl. Evelyn treasured every letter, not just because she wanted him to be involved in these kinds of choices, but also, perhaps more importantly, because it was reassurance he was still alive. Even so, it wasn’t until Mason (yes, she gave birth to a boy) was six months old that she finally got the letter she’d been hoping for. She read it, then re-read it, and then, for good measure, read it a third time, partly to help the news to sink in and partly because Mason wouldn’t stop fussing and wiggling.
“Daddy’s coming home!” she said, grinning like a fool while bouncing him. Mason, for his part, was impressively unimpressed and determined to continue fussing.
As happy as Evelyn was, the letter also contained bad news: James and his brothers had all contracted malaria. And while James and Roger were doing better, Bennett was very sick. But Evelyn didn’t have long to consider this as Mason started wail, apparently offended that he wasn’t getting her undivided attention. When he finally allowed himself to be mollified, Evelyn put him in his crib and turned to preparations for James’ homecoming.
***
As it turned out, however, James was forced to delay his return. Bennett continued to weaken and died as quickly as James and Roger regained their strength. All three brothers had prepared to lose each other in the war, but that didn’t help when dealing with the shock of losing Bennet to an illness rather than a bullet. Roger and James took care of sending Bennett’s body back to his home for burial, then made their goodbyes to head back to their own homes.
So James returned to Arkansas through a combination of walking and getting the occasional wagon ride from infrequent passersby. And Evelyn constantly kept an eye out until one day he appeared as a distant speck far up the dirt road that ran by their homestead. Soon, he was at the doorstep dropping his pack on the porch.
This, Evelyn thought, makes up for all the waiting.
She exclaimed in delight and jumped into James’ arms. After an extended period of hugging and kissing, she lifted Mason out of his crib and introduced him to his father. James took the baby and held him out to take a good look.
“Why, you’re a fine lookin’ young ‘un!” he said, marveling at his son.
Soon he sat down with Mason in his lap and an arm around Evelyn’s waist. She leaned into him, thinking about the long, happy years they had ahead, now that the hardest days were over. Little did she know, her not-too-distant self would find this sentiment to be overly optimistic.
***
And just a few days later, Evelyn did indeed realize (with more than a little chagrin) how naive she’d been. Mason was teething, and nothing would quiet him. And much worse, soon after getting home, James had come down with a fever and rash that Evelyn feared might be smallpox instead of a malaria relapse. So she had her hands full tending to him and keeping a close eye on Mason for any sign he might be sick too. Thankfully, Levi Jr. had come to help out again, which Evelyn told him repeatedly was a life-saver.
He just smiled shyly and said. “Glad I can help out family.”
After a couple of weeks, Evelyn started to relax. Mason remained healthy, especially his lungs (which he constantly demonstrated by wailing loudly), and James looked to be on the mend too. Then one morning, she woke up with a fever and rash like James had had. For some reason, though, it hit her harder, which she didn’t understand until she realized she was expecting again. She decided to wait until she was well before telling James, just to be sure that everything was fine. But that didn’t take long.
“Mustn’t shirk. Got to get up and get back to work,” she told herself as soon as she could get on her feet and do chores.
Before long her strength returned and brought with it her characteristic optimism.
1849 will be a good year, she thought.
***
But once again, her optimism came into tragic conflict with reality. Her prediction for 1849 didn’t work out. Her second pregnancy ended with a stillborn son. After that she’d sworn off making rosy predictions about the future, and it was just as well–it wasn’t even halfway through 1850 now, and she’d miscarried her third pregnancy.
She lay on her side, sobbing quietly while Martha, the local midwife, stopped cleaning up and went to pat Evelyn’s hand.
“There, there, love,” she said in her thick Irish accent.
Evelyn tried to regain her composure, but despite Martha’s kindness, she felt guilty and completely alone. She and James both wanted a big family, but after two failed pregnancies, she was worried that she wouldn’t be able to give James more than their one child. This thought alone broke her heart, but when the very real possibility that Mason might end up being an only child occurred to her, her misery felt unbearable.
Martha pulled the blanket over her and said, “Now you get some rest, dearie.”
Evelyn could hear her sister, Isabel, cajoling Mason to eat, but he was upset by the sounds coming from the bedroom, and wanted to come see her to get comfort and reassurance. That wouldn’t be good for him, however, so she pulled herself into a ball and wished that James was there.
But he was far away. He’d had to rush off to Illinois when he got word that his stepmother had died suddenly, which left his father alone to take care of his farm and five children.
“I’m so sorry,”James had apologized, “but my Pa needs my help.”
So do I, Evelyn had thought, but kept that response in her head and instead said, ”I understand. He’s surely overwhelmed.”
At the time, it was easier not to feel resentful knowing that he planned on being back in time for the birth that now wouldn’t happen. But as usual, nothing had gone as expected.
***
Shortly after her miscarriage, Evelyn wrote to James to give him the sad news. She hoped the letter would reach Illinois after he’d left to come back home, but in James’ reply letter he wrote:
Pa’s already courting a new bride, and she’s just a little older than me.
Evelyn’s first reaction was shock, but then she realized it wasn’t all that surprising, maybe even a bit amusing.
James’ father was a small, unassuming man who’d been married three times at that point, and each time he remarried, his wives got progressively younger.
“He sure doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet… or on his wives’ graves,” she said out loud, but only Mason was there to hear her, and he just gave her a curious look.
Given the impending nuptials, Evelyn expected James to be reassured that his father would have someone to take care of his household and children. Consequently, she expected James to come home very soon. But oh those pesky expectations. Instead of James himself coming down the road, she got another letter where James told her he was staying in Illinois for the wedding.
She couldn’t decide whether she was more sad or furious. Without a doubt, she understood the importance of family, but she and Mason were his family too! How could James constantly put his father before them?
It was also hurtful that his letter was so brief and impersonal, but she didn’t have time to give it much thought. She wiped away angry tears and shoved the letter into her apron pocket. She’d answer it later–right now she had her own family to attend to.
***
In the following weeks, it was hard to overcome lingering resentment, but Evelyn managed to do so. And now, months later, all she could feel was joy as James slipped into the bedroom and sat down next to her on the bed. She handed him their daughter, and he ran a finger along her tiny cheek.
“Clementine?” he asked.
Evelyn nodded and let her grateful tears flow–she’d been terrified to even think about names, just in case, but James had convinced her to tell him what she’d chosen as the day got closer. She wiped her eyes, and marveled at her daughter ’s wrinkled little face as she yawned.
James caressed the tiny head and said, “Hello there,Clementine.”
*
Isabel hadn’t been able to come help with Evelyn’s fourth pregnancy, but cousin Levi seemed to have an endless supply of teenage children to share as helpers. His daughter Nancy was in the kitchen, washing Mason’s face and hands so he could meet his baby sister. James went out to join her and started on one of his long-winded jags, prattling on about the giant birds he saw one afternoon when he was in Illinois, and how they had tried to carry off one of their calves. Evelyn sighed and decided to rescue her from the story before it went on any longer. She called to Nancy and asked her to bring Mason in.
Recreation of the Piasa Thunderbird, first seen in the late 17th century by European explorers near Alton, IL; Photo: Burfalcy/Wiki Commons/CC BY SA 3.0
James had always been a fan of tall tales, and Evelyn had enjoyed listening to them. But it seemed that over the last few years, his stories had changed. He’d taken to telling her ominous stories about the Indians who had lived in the area, knowing that she was afraid of attacks and raids. And he’d become fixated on the skeleton of a giant human that one of their neighbors had claimed to find while digging a well. The skeleton got bigger every time James told the story, and he was convinced that they could sell it and become rich. She tried to dismiss the stories as just more of his tomfoolery, but they bothered her. It was almost as if he believed that his grandiose tales were true.
What bothered her the most, though, was that James’ behavior was a continuation (worsening, really) of strange patterns she’d observed over the past few years. He’d been making regular trips to Illinois to visit his family, and they were always months long.
They argued about those trips frequently, but it made no difference–James would be off on another visit to help his family, leaving Evelyn resentful and embarrassed. Her family and neighbors were ready to help while James was away. She gladly accepted the help, even though she noticed the looks that passed between people when she mentioned that James had gone again.
She was thankfully distracted from this line of thought when Nancy led Mason into the bedroom. The little boy’s eyes widened when he saw his new sister. Evelyn’s heart jumped at his reaction, and once again, any bitterness about James was swept away.
***
This routine on the part of James persisted, frustratingly for Evelyn, over the next few years, which she was pondering as she fanned herself trying to mitigate the Texas heat. It was March of 1865, and Evelyn was heavily pregnant again, the result of one of James’ infrequent trips home. It seemed to be going well, but for once, she wasn’t getting her hopes up.
Battle of Fayetteville marker; photo: J.J. Prats, 2023
Her sister came into the room and announced “The Yankees took Fayetteville.”
Evelyn groaned and struggled out of her chair. Isabel put a hand on her back to steady her, then showed her the newspaper.
She was disturbed–their farm was only 40 miles from Fayetteville, and there had been a steady stream of Union and Confederate soldiers through the area. James had come back from Illinois and talked about his younger brother Amos joining the Union army. He looked haunted as he described seeing him off, and Evelyn knew James was remembering Bennett, who was just 20 when he died.
At first, Evelyn was happy to have James home. His presence made her feel safe. By autumn, though, she noticed that his erratic behavior had returned. He was telling his rambling stories again, most of them spiraling off into nonsense. He was ill, with fever and frequent relapses of the rash she’d seen before. When she tried to take care of him, he called her “Margaret,” and he was calling the children by the wrong names as well. Evelyn tried to tell herself that it was just delirium from the fever, but she was ashamed when she saw the contemptuous looks Mason cast at his father.
Once he was sufficiently recovered from his fever, James said that he had to go back to Illinois. This time, Evelyn hadn’t pressed him for an explanation. She closed the door behind him and went to write to her sister in Texarkana, asking to stay with her for the duration of the war.
*
Not long after that, her son Ewell was born, while the family–minus James–was living in Texarkana with her sister and her family. Mason joked quietly that he was relieved to finally have another boy in the house so that he wasn’t outnumbered anymore.
“Your sisters appreciate your patience,” Isabel told him, and he blushed and mumbled “Thank you kindly, ma’am”.
Isabel took Ewell from Evelyn and put him in his crib.
“Number six for you,” she said, and looked at her pointedly. Evelyn plucked at her dressing gown. She’d told Isabel everything, and was relieved and horrified that Isabel had come to the same conclusion as Evelyn–James had a second family in Illinois.
Isabel shooed the children out of the room and then turned back to Evelyn.
“Your husband is a lunatic,” she said. “You should see the letters he wrote to us.”
Evelyn nodded. She knew all too well.
“You’re better off without him,” Isabel went on, and again, Evelyn nodded in response. She had gone over everything in her mind countless times, and had finally come to a decision. After the war, she would go home and divorce James. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to prove that he was a bigamist, but there were enough people who’d attest to his insanity. She sighed as she settled back against the pillows. The thought of what was ahead exhausted her. She closed her eyes, and was asleep before Isabel slipped out of the room.
***
True to her decision, when the Civil War had drawn to a close, Evelyn returned to their farm in Arkansas with the full intention of divorcing James.
“Oh Mason,” Evelyn whispered as he guided the wagon past the ruins of farmhouses.
Nothing but chimneys, she thought.
The unfairness of it overwhelmed her. The people in their part of Arkansas hadn’t even wanted to secede, and here they were with nothing left. She dreaded seeing the remains of their home. She didn’t have any idea how they’d start over, or, more to the point, if they could.
As they approached their house, Mason gasped. “Ma?”
She squeezed Mason’s arm. They both saw. James was working to clear away the debris that was everywhere. He saw the wagon roll in and stopped to wave to them. Evelyn’s heart did a slow somersault–seeing him there next to the camp he’d set up reminded her of meeting him all those years ago. And like that day at the camp meeting, James held his hand out to her.
Illustration of Evelyn Wallace Waite
“Welcome home, Mrs Waite,” he said.
He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. She handed Ewell to Mason and asked him to keep an eye on the other children. It was time to have a serious, likely unpleasant, conversation with James, who watched intently while she climbed down from the wagon and led him away. When they were out of earshot of their kids, Evelyn started, uninterested in beating around the bush.
“I know about your other family,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your other wife is Margaret, yes?”
James looked stricken but took a deep breath and answered, “Yes.”
Evelyn nodded. “And how many children?”
Again, James looked greatly embarrassed and uncomfortable, which actually pleased Evelyn.
“Six,” he finally answered. “But we lost two of them while they were just babies.” He looked down at his feet. “And there’s another one on the way.”
Evelyn closed her eyes and sighed. She’d prepared what she would say to James if he came back. She’d run through it in her head so many times that she could recite it almost without thinking.
“James, I’m not going to make this decision for you. You have to choose which family you want to be with. If it’s this one, you can’t ever go back to your other family. If it’s your other family, you have to go now and stay gone forever.”
She felt like a monster for suggesting that he abandon his pregnant second wife, but then she considered the number of times James had done exactly that to her.
James was still looking at his feet but said, “I want to be with you, Evvie. I want to rebuild our home.” Then he looked her squarely in the eyes.
“And what will happen to your other family?” she asked.
“My brothers will help Margaret. That’s what they’ve done all the other times I’ve been away.”
Evelyn realized she hated James a little bit.
Maybe even a bit more than that, she thought.
Even so, she couldn’t help but be glad he was going to stay with her and their children. She shivered, and he motioned for her to come sit by the fire he’d started. He hurried to get her some coffee, glancing over at her the whole time. He handed her the cup and she gave him a tiny smile and let her fingers brush over his when she took it. The look of relief on his face softened her hurt, angry heart.
I guess we’ll try, she thought without a tremendous feeling of optimism.
***
Evelyn recalled that conversation, and her misgivings, as she stood on the train platform. She and James and the children had worked incredibly hard trying to rebuild their farm, but to no avail.
Transcontinental railroad; image: The History Channel
It made her so sad her chest ached. She closed her eyes and remembered the way the sun looked coming up over the hills and the smell of pine.
A porter walked up to her and pointed to Mason who was standing at the end of the platform.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “That’s your husband over there, isn’t it?”
Evelyn shook her head. “No, that’s my son. I’m a widow.”
She had decided it was a lie she could live with.
The porter looked abashed and mumbled an apology. Mason spotted them and hurried to help with the trunks. Clementine and Vera looked after the younger children while Evelyn looked for the conductor. She knew moving to Oregon was the right decision, but at the moment it all felt overwhelming.
Soon, they were settled, with the exception of Mason, onto the benches that would serve as their seats. When Mason made his way back to them, he looked rumpled and sweaty from getting their trunks situated. He scooped up four-year-old Annie and put her on his lap, where she leaned against his chest. Evelyn watched, grateful to Mason for being more of a father to his siblings than their actual father had ever been. James had left for the last time two months before Annie’s birth, whereupon Mason, just 18 when she was born, had stepped in to help raise her.
“Ma, you’re telling people you’re a widow?”
Evelyn sat up straighter. Her head was throbbing and she didn’t want to talk about any of this.
“It’s easier, Mason,” she snapped. “A widow is respectable.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he told her. “He’s the one who left.”
Evelyn gave him a look, and Mason dropped the conversation. He was 22 now, and knew better than to push his mother when she was done talking.
***
Baker County, OR; photo: landwatch.com
Although Evelyn had never let on to Mason, she’d been filled with doubt about the decision to leave Arkansas. Selling the land their farm had been on hadn’t brought in a lot of money, but it was enough to put them on a train to Oregon and to buy them a few acres in Baker County.
She sat on the porch of their farmhouse, resting after showing Annie how to make flapjacks. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to mull the turn her life had taken.
Despite her trepidation, she had to admit that the move had been good for the family. They’d been living on their new farm five years now, and it was flourishing under Mason’s guidance. She also knew that the younger children had adapted quickly and were happy here–it was the only home they remembered. Her older daughters had eventually settled in well, even though they’d needed a little more time. Clementine had married last year and was expecting her first child in the spring.
Evelyn hoped she would live to see her first grandchild. For a while she’d been able to dismiss her headaches and clumsiness as exhaustion from moving the family and rebuilding their life. But when her vision began to fade and she developed a noticeable tremor in her hands, she’d resigned herself to seeing a doctor. He’d diagnosed her with syphilis and given her mercury pills, along with a stern warning to live virtuously to avoid spreading her disease to anyone else.
She was humiliated, and furious that James had managed to let her down one last time. It had, of course, come from him–she’d been faithful to him her entire life.
It’s a secret that’ll die with me, she thought before pushing past that memory. No use lingering on something she couldn’t change.
Isabel had written to Evelyn three years ago, in 1872, with news that both James and his other wife were dead. There had been an outbreak of typhoid fever that had carried them both off and left six of their children orphaned. Evelyn felt tears welling in her eyes, behind her closed eyelids. The unfairness of it all struck her once again. She and the children, and even his other wife, had all deserved better from him.
Mason clumped up the porch steps, Ewell running behind him to wash up for breakfast. Evelyn quickly wiped her eyes. Mason paused before going inside.
“You all right, Ma?”
She looked up at him. She couldn’t make out his features in the shadows of the porch, just his silhouette. So like James he was, at least on the outside. She took great comfort, though, in the fact that on the inside, he was nothing like his father in all the best possible ways. She had to fight to hold back tears once again when Mason held out his hand to help her up.
“Let’s go have us some breakfast,” she said. “We’ll see how well Annie did with those flapjacks.”
***
Mason paused outside the telegraph office and soaked in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. He hoped this weather would hold. It was Ma’s favorite, and he liked the idea of burying her on such a fine day. He had just sent word to Isabel, letting her know that Ma had passed.
He was glad that she had lived to meet Inez, her first granddaughter. She seemed about to burst with pride, but had declined the offer to hold the baby–Evelyn had grown so weak that she was afraid of dropping her. She wasn’t too weak, though, to fix Clementine’s husband Thomas with a fierce look.
“You be a good man and take care of my daughter and grandbabies!”
Thomas seemed startled by the emphatic command, but he had assured her that he would be a good husband and father.
Evelyn died the following year, in 1877. Her family had been close by, but only Mason was in the room with her when she opened her eyes one last time. She asked him to find her wedding band and help her put it on. Mason did, even though he couldn’t understand.
“He was a different man the day he gave that to me,” was the only explanation she offered. “I’m very proud of you,” she said. “You’re a good man.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Mason whispered, finding it hard to maneuver words around the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.
Nothing more was said or needed. Mason held her hand until she drew her last breath.
Location in the story. Top left: Baker County, Oregon; Center top: Washington County, Arkansas. Center bottom: Texarkana, Texas. Top right: Marion, Illinois. Bottom right: Lincoln County, Tennessee.
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The Smuggler
A boy in a Texas border town lands an unusual job. This post is a subscriber bonus.
Jimmy Ellington sat in a bar in Villa Acuna, waiting for his contact to arrive. He was wearing his suit and a hat, trying to look the part of a respectable adult. The suit didn’t fit him as well as it had last year when he got it. Mother had said she’d let it out a bit, but she hadn’t had a chance to do that yet. He took a drag on his cheap cigar and swigged a drink of his beer. He was trying his best to look hard and serious, trying to convince everyone that he wasn’t just 14 years old.