Three Years, Three Months or So Before
A Long Way From Long Gone
Ellie awoke to the sound of water flowing over rocks. She lay on her side beneath a white sheet. From her pillow, she could see out a tall, open window onto a silver rolling creek rimmed with rust, the flowing water a dozen feet away. A sheer white curtain obscured then revealed the view, inflated by a breeze that smelled of metal and cut grass.
She turned onto her back. The room was small, with faded lemon wallpaper and dark woodwork. A chest of drawers stood against the opposite wall next to the door, and a tall wooden chair sat below a second window. The door was open, and from elsewhere in the house she could hear the sound of movement, a rattle of tools or utensils.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Footsteps tapped her way. After a moment, a tall, stooped older man appeared at the door. Klamath, she guessed, but with deep blue eyes that regarded her from within a face the color of old leather. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” His voice sounded calm yet rough, as if tempered by years of filterless cigarettes. He seemed unashamed by her naked body under the sheet. She folded her arms across her breasts. Maybe he had a wife, a daughter, someone else who’d put her into bed.
“Okay. My head hurts.” She felt a throbbing ache in her ribs as well, heat in her ankles, a siege of scrapes and scratches all over.
“You probably want your clothes. I washed everything and hung it outside. Should be dry by now.” He paused. “I couldn’t find your shoes, I’m afraid.”
An image of pounding rain like falling stones flashed behind her eyes. “It’s okay.” She ran a trembling hand over her face and tried to push the memory of the cornfield out of her mind. When she looked up again, his blue eyes were still fixed on her.
“You were something of a mess, soaked through and muddy. Bleeding too, from that cut on your head.” He dropped his gaze. “I couldn’t leave you in those wet clothes.”
“Thank you.” Her cracked lips hurt when she spoke.
“You’re Immanuel Kern’s older girl.”
She flinched at his recognition, but he offered her a reassuring smile. Aside from crow’s feet, the skin of his face was smooth. Saltand-pepper hair clung to his knobby scalp. His eyes seemed to almost glow against his dark skin. She’d seen him around the valley. “I should know you.”
“Name’s Pastor Sanders.”
“Oh.”
“I used to work for the senior Spaneker, back before Hiram took over and decided he ought to be the center of everything. These days I take care of my own acreage and pick up odd jobs when I can.” He slipped into the room and sat on the tall chair. “Word from Hiram is you ran off to Arizona and left his boy heartbroken and locked away in your house.”
She drew a sharp breath and looked through the window at a fringe of aspens on the far shore of the creek. “You talked to Hiram?”
“Not me. Couldn’t help but hear him going on at the Cup ‘n’ Saucer yesterday morning.” The Cup served as the gravitational center for valley men who’d spent their lives with their hands in the dirt. As one of the few lingering independent farmers, Hiram took every opportunity to stop by the diner and hold forth. “He said you run off with another man. You’re supposed to be long gone.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Not as crazy finding you half-drowned in the creek.” He tilted his head. “You get lost on your way to Arizona?”
She lowered her head mournfully. Lost was as a good a word as any for a woman who’d killed the scion of the Givern Valley Spanekers.
“How long have I been here?”
“I found you last night on my way back from town. Lucky thing too. Usually I take route 44, but I came back on the county road last night so I could check on my hay. I saw you half in-and-out of the water, maybe a quarter mile downstream from the railroad bridge. At first I thought you were dead.”
“When was the storm? The night before last?”
“Yeah, that would be right.”
Her eyes returned to the window. The sound of the stream might have comforted a previous Ellie. No more. She didn’t know whether to feel blessed or cursed. “Why am I here?” Westbank had no hospital, but the urgent care clinic would have been adequate for her injuries. She felt like she could walk, if gingerly.
He hesitated before answering. “The way Hiram was going on at the Cup, didn’t seem prudent to reach out to the Spanekers. After I got you back here, I went to see your daddy. He asked me to look after you.”
The view through the window went silvery and soft. Tears dripped onto her cheeks. Outside, the aspens fluttered through diffuse, watercolor light and the creek flowed, a quiet murmur of water over stone. The breeze breathed through the curtains; the air seemed to expand around her. “Miss? Miss, you okay?” Pastor Sanders voice mingled with the sound of flowing water. “Don’t you worry. You’re safe, I promise.” She blinked, and her vision fell through mist into sapphire. A moment later, she found her voice.
“Why aren’t I with my father?”
“He said you’d be safer here. Seems to me you would be in a better position to understand why than me.”
She thought of the scissors gleaming orange in the sunset and acid rose in her throat. Pastor Sanders had given no indication he knew what had happened, though he guessed its gravity. But what about her father? Did he know about the scissors? He wanted to hide her, but was he aware of the act that had driven her off the railroad bridge in the storm? She hated to think he might know what she’d done, no matter the reason. And what of this man to whom he’d entrusted her? Her mother had always been the more pious of her parents, but did her father find assurance in the pastor’s vocation? If so, it was a faith Ellie didn’t share. Reverend Wilburn would have felt her up before turning her over to Hiram.
“So what kind of preacher are you anyway?”
He smiled. “Oh, I’m no preacher. Pastor is my name ... after my daddy.”
“Your father’s name was Pastor?”
“No, that was his job. Pastor Meeks, of the Little Liver Creek Methodist Church. A white man, though you might not guess it to look at me.”
Except for his eyes. “You weren’t named in honor of him.”
“In honor? No, not exactly.” He chuckled. “I think Pastor Meeks figured he had nothing to worry about from some Injun girl, but my mama was someone you crossed at your peril.”
“Must have made for interesting Sundays.”
“It might have, but Indians didn’t attend Little Liver Methodist. We had our own church, so my father didn’t have to fret me in the pews Sunday mornings.” He waved his hand. “All ancient history. The important thing now is for you to understand you’re safe here.”
She felt her breath catch in her throat, but after a moment her tension seemed to drain away. Pastor seemed to sense her sudden need to sleep. He smiled and slipped away.
Later, when he brought Ellie’s clothes, washed and folded, Pastor Sanders included a set of men’s pajamas. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything else. Your father is going to collect some things for you, but he wants me to be careful about meeting with him. Doesn’t want to draw attention.”
“These are fine. Thank you.” The pajamas smelled of grass from hanging on the line outside. Most of the time she slept, or gazed out her window at the creek and the aspens on the far bank. Unlike everyone else she knew, Pastor had no television or satellite dish. He didn’t even have a phone. The long August days passed by with the breathless expectancy of a ticking clock. Sunlight pressed down on the flowing water and surrounding barley fields like a hot blanket. During trips to the bathroom, she avoided the mirror, afraid to see the damage her fall from the bridge had done. The stiff ache in her ribs and neck told her enough. Each morning, almost as if he could hear her thoughts, Pastor assured her the bruises were fading. During the days, he left her alone with her thoughts while he ventured out to tend to his own chores or work for other valley farmers, returning each evening with the lengthening shadows.
By the third evening she started to feel restless. She dressed and joined him on the back porch, where they sat in a pair of handmade rocking chairs and watched the brown-edged creek flow down valley toward the setting sun. Every so often, Pastor Sanders would refill their iced tea glasses, the only interruption to their companionable silence. Ellie listened to birdsong from the pasture above the yard, to the quiet sounds inside her own body. After days with nothing required of her but rest, she felt she could almost hear her damaged tissues knitting together again. But within her healing flesh lingered a pain she knew would not be cured in a few short days, no matter how comfortable her room or hospitable her caretaker.
As the sun dropped lower, the fields around them awoke with the chirping of crickets. A spider worked under the porch eave, its growing web gleaming in the orange light. Ellie saw the flicker of bats over the aspens, and heard a splash as a trout jumped in the stream.
“Your father wants me to meet him tomorrow to give me your things.”
“Can I come? I want to see him.”
“He doesn’t think it’s a good idea. If anyone sees me and him together, we can say it’s about work, but you—well, it’s too risky.”
She sighed. She felt so alone, yet that was nothing new. Even before Luellen left, she’d been alone. But it was a strange and crowded isolation. Someone was always watching over her, making sure she didn’t cross unseen and often shifting boundaries. Her mother, Pastor Wilburn, Stuart. They sought to shape her into docile, daunted Lizzie, yet she remained Dark Ellie. She gazed across the rickety porch at Pastor Sanders, rocking gently in his chair, glass of tea in his hands. His eyes were as deep and bold as the waters under the railroad bridge.
“You’ve done so much already.”
“I’ve done no more than any good Christian would do.”
“A lot more than most.”
“Not for me to judge.” He smiled a comforting, grandfatherly smile. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”
She spent the next day pacing from room to room. Through the windows she looked first out upon Pastor’s barley field, then the rising hills, then the creek—and back again. At points during the day she felt certain Hiram would be waiting when Pastor met with her father, would follow him back to her. As the afternoon wore at last into early evening, she found herself staring down the long gravel driveway, her ribs aching and her breath tight in her throat. At last she saw a dust plume rise, and a short time later Pastor’s old green pickup drove into view.
He carried a jacket draped over one arm and a small black duffel bag in his hand. Inside were a couple changes of underwear, socks, a bra, a pair of jeans and a shirt, as well as her old sneakers. She blushed at the thought of her father going through her underwear drawer, but felt even more troubled by him in her house at all. Did he see the blood on the kitchen floor? Could he tell what had happened?
Pastor offered her the jacket. Dark blue, with Givern Valley Future Farmers of America stitched across the back.
“Your daddy said Stuart wasn’t home.” He looked into her eyes. “Maybe Hiram was confused about which of you was long gone.”
Was she holding her breath? “He’s a long way from long gone.”
He led her into the kitchen. She helped him mix a salad and make a couple of sandwiches from leftover meatloaf. They carried the food out to the porch, hoping to catch an evening breeze. Ellie sipped her iced tea, chewed listlessly on her sandwich.
Pastor watched her, his expression solemn.
“Your daddy said Stuart was rough on you, not a proper man. He told me you lost your baby at Stuart’s hand.”
Ellie’s vision went dark and she pressed her hand against her stomach. A moment later, she found herself vomiting over the porch rail. Meatloaf and half-chewed lettuce spilled into the impatiens below. She’d eaten little, and her stomach emptied quickly. “I’m sorry ...” Dry heaves continued to wrack her. “I’m sorry ...” Pastor placed a gentle hand on her back and shhh’d quietly. “S’okay. Let it out.”
After a few minutes, the contractions subsided and she dropped back into her chair. Pastor brought her a damp washcloth and a glass of water. “Don’t drink a lot at first. Just clear the taste from your mouth.”
She smiled gratefully and wiped her face. When he took the cloth, she sat back with her eyes closed. A stitch pulsed in her side, but she tried to focus on the creek and the chorus of crickets instead. After a time, her breath returned and her stomach settled enough to speak.
“So important, what you have in your hand.”
Ellie looked at the water glass, an old jelly jar. “I don’t understand.”
“Come and see.” He stood and put his hands on the porch railing. After a moment, she joined him. Her stomach still felt loose, but she was steady on her feet. He gestured across the narrow patch of yard to the barley field beyond. The stalks stood almost waist high, a sea of rolling green breaking against the foothills a quarter mile distant. Pastor then pointed back across the creek. There, the terrain was more open and flat, with patches of tall grass and reeds among shallows that stretched across the valley. She knew the far edge of the marshland backed up on her father’s fields, and much of it, in fact, had been in Kern hands for generations.
“I don’t have a lot, but my barley crop is enough each year to carry me through till spring when work picks up again. I don’t own any of the wetlands, but I have good water even in dry years. It helps that I back up on the hills.”
Ellie couldn’t count the number of times she’d gazed across her own family’s land toward these same hills. In the fall her father and brothers would hunt ducks in the marsh. In summer they’d flush chukars and pheasant. Ellie’s father tried to include her, but her mother disapproved of such notions. Left to herself, she settled for solitary hikes through the wetlands to see the yellow rails in migration, and sometimes even sandhill cranes.
“It’s beautiful.”
“For the water.”
“Yes, for the water.”
She blew air up through her dark bangs. “Why are you telling me this?”
The old man turned and got his tea glass, drank, and shook the melting ice that remained. “Your brother died up to Chiloquin, didn’t he?”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Rob. He got involved in a fight or something at the casino up there. We never got the whole story.”
“And then your other brother—”
“Brett died in Iraq. He joined the Marines after he lost his farm.”
“I understand your father tried to buy back the land when it went to auction.”
“He didn’t have enough cash on hand, and he couldn’t swing a loan.”
“I imagine it didn’t help that Hiram Spaneker was standing there with a cashier’s check.”
Ellie had no response to that.
“That leaves you and your sister to inherit the Kern land when your father finally passes.”
“No one knows where Myra is.” There’d been talk of Myra riding, bony and hag dry, with bikers out of Redding, or up in Medford. Even as far off as Yakima.
“Which leaves you sole heir to the best water in Givern Valley, even discounting Brett’s parcel already peeled off through bank auction.”
“Hiram thinks he can get the land from me? After everything that’s happened?”
“Not from you. Stuart.”
“But Stuart is—”
Pastor raised his hand. “Right now, Stuart is whatever Hiram says he is. Hiram’s interests are better served by you alive and wed to his boy than dead or in jail. Even if he does own half the valley, the last thing he wants is to take a chance your father will hire some smart defense lawyer outa K-Falls or Eugene, or hell, even Portland.”
“My father would never hire someone from Portland.” But she was thinking of her choices. Go to the police and face up to what she did. Or turn herself over to Hiram. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her, but he could make her wish she was dead. And someday, when her father passed and she inherited the land, what then? How long would Hiram hide Stuart’s death, if he thought doing so might give him title to the best water in Givern Valley? It would have been better to die in the swollen creek than to fall into his hands.
“What can I do?”
Now Pastor leaned forward. When he spoke, his voice was low, conspiratorial. “You’ve got to outthink him.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Of course you do. Your daddy told me you’re a smart girl.”
“How could he say that after everything I’ve done? This mess—”
Pastor drew himself up. “A woman is entitled to protect herself.” His voice snapped like a leather strap and Ellie drew a sharp breath at the sound. But then his eyes softened again. “Now you listen to me. Your daddy says you’re to use Hiram’s scheming against him.”
She let out her breath and ran her hands through her hair. It felt greasy on her fingers. The sensation reminded her of the infection between her legs, of the medicine left behind. She wondered when she would get the chance to see another doctor.
“Your father sent money with your clothes. It’s in the zipper pocket inside your coat. It’s not much, but it’ll get you started.”
She’d never been on her own. Her stomach clenched and she felt like she would throw up again. Pastor Sanders reached over and took her hands in his own. She flinched at the touch, but he held on.
“Listen to me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “You made a decision the other night, and no one is blaming you. But now you got to see it through. Hiram thinks you’ll go to ground, try to hide in familiar haunts. So slip away instead. Go quiet. Then in a month or two, once you’re safe, call your father. He’s preparing something for you, and he says it will be ready by then.”
“Call him?” Her last, tenuous tie to the valley was dissolving. “From where?” Even her father no longer saw a place for her here.
“Wherever you are. Call him when it’s safe.”
She looked at him sharply. Luellen’s words ... when it’s safe. But suddenly Ellie knew what path she might follow. Luellen had led the way, another young woman who fled Givern Valley. Ellie would travel north to Portland and find her old friend.
Pastor Sanders seemed to sense her new resolve. She met his deep eyes and felt a moment of solace. “Okay. I will go.”
They drove to Klamath Falls the next afternoon, forty miles down the state road. Their first stop was the Greyhound station. Pastor waited while she bought her ticket, north to find Luellen. From there, who knew? She also bought a card at the newsstand. She wrote Luellen a short note to let her know she was on her way and mailed it in the station.
It was too late for that day’s bus to Medford, where she would make the Portland connection. She’d have to go the next morning. Back in the pickup, Pastor drove to a nearby motel. She told him he didn’t have to stay with her, but he insisted it was no trouble.
“It’ll be a comfort to your daddy to know I’ve seen you off.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Stay safe. That’s thanks enough.”
Once they were settled in their room, Pastor went out to get them some supper. He didn’t think it was a good idea for her to be seen in public, as unlikely as it was she’d be recognized this far from Givern. She tried to watch television while she waited, but nothing could distract her. She found herself going to the window again and again, looking out at the parking lot and the street beyond. The sound of the television was shapeless buzz in her ears. Pastor did not return.
Ellie slept poorly, fled the motel early. Though she knew the safest course was to remain in her room until time to catch the bus mid-morning, a boxed-in feeling drove her out. For a while, she walked the empty streets, duffel bag clutched to her chest. There was no sign of Pastor’s pickup. She thought about calling her father, but didn’t, afraid of who might be listening. After a while she found herself in a bagel shop. She tried to eat, but the food was dry and flavorless; the coffee tasted like ash. She eyed every customer who came through the door, recognized none of them. When an older man with a blue gaze strikingly similar to Pastor’s caught her eye she fled the shop. No one followed, near as she could tell. Two hours later, the bus carried her away.