of editorials, research what other small towns did for their young people. Not until Jodie Schuster checked in, she thought, remembering Johnny’s words. Evidently the newspaper had run a story about a runaway, only to be subjected to a lot of criticism for it when the kid turned up again. Maybe, because Johnny had been stung, he had exaggerated about how many kids had run away from Brindle, trying to make it seem commonplace, not worthy of a story. Okay, she told herself. First research, information, then a series of editorials. And have something just a little more interesting than school board meetings and flu clinics in the newspaper.
She could not account for, or even identify, the tingle that passed through her as she picked up her pen to make a note about the missing children of Brindle.
Nine
On Saturday, Todd found many photographs aligned on the dining table. “I tried to put them in chronological order,” Ruth Ann said, “as much as possible, anyway. Most of them don’t have dates, of course. But that’s the original Warden’s Place in the early years, maybe at the start. There are several photos of it, some with him and Hilliard, one with Janey with them. They all lived in it.” The pictures were fanned out, and she spread them a bit so that each one was visible. She put the one with Janey aside. “I know I’ll want that one, but I haven’t decided which of the others I’ll use. The first church,” she said, pointing to the next set. “My grandfather was preacher there.”
She pointed to several other photographs, the first one-room school with a teacher in a rigid pose and six children who looked petrified. Four of them were barefoot. She put that one aside, also. “In,” she said.
“I’ll skim through the diaries and letters and try to get a clue about who all those people were,” Ruth Ann said, “and date them if I can. I want to use pictures with people as much as possible, but only if I can identify them.”
“They all look so grim,” Todd said. The children’s clothes looked either too big or too small, smock dresses on the girls, shapeless pants and shirts on the boys. Women were wearing high-neck dresses with long sleeves, aprons or shawls, and what seemed to be laced boots. So much for the glamorous west of moviedom, she thought.
“I suppose they were grim for much of the time,” Ruth Ann said. “It was a hard life. One of the diaries says that it was an all-day trip to Bend, another day to stock up on staples, then a whole day coming home again. No running water, no electricity, no plumbing. A hard life and a lonesome one.”
She had put aside four of the photographs for Todd to start working with, the others to be decided upon later. She went back to resume reading the diaries in her sitting room, and Todd went to work on the pictures.
She was so young, Todd was thinking a few minutes later, working on the photograph of Janey with Mike Hilliard and Joe Warden. Her hair was parted in the middle, drawn back, probably in a bun; her hands were clasped before her. Standing between the two men, she looked diminutive, frail and frightened. Todd remembered what Johnny had said about the runaways—what was there in Brindle for kids to do? What had there been for Janey? Sixteen, with an infant, in a wilderness, alone with two much older men who both looked stern and rough, staring at the camera as if it were the enemy.
Todd was working on the picture with the school children when Ruth Ann reappeared from her sitting room, yawning.
“I fell asleep,” she said. “Bad poetry put me to sleep. Todd, stop for the day. You’ve been at it for hours.”
“Let me show you what I have,” Todd said. “Here’s the photo of Janey with her husband and Warden.”
Ruth Ann studied the printout, then nodded. “I think she had a dimple,” she said.
“I think so, too. She was only a kid, almost a child herself.”
Ruth Ann put the printout down and shook her head. “From all accounts she was a prostitute,” she said. “They started a cathouse in Warden’s Place, and it seems she was a working girl there. It was rumored that she was carrying on with a customer when her daughter drowned in Brindle Creek.”
Todd stared at her, then at the printout. How could she have left a two-year-old child alone by that ice-cold water? “Is that what you’re going to write about?”
“Only if I can verify it. You young people don’t know what real censorship is these days. No one, to my knowledge, has ever openly talked about what really went on in the early years. Mothers whispered things to daughters or to each other. Not outright. Coded. They invented coded language. Men, no doubt, talked among themselves, told things to their sons perhaps. Whispers. Innuendos. Hints. Sex was the ultimate dirty word, one that no decent person uttered. I think it’s time this town learned the truth about Warden and the Hilliards.”
“Why?” Todd said. “It’s a hundred-year-old scandal. Why rake it through the ashes now?”
Ruth Ann’s expression had become as grim as those in the photographs. “Every few years someone brings up the idea of a monument to our founders,” she said. “Grace Rawleigh is pushing for it and this year, the year of the centennial, she intends to force it through. She can afford it, but she intends for the town to foot the bill. I intend to stop that. This town needs a lot of things, and a monument in the park to feed Grace’s ego isn’t one of them.”
“A youth center,” Todd said. “That’s what the town needs. Did you hear about Jodie Schuster? A runaway girl?”
“Yes. Maria told me.”
“Do you know anything about her? How old she is, when she took off? Anything?”
“She’s fourteen,” Ruth Ann said. “Her mother’s a nurse at the hospital in Bend. She left Jodie and her two little brothers at home when she went to work on Thursday morning at six-thirty. Jodie gets the boys off on their bikes at about seven-thirty, and then she walks down to catch the school bus. That morning she didn’t get on the bus, and no one has seen her since.”
Only fourteen! Todd thought in wonder and dismay. She hesitated a moment, then said, “Whose permission do I need to run a series of editorials about runaway children, youth centers, things of that sort? Yours or Johnny’s?”
“I’m still the publisher,” Ruth Ann said sharply. “Do it.” She started to gather the photographs together, then added, “Don’t count on any of the council members for cooperation, not Ollie Briscoe, and probably not Johnny. They all would cage the devil and put him on display if they thought it would bring in a tourist dollar.”
Todd walked home deep in thought. Seth, she decided. If she could talk him into helping her find local information, that would be step one. She couldn’t use only national statistics, she had to tie her editorials to the local community, to these people here and their runaway kids. She got her Acura out and drove to Safeway. It was five minutes before six and she knew that Jan got off at six on Saturdays.
She parked, then waited until a minute or two after six before leaving her car as Jan was coming out of the store.
“Too late,” Jan said as Todd approached. “We’re closed.”
“I was really looking for you,” Todd said. “I wanted to ask you and Seth to come to dinner tomorrow night.”
Jan’s smile vanished and she said in exasperation, “Wouldn’t you know it. Nothing happens all the time and when it does, it’s all at once.
