A Drive in Marion County

Tom Keegan had timed his arrival to find everybody at home. Saturday, late morning. He’d spent the night in a motor lodge south of town. Thanks to an iron borrowed from the reception desk his uniform was crisp. His shoes were polished to a high shine. It would be the last time he wore the full regalia—the cap and the array of patches and service ribbons—before putting it away for good. Mom would love it and Dad would approve.

San Francisco in spring could be a patchwork of jumbled seasons but the city showed its best side today for a sweet welcome.

The narrow Edwardian on Guerrero looked prim with a fresh coat of ivory paint. The front door and windows were forest green; two terracotta pots sat on top of the stairs. Tom didn’t recall the color of the house when he last saw it, on a brief visit before shipping out to Europe, but he was sure the pots were new. Pink geraniums. He climbed the steps and went in. He put down his duffel bag and took a moment to appreciate the smell coming from the kitchen. Mom was preparing the midday meal.

“Anybody home?” he said.

Something fell in the kitchen. Tom hoped it was only a wooden spoon. His mother appeared in the opening. Her hands went to her face and by the time Tom reached her she was crying. She felt small and thin in his arms and her hair had gone completely gray. It went well with her dark blue eyes.

“Tommy, Tommy … Let me look at you.”

Her hands caressed his face, her fingers traced his smile.

Then sounds came from upstairs and Helen ran down the steps at breakneck speed.

“Golly! It’s you. Finally!” She launched herself at him so hard that he banged against the wall and the hutch with the family’s good plates experienced a minor earthquake. “You took your goddamn time!” She punched his chest hard for emphasis.

“I wanted to be presentable.” Tom laughed. “It took some work.” He kissed his sister. “You look lovely. Where’s Dad?”

“Pampering his roses,” Mom said. “Don’t give him a scare now.”

Tom crossed the sitting room and opened the French doors leading to the back porch. Bill Keegan was leaning over a cluster of red roses, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He examined leaves, searching for aphids and other pests to obliterate.

“The darned invaders don’t have a prayer,” Tom said.

Dad straightened up with a slight wince. “I made a little bet with myself that you would show up on a Friday evening or Saturday,” he smiled, “after you called from Missouri and told us you bought a car and would drive back.”

Tom nodded. “I needed time.”

“Are the women in tears yet?”

Tom crossed the patch of grass and the two men embraced. The smell of roses was so heavy you could taste it on your tongue.

“You can get drunk on these beauties,” Tom said.

“Why do you think I spend so much time out here?” Dad put an arm around his shoulders. They were about the same height. “How do you feel, son?”

“Happy to be home.”

***

The soft bubble held for a week before the insistent pressure of civilian life made itself felt. Tom used part of his demob pay to rent an apartment, the top floor of a three-story Victorian on Divisadero owned by a widow, Mrs. Ferguson, who lived on the ground floor. The other tenant was a music teacher. Mrs. Ferguson welcomed the presence of a young man in the house. “If we need to move heavy things,” she said. She reminded Tom of his mother, down to the puffs of flour on her apron. She said she loved to bake. The house smelled of apple pie.

It was the first step toward regular life. An easy one that didn’t imply a commitment. Tom looked at the years ahead and didn’t feel an urge to get involved in anything. It bothered him. He wanted to control his life after having had so little to say about it. And the choices he made before the chaos of war were no longer valid. They applied to somebody else. He had changed.

“The G.I. Bill is a good deal.” Dad pretended to be busy with his pipe. “You always wanted to be a lawyer.”

They were on the porch, with a couple of whiskeys. Neat for Tom, with a dash of soda for his father. Helen was at the movies with friends and Mom listened to a radio show. They could hear her laughter bubbling through the open windows.

“I don’t know what I want. It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

Tom lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “I went to Hastings College of Law today and sat in the back during a class. The professor droned about intent and volition. It’s the kind of intellectual game that used to get my brain going.” He tapped ash in a flowerpot. “He could have given a definition and a couple examples and be done in five minutes. It made me impatient. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“Pointless armchair disputation versus direct action?”

Tom appreciated how freely he could talk to his father. No topic was ever off limit. He struggled to convey what troubled him. It wasn’t clear in his head to begin with.

“You think combat made me crave reality,” Tom said, “and everyday life is lacking. That isn’t true. War was like stepping out of myself. It wasn’t real and terribly real at the same time. What’s more real than death, right?”

“It’s debatable.”

Tom chuckled. “Exactly.” He had a sip of his drink and a puff of his smoke. He was smoking too much and staring at the bottom of glasses too often lately. “Sitting in a classroom feels like a waste of time.”

“Compromise, hedge your bets,” Dad said. “Find a job that’ll keep your hands busy and go to school part time. You’ll find a path. There’s no hurry, even if everything around you pushes to convince you there is.”

Job opportunities weren’t in short supply for young men with Tom’s credentials. A decorated captain with a college degree. Employers were eager to talk to him. For two solid weeks, Tom lined up interviews all across town. He also registered for evening classes. And he sorted through options. Office work, behind a desk, pushing paper held no appeal. Anything involving finance was better left to people who liked playing with numbers. Managing people was all right. He’d done it under impossible conditions.

In June, Tom signed with Millar Construction, as a logistics manager. The company was large and the work was complex; materials came from multiple sources by sea, train, and road; the roster of contractors was extensive. Politics interfered, permits and unions. Problems to solve, decisions to make, at a fast clip. Tom was rarely behind his desk.

“They let you breathe?” Dad asked when he went home for Sunday dinner.

“Just enough to keep me alive.” Tom grinned. “I’m getting the hang of it, and I have a great second-in-command. Big Polish truck driver. He has my back. He won’t let dockhands throw me in the bay.”

Tom relished his independence. He had a job to do and nobody above him to tell him how to do it.

***

“I’m sending you to Oregon,” Rob Walters, the company owner, said.

“Nice. Why?”

“I’ve worked with the same lumber supplier for thirty years. We’ve weathered all kinds of crises. I hoped he would hang in there but he’s decided to sell and retire to San Diego.” Walters gave a stack of documents to Tom. “Four sawmills in the area produce what we need. I sent specs and asked for quotes. It’s all in the file. On paper they all look solid. I talked to people over the phone but nothing beats an in-person visit.”

“You want me to recommend one,” Tom said.

“You’re a good judge of character. Talk to Millie. She’ll make your travel arrangements. She loves doing that.”

Tom took the train two days later, a late afternoon departure. He would arrive in Salem, south of Portland, before noon the next day. Millie had booked three nights at the downtown Marion Hotel.

“The hotel should be able to help with transportation,” Millie said. “It’s quite the place apparently.”

An understatement. Four stories of sedate wealth that made Tom wish he’d packed a suit. With the sawmills in mind, he wore chinos and a sports jacket. Sturdy brogues to complete the look. None of it was new. The brown fedora was similarly all-terrain. Instead of a suitcase, he carried a leather holdall.

One glance at the lobby and Tom knew this was where deals were made, in the thick funk of cigar smoke.

“You’re in town for business, Mr. Keegan?” the prim lady behind the reception desk said.

He grinned. “I’m not planning to run for office. Competition looks stiff.”

She chuckled. “Today, we have a few state representatives and a handful of Chamber of Commerce types. The usual. Your room is on the third floor. It’s quiet.” She handed him his key. “Bar and restaurant on the ground floor. We start serving breakfast at six.”

“I need transportation. Do you know where I could find a rental?”

“Garages. I can call for you.” She tilted her head. “Do you have preferences?”

“I plan to visit sawmills,” Tom said. “I don’t know about the roads.”

“Muddy and rutted. Will you need the car today?”

“Tomorrow morning is fine.”

Tom thanked her and went to explore Salem. He found a luncheon counter and bought the local newspaper, The Oregon Statesman. Something to read with his meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

The newspaper’s office was on Commercial Street, a short walk from the hotel.

***

The reporter covering business news, Ed Chapin, was fiftyish and rotund. His waistline was a testimony of frequent meals with valuable sources. Tom handed him one of his freshly printed cards.

“Millar Construction, San Francisco,” Chapin said. “What brings you our way?”

“Lumber. We need a reliable supplier. I’m on an exploratory trip.”

Chapin pondered. “You want information. What’s in it for me?”

“Cocktails and dinner at the Marion Hotel. I doubt there’s an article in it. If you have juicy gossip on the businesses I’m interested in, you either have published it already, or you kept it under wraps because you value your career.”

The reporter laughed. “A healthy dose of cynicism, I see. Who do you have on your list?”

“Murdoch, Arlin, Croquet, and Seward. The others can’t deliver what we need.”

Chapin leaned back in his chair with his hands crossed behind his head. He stared at the tin ceiling of the office. “Good companies, all. Murdoch is as big as the other three taken together. They have the weaknesses of their size. Arlin is nimble, adaptable. Croquet can do fancy stuff, which means they prefer small production runs. Seward is always first to get the new equipment, so maybe they’re in a good position to catch the big boom everybody sees coming. All these young guys hungry for a wife, kids, a home, a white picket fence.” He squinted. “Guys like you.”

Tom lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Chapin who declined. “I’m single and I rent. What about the people who run these companies?”

“Character, you mean? They won’t screw you but they won’t leave a penny on the table either. It’s a muscular business. Hard-nosed.”

“For real or for show?” Tom blew a stream of smoke.

“I don’t have the temperament to go verify, Keegan. You have appointments lined up?”

Tom nodded. He contemplated the end of his cigarette.

“You’re a very calm fellow. It’s more than a bit unnerving.”

“I have my thinking face on. The sawmill guys, where do they go to relax after work?”

“The Moose Bar is a favorite.” Chapin pointed out the window. “On the waterfront. You’re a stranger. They’ll ask questions.”

“I don’t mind telling them why I’m here.”

“They’ll want to know where you were these past few years.”

Tom knocked off his cigarette ash in a dustbin. “I don’t mind telling them that either.”

Chapin sighed. “Let me explain. Because I like you. The old timers didn’t go overseas because of their age, family situations, or because they were more useful doing their jobs at home. Mixed feelings from that bunch, especially now that the young guns are being hired in droves. There’s competition, jockeying for position in the male pecking order. Add alcohol to the mix. It’s the rare night at the Moose that doesn’t feature a bloody brawl.” He leaned with his elbows on the desk. “What did you do during the war, Keegan?”

“I jumped out of airplanes.”

“I guess you’ll be safe then. If you can hold your drink.” Chapin held up a hand. “Sorry. Irish. Stupid me.”

“Let’s have that dinner at the Marion Hotel tomorrow. It looks like I’ll be busy tonight.”

***

The Moose Bar wasn’t the dive Tom had pictured after talking to Ed Chapin. It had a long wooden counter, mirrors on the wall behind the two busy barkeeps, stools, tables, and booths. The patrons wore overalls. Some sported various pieces of repurposed uniforms, blue, green, tan. At a glance all branches were represented, except maybe for the Coast Guards. Tom ordered a double whiskey and perched on a stool. He didn’t have long to wait. His fedora stood out.

A wide-shouldered grizzled character took the stool next to him and slid it uncomfortably close.

“You know what this place is, pal?”

He was so close Tom could feel the warmth of the man’s breath on his neck.

“A bar where sawmill workers like to hang out.” Tom raised his glass in salute. “For good reasons, the booze is top shelf.”

“Glad you like it. What are you doing here?”

Tom didn’t move his stool. He either stood his ground or should walk out. Subtle this wasn’t. “Having a drink and hoping to have a conversation.”

“About what?”

“Lumber, what else.” He shrugged.

“You with a union?” He poked at Tom’s jacket with a big knobby finger. “You carry some red literature in these pockets?”

Tom couldn’t help laughing. He hadn’t expected that turn of events. His burst of hilarity confused the man who moved his stool back a step.

“I’m here to buy lumber,” Tom said. “And the guys in here know a lot about it.”

Tom learned useful things that evening. A harrowing retelling of accidents at the Murdoch sawmill over the past year. Fingers chopped off, arms cut at the elbow, legs crushed by falling stacks. The men didn’t blame management, not directly. They talked about long work hours, production volumes, machinery needing upgrades to keep up with the demand. The other sawmills had similar problems, but on a smaller scale, commensurate with the size of their operations.

Food for thought. Were the lumber companies taking more than they could handle and were some of them pushing the limits beyond what was reasonable? Immediate profit versus gradual and sustainable growth. All things being equal, Tom would look for the supplier who could keep a cool head in an overheated market.

***

Tom was driving back from Seward Sawmill, his last visit and the farthest away from Salem, when an incident by the side of the road—muddy and rutted, as the hotel lady said—caught his attention.

A group of men were jumping around and shouting next to a broken-down barn. It was late afternoon. Sunset was a couple hours away and the diffuse light gave the scene a dreamy quality. Pale rays caught the glisten of glass bottles. These people were drunk.

It was none of Tom’s business and he kept driving. He was about to make a turn and leave the incident behind when he shot a glance at the rearview mirror.

He hit the brakes.

A woman was pinned against the wall of the barn. She held a bundle in her arms. A baby? She looked terrified and her face wasn’t right. Bloody. Beaten up.

Tom had seen too many similar scenes. A woman or a girl boxed in by men in uniform, drunk with the violence of combat, the rush of having made it out alive. Pent up tension looking for release and a defenseless target. He handled it by showing his gun and breaking a few noses, and knew it was only a reprieve, a drop in a bucket of abuse.

He stepped out of the rental truck. As he approached the group, he heard ‘squaw’, ‘half breed’, ‘get on with it, Ray’, then a blood-chilling ‘hand over the papoose’.

Tom wished he still had that gun. It made things a lot simpler. He picked up a pine branch, tested it. Solid. It would do.

He stood behind an excited, sweaty, red-faced drunk and tapped him on the shoulder.

The guy turned around and took Tom’s swing of the pine baton smack in the face. He collapsed without a sound. By the time the rest of the bunch realized what was going on, four of them were on the ground and Tom was shielding the woman. She held a baby and both her eyes had been punched. Her jaw was crooked, crushed.

“We’re leaving,” Tom said. “Can you walk?”

She nodded.

“Stay behind me. Don’t get in the way of my swing.”

Tom laid down a few more hits but the men weren’t in any condition to stop him.

He helped the woman into the truck and trotted to the driver side, keeping an eye on the battlefield. A few of the morons were stirring.

“I’m taking you to Salem. You need a doctor. I’m Tom Keegan, by the way.”

“Lena, this is Kymie. I don’t need a doctor.”

She was awfully young.

Her story came in puzzle pieces that Tom put together on the drive back to Salem. Lena had run away from a husband who beat her. She was going to her sister, in Portland. A man gave her a ride and kicked her out of the car when she fought him off. The barn looked like a shelter but she was spotted and surrounded. The husband, the car driver, and the men at the barn were all jointly responsible for her broken face.

“I know somebody who can help for tonight,” Tom said. “I’ll drive you to Portland tomorrow.”

He was parking in front of the offices of The Oregon Statesman when a police cruiser tore down the street and came to a screeching halt in front of his truck. It said Marion County Sheriff on the door.

“Get out, hands up,” an officer screamed, gun pointed.

One of the idiots at the barn must have found a phone. Tom leaned on the horn.

“Stop that or I shoot!”

The noise brought people out of shops and offices. Tom spotted Ed Chapin. He stopped honking.

“See the man in the blue suit, with the big belly?” Tom said to Lena. “Go to him. He’ll keep you safe.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be okay. Go.”

Tom waited for her to exit the truck. The deputy hesitated, unsure what to do.

“I’m coming out. I’m not armed.” Tom slid out of the truck with his hands up. He straightened to his full height, a solid three inches over the cop. “What is it all about?”

“You’re under arrest for assault.”

“Actually, officer, I would like to press charges on behalf of my passengers, a woman and her child.” Tom pointed at the office behind him. “Maybe we should go in there, and you can take my statement.”

He didn’t wait for an answer and walked toward the reporter who had a protective arm around Lena’s shoulders. “Looks like I’m giving you a story after all, Chapin.”

“Going to get me in trouble, Keegan.” The reporter smiled ear to ear. “I love it.”

It took some contortions but the Marion County sheriff found a way to retreat with the dignity of his office only slightly bruised.

***

“Lena is lucky you were driving by,” Chapin said. “And stopped. Most people would have kept going.”

They were in the bar of the Marion Hotel. Lena and the baby were with Chapin’s wife. A doctor reset the girl’s jaw. There was no permanent damage but the swelling would take time to subside.

“The Bureau of Indian Affairs,” Chapin said. “I never realized how arrogant that is. Gather people and assign a bureaucrat to manage their business. Tell them where to live and give them an allowance. And people wonder why there’s resentment. I’ll write an article. I doubt it’ll do any good.”

Tom swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Nobody’s going to face consequences for what they did to Lena. The husband is a menace. So is the anonymous driver who molested her. And the drunken mob at the barn. Eight guilty men are off the hook, free to do it again. She and the baby could be buried somewhere in the woods and nobody would be the wiser. Tell me Chapin, where’s justice when the most vulnerable are the least protected?”

“Strong words. You mind if I use that line?”

Tom hiked his shoulders. It reminded him of the conversation he had with his father. Words versus action. War time and peace time. It didn’t make any difference for Lena. A barn in Oregon or the ruins of Berlin, she would be dead all the same.

“Have you decided which sawmill you’ll do business with?” Chapin said.

Tom’s thoughts were miles away from lumber yards. It took him a moment to process Chapin’s question. “Arlin.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“Their workers still have all their fingers.” He drained his glass and signaled the bartender for a refill. When his drink arrived, he knocked it back right away and stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow when I pick up Lena.”

Chapin grabbed his arm. “You’re angry. So am I. There’s nothing you can do, Tom.”

“I can make sure she’s safe in Portland.”

***

A few years ago, when he was planning for a law career, Tom would have bristled at the imperfect resolution of the incident. It was a flaw of youth to want all or nothing at all. After living through victories that tasted like defeats, and retreats that were major achievements, he’d learned to take the wins, however small they may seem.

And delivering Lena and baby Kymie into the caring hands of an older sister was only small in the eyes of strangers. For the girl with the broken jaw, a safe haven meant everything.

“You and Mr. Chapin,” she said, “you are good men.”

She didn’t have to add that she hadn’t met many.

Tom returned the rental truck in Salem and took the train back to San Francisco, mission accomplished—the official and unofficial one—with a new outlook on his future.

The next Sunday, at the house on Guerrero, he told his father about the events in Oregon.

“You told me to keep my hands busy. Swinging that pine branch felt a lot better than walking around with a clipboard.”

Bill Keagan groaned. “I hear you and I don’t like the sound of it, even if you did the right thing. It’s violence again, as the inevitable solution for evil. It’s false and you know it. There’s a word for it: expediency.”

Tom played with his cigarette pack, pulled one out, put it back in. “I quit my job.”

“Because of Salem?”

“I would have quit no matter what. I might have witnessed a fight in a warehouse one day or a robbery on my way home at night. Things I won’t turn my back on and let slide.” Tom shrugged. “Then I’d get in trouble, hurt somebody and regret it, or get hurt … I decided it was better to step in front of it.”

“Going back to law school full time is the right decision.”

“Not exactly. I joined the San Francisco Police Department.” Tom was amused at the shocked expression on his father’s face. “They were so happy to see me I thought they would cry.”

“I can imagine. You’re a prize catch. Good God, Tommy.”

Tom finally popped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it in one practiced move. “I’ve thought it over.”

“I still think you should finish law school.”

“Actually, the chief of police agrees with you. I’ll be back in the classroom.”

Dad sighed. “A law degree to walk a beat? You can do so much better.”

“I’ll pound the pavement for a few months. It’s the best way to learn. It’ll be all right. For the first time since I got off the boat, I feel solid ground under my feet.” He smiled. “Don’t tell Mom. I haven’t figured out how to break the news to her.”

“I know what she’ll say. Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Another Irish cop. It’s always that or a priest!”

The End

BIO: M.E. Proctor was born in Brussels and lives in Texas. She’s the author of the Declan Shaw detective mysteries: Love You Till Tuesday, Catch Me on a Blue Day, and the upcoming The Way You Say My Name. She’s the author of two short story collections, Family and Other Ailments and A Book to Live By, and the co-author of the retro-noirs, Bop City Swing and Kansas City Breakdown. Her fiction has appeared in various magazines and anthologies. She’s a Shamus and Derringer awards short story nominee. Catch Me on a Blue Day was recently nominated for a Shamus Award in the Best Original Paperback category. Website: www.shawmystery.com.

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