The Heart of Joy_A Short Story Page 3

  “But . . . but how can you love two men at the same time? How is that possible? How can such a thing be right?”

  “When death intervenes and God concludes a marriage, the heart mourns and grieves for what it has lost. It cannot turn off its love like one turns off a spigot. No, the better question concerns the condition of the heart: Is it healthy enough to admit that the marriage vows are ‘until death do us part’ and that death has ended the marriage?

  “Can you, Joy, admit that your marriage to Grant is over, even while you hold and esteem every memory as vital and precious—albeit a vital and precious part of your past?”

  Joy frowned. My marriage to Grant is over? But I do not want it to be over!

  She blinked and turned those unwelcome thoughts over and around. “I guess that is where I am at present. I-I do not want to let go of Grant. I want to still be married to him.”

  “Then, in all fairness, you are not ready to encourage Mr. O’Dell.”

  But . . .

  The thought of letting Grant go had but one rival: Letting O’Dell go, too.

  O Lord, I cannot continue on like this, stuck in this lonely place with only my memories of Grant to keep me company!

  But am I ready to go forward? Into something new?

  And must I let Grant go?

  Is that the price I must pay for Edmund O’Dell’s love?

  ~*~

  The next weeks taxed Joy’s soul. That O’Dell was laying siege to her heart was evident.

  It is apparent to me and anyone else with two eyes in their head, she fussed.

  O’Dell attended the same church the Palmer House residents attended: Calvary Temple, the many-cultured church that met in an old brick warehouse near downtown Denver. Breona’s husband, Isaac Carmichael, co-pastored the church with Minister Liáng, who was married to Mei-Xing, a former Palmer House girl.

  In the weeks following his dinner at Palmer House, O’Dell had made it a point to greet Rose, Joy, and the other girls (in that order) before each Sunday service. Then he would find a seat directly behind the Palmer House contingency and, after service, linger close by, shamelessly angling for an invitation to Sunday supper.

  Breona and Marit were equally shameless in extending such invitations.

  Between Sundays, O’Dell called at Palmer House three evenings a week, always after dinner and only for an hour. When O’Dell arrived, he usually presented Joy with a small gift—nothing too personal, of course. He might bring her a used book of poetry he’d purchased or an article he’d cut from a magazine.

  When O’Dell observed Joy’s delight over any growing thing he brought, he took to supplying her with little pots of herbs or flowering plants. These arrived singly, a few each week, and with no accompanying fanfare. A little pot simply appeared at Joy’s place at the breakfast table.

  At first, Joy was not pleased that he called so often. She sometimes asked her mother to tell him that she was busy or unavailable when he asked for her; however, he took no offense. For the duration of his hour, he played checkers with Mr. Wheatley. To that old gent’s delight, Mr. Wheatley and O’Dell played many a game of checkers in May.

  Joy pondered the fact that O’Dell seemed undeterred.

  Then O’Dell began to call on Saturday afternoons, inviting Joy for a drive. O’Dell made sure to plan their excursion around some interesting scenic viewpoint or historical site. He included Blackie in their outings—and that happy dog, from his place on the Bergdoll’s aft seat, hung his head from the open carriage and grinned into the wind.

  Quite without intending to, Joy began to look forward to those drives, to anticipate them and wonder what new scenic tour O’Dell would concoct next.

  One evening at the end of the month, O’Dell inquired, “Would you care to make a day of Saturday? I thought we could take a lunch and drive to Lookout Mountain Park and hike the trails. No doubt Blackie would find it quite an adventure, and I hear the views are spectacular.”

  “I would very much like to go!” Joy had heard of the park, too.

  She thought for a moment, nodded to herself, and asked softly, “Perhaps you will allow me to put together our lunch?”

  Up to that point, O’Dell had made all the arrangements, had borne all the expense of their outings, had accepted that his attentions were one-sided. Joy’s suggestion seemed to signal a subtle shift to O’Dell, a restrained concession on Joy’s part to receive his courtship.

  “I know any lunch you pack will exceed my best efforts,” he said. He smiled as he answered and Joy smiled back.

  “It would be advisable for us to wear sturdy walking shoes and be prepared for a mountain shower—extra clothing and a towel or two. Just as a precaution,” he added.

  “I will dress appropriately,” Joy promised.

  O’Dell could not take his eyes away. Thirsty for her, he drank in Joy’s tall, womanly figure, her high Nordic cheekbones, the striking blue of her eyes, and her flaxen hair—hair so thick that the braid wound and pinned behind her head was as substantial as one of her wrists.

  She has her mother’s mouth, O’Dell thought. She has Rose’s sweet but firm disposition—and all Rose’s courage.

  Joy blushed under O’Dell’s frank examination, but she did not frown as she often had over the past three weeks. She did not fluster and make up a reason to excuse herself.

  Perhaps Saturday will be the day, he thought, the day I might ask Joy to consider my suit. When we might speak frankly of the future. Our future.

  But how was he to know what misadventures lay ahead?

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 3

  Saturday morning dawned cloudless and bright, filled with the promise of sunshine and glory. The high mountains would lose the last of their snowpack as spring wound toward summer, but today the snowy peaks to Denver’s west still gleamed under the piercing sun.

  As soon as they cleared away the breakfast clutter at Palmer House, Joy commandeered the kitchen. She diced a cooked chicken breast, halved grapes, and chopped celery and walnuts. She made sandwiches from the chicken salad and wrapped them in napkins. She filled two large bottles—one with lemonade, the other with water—and corked them.

  Joy lined a basket with a tea towel, placed the sandwiches and bottles inside and added two apples, a small cloth and two napkins, and two chipped plates and cups no longer in service but perfect for a picnic.

  Marit entered the kitchen with Charley on her hip. “Vat haf you packed for lunch?”

  With a sheepish gesture, Joy showed her.

  “Ach! Vit so much valking and hiking, Mr. O’Dell vill have more appetite, ja? I give cookies and pie, too.” She dragged her immense cookie jar toward the basket and piled a dozen oatmeal cookies into yet another napkin. Then she produced a cherry pie, cut two generous slices, placed them on one of the plates, and knotted them into a tea towel. She added two forks to the basket.

  “There,” she said, satisfied. “That’s good, now.”

  “Thank you, Marit.”

  “The vay to a man’s heart . . .” Marit finished with a chuckle. She grinned and her plain, plump features dimpled and lit with the love and goodwill that made her a favorite at Palmer House.

  Joy shook her head and did not trust herself to answer. Instead, she closed the basket and hefted it onto her arm. “Have a good day, sweet Marit.”

  ~*~

  When the brass knocker fell upon the door and resounded through Palmer House’s first floor, Blackie barked and raced to the foyer, skidding across the parquet. Joy felt within his fluffy ruff for his collar and tugged him back from the door. “Manners, Blackie. Sit.”

  Obedient to Joy’s command, Blackie sat. His tongue lolled out one side of his mouth. He fixed his smoky-blue eyes on the door.

  Joy laughed softly. “You know who is calling, do you not, my good boy?”

  Blackie whined and scooted his haunches forward an inch.

  Joy laughed again and reached for the door. She was still laughing when she greeted O’D
ell.

  She had never seen him dressed in anything other than one of the three-piece suits he wore as a Pinkerton man. His attire today was a tweed jacket, twill shirt, and a pair of faded trousers over well-used brown boots. Rather than his trademark bowler, he wore a tweed cap upon his head. He held a thick bunch of daisies in his hand.

  “A little sunshine for you, Miss Joy.” He grinned and extended the bouquet to her.

  “Sunshine! What a lovely way to think of flowers! Thank you, Mr. O’Dell.”

  He eyed her walking dress and boots with approval. “I see you are dressed for our hike.” He approved of more than her attire. Her happy, smiling face caused his heart to swell.

  Today, Lord?

  “Yes, and I have our lunch and a bag with towels in case of rain.”

  “I also have a few blankets in the car, should we need them,” O’Dell said.

  Ten minutes later, they were motoring north and then west toward the snow-topped peaks that crowned the city. Blackie rested his head upon the seat between Joy and O’Dell, and Joy turned sideways to stroke his head.

  “How far is Lookout Mountain Park?” she asked.

  “I believe it is about twelve miles to the park entrance. Depending upon the road and terrain, it should take about an hour to reach it. One of my men tells me that the road winds up the mountain from the entrance and has a number of hiking trails and overlooks along the way. He mentioned Wildcat Point as particularly impressive.”

  “Blackie will love it all.”

  “Did you bring a leash for him?”

  “Oh, yes. I do not fear that he would run off, but he might dash into a hedge of brambles or surprise a skunk. I would not relish spending the evening combing stickers from his coat—and I cannot bear to speak of the other.”

  “No, indeed.”

  The dirt road of the Lariat Trail turned back on itself many times as they crawled toward the park’s entrance and beyond. Soon the scrubby brush gave way to a sprinkling of Ponderosa pines and they spied hiking trails leading away from the track, deeper into the trees.

  O’Dell pulled his auto to the edge of the road. “Shall we hike up those rocks to the overlook and see what we might see? Then perhaps we could take our lunch and hike higher—up that trail.”

  “Yes. That sounds good.”

  Joy fastened Blackie’s leash to his collar before she got out. He whined and pushed at the rear door, anxious to explore.

  They climbed a hill of rocks to the vantage point, O’Dell ahead of Joy. At one particularly high step, he turned and offered his hand.

  “Good heavens. Women’s skirts are so confining! It is a wonder you can lift your foot high enough.”

  Without hesitation—or forethought—Joy placed her hand in his and he pulled her up. They arrived at the overlook a moment later and gazed in awe at the wide plain below them. Denver was miniscule from their high viewpoint, and they stood in silence to admire it.

  O’Dell had not released Joy’s hand, and Joy was conscious of the sensation of her bare hand in his.

  It feels . . . nice, she admitted.

  O’Dell’s private reflections were a bit more enthusiastic.

  O Lord, how I long to draw this woman to me! It would take but a tug of my hand to pull her into my arms . . .

  His behavior was, however, more sensible than his enthusiasm.

  After pointing out all the landmarks they could recognize and name—and in answer to Blackie’s insistence that they continue to explore—they clambered back down the rocks. As it turned out, Joy required more assistance climbing down than climbing up, several boulders being harder to navigate in a lady-like manner. O’Dell took Blackie’s leash from Joy and held her hand, glad to render his assistance.

  Then they plucked the basket from O’Dell’s auto and approached a trail that ran uphill into the trees.

  “I brought this for you should the trail get steep.” O’Dell pulled a walking stick from the car and brandished it. “I will carry it until you should find that you need it.”

  He shouldered the basket, and Joy, with a firm hold on Blackie’s leash, took the lead a few yards ahead of O’Dell. Blackie, eager to explore, pulled her onward.

  Before long, they reached the top of the slope, and the trail continued through the trees on more level ground. Joy enjoyed the soft light filtering through the green boughs; the spring breeze was just enough to cool her from her exertions.

  Joy breathed a contented sigh. What a perfect day!

  The trail before them bent sharply to the right. Perhaps a few yards before they reached the bend, another dog trotted into view. He was a bull of an animal—a full-grown black and tan Rottweiler, thick in body, topped by an enormous head and jowls.

  The dog no sooner glimpsed Blackie than he snarled and charged.

  “Joy!” O’Dell dropped the basket and raced toward her.

  Blackie, sensing the danger, stopped where he was, but the other dog was on him in an instant—snapping, biting, tearing, dragging the smaller dog to the ground.

  Joy shrieked and let go of the leash and was about to plunge into the fight when O’Dell’s hand jerked her back. He swung the walking stick at the attacking dog’s head. Again and again, he struck it, but his blows made little difference. The Rottweiler’s ferocious growls and Blackie’s piteous cries filled the air.

  Joy’s screams added to the horror. “Edmund! Edmund! He is killing Blackie! Help him!”

  O’Dell straddled the huge animal, reached both hands around its head and, with immense effort, pulled him off Blackie.

  At once, the beast rounded on O’Dell and sank his bared teeth into O’Dell’s left forearm. Shaking his heavy head, he ripped through O’Dell’s jacket and into his arm. O’Dell kicked at the brute, landing blow after blow on its chest, but the dog’s jaws only clamped down harder and shook O’Dell, tearing more deeply into skin and muscle.

  Joy’s screams and the sounds of the attack summoned the other dog’s owner. He ran toward the melee—in time to see O’Dell pull his snub-nosed revolver from the shoulder holster under his jacket.

  “No!”

  But O’Dell fired point-blank into the Rottweiler’s head. The animal’s jaws released and his body dropped to the dirt.

  The dog’s owner cursed O’Dell. “Ya killed him! Ya killed m’ Brutus! Ya din’t need t’ kill him!”

  The man called down many and varied curses on O’Dell’s head, but O’Dell spared him no attention. His arm hung limp from the shredded tatters of his jacket. It streamed blood. He whipped a kerchief from his back pocket and tried to staunch the flow. It was not enough, not even close.

  The dog’s owner continued to curse O’Dell.

  “You are an irresponsible fool,” O’Dell told the man. “Where were you? Your dog attacked us without provocation. I will have you brought up on charges!”

  The man ignored him and mourned over his dead dog’s body.

  After the cacophony of the attack, Joy’s screams, his shouts, and the gunshot, O’Dell realized the forest world was strangely silent. With his arm still bleeding liberally, he turned around.

  Joy sat in the dust of the trail, Blackie’s lifeless body in her lap. She cradled him and rocked forward and back, keening without making a sound.

  “Oh, no,” O’Dell whispered. “Oh, no.”

  He knelt in front of Joy. Blood splattered her cheek and smeared her chin. The white of Blackie’s ruff was stained an ugly red; his throat had been savaged.

  His soft blue eyes were blank. Empty.

  With his good hand, O’Dell touched Joy’s shoulder. “Oh, Joy! I’m so terribly sorry.”

  Joy’s eyes, as blank and empty as Blackie’s, gazed at nothing.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 4

  Joy’s screams and the gunfire had drawn two young gentlemen who were also hiking the trail. They took stock of the situation and straight away offered their services. One of the men bound up O’Dell’s arm with napkins from the lunch basket. At O’De
ll’s request, the other returned to O’Dell’s automobile and brought back a blanket.

  Joy watched, silent and unresponsive, as one of the men and O’Dell, despite his discomfort, laid out the blanket, placed Blackie’s body on it, and folded the blanket about him.

  O’Dell was weak, though. Blood ran from his makeshift bandages and dripped to the ground. Shock and blood loss were taking their toll.

  “You need a doctor,” one of the two men observed. “Would you like me to drive you and your lady back to town? My cousin will follow behind in our auto.”

  “Yes, thank you.” O’Dell stood up and had to lean upon a tree to steady himself. “And that man. He must come with us to answer for his dog’s actions.”

  The Rottweiler’s owner, still belligerent, bellowed at O’Dell. “Ya killed m’ dog. Ya ain’t got no right t’ tell me what t’ do!”

  O’Dell reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved his Pinkerton badge. “I am executing a citizen’s arrest on charges of reckless endangerment.” He shoved his badge into his pocket and again pulled his revolver from its holster.

  Perhaps it was the shock of his injury, perhaps his outrage over Blackie’s unjust demise. Some of the old O’Dell surfaced in the cold threat he growled.

  “You will come along peaceably, or I will shoot you where you stand.”

  Nathan and Peter, the cousins who had come to their aid, tried their best to stem the flow from O’Dell’s arm. They employed the towels from O’Dell’s auto and again bandaged his arm, but in spite of their efforts, fresh, red blood seeped from their improvised dressings and ran down O’Dell’s trousers.

  “Best to get you down the mountain,” Nathan said. “We will drive you.”

  Peter retrieved his auto and the two vehicles returned to Denver.

  O’Dell did not recall much after that. He rode in Peter’s automobile with his gun trained on the dead dog’s defiant owner; however, he struggled to remain conscious during the drive. Nathan followed them in O’Dell’s auto. Joy sat in the rear seat with Blackie’s wrapped body close to her side.