Rush Home Road by Lori Lansens Page B

Everyone’ll know soon enough. But it was my hope, Mr. Heron, what with you being a friend of my Daddy’s, and mine, that you might assist me a little. Hold him back just so I can get a fist or two on his chin and maybe his gut. That ain’t gonna change nothing for Addy, but I’ll feel a little better. Least I won’t feel no worse.”
    Zach Heron reckoned many things quickly. The girl had not told the shameful thing he’d done to anyone and would not. Even if she did, Wallace and Laisa would never believe her. Her own brother suspected another man. Of all the people in Zach Heron’s life, it was only his wife, Isobel, who’d believe it, and she’d never find out, at least not if Chester Monk stood accused. If Addy Shadd got sent away, it’d be the best thing for them all.

 
    Rum

    THE WATER WAS MURKY and cold and it wouldn’t be long before it froze over completely. Chester Monk stroked it with his battered oar, glad it was calm tonight and he could think his thoughts without fighting the current and fretting he’d miss the dock. He thought how it could be a short trip from the Detroit shore, or long, depending on the whims of the river and the men who patrolled her.
    At his feet was a slat wood case filled with premium liquor making its way back to the dock. There’d been no one to take the pickup on the other side and Bishop wouldn’t be happy, but Chester wouldn’t be blamed. Looped through the box of liquor was a long heavy cord connected to a sheave on the underside of the boat. If the Patrol came by, over the box’d go like an anchor, and even if they searched, they wouldn’t see the cord, the box, or where all it was hitched to the bottom.
    Chester had in his trouser pocket several ten-dollar bills given to him by Teddy Bishop’s man, Mr. Remillard, who was called Remy to get his attention and Frenchie to get his goat. Remy’d shown Chester how to fold the bill andthe right way to pass it to the patrolmen when they stopped his boat. If they asked how the fish were biting, he should pass the bill. If they asked to search, he should let them. And no matter what, he should remember he’s coloured and know his place.
    Chester didn’t care for Teddy Bishop and his meanness and frippery, but he liked Remy just fine. The Frenchman put Chester in mind of a Pastor he knew when he was a boy, before he moved to Rusholme. Remy wore simple cloth suits, kept his old boots shined, and held many deep convictions. He made opining on bootlegging whisky sound like testifying at the pulpit. “Bad laws make criminals of good people!” Remy’d slam a fist and say. And when he invoked the Holy Spirit, he meant imported whisky and everyone knew it.
    Remy called Chester “ Mon ami le Noir Gros. ” He told him it meant black giant , and patted as high on his back as the wiry little man could reach. Chester didn’t mind the French sound of that. Remy didn’t suggest an ounce of dis-courtesy, but only had a different way of talking. It’s something Chester’d learned, how a person’s words did not always disclose the intention of his heart. He’d been called fine things by people who feared and loathed him, and slanderous things by people who thought well on him but were ignorant.
    It had been months since he’d been home, but Rusholme was never far from his thoughts. Rush home , he’d think, like it was a commandment, Thou Shalt RushHome. He thought of his mother infrequently because she was fanatical and cold. Mostly he thought of the land, and the lay of the streets and the smell of the lake and the soil, and in a frame beside any thought of Rusholme was a picture of his one true love.
    Chester loved all of Addy Shadd. Her heavy lid eyes put him in mind of a hound he’d had as a boy, and he thought to tease her about that one day in the future. Like that hound, there was something in her gaze, loyal