Power in the Blood

  EARLY BIRD BOOKS

  FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

  BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—

  NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

  PRAISE FOR POWER IN THE BLOOD

  “This gripping story provides compelling commentary on blind ambition, murder, sex, euthanasia, true grit, the vagaries of fate and the self-destructivesness at the heart of America.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I envy the thousands of readers who are about to be exposed to Greg Mattews’ formidable storytelling talents for the first time.”

  —Stephen King

  “Addictive from the opening chapter … The saga of these siblings moves forward with alacrity and surprising speed.… A fascinating and well-researched novel of the American West.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “Redolent with frontier flavors.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[Matthews’] sentences sing with a bittersweet music, haunting, evocative and edgy. Long after the novel’s over, that music keeps playing in your mind.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “The careful realism in Matthews’ portraits of his characters’ sexual appetites and misfortunes is one of his strengths.”

  —Booklist

  “[A] sprawling western saga.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “One of the most powerful stories written about America.… It is simply one of the best books you will ever read.

  —Ocala Star-Banner (Ocala, FL)

  “A real page-turner … Very highly recommended.”

  —Gilbert Tribune (Gilbert, AZ)

  “A tale of compelling commentary on the self-destructiveness at the heart of America.”

  —The World (Tulsa, OK)

  Power in the Blood

  Greg Matthews

  For Zenon, Laura, and Ryan

  FOR THEY EAT THE BREAD OF WICKEDNESS, AND DRINK THE WINE OF VIOLENCE.

  Proverbs 4:17

  PART ONE

  THE BREAD OF WICKEDNESS

  1

  It was Zoe who found their mother dead. The boys were still asleep, wrapped in blankets in their corner of the room. Zoe slept alongside her mother in the only bed, and the first light of morning told her Nettie Dugan was dead. She was already cold, so it had happened in the night.

  Zoe didn’t want to touch her mother again after that first hesitant poke, just a fingertip against the sharp cheekbone; her finger had jerked away as if burned. Mama’s eyes were open, her bluish lips slightly parted, the familiar gaps of missing teeth visible. It was almost a smile. Zoe hadn’t been so close to death since she’d seen an old man fall down directly in front of her on Union Street last winter, so near to her a coin in his hand had rolled and hit her shoe. She’d picked up the coin before anyone else saw it, and hurried away. Only a nickel, but it was hers. Zoe had considered spending it solely on herself, then reconsidered and presented it to Nettie, who told her she was the goodest girl there ever was.

  Drew was stirring. The youngest, he usually woke first. Zoe was three years older, and Clayton was three years older than her, plus a month. Despite this, Zoe knew she was the one in charge whenever Nettie got sick, no matter how Clay might insist he was the boss. Now that Nettie was gone, who would be the leader? It worried Zoe almost as much as her mother’s passing.

  Zoe sat up and beckoned Drew over. He slid from beneath the blanket covering himself and Clay and approached the bed, squinting the way he always did when he first got up. The squint pulled his round face into a smile that indicated nothing more than semi-wakefulness. He was already clutching the tip of his penis under the grimy shirt he wore day and night; Drew always needed to pee immediately on rising. He pulled the pot from beneath Zoe’s side of the bed and deposited more urine in it. Today was Clay’s turn to empty it. Zoe assumed her mother’s death wouldn’t change that.

  “She’s dead …,” Zoe whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “Mama died. Look at her if you don’t believe me.”

  Drew lowered his shirt and walked around to the bed’s far side. He stared at his mother for some time. “No she’s not,” he said.

  “She is, because there’s no breathing. Touch her, I dare you.”

  Drew’s fingers reached, felt the cold skin and were pulled back. Zoe saw with satisfaction that he believed her now.

  “Why did she die?” Drew asked.

  “She was sick,” Zoe reminded him, “and she must’ve gotten sicker, so she died.”

  The squinting smile on Drew’s face grew inappropriately broader. Zoe knew this meant he was close to tears; everything about Drew was backward, but he was only seven after all. “Make her come back,” he whispered.

  “I can’t, stupid. She’s dead.”

  Sure enough, tears began rolling down Drew’s face. He was beyond speech, beyond understanding. Zoe felt more sorry for him than for Mama; at least Mama would have understood the fact of her dying, the irreversible nature of it. Drew’s tears were contagious, though, so she found herself crying too, and their combined sobbing finally woke Clay.

  Scowling, he came to the bed. “What?” he said, conveying in one word his authority and annoyance. He appeared not to notice Nettie’s unnatural stillness at all. His sister and brother, now that Clay was awake, allowed themselves to howl unashamedly, irritating him further. “What!” he demanded. Zoe’s glance at their mother made him look closer at the head on the pillow, and then he knew.

  The effort required to keep from crying himself made Clay feel sick. He’d been expecting this thing, this death; Nettie had warned him of its approach and drilled him on what to do when it happened. Clay knew he had to tell Mrs. Smalley down the hall, and that is what he did.

  Having been deserted by her own husband, Mrs. Smalley regarded herself and Nettie Dugan as sisters in suffering. They had worked in the same mill for several years, then Mr. Smalley had died and left his wife a small insurance policy, which enabled her to stop working and ease the pain in her failing legs. Nettie had continued at the mill until she became sick.

  The death was not unexpected, and Mrs. Smalley resolved to waste no time in unproductive mourning but to concentrate on the problem of burial, and the greater issue of what to do with Nettie’s children.

  She could not take them into her own room, not with her drunkard son and his wife there, so she told Clayton to keep his brother and sister inside their mother’s room while she arranged a five-dollar funeral through Schenectady’s lowliest church.

  That took two days. She escorted the children to the graveyard and stood behind them as Nettie was lowered into the earth. Heart failure, the death certificate asserted, but Mrs. Smalley knew it was sorrow over no money and no man that had done it. The cheap wooden marker would last no more than a few years, and they’d likely bury some other pauper on top of her then. But that was of less concern than it might have been, for Mrs. Smalley was a planner by inclination, and although her planning had borne no fruit within her own family, she was determined that her talent for organization should benefit the three souls Nettie Dugan had left behind. If all went as intended, the children would be far away before the mound had settled on their mother’s grave.

  In answer to prompt inquiries launched by Mrs. Smalley, she was informed by a letter from the Children’s Aid Society in New York City that places had been found for Clayton, Zoe and Drew on the next orphan train, scheduled to depart Albany for points west on May 19. The children would have less than a week to prepare themselves for something Mrs. Smalley convinced them would be an adventure, the answer to their need for family and a place in the sun.

  “They’ll be children such as yourselves,” she assured them, “and with unhappiness the same as you’ve known just rec
ent, or maybe worse. There’s some of ’em been running around in the big town without a mother or father for years, and now you’ll all be taken together to the west, where there’s folks as have had their children took from ’em by sickness, like you’ve had your ma took the same way.

  “They’re wanting new children in Ohio and Illinois, so you’ll be appreciated by folks out there. You’re the lucky ones, you should know, getting a chance like this to start over, and all because my cousin’s married to a good man on the railroad as knows about these things. A prayer answered is what it is, so now we’ll bow our heads and give thanks for God’s mercy on us all.”

  Clay was not ungrateful for Mrs. Smalley’s help. He knew that in the west everyone rode a horse and carried a gun to shoot wolves and Indians and buffalo. That sounded all right to Clay; he just hoped the places Mrs. Smalley mentioned were far enough west. It would suit Drew as well, and they would find someone to marry Zoe so she could be happy too. Her husband would stand by Zoe and be good to her. That was definite. Clay wasn’t going to let his sister suffer as his mother had. Zoe’s husband wouldn’t run off and leave her the way Mama’s had done, or Clay would go after him and kill him. He’d be sure and make that point before the wedding ceremony, just so everyone knew how matters stood.

  Drew appeared content to believe Clay’s promises, but Zoe demurred; as usual, Clay was running things to please himself. Zoe was troubled by an apparent lack of sadness among all three children since the burial. Somehow they seemed to have put Mama behind them too soon. Zoe herself was guilty of this, yet she knew she had loved their mother. The boys’ talk of ponies and pistols was annoying, and so she was not disposed to reward Clay for his self-serving plans by appearing interested, or even anxious to be away from Schenectady, a place she’d despised all her short life. In the days remaining until they entrained for the west, Zoe kept herself to herself, and was dismayed that the boys accepted her aloofness without comment.

  Mrs. Smalley organized the hiring of a cart to take them to the station at Albany, and stood with them on the platform. An hour before noon, an unruly herd of children, at least fifty of them, crowded into the station. They had marched in ragged file from the riverfront, having been brought up the Hudson from New York City by overnight steamer. In charge were a rather stern young woman and a one-armed man who, despite this disadvantage, carried a large wicker basket on his back.

  Mrs. Smalley had been expecting fewer children under broader adult supervision. She introduced herself and her charges to the custodians, who in turn gave their name as Canby, Mr. and Mrs. Then it was time for stilted good-byes.

  “These nice people will take care of you till you find a home. You be sure and heed them, and be good always, promise me now.”

  “Yes,” said Zoe.

  The boys simply nodded, their attention on the newcomers flocking around. Clay was already testing with his eyes the resolution of anyone who cared to match his gaze. He liked the idea of being top dog of this so-called orphan train, even though it was obvious from all the grown-up passengers milling around that orphans would constitute only a small portion of the payload.

  Tall for his age, Clay was disappointed to note at least a half dozen boys older and bigger than himself; he hadn’t thought there might be such things as orphans over the age of thirteen, and felt a fool for it. The trip was not shaping up as he’d anticipated, so he scowled and said as little as possible to Mrs. Smalley, wishing he could blame her somehow for his displeasure. While she lectured on good behavior and obedience, he stared at the soot-encrusted walls round about, allowing her voice to be drowned by the station’s din.

  Clay had heard that in the west there was no soot, at least not enough to accumulate on streets and buildings. A clean place, he told himself; new and clean. He had heard that less than two weeks ago the nation was linked by a continuous set of rails built simultaneously from east and west; they had met and been joined by a golden spike somewhere in Utah Territory. What was to prevent the Dugans from riding all the way to the Pacific? he asked himself. All they had to do was refuse the entreaties of anyone wishing to adopt them along the way. It would be easy.

  The orphans had a car entirely to themselves, the oldest and least comfortable available, the seats little more than narrow wooden benches set close together. “The most seats for the littlest money,” Drew heard the man with one arm say, but the man didn’t sound pleased that they had the most seats.

  Leading the first wave of boarders, Clay shoved Zoe and Drew against a window and sat beside them. “That boy!” Mrs. Canby cried, pointing at him. “There will be no pushing and shoving, do you hear!” Clay loathed her instantly. “There is room for all!” she called over her shoulder. “Once seated, remain there, all of you! We will not hold up departure of this train through rowdiness!”

  Several boys who had sneaked away to admire the snorting locomotive were rounded up by railroad staff and brought to the car for inclusion among the swarm already aboard.

  “Settle down!” roared Mr. Canby, and the effect was immediate; all unnecessary movement among the seats was stilled. Clay admired the man’s ability to control so many with just his voice.

  Despite relative calm inside the car and a full complement of orphans, the train did not leave for a further twenty minutes. Zoe, crammed against a window, could see Mrs. Smalley on the platform, clearly unwilling to call a halt to duty until the train was gone. Zoe remained invisible behind the grimy pane. She pointed out Mrs. Smalley to Drew, but he was more interested in a knee-bumping contest with the boy seated opposite him.

  Clay refused to look out the window; Schenectady already belonged to the past. He stared at the back of Mrs. Canby’s tightly bunned and bonneted head further down the cramped aisle and willed the train to begin moving. When finally the whistle blew and the cars lurched forward in a rattle of couplings, he found he’d been holding his breath.

  Within a very few minutes, the station and Mrs. Smalley, the edge of the town itself, all were gone, left behind. Clay resolved to remember his life up until this moment only in the broadest terms. There had been too much unhappiness in that place receding behind the red caboose, too much hunger and desperation, too little laughter. When he recalled their lives in Schenectady without sentiment, he saw there had been no real hope for them at all.

  2

  During the day and night it took to leave New York State and enter Pennsylvania, Zoe learned that Mrs. Canby was without humor or warmth, and seemed in fact not to like children. She had made sure the newcomers knew her rules soon after the train left Albany. “Remain seated at all times. Hold up your hand if you require attention. Do not leave the car without permission. Do not make unnecessary noise or create disturbances among your fellow travelers.”

  Her husband, the one-armed man, was more approachable. He would tell anyone who asked him how his arm was lost at Shiloh. Zoe had heard the story several times already. Mr. Canby didn’t change so much as a word of it each time, so it must be true. The part about the rebel ball that shattered the bone was interesting, but best of all was his description of the hospital tent, with arms and legs stacked outside.

  “And then the surgeon picked up the saw,” said Mr. Canby, “and he started in on me with just a stick between my teeth and not even a shot of good whiskey inside me for the pain of it, and he didn’t quit sawing till that arm was off and the flapping piece of flesh they left all nicely tucked and stitched over it. Then came the hot pitch—slapped on the stump like a mud pie it was—and didn’t I howl, you bet I did, howled like a pup. But you know what the strange part was?” Everyone did by then, but his audience leaned forward anyway. “I still felt the arm,” Mr. Canby said in hushed tones, “felt it joined to my shoulder, just like the other one, with the fingers wriggling all alive still, even if the whole thing was gone. A phantom arm …” It never failed to produce an intake of breath.

  Drew was fascinated by the openness of the countryside. During the hours of daylight he sta
red through the window at an endless series of neat farms and tiny hill towns. Sometimes the train would stop to let passengers off from the other cars, and new passengers would step aboard to be drawn westward through the long afternoon and evening.

  He talked occasionally with the boy seated opposite him, Kerwin (who pronounced it Care-win), but found conversation difficult because of Kerwin’s peculiar big-city accent. “Eeeehh, fuck yez,” Kerwin eventually said, when it became clear he was not understood, so Drew returned to watching the world roll effortlessly by.

  He’d been unprepared for so many trees, so great an expanse of sky, and they’d only just started. Clay said everyone would be on the train for days, getting west. It was a shame Mama couldn’t be there to enjoy the newness of it all with them. Mama would have sat with the bonnet lady and talked with her like she’d always sat and talked with Mrs. Smalley back home, back in that place none of them would ever see again; even Mama, who’d stayed there, would never see it again. Drew wept silently, then fell asleep, and woke up to find still more countryside sliding by, late afternoon sunlight lengthening the shadows of the trees. He was terribly hungry.

  At sundown the orphan car was detached from the train for transfer to a string of boxcars behind another locomotive, which would continue hauling westward through the night. While the car was switched onto a siding, the children were ordered to stand in an orderly fashion along the station platform to receive their first food since breakfast. Mr. Canby opened the wicker basket he’d wrestled with literal single-handedness from the car, and his wife dispensed a meal of bread generously spread with lard. This was followed by two dried apricots for each child. It became clear the basket was not intended to feed so many for very long.

  “What’s needed here,” said Mr. Canby with a grin, “is a miracle of the loaves and fishes, maybe.” Mrs. Canby frowned darkly, and he stopped grinning.