Taming the Twisted

By Jodie Toohey

Taming the Twisted is written in a similar style to Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books though updated for modern times. It might read as if she'd left in all of the juicy tidbits about things people didn't talk about during the time when she was writing. Taming the Twisted is a story of destruction, romance, mystery, and deceit set against a back drop of an actual historical event. In early June, 1860, Abigail enjoyed a peaceful home life with her parents, younger sister, and twin toddler brothers. Their home in Camanche, Iowa, where they'd emigrated from Pennsylvania, was almost complete and her beau, Joseph Sund, had recently proposed marriage. That changes the evening of June 3rd when a tornado rips through town, killing her parents. At the mass funeral for the over two dozen people who perished in the storm, she learns Marty Cranson, with whom Abigail witnessed Joseph having a heated argument, died, but at the hands of a person rather than the tornado. In addition to being faced with raising her young siblings, Joseph has disappeared without a trace and a stranger, Marshall Stevenson, appears, offering to help Abigail repair the families' home and cultivate the newly planted farm crops. Abigail, while developing romantic feelings for Marshall, tolerating the scorn of town woman Pamela Mackenrow, and working as a seamstress and storekeeper to support her siblings, becomes obsessed with finding out who killed Marty, hoping that and not that he no longer loved her, was the reason Joseph left without saying goodbye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordsy Woman Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692449653

Book preview

Dedicated to all of those who perished in the great Camanche, Iowa, tornado of June 3, 1860, and my grandmother, Betty (Sinkey) Shaw who inspired me with all of her stories about her beloved hometown of Camanche, Iowa.

CHAPTER ONE

Sunday, June 3, 1860

THE AIR WAS HOT AND heavy. Its stickiness weighed Abigail down as she sat under the tree on the hill behind her house. She read her The Girl’s Own Book she received for Christmas a few years before. It was her mother’s favorite book when she was a girl, so she thought she should have a copy, too. The air and her swallowed tears made her stomach feel sick. The sandwich she ate for supper made from leftover salt pork the rest of the family ate for the big Sunday dinner after church felt like it reformed in her stomach and fought back. Mother and Father went for a walk. She watched over Alice, Samuel, and David as they played in the yard. She heard them giggling around the house’s corner and felt like she was doing her job.

Abigail read the Automata story in her book and tried to think about how she might turn it into a real play with Alice, so she could forget about Joseph and how he was leaving soon. Until then, she’d been wandering up and down the road, tears pouring any time she stopped.

Deep in intentional, futile distracting thought, she eventually noticed the already faint breeze had died and it was even thicker and more humid. Hearing a loud hum behind her, she leaned around the tree to see what it was. She expected to find her father sneaking up, trying to play a trick on her. All day, he’d tried, unsuccessfully, to cheer her up. Instead, she saw a giant funnel of black in the distance. The sky was bright yellow. The hum turned into a roar. The column of black loomed bigger. It took her several seconds to realize it was a tornado. She’d never seen one; just drawings in books at school. It traveled toward the river. Right where her parents had gone. She pushed herself to her feet. She tried to run. Her feet felt heavy like when she’d dreamed she was running. She stumbled.

She looked around for Alice and the boys, but didn’t see them. Please let them be in the cabin, she thought. Finally, she reached it as the sky turned orange. She threw the door open. Out of breath, she said, Tor...na...do! Come on! Cellar! Alice looked up, stunned. You get David. I’ll grab Samuel.

Alice chased Samuel under the kitchen table. Abigail caught hold of David’s arm before he could join him. They pulled the boys to the front door. Abigail couldn’t see the storm, but she could tell it was getting closer. The world had turned dark, looking more like late than early evening. The horizon seemed to rumble in the distance. Her black braid whipped in the wind. Alice’s blonde hair scattered and fanned like a spider web across her face. Abigail led them to the nearly constructed house, lifted the heavy cellar door on the side, and pushed the boys in. David tripped down the last two stairs. Ouch! he said and examined the new scrape on his knee. Samuel tumbled over him in a summersault.

Get to the corner. Get as far back as you can, Abigail said.

But it’s yucky, Alice said.

Just do it. Hurry!

Abigail pushed the boys and Alice toward the back of the cellar and into the jars of canned tomatoes and pickles, which rocked and rattled but didn’t fall over. The dust stirred up by the gust of wind that swirled through as they came into the cellar tickled Abigail’s nose. She ignored it. She pushed the children to the floor. Alice sat cross-legged with Samuel and David each on one knee. She hugged them close to her and Abigail tried to make a shield between them and the cellar door. It started to shake.

I want Mother, Samuel said.

I want Father, David said.

Alice said, Everything will be all right.

Stay there. There was no light, but Abigail could hear Alice crying. Don’t come out until I come to get you. I’m going to find Mother and Father.

Abigail ran toward town. The tornado had turned slightly and headed straight toward the river. The sky transitioned from gray to bright green. She ran as fast as she could, hoping to reach her parents before the funnel to warn them. She only got a short distance when she realized she would never make it. The wind blew the grass one way, but the leaves at the tree tops blew another. She ran toward the first cellar she saw. She flung open the door and it banged against the ground. Nobody was there. She jumped in and waited. Even though she’d stopped running, she still couldn’t get enough air and her head pounded. She grabbed the inner handle of the cellar door. It rocked harder and harder in its fresh wooden frame. Her ears plugged and then popped. She heard the loudest, indescribable noise she’d ever heard. She closed her eyes and concentrated on making her fists over the handle as tight as she could. Suddenly, she jerked upward and she felt like she was flying.

CHAPTER TWO

Sunday, April 22, 1860

SUNLIGHT STREAMED OVER the Mississippi River, creating sparkles on the waves as Abigail sat, waiting. Joseph, her beau, standing next to her, seemed nervous, but she determined to persist in her resolve for patience, so she didn’t ask why.

He gurgled, clearing his throat, and Abigail turned her head to the right to look at him. The breeze caught the little curls in his brown hair pushed away from his forehead, and her heart fluttered. She wanted to reach up to feel their smooth silkiness, but instead sunk to the ground to sit cross-legged and folded her hands in her lap. Joseph stared straight ahead and sat next to her on the soft, early spring grass.

Clearing his throat again, he opened his mouth as if to talk, but nothing came out. This time, Abigail refused to let him avoid talking. He stared at the ground, fingering the bright green blades, picking one with a soft snap and turning the flat leaf back and forth around his index and middle fingers.

Taking pity, Abigail sighed and turned her attention up river. Ever since Eliza had left with her family last month to Minnesota, she’d been lonely and craved conversation with someone other than her family. It was a nice sermon today?

Joseph jumped. Oh, yes, yes it was. He smoothed the grass in front of him with his flat palm. What was it about again?

Abigail laughed, pulling her braid over her shoulder. She looked at Joseph, his face serious. He’s not joking, she thought. Why is he acting so strangely? She lowered her eyelids. Maybe he wants to kiss me. But he’s done it dozens of times. Impatience built and she couldn’t stand it any longer. Joseph, what is on your mind?

Well...

Abigail laced her fingers and squeezed like she was in fervent prayer. Well...? she said.

Audibly sucking in air, Joseph once again cleared his throat. Do you ... do you think it would be all right if I spoke to your father after supper – there’s something I want to talk with him about.

That’s what’s got him so anxious? Of course.

Abigail squinted her eyes, confused. Joseph had been working with her father for months, first helping to build the summer kitchen and new house, and then preparing the farmland for the fast approaching planting season. He and her father had discussed work numerous times since they’d met last summer after the family arrived from Pennsylvania.

Are you going to talk about the next step to finishing the house? she asked. Mother is awfully anxious to move out of that cramped cabin.

No, Joseph said. I need to speak with him ... on another matter.

Oh? Abigail waited. Is it a secret?

No. Joseph unfurled Abigail’s interlocking fingers and held her right hand gently between his two cupped palms. Abigail, I’d like to ask your father for permission to marry you. He lowered his gaze to their joined hands. I mean, if that’s all right with you. He looked up and met her eyes. Is it all right with you?

Abigail’s lips widened. Is it all right with me? Of course it’s all right with me. She flung her arms around the back of his neck and pulled him toward her. She leaned over so far that she fell into him, pushing him toward the ground behind. I’m sorry, she said, scrambling to push herself upright, but Joseph pulled her back down.

He kissed her and she melted into him, rolling over on her back. He perched over her, his breath obviously quickening in time with hers, but not touching her with any part of his body besides his lips. She pushed her fingers through his hair and held on to the back of his neck, breaking the trance. Joseph jumped back and sat up straight.

We better stop or we won’t make it to our wedding night, he said, grabbing Abigail’s elbow and pulling her to a sit. She pulled her braid over her shoulder and started picking last fall’s leftover leaf bits from it. When she was done, she tossed it toward her back.

Wait, you missed one, Joseph said. He picked a tangled, crispy leaf vein from the back of her head and held it in front of her nose.

Thank you so very much, she said, plucking it from his thumb and forefinger. They sat still for a minute and then turned toward each other at the same time and laughed.

Joseph took Abigail’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Let’s go. Maybe I can talk to your father before supper so my stomach settles down enough that I can eat.

Standing up, Abigail brushed the back of her skirt with the hand not in Joseph’s. They walked up Camanche’s Water Street toward Chicago Street, zig-zagging around the two blocks of busy shops and businesses, bustling any other day of the week, to Missouri and then Eagle, past the church where they’d spent the morning. They didn’t say anything until they had been walking along Chicago Street a few blocks, almost past the houses in town. Abigail could see squares of varying shades of brown, not yet dotted with the season’s new plants. Joseph stopped. Still holding on to his hand, Abigail was pulled back.

What is it? she said.

Joseph didn’t say anything, but stared ahead.

Joseph?

Abigail?

Yes?

What if he says ‘No’? He dropped her hand and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Abigail laughed and crossed her arms to mirror his. Why would he say ‘No’?

Lots of reasons. Maybe I’m too old. I work for your father; what am I going to do when I’m done? Where will we live? You can’t live in a boarding house. Maybe he doesn’t like my looks as a son-in-law.

That’s silly. Abigail pulled his arm from where it was locked by his chest and returned her hand to his. We will work out most of those things. It’s not like we are getting married tomorrow.

Joseph stared at the ground.

Abigail leaned over until she was looking up at him, his curly hair framed by a light blue sky. Are we?

Laughing, Joseph said, No, no. Of course not.

Then we have time to decide those things like where we’ll live. I know my father. He only cares that you are a good man, that you care about me, and treat me well. She sighed. Besides, I’m his little girl. I’ll just bat my eyes, say ‘please, Father,’ and that will be the end of it. She pulled on his hand until he started walking again. Come on. You won’t know if you don’t ask, right?

I suppose.

As they walked the rest of the way to Abigail’s homestead, the fields became bigger and were no longer patchwork squares, but vast emptiness. They turned onto the dirt lane in front of where the nearly built new house stood and saw her parents, Harold and Josephine, sitting on the stoop. Alice, her sister’s, long blonde hair flowed behind her as she danced in circles with her toddler twin brothers, Samuel and David. As usual, Samuel was giggling and teasing Alice, trying to make her fall down, while David watched him intently. Abigail could smell nutty beef roasting in the summer kitchen next to the house. Her mother sat facing town in her dark green everyday dress, having changed out of the blue calico she’d worn to church, her hands folded in her lap. Her father sat beside her, leaning back against the front door jamb, looking up.

Suddenly embarrassed as her parents noticed, Abigail dropped Joseph’s hand. Though she hadn’t before, she felt nervous. What if father does forbid it? But she took a deep breath, pulling her skirt up so she wouldn’t trip on it as the trudged up the steep hill toward the house.

Supper is smelling good, Mother, Abigail said. I’m starving. Is it almost done?

Josephine Sinkey smiled, Yes, it should be ready within a half hour. I suppose you worked up quite an appetite. That was a long walk.

She tried to look stern like a proper mother of a 17-year old daughter should, but Abigail could see her eyes dancing behind her stiff smile. After 19 years of marriage, her parents were still romantic, though her father more reluctantly. There had been many occasions when Abigail walked in the room to find them kissing or caught her father placing a playful swat on her mother’s behind when he thought nobody was looking. A few years before, she had been disgusted by this behavior and made an effort to make loud noises when she approached them. But lately, since Joseph, it didn’t bother her so much. She hoped she and Joseph could be like that in 20 years.

Harold stood and held his hand toward Joseph. I’m glad you’ll be joining us for supper. It’ll give us a good chance to talk about our next steps on the house, he said, turning to appraise the façade. It’s too bad we can’t work on Sunday, though. That loose board over there is calling to me. He pointed to a board dangling from the side of the house, its nail pulled loose.

Abigail interrupted. Actually, Father, there’s something else Joseph would like to discuss with you, she said.

Is that so? Harold said. What is it? He waited.

Again attempting to assist Joseph, Abigail said, I think he wanted to talk to you privately. She nodded toward Joseph. Is that right?

Clearing his throat, Joseph said. Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.

Her parents glanced at each other and smiled before Josephine lowered her eyes. Harold laced his thumb under his suspender straps and beamed. All right. Why don’t we take a short walk? he said.

Abigail watched the backs of the two most important men in her life disappear behind the house and sat down next her mother. Josephine wrapped her arms around Abigail’s shoulders, squeezed, shaking her, a smile on her lips. Then she folded her hands back in her lap. Alice and the boys played, oblivious to what was happening.

CHAPTER THREE

Friday, May 4, 1860

SAMUEL AND DAVID AWOKE early, ready to play outside as they’d grown accustomed to doing since winter had finally gone away. Mush fried in butter and the sweet smell of warming maple syrup made Abigail’s stomach rumble. She hoped she could learn to cook as well as her mother before she married Joseph.

Why aren’t you using the summer kitchen, Mother? she said.

Josephine glanced away from her work as she flipped the rectangular slice of coagulated cornmeal in the pan, splashing butter out onto the cooktop. It’s rather cool out this morning, she said, so I thought I’d enjoy one of my remaining days of cooking without having to carry everything so far. Looking up at the ceiling and then around the room, she added, I can’t say that I’ll miss it much.

Abigail slipped into a chair beside her twin brothers at the table, How much longer until the house is done anyway?

Father says it will be maybe a month or a month and a half, depending on the weather, Mother said, scooping a slice of hot mush out of the black cast iron pan. She shook it gently to drain the butter but not send it crumbling back into it. He’d hoped to finish before planting started, but obviously it didn’t work out. She used the sharpest edge of her wooden spatula to divide the mush in half on David’s plate, placing the other steaming half on Samuel’s.

For the first time, Abigail noticed her father wasn’t in the cabin. She assumed he was again out working on the house while the dew dried, waiting for time to plant. In fact, she realized she had hardly seen her father at all in the past week or two; he was working in the fields or in the house at all hours. It was funny, though, because she had noticed Joseph’s absence. He had been working alongside her father those same hours.

Samuel rhythmically pounded his fork and dull, child-sized knife onto the table. David followed.

Boys, stop that, Josephine said, placing her hand over David’s, causing him to sit the fork down flat with a clang.

We’re hungry, Samuel said, continuing his drumming.

It’s cooling, said Josephine. You don’t want to burn your mouth, do you? Samuel shook his head no, pounding away. Josephine sighed. Abigail?

Abigail reached her arm in front of Samuel and pushed his arms flat onto the tabletop.

Ouch, Samuel said.

Oh, stop it. You’re fine. Josephine put the cooled cornmeal mush, adorned with a swirl of syrup in front of Samuel.

But she hurt me, he said.

I did not, said Abigail. Stop trying to get me in trouble. The antics might have worked to get their sister, Alice, in trouble, but Abigail’s parents knew she would not do anything to intentionally harm her baby brothers.

Josephine placed another plated crispy brown cornmeal slab on Alice’s empty place. Where is that girl? She left to milk the cow an hour ago.

Apparently reminded his cup was empty, Samuel started to tap his on the table.

I’ll go check on her, Mother.

Abigail walked out the cabin door and wished she’d grabbed her shawl. Her breath swirled in the chill as she trudged across the dirt road that separated their house from the barn. She pushed in the west half of the main barn door. She stepped in and closed it behind her to keep the animal-breath-warmed air