The Forgotten Daughter

Whenever he heard someone complain about how slowly time seems to go by, he wanted to tell them to start paying a few bills. They’d soon see how fast the first of the month rolled around, how quickly another month’s rent was due and how gallons of milk could disappear as if they’d never been there in the first place.

He’d never known his family was poor. At least his parents had never complained about it. After his father died, Scooter quickly discovered the few dollars he made delivering groceries on his motorized bike wasn’t enough to keep a family of mice in cheese. His hobby of tinkering with motors came in handy then. The location of their house along the highway played in his favor, too. Little by little he’d added services, but it wasn’t until Nightingale’s took off that he’d started making enough money to truly live on. That had been a godsend, and he knew it could disappear just as fast. Without Roger Nightingale and the business the man brought in, this entire area would dry up faster than yesterday’s bread left uncovered on the counter.

A lot had happened in the past ten years. He’d been fourteen when his father had died, and three years later, his brother-in-law had been killed while serving in the army overseas. Maize had just given birth to Jonas when they’d received word about John. Shortly thereafter, Maize could no longer afford to stay in the house she and John had rented since getting married, and she had moved back home. When Jonas had started school three years ago, Maize had gone to work over at the Plantation, and had come up missing less than a month later.

Another bout of disgust, or guilt, assaulted Scooter’s guts. He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened back then, but he knew Gloria had been behind Maize’s return. Scooter understood he was indebted to Gloria for bringing his sister home, but he couldn’t let what had happened to Maize happen to Josie. Gloria had to realize not even Roger Nightingale was in the same league as the gangsters that were responsible for the girls working the docks in Duluth.

It really was a tangled mess.

If Josie was captured, there was no guarantee she’d be rescued like his sister had been. The Ladies Aid Society his mother and Gloria were associated with was the way Josie had become involved. Dressed in britches, she visited the shipyards of Duluth regularly to pass out rubbers to the women working the docks, selling their wares to the sailors.

None of this was something a Ladies Aid Society should be a part of.

It wasn’t all of them. Just a select few knew the activities taking place under the concealment of their meetings. Most of the women thought all of the members were busy throwing birthday parties and putting on bird-watching symposiums. A good number would faint dead if they learned about Josie hauling condoms up to Duluth every Tuesday.

He’d only learned about it because his mother had told him a car had been delivered to the station that needed to go faster. Seeing the vehicle was Nightingale’s hadn’t surprised him. He’d rebuilt carburetors, put in larger radiators and fitted extra fuel tanks in all of the automobiles Roger Nightingale’s hired men drove. A month later he’d discovered the latest coupe he’d worked on was being driving by Josie. Bronco, Roger’s number one man, had brought the car over to get fuel, as he did for all of the cars the daughters drove, and had mentioned Josie sure used a lot of gas going to her Ladies Aid meetings.

Scooter’s stomach fell almost as hard and fast now as it had in the past. He should have put a stop to it then. That had been his first mistake. His second had been keeping his mouth shut all this time.

“Hey, Scooter.”

“Hey, Dave,” Scooter replied, as Josie’s uncle walked through the manicured trees. Dave Sutton lived in one of the bungalows on the other side of the pine trees. Not wanting to have to come up with an excuse as to what he was doing hanging around the resort’s back door, Scooter asked, “How’s your Chevy running?”

“Good. Those new tires you put on sure made a difference.”

“Glad to hear it. Firestone makes a good tire, but only Fords come off the assembly line with them. Henry Ford knew what he was doing when he formed that partnership,” Scooter said, trying not to look at the door behind him. He should never have let Josie go with Gloria. They had to be up to something.

“It’s all about who you know, not what you know,” Dave said before he asked, “How are Maize and Jonas?”

“Good,” Scooter answered. The baseball bat, mitt and ball that had been left on the family’s porch a couple of weeks ago had been from Dave. Just like several other birthday and Christmas gifts that had magically appeared on their porch over the years for Scooter’s nephew. For whatever reason, Dave didn’t want anyone to know he was the one that dropped them off. “Jonas had a birthday a couple of weeks ago, turned eight.”

“Time flies,” Dave said. “I remember when John got the letter from Maize saying the baby had arrived and that it was a boy.”

A moment of silence spread between them. Dave and John had been shipped overseas together, and though the other man never spoke of it, Scooter had heard Dave was at John’s side when he died. Even though Dave had been Josie’s mother’s brother, he’d moved back in with the Nightingales when he returned home, and now was Roger’s top salesman. He carried around a suitcase full of resort brochures, but sample bottles of whiskey—Minnesota 13—were tucked inside hidden compartments. The home brew was better than the stuff the Canadians made and had become world-renowned. Thanks to Roger.

Everyone knew that, but no one mentioned it. A man might as well cut his own arm off if he did. The entire area thrived because of Roger’s business, and no one wanted things to go back to the way they’d been.

“Jonas is here somewhere,” Scooter said, still trying to keep the conversation off what he was doing. He nodded toward the crowd that littered the slope leading toward the lake. “He’s excited to stay late enough to see the fireworks.”

“It is the Fourth of July,” Dave said. “And those nieces of mine outdid themselves with this party.”

“They sure enough did,” Scooter agreed, glancing toward the door.

“I’ll mosey around, see if I can find Jonas and say hi,” Dave said.

“Try the beach,” Scooter said. “He was convinced he’d learn how to swim today. Otherwise just listen for the popping noise. I bought him several rolls of firecrackers.”

“I bet that made him happy.”

“It sure did,” Scooter said. The firecrackers were only a nickel for a hundred, and he’d gladly paid the minimal price. There had been times in his life where a nickel had seemed like a dollar. Now, thanks to Roger Nightingale’s success, his fueling station allowed him to spend money a bit frivolously once in a while. He’d picked up several boxes of sparklers, too, for Jonas to share with his friends later on in the evening.

“I’ll see you around,” Scooter said, stepping closer to the door. Josie should have returned by now.

Dave nodded and waved as he took his leave. Scooter grabbed the doorknob but didn’t have time to pull it open.

“Hey, Scooter, hold up.”

His fingers clenched the door handle before he let it loose and Scooter pulled up a smile for the couple walking hand in hand toward him. Getting hit by a Studebaker couldn’t have shocked him more than the sight of Brock and Ginger pulling up to his gas pumps that morning. He and Brock had been friends since childhood and Scooter had questioned if he’d ever see Brock again when his old pal had headed down to Chicago to perform on the radio several weeks ago.

Brock had defied Roger Nightingale by refusing to perform solely at the resort and leaving town, which had been an act few men would have the guts to follow through on. Marrying Ginger, Roger’s youngest daughter, could have gotten Brock killed, too. Scooter figured Brock didn’t have a chip on his shoulder; he had an angel.

“Where’s Josie?” Ginger asked.

Scooter gestured toward the door. “Inside, talking with Gloria Kasper.”

Ginger shot a concerned glance at Brock and then asked, “Why? Is she not feeling well?”

It was still hard to believe Brock and Ginger were married. Then again, Scooter had been shocked to see Norma Rose at his gas station with Ty Bradshaw earlier this summer, and again when he’d heard Twyla had gone flying with Forrest in his airplane. A lot had changed this summer. Maybe all that contributed to his urgency to make Josie stop her Duluth runs. The fact her sisters weren’t around to keep her in line meant it was up to him.

He doubted any of the sisters knew of Josie’s activities. They’d have told their father and Roger would have put a stop to it all long ago. “She’s fine,” he answered. “It was probably something to do with the party.”

“I can’t believe all that’s happened in the short time we’ve been gone,” Ginger said. “It’s like I left one world and returned to another.” Her sparkling eyes were once again gazing up at Brock.

The two of them looked as love-struck as two doves on a telephone wire. Feeling a bit like an intruder, Scooter looked the other way when Brock leaned down to kiss her, and didn’t turn back until Ginger spoke.

“I’m going to find Josie,” she said. “The dance-off is about to start.”

The prize for the winner of the dance contest was a hundred bucks. Not for the couple to share, but a hundred bucks each. Scooter had read that in the advertisements. Add Babe Ruth, Twyla’s wedding and fireworks, and it was no wonder half the state was in attendance. Those who lived out of town and couldn’t find rooms to rent had set up tents in empty lots and backyards. This would be an event the town would remember for a long time.

When Ginger disappeared through the side door, Scooter once again attempted to shift his attention off how long Josie had been gone. “I thought I was seeing things when you pulled into my place this morning.”

Brock laughed. “Your face said as much.”

“That new car you’re driving says things turned out real swell for you in Chicago.” Scooter stated the obvious.

“If I hadn’t lived it, I wouldn’t have believed it.” Brock’s gaze shot back to the door where Ginger had disappeared. “Some days I still don’t believe it.”

Scooter playfully punched his friend in the arm. “We all knew you’d make it big.”

“I don’t think I would have if not for Ginger,” Brock said. “She’s the reason we’re home. When she heard about Twyla’s wedding, she told Oscar—Oscar Goldman, he’s the owner of the radio station, that we were coming home. She promised to bring back a case of baseballs signed by Babe Ruth to give away on the radio.” Brock laughed. “She already has two cases, signed, in the trunk.”

Scooter chuckled. “I’m sure Babe Ruth couldn’t say no to Ginger.” Curious, he asked, “How’d she end up in Chicago?”

“Now, that, my friend, is a long story,” Brock said. “And calling Roger to tell him I’d found her under the tarp of my truck when I’d stopped for fuel on the other side of Wisconsin was one of the scariest things I’d ever done.”

“Under the tarp of your truck?” Scooter shook his head. “I put the tarp on your truck while you were locking horns with Roger about leaving.”

“I know,” Brock said. “And she climbed in right afterward.” Growing serious, Brock added, “Don’t let any one of those Nightingale girls fool you. They’re sneaky when they want to be.”