The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red (3 page)

you’re telling me I’m supposed to use Mr. Rimbauer’s money to

pay for it? I would ask you to reconsider that position, sir.” (I

might add that this reference to John inclined me to believe that

our presence there to-day may have in?uenced Mr. Williamson’s

response, as well as his aggressive nature.)

“I ain’t reconsidering no **** position. And it ain’t ****, and

I’d thank you, sir, not to call it such.”

“It is ****.”

“It is the goods you ordered. These are them. Right here in

Mr. Rimbauer’s wagon. Now sign the receipt, get your Chinamen

to off-load the wagon and let me get out of this hellhole of a

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stinking construction site. Never seen so much yellow skin in one

place, except maybe the railroad. And I don’t like railroads!”

“You will lose your job for those comments, sir. You will

never be a teamster again, with that attitude and that mouth of

yours. You just wait until—”

“Unload the *** **** wagon. I got me a date with a beer at the

Merchant Café, and you’re getting in the way of that, and that

there is unsettling me a good deal. That there is what you want to

do right now, mister. Unload the **** wagon, or prepare to eat

some horse***t!”

“That’s it! Enough of you! Turn this team around. Return the

wagon. It’s the last run you’ll ever make.”

I recall the teamster—Mr. Corbin—reaching into the back of

John’s wagon, beneath a tarp, almost as if he were digging for

something. And then he turned toward Williamson. From a distance

where I stood, I saw a puff of blue-gray smoke, like a tiny

cloud. Then felt a punch in my stomach as a dull boom ?lled the

air. Another small puff. Another boom. The ?rst of these reports

actually lifted Mr. Williamson off his feet. He looked as if someone

had tied a rope to the back of his trousers, the other end to a

horse, and then slapped that horse’s behind. The second of the

two shotgun blasts caught Mr. Williamson in the neck and face, a

bloody spectacle so horri?c that I was immediately sick to my

stomach.

He lay there on the porch, as still as a statue, rose-colored and

dead. I’d never seen a dead person. I didn’t know the effect it

would have on one. The ?nality. The awareness that I too shall

follow Mr. Williamson to that place. Heaven. Hell. I don’t have

the vocabulary. Those two offerings don’t help me. I believed in

Heaven and Hell before to-day. Now, I’m not convinced there

are only the two places, the black and white of afterlife. I’m of the

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opinion that gray must exist. Mr. Williamson convinced me. I

can’t imagine a man with that foul disposition in Heaven as I

write; but what man who dies at the hands of another deserves

Hell? And what of Mr. Corbin? Where will the afterlife place

him?

Did I tell you where they found Mr. Corbin? At the Merchant

Café, of course. His beer. They found him bent over that beer,

nursing it. They say he didn’t know where he was, or what he’d

done. Didn’t remember any of it. They say he must be crazy.

“Half out of his mind,” John said to me. But of course he means

fully out of his mind. There are many of us walking around with

only half a mind. They don’t lock you away for that. You need to

lose it all before they take you, and Mr. Corbin lost his. And they

took him. Off to jail, still wondering what it was he’d done.

I’ve heard the term “possessed” before. I’ve heard it used as an

explanation for someone “half out of his mind.” A Christian

woman, I have never given such claim much weight. Possessed by

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what? I wondered. But—dare I write this, when writing seems so

?nal an act?—now I better understand the term, now I am

inclined to accept it. It pertains to the gray in the afterlife. It pertains

to tragic people like our Mr. Corbin. Not empty, as “half

out of one’s mind” implies, but instead ?lled, but with the wrong

element. The bad. Evil. Filled with tainted ?sh, the stomach is

already informed but has not yet signaled the brain to retch.

Filled with the gray. The other side. Possessed.

Mr. Corbin was possessed. In this regard, who do we blame

for the vicious act perpetrated upon poor Mr. Williamson? The

possessed, or the possessor? Was Mr. Corbin merely an instrument

of the gray?

It won’t matter now. He’ll never be back among us. He will

hang. Possessed or not, he will hang. And he will die—legs twitching

in the wind.

The grand house will never be the same, of course. Mr.

Williamson’s blood is spilled upon the earth, is mixed with the

mud and the mortar, is part of that place. And I can no longer

think of it as I have. The blood is spilled. I saw it with my own

eyes. Someplace between Heaven and Hell. Some color between

black and white. And I ?nd myself wanting a name for the place,

seeing Mr. Williamson lying there. He can’t have died at the

grand house. He died someplace more lyrical than that. I will talk

to John about this, for it is his house. But the color I remember

so vividly is the color rose. Rose red. Blood thinned by a falling

mist.

On the way home in the car, John pulled off the road, came

around and opened my door. He apologized for all that had

gone before us that day, as if we’d encountered a delay or bad

service at a restaurant. I recall being amazed by his apparent

indifference to the fate met by Mr. Williamson. He begged my

forgiveness for the “aggravation” of that day, whereas I certainly

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bore him no blame for it whatsoever. Then he dropped his right

knee into the mud, and I knew what was coming, and I must

admit to both elation and revulsion. John is pragmatic. I told

you that, didn’t I?

This was on his schedule, and he refused to allow a small murder

to derail his plans. As he explained it, he regretted very much

the events of that day, but his heart and passion would not allow

another minute, not another second to pass without voicing his

intent.

He asked for my hand in marriage. Clouded in rose. Clouded

in gray. I am to be a wife. John’s wife. (For I quickly said yes!)

But truth be told, he picked the wrong day to ask, the wrong time.

I am quite surprised, in fact, that he could not see clear to delay

this engagement. Even a day or two might have helped. And after

so long, what difference is in a day?

But there was a difference in John Rimbauer. I wonder if it

took another man’s death to create in him a desire to extend his

lineage, or if one had nothing to do with the other? With life so

seemingly ?eeting, did he rush to judgment to marry? I feel certain

we will discuss Mr. Williamson’s demise for many months,

even years to come. I believe that I saw in John a fascination with

death. I know that for me, Dear Diary, life will never be the same.

I wonder where it is that Mr. Williamson has gone. Is there any

return from there? So many unanswered questions.

What, if anything, does John’s hesitation to include me in his

thoughts tell me about the upcoming marriage, this voyage on

which I’m about to embark? How far, how smoothly, can this ship

sail if Captain and First Mate are not sharing their thoughts? Are

we doomed to the rocks? Or is there some lighthouse yet to be

seen around the next spit of land? Captain, oh, Captain. My

breast swells with thought of my marriage and all the new experience

it will bring to me, I tingle head to toe. And yet my heart

goes cold at the thought of John’s carefully kept secrets and his

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refusal to let me in. He is so reluctant to share his thoughts. Will

I ever gain entry, or am I doomed to live in isolation despite our

union? I fear this is how it’s to be, and I dread the thought of a

life spent in a lie. I dread the thought of this marriage as much as

I am thrilled by it.

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18 august 1907—seattle

As the future Mrs. John Rimbauer (it’s the only plausible explanation

for this) I was invited to join to-day an elite group of

twenty-three women, led by Anna Herr Clise, to address a health

care crisis in our great city, namely the lack of a facility to treat

crippled and hungry children. Over an extravagant lunch at

Anna’s home, we all agreed to contribute twenty dollars each to

launch the Children’s Orthopedic Hospital. The press gave us

great attention, both because of our sizable personal donations

( John provided me the twenty dollars, thank God) and because

our board is to consist entirely of women, unthinkable to the

bankers downtown.

I have subsequently invited all twenty-two of my fellow

founders to our wedding, this November, and expect all to

attend. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a crippled

child, and I hope and pray (yes, even to my darker god) that I

shall never have to endure such a hardship. John and I plan on a

large family, and I, for one, can’t wait to get started—though not

without a great amount of nervousness do I approach my wedding

night, quite afraid as I am of the actual physical union of our

love. (The idea of a man inside me both sickens and excites me.)

I wouldn’t have bothered to even mention the fete at Anna’s

except as a way to preface my anxiety over one Priscilla Schnubly,

a ferret of a woman with an exacting manner, pinched face and

scandalous tongue. Yes, I invited her and her husband to the

wedding out of proper social intercourse, but my how this woman

vexes me! When I mentioned John, Priscilla Schnubly snickered

for all to hear. She then whispered into the ear of Tina Coleman,

who blushed as rose as the spilled blood of Mr. Williamson and

went on to refuse to share with me the exchange that had transpired

there between them. And yet I know in my woman’s heart

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that whatever it was had to do with John and the rumors of his

nighttime activities.

Do I dare condemn John for actions taken prior to our marital

union? Does such an eligible man owe me his chastity before

we are of?cially wed? All these questions circulate in my mind,

with me knowing nothing of the truth to begin with. Would I not

prefer my future husband sow his oats prior to his promises than

to break those promises later? Am I personally humiliated in

social circles for his actions, as the snickering Priscilla Schnubly

would have me believe? Am I to be the laughingstock of Seattle’s

prominent women because my husband may prove incapable of

being a devoted husband? Am I willing to trade that for the

wealth and privilege he is certain to bestow upon me? I am nearly

dizzy with consideration. Consternation. Concern.

Is John merely entertaining other women, or, Heaven forbid,

is he taking advantage of them? Was this the reason for the snickering?

And why on earth do women like Tina Coleman think that

their silence somehow protects me? Indeed it does not. I have

invited Tina to tea this very afternoon. We shall see.

Tina Coleman is a gorgeous specimen of a woman. Tall. A

brunette like myself. Flaming blue eyes. I ?nd myself quite taken

by her beauty. She is the wife of an orthopedic surgeon, famous

in these parts, and therefore a perfect board member for our new

cause. She speaks slowly and calmly, and rarely moves her head

left to right, as if her spine were ?xed.

We sat down to tea in my mother’s parlor. Earl Grey tea was

served with cucumber sandwiches and huckleberry scones. I recall

our conversation vividly.

“What a lovely home you have,” Tina Coleman said.

“I have lived here all my life. When I leave to marry John,

it will be the ?rst time out of this house, except for our family

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travels overseas and six months I spent in ?nishing school in

Brookline, Massachusetts, outside Boston.”

“I know Boston well,” she said, maintaining her airs.

“Tina, we have been raised in the same city, and had our parents

shared the same circles, we might have been closer friends.

I’ve known of you, of your beauty, of your ?ne manners, your

intelligent speech, for many years, as I believe we were both

courted by Jason Fine, that most peculiar, insolent man, who in

my opinion will be lucky to ever ?nd himself a wife.”

“Amen.” When she sipped from her teacup, Tina Coleman’s

small ?nger raised in the air like a ?ag.

I said something like, “I would have to have my head in the

sand not to be aware of the rumors that circulate concerning the

nightlife of John Rimbauer. You need not sugarcoat it, dear

friend, but I do ask of you the truth as you know it. What you’ve

heard, and how much credence and faith you put in these reports.”

“You ?nd them vexing.”

“Indeed. Wouldn’t any woman, especially one about to

marry?”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you cope. I will tell you this: you

have the respect of many of the ?nest women in this city, both

because of your strength in light of the rumors you now mention

and because of your ability to win John Rimbauer’s heart. Some

women will envy you, Ellen, and you must be prepared for their