Waltzing With Tumbleweeds (14 page)

Salome studied the garish mural on the peddler’s van. The artist had depicted her in a belly dancing costume. The pillowing silk pants, the gauzy veils and her bare stomach that always drew stares. In the picture, her breasts were larger and her legs longer than in reality. Still the painting mirrored her bobbed black wig and heavily made up face.

Jo Jo’s scream brought her thoughts back to the present. She frowned at the excited monkey, then smiled in sympathy at him. The pitiful little beggar, who collected coins in a cup during her performances, was chained in the shade beneath the wagon.

Sidney Foster, her manager-promoter, had taken the busted wagon wheel to the next settlement to be repaired. He left her alone in the oven hot desert. Somewhere west lay civilization, in the form of the next stop, the mining camp of Baghdad. According to Sidney, Baghdad was flush with gold. Around her was only the monotonous sea of brownish gray brush, studded with hovering, armed cactus and distant islands of purple mountains. The one sign of humanity was the road made up of two dusty ruts that ran from whence they came to where they must go.

Salome did not miss Sidney’s company. She considered him obnoxious with his paunchy stomach and his bald dome which he kept hidden under a bowler hat.

Before Sidney left, he had spoken harshly to her. “Watch out for yourself. Mind me, girl!”

The arrogant barker protected her virtue like a jailer, but only out of fear that if she became large with child, his golden goose might waddle instead of swaying provocatively. Since joining him, she had danced atop bars in saloons, on stages with real painted scenery backdrops, even in wagon beds on the trail west from St Louis to this God forsaken waste land where they had broken down.

In the Arizona Territory with its endless desert, they traveled from
gold camp to gold camp, but despite the large crowds she drew, she and Sidney were always broke. She knew the reason for their poverty. Sidney could not resist cards, whiskey or loose women. Reeking of cheap perfume and sour whiskey, late at night he would crawl back to sleep in his own bunk opposite hers. Salome feigned sleep on those nights, lest he lay a sweaty palm on her. The memory of his repulsive touch disgusted her; she shivered in the desert heat. Because of the soaring temperatures, all she wore was a thin shift. She sighed and looked toward the distant mountains. Nothing had changed; Sidney would blow whatever money he had in his pocket before he returned.

They had moved from one boomtown site to the next. She recalled his barking pitch, enticing men to see the dance of Eve.

“You can be Adam again with the first woman on earth,” Sidney would promise them. In her first act, she danced with a large serpent called Mohammed. The snake was depicted on the side of the wagon in proportions far beyond its actual size. After Eve’s snake dance, there would be an intermission while Sidney collected more money, because by then the men wanted to see even more of her. Her second dance was patterned after her namesake, Salome. It was the same dance that cost the saint, John the Baptist, his life.

Jo Jo would bounce around while she performed, his tin cup outstretched, clinking to the tune of double eagles and even gold nuggets. Generosity was a weakness with her audiences and Sidney capitalized on it. He was, after all, well versed at losing his own money. In Tombstone they had been so successful, Salome had been certain not even a wastrel like Sidney could spend so much wealth. However, the master squanderer had found faro and poker too great a temptation.

Whenever at last a new attraction came to town and enticed the drooling customers away, the two of them packed up for more fertile ground.

Salome, her innocent dreams of riches slowly dying, realized there would never be enough profit to divide. She schemed for a way to save a small portion for herself from each performance. However, Sidney kept the purse strings pulled tight; she only observed him counting the take. There had to be a way for her to get her fair share. Salome shook her head as she watched Jo Jo eating the crust of bread that she had given him.

“You poor monkey tethered on your chain, we’re alike,” she said softly. His restrains were like her own. She too was leashed to the van by invisible bonds.

Mohammed, the six-foot boa constrictor, was content in his wicker
hamper. The desert’s searing heat suited him. Later she would offer him a drink. He usually slept undisturbed until it was time for him to perform. Then she would command him to do her bidding, just as she dance to the master puppeteer’s wishes.

Salome cocked her head and listened intently. Someone was singing out in the desert. The shift wrapped tightly around her, she wondered if she was hearing things. No, she decided, she was not imaging the sound. Someone was coming and it definitely was not the stagecoach, for the one going east was not due to pass until sundown.

A man’s voice carried across the greasewood. When he appeared, leading a sleepy eyed burro, Salome could see that beneath the man’s floppy hat, he was gray whiskered.

“Whoa!” The man came to an abrupt halt. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. “Girl, are you a mirage?”

Salome hid a smile. “No,” she said softly. This desert vagrant did not appear dangerous, but she backed toward the protection of the wagon, watching him doff his hat and stare wide-eyed at the mural.

“If that picture is truly you, then perhaps I’m in heaven?”

Amused at his bewilderment, she responded in jest. “It’s too hot for heaven.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Them preachers were wrong. Nobody would give up their sinning ways if they knowed this was hell and you’d be here.” His cackling laughter echoed in the desert.

“My name is Salome,” she introduced herself. “What’s yours?”

“Harold.” He paused and shook his head. “Girl, years ago I read all about you in the bible. You danced for Herod till he promised you John the Baptist’s head. I know about the serpent and Eve too. I know why you’re here and why I’m here too.”

Salome had no idea what the old man was rambling about, but she considered it safe to let him talk. She folded her arms in front of her and tried to look interested.

“Dad rat, it’s my luck again,” the man growled in disgust. “Me finding the mother lode and the devil’s come to get me. Pardon me, ma’am, but I never expected him to send his handmaiden.”

Salome blinked, started to open her mouth to set the man straight, but instead she shut it. A wave of pity for him washed over her. Let him think what he wanted of her. She watched as he turned and removed a canvas bag from his pack.

“Myra,” he spoke with his burro, “I’ve got us in a mess and I’m sorry about that, girl. But, there maybe a way for us to get out.” Salome could
barely make out his next words. “...going to buy our way out of hell.”

What did he mean? Her pulse quickened, this desert drifter must be near mad from his solitary existence. Before she could conjure up the words to gently dissuade him, her glance became galvanized by the gold granules that he poured into his palm.

“Now see here what I’ve got, but then you already knowed I had it, didn’t you, Salome?”

Shaken by the vision of his riches, she stepped closer to examine the glittering dust in his hand.

“That’s the reason you’re here,” he accused her. “I know ever time I strike it rich, I’ve always craved flesh and cards. But why tell you? You know how I’ve wasted it time and again. No matter I want to see that dance you did for Herod. And that snake on the sign, he’s here too, ain’t he?”

“Yes.” She felt sad for the man. He acted so confused, she worried about him. He was much older than she had first thought and his brown eyes held a pleading note that she could not ignore. She was not frightened by this prospector and she certainly did not mind performing for him. In other places she had danced for much worse than the likes of him, usually for very little gain, thanks to Sidney. Besides, if Harold
insisted that she take a few granules of gold in exchange for entertaining him, she would be that much closer to getting away from her keeper.

“Mohammed is here, too,” she finally said. “Do you want to see both dances?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll pay you for both of them, but then you got to promise to let us go. Both Myra and me. Do you promise, Salome?”

She lowered her face to hide a smile. He obviously considered her some type of siren or a witch. But she could hardly blame the poor man. Who would have expected to come upon someone like her in such a barren wasteland?

“I will do that. It will take a little time for me to prepare,” she warned him. She would need a stage of some kind. Glancing around, she noticed the gray rock wall in the dry wash beside the road.

“Have we got a deal?” he persisted.

Clasping her hands in front of her, she bowed slightly. “Yes, we have a deal” Then she pointed to the gully. “You must go to the dry wash over there and wait.”

“Dag nab it, Myra, we’ve struck a deal!”

“Wait!” she ordered. This new role for her was beginning to be fun and she knew intuitively that this man expected a commanding tone from her. “Take that canvas chair down there and place it on the edge of the sand bar for you to sit on.”

“Yes sirree. What else?” he asked excited. “What else you want me to do?”

She straightened her shoulders, fully prepared to give the old man something to remember for the rest of his lonely life. “When you hear my words, close your eyes. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes. I will. I’ll do just as you say.”

“Go now and wait in your chair.”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll take Myra too, cause she’s putting up her half.”

Afraid she would burst out laughing, she turned and hurried inside the van. She closed the dusty curtain over the rear of the wagon so he could not see inside, should he decide to peek. Her fingers trembled unaccountably as she fumbled with the sash on her shift. Quickly she stepped out of the filmy garment and stood naked in the close confine of the wagon. The air was hot and stifling, bringing out fresh beads of perspiration on her olive skin.

Confidently, she began her ritual. She poured fine scented oil in her palms and began to rub it into her skin. Soon her legs were glistening in the shadowy light. Then her supple belly, firm breasts, arms and face
received a ritualistic coating of oil.

Carefully she shadowed her eyes with black grease paint. If the old man gave her a few gold granules, it might be enough for her to escape Sidney’s bondage. She tried to suppress her own excitement, not wanting her hopes to become too high, but she found it an effort to ignore her apparent good luck.

She prepared the wig careful to hide her own Dutch boy bob. Her hands shaking with anticipation, Salome vowed she would dance for this prospector as she had never danced before.

Not even the hated black hairpiece that resembled Cleopatra’s would dampen her spirits this time. After slipping large gold hoops through her ears, she drew out the gold chains from her wooden jewelry box. Sidney had told her they were real, but she doubted him. Wetting her lips, she looked in the mirror and spoke aloud, “You can be Salome or plain old Nelda Greenbaum whenever you get away from Sidney.”

The baggy silk pants slid on easily and she stood to tie them at the waist. Next, she draped the gauzy veils in place. She was ready. The smoky mirror revealed to her the girl outside on the painting. All she needed to complete the picture were her Arabic prayer rug and her dance partner Mohammed.

With the carpet under one arm, she picked up the serpent’s hamper and climbed out of the van. As she crossed to the makeshift stage, she noticed that Harold was seated below, his face turned away.

“Close your eyes,” she commanded in a loud voice.

“Promise to . . . I ain’t looking.”

She looked down. His hands gripped the armrests, she felt certain his eyes matched them. Salome smiled at her new found power and hurried to her stage.

A platform of diamond sparkling sand shone under the sun’s highest zenith. Mohammed’s basket was in place and the prayer rug rolled out. Salome stood back to face her audience.

Her arms folded over the layers, she spoke, “Harold, open your eyes.”

He seemed to brace himself in the chair as his eyelids fluttered.

“Oh, my Gawd—I’m sorry. It’s just I couldn’t believe that painting and that there really was someone like you.”

Salome noted three canvas bags at his feet. Hastily, she drew her eyes away from the tempting sight.

“You must stay in your chair,” she warned him, “until the dance is over.” When he did not answer her, a knot formed in her throat as she worried what he expected from her. She gambled. “Do you have payment?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right here.” He pointed to the pouches at his feet. “I promise you I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Very good,” she said, controlling her breathing. “The dance will begin.”

Salome knelt before the basket and wound her arm in with the serpent. She had no doubts that Mohammed would begin his circling journey to her neck as cued. The snake responded. When she stepped back and began to dance, he slowly began to encircle her. The scales sliding under his powerful muscles rubbed her nipples hard in passing over her breasts. The turgid coils girdled her waist with the firmness of a lover’s hands.