Weeping Angel (21 page)

“Amelia—”

“Hello, Frank.” Emmaline's voice caught Amelia by surprise, making her turn her head.

Emmaline stood in the doorway of her laundry, one hand poised on the frame. Her hair wasn't properly pinned up, and the damp weather brought out tendrils of jet curls to frame her face. “I thought that was you.” Then out of apparent courtesy, she greeted, “Hello, Miss Marshall.”

“Miss Shelby,” Amelia mumbled, not at all in a sociable mood. “If you'll excuse me.”

“Amelia,” Frank said, “we need to—”

“Oh, Frank,” Emmaline cooed. “I have your laundry finished. You may as well pick it up since you're right here. I did your shirts just the way you like them.”

Amelia glanced at Frank, saw the uncomfortable hesitation in his expression, then went ahead without him. She felt the gentle pull of material slip free of his fingers as she hurried toward the other side of Dodge Street.

The last thing Amelia heard was Emmaline Shelby fussing, “Why, Frank, you're soaked through. You better step on in and change out of that wet shirt and . . .” Amelia couldn't make out the rest, and she was glad. She wanted to forget every single detail of the past hour.

*  *  *

The talk in the Moon Rock Saloon on Saturday evening was the mud brought on by the prior day's rain.

“The streets were so muddy in Sacramento,” Pap embellished to a circle of drinking men from his stool in front of the upright, “that it looked to be a head was at the door of Sutters Mill Saloon asking for a drink. The bartender obliged him one, then asked if the man needed any assistance. The fellow said, ‘No thanks, mister, I got my horse underneath me.' ”

Frank listened to the conversation from behind the polished bar. He took a sip of tea the color of aged bourbon. Despite what looked like a piece of ice in the tumbler, the drink was room temperature. He kept a rubbed smooth fragment of glass in the drink, which never melted, to make it appear as if he were indulging. On duty, he never accepted liquor; and if he had to, he resorted to his snit—a special bottle he kept under the counter that gave the impression of red-eye.

His tale complete, Pap went on to play “Lily Dale,” then in the spirit of the cowboys who'd come into the
saloon, broke into song with, “Oh, Cowboy Annie was her name. And the N-Bar outfit was her game. We'll work a year on the Musselshell, and blow it in, in spite of hell. And when the beef is four years old, we'll fill her pillowslips with gold.”

“Another Old Gideon, Frank?” Cobb Weatherwax asked above Pap's singing.

Standing in front of Frank on the opposite side of the bar, Cobb slid two coins across the counter with dirty fingers. As usual, the man's facial features were mostly hidden by hair; hair the color of sludge hung past his shoulders, covered his jaw, obliterated nearly all of his mouth, and winged above his clear hazel eyes. And what didn't naturally grow on him, he wore in skins.

Frank made idle conversation while mixing Cobb's drink. “How're the beavers, Cobb?”

“Few and far between. Going to get me some though. Beaver is what makes the most money. Beavers are . . .”

Frank let the rest trail from his mind. He wasn't really interested in beavers or barroom chat this evening. Throughout the night, his thoughts had been turning to Amelia. A heaviness had centered in his chest, awakening an emotion buried deeply inside him. Farfetched as it was, he was going soft for her. He should have let her think the worst of him; he'd never cared what people thought about him before. But he wanted to explain why he'd let her think Bud and Beam were customers at the Moon Rock.

He'd been borderline chasing after her yesterday, even with Emmaline watching on, but he'd decided against it. He didn't want to spur any fights between the two women.

“ . . . I caught a mink in a beaver runway once,” Cobb concluded as Frank handed him his Old Gideon. “Then another time I . . .”

It wasn't like Frank not to concentrate on the bar. He'd even spent the past two days immersing himself in his work: balancing the books, cleaning out the underside of the bar, polishing the curios in his altar, and he even scrubbed the whole damn floor. But those tasks hadn't straightened out his mind. His gut felt tight, as if he'd eaten a fried egg sandwich too quickly and washed it down with a keg of beer. Most likely, there was only one way—besides taking a Bromo—to get rid of the feeling.

Confront Amelia, apologize, and get her out of his system.

As Pap finished his tune to the clunk of coins in his money jar on top of the New American, Frank spoke in a loud voice, but not as offhanded as he would have liked. “Pap, mind the bar for a while.”

“Pap's no bartender,” one of the cowhands grumbled.

Frank wiped the bar top, then flung the cloth aside. “Pap's expandable. He's like an accordion.”

“If Pap's tending bar, who's going to play piano?” Wendell Reed articulated his query in a slightly slurred manner.

They had him there. Frank shrugged, seeing no other alternative. “Liquor at my expense. One short bit each.”

A hoopla rose, but Wendell cut into it. “That's only a dime's worth,” he complained. “A dime drink without piano music . . . I don't know.”

“Make it a long bit, then,” Frank recanted with an edge of annoyance. “Let's see how far you can make fifteen cents last.”

“Not as long as he's got left in the saloon,” Grenville Parks guffawed. “Viola expects you home at nine o'clock. You've got two minutes to drink your fifteen cents' worth and get on home.”

Pap's easy gait to the bar was light and enthusiastic,
and a smile inched up the sides of his mouth. He rounded the corner with a little hop, then addressed Ed Vining, who stood at the end of the counter.

“Will you drive a nail in your coffin this evening, good sir?”

“A pair of overalls,” Ed replied, going along with Pap who knew damn well who he was.

“Ah, two shot glasses of straight rye. Definitely coffin nails.” Pap glanced at Frank. “Where are you going?”

“I've got something to do.”

Pap's brows lifted. “If he's got something to do, it has to involve a woman.”

Frank made no comment. If Pap O'Cleary knew he was going to have a talk with Amelia, he'd bust a seam. Pap still had wedding bells in mind for Miss Marshall. If only he'd get over his stage fright and ask her to the Fourth of July picnic, he might be able to start something with her. But for some reason, Pap acted like an imbecile around the piano teacher.

Parley Hawkins, one of the young cowboys who herded cattle for the big ranch north of town, sat at a table with six of his companions. All of them had baby white foreheads above their brows; and their skin was sunburned and leathery below.

As Frank dumped the rest of his tea into the dishpan, he called to Parley while he remembered. “Quit whittling on the wooden posts upholding the awning above my boardwalk. I'm going to have to replace them if you don't.”

One of the boys at the table ribbed Parley. “He's making hearts with Earline's name in it.”

“Shut up,” Parley cautioned.

“Both of you shut up,” came a third voice from a table in the corner. “We're trying to look at something here.”

“What?” someone from Parley's crowd asked.

“Orlu Blue brought in a stereoscope,” was the general reply.

“Big deal,” Parley snorted, drinking the chaser of cold beer for his shot of whiskey. “Who wants to look at National Parks from the Monkey Ward catalogue?”

“It ain't parks we's looking at.”

“But it's got hills and valleys,” chimed another with a deliberate laugh.

“What is it?” Parley asked, a spark of inquisitiveness in his tone.

“Naked ladies.” The man lifted the viewer by its folding handle. “This'n has a woman with a pair of bosoms that look like two gingersnaps.”

“What?” blurted the six men in unison, scraping their chairs back so quickly, several toppled over. They stampeded to the neighboring table like cattle in search of a watering hole after a long trail drive.

The others in the room converged in a shuffle of boots, Pap O'Cleary included, all elbowing each other to get a better look at Orlu's girlie cards.

Shaking his head, Frank pulled the strings on his white apron and laid it on the counter. “Pap.”

“What?” Pap replied without turning, standing on tiptoe for a look-see over the other men's heads.

“I'm going now.”

“Yeah, Frank, I got everything handled.” He absently waved. “Goddammit, Parley, you're stepping on my foot.”

Frank pushed the crystal glass bat-wing doors and stepped onto the boardwalk. Rather than go straight down Divine Street to Amelia's house, he went through the narrow alley between his establishment and Titus Applegate's Furniture and Undertaker Emporium. He hadn't wanted Pap, or anyone else, to see what he was retrieving from the porch off his bedroom at the rear of the saloon. After he collected a long box, he headed for Amelia's.

He didn't bother opening the lid to check the contents in the box; the pungent smell of freshly cut cattails told him the boys had done their job. Jakey Spivey and Daniel Beamguard had been hanging around the Moon Rock all morning, pestering him while he was cleaning. After lunch he'd had enough and told them to go and pick some cattails for him. They'd asked what he needed the marsh reeds for, but he wasn't about to tell Jakey and Daniel he intended to give them to Amelia as a present. He'd said he was partial to cattails. When they didn't readily believe him, he'd had to embellish by saying he was thinking about setting up a frog terrarium.

The boys bought the lie for a dime apiece, and he'd finally been able to get rid of them for a good two hours. When they returned, their smudged faces proud, they told him they'd gotten
extra special
cattails just because they liked him so much. It had been opening time, so Frank hadn't questioned them about their exact meaning; he'd paid the boys and sent them home.

As Frank walked, he listened to the sounds of insects filling the warm night air with songs. He felt a certain contentment in the evening. He liked summer most of all because he wasn't a constricting clothing man—the less worn the better. On the job, he never succumbed to a coat but only went as far as a vest. Tonight he'd chosen a fancy red brocaded vest; underneath, he'd put on a pristine white shirt, his sleeves held up by women's garters. This particular pair of silk elastic garters with solid silver clasps had come from a pretty waiter girl named Kate in the El Dorado.

As Frank walked, he thought about the men who were converged in the Moon Rock. One thing about his saloon, he pretty much knew every patron by name now; he couldn't boast that same fact for the El
Dorado, where a man's face could be as fleeting as his prospects. It was a good feeling to be able to call a man by his name instead of mister. He'd never had the opportunity to do so before.

Weeping Angel had its advantages in being a small, close-knit community; but by the same token, it had its disadvantages. In a town this size, most people knew what their neighbors were doing and with whom. It was that thought making him shy away from Emmaline Shelby. He wasn't the right man for her, and any hopes she was apt to pin on him were wasted hopes. He was willing to take full blame for the situation and back off, but Emmaline had other plans.

Yesterday when she'd caught him trying to talk with Amelia, it had been apparent Emmaline knew there was more between him and Amelia than a casual disagreement. The tension surrounding them must have been as noticeable as sparks because Emmaline shot hers right back. Not by way of fire, but rather, with a smooth sugary persuasion that he would have had to be stupid to ignore. Under all that sweetness lay sour grapes. He knew if Emmaline thought he were interested in Amelia, Emmaline wouldn't let him go.

He'd done his best to appease Emmaline in the laundry shop, but he hadn't touched her. He wouldn't anymore, and he felt bad he'd ever done so in the first place. She'd gone on some about the damn Founder's Day picnic on the Glorious Fourth, and he let her talk because talking about him going was the only connection he'd have with the town gathering. There was no chance in hell he was showing up, pretending to be a regular member of the community.

A pig's low grunt caught Frank's ear. The streak of white on Hamlet's haunches tipped Frank off to the boar rooting through the Applegates' flower bed as he passed the home. The lights on the lower level were extinguished; only one remained lit on the second
floor, and Frank figured the mister and missus were getting ready to retire while their boy's Hampshire boar wreaked havoc in his mama's pansies.

Hamlet lifted his chunky black head and snorted at Frank in recognition; then the pig went right back to nosing in the flowers. Frank had fed the pig his leftover scraps when Hamlet came sniffing around the Moon Rock. Having a three-hundred-pound swine as a pet never would have been Frank's first choice, but he did think the boar had character a dog didn't.

Frank unlatched Amelia's gate and let himself into her yard. The lawn was looking pretty high for a Saturday, and he knew she'd have a hard time mowing it come Monday. He couldn't understand why she let Coney Island Applegate go. Women like Amelia didn't get the calling to do hard labor. Women like Amelia puttered in gardens and arranged flowers. They didn't shove an Acme mower across an acre of turf for the enjoyment of it. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't second-guess her.

Approaching the steps, he quietly took them, not wanting to announce his arrival but not wanting to scare her either. He needed a minute to figure out what he was going to say to her and how he was going to say it.

Frank deposited his parcel on the porch, noticing lamplight spilling out the parlor window. He tread lightly to the medium olive-trimmed window casement. Feeling like a young degenerate didn't stop him from peeking inside. He couldn't see much through the screen because her forest of plants occupied most of the view. He'd never known a woman to grow so many houseplants. And grow them well, too. He had to peer through a jungle of orchids and ferns just for a glimpse of the sofa, and then the pink cushions were empty anyway.