Annie Oakley's Girl (2 page)

Late that night, we ride into town and tie up Kid and Cowgirl by the Red-Eyed Jack Saloon. We walk in side by side, each of us pushing open one half of the swinging door. The whole saloon is quiet for some moments. Annie looks at me. I nod and she says, “Bring us a bottle of yer best whiskey, Jimbo. And set us up two shots.” Jimbo looks at Annie, then looks at me, then back at her again. He hesitates. When he says to her, “Annie?” his voice is slow and tentative, like a kid unwrapping a present too good to be true and asking unbelievingly, “For me?” Annie grins and looks at him, then looks down the entire bar. Everything is silent and still except one cowboy who shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The sound of the creaking leather of his chaps startles him and he holds his breath. Annie scans the whole place, then looks at me and winks. She slips around on her barstool and faces the whole saloon. She spreads both her arms out wide, pauses, arms in the air, “Now is
this
,” she slightly dips her arms, “what ya'll call a proper home-comin'?” Then the whole crowd bursts. Jimbo slaps his forehead, yells, “Shit fire damnation, Annie!” Cowboys whoop and jump from their chairs and run up to Annie and hug her. “Goddamn yew, Annie”, “Sheeeee-ut, Annie's home!” Jimbo declares free drinks for all. Someone finds a harmonica and starts dancing. Cowboys toss their hats in the air and holler. Everyone slaps everyone on the back. When Annie introduces me they shake my hand and take off their hats and tell me, “Pleased t' meetcha,” and later in the night they give me bear hugs. They give Annie capsule histories: Wally's with the railroads, Doc got married and Lou left town with some man from Chicago. Lucky ran to Mexico. Sally 'n' Jack got hitched up and took on Old Widow Whitley's place. And Jimmy's got his eye set on the Foster girl but his Momma 'n' Daddy don't know what they think of her. They ask her about Buffalo Bill and the travelling Wild West Show and she tells them everything.

Part of the floor gets cleared and all of us are dancing. The cowboys stamp their boots. Annie takes a turn with Jimbo, and I with some young hand just passing through. Annie's skirt whirls around her and her braids fly. I watch her body spin through Jimbo's arms. The fringe strings on her jacket look alive and bright and I can pick out the sound of her boots clicking in the midst of all the rest. The night goes on forever. Cowboys collapse with happiness and booze. Little by little the cowboys leave, coming up to hug me and Annie again before they go saying, “Hon, we're so glad t' have y' back. How long y' stayin'?”

When the only ones left standing are Annie and me, we help Jimbo make the passed-out cowboys comfortable, remove their hats and cover them with blankets. When this is done Jimbo puts his arms around us, “Now y'all please stay as long as y' can. I had Jimmy take care o' Kid 'n' Cowgirl for y' 'n' Miz Burnley gotcha'll a room all ready.” Then he looks at Annie and squeezes her. “I knew yew'd come back, Annie.” The three of us step out on to the boardwalk and Jimbo offer s to walk us over to Mr s. Burnley's Hotel, but Annie tells him we'll be just fine. When we walk out into the street alone, Annie takes her hat off and leans her head back to look up at the sky. I look at her face in the light of the moon then I look up at the giant sky. I hear her breathe in a big deep breath. Then I hear the sound of the stretch of her sleeve, the flap of the fringe on her jacket, and then a whoosh and she's flung her hat in the sky and I see her hat soar high. I see it climb, the brim all white with moon like a spine.

Every year there was one new statue. You saw the picture of it on the wall when you came in and I was always eager and excited to see it, and part of me wanted to run right to it and find it. I knew exactly where it would be, but part of me told myself to wait and save the best for last. I always wore a dress because it was inside. You went in and the air was cool and it felt very different from the hot heat of the blacktop of the parking lot. My grandmother came because she could, because it was cool and there were places to sit. I wore anklets and the last time I went I carried a little purse. It was a wooden box purse and it had two horses painted on it and they were running on the land.

You were quiet there and you walked slowly, reverently, you spent time poring over the index cards next to the exhibits behind the glass looking for words you knew. You tried to remember the names they read you or that you could read yourself: Cheyenne, Durango, Cimarron. There were maps and photos and scale models. There were simulated rooms that looked like schools and barber shops and stores. There were movies for free. In the new part there were black and white photo portraits of rodeo champs, and world record holders for bronco busting, cattle roping, bull riding. On both walls of a hallway there were pictures of Best All Around Cowboy for every year. There were big cards on the wall that told you history.

My grandmother read me the one about the pioneers. That always took her a long time because she told me about her father who was an Indian doctor. At home she showed me things the Indians gave him. She showed me a leather pouch, a blanket of wool, a pipe, a bag of charms, a round black pot, some arrowheads, a jar of painted sand, a necklace of colored beads.

The last thing in the Cowboy Hall of Fame was this year's statue. The last year I went there I got upset because this year's cowboy was just a cowboy singer and I wondered if he was really a true cowboy at all.

My first horse was a broom that I named Trigger. At first Trigger lived in the kitchen pantry where my mother kept her cleaning things, but then when Trigger became Trigger she moved into my bedroom. Sometimes my mother would borrow her, and when Trigger came back she'd have bits of cat hairs and tiny specks of wilted lettuce in her tail. So I'd brush her tail out and pat her neck. My brother attached long stringy reins to the metal hook that was Trigger's mouth. I rode Trigger all round the house. You could always hear me coming from my upstairs room because Trigger's tail always thumped the stairs on the way down. Sometimes I rode her so fast my hat would fall off and thank goodness it caught at the string around my neck. Whenever I needed to stop at the saloon for a snack I'd tie Trigger to the kitchen table. If no one was there I'd rustle up my own vittles, but if my mother was there she'd ask me, “What'll it be today, pardner, the usual?” and I'd say, “Yup,” then she'd find me cookies or Twinkies or a piece of fruit. “How's Trigger today?” she'd ask, and I'd say, “Oh, just fine,” and I'd tell her stories about the caves and plains and woods I'd ridden through that day, the Indians and outlaws I had met and saved her from or won over to our side.

The whole day's still. It's hot high noon; the sky's so blue it's white. But now I notice almost none of this. It's only in my memory that I will watch the sky get waved with heat, or see the fine dust film that mutes the color of the cacti, the curled-up snake that's sunning on the rock.

Because Annie and I are riding. We're tearing through the desert on an urgent, crucial errand. I don't know where we're going. We break the stillness. Somehow I feel that this is a violation. The hooves of both our horses pound. They run in rhythm, side by side. We travel in one huge cloud of dust. I can hear the gentle slap of our night packs on the horses' backs. I turn around from time to time to check my bundle's still intact, but Annie's tied it tightly. I grip one hand tight on the reins and clutch the saddle horn with the other. The reins relax in Annie's hands. She never kicks or slaps at Cowgirl. She can say most anything with a movement of her body or a click of her tongue; she moves forward, left or right, and Cowgirl knows. She grips her horse close with her thighs.

Beside me, Annie leans forward. Her braids stand out behind her. Her jacket billows up. “Annie!” I shout across to her, tightening my grip on the saddle horn, “Annie!” but she can't hear me above the pounding hooves. We move so fast the dry air hits me like a fan. Only it's hot, not cool. I think I'm beginning to feel burned from the sun. It's a healthy feeling, but I wonder if I've remembered to bring my sunglasses and Coppertone. The sun glints on her stirrup next to me and it flashes at me every time I look at her. I start coughing from the dust. I lift the loose bandanna around my neck and cover my mouth and nose to keep the dust out. The cloth smells dusty and I know that in just seconds I'll be uncomfortable from the moisture of my sweat and breath. I must hear something from her because when I turn she's already looking at me. She says something. I yell that I can't hear her then I point to my ear and shake my head, “no.” I can see her laugh and nod. Then she points to her nose and chin, not covered by bandanna, then to me. Then she draws her pistol with a flick of her strong wrist. She stretches her arm into the sky and fires and fires again. She shakes her head with pleasure and points her face up to the sky and shouts a long “Hooooooo-eeeee!” of happiness. Her knees press Cowgirl and she races off ahead of me like I was standing still. She disappears in a cloud of dust. The only thing she leaves me with is the tail end of the whoop of joy behind her.

Annie tries to teach me how to cook above an open flame. She tries to teach me flapjacks, bacon, grits. The bottom half of everything burns and the top half is always raw. I burn my palm trying to grab the hot black handle and dump grease and batter into the fire. She tries to teach me to toast bread on a stick; the bread falls in the flames. I burn the coffee and scorch the beans. She doesn't even use tinfoil. I want to tell her about adjustable-flame gas burners, but I don't want to sound like I'm whining. She mixes things without a book. The only seasoning she'll use is salt. I think of woks and Cuisinarts and frozen vegetables. She brushes her teeth with baking soda. I sneak behind the wagon and press mint-flavored Crest on to my toothbrush. She's never tasted mint before. I don't want to confess.

I'm thrilled. We're in a stagecoach. I'm wearing gloves and button boots and a long-sleeved dress with lace around the sleeves and high neck collar. I have a hat and veil on. “Now jest who you tryin' t' keep outta there anyhow, honey?” she asks and laughs out loud, then slaps her ungloved hands against her knees. “Jeee-umpin' Jehosefat!” she nearly shouts and looks out the window beside her. “Looks all little bitty when y' got a window 'round it.” She leans out the window and shouts at the scout who rides his horse beside us. “How's thangs out there, Willy?”

“Jest fine, Annie.”

“Well, I tell yew,” she holler s back, “it shore looks dif 'ernt from in here, Willy-boy!”

“Now doncha fret there, Annie, ain't nobody gonna pull nothin' over on y'!”

She smiles back and keeps staring out the window until gradually her lips are straight. She leans her elbow out the window ledge and puts her chin in her hand. I watch her quiet profile against the landscape moving fast and flat behind her. She's always ridden on horseback outside the coach before. The brim of her hat casts a shadow down most of her face. She's wearing her fancy skirt and fancy jacket and a bright pink shirt I bought for her when I bought my dress and boots. On the shelf above her, our two suitcases; her beat-up leather bag with the rounded, well-scratched metal corners, and my ladies' light, sky-blue American Tourister.

I find a lacy handkerchief in the beaded bag beside me and gently dab at my neck and upper lip and forehead.

Then I pull out my embroidery and try to teach her how to stitch.

Tonight I undo Annie's braids. She sits facing the boudoir mirror in our hotel room, in what is now a ghost town in Nevada. I sit behind her working on her hair. She's tied the bottom of the braids with leather. The braids are tight and smooth and gold with sun. I undo one and then the other, untying them at the bottom and separating the three even groups of hair in each. Then I shake them evenly and brush her hair out straight and all together. Her hair is wavy from the constant braids but I can tell it's naturally straight. I brush firmly, starting at the very top of her part and continuing down in strong hard strokes the whole length of her hair. I brush the sides above her temples and underneath the back of her head. Her hair parts naturally in the middle and back. I expect it to be coarse, but it feels like a baby's.

I brush and brush until her hair is smooth and soft as silk, and shiny. It looks like still gold water. Then I look up at the mirror to catch her eye and ask her what she thinks. But her eyes are closed. She's sitting up straight, asleep. I study her face and notice something missing that I'd come to believe was always there. It's something she can't tell me.

But Annie prefers the open range to hotel life. She likes to sleep in whistling distance of Cowgirl. “Thangs weren't always lahk this now,” she tells me. It's hard for her to break the habits that she made when things weren't tame.

I've stopped telling her to relax, to let other people care for Cowgirl, to cook her meals, and wash her things behind her. I think perhaps her work
is
her true pleasure.

I started riding lessons when I was five. In the family album there's a picture of me, tiny and blonde, my light blue glasses with the pointy frames slipped down to the end of my nose. I'm sitting on a huge brown horse. My feet reach way above the middle of the horse's back. My head doesn't reach as tall as the horse's. I remember my seriousness in posing for this photo. I refused to wave or smile because I didn't want it to look like a game. I wanted it to look like this was something I did every day, quiet and serious.

The horses I rode had these names: Penny, Marshal, Slim, and Little Bit. Blackie, Kit, Friskie, Nick. Old Tom, Old Paint, Old Gray, Brandy. Roger, Ho-boy, Loosa, Beaut. Carson, Big Boy, May.

I'm given priority seating at the Wild West Show. I sit between a railroad tycoon and a meat packer from Chicago. The only other women there are wives or gentlemen's companions. I'm wearing a plastic photo ID on my blouse. I assume that this allows me access, along with the other VIPs and invited guests, to the private quarters and refreshment rooms. But oddly enough, I'm the only one with a tag. And even more oddly, no one seems to notice that I've got one. I watch for Annie through a pair of opera glasses. Of course, she is the star. She introduces all the acts and takes care of people before they hit the ring. And I know, though we don't see this, that she also acts as everybody's friend, encouraging, counseling, helping out. The people around me in the box discuss the show with terms like “quaint” and “rugged.” I hear myself tittering with them at their urban jokes and holding my teacup with my little finger extended. When Annie races out of the waiting stall and charges into the ring, six-gun firing, I hear the whole crowd gasp then cheer. The people in the booth I'm in clap evenly and nod to one another and say, “charming,” “lovely,” “marvelous.” After the show, when the others in the box tell me of their oil deals in Texas, their railroads in Ohio and their newest warehouse in the city, they ask me, roundaboutly, how I'm with them in the box. I nod and tell them, “I am an acquaintance of Miss Oakley.”