Cactus Flower (11 page)

      
Eulalie
decided perhaps she hadn’t given Nick the credit he deserved, although
her opinion had been colored by that embarrassing episode with her corset.
Or without her corset.

      
Mrs.
Johnson bustled ahead of Eulalie toward the kitchen. Following, Eulalie
assessed her hostess. They were about the same height, although Mrs.
Johnson was perhaps an inch taller than Eulalie’s own five feet, two
inches. Eulalie couldn’t even guess at her age. She looked about a
hundred and six, but Eulalie imagined she wasn’t more than forty or
thereabouts. The territory, clearly, was very hard on its women. That
might have given Eulalie pause had she not already discovered that there
were many ways in which life could be hard on women, and at least Patsy
could probably be safe here.

Every now and then she experienced
a compelling urge to shoot Gilbert Blankenship dead. Unfortunately she
was prevented by distance from fulfilling her desire. Thanks to the
lessons she’d taken in Chicago, however, she’d be ready for him
if he ever showed up.

      
The
kitchen was a large room, with a big wood-burning stove in one corner,
a table and six chairs in the middle, and lots of cupboards. The sink
and counters sat under a window decorated with pretty, frilly yellow
curtains and that gave a perfect view of … nothing. Offhand, Eulalie
couldn’t recall ever being anywhere with less scenery, unless you
counted scrub grass, rocks and cacti. If she hadn’t been prepared,
she might well have succumbed to melancholia.

      
“I’m
going to plant me a garden out there,” Mrs. Johnson said, indicating
the ground outside the kitchen window. “I get durned tired of looking
at dirt. I’m from Massachusetts originally, and I miss seeing green.”

      
“I
understand completely.” Eulalie’s agreement was heartfelt.

      
The
other woman laughed. “I reckon you do. But don’t worry. You’ll
get used to it. When I first moved here with my Zeke, I used to think
I’d go crazy in all this open space. When I went back to visit my
kin in Auburn ten years ago, I thought I’d die from being closed in.
Everywhere I looked there was a durned tree in the way.”

      
With
a small smile of her own, Eulalie said, “I’m looking forward to
acquiring your perspective.”

      
“Reckon
you are. Where are you from, Miss Gibb?”

      
“Chicago.
By way of New York.”

      
“Yup.
You’ll miss green, too.” Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “You’re
a brave woman, to come all this way by yourself. Not many women would
have the grit for such an adventure. But I have an idea you’re going
to do all right.”

      
Eulalie
didn’t know how she’d come to that conclusion, but she appreciated
it. “Thank you.”

      
“It’s
a fact that women don’t have much of a chance to shine in the States,”
Mrs. Johnson went on musingly. “Out west is about the only place where
a woman of spirit can find her own place in the world. Of course, having
a good man on your side don’t hurt any.” She shot a grin at Eulalie
over her shoulder.

      
With
the conviction of experience, Eulalie said, “Good men are hard to
find.”

      
“You
already found one of ‘em. If you ever decided you need a man in your
life, you couldn’t do better than Nick Taggart.”

      
Hmm.
While Eulalie wasn’t sure she liked Nick Taggart much, she was pleased
to have Mrs. Johnson confirm her tentative opinion of his potential
usefulness. Since the older woman seemed inclined to talk, she asked,
“Your children called him Uncle Nicky. Is he a relative of yours or
your late husband?”

      
Another
laugh from her hostess. “Mercy, no! But try as he might, Nicky just
can’t help but be nice to my children. And helpful? That man would
give you the shirt off his back if he thought you needed it.”

      
The
notion of seeing Nick Taggart without his shirt gave Eulalie pause.
She shook the disgraceful idea out of her head. “Is that right?”

      
“You
bet. He can’t help himself, although I know he’s tried.”

      
Puzzled,
Eulalie said, “Tried? You mean tried not to be helpful?”

      
“Yup.”

      
How
odd. She decided to say so. “How … odd.”

      
“Not
if you know his story, it isn’t.” Another chuckle carried Mrs. Johnson
through the kitchen and out the other door. “Here’s the room that’ll
be yours, Miss Gibb. I’ll have my gals out of her in a couple of shakes.”

      
Eulalie
really wanted to know Nick’s story, but didn’t want Mrs. Johnson
to think she was interested in him. Therefore, she remained silent as
she peeked into a medium-sized room with two beds and a large wardrobe
and a table pushed against the far wall, under a window. This window
also looked out on a good deal of nothing, but was prettied up with
pink-flowered curtains. Two little girls whom Eulalie judged to be perhaps
five and eight, sat on one of the beds, their hands folded in their
laps, their big blue eyes wide and staring. It was clear to her that
they wanted to tackle her and ask her about a million questions. She’d
never been around children much, but she smiled at them.

      
“Girls,”
said Mrs. Johnson, “this here is Miss Eulalie Gibb, and she’s going
to be renting this room from us for a while.”

      
The
little girls stood up and curtseyed. Eulalie thought they were adorable.
“How-do, ma’am,” said the older one.

      
“I’m
quite well, thank you. What’s your name?”

      
“Penelope.
Folks call me Penny. This here’s Sarah. She’s only five.”

      
“It’s
good to meet you, Penelope and Sarah.” She turned to Mrs. Johnson,
“I hate to have to disturb your daughters, Mrs. Johnson.”

      
“Nonsense.
They’ll be thrilled to have a real back-East lady livin’ in the
place.”

      
“We
don’t mind,” Penelope assured her eagerly. “We don’t mind at
all.”

      
Mrs.
Johnson eyed her daughters, and creases appeared in her forehead. “I
hope you don’t mind if they bother you a bit. I’ll do my best to
keep ‘em away from you, but they’ll be curious.”

      
“We
won’t bother you!” Penelope cried. “Honest, we won’t.”

      
“I’m
sure of it,” Eulalie murmured.

      
Mrs.
Johnson said, “We don’t get too many female visitors to Rio Peñasco.
Respectable female visitors, that is.”

      
“I’m
sure that’s so.” And how respectable was she? Eulalie wondered.
She’d run into prejudice against actors and actresses in the East,
but generally it came from people who were excessively self-righteous.
As of this very moment, she guessed she was a respectable widow lady.
If she had to, however, she was willing to exchange her respectability
for protection. Her mind and heart were both steeled to accept that
possibility if it became necessary.

      
“Say,
Miss Gibb,” said Mrs. Johnson. “You got a special fellow in your
life right now?”

      
Eulalie
hadn’t expected the question, although she didn’t mind it since
it would enhance her air of respectability even more. “I’m a widow,
as you are, Mrs. Johnson. My Edward died four years ago, of consumption.”

      
Mrs.
Johnson shook her head sadly. “I’m mighty sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
She eyed Eulalie curiously. “Er … you still call yourself Miss Gibb?”

      
Smiling,
Eulalie explained, “I come from a theatrical family, Mrs. Johnson.
My great-grandfather, Mortimer Gibb, established the Gibb Theatrical
Company in the early eighteen hundreds. The company has thrived since
that time. My married name was Mrs. Edward Thorogood.”

      
“I
see. Well, now, that’s right interesting. I’ll warrant you have
some pretty good stories to tell about all the plays you’ve been in
and everything like that.”

      
“Indeed.”
She had lots of stories, all right, and not all of them were fit for
respectable company. She’d be happy to talk about her family, however,
any time anybody wanted to hear about it. Talking might make them seem
closer to her. At this moment, Eulalie felt very much alone in the world—but
that was only because she was. She’d be so happy when Patsy could
travel again. A pang of loneliness spurred her to say, “My sister
will be coming to join me as soon as she’s able.”

      
“That
so? Well now, isn’t that fine! Wish I had some family here. Besides
my children, of course. I do miss ‘em. And I miss other things about
back East, too. Clams and lobsters come to mind.” She laughed softly,
but Eulalie sensed there was real longing in the woman’s words.

      
“Oh,
my, yes,” she said. “I can imagine that’s so. The food here is
… different.”

      
“You
don’t know the half of it.” Mrs. Johnson sighed. “I’d give my
eyeteeth for a dish of real Boston baked beans. We used to eat baked
beans and brown bread every Saturday night when I was a girl. Out here,
all we can get is pinto beans, and they just aren’t the same, although
I do my best. Thank God for bacon and molasses. My sister sent me some
white beans a year or so ago, but they were gone in a month.” She
laughed again. “We may get civilized one of these days.”

      
“I’m
sure of it,” said Eulalie, who knew no such thing. In truth, she wasn’t
eager to have Rio Peñasco become civilized any time soon. The longer
she could remain out of the limelight or any hint thereof, the better
she’d like it and the safer Patsy would be.

      
A
commotion at the door preceded a stampede of children. Mrs. Johnson
sighed. “Reckon that’ll be Nick with your belongings, Miss Gibb.”

      
“Please,”
said Eulalie. “Call me Eulalie.”

      
Mrs.
Johnson gave her a big smile. “Thank you kindly, Eulalie. Please call
me Louise.”

      
Eulalie
decided she was off to a good start in her new career as a runaway.

My dearest Patsy,

Well, dear,
I have arrived, and Rio Peñasco isn’t half as horrid as we
expected it to be. In fact, many of the citizens seem determined to
bring civilization to the place (Obut don’t worry. It won’t happen
soon). I understand the civic leaders even put on a town barbecue supper
once a year, to celebrate the town’s founding, although God alone
knows why anyone would wish to celebrate the establishment of such a
barren, desolate community.

      
Some
of the natives are rather nice, however, and I am now renting a room
from a very kind widow lady named Mrs. Louise Johnson, who has five
children. It’s a rather noisy house, but it will do for now. When
you are well enough to come out, I will be sure we have a place of our
own to stay. The people who live here build houses and so forth out
of mud bricks, rather like the ancient Egyptians used to do, only these
local bricks are called
adobe
, which is, I believe, a Spanish
word meaning mud brick.

      
There
is a fort nearby, and several soldiers come to town quite often. I have
considered one of them, Lieutenant Gabriel Fuller, as a possible protector,
if it comes to that, although there’s another man in town who might
fill the bill slightly better, except that he’s rather a brute. On
the other hand, that may be exactly what we need. His name is Nicholas
Taggart, and he has an uncle named Junius. They both work as blacksmiths
and farriers, and both are as big as houses.

      
My
dear, please take good care of yourself. We are safe for a little while
longer and, with luck and good timing, you will be long gone from Chicago
by the time Gilbert Blankenship gets out of prison.

      
All
my Love,

      
Eulalie
 

      
Eulalie
had believed herself fully prepared for her new life in an upstart western
village. She’d not only studied all the newspaper and periodical articles
she could find, but she read all the dime novels about cowboys and sheriffs
and cattle rustlers she could get her hands on. And, for the most part,
she discovered her education was valid.

      
She
was pleased to find that Rio Peñasco, for all its lack of refinement,
was not too difficult a place in which to live. This was true primarily
because it had been settled, more or less, for more than thirty years,
and people had instituted a few conveniences. For instance, Nick Taggart
had installed a water closet and a toilet in Mrs. Johnson’s house.
Eulalie appreciated not having to go outdoors to use the facilities,
since her presence in town was known, and quite a few men seemed to
hang around Mrs. Johnson’s yard. Ever since Nick had made it known
that Eulalie was under his protection, none of the men had yet dared
enter the yard, but Eulalie didn’t want to tempt fate.

      
The
local mercantile emporium couldn’t hold a candle to the new department
stores in New York and Chicago, of course, but Mr. Lovelady, who owned
and ran the store with the help of his wife and various other relatives,
compensated his customers for any lacks by providing them with both
a Sears and Roebuck and a Bloomingdale’s catalog from which to order
anything he didn’t stock. These “wish books,” as the local ladies
called them, were in a constant state of use and almost too well thumbed.
When Eulalie glanced through the Sears catalog, she could scarcely read
the print on some of the pages.

      
“We
get new ones every year,” Mrs. Lovelady assured her, treating her
with a deference Eulalie hadn’t expected. She’d understood that
saloon singers weren’t widely respected by the few ladies who survived
in these backwater villages.

      
She
was pleased to know she’d been mistaken and asked Mrs. Johnson about
the phenomenon one evening just as she was waiting for Nick and Junius
to accompany her to the Peñasco Opera House to begin her evening’s
job. “I’m glad no one thinks I’m a hussy,” she said, after mulling
over and discarding several other descriptive terms.

      
Mrs.
Johnson, her hands dripping soapsuds, cried, “Good Lord, child, why
would anyone think you’re a hussy?”

      
Eulalie
made a gesture meant to imply indecision. “Well … I mean, Mr. Taggart
said you might not view me as a respectable woman, since I sing at the
Opera House.”

      
“Bosh.
Nicky was only funnin’ you, sweetie. Anybody can tell you’re a fine
lady.”

      
“Really?”
How astonishing. It’s a good thing the few respectable ladies of Rio
Peñasco couldn’t see her perform. A glance at her scandalous costumes
would make them change their good opinion in a heartbeat. Which reminded
her of something. “Mrs. Johnson, I should like to attend church on
Sundays. Are there churches in Rio Peñasco?”

      
“Why,
bless you, child, of course there are!” Mrs. Johnson sounded surprised
that Eulalie would even ask. Apparently she hadn’t read the same books
Eulalie had. “My children and I attend the Baptist church down the
road a piece, because there’s no Presbyterian church in town yet.
But if you’re a Roman Catholic, there’s a Catholic church down the
road in the other direction.” She spoke the words
Roman Catholic
as if she didn’t approve of them.

      
“I
would be happy to attend church with you, if I may,” Eulalie said
demurely. If there was a piano or a choir or something, maybe she could
even sing for the natives. She meant the congregation. She really wanted
to be accepted by the good people of Rio Peñasco, primarily because
she didn’t want Patsy to endure any more unhappiness if it could be
prevented.

      
The
schoolhouse was a one-room affair, and Eulalie didn’t envy the schoolmaster,
Mr. Chalmers, mainly because he was small and spindly and most of the
boys he had to teach weren’t. His voice was kind of squeaky, too.
Eulalie was of the opinion that a fellow built along the lines of Nick
Taggart might be able to enforce discipline with more success than little
Mr. Chalmers. She got the impression from the Johnson children that
Mr. Chalmers needed help. However, from talking to Mrs. Johnson’s
children, Eulalie gathered that they learned their lessons in spite
of their teacher. This might, in part, have been due to the fact that
the only entertainment for children in town was garnered from books,
and Mr. Chalmers was the only person in town who could provide the children
with books.

      
Baths
were something else again, and required heating water on the wood-burning
stove and filling a huge tub. Mrs. Johnson made her children bathe once
a week, on Saturday, and they all used the same water. Eulalie made
do with bathing herself in her room, using a pitcher, basin, and washcloth.
She stood on an oilcloth. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.

      
The
one feature of life in Rio Peñasco that threatened to undermine her
confidence was something about which no one could do anything: the weather.
More specifically, it was the wind and the dust that were anathema to
Eulalie. She’d grown up in New York, where one could see a tree every
now and then if one wished to do so. Evidently, God had seen fit to
withhold trees from the Rio Peñasco area, except along the river that
had given the town its name. On the banks of the Rio Peñasco, one could
actually sit under a cottonwood if one were so inclined. Of course,
one had to fight off the huge red ants, mosquitoes, and gnats that also
enjoyed the moisture. While Eulalie knew God was supreme, she did question
His wisdom in creating the southeastern area of New Mexico Territory.

      
“It’s
because it’s springtime,” Mrs. Johnson explained to her one day
when, in spite of her vow to make the best of her circumstances, Eulalie
had mentioned the dust problem. They were in the backyard, hanging up
laundry. Mrs. Johnson had told Eulalie not to help her, but Eulalie
had insisted. It wasn’t any fun, due to the aforementioned wind and
dust. “We get real bad winds in the springtime.”

      
“Ah.
I see.” Rather wistfully, Eulalie recalled the spring flowers of her
youth. And the color green. She missed green. She flapped out a shirt
and pinned it to the clothesline. One of its sleeves retaliated and
smacked her in the nose. Stupid wind.

      
“Wait
until the summertime. The winds will die down and we’ll get rain durned
near every night.”

      
“In
the summertime?” How odd. “We used to get our rain in the fall and
winter back East. Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”

      
Mrs.
Johnson laughed heartily. “Aw, go on and complain, sweetie. You won’t
hurt my feelings any. Sometimes I get so homesick for Massachusetts,
I just sit and cry.”

      
Oddly
enough, while she didn’t wish Mrs. Johnson heartache, her landlady’s
confession made Eulalie feel slightly better. “I miss the grass,”
Eulalie admitted. “And the trees.”

      
“You’re
sure not alone there. But Rio Peñasco’s coming along. One of these
days we’ll have lots of trees.” She sounded confident as she pinned
a pillowcase to the clothesline.

      
“You
really think so?” Eulalie dodged another sleeve and grabbed one of
little Sarah’s dresses.

      
“Oh,
my, yes. Why, Nicky’s already sent away to back east to get me a couple
of rosebushes and a magnolia tree.”

      
“How
nice of him.” She’d noticed before this that Nick Taggart seemed
to be Rio Peñasco’s good angel. He certainly didn’t look much like
one, but she supposed angels had to fit into their surroundings. “I’m
curious about one thing, though.”

      
“Only
one?” Mrs. Johnson laughed again.

      
Eulalie
joined her, but pursued her original thought. “Water. Does all the
water used in this town come from the river? It’s not … that is,
it doesn’t seem … Oh, dear.”

      
Mrs.
Johnson patted her arm. “Don’t think a thing about it, Eulalie.
Like I said, you won’t hurt my feelings. But I know what you mean.
When you’re used to big rivers they have back east, this puny thing
they call a river here is a real disappointment.”

      
Eulalie
wouldn’t have put it in those exact words, but she’d thought them
a time or two.

      
“But,
you see, that river, along with everything else around here, is watered
by underground streams. You have to dig down to get at it, but then
you’ll have water for as long as the supply lasts, and God knows how
long that’ll be. Artesian wells, is what they call ‘em.”

      
“I’ve
heard of Artesian wells, but I didn’t know what they were until now.
Imagine that.”

      
“Yup.
That’s why we have all these windmills. With all that water underground,
I still don’t know why we aren’t greener on top, but there you go.”

      
“Ah,
I see.” There were, indeed, a plethora of windmills in Rio Peñasco.
They were among the first oddities Eulalie had noticed when she stepped
off the stagecoach. She might have asked about them before now, but
she’d been distracted by other things.

      
“The
good Lord knows, we have enough wind to keep the windmills pumping.”

      
That
was certainly true. “When do you think the rosebushes will arrive?”

      
“Don’t
rightly know, but I’m sure looking forward to planting them.”

      
Although
Eulalie hated to admit it, Nick Taggart, Rio Peñasco’s resident handyman
and good angel, was also a huge help to her. And—this hurt her even
more than admitting to Nick’s usefulness—his uncle Junius was a
help, too. Both men appeared at the Peñasco Opera House every evening
for two solid weeks in order to ensure rioting didn’t break out before,
during, or after her act. They appeared periodically after that, too,
and one of them generally walked her to work in the evening. Eulalie
always felt safer on the nights they showed up to watch her act.

      
Less
helpful, but rather endearing, were Lieutenants Gabriel Fuller and Willoughby
Nash, who also caught as many of her evening shows as they could. Eulalie
wondered exactly what their duties entailed, that they were able to
spend so much time away from the fort where they were stationed.

      
Then
there was Bernie Benson, owner and sole journalist for the
Rio Peñasco
Piper
. Bernie came to all her shows, too, and wrote fulsomely complimentary
articles about her. Eulalie wished he wouldn’t, since the publicity
drew more people every day, and she was going to have to put on two
shows a night pretty soon in order to accommodate all the lust-crazed
cowboys, soldiers, drifters, and townsmen who flocked to see her. Perhaps
if the Gibb Theatrical Company had someone like Bernie Benson in New
York, their audiences would have been bigger. At this point in her life,
however, Eulalie would just as soon dispense with Bernie’s effusions.
They were not only embarrassing, but they gave people the wrong idea.

      
Two
nights in a row, the entire Johnson family, not to mention Eulalie herself,
had been awakened in the middle of the night by a drunken man demanding
entry. Charles, Mrs. Johnson’s eldest son, had had the devil of a
time convincing the man that Eulalie wasn’t available. The entire
experience had been humiliating, although none of the Johnsons seemed
to be holding it against her, which she appreciated more than she could
say.