Leaden Skies (4 page)
“Ah, good,” Lynch said, somewhere behind the screen of smoke. “Fire’s near out. ’Twas piss-poor beer, that’s true, but still, I wasn’t lookin’ forward to seein’ it all go up in smoke.” Then louder, “I’m a man to keep my word! Free drinks for those who saved the day and for all the pretty ladies next door!”
The crush of men around the damaged pleasure palace reversed itself and swept toward Lynch’s saloon, a jostling of hoarse voices, mud-slathered boots, soaked hats, looking for the promised free drinks. Inez stepped away from the stampede lest it carry her into the saloon. Once the thirsty tide had receded, she squelched forward to Flo’s, intent on finding the reverend and assaying the damage to the building up close.
Bobbing lanterns moved through the thick night, their carriers invisible in the pressing dark and murk. The wavering spots, crossing, recrossing, seemingly random in their movement, reminded her of the lightning bugs from her childhood. And like the insects she used to hold, one by one, cupped in her hands, they illuminated little, beyond their own small shapes.
She made out a knot of women, mostly by their white limbs and shifts, stirring nervously in the gloom. High-pitched coughs and crying were threaded by the soothing murmur of Sands’ voice. She sloshed closer. By the structure’s charred but still miraculously intact back porch, the mud was churned knee-deep from recent turmoil, water, and beer. Sands held one lantern high. Flo stood by, arms crossed tight, holding her elbows. Inez climbed out of the sucking muck in time to hear Reverend Sands say, “You’re welcome to use the mission for shelter.”
Flo shook her head, face and platinum locks layered black with soot. Tears or sweat had cleared small tracks of white down her cheeks. “Lynch offered me and my girls a couple of rooms upstairs for the night. He’s going to move his own whores into the backroom, for now. Danny’ll guard the house. He’s got orders to shoot first, ask questions later. No one’s going to sneak off with the silver or the booze if I have anything to say about it.”
She looked at the building. “Danny’s checking the rooms. I’m missing two girls.” She bit her lip, her upper teeth showing white. “Zelda and Lizzie.”
“I saw Lizzie outside Lynch’s.” Inez stepped into the fragile circle of light. “He was trying to talk her into coming inside.”
The lines across Flo’s forehead deepened as she raised invisible eyebrows. “Mrs. Stannert? Is that you? Did you come down to help fight the fire? Why, I didn’t think you cared.”
“I have no desire to see State Street go up in flames. That would be a catastrophe for us all.” Inez cleared her throat. Smoke wafting from the gaping back of the building coated her teeth and mouth, tasting bitter. “Your Lizzie seemed sound in limb when I saw her. Although quite intoxicated.”
Flo sighed. “Lizzie.” The one word was heavy with worry and fatigue. “Well, at least she’s with Lynch. We’d better head over there before something happens. I never know, with Lizzie.”
“She didn’t go inside,” Inez said quickly. “Lynch tried to talk her in, but she fled. Ran toward Harrison. She wasn’t wearing much.”
Flo closed her eyes. “Shit.”
“She’ll find a place to stay, or she’ll come back,” Reverend Sands said. “If nothing else, the police will find her, and she’ll spend the night in jail.”
Flo nodded, eyes still closed.
Soft sobs from the shivering women seemed to pull her from her thoughts.
Her eyes flew open. She was suddenly all business. “I’ve got to get everyone inside. Zelda, well, she’s my newest girl. If she’s not inside, she probably went home. She’s got family in town. Nothing to be done about it now.”
Sands glanced at Inez. “We’ll be going then, Mrs. Stannert and I. If you need anything, Mrs. Sweet—”
Flo cocked her head, looking at Inez as if really seeing her for the first time. “Hmmm. Now that you mention it, Reverend…Mrs. Stannert, I’d like to talk with you further. About something that could benefit us both.”
“Us?” Inez found the plural pronoun disturbing. She retreated a step, as if physical distance would dispel the grammatical embrace. “I don’t see where our interests intersect.”
“Besides in keeping State Street from burning to the ground, you mean?” A corner of Flo’s mouth quirked up momentarily, then the smile disappeared—a small light blown out with the slightest puff of breath. “Let’s just say that it occurs to me that this particular cloud may have a high-grade silver lining. In the morning, but not too early, I promise, I’ll send Danny around and find out if you might have a moment to talk. Somewhere away from here. Somewhere discreet. Away from prying eyes and ears.”
Without warning, she reached out and gripped Inez’s wrist, exposed between glove and half-rolled jacket sleeve. Flo squeezed, then released. As Flo and her girls turned to go, Inez glanced down, almost expecting to see the skin blotched red from the intensity of Flo’s grip. Instead, her wrist was encircled with soot, as if she was already manacled to Flo by an as-yet unspecified, dark oath.
“What was that all about?” Reverend Sands asked Inez.
Inez rubbed her wrist absently. The soot imprint would only be dispelled by a good scrub with soap and water. They were walking slowly up Harrison, from pool to pool of gas light from the street lamps.
They passed the Clarendon, the front of which was now deserted, the grandstands empty. The crowds had dispersed except for numerous late-night revelers who seemed intent on celebrating the arrival of the former president and the first train into the dawn hours.
“Flo’s invitation to talk? I have no idea. I suppose if I want to find out, I’ll have to meet her.” Inez’s wrist felt as if the morning sun would find it bruised. “I’m not inclined to follow her dictates, however.”
Inez and Reverend Sands strolled side by side. As a concession to her disguise, they forwent walking arm-in-arm. Even so, the sleeve of his coat occasionally brushed hers. When the reverend posed his question to her, Inez was contemplating how the various passersby had no idea of the frisson that jolted through her from that briefest and most accidental contact.
“If she’s in search of charity, perhaps the church could help,” said Sands.
Inez snorted. “You are one of the most gifted silver-tongued devils I have ever met, but even I have doubts that you could talk the church’s board into offering a leg up, so to speak, to the owner of a house of prostitution.”
“Let those without sin…” Reverend Sands didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Instead, he added, “Flo has been very generous in her contributions to the church in the past. It’s not Christian to accept such gifts and turn a blind eye on the givers, no matter what their station or state of their soul.”
“Stated like a true politician, Reverend. I think you missed your calling.” Inez spoke lightly, trying to stave off the exhaustion that seeped into every corner of her being. She was glad to turn the conversation away from Flo’s disturbing proposition. Even though she’d denied knowing what Flo’s offer might be, Inez had an inkling that she did indeed know what it concerned. Only a couple of weeks before, Flo had unexpectedly popped up at the back door of Inez’s saloon, hinted that she intended to move to a better part of town, and wondered aloud whether Inez might be interested in providing some financial backing.
It would have to be a most profitable deal for me to contemplate entering the flesh trade, even at a distance. Although, as the good reverend said, Flo is a most astute businesswoman. I’d probably add more to my bank account in league with her than I’ve accumulated through some of my investments in the local mines.
Return had been good until the recent miner’s strike in May. From thence forward, it had been a rocky ride, and Inez continued to watch, breath held, as stock prices gyrated up and down, dancing to the tune of East Coast investors and their nervousness over the stability of Leadville’s silver future.
She sighed.
The Silver Queen’s fortunes are looking up. That’s good. But I need something I can call my own. Something that has my name on it, clear and legal. I own a third of the saloon, but only verbally, and those words were spoken long ago, in another life. If the unthinkable happens and my husband returns, I’m not certain those words would mean anything at all.
“Did you mean what you said earlier, about getting a divorce?” Reverend Sands’ question seemed almost as though he’d read her mind.
They were at the corner of Harrison and Fourth, preparing to turn the corner and walk the long block to her home. She faced away from him for a moment, away from the lights on Harrison. Fourth Street was dark, quiet, its modest one-story homes, punctuated every once in a while with an ambitious two-story stand against the formidable cold of Leadville’s ten-month-long winters.
“Of course I meant it.” She turned onto Fourth. Sands followed. “Mark has been gone a year. Over a year. I’ve had not a word, not a letter, nothing. He could be dead, he could be alive. He loved our son, so much.” Her throat closed as she thought about little William, almost two years old and living so far away, back east with her sister, Harmony.
It was the right decision, to send him away. With his lungs, he’d not have lived through another winter up here. And I couldn’t leave Leadville then. I still hoped that Mark would return. That there was a reason for his sudden disappearance. An accident. Some unfortunate circumstance. But that was long ago. Now, the time is coming when I will be able to think about leaving. I swore, when I handed William to Harmony, that I would do whatever was necessary to get him back and move somewhere where we could live together. Making a deal with Flo would allow me the wherewithal to do that sooner, rather than later. William may never know his father, but he will know his mother.
She coughed, forcing tears away, and continued, “When I visited the lawyer several weeks ago, he indicated I could sue for divorce on grounds of desertion. That’s exactly what I intend to do. And the sooner the better.”
The sooner the better.
Despite her verbal assurances to Reverend Sands, a lingering doubt still pulsed, like water seeping from a heated mineral spring in winter.
What if Mark is alive? Not just alive, but here somewhere in Colorado?
There had been indications. Possible sightings. Reported to her second- or third-hand. Not in Leadville, but in Denver. And again, in Central City.
Best to finish the job. I can’t claim proper widowhood without proof of his death, but I can end this half-existence with a divorce.
The societal backlash from a divorce was inevitable, but then…
Better a “grass widow” here out West than home back East.
They’d arrived at Inez’s small house. She reached for her key and then realized it was back at the Silver Queen. Reverend Sands pulled a small ring of keys from some pocket inside his coat and thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. He inserted it, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.
She stepped inside, then turned to face him. “Are you coming in?”
His face was invisible, unreadable, cast into shadow under his hat. His figure, no more than a black silhouette, seemed to blend with the pressing darkness of the overcast night, punished by rain.
“Am I invited?”
The slight huskiness of his voice was all the indication she needed that their walk here, together, had served to turn aside his attention from the outside world and its recent troubles. That he was, like her, hoping for comfort and connection in the most human of blessings, the simple touch of skin to skin, breath to breath, heart to heart.
Without a word, she took his hand and gently pulled him inside.
Zelda paused outside the two-room shanty on Chicken Hill, her breath visible in the still air, her toes squeezed tight and painful in too-small boots. She checked the precious bundle she’d carried all the way from town. It was still rolled up tight, safe under the shawl. Gripping the shawl close around her face and shoulders with the other hand, she turned to gaze on the eastern horizon, the dark now creased with dawn light. Mosquito Range stood out as a sharp, jagged shape, reminding her of the paper dolls she’d once cut out of dark paper in a childhood that had ended abruptly when her mother died.
Despite the cold, she took a moment to shake out her long skirts, hoping the freezing early morning air would remove some of the smell of sex and smoke that clung to her. Usually, before coming to visit, she always scrubbed up, so Pa wouldn’t catch a whiff of all the men she’d passed the nights with.
She rubbed the toe of one button-topped shoe against her calf, balancing precariously on one protesting foot. That cotton stocking would show a gray streak of ash against the red stripes, next time she lifted her skirts.
But soon, maybe I won’t have to do that ever again. Leastwise, if I don’t want to.
She tested the front door with a shoulder, knowing how tight it fit against the buckling raw planks of the floor inside. The door, unbarred, released its customary squawk and hiss as it scraped open across the floor. By the cast iron stove, a moth-eaten buffalo robe stirred, animated by an unseen force. A dull metallic gleam, snout-shaped, emerged from beneath the robe.
“It’s me,” Zelda hissed. “Put the gun away, Zeke. You’re no
pistolero
.”
There was a dull clunk of metal on wood as the sawed-short shotgun met the floor. A whine emerged next from beneath the robe. “’Tain’t no way to talk t’ your elders, Miss Zelda.”
“You’re only elder by nine months, and a whole sight dumber. And watch your mouth and call me by my given name here at home.”
“Zelpha, Zelda, it hardly makes a diff’rence. Don’t know why you’d pick a whorin’ name like Zelda anyways, instead of Posey or something.”
Zelda tiptoed over to a rocking chair by the stove and sat down with a sigh, holding the bundle on her lap. “’Cause I wanted somethin’ easy to remember. So, everyone still sleepin’?” She hiked up her skirt, slid a buttonhook from its holding place in her garter, and began unfastening the boots.
The robe heaved off. “What yuh think, Zel?” Zeke stood up and stretched, long underwear drooping such that he looked like he had the butt of an old man. “Pa had the better part of a bottle last night, tryin’ to drown out the cheers of everyone welcomin’ General fuckin’ Grant t’ town. What Pa didn’t drink, Zed did. And your lover boy’s sleepin’ like a baby. How long’s he stayin’ here anyways?”
“Long’s it’s my money that keeps a roof over your miserable head and beef and booze on the table to feed your sorry ass.” Zelda threw her shoe at Zeke. It connected firmly with that piece of his anatomy.
Zeke threw a wounded look back at her. “Hey. Zed an’ me are workin’ too.”
“And every penny you make muckin’ ore for Silver Mountain Mine goes to the sharps and girls on State Street.”
Zeke’s nose twitched. “What’s that smell? Smells like, I dunno, you burnt your hair or somethin’.”
Zelda bent to the other shoe, furiously digging the button loops off the buttons. “Fire at Flo’s place.”
He scratched. “Thought it was brick or stone.”
“Not all of it.” One of the loops had gotten twisted and wasn’t cooperating. “Back part, the kitchen and mud room, is wood. Anyhow, place filled with smoke so fast, I could hardly breathe. I hardly had time to grab shoes and shawl, and run out.”
And got something else, too.
“Leastways I was already dressed. Some of the other girls had nothing on but blankets or shifts. Looked like squaws, standin’ outside, all wrapped up. Screamin’ and pitchin’ fits.” She sighed, looking down at the second boot, now unfastened. “Nice shoes. Too bad they ain’t my size.”
She leaned back, rocked slightly. “When I was walkin’ here, I heard some folks talkin’. The city marshal’s house got fired up first, they think. Then Flo’s. All the firemen were stuck in the parade for Grant, along with the hoses. By the time they got to State Street, marshal’s house was gone and two more nearby. Flo’s place is pretty much okay, I guess. ’Cept for the back side.” She wiggled her toes out of the boot and sighed in relief. “Don’t matter, really. Miss Flo’s moving uptown pretty soon, to that new place on Fifth.”
“That means you’ll be makin’ more money, then, right? You’ll be keepin’ company with all them muckety-mucks that got bucks to burn.”
“Keep your voice down, Zeke. Don’t wake Pa. Anyways, I ain’t goin’ back.” She looked up, daring him to object.
“Zel! You got to! How’re we gonna take care of Pa?”
She was tired, itchy, and wanted nothing more than to go in the back, unfold and admire the treasure she had rolled up under the shawl, and then curl up with her beau for a minute. All that just caused her to want to wallop Zeke, just like when they were young ones. Still, she kept her voice low so as to not wake the others in the back room. “You and Zed shoulda thought about that afore you spent all that money you made on the silver strike last winter. Or leastwise you shoulda sent us another letter straightways after the first where you said…Lessee, if I can remember, like the words aren’t burned into my brainpan…‘Dear Pa and Zelpha. Come on out to Leadville, Colorad-y, we’ve struck it rich, we’ve got twenty thousand dollars, and we’re livin’ like silver kings’,” she sang the last two words. “You shoulda sent another letter quick-on, sayin’, ‘Dear Pa and Zelpha. On second thought, don’t bother comin’ out to this place of shit and mud. It snows all-a time and’s colder than a witch’s tit, even in July. And asides we done drunk up all the money and pissed it back out and if’n you come join us, spendin’ every last cent you have to get here, you won’t have enough money to get back home and there’s no place to live but a raggedy old shanty we done built with our own hands and truth t’ tell, dear sister, we were mostly tight and stupid when we put it up and the walls aren’t straight and the wood’s not cured or cut right—’”
The curtain of canvas that served as a door to the back room pulled back. A voice boomed loud enough to split the roof timbers: “Zelpha, daughter, is that you? Is it the day of worship already?”
“Gotta pee,” muttered Zeke, and, clutching the front of his long johns as if to shield his tender parts from Zelda’s razor-sharp words, made good his escape out the front door.
Zelda stood and hurried toward the old man, who, bent and shaky, gripped the canvas hanging under the crooked lintel. “’Mornin’, Pa. No, it ain’t Sunday, but I’ve come to visit anyways.”
She lowered her face to kiss his cheek, paper-thin crinkly skin beneath a skim of white whiskers. The old man caught her arm before she could move away. “What are you doing here? I thought the butcher only gave you Sundays off.” He shook her arm, sightless eyes staring past her, his nose twitching. “Daughter, there’s the smell of Sodom and Gomorrah about you.”
Cursing herself for not stopping at a public well to wet the corner of her shawl and clean up, Zelda settled for a half-truth. “Pa, I’m here because somethin’ terrible happened. The place I was workin’, that butcher shop in Malta, burnt down last night. And, well, you know how the butcher was lettin’ me board in the room overhead? I got out, but was lucky to escape with my life. Everything is gone.”
His sunken cheeks seemed to cave in further. “Oh, daughter.” Sorrow painted his voice. “What’s to happen to us now? But our faith must stay strong. ‘A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.’ You’re a hard worker, daughter, and the Lord will set your foot to further employment. While you search and pray, you stay here. But that young man of yours, it isn’t seemly he be under the same roof while you’re with us.”
“No, Pa,” she said quickly. “Reuben’s fine for stayin’. He’s got nowhere else to go. And I, I’ve got a place in town. The shopkeeper and his wife. They said they’d let me stay with them. In their house, even, fancy that. You pray for them, Pa. They’re good folks with kind hearts. So all I need is one night here. And then, I’ll be fine.”
The old man nodded once. “ ‘Every thing that may abide the fire, ye shall make it go through the fire, and it shall be clean.’ The Lord’s showing his displeasure about the coming of that devil’s spawn, Ulysses S. Grant. Blessed be the brave soul who sends him straight to hell and eternal fire and damnation.”
“Well, Pa, I suppose you know best about that.” She gave him one more peck on the cheek. “Although I heard comin’ home that someone tried to do just that with a barkin’ iron. The man got pinched by the coppers, an’ Grant’s still livin’ and breathin’. Anyhow, let me get you set down comfortable. Zeke’ll get the fire started when he gets back in. I’ll get Zed and Reuben goin’, or they’ll be late for their shift. Then, I’ll make up a mess of grits, just the way you like it, like it’s Sunday for real.”
After settling the old man in the chair by the stove, she hurried to the back room, silent on stocking feet. Two figures lay, inert on the floor, separated from the small space that held her father’s bed by another strip of canvas strung across the room on a rope. She prodded one figure impatiently with her toes. “Zed!” she whispered. “Get out!”
“Arr.” The figure rolled over, then sat up. A face the mirror image of Zeke’s, only considerably more hung-over, stared up at her. “Zel? What’re you doin’ here? ’S Friday, not Sunday.”
“And a workin’ day for you, lazy bones.” She nudged him again, none too gently. “Git out there and git the fire goin’ for Pa. I want to talk to Reuben here.”
“Yeah, I know the kind of talkin’ you two like t’ do,” grumbled Zed, scrubbing at his sleep-creased face with a grimy hand.
“Git!”
He got—standing up with a creak and groan that belied his twenty-three years and hobbling out with canvas trousers half on, suspenders snaking along the floor.
As soon as he disappeared into the main room, Zelda pulled out her bundle, unrolled it, and spread it on the bed to admire. Even in the early light, the silk taffeta of the dressing gown gleamed softly. Butterflies and bouquets of flowers embroidered in green and melon silk floss and metallic cord were scattered over the field of purple. She quashed the momentary pang of guilt over snatching up the beautiful wrap from its place on the floor just inside Lizzie’s room. Silly twit had gone running outside, dressed in nothing but her shift. Not even any drawers. Not that a whore in the middle of work would necessarily have them close at hand.
It’ll look a sight better on me than Lizzie
. Zelda stroked the silk aqua lining, ran a finger over one of the frog closures, and imagined herself wearing the regal Chinese gown, bare feet, nothing underneath but the skin God gave her.
All fired up from her imaginings, Zelda turned from the dressing gown and fell upon the chest of the room’s remaining man, who had just rolled over and propped himself on one elbow, rubbing his eyes.
She ran her hands up under his shirt and along his ribs. She stuck her tongue in his ear and, when he squirmed, whispered, “Hey, Reuben, ain’t ya happy to see me?”
He jerked his head back and pushed her exploring hands away. “Stop that. Your hands’re cold.”
Rebuffed, Zelda rocked back on her heels, examining him at arm’s length. Reuben’s bleary eyes were near hidden behind a tangled greasy curtain of blond hair. His face was pocked with smallpox scars and acne, his features growing into manhood, the boyish qualities disappearing under sharpening cheekbones and lengthening jaw. Swallowing her disappointment at his less-than-romantic greeting, she murmured, “Just thought we’d not waste time.”
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I ain’t gonna do you here in your pa’s house.” He kept his voice blessedly low, just a whisper.
“Well, we might be findin’ it hard to slip away anywhere private for a while. Flo’s house is near ruined by the fire on State and anyhow, I quit.”
“You quit?” Reuben squinted at her. “No more whorin’?” He sounded hopeful.
“I’m gonna start lookin’ for a real job today.” She sidestepped the fact that she hadn’t actually
told
Flo yet that she’d quit. Time for that later.
Zelda plopped her butt on the floor, feeling the cold of the ground seeping straightways from the dirt below, through the planks, through her thin satin skirt and single silk petticoat to her skin.
“If you’re quittin’, then let’s just run away. I hate bein’ below ground.” Reuben sounded desperate. “Feels like all that rock’s gonna fall on me. It ain’t natural. I’m good with horses. I could get a job as a bullwhacker easy, anywhere. Or haulin’ ore. I could disguise myself so’s no one’d know, grow a beard, dye my hair black.”
Zelda ran a hand tenderly down the side of his face, refraining from saying the obvious, that it would take him a long, long time to grow a beard thick and long enough to disguise his sullen rawboned aspect. “We done talked about it, Reuben. I can’t leave Pa here, with just my stupid brothers to care for him. And right now, you’re safest workin’ in the mines, with Zeke and Zed. ’Cause out here, aboveground, they’re lookin’ for you on account of murder—”
“I didn’t kill anyone!” Reuben’s whisper threatened to crack with his vehemence. “I wasn’t even there!”
“Shhhh, shhhh,” she soothed him, rubbing his shoulder and arm, gentle-like, like he was a nervous customer come up to get done for the first time. “I know you didn’t kill no one.”
Reuben put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. “But you’re the only one who believes me, Zelda.”
Zelda elbowed him away. “Don’t call me that name here at home. It’s Zel or Zelpha. Pa’s only blind, not hard of hearing. And he’s not stupid. He’ll wonder why you’ve got my name all garbled up. Now, get up and get going. If you’re late for your shift at the Silver Mountain Mine, you’ll get fired, sure as shootin’. And you’ll never get another job from any of the mines around these parts. See how easy it’ll be keepin’ a low profile then.”
His face fell, and he suddenly looked more like the sixteen-year-old he was than the grown man he tried so hard to be.