Sundance (8 page)

“I take it, sir, you are here for a new look. Not that I object to the rustic. Your clothing almost appears as if you had actually come from out west.”

Despite being daunted by the variety of choices, Longbaugh was entertained. “Yes. A new look. I am done playing cowboy.”

“Excellent choice. I'll have you fixed up in no time. Let's start with a suit, shall we, and we can build the rest of your look off that.”

“Something to blend in.” Longbaugh felt lucky to have managed the courage to steer the conversation to his own preferences.

The salesman disguised his disappointment. “Of course, sir. Some prefer not to stand out, to make their statement more subtly.”

“I like the dark one.” Longbaugh pointed.

“Navy blue, a classic, excellent choice, you have a wonderful eye, sir.”

Longbaugh knew what the salesman was doing, but he was flattered all the same.

He tried on the suit's jacket, and the salesman assessed him. “You're the sort of man who can handle color. You must see this vest.” He moved toward something splashy, one eye on Longbaugh's reaction. Longbaugh gave him a quiet look of dismissal and the salesman immediately veered to a different, less obvious vest. At that, Longbaugh thought he might have a chance to walk out wearing something he liked.

He lifted the jacket off Longbaugh's shoulders and draped it over the back of a chair, then fit him with a soft collar and shirt. He stood back and assessed his work, “Yes, we're coming along fine now,” stepped in close and reached for his bandanna, “Maybe try it without this,” Longbaugh's hand caught his wrist and the salesman's head bowed, “but why would you? olive is your color, in fact I have a neck cloth to complement it, olive and lavender are a very common combination.” Longbaugh adjusted the bandanna to rest flat under his new shirt. It had grown so thin with age that it was almost as if it wasn't there. Nevertheless, he would have felt undressed if it was gone.

He chose the shoes he had seen in the window and learned they had rubber soles. They were too low to the ground for his taste, but any shoe would be that way after his boots. They were remarkably quiet when walking. The salesman made a comment about factory bosses loving those heels as they were able to sneak up on workers, a comment Longbaugh did not fully understand.

He topped off his outfit with a bowler hat, but angled it rakishly.

The salesman wrapped his old clothes, hat, and boots in brown paper. Longbaugh tucked them under his arm and returned to the street. His step was awkward as he adjusted to the low rubber heels and saw that the same Chinese boy, leaning on a railing partway down the block, resisted laughing at him.

He made eye contact, but the boy did not come closer. He also did not turn away.

“Hey?” said Longbaugh.

The boy looked at him skeptically.

“You ever hear of an Eiffel Tower?”

The boy gave him a short nod.

“Okay, just making sure he didn't make it up.”

Longbaugh started to walk away and heard the boy say, “Paris.”

Longbaugh turned back.

“The Eiffel Tower. It's in Paris.”

Longbaugh hadn't been sure if the boy even spoke English. The boy had no accent, which surprised him.

“Okay.”

“In France.”

“That part I got.”

Longbaugh saluted him off the narrow brim of his new bowler, then continued on his way.

Longbaugh returned to the pickpocket corner. A few of the victims were still clustered, discussing their adventure. He stepped closer so that they might see him in his new clothes. He overheard them discuss the cowboy who had saved them from being robbed, one fellow looking around for him, his eyes rolling to Longbaugh, then rolling on. The tale of the savior-westerner grew legs until it dwarfed lampposts, straddled fences, and hurdled skyscrapers. He walked directly to the woman whose purse he had rescued and said, “Evenin'.” Her eyes touched him and she smiled unevenly. He should have been relieved, but was instead disappointed, as he had liked being recognized for his goodness and valor. He had always been the outlaw, and here, with a good deed in his pocket, he was forced to disguise his better angels.

He steered for his new home. He knew he was being followed. He paused at a street vendor and bought two wrapped candies. He dropped them in his pocket and returned to the boardinghouse. Once there, he set one of the hard candies on top of an outdoor banister and went inside. Through lace curtains he watched the Chinese boy glide up, snatch the candy, and put it in his pocket. Longbaugh unwrapped the other one and put it in his mouth.

•   •   •

L
ONGBAUGH
wandered through the downstairs. He stood in the breezeway to the dining room and watched Abigail two rooms away, through the open door into the kitchen.

She moved with an effortless grace that had been missing in his presence, exhibiting an innocent, careless charm now that she thought she was alone. He liked seeing she was not worn down by life, that a young vibrant girl still burbled within, and he was startled to realize how aggressively he was drawn to her. She turned sideways and he froze in place so that she wouldn't pick up his movement peripherally. She had changed her look. Her hair was pinned and neat, her face scrubbed, her cheeks wore a high blush, and her eyes had been accented to appear larger. He realized unhappily that all this had been done for him. While keenly attracted to her, he was not pleased to know she might want something from him. Nevertheless, he did not turn away.

She reached for a serving dish that held three heads of garlic, but her hands inexplicably stopped, hovering there without motion. After a long moment, he saw her move in a way that didn't fit her mission. A tiny musical wave rolled through her fingers, from pinky to ring to middle to index finger and back, gentle waves that rode up the sand, then rolled away. After a moment the wave washed up her wrists, then through her arms to crest in her shoulders. Her torso and hips joined the flow and her whole body was in heat. It was a moment before he realized she wasn't wearing a corset, and something shifted inside him. The beat began to move him, but he fought it, anchoring his foot to the floor. He felt the unheard music in her head, but tamped down the bump of his heart. He stood there watching her sway in her romantic trance and was suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of acute melancholy. He had been alone, a long time alone, and here, presented with something warm and young and pretty that he might take and have and hold in his arms, he realized he was more lonely than at any time he could remember. His heart dropped into a deep, soundless hollow. He wanted to touch and taste her to fill his emptiness, all the while knowing the
only person who could sate him had gone silent. He lost his balance and put his hand out to touch the doorframe.

He watched her now as if from a great distance. She took up a garlic bulb, but the head was soft in her fingers. Her sway faded and she sniffed it, tossed it aside, and reached for the second bulb. She tested it and it was firm and she nodded, but her nod became a gentle head bob that then pendulumed to a fresh rhythm through her belly and hips. She crossed the room with the light step of a dancer, approaching a basket of tomatoes. She leaned in close to the basket and her head snapped back, the dancer frozen, the music silenced, nostrils flaring as she dipped her hands in the basket as if into ice water and came out cupping two oozing tomatoes frosted on the bottom with blue fuzz. She hurried them dripping to the trash. She wiped her palms with a dishrag and turned in a circle, lip curled, contemplating an alternate plan, and then she saw him. To her credit, she did not flinch.

He ventured through the dining room to the kitchen doorway.

“I thought you were a stranger. Good . . . good suit.” She put the dishrag aside and smelled her fingers. Her taut expression returned as she slipped into her thoughts, and he imagined she was reviewing in her head the past few minutes of her performance. Or perhaps she saw something in his face that told her whatever fancy she'd created about him was not available to her.

“Appreciate the recommendation.”

“You can get lucky there sometimes. Although I miss the boots.”

“I saved them. Been here long?”

“I'm a little behind with supper. Nothing special, but it won't disappoint unless you're addicted to Maison Dorée or Louis Sherry.”

“I meant living here.”

“Oh. A few years. We were boarders and the owner asked me to take on the day-to-day.”

“We?”

“My, uh, my husband and I.”

“Then you know Etta. Ethel.”

She became suspicious. “What's your name again?”

“Longbaugh.”

“Right, Longbaugh. Etta's an unusual name. I think I would have remembered.”

“She lived here up to two years ago. Maybe you moved in after.”

“No,” she said obstinately, “been here five years. You've got the wrong address.”

He did not reach for the letter in his pocket. He well remembered the address.

“Maybe you made a mistake coming here, Mr. Longbaugh. Maybe this isn't the right place for you. I'll give you back your money, you'll find another place.”

The dreamy young woman was gone, and he was sorry. He said nothing.

“So, just be on your way.”

He thought he understood. “I'm not a stranger.”

Abigail paused. “Men say those things when they want something.”

“Although I suppose some men are always strangers to their wives.”

Abigail cocked her head. “No. I don't believe you. She was married but her husband had a different name.”

“Alonzo.”

“Is that a guess?”

“Harry Alonzo Longbaugh.”

She was slow to answer. “You could have heard that somewhere.”

“So she did live here.”

Abigail ran her hands down her dress trying to devise a proof. “Where were you? Where were you living?”

“Out west.”

“No, sorry, her husband was in prison.”

“She would not have told you that.”

“When her husband's letters came, I sent them back.” She looked smug, as if she had outplayed him at his own game. She leaned her low back against the counter and crossed her arms.

“Why?”

“Because she asked me to.”

“Why?”

“Maybe she didn't want to hear from you . . . from her husband . . . again.”

“That's possible.” Without thinking, he pulled her last letter out of his jacket and absently tapped it on the table without looking at it.

Abigail watched the tap-tap-tap, and her arms dropped to her sides.

“That's one of her letters,” said Abigail.

He looked at her, then at the letter.

“I recognize it,” said Abigail. “You have one of her letters.”

“Yes.”

“Meaning you're her husband.”

“Unless I stole this, too, along with his name.”

“No. Stop that, don't tease me. You're Harry Alonzo.”

“Is everyone in New York so suspicious?”

“I'm so sorry. I didn't know.” She was flustered and she rushed to make up for her lack of trust. “She left suddenly. Like you said, about two years ago. I thought maybe she got sick of us, but I couldn't say why, I mean, we were friends, or I thought we were. She actually did say if letters came from you, I had to send them back unopened.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“And she didn't say why to send my letters back?”

“She left so suddenly, I never got to ask. I returned your letters and her sister's.”

“Her sister's letters?”

She nodded. “Wilhelmina's. I wish I could tell you why she left. Maybe it had something to do with those people, but they only came after she was gone.”

“Men came here?”

“Well, one was a man.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“A woman came the day after she left, one of ‘those' women, you know who I mean, although maybe that wasn't so odd, since she tried to help different . . . different sorts of people.” Abigail flushed. “Anyway, you know the kind I mean. That was her, the way she lived, helping people. But you knew her, you knew what she was like.”

He thought he did not know her. Her actions were inexplicable, inexcusable, opaque. Somewhere in the choices she made was the woman he loved. But her choices were unrecognizable.

“Who came after that?”

“A day or two later a man came. He had a bandage on his cheek. He was handsome, dark hair, olive skin, what do you call that? Swarthy. He was polite, but I could tell it wasn't sincere. He scared me.”

Clearly not one of the two monkeys who had visited Mina. He had thought that those men were hired to intimidate her and were therefore unimportant. Now he was convinced.

“Remember his name?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Ever see him before?”

She shrugged. “It was two years ago.”

“Had she spoken about him?”

“When she wasn't talking about you, she talked about Lillian.”

“Lillian Wald.”

She nodded. “The founder of that Settlement place. I saw her give a speech once. Oh dear. Don't tell my husband. It was about suffrage and temperance.”

“She wrote me about her.”

“She liked it there. She'd come home and stop by the mirror and say, ‘Etta, that was a pretty good day.'”

“She said ‘Etta'?”

“Wasn't that her name?”

“Yes.” He knew a strange relief. An encounter with the familiar, something that told him they were speaking of the same person. It was natural to call herself Etta with him, and even use it to annoy Mina, but that she had adopted it in New York meant something more.

“She'd take your letters and rush upstairs. Not exactly ladylike. She was less lonely when they came. After she read them, she was sadder.”