Ten Thousand Charms (18 page)

“Ah, now ain't that a shame," the man with the steaming mug said. “He ain't taught her yet to come runnin’ when he hollers. He oughter try whistlin’ her up a bit.” He brought his fingers to his lips, but before he could produce the first shrill note, John William shoved him aside, knocking him and his mug to the ground.

John William knocked exactly once on the first door before grabbing the handle and throwing it open. Inside, the walls were lined with bunk beds, stacked two high, and nothing else. He strode to the next door, opened it, and found it to be identical, except for the one man sleeping on the bottom bunk who cursed the intrusion and turned his back to the door. The third room was the same, empty, as was the fourth. He had reached the end of the building and was standing underneath the wooden stairs that led to the second floor. He took to the stairs, grabbing the handrail to steady himself as he felt the flimsy structure sway beneath his heavy step. The walkway proved to be equally unstable, and he feared that ripping open the door would send him falling over the railing. Instead, he gripped the latch tightly and pulled; this one was locked.

“Gloria." he shouted again, leaning one hand on the wall to steady himself as he pounded the door with the other. “Open this door!”

He continued to pound, not caring about the pain shooting through his hand each time his fist hit the wood. He hated the ridiculous little walkway that held him there, suspended, unable to rush at the door and break it down. All he could do was stand and shout and knock, the strength of his voice and his fist soon depleting.

John William was just about to deliver another blow when the door swung open, barely giving him enough time to stop his fist from colliding with the pale young face of the man who stood on its threshold.

“Listen here, fellow,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture
of surrender, “she didn't say nothing about being nobody's wife.”

“Get out," John William growled. He stepped aside to allow the man through the doorway, before going into the room.

This one was larger than the others downstairs, running the entire length of the building. Four square windows were cut into the longer walls, and though they were covered with ragged shutters, piercing streams of morning light shone through. Bed frames, probably long unused since none of them had any sort of mattress or bedding, lined the walls. Up against the short wall at the end of the room, just behind the door, was another bed. Still no pillows or blankets, but there was a mattress. And Gloria was on it.

“Go away," she said. She was lying with her back to him, and she didn't turn when she spoke.

“What are you doin’ here?”

“What does it look like?” She sat up and turned to face him. Her hair was loose, not soft as it usually was in the mornings, but as if it had been torn from the remnant of the braid that trailed down her back. Her lips were swollen, her whole face somewhat distorted—partly due to her sneering expression, but there was something else, too. The blue dress was wrinkled, the top buttons undone and the skirt matted as if—

Hours ago he was sitting with this woman, holding her hands, praying for the right words to speak to her soul, praying in the next breath that God would keep his
¹
thoughts pure, guard him from ever thinking of her like this. He felt bile rise up his throat, and he turned and spat on the floor.

“Those men down there,” he said, choking on the words, “were they already done with you? Or just waitin’ their turn?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No. No, I don't.” He went to one of the windows that faced the interior of the fort and opened the shutter, bathing the dark room in new light. “They're all gone now, anyway” He walked back to her and held out his hand.

“I'm not leaving, MacGregan.”

“Stop talkin’ such nonsense.”

“Don't sound so surprised,” Gloria stood to face him. “This is what I am, MacGregan. This is what I was born to be. You saw that last night. I wasn't alone for two minutes before that man knew exactly who 1 was. What 1 was.”

“Exactly, Gloria. What you
were.
In the past. But this,” he waved toward the bed, “this was your choosin'. This wasn't no mother forcin’ you to sell your body, or some piece of dirt bringin’ up bad memories. This was you, Gloria. This was you walkin’ away from your child. Tradin’ everythin’ I've tried to give you. And for what?”

“To show you the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That people don't ever really change, John. I can't ever be anything different.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Gloria! I've told you, with God's help—”

“Stop with that!” She balled up her fists and hit him square in the chest, surprising him with her strength. “Just stop it! You proved it last night. God never really changes a person.”

“Don't say that.”

“He doesn't! You said so yourself. You promised never to fight again, that God had changed you. And then last night…”

“I explained—”

“All it took was me. You abandoned a promise you made to God because of me. How can I live with that?”

“And how am I to live knowin’ I brought you here?”

“You can't save me, John. You never could.”

He looked at her, standing in the perfect square of morning light, and realized she spoke the truth. He'd taken her away from Jewell's, treated her with respect, fought for her honor, and the first chance she got, she'd thrown it all straight back in his face.

“I won't force you to come with me, Gloria.”

“You couldn't if you wanted to.”

“And Danny?”

“You made a promise to me, remember?”

He did. Now, John William searched Gloria's face for some hint of the same defiant spirit that had fueled her that day in Silver Peak when she had bargained so valiantly for the future of her child. But it was gone. Though her gaze held his, her eyes were devoid of their usual spark of humor. Her face was set in a grim, passive expression, lips closed but not pursed. It seemed the few hours spent in this room had slowly drained the life out of her, and her outburst against him was her final gasping breath. If, after all he'd done, she could resign herself to this fate, so could he.

“Good-bye then.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the suspended walkway, finding it much easier to hold his balance when he wasn't striding in a blind rage. The crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs had dispersed, but had not disappeared, and John William found himself the subject of scrutiny and whispers as he walked toward the gate.

The old Indian woman was still there, holding her court at the fort's entrance, but she was not alone. Danny lolled contentedly in the woman's lap, and several little naked, brown children scampered all around and over her. Next to her sat a younger woman, beautiful with her rich black hair and distinct Shoshone features, with a colorful blanket draped over her shoulders.

“You are back?” the old woman said at the sound of John William's footstep.

“I am.”

“And did you find your woman?”

“I did.”

The old woman closed her eyes and nodded her head. “This,” she said, gesturing to the younger woman beside her, “is my granddaughter. These are her children.”

“And Kate? My daughter? Where is she?”

The old woman reached over and pulled the blanket from
her granddaughter's shoulder, showing her to be bared to the waist, with Kate nursing at her breast.

John William averted his eyes, turning his head toward the barracks behind him just long enough to see Gloria's face disappear from the window

“She was hungry,” the old woman said.

John William ventured a glimpse through hooded eyes and, seeing the blanket fully in place, offered his thanks to both women, amazed at how quickly the Lord provided.

Gloria watched the whole scene unfold from the little square window cut into the barrack wall. She was surprised when John William hadn't come for her at the break of dawn. And when she first heard his voice calling out her name, she was even more shocked to hear the level of anger in it. The pounding on the door, now that was to be expected, though she had hoped to see the man in the room with her thrown out over the walkway's railing. But she was prepared to settle for a simple toss out the door before John William scooped her up off the bed and carried her back to the wagon.

Instead, he politely stood aside and let the man go. He offered her no pity, no chastisement. Only his pious disdain and then…acceptance? Almost as if he wasn't surprised at all.

She watched him now, still walking. Not one glance over his shoulder. He meant to leave her here.

Gloria leaned against the window and drew back in pain. Hours past time for her to nurse, her breasts swelled uncomfortably against the fabric of her blue dress.

John William was now at the gate, talking to that same old Shoshone woman who cared for the children last night. She saw one of the babies—Danny, she thought—nestled snugly in the woman's lap, but Kate was nowhere to be seen. Then the old woman whisked the blanket off the shoulders of the younger
woman next to her, and Gloria grabbed the open shutter to keep from collapsing. Even from here she could see Kate's tiny pink mouth latched onto the Shoshone woman, and the sight of it brought a new rush of milk to her already engorged breasts. For a brief moment, John William turned, looked straight at her, and Gloria knew she had been replaced.

She crumpled to the floor. The room, though full of fresh morning air and quite chilly just a while ago, was suddenly insufferably hot. She had to get out. She crawled over to the little green case she'd brought with her and took out her hairbrush. Loosening her braid, she raked her fingers through the plait and brought the brush up to smooth the curls. Lifting her arms above her head proved too painful, however, so she settled for two long braids resting over her shoulders.

“Like a little Shoshone myself,” she said, dropping her brush back into the case and snapping it shut.

Gloria grabbed the windowsill and pulled herself up. She bent to pick up the green case, stood straight again, and realized it hurt much less to slump a little. She gripped the door latch, took a deep breath, and let the door slowly drift open. The first step over the threshold was fairly simple, once she grabbed the handrail to steady her step. She continued down the walkway and the stairs, ignoring the comments from the men gathered underneath.

At the last step, she set a straight course for John William and the babies, never looking back.

The old woman must have heard her steps, for she said something to John William, who turned and met her gaze, pulling her toward him with what she hoped was a genuine smile. He was holding one of the little Native children, and as Gloria drew closer, the child reached out and touched one of Gloria's braids.

“Pretty isn't it?” John William said, and all the lewd comments of last night and this morning disappeared.

“Please," Gloria said, dropping her case at John William's feet and reaching for Danny, “I need my son.”

The old woman smiled and held Danny up.

Grimacing, Gloria shifted Danny's yeight to one arm and reached into the pocket of her skirt. The old Shoshone woman's hands were still outstretched, and Gloria placed a handful of coins in the open palm. Here. “she said. “For your trouble.”

John William returned to the wagon, holding Kate in one arm and Gloria's green case in the other. Strapped to his back were the supplies he'd just traded for—flour and coffee, potatoes and salt pork. Enough to last them a few more weeks, anyway. He stopped short when he got to the campsite, a little surprised himself at the comfort he felt at the sight of Gloria's boots dropped on the ground. He deposited his bundle right next to the boots before picking them up and placing them on the wagon step.

“Is that you, MacGregan?” her voice called from behind the canvas.

“None other.” He lifted the flap a bit and peered inside.

She looked better, rested. Danny was sleeping, curled up against her.

“Is this what's goin’ to happen then, Gloria? Am I just goin’ to wake up every momin’ or so and wonder where you're off to?”

“I'm so sorry”

“I was worried.”

“I know.”

He dropped the flap and started to open the bundle of supplies, but her voice beckoned him again. He couldn't make out the words muffled through the canvas, so he stood straight and opened the flap.

“What did you say?”

“I asked if you would ever forgive me.”

“You don't have to ask that, Gloria,” he said. “It's not for me to forgive.”

Let not conscience makejou linger,
Nor of fitness fondly dream,
All the fitness he requireth
Is to feel jour need of him.