The Bride's House (12 page)

She walked along the streets that were cold and gray from the smelter smoke, past a jack train loaded with rails that would be laid in a mine for the ore carts. One of the burros brayed at her, but she didn’t laugh as she usually did at the funny sound. She didn’t even hear it. There was no reason to return to the boardinghouse, so she walked along the street behind it, Taos Street, and without thinking, she found herself in front of the bride’s house. In the past week, since she had seen it last, the house had been painted as white as a bride’s cake, and as she stared at the structure, she saw a beam of sunlight break through the clouds and shine on the tower—an omen, she thought, for she believed in such things. But was it a good or a bad omen? The tower was her favorite part of the house. The staircase was there, and surrounding it on the second floor was a tiny sitting area with windows on two sides that let in the sunlight from the south and the west. If the house were hers, Nealie would hang lace curtains in the windows and put a rocking chair there, above the porch, where she could sit and look out, waiting for Will to come home in the evening. She would run down the stairs and throw open the door before he could turn the knob, and he would grab her up in his arms.

Now she saw herself for a fool and fled to the park, where she sat down on the steps of the empty bandstand, remembering when Will had taken her to the Independence Day band concert, and they had sat on the grass, eating divinity candy. The sun had been bright that day, but now it was clouded by the smoke, and the air was leaden. Nealie put her head in her arms, wondering what would become of her.

She’d believed Will when he said he would think of something, but what if he never came back? What if he’d run off, leaving his belongings to molder away? Maybe he was with his wife at that very moment, while Nealie sat in the cold, the shawl he had given her over her head to keep out the snow that had begun to fall. Did he have children? She hadn’t thought to ask that. Nealie pictured Will and his wife and little ones sitting at supper, a chandelier filled with candles hanging over the table, a maid—someone like Nealie herself—carrying in the food, just like the illustrations in the story magazines. Nobody would have to tell Will’s wife how to hold her fork or that she ought to wear a gray dress instead of a green one. Remembering the green dress made Nealie’s cheeks grow red. She had been so proud of it, but Will must have laughed at her for wearing such a color.

Nealie leaned her face against the rough wood of the stand. What would she do if Will never came back? Perhaps someone would take the baby and put it into an orphanage, and she herself would end up on Brownell Street, because Mrs. Travers would never allow a fallen woman to serve the boarders. The anger and unhappiness and the raw wind made Nealie shiver, and she huddled on the steps, her knees drawn up against her chest. But she couldn’t stop shaking.

People passed by and saw the girl, but they did not stop, and Nealie did not notice them. She did not see Charlie until he spoke to her. “Are you needing—” he began, then stopped short when he recognized Nealie.

“What do you want, Mr. Dumas?” Nealie asked.

“I didn’t know it was you sitting here.”

“Well, it is, and I don’t want you following me. I told you I quit you.”

“I just thought you were a woman needing something.”

“I don’t need a thing from you. I told you before, and I say again, git! I’ve got shut of you.” All of her anger and unhappiness at Will exploded on Charlie now, as if he was the one who had wronged her.

“Miss Nealie—”

“Go away!”

The big man sighed and took a step backward. “I won’t be bothering you again, Miss Nealie. I don’t care about you anymore,” he said, and turned and walked off.

*   *   *

Two weeks went by, and Will did not return. Three weeks passed. Then four. And still there was no word from Will.

One night at supper, a boarder asked, “Whatever happened to that Will Spaulding? I thought he’s coming back.”

Another boarder glanced at Nealie, thinking to silence the man, but Nealie appeared not to hear.

“Maybe he’s taking his meals up at the Grubstake with the swells. He’s too high-and-mighty for the likes of us.”

“Aw, I liked him fine,” a third man said.

Nealie looked at Charlie out of the corner of her eye, but he was ignoring the conversation.

“I heard he called it deep enough, just up and quit and went back home,” the third man continued, talking with his mouth full.

“He’s not coming back,” Charlie interrupted. He’d stopped eating and was staring at his food.

“How do you know, Charlie? I don’t recollect you were such good friends,” a boarder asked. He had his arm around his plate, as if to keep someone from stealing it.

“I just know. That’s all.” Charlie didn’t glance up and looked as if he wished he hadn’t spoken.

“Those Eastern swells, they can’t take the winter,” someone remarked, and everyone laughed, and the conversation changed.

In the kitchen, Nealie put down a platter she was carrying and asked Mrs. Travers, “You reckon that’s so about Will?”

The older woman looked the girl in the face and then glanced at Nealie’s body, while Nealie made her stomach as flat as she could. “I reckon it is. I got something to tell you, but it’ll have to wait till the boarders are gone.”

Nealie willed the men to hurry through their supper, but the night was cold, and they were not anxious to leave. After supper, they stayed on and smoked, emptying their spent pipes into the stove in the eating room. At last, one by one, they got up until only Charlie was left, and he seemed dug in. “You better get on home, Mr. Dumas. The snow’s shoe-top deep, and it’ll be as cold as Missouri out there before you get to your cabin,” Nealie told him.

She and Mrs. Travers watched as the big man slowly put on his coat and mittens, then tied the strings of a wool cap under his chin. He nodded at Mrs. Travers but didn’t look at Nealie before he went through the door, taking the air out of the place with him so that the room was still and close.

Nealie stood a moment, staring at the closed door, before she asked, “What have you got to say about Will?” She sat down in a chair that one of the boarders had vacated and stared up at the chromo on the wall. It was a picture of a picnic in the Alps, the women in furs and fancy hats, the men looking like dandies. Every time she looked at it, she wondered how anybody could enjoy a picnic dressed like that. Now, she glanced around the room that she had once found cozy and wondered if Will had thought it shabby, with the faded chromo, the mismatched chairs, and sagging wallpaper that was stained from where the roof leaked.

“You’re draggy. You want to go on to bed, and I’ll finish cleaning up?” Mrs. Travers asked.

Nealie didn’t answer, only stared at the woman, and Mrs. Travers sat down across from her, pushing aside a dirty plate. “He wrote me, Will Spaulding did. The letter came two days ago.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“I couldn’t think how to. I knew you liked him.” She stopped and leaned forward. “Now, you got something you want to tell me? I can keep my mouth shut, you know.”

“What did he write?” Nealie’s face was white, and her hands were clasped together in a sort of death grip. “Let me read the letter.”

“I can’t. I was so disgusted with him for not coming back that I burned it up in the stove.” She paused a moment, then repeated, “He’s not coming back. He asked would I find somebody to box up his things and ship them to him.”

Nealie gasped. “Did he send you a letter for me? Did he say anything about me?” Her voice was that of a little girl’s.

“He asked me to give you something.” Mrs. Travers got up heavily and went into the kitchen and opened a drawer, then came back with a folded piece of paper.

“Is that the letter?”

“I told you I burned up the letter. All he said was to pack up his things and to give you this.”

Nealie opened the paper and stared at it, not understanding. “What is it?”

“It’s a money order for five hundred dollars.”

“Money! He sent me money? Like the girls on Brownell Street? They get paid money,” Nealie cried, her voice shrill. “Does he think I’m the same thing as them?” The thought that had always lingered in the back of her mind that something special lay ahead for her, that all the misery she had suffered as a girl would come to an end in some form of happiness, shattered. The girl had never dwelt on that idea, never been fully conscious of it, but some small part of it had propelled her on. Now she felt a blackness where the hope had been. “Is that all the better he thought of me?”

“You know that isn’t so.”

“Isn’t it?” Nealie put her face in her hands, then asked in a muffled voice, “What do I do, Mrs. Travers?”

“There’s Charlie Dumas.”

“I’d be lower than a snake’s belly if I married him now. I couldn’t do it. Besides, he’s quit of me. He told me so.” And he’d never marry her if he found out she was pregnant with Will’s off-child. He’d hate her.

“I don’t believe it. He’s still hanging around, as you can plainly see. But suit yourself.” Mrs. Travers went into the kitchen and began to scrape and wash the dishes. Nealie didn’t stir from her chair. Mrs. Travers finished the work, set out the breakfast things, then blew out the lamp and went into her own room. When she arose the next morning, she found Nealie asleep in the chair, her head on the table.

*   *   *

After lunches were made and breakfast served, the dishes washed, Nealie went into her room and stayed there through the day, thinking. She’d had such dreams about Will and herself and the baby, all of them living in the bride’s house. Maybe he’d come back after all. It would just take a little time for him to leave his wife. But in her heart, Nealie knew that wasn’t going to happen. Besides, she couldn’t wait. Maybe she wasn’t any different from the prostitutes on Brownell Street after all.

Would she put the baby in a home for foundlings and go to work in one of the houses? She couldn’t expect Mrs. Travers to keep her on. The woman had her standards, and so did the boarders. They wouldn’t want to be fed by a sorry girl. She would have Will’s money, but then what? Five hundred dollars was more than Nealie could comprehend, but even she knew it wouldn’t last forever. What work was there for her with a baby to take care of? She could go back home to Missouri, but she’d starve first, and let the baby starve, too, before she’d let her father touch it.

Late in the afternoon, Mrs. Travers called Nealie to help prepare supper for the boarders, and the girl roused herself. The two worked silently, Nealie, distracted, dropping the knife on the floor, then scalding her hand when she poured the potato water into a bowl. Mrs. Travers grabbed the hand and plunged it into the water bucket. “I think it will be all right, just a little red is all. It won’t blister,” Mrs. Travers said. “Does it hurt?”

Nealie shook her head. She’d barely felt the boiling water.

“You look peaked,” Mrs. Travers observed. “Do you want to go to bed?”

But Nealie had been alone with her thoughts all day and didn’t care to be by herself any longer. She stayed in the kitchen, concentrating on the supper. When the boarders arrived, Mrs. Travers announced that she’d serve them for a change, while Nealie worked over the stove. After the boarders left, as the girl cleared the table, she thought to ask Mrs. Travers’s advice. But she wasn’t absolutely certain the woman knew her state, and she was afraid that when she did learn, she would throw her out, maybe even that very night. So she was silent as she went about her chores, watching as Mrs. Travers sat at the kitchen table, making out her grocery list. “I thought to make a stew tomorrow. With the weather so cold, I believe it would taste good. What do you think?” Mrs. Travers asked.

“All right,” Nealie muttered, wiping off a spill on the cookstove with her apron.

“The larder’s as empty as a dead man’s eyes. You’ll have to go to the mercantile. Potatoes, carrots. I wonder if there are parsnips. I always liked a parsnip. Maybe a red chili to give it flavor, Arkansas chicken.” When Nealie didn’t understand the term, Mrs. Travers explained she meant salt pork. She continued rattling off the other ingredients until the two heard a knock at the door. “I’ll get it. You stay here,” Mrs. Travers said quickly.

The thought popped into Nealie’s mind that Will might be the caller, and she touched her hair, tucking in loose strands, and bit her lips to make them red. But even as that idea arose in her mind, she knew it wasn’t so. He’d quit her as sure as anything.

“Mr. Dumas, did you forget something?” Mrs. Travers asked, opening the door.

“No, I came to see Miss Nealie.”

The girl sighed. Soon enough, Charlie Dumas would be gloating, telling others he’d been right about Will, pleasuring himself in her misery. She couldn’t stand that. But before she could slip out of the kitchen, Charlie was beside her, saying, “It’s such a fine night, so many stars you couldn’t count them if you took a year. Would you like to see them, Miss Nealie?”

“Of course she would,” said Mrs. Travers, already reaching for Nealie’s shawl and holding it out to her. “Go on, you’ve been inside all day. The air will do you good.”

Nealie did not want to go, but she lacked the effort to say no. Besides, the cold might numb her. She wrapped the shawl around herself and put on her mittens and went outside with Charlie, out into the coldest night she had ever experienced in Georgetown. Charlie was right about the stars. They shone as bright as gas lamps, lighting the road. He took the girl’s arm, and propelled her to the park, where they made their way across the snow-covered lawn to the bandstand. Charlie brushed off the bench, and Nealie sat down.