Weeping Angel (19 page)

“Huh?”

“Name your family disturbance,” Frank rephrased. “That's barroom talk for ordering a drink.”

“It is?”

Frank rapped the palms of his hands on the counter and shot a glance at Pap. “Shall we let the kid lay the dust?”

“With what?”

Jakey Spivey left the piano and ran to the bar to stand next to Daniel. “I want some dust, too.”

“You boys put your feet on the rail.”

Daniel and Jakey stepped on the brass rail and grew five inches taller. They bounced their shoulders a little and giggled at each other. Daniel pounded his fist on the shiny surface and lowered his voice to say, “I want a whiskey.”

“Gimme a beer,” Jakey hollered, then laughed behind his cupped hands.

“If you want to order a whiskey,” Frank told Daniel, “say you want it neat.”

“I want a neat whiskey, mister,” Daniel said, cocking
his narrow hips to one side. “I don't like my whiskey messy.”

Frank smiled. “Neat means you want it straight. No water in it.”

“Oh.”

Jakey copied Daniel and swaggered his hips, his sheet music peeking out of his back pocket. “Gimme my beer neat, mister.”

“No,” Frank corrected. “Say you want a beer to shake you down to your gizzard.”

Jakey pealed into laughter and hit Daniel in the arm with his fist. “Gizzard!”

Frank bent down and came up with two clean beer mugs from underneath the bar. Amelia didn't think he would really serve them, so she hadn't said anything. But now, she headed to the long counter. “Mr. Brody, surely you're not going to give these two boys something to drink.”

“I am,” he drawled. “A beer and a whiskey.”

She opened her mouth, but he winked at her and she closed her lips.

“Belly up to the bar, Miss Marshall, and I'll make you a Baptist lemonade.”

Trying to contain the spiraling of her pulse when he smiled at her, Amelia knew it was a bad influence for her to accept a drink—no matter how harmless—from him in front of the boys; on the other hand, it was all in fun.

“All right, mister,” she played along, much to the giggling delight of Jakey and Daniel. “I'd like a lemonade, please.”

“Sissy stuff, Miss Marshall!” Daniel teased.

Amelia took a place next to Daniel and up the heavily waxed counter from Pap O'Cleary. He'd been hovering close and stammering at her since she'd arrived. Just when she thought he'd break down and speak his piece, he was off again to the bar, or out the bat-wing doors, then back again as if he'd never been
by her at all. He kept looking down at the tips of his boots, up at her, then back to his boots. Once she looked at his boots, too, just to see if something was the matter with them. There was nothing she could see. She wondered what he wanted, but at the same time wasn't eager to know.

Frank made a big production out of mixing up some “drinks.” He tossed chunks of ice into the boys' glasses and caught them midair; then he shot some seltzer in them and gave each a slice of lime to float on the bubbles. “Put your hands back,” he said to the boys, then at her. “You, too, Miss Marshall.”

She tucked her hands toward her and waited while Frank took the two mugs to the end of the bar where it curved. “Who ordered the tangle leg?” he asked.

“I did.” Daniel jumped up onto the balls of his feet. “I did, mister.”

“Here it comes.”

Setting the mugs down, he held the handle of the first, angled it just so, then with a loose pivot of his wrist, sent it down the glossy bar top. From the speed of the mug, Amelia thought the glass would sail right off the end of the bar, but it stopped directly in front of Daniel with hardly a drop spilled. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn't have believed Frank could do such a trick. Dorothea Beamguard, should she ever coax Frank into a repeat performance, would be utterly impressed.

“Holy smoke,” Daniel whistled.

“Mine!” Jakey exclaimed. “Do mine!”

Amelia gazed at Frank, noting the easy expression on his handsome features. This time, his eyes met hers and her heart turned over in response. She grew entranced by his compelling manner. She couldn't tear her gaze away from him as he said, “Who ordered the dust-cutter?”

“I did! I did!” Jakey shouted.

Frank slid the second mug the same way he had the first; it stopped in front of Jakey, and he whooped with delight.

“Drink 'em down, boys.” Frank went to the center of the bar again. “And don't forget to tip the bartender.”

“But we don't got any money,” Daniel said after a drink of his seltzer.

“I don't need money,” Frank replied. “Practice your lessons for Miss Marshall and don't give her any trouble.”

Amelia was shocked that Frank would suggest such a thing. She didn't think he put much stock in learning the piano. That he would want the boys to respect her made her feel warm all the way down to her toes. “That's very commendable of you, Mr. Brody,” she said, her pulse dancing with gratification.

As the boys drank their faux liquor, and Frank set out to make her a lemonade, Pap moseyed down the bar to stand in front of her. He made a big to-do about wiping the counter with a damp chamois. He didn't say a word. Keeping his head down and rubbing the surface vigorously, all she could see was the black top of his derby. When he looked up, she noticed his eyes were green, and his full mustache had a few gray strands in the ruby red bristles. He grinned at her, showing front teeth that had been cared for; none were missing.

Amelia was at a loss to say anything.

“Did you know,” Pap began after taking a visible breath into his chest, “the Fourth of July picnic is on the Fourth of July?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Do you like the Fourth of July, Miss Marshall?” he asked as if he were offhandedly commenting about the weather.

“I suppose I do.”

“Have you ever made pyrotechnics?”

Amelia glanced at Frank, who didn't notice her, then back at Pap, who waited with hopeful eyes for her reply. “I'm not quite sure what they are, Mr. O'Cleary.”

“It isn't fried chicken,” Frank commented as he walked past to open the small icebox. “Pap, just ask her and get it over with.”

Amelia darted her gaze to Frank's back, then at Pap's pained face. Frank had apparently said something to agitate him.
Ask her what?

Pap looked at her as if he were weighing his options. “I . . .” he began, then shook his head and frantically wiped the counter as if he were trying to make a hole in it.

Frank butted in. “He wants to ask you—”

Pap cut him straight off with a hot glare. “I w-want to ask you if you order your sh-sheet music through Sears and Roebuck or Montgomery Ward.”

Perplexed, Amelia shook her head. “Neither, Mr. O'Cleary. I order all my folios through the Whippoor-will Music Company in Chicago.”

“That's all I wanted to know.” He chuckled with a forced tone, then made a hasty retreat to the end of the bar, where he lifted the lid to a bin and began sprinkling sawdust onto the floor.

Amelia was bewildered by his behavior. She was certain he wanted to ask her something else, but what, she hadn't a clue. Frank sidled up to stand across from her. “He'll cough it up when he gets up the nerve.”

“What do you mean?”

The brilliant blue of his eyes pierced the distance between them. “Think a while when you're drinking your lemonade. You'll figure Pap out.” He gave her a tall glass, then backed away to toss an ice pick underneath the bar. “Next time I'll make you a Baptist sling. I think you'll like it.”

Amelia knew she would as she brought the rim to
her lips and took a slow sip. Undoubtedly, Frank could make mud taste good.

Frank turned away and put lemons in a dish while the boys made slurping noises. Pap gave her a sidelong glance, and Amelia tried to portray an ease she didn't necessarily feel. She forced herself to smile politely at him before taking a second taste of her lemonade.

“Miss Marshall,” came Pap's call, a little too loud and with a crack in his voice.

She gazed at him. “Yes, Mr. O'Cleary?”

“I can play ‘Camptown Races' as a duet.” Dropping a handful of sawdust, he brushed his hands off against the side seams of his pants. “And that song ain't offensive, so I'm sure you'll know it. Come on, Miss Marshall, you play high and I'll play low.”

Pap came toward her, but Amelia didn't move. “I really don't know how the song goes anymore. It's been a long time since I learned the piece. It's such a nonsense song.”

“That's the fun of it, Miss Marshall.” Pap took her by the elbow and steered her toward the piano. His touch was light and cordial, nothing demanding. Perhaps it was because of his lack of pressure, she allowed him to guide her onto the hardwood piano stool. He quickly grabbed a chair from a table and scooted it next to her.

“I don't remember how it begins,” Amelia said, trying to summon the tune in her head. “Perhaps we shouldn't—”

“It starts with an A chord and has E and C sharps.” Pap ran through the opening notes, his short fingers nimble on the keys. Playing the chorus, he sang in a clear baritone. “Gwine to run all night! Gwine to run all day! I'll bet my money on de bobtail nag, somebody bet on de bay.”

Amelia couldn't help smiling at the silliness of the words Stephen Foster wrote. “I remember now. The tune is animated—
moderato con spirito.”

“That's right.” Pap's expression became lively, and his eyes twinkled. “On a two-four time, Miss Marshall. Ready?”

Amelia curved her fingers over the keys. “I'm not certain how the beginning goes.”

“Follow my lead. And don't stop if you make a mistake.” He grinned at her, his big mustache slightly lifting with his lips. “It'll come back to you.”

She nodded.

“On three.” Pap tapped his foot on the floorboard. “One. Two. Three.”

Pap set the meter, and Amelia fumbled into the opening of the tune. She concentrated on the melody, trying to remember the words as she went. Pap began to sing, and she put every effort into keeping up with him, even when she struck the wrong notes. Halfway through the second verse and into the chorus, she felt her confidence build, and she made no mistakes in the third verse. Only then, did she allow herself to relax and enjoy the music.

Amelia heard the two boys dancing in circles behind her, laughing and stomping their feet as Pap's voice rang through the room. Frank approached the piano and stood at its side, resting his arm on the top to watch her. She momentarily grew distracted and hit a sharp instead of a flat. Wincing, she chided herself for letting his presence get to her. Pap didn't miss a beat and broke into the last verse. She focused and matched him note for note, ending the song in a silly abandonment of modern chords Miss Lovejoy would surely have reprimanded her for.

Out of breath, Amelia put her hand to her collar, suddenly embarrassed over her abandoned behavior. But Frank didn't seem to notice. He put his hands together and clapped, as did Jakey and Daniel. Pap was adding his own applause just as someone pushed the front doors in and greeted, “Howdy, Mr. Brody.”

Amelia recognized the familiar voice. Flushed from
the exertion, she turned to see Mr. Tindall from the Wells Fargo office. He had tiny eyes and a scraggly beard, but he was a good businessman and reasonably honest. “I thought I'd find you in here, Miss Marshall. I knew you'd want to read this right away.”

Tucking a fine wisp of hair behind her ear, Amelia tried to compose herself. Mr. Tindall extended his arm and handed her a letter. “The mail just came in on the stage.”

Taking the envelope, Amelia read the address in the corner. Rogers & Company, Piano Manufactory, Boston, Massachusetts. She opened the seal and scanned the contents.

“Who'd ya get a letter from, Miss Marshall?” Daniel asked.

Amelia glanced at Frank, but addressed the general room when she spoke. “I've gotten my reply from Boston. They found the shipping mistake before the piano even arrived. They've already sent another one, and it should be here on Friday.”

Frank's eyes became as unreadable as stone. “That's two days away.”

“Yes . . .”

Pap groaned.

“Then,” Frank said with quiet emphasis, “this is going to have to be a going away from the Moon Rock celebration instead of a sing-along, Miss Marshall.”

Folding the letter into thirds, she replied softly, “I guess it is.”

W
arm rain fell over the eaves of the depot's awning as Amelia waited for the three o'clock Short Line. The train was forty minutes behind schedule. Standing on the platform, Amelia worried about how she would get the New American home. Though the summer shower wasn't a downpour, the streets were muddy enough that her shoe heels sank into the soft ground. Mr. Fisk and Mr. Parks wouldn't be able to roll the crate across Dodge Street and Inspiration Lane unless they put boards down in the road.