Weeping Angel (27 page)

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Brody.” She bent over in a ladylike move. Her motions were fluid and slow, a jaunt to her shoulders. The only comment her efforts gained her was Pap asking, “Do you have a creak in your neck, Miss Marshall? I've got some liniment—”

“No,” she snapped.

Frank made no move to help, but Pap had dropped on his knees to gather the papers. Deflated, Amelia slumped on the stool as Frank went into his room and closed the door.

Pap read them as he picked them up. “ ‘Her Eyes Don't Shine Like Diamonds.' ‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!' ” Gazing at the other titles, he read those too, then gave her an approving grin. “These are all swell tunes.” He rose to his feet and handed her the sheet music. His face was one big smile, then his crooked nose twitched. “Is that you smelling up the place, Miss Marshall?”

She simply nodded, seeing no point in denying it.

He let out an
ah
as he said, “I've always had a fancy for this perfume. My invalid grandmother used to wear the very same one.”

Amelia wanted to crawl inside the piano. She thought she might have if not for the fact Jakey Spivey came in for his lesson.

And so her afternoon was spent playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and coaxing her students to sing the words as if they meant them. Coney Island insisted on singing, “Oh, the rabbits we watched,” instead of “O'er the ramparts we watched.” By 1:45 she felt a dull headache forming behind her eyes. At least she had a reprieve between 2:30 and 3:00 when Lysbeth Foster didn't show up. It seemed the second round of the chicken pox was making its arrival. By four o'clock, Amelia must have played the national anthem forty times, and as Jessamyn Parks left, Amelia was ready for a Baptist lemonade.

Too bad Frank was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she'd taken things a bit too far. She'd never been boldly flirtatious before. Her head swirled with doubts. Maybe Frank hadn't been aware of her in the same way as she had been aware of him. Maybe she'd imagined the whole thing . . .

Amelia pressed both hands over her eyes, then stood with a long, exhausted sigh. The saloon was empty, which was odd. As of late, Pap sat and listened to her giving lessons. Even he must have been feeling the chalkboard-like scratch of the children's voices, over and over and over, so he'd deserted the area.

“Lookee what I got.”

The Appalachian-twanged voice made Amelia jump with a start. Turning, she gasped as she came eye to beady eye with a lifeless reddish brown rodent baring two front teeth from each jaw.

A little hysterically, she sputtered at the floppy creature swinging from Cobb Weatherwax's grubby hand, “M-Mr. Weatherwax, what is that?”

“Dead beaver.”

“W-What's it d-doing in here?”

He gave her a lopsided smile, and she realized his
teeth were straight and white under his wiry facial hair. “I aim to skin it and make a poke.”

“A poke?”

He looked at her with eyes the color of lake moss as if she were deaf, dumb, and blind. “A poke.” Seeing she still hadn't a clue, he explained, “A bag.”

“Yes, well . . . it's . . . a nice beaver, Mr. Weather-wax. I'm sure it will make a lovely bag.”

“I thought so,” he declared proudly. Bringing his arm down, the beaver's webbed rear feet and flat tail brushed the planked floor. “Where is everybody?”

“I wouldn't know.” Normally by four, Frank was setting up tiny glasses and Pap was spreading sawdust on the floor.

Cobb plopped in a chair and sat the beaver on his lap like a baby. The finely tanned fringe on his buckskins fanned down his sleeves and pants legs, and as he crossed one leg over the other, he gave her a polite smile. Shrugging, Amelia glanced away and continued to fill her petit point bag.

“I think you play that pianner real fine.”

“Thank you.”

“I heerd music like what you do before, but none so good. You got a way about you, Miz Marshall.” Cobb patted the beaver with the flat of his hand, then dumped the carcass on the tabletop.

He stood and walked toward her.

A burst of trepidation hit her, and she froze. But there was no need. He went right on by to stare at the piano keys.

“That 'un you did afore, on Tuesday, is my fav'rite. I don't know what you call it. I cain't read.”

She felt sorry for him then, thinking it must be hard for him not to be able to read. But even harder for him to admit his deficiency.

He tapped middle C several times with his lean forefinger. Then it was as if he forgot all about her. He sat on the stool, gave the keys a thorough examination
with his gaze, and began to play—note for
exact
note—Beethoven's Sonatina in G.

She was astounded, not believing what she was hearing. He used the
moderato
tempo, playing with a natural grace she'd never witnessed from any musician.

She allowed him to perform the entire piece, then exclaimed, “Mr. Weatherwax, wherever did you learn to play Beethoven?”

“From you, Miz Marshall.”

“Me?”

“I heerd you play it, and I remembered.” He put his finger to his head. “In here. That's where I keep the music.” Then he broke into a Haydn minuet she'd taught last week.

“Oh, my,” she said when he finished, laying a hand next to her racing heartbeat. “I'm awed, Mr. Weatherwax, truly I am. You're blessed with a gift.”

“Only thing Cobb's gifted with is the gift of gab,” Pap said as he strode into the Moon Rock hauling a gunnysack containing a block of ice over his shoulder.

“You're wrong, Mr. O'Cleary.” Amelia grew flushed with excitement. She felt as if she'd made a historic discovery. “Mr. Weatherwax can play music in its entirety just by listening to me play it once.” Then to prove it, she slid a chair next to Cobb's and said, “Listen. I'll play Bach.” She ran through a few bars of a musette in D major. “Now, Mr. Weatherwax, you play.” He grew suddenly bashful, and she placed her hand gingerly on his arm to encourage him in a soft and coaxing voice. “You can do it.”

She was vaguely aware of Pap's growl. She cast a brief glance in his direction and saw his face had gone as red as his mustache. She disregarded him and encouraged Cobb once again. “Please, Mr. Weatherwax.”

After a moment's hesitation, Cobb played the musette precisely as Amelia had.

She clapped with joy. “See! What did I tell you?” Then to Cobb, she fairly beamed. “Why, Mr. Weatherwax, this is the most phenomenal thing I've ever heard!”

“Big deal,” Pap muttered. “Cobb can play the piano. So can I. So can you, Miss Marshall.”

“But Cobb's talent is special.”

Pap swore under his breath as he went to unload the straw-covered ice into the icebox. “Well, I don't see Cobb getting paid to play the piano. He ain't that talented at it.”

Cobb got off the stool and hefted his beaver across his arm. “See this hyar beaver, Pap? I'm going to make a poke out of him.”

“Big deal,” Pap repeated.

“For you.”

Pap straightened from the icebox. “Me?”

“Yes, sir. It's you who give me a free beer last week on account I was short a dime.”

“Keep it up, Pap,” Frank said from his doorway, “and we'll go broke. No offense, Cobb, but I'm in the business of selling liquor for money.”

Amelia shot her gaze in Frank's direction, wondering just how long he'd been standing there. He'd changed into a fancy gold vest with a pure white shirt underneath and snappy black garters above his elbows. She should compose herself and act more refined, but she was too excited about Mr. Weather-wax to bother being demure.

“And I can appreciate that, Frank,” Cobb said. “It's just that times are hard. Beaver are scarce these days. But I got this 'un hyar and he's a fine catch. I'm going to skin him now.”

“Outside, I hope.” Frank walked to the bar, his mood no more improved than it had been three hours ago.

Amelia watched him, thinking she wanted to hit him on the back of the head with her shoe. He didn't
have to be such a crabapple. “Well, I have some wonderful news about Mr. Weatherwax,” she said to Frank.

Pap shot in with, “Cobb isn't any kind of news.”

“I think he is,” Amelia countered.

Slamming the icebox door, Pap crossed his arms over his chest. “Frank doesn't care that Cobb can play music with his ear. He only pays those who play music with their fingers.”

Frank nudged Pap. “Where's the sawdust?”

“In the bin.”

“Why isn't it on the floor?”

“I ain't got around to it yet.”

Frank leaned against the bar. He gazed at Pap, then Cobb, and lastly Amelia. “What in the hell is going on here?”

No one said a word.

Frank put his fingertips on the counter and drummed an impatient beat, then nodded. “I know what this is about. It's that damn picnic, isn't it, Pap?”

Pap grimaced. Amelia didn't know what he was talking about.

“Miss Marshall,” Frank began, “Pap's gun-shy about asking you something, and my guess is all this attention over Cobb has Pap chomping at the bit.”

Cautious, Amelia said, “What does he want to ask me?” as if Pap weren't in the room.

Pap remained buttoned up like a patent-leather shoe.

“Pap wants to ask you to the Fourth of July picnic.”

Amelia couldn't disguise her surprise. “Oh.” She knew Pap had been up to something, but she hadn't guessed he wanted to escort her to the picnic. She'd been hoping Frank—ridiculous as that might be—would ask her today.

She glanced at Pap. He was looking at her so longingly, she thought his tongue would lop to the side of his mouth. She wished Frank would intervene and
say she already had a partner—him. But he didn't. So she was left to deal with the situation herself. She could decline politely, coming up with a few short excuses, none of which would be the truth. Or she could accept. In doing so, she'd be letting all of Weeping Angel—and most especially Frank Brody—know she wasn't a withered old raisin on the vine waiting for him to come calling.

“Mr. O'Cleary,” she said in a clarion voice. “Is it your intention to ask me to the Fourth of July picnic? Or is Mr. Brody putting words in your mouth?”

Pap brought himself up taller—about as high as he could go, him being only five foot three. “Yes, ma'am. That was my intention, but I was too spooked to ask you.”

“I don't know why you should be, Mr. O'Cleary. I'd be delighted to accept.”

“Holy shit,” he replied.

“I don't believe it is.” She was proud of herself from holding back on reprimanding him for his colorful comment. She'd show Frank she could be very modern, indeed.

She grasped the handle of her music bag and nodded to all in the room. “I'll expect you shortly before one o'clock on Sunday, I assume.”

“Ah, yes, ma'am. That would be the designated time, the picnic starting at one o'clock.”

“Very well.” She didn't dare look at Frank, afraid of what his expression might reveal. She'd just have to make the best of things with Pap O'Cleary. Who wasn't a bad sort, she rushed to add in her thoughts. He was just, well . . . rather eager.

And too short for her.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said in an airy tone, belying the knots suddenly twisting in her stomach. She left before she could change her mind and tell Mr. O'Cleary she was otherwise engaged after all.

T
here was something to be said about indoor plumbing: Frank didn't have any.

When he wanted to take a good long soak in a hot bathtub, smoke an imported Havana cigar, and read, he had to go to Barent's Bathhouse and Barbershop next to the men's dormitory located on Gopher Road—the road pocked with holes dug by the nuisances. So many, the public works office was on the verge of giving up trying to maintain a level surface and let the gophers have their way, since the town had already foregone naming the avenue something pious—there being nothing remotely inspirational about gopher burrows.

Be that as it may, Frank could have cared less about the gophers and their holes. As long as he could navigate his way to the bathhouse, he didn't care if they lived in the middle of the street.

Frank kept his stogie clamped between his teeth and his chin just above the soapy water level. His legs were too long to fit all the way inside the copper-lined tub, and he had to bend them at the knees. As he puffed,
tiny clouds of smoke rose overhead. He lifted his gaze to the pine ceiling awash with an orange shellac varnish.

No cobwebs, spiders, or black ants.

Barent Bloodshine kept the place pretty clean. The Turkish towels were set aside to be laundered after every customer. You had to bring your own soap and shampoo paste, and a shower rinse was extra. Barent supplied poorly written pulp books and yellow-covereds—brochures of an obscene nature containing images of naked women and the stories of their exploits. Sometimes the gas burner heating the water would smoke and stink up the small, one-window cubicle, but other than that, the place wasn't too bad.