The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

She raised her voice: “I grip those balls, slice ’em off, toss ’em in a bucket. When boiled over a hot fire, they make good eatin’.”

  Cliff turned around and gave her a smile. Sally Sue imagined holding a pair of bloody, hairy testicles in each palm. She should have been aghast but instead was spellbound.

  Elvira studied Sally Sue’s hands. “Yours are perfect. Maybe I could teach you. My joint swelling has been kicking in. I don’t know how many more years I’ll be able to do it—rolling on the ground, wrestling around with them young bulls. Yep, yours are perfect for the task. Want to be my protégée?” She pronounced it with a hard “g.” “Money’s purty good.” She grinned. “I’ve got special tools to use. No one but me is allowed to touch them. I’ll pass them on to you.”

  Sally Sue would like to make money. That wasn’t her cup of tea, though.

  Canvas tents and shabby shacks dotted a hillside beside a mill next to a quiet lumberyard. A little while later, they passed the downtrodden ranch where they’d picked up the horses and buckboard. The windmill was lying on the ground.

  As they drove into Flagstaff, Sally Sue’s heart raced with excitement. It had been months since she’d been around folks. The town seemed deserted, though. No one strolled or rode horses down the street, no hussies preened, no one swept the hotel porch, no fights today.

  Cliff steered the team behind the church, where horses were lined up. He climbed down, proffered his hand to Elvira, and helped her out of the cart.

  “Thank you kindly. After service, come on over and say howdy to the sheriff.”

  “Sure thing.” Cliff saluted her and watched her hobble away. “She’s a weird bird.”

  “Yep.” Sally Sue hopped out of the buckboard, ignoring the hand he held out to her.

  He tilted his head at the church. “Go on in. I’ll wait for you.”

  On the church steps, she tried unsuccessfully to brush the dirt off her suit. As she entered, a portly, ginger-haired pastor led the congregation in reciting the Lord’s Prayer. The McMillans and their son Isaiah sat in a front pew with Mr. Ivry from the hotel. Men in clean shirts with combed hair and hats in hand were spread throughout the congregation. Instead of their colorful getups, the saloon girls, sitting in a row, wore modest Sunday best in pastels, with beribboned bonnets to match.

  Sally Sue stepped into an empty pew in the back row, opened a hymnal, and joined in to sing “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

  Afterwards, the congregation sat and the pastor began to read the scripture from Matthew. “‘You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.’”

  Sally Sue’s hands flew to her chest. Had he chosen this passage just for her?

  He smoothed down the edges of his black shawl over his white robe and began his sermon. “Flagstaff ruffians, we’ve been overrun by sinners.” As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Those among you who sin will be liable to the hellfires of damnation.” The pastor’s gaze scanned the congregation and landed on her. A chill went up her spine.

  During the sacraments, as the pastor held up a cup and said, “This is the blood . . .,” she closed her eyes and could see the blood seeping through that hat and the man she’d killed, his dead eyes staring at her, then the body of the bank guard Cliff had murdered. Was she no better than Cliff? No, he’d done something against the law, she’d just been trying to protect herself and the others. Maybe there was no difference. He was trying to protect himself too.

  A commotion in a front pew broke her reverie. Isaiah’s head popped up, and he made a run for it down the aisle. As he passed, she seized him by the hand, pulled him next to her, and held him close.

  “Hello, pitty.”

  She put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Hello, Isaiah. Shh.”

  Danica stepped into the aisle. Sally Sue waved that she had him, and Danica sat back down.

  Isaiah pointed to her bonnet. Sally Sue removed it and set it on his lap, and he fiddled with the flowers.

  At the end of the service, the pastor walked solemnly down the aisle and the congregation followed.

  Sally Sue led Isaiah out of the pew and out the door. Cliff was nowhere to be seen.

  The pastor shook her hand. “Welcome. New in town?”

  She considered telling him she was in trouble, but even though she hadn’t seen him, she sensed Cliff watching nearby.

  “There you are.” Mrs. McMillan, braided hair on her head, knelt and grabbed Isaiah’s elbow. “Naughty boy. Sorry if he’s been a bother.”

  “Not at all. He’s a good boy.”

  Mrs. McMillan laughed. “Usually.” She kissed him on the forehead and let him run off to his father, talking with a group of men nearby.

  “It’s nice to see you. I’m glad you made it through the winter okay. We were worried about you folks.”

  “We were very comfortable. Thank you.” Sally Sue swallowed the lie.

  “Want to join us for supper?” Mrs. McMillan asked.

  “Better not. My husband will be here soon to fetch me.” She looked up and down the street.

  “Of course you’d both be welcome.”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  Did she dare go to the jailhouse and talk to Mack? She took a step that way, then heard a whistle from behind an ash tree and saw Cliff gesturing for her to come to him.

  The horses trotted along as they rode home in silence toward the homestead. That was fine with her, because she didn’t feel much like talking. It had been one of the worst days of her life.

  Just over the bridge, Cliff stopped the wagon. A midnight-blue canopy covered the ranch in the moonless night, and crickets chanted their evensong. An owl hooted, and its mate answered.

  Cliff turned toward her with soft eyes. “Sally Sue, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

  Captivated by his words, she forgot herself and let his hand touch her cheek. Her face grew warm, and for a moment, just a moment, she wished he’d kiss her. But then she pulled away. If he thought she’d ever let him kiss her, he had another thing coming.

  When they arrived at the cabin, she ran to the privy and stayed there until she was sure he had fallen asleep. How could she even consider letting this bank-robbing kidnapper get so close? She realized again, for at least the hundredth time, that he could get close to her anytime he wanted. She resolved to do something drastic before he lost his patience or she lost her resolve.

  48

  In the morning, Sally Sue found a straw cowgirl’s hat at the foot of her bed. She scrambled into the nightgown she had tossed on the floor. Hat on her head, she looked in the mirror. The wide brim would keep the sun out of her eyes.

  Her mind flew back to the previous day. So much had happened. Even though she’d shot a man, she didn’t look like a killer. That poor Elvira. Sally Sue had been in town, she’d been to church, she’d been told by Cliff he didn’t want to live without her. Sorry, buddy, but you’ll have to soon.

  She smiled at him as he came inside. Long ago, she’d given up worrying about his seeing her in the nightgown. Too much trouble to be modest in these close quarters.

  “Thanks for the hat.” She tilted her head up toward him, and it fell off. She plopped it back on.

  He shrugged. “Why’re you thanking me? I have no idea where it came from.”

  “Thank you, whoever snuck in here and brought this to me.”

  “Now that the weather’s cleared, it’s time to start our garden.”

  She’d never planted before. Even though there had been space in their yard, Mama had refused. Said it would be too much work, so they traded laundry washing for fruits and vegetables.

  Sally Sue didn’t feel like getting dressed. She put her boots on and, still wearing her nightgown, followed Cliff outside to stunning blue skies. The mama deer and her twins grazed in the field. She glanced up at Sally Sue and Cliff; used to them, she didn’t pay them any mind. The twins had grown stronger by the day.

  Beside the cabin in the garden patch, wit
h strong arms, Cliff chopped the hoe in a rhythmic motion, releasing flaxen weeds from the hard dirt and flinging them aside. It seemed easy.

  He handed her the rusty tool. “Your turn.”

  She grasped the hoe and hacked at a clump, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Give it some elbow grease.” Cliff swung his arms to demonstrate.

  She tried again with all her might, to no avail.

  His warm body close to hers, his arms encircling her from behind, he put his hands over hers and moved them firmly onto the wooden handle. “Hold it like this. Now pull back.” He guided her hands up. “Think of someone or something that makes you angry.”

  That should be easy. She swung, but the force didn’t have much gumption. At the moment, she hadn’t been able to conjure up any anger toward him.

  “Try again,” Cliff encouraged. “Get furious.”

  Surprised that her mama came to mind, Sally Sue attacked the weeds and they began to give way. She felt a powerful sense of accomplishment.

  “Good job. Keep at it. I’m going to work the horses.”

  She continued to hoe until the warm breeze picked up. A blue jay flew onto the barn roof and hopped up to its twirling weather vane. North faced south, east faced west, the four direction points rearranged.

  A gale blew off her hat, and she chased it across the meadow.

  “Dang it!” she yelled, frightening the doe and her babies, who hopped up and bounded away. She scooped up the hat and stomped into the cabin.

  With her sewing scissors, she poked a hole on either side of the brim, draped a remnant from the trunk across it, and wove it into each hole, pulling it through. She stuck the hat back on her head and tied it under her chin, the silk smooth.

  “That oughta teach you,” she said, and went back outside, where Cliff was brushing Roan in the round pen. “Hey, boy. I know you’re shedding.”

  Hat snug on her head, dust blowing around her, she worked the soil until her arms grew tired, and then she tossed the hoe on the ground, bent over, and began to tug weeds out by hand. When there were no more, she stood back to admire her work. Gratification filled her senses like she’d never felt before, as she imagined the future plot yielding tall corn stalks, green rutabagas, and plump tomatoes. She could see herself as she cut them up, added them to a stew, and stirred them in the cauldron.

  “Take a taste,” she’d say to Cliff, holding a full spoon out to him.

  “Delicious!” he’d say.

  She knew he’d meant more than the stew and shook the fantasy away. That day would never come, because she’d be gone by the time any vegetables they ever planted were ripe. With renewed energy, she tilled the ground. Before she keeled over from exhaustion, Cliff steered a wheelbarrow toward her.

  “Look at all you’ve done. Let’s celebrate. Put your hoe down, and let’s have a hoedown tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s have ourselves a hoedown. A dance. You’re from Missouri. You never heard of one of those?”

  “Mister, of course I have.” She smiled at his enthusiasm, even though she was so tuckered out, she didn’t think she’d be able to walk to the cabin, let alone dance.

  Inside, she knew she should start fixing supper. She’d just take a little rest first. She plopped on the bed and promptly fell to napping.

  She awoke to a dove cooing. The setting sun cast a warm glow across the peaks. She’d slept too long and arose with renewed vigor.

  Still in her dirt-stained nightgown, she didn’t want to don the filthy men’s clothes and had a hankering to wear something fresh and feminine. She pulled the red dress from the trunk.

  She laid the dress on the bed, stepped out of her nightgown, and rinsed herself at the washstand. The cool water was invigorating. She donned the dress, tugging the puffed sleeves up to hide her shoulders and cleavage. She brushed her hair, now grown to her shoulders, and pulled it into an updo like she’d seen the saloon gals wear. It felt good after all that hard work.

  After she finished fixing supper, she opened the door and called, “Come and get it, or I’ll feed it to the hogs.”

  Cliff came in, carrying an armful of sage, the blossoms deep blue. He arranged them in a large canister and set it on the mantel beside the Indian items.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  He studied her. “You’re the lovely one.”

  She felt her face redden and suddenly felt shy. He must have dunked his head in the horse trough to wash up. He was looking mighty fine. His slicked-back hair and smooth-shaven face shone in the fading light. He had also donned a clean denim shirt.

  “Smells good,” he said. He lit the candles in the chandelier and sat at the table.

  “Dig in.” She served them and sat down too.

  He put the spoon in his mouth, and closed his eyes while he chewed. “Ooh-whee, this stew is tasty. You’ve become quite the cook, Sally Sue.” He ate another spoonful.

  She smiled at the compliment. She’d been working on it. Some day she might even become as good a cook as he was. She’d grown to enjoy it—chopping, mixing, and stirring. Even though she liked it, though, she didn’t want to have to do it every night. She was lucky because Cliff traded off making meals with her. What would those complaining housewife biddies in Missouri say about that?

  After supper, she gazed at his handsome face and imagined what it might have been like if their beginnings had been different—no bank robbery, no dead men, no kidnapping. Maybe he’d be her beau and then her husband and they’d have a normal life, with children. They’d live near Mama, go to church, and have Sunday afternoon suppers together. No, she wouldn’t like that at all. She scrunched up her nose.

  “Does your nose itch?” Cliff asked.

  She scratched it.

  “You know what that means, don’t you?” He grinned.

  “No, what?”

  “Means you’re gonna kiss a fool.”

  “I guess it means I’m gonna kiss you, then.” She put a hand over her mouth. Did she just say that? That reply had just leaped out like a frog.

  He laughed so hard, she thought he might get apoplexy. “Sally Sue, you’re a hoot. Let’s get this hoedown going.”

  They stacked the dishes in the washbasin. He carried the table to the side of the room, arranged a chair in the middle, and proffered his hand. Nervous, she giggled and sat.

  “Ready?”

  “Sure.”

  He stood before her. “I sure wish I had my banjo.”

  “You don’t play the banjo.”

  “Yes, I do. I promise I’ll get one and play for you someday.” With gusto, his deep voice filling the cabin, he began to sing “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain”—the same song he’d sung that first night on the way to the homestead.

  She clapped and sang along to the first verse.

  On the second verse, he said, “Dance around me like I’m a mountain.”

  As he continued to sing, she galloped around him in circles, holding the edges of her dress’s hem. He sang very fast on the last stanza, and she had a hard time keeping up with him, but she managed. Out of breath and laughing, she fell into the chair.

  Next, he serenaded her, pronouncing every word in a twangy, exaggerated fashion:

  Oh my darling, oh my darling

  Oh my darling, Clementine

  You are lost and gone forever

  Dreadful sorry, Clementine

  She was surprised he knew the words to all five verses. “Why do you think all the good songs are written about women?” she asked.

  “Because you’re the fairer sex. Any requests?”

  “‘Oh! Susanna’?”

  He stomped his boots on the wood floor in time. “Oh! Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me . . . Come on, Sally Sue, give it your all.”

  She couldn’t resist—she sang full out, hit a high soprano C with perfect pitch and then a low C, like she’d done at home in choir. No warbling in between.

  Cliff yelled, “You can sure sing, girl. Dan
ce, Sally Sue, dance!”

  They danced around each other, her skirt twirling at her ankles as she spun around and around. His muscular body shook and wiggled. She copied his movements, the merriment exhilarating. At the end of the song, she sat again.

  Then he was quite clever, making up his own impromptu words:

  Oh! Sally Sue, oh won’t you cry for me

  for I’ve brought you to Arizonee

  with a banjo on my knee.

  He extended his arms toward her and began to hum the “Blue Danube Waltz.” The notes flew straight into her heart like arrows. She shouldn’t let him hold her; she stepped back.

  His eyes glowed deep blue—the color of the Danube, or maybe even the Pacific. Her body tingled for his touch. When he reached toward her, she allowed him to clasp her hand in his and guide the other around his firm waist.

  As they hummed in unison, he led her in circles around the cabin, keeping them in a continuous rhythm. The intoxicating scent of sage filled the air. Candles sent dreamy shadows as they shimmered above them.

  She shouldn’t let him hold her so tight, but she couldn’t pull back. She leaned into him and felt the strength of his body against hers.

  At the end of the song, he whispered in her ear, “Ah, Sally Sue.”

  When she looked up at him, he leaned down and kissed her. For a moment she hesitated, until a spark flickered and ignited inside her body and she returned his kiss with deep longing—a longing filled with sorrow for her own mixed-up feelings for him: fear, hatred, admiration, maybe even love.

  He abruptly shook his head and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

  In a daze, she stared up at him.

  “You’re just so beautiful is all.” He turned away. “I’ll be in the barn.”

  Sally Sue wanted to grab his arm and pull him to her again. Instead, she curtsied as if it had been any old town-hall dance. “Thank you for the hoedown.”

  He closed the door on his way out. She removed the red dress and crawled into bed. Her mind relived the kiss over and over again. It took her ages to fall asleep.

  In the night, a dream aroused her. Cliff was beside her in the big bed, his kisses plum soft, hers back juicy-sweet. Candles flickered like stars. The ceiling opened; they rotated, levitated together, into a blue velvet sky. Soft breezes twirled and swirled their bodies in circles toward the heavens. Even though she knew it was a dream, she held on to him for dear life, wanting God to make this bliss, not a sin, but real and divine.