by Denise Dietz
Unlike Alice W. O’Brien and Gabriel Q.
“Let’s beat the crowd, Drac,” she whispered into Gabe’s ear.
“You vant to hit the crowd,” he whispered back, and for the first time all evening he smiled.
“Beat them to the exit, you featherbrained mooncalf. After three months of painting in my bare feet and one week of wearing sneakers, these high-heeled boots feel wobbly. I’d like to get a head start, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. Good idea. We can invade the Imperial Hotel’s buffet.” Grasping her elbow, he led her down the aisle. “Or would you prefer another restaurant?”
“I’d prefer a stroll down Myers Avenue. Do you mind terribly?”
“Why would I mind?” He dropped her elbow.
“I don’t know. You’ve been acting so distant, so different.”
“I’m not acting, Hallie. The Imperial Players act. Jenn acts. You act. Watch your step,” he cautioned, as they crossed the threshold and exited the hotel.
“Wait! Gabe, wait! Don’t walk so fast.”
He made an abrupt about-face. “I’m tired of waiting, Hallie. I want a home and a family and—”
“So do I! Damn it, Gabe, I wasn’t acting out some role when I said I loved you.”
“I think you were. I think you were playing Knickers to my Gabriel.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Do you want me to wager for you, Hallie? I would, only I can’t figure out who owns you.”
“Nobody owns me!”
“New York owns you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you can’t sever the ties to your family.”
“My family has nothing to do with this.”
“What about your paranormal family? Knickers and Gabriel. You can’t relinquish the past and you won’t consider living in the present. Forget the future. You won’t even take a chance on the future.”
“Now just one doggone minute, Mr. Quinn. After your important phone call you raced into my studio—”
“My costume alcove.”
“—and announced that you had just accepted a new job. It was a fait accompli. You didn’t ask my opinion. You didn’t tell the president—”
“The President’s staff member.”
“—that you’d talk it over with your lover.”
“How could I say ‘lover’ during a professional conversation? Especially while conversing with the White House?”
“One doesn’t converse with a house.”
“One does if it’s the White House.” He took a deep breath. “We talked it over.”
“No, Gabe, we didn’t. You assumed I’d meekly follow you to Washington.” He looked as if he might interrupt again, so she held up one hand, palm out. “You bribed me with antiques, like Josh bribes Napkin, but your antiques were nothing more than dog biscuits.”
“Napkin doesn’t go for bribes. He throws up on Chihuahuas. And why the hell are we discussing Napkin?”
“Okay, let’s discuss Jenn.”
“Let’s not.”
“Yesterday, before our tennis game, I told her that you said I reminded you of her. It was a joke, Gabe, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I don’t want to talk about Jenn.”
“I think we should. I think it explains your altitude.”
“Altitude?” He quirked an eyebrow.
“I meant attitude and you know it!”
“Maybe you should have skipped that glass of wine during intermission. I think it’s gone to your head.”
“I think your head needs to be vacuumed. You’re obsessed with hurtful memories.”
“I’m obsessed? You’re the one who wants to stroll down Myers Avenue.”
They had come full circle, she thought, suddenly bone-tired. Gabe stood six, maybe seven feet away, but the chasm was too deep, un-crossable. How could she reach him?
Before she could reach him physically, two men rounded the corner. They were drunk, almost reeling, and their scowled expressions suggested that they’d lost money, lots of money. The shorter, fatter man wore a sweat-stained cowboy hat, which he removed. Twisting its brim in his hands, he tried to whistle.
“Hey, sweet lil lady,” he said. “Where was you when I needed Lady Luck?”
“This sweet little lady is my little lady,” Gabe stated. His voice sounded calm enough, but Hallie could see his shoulders stiffen.
“Aw, Bubba, leave her alone,” the second man said. He looked like Icabod Crane, had Icabod Crane worn filthy overalls and an Oakland Raiders baseball cap.
“Shaddup, Roger,” Bubba said. “You cost me a bundle this afternoon when your friggin’ team lost to the friggin’ Broncos. Then you pulled me away from the table before I could win my money back.”
“You didn’t have no more money to bet.”
“But you had enough for another beer, dint ya’, asshole?” Turning his face toward Hallie, Bubba lowered one hand, shaped it into a claw, and snaked it between his legs. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, rocking on his heels, thrusting his pelvis forward. “Let’s have ourselves some fun.”
Enraged, Gabe swiftly crossed the invisible chasm. But it wasn’t necessary.
Jabbing punches at Bubba’s bloated face, Roger hollered, “Who you callin’ asshole, asshole?”
Hallie had begun walking toward the curb and Gabe’s car. She sensed Bubba’s return punch, aimed at Roger, just before she felt it.
Staggering backwards, her wobbly heels caught a crack in the sidewalk.
The hotel’s brick wall connected with her head.
She sank to the ground. It felt like slow motion, but one didn’t fall in slow motion, especially when one got clunked by a wall.
Did one?
I think I’ll play Napkin and throw up all over Bubba’s cowboy boots.
That was her last coherent thought. As her stomach leapfrogged toward her throat, darkness closed over her.
She welcomed the black void with a glad cry.
Because she saw Gabriel.
All her senses kicked in. She could smell pipe tobacco. She could hear his low laughter. She could touch the corded muscles in his arms.
He was beautiful.
She had expected his face to be disfigured, like a movie monster, like the Phantom of the Opera’s phantom, like Beauty’s Beast.
Instead, he had one small scar that cleaved his chin, one that slashed across the bridge of his nose, and one that separated his right eyebrow, arching it. The most prominent scare zigzagged from his left ear to his jaw, maybe a quarter of an inch in width. A modern-day plastic surgeon could probably reduce it to a hairline scar.
Why bother? The jagged line, pale in his tanned face, didn’t detract from his dark eyes, full of joy. Or his thick black hair, tied at his nape with a piece of string. She was tempted to trace the scar with her finger. No. Her lips.
Why not do it? Gabriel stood in front of an easel, next to a tree, and his smile was far brighter, far warmer than the sun.
“I love you,” he said. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman. Happiness can’t describe the way I feel, although full to bursting comes mighty close.”
A purr lapped at the back of her throat as Hallie swayed toward him. She reached up, planning to clutch his shoulders and press her body against the broad expanse of his chest, a chest that might have been etched from the granite that adorned Cripple Creek’s Mt. Pisgah.
Arms semi-circled, fingers extended, she grasped empty air.
Then she saw Knickers.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I’m hungry,” said the young woman. Her flawless skin was the color of cafe au lait, a smidgen more milk than coffee, and just like Lady Godiva, her long, cardinal-red hair hid the swell of her naked bosom.
“Okay, Knickers,” said the man standing in front of an easel. “Let’s share some bread, cheese and wine.”
“I’d rather share kisses, Gabriel. Kisses are sweeter than wine.”
He wave
d his arms and paint from two paintbrushes spattered the ground. “Anybody’s kisses?”
“No, you featherbrained mooncalf. I’d rather taste your kisses.”
“And how many other kisses have you tasted, little love?”
“None.” She splayed her hands across her hips. “Are you saying that I should kiss another man and see if he measures up?”
“Would you do that?”
“Never! I’ll taste your kisses till the day I die, Gabriel, and that’s a sworn vow.”
“Don’t talk of dying, Knickers. You’re only eighteen.”
“Nineteen.”
“What’s today? May Fifteenth?”
“May Eighteenth, Gabriel. Nineteen-hundred-and-ten,” she added, although it wasn’t necessary. He knew what year it was. Everybody did. The year of the comet. Halley’s Comet.
“Damn me for a fool,” he swore. “I clean forgot. Happy birthday, Mary Knickers. Tonight we’ll celebrate at a fancy restaurant, then stroll down Myers Avenue and watch the comet.”
“I’d rather watch it from here, Gabriel.”
“We’ve talked about this before, and you agreed.”
“I didn’t agree. I said I didn’t want to quarrel.”
“There might be a fireworks display,” he bribed.
“I hate firecrackers. They hurt my ears.”
“Such pretty ears.” Dropping the brushes into a can of turpentine, he advanced behind her, nuzzled her neck and then licked one lobe.
“Bread, cheese, wine,” she gasped.
“What about kisses?”
“After the wine.” With a seductive smile, she shrugged her shoulders into the robe she wore in between poses. The robe was Gabriel’s. Since she was tall, its bottom reached her ankles. She wound the sash around her waist twice and still had enough left for a bow.
What a heavenly day for a picnic, she thought. Last month the grassy fields had been shrouded with snow. In fact, she and Gabriel had been confined to their cabin by a raging blizzard. She had posed, he had painted, and they’d made love in front of the fireplace. She had rationed their food carefully, especially the flour and coffee, since they couldn’t navigate the trail to Cripple Creek.
“We’ll soon become ghosts,” he had teased. “Skinny ghosts.”
“Don’t be silly, Gabriel. If Death comes knocking,” she’d said fiercely, fisting her small hands, “he’ll be puking up teeth.”
Today the Aspen trees were shiny with flower catkins, signifying the end of winter. Knickers glanced up at the sun. She couldn’t determine the time, but it had to be an hour past noon, maybe later. No wonder her tummy growled.
How could Gabriel forget the date? He had talked about the damnfool comet for weeks. No. Months. He wanted to paint it, Halley’s Comet, streaking across the sky above Laura Bell’s and Neil McClosky’s and the Mikado and the Old Homestead. He said it was a “once in a lifetime opportunity.”
Knickers felt her throat clog. Halley’s Comet spelled out “yell shame” if you tangled the letters then dropped the C and T and one E.
Spreading a blanket across paint-spattered flowers, she shivered.
“Cold?” Somewhat awkwardly, Gabriel hunkered down and reached for a piece of cheese.
“No.” She sat next to him, her appetite gone lickety-split away. “It’s just that last night I dreamed about crows.”
“I dreamed about your beautiful body.”
“I’m serious, Gabriel. I saw at least a dozen crows, perched on the Aspens. The crows were caw-cawing up a storm.”
“There’s no storm, little love, not even the hint of a cloud. Tonight the sky should be crystal-clear and the comet—”
“Mama Scarlet said that crows betokened danger. She dreamed about them the night before the fire.”
“And how could you know that? You were only five years old.”
“Mama Scarlet told me. She dreamed about crows and I dreamed about them, too. Crows and bears.”
“Grizzly bears?”
“No. Toy bears. The stuffed ones, named for the President.”
“But that’s a good omen, Knickers. The teddy bear was named for Mr. Roosevelt because he refused to shoot a bear.”
“My dream bears were big, Gabriel, bigger than you. They hugged me and I couldn’t breathe.”
“You can’t breathe when I hug you.”
“That’s different, Gabriel. You take my breath away. The bears stole my breath.”
Knickers crumbled a piece of cheese between her thumbs and fingers. Should she tell Gabriel about her other dream? The funny dream? Not ha-ha funny. Funny strange.
In her funny-strange dream, she stood on top of the Gold Dollar Saloon’s raised stage and watched Gabriel’s poker game. He had just wagered his horse. An older girl watched, too. The older girl wore blue denim trousers, like the miners wore, and her hair was brown with what looked like patchy sun-streaks, cropped just above her shoulders.
Knickers interrupted her remembrance to make sure her own waist-length hair cascaded down her back. Gabriel liked to run his fingers through the sleek red strands, but tonight she’d pin it up. After all, she was a lady.
The girl inside the Gold Dollar Saloon had been a lady. Knickers didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. Maybe it was because the girl looked so clean. And even in the dream she smelled like lemons. Whores usually smelled like muskrats, as if they hid their dirt beneath a layer of scent.
Mama Scarlett never smelled of musk. Until the day she died, Mama Scarlet bathed every day. Knickers had continued the tradition. Every morning Gabriel toted water from the well. He never complained, even though it was hard work. But he wouldn’t let her tote the water. He said, “I want to wait on you hand and foot.”
Now that they were wed, he could joke about his missing leg.
Smiling fondly, she watched him devour a hunk of bread and wash it down with wine. He didn’t hardly chew. She should chastise him for his lack of etiquette, but she didn’t have the heart. He was thirty-three, and yet he looked like a mischievous boy.
Her smile faded when she thought about her one disappointment. She and Gabriel couldn’t make babies. He said the fun was in the trying, but she didn’t agree. The fun was in the having. She pictured her baby sister, Beatrice, so warm and cuddly, and without warning she had the blue devils.
With his finger, Gabriel tilted her chin. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“The comet,” she fibbed, even though it was only half a fib. “The comet scares me, Gabriel. Did you know that the miners won’t work because they don’t want to die underground? Quite a few went home to spend their last days with their families.”
“Superstitious fools!” He released her chin. “They think the end of the world is at hand. You don’t, do you?”
“Of course not.” She watched an ant scurry toward a bread crumb. “After the blizzard, when we rode to town for supplies, Mr. Harper told me about this vender selling comet pills outside the Imperial Hotel. The pills are supposed to protect people from the comet’s dire effects. We have lots of money banked, Gabriel. Could we buy some pills? Please?”
Leaning back against a tree, he pulled her unresisting body across his lap. “Knickers, listen and listen good. Edmund Halley, himself, observed the comet’s passing in 1531 and 1607. It wasn’t the end of the world then, and it won’t be now.”
“I saw a newspaper story inside Harper’s Grocery. Mark Twain said he came in with Halley’s Comet and expected to go out with it. And—” she took a deep breath “—he died last month!”
“What does that have to do with the price of beans?”
“Maybe he dreamed about crows.”
Gabriel laughed. “I’m sorry, Knickers,” he said, still chuckling. “I don’t mean to make light of your fears, but you’re not thinking straight. Mark Twain died because he was seventy-four years old. I saw another newspaper story yesterday, when I rode to town. It said people were hiding in cyclone cellars and caves. Do you want to burrow inside a cave, l
ittle love?”
“No! I’m not some bullyragged jellyfish. I’ll watch your fool comet, Gabriel. I’ll even paint it. Tomorrow. First thing. After my bath.”
“That’s my good girl. Eat your lunch.”
“I’m not hungry anymore. Holy Moses! The sky’s filled with clouds now, Gabriel, and it’s thundering.”
While she gathered the picnic items, he grabbed his painting and wooden crutch. She felt raindrops bead her long lashes. Maybe the rain would wash away her fears. Maybe the rain would wash away the comet.
She adjusted her long-legged stride to his choppy one as they headed toward the cabin.
Inside, it smelled like fresh-baked bread.
“What should I wear to your fancy restaurant, Gabriel?’
“Well, I don’t know, Knickers. Your best gown’s awfully short. And it’s too tight across your bosom.”
“My best and only gown’s out of style, Gabriel. You could even say it’s moss-grown.”
“I should have bought you a pretty dress last Christmas, instead of that lacy bust enhancer. You don’t need a bust enhancer, but you hinted and hinted…” He paused to heave a deep sigh. “Guess you’ll have to wear a bed sheet.”
“Bed sheet?”
“Yup. You’re handy with a needle and thread. The one on the bed will do. It’s washed and—”
“It is not! Last night we wrinkled the sheets something awful. See?” Casting aside a folding screen, nodding toward the bed, her gaze touched upon a box.
“Happy birthday, Knickers.”
“Gabriel! You didn’t forget.”
“Open it.”
“What a pretty box. It’s from Johnson’s Department Store.”
“Open it.”
“Men! Always so impatient.” Slowly, she lifted the lid. “Oh, Gabriel, what a lovely gown.”
“How can you tell? It’s still inside the damnfool box.”
“Don’t call my pretty box foolish.”
“Mary Knickers!”
“Hold your horses, Gabriel.”
With a reverence reserved for Christmas, she drew the gown from the box, took off her damp robe, and held the blue and gold satin damask against her body.
“Elephant sleeves,” she sighed. “I’ve always wanted elephant sleeves.”