Sweet Laurel

by Millie Criswell

  Dear Lord, give me the courage and strength to go through with this, she prayed, tugging the bodice of her dress up a bit. Never in her life had she imagined being worried about showing too much cleavage. Heather and Rose Elizabeth would laugh themselves silly if they could see her now.

  The curtains were suddenly pulled aside, leaving Laurel to stand facing the crowd of ogling men. The orchestra was playing “Oh! Susanna,” and Laurel belatedly realized that she was supposed to be singing.

  She started in a small voice that suddenly grew louder when a redheaded man in the back yelled out, “Louder, cutie pie. We can’t hear you.”

  But it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference if she’d been shouting at the top of her lungs. Few paid her any attention. Chance was occupied at the roulette wheel, while his cousin, Whitey dealt faro. The serving girls, dressed in a fashion similar to her’s, were laughing and playing up to the customers, encouraging the men to drink and spend their money at the gaming tables. Most of them, Laurel decided, were probably family men who could ill afford to lose their hard-earned cash.

  “Let’s see some leg, girlie,” an intoxicated man seated right below the stage shouted, as he attempted to look up her dress. Laurel wanted to kick him right in his grinning mouth.

  Doing her best to maintain her composure, she began a grating, off-key rendition of “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen,” a song her father had frequently sung at the top of his lungs while bathing. Suddenly the room quieted, and the men stopped what they were doing and listened. Several were shaking their heads in disbelief, and a few snickered behind their hands, but Laurel was too nervous and too caught up in the moment to notice their disapproval.

  Finally, she thought, I have made an impact on this audience. That notion was soon dismissed when a bearded man at the billiards table shouted, “Bring Pearl on. Let’s see some tits worth lookin’ at.”

  Catching Pearl’s smug smile, and noting that the woman had sidled up to the bearded man and was offering him a personal glimpse of her assets, and Lord knew what else, Laurel silently chastised the fate that had brought her to this humiliating end.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’m never going to get used to singing in this place, Bertha. No matter how hard I try to please the customers, they don’t seem to care one way or the other.” Laurel pushed the bowl of peas she’d shelled across the scarred oak table toward the black woman seated on the other side.

  Bertha Tubbs, who ruled the kitchen at the Aurora Borealis with an iron hand, had been reluctant to accept Laurel’s offer of help. But that had been a week ago, and now the gray-haired woman seemed to accept her daily presence, even welcoming it, though she hadn’t said as much.

  “You’s too sensitive, honey. Why, those gambling men ain’t hard to please a’tall. They’s just preoccupied with the business of makin’ money. And that’s what Mr. Chance wants them to do anyway. You is just an extra bonus.”

  Laurel frowned at that. She wanted to be the main attraction, not just some ornament to decorate a saloon. “I don’t fit in here, but I’m not sure just where I do fit in. The Opera House didn’t want me, I have no future in Kansas, and I don’t want a permanent career singing in a gambling parlor.”

  Putting her hand over Laurel’s, Bertha shook her head, an admonishing look on her face. “Honey, we all do what we gots to do in this world to survive. That’s just the way it is. From what you already done told me, you didn’t have much choice ’bout working here, so you might as well make up your mind to make the best of it.”

  “Some of the girls don’t like me much.” Pearl had gone out of her way to make Laurel’s life miserable, making snide remarks about her bosoms, or lack thereof, and mimicking the way she sang her songs.

  Bertha clucked her tongue. “You be thinkin’ about that Pearl. She’s trash, pure and simple. If she had a brain as big as them other parts, she’d be lots better off.”

  A fit of the giggles overtook Laurel. “You and my mama would have gotten along just fine, Bertha. She always gave such good advice, and everything she said seemed to make sense. I sure do miss her.”

  “Is your mama dead, child?”

  Laurel nodded. “She died when I was small. My sister Heather raised me and my younger sister, Rose Elizabeth.”

  “That’s what family’s for. Family looks out for one another.”

  “You and Jupiter never had any children, did you, Bertha?”

  “No.” Her expression grew sad. “The good Lord never blessed us with a child. But we got Mr. Chance, and Whitey’s real childlike. Though he be fully grown, that man don’t have all his wits about him, if you get my meanin’.”

  Picking up a sweet potato from the pile Bertha had placed in front of her, Laurel began to peel. Bertha was planning to prepare some of her famous sweet potato pies for dinner, and Laurel couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into one. Her mouth watered just thinking about it.

  “You get a real motherly look on your face whenever you talk about Chance and his cousin. Have you been working for Chance long?”

  Bertha nodded, wiping the flour from her hands on her apron. “Been here what seems like forever, honey. Me and Jup came to this place when there wasn’t much here ’cept ramshackle wooden buildings, which was mostly saloons catering to the miners.

  “Back then there wasn’t none of them cottonwood trees like you see planted on the streets. Men brought in those trees and planted them for shade, and watered them with ditches they dug. It was the damnedest thing I ever did see. Never saw no one pay such attention to trees before. Course, where I come from down in Georgia we got lots of trees.”

  Trees were a rare commodity on the plains, that was for certain, Laurel thought. And the cottonwoods now gracing most of Denver’s streets were large and lovely.

  “Did Chance always own a saloon?” It was hard to imagine him without a deck of cards in his hands. From what she’d observed this past week, he was more skilled than most of those who tried their hand at poker or faro. Those who “bucked the tiger” inevitably lost.

  “That boy and Whitey ran away from home when they was still wet behind the ears. Mr. Chance don’t talk much ’bout the family they left behind. I think it pains him too much.

  “They roamed about, doing different things, but mostly they mined for silver. That’s where Mr. Chance learned his skill with the cards. There’s a whole lot of sportin’ men and women in them mining camps.”

  Speaking of sportin’ women, Laurel thought, glancing up as Pearl strolled into the kitchen.

  “Well, I see you’ve finally found the right job for your talents, Laurel. I guess Chance came to his senses and put you to work in the kitchen instead of on the stage.”

  “You hush your mouth, Miss Pearl, and leave this child be. She’s been a big help to me, and we don’t need your sassy mouth ruinin’ our day.”

  “Why, Bertha Tubbs! I’m so surprised. You usually don’t cotton to anyone except your precious Chance. You should feel honored, Laurel, that Bertha’s taken you under her wing.”

  Bertha reached for the rolling pin, and Laurel felt the inclination to keep quiet and let the woman bash Pearl’s brains in. But she didn’t. Owing mostly to the fact that she didn’t think Pearl had any brains.

  “I enjoy cooking, and Bertha’s been kind enough to teach me how to prepare some of the dishes she’s so famous for. I understand her sweet potato pie is just fabulous.” Her comment elicited a boastful smile from the black woman.

  Pearl patted her hips. “Not that I have to worry, mind you, but pie makes a body run to fat.”

  “Humph! Body wouldn’t have to be fat if it didn’t loll about all day doing nothin’ but complaining. Work is good for the soul and the body. Didn’t your mama ever teach you that, Miss Pearl?”

  “My mama earned her living lying on her back, servicing the miners up in Leadville. The only thing she taught me was how to survive by using what the good Lord gave me.”

  Laurel was saddened by Pearl’s lack of m
oral upbringing, but it didn’t keep her from saying, “Not every woman has to be a prostitute, Pearl. The good Lord also gave us brains, so we could use them to help ourselves.”

  “If that’s true, Miss Smarty, why are you working in a saloon surrounded by drunks and whores? If you’re so smart, why ain’t you got yourself a rich husband? Why ain’t you living in one of them fancy mansions up on Brown’s Bluff?”

  “This job is merely temporary. And I don’t believe marriage is the only choice for a woman. Plenty of women own businesses or have professions. My sister is in San Francisco working as an illustrator at a large newspaper.” That wasn’t quite the truth, for she had no idea if Heather had found a job, but Pearl didn’t need to know that.

  “Mark my words: You’ll be in Chance Rafferty’s bed before you know it.” Pearl snapped her fingers, startling Laurel. “That man could charm the drawers off half the female population of Denver.” She laughed seductively. “In fact, I think he already has. Chance has a big appetite when it comes to women, and if you think he’s not going to come sniffing around your skirts, you’re wrong. We’ve all bedded Chance at one time or another. And, sugar, it’s a damned fine experience that I wouldn’t mind repeating on a daily basis.” With that, Pearl left the room with a satisfied smile, knowing that her comment would put Laurel on the defensive where Chance was concerned.

  “That woman is pure trash,” Bertha said. “Never you mind what she says, Miss Laurel. A man treats a woman the way she asks to be treated. If you’s easy, a man’s going to take what’s offered. Men bed women like Pearl, but they don’t marry ’em.”

  “Don’t worry, Bertha.” Laurel patted the concerned woman’s arm. “I’ve got no plans to get married anytime in the near future, and I’ve certainly got no plans to bed Chance Rafferty. As my mama was fond of saying: ‘She didn’t raise no fools.’ ”

  * * *

  Dearest Heather,

  I trust this letter finds you well and situated in the position of your choice. I’ve no doubt that you succeeded at becoming an illustrator . . .

  “What’re you doing, Miss Laurel? Are you puttin’ words down on paper?”

  Laurel paused in writing her letter and turned to see Whitey peering over her left shoulder. She smiled at the inquisitive man and offered him a seat. “Why, yes, I am. I thought it was high time to let my sister in San Francisco know what I’ve been doing here in Denver.” She also intended to let Heather know that Rose Elizabeth still remained on the farm. The brief note she’d received two days before had alluded to some trouble with the new buyer.

  Whitey stared at the marks on the paper and frowned. “I don’t know how to make my mark. I never learned to read and write, ’cept Chance taught me how to read the cards so that I could deal, deal, deal.”

  “It’s not hard to learn, Whitey. I’d be happy to teach you, if you’d like to.”

  His face lit with childlike pleasure. “If I could write a letter like you, Miss Laurel, I could tell my mama where I am and what I’m doing.”

  Remembering what Bertha had said about Chance and Whitey running away from home, Laurel guessed it had been a good while since Whitey had seen his mother. “Do you miss your mama, Whitey?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think about her holding me when I was real small, but she wasn’t always nice. She used to call me stupid. And sometimes she’d hit me for no reason. Chance didn’t like her when she did that.”

  “No, I don’t imagine he did.” In the short time she’d been at the Aurora she’d already seen that Chance was very protective of his cousin. Not that she could blame him. Whitey was a little boy in a man’s body, and he needed someone to look out for him. Folks weren’t usually tolerant of those who possessed a weak mind or body.

  “Sometimes people say and do things they don’t mean, Whitey. I used to call my sisters names, and sometimes we’d even get into fights, but I never stopped loving them. And I bet your mama never stopped loving you, in spite of what she may have said or done.”

  “Do you really think so, Miss Laurel?”

  Her answer seemed very important to him, and that tugged at Laurel’s heart. “Yes, Whitey, I most definitely do.”

  “You think you could teach me to make my letters, Miss Laurel? Then no one could say I was stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  Laurel reached for a fresh sheet of her lavender-scented stationery, then handed Whitey a pencil and showed him the correct way to hold it. “We’ll start with the letter A.” She showed him how to form the letter, waited patiently while he attempted it, then praised his first effort. “My mama always said that practice makes perfect, so you’ll need to practice, practice, practice,” she said three times, just like he always did, “over and over until you can do this letter right.”

  He looked up, wide-eyed and eager. “And then will I be able to write?”

  She shook her head. “This is just the first letter of the alphabet, Whitey. There’re twenty-six letters altogether. You’ll have to learn each one, then we’ll begin putting the letters together to form words. Once you can do that, you’ll be able to write.”

  “And no one will call me stupid, stupid, stupid. Right, Miss Laurel?”

  She patted the big man’s hand. “You’re not stupid, Whitey. You’re just a little slower to learn than some other folks. But I’ve seen the way you deal the cards, and I’m very impressed by what you can do. I could never do that. We all have gifts God gave us. That’s what makes each one of us special.”

  “God gave you a real purty voice, Miss Laurel. I just love it when you sing.”

  Laurel beamed at the praise. “Why, thank you, Whitey. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in quite some time.”

  “Chance thinks you sing like a screech owl, but I don’t. I like it when you holler real loud and wake the dead.”

  * * *

  Chance, who’d been listening to the exchange, bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the outraged look on Laurel’s face. It was obvious she didn’t like being compared to a screech owl or being told that she hollered. Which she most definitely did.

  “Whitey,” he said, coming to stand behind his cousin’s chair before the guileless man could get him into any more trouble. “Laurel’s trying to write a letter. Leave her be and go see if Jup needs any help unloading the beer kegs.”

  Laurel’s eyes narrowed at the amused expression on Chance’s face. It rankled that he thought so little of her talent. Obviously, the man had absolutely no taste. “Whitey’s not bothering me half as much as you are, Chance.”

  “Laurel’s teaching me to write. I might even write my mama a letter when I learn, Chance. Do you think she would like that?”

  Chance doubted that Aletha Rafferty would like anything having to do with her dimwitted son, but he refrained from saying so, especially in light of the hopeful look on Whitey’s face. “She might.”

  The big man smiled. “I’ll take this paper and pencil with me, Miss Laurel, and practice, practice, practice. I got to go find Jup now.”

  Chance took the seat Whitey had vacated. “I don’t want to encourage Whitey about his mother, Laurel. The woman’s a harridan. And she wouldn’t welcome hearing from her son.”

  “How do you know that? Maybe she’s sorry for the way she treated him.”

  Chance’s face darkened as memories of his childhood washed over him. He’d gone to live with his aunt and Uncle Teddy after his parents had died of the influenza. Teddy had welcomed his brother’s child with open arms, but Aletha had looked upon him as just another cumbersome burden.

  Like Whitey.

  How a mother could treat her only child so cruelly, Chance would never know. But Aletha never missed an opportunity to deride Whitey, slap him if he didn’t do her bidding fast enough, or humiliate him in front of his friends and neighbors.

  Chance had often come to his cousin’s defense, which had usually earned him his own beatings with a large wooden spoon his aunt kept expressly for that
purpose.

  Though Uncle Teddy had disapproved of his wife’s child-rearing methods, he’d been too weak of character to stand up to her.

  Aletha had always professed to be a decent, Christian woman, and Chance had decided early on if she was an example of decency and morality, then he wanted no part of either. Give him a hardworking, honest whore any day. At least they didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t.

  “Aunt Aletha is a bitch,” he said finally. “She’d never be sorry for the beatings she gave or the cruel things she said. Aletha made Whitey’s life a living hell.”

  “And yours as well?” She studied him intently, and though he shrugged indifferently, Laurel thought he’d been just as affected by his aunt’s cruelty as his cousin had.

  “I was a normal kid. I could handle my aunt’s nastiness. Whitey was the one who didn’t understand the name-calling and the beatings.”

  “Is that why you ran away?”

  “I see Bertha’s been running her mouth again.”

  “I was curious about your background, so I asked her a few questions.”

  He smiled to hide his unease, running his index finger up her arm, causing gooseflesh to erupt wherever he touched. “I always knew you were interested in me, angel. I’d be happy to satisfy your curiosity, or whatever else is itching you. Just name the time and place.”

  When Laurel pulled back and looked at him with disdain, Chance knew he’d succeeded in deflecting her probing questions. Discussing his miserable childhood was something he found intolerable and uncomfortable. He wasn’t a man who laid his feelings, or his cards, on the table. Unless, of course, he was absolutely certain he’d come out the winner. He’d been told early on to keep his cards close to his chest and never to reveal a weakness.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to write a letter to my sister. Since this time is my own, I can choose how I wish to spend it. And I’ve chosen not to spend it with you.”

  “You’re hard on a man’s ego, Laurel.”