by Alice Duncan
“She cleans up pretty good,” my father said with a chuckle. I grinned at him. Pa’s really got a good sense of humor.
“Humph,” came a voice from behind him. We all turned to see Aunt Minnie and Libby Powell. “You sure couldn’t tell it by that outfit.” Naturally, this disparaging comment had come from Libby. Have I mentioned that she didn’t like me? Well, she didn’t. I didn’t take it too personally since Libby pretty much didn’t like anybody, but I still thought she was poisonous as a rattler.
Naturally, Minnie and Libby were clad in dresses. Both of them looked as if they’d stepped right out of 1880 and ended up in 1923 by accident, with their long skirts and corsets and bonnets and stuff. Of course, that mode of costume wasn’t unique to them. Lots of older women in Rosedale still dressed the way they had when they were younger. For a second, I wondered if old ladies in New York or San Francisco did that, too, or if they were more modern in big cities and followed the latest fashions even though they were older. With my luck, I’d never get to find out.
“Good evening to you, too, Miss Libby,” I said with as much sarcasm as I dared, with my parents being there and all. “Hi, Aunt Minnie.” As I’ve mentioned, I loved my aunt in spite of her eccentricities. She was never deliberately cruel, like Libby. “Is that a bag of cookies I see there?”
“It is,” she said, beaming. “They’re Libby’s famous chocolate-drop cookies.”
“I’m sure they’ll be good anyway,” I muttered.
My mother said, “Annabelle,” right before she stooped to kiss Minnie on the cheek. “It’s good to see you, Minnie.” Minnie is as short and round as a pumpkin. Libby is big as a house and also round, although I don’t think any of her largeness is due to fat. She’s just big.
“We always enjoy watching the men ride those bulls and things,” said Minnie. “My Joe does so love the rodeos.” Uncle Joe Blue, my father’s older brother, passed away several years earlier, but Minnie claims to keep up with him through her Ouija board. I guess he still watches the rodeo from the Other Side, whatever that is. Minnie explained it to me once, but I wasn’t paying attention.
“It looks as if there’s quite a crowd here already,” said Pa, surveying the milling throng.
He was right. We’d had to wait until the store closed at five o’clock before heading out, but other people, especially the cowboys from outlying ranches who’d been camping out in the desert around Rosedale for a few days, had arrived several hours earlier than we. I was eager to find my friends and get a good seat on the fence surrounding the pasture where most of the activity would take place.
“I’m going to find Myrtle,” I said.
Before I could get away, Ma said, “Take a sandwich with you, Annabelle. You haven’t eaten dinner yet.” We’d brought a picnic to the rodeo so we wouldn’t have to waste time eating a real dinner at home.
“There’s Davy!” Jack cried suddenly. Before he could take off, Ma caught him by his shirttail, which was always coming out of his trousers.
“You take a sandwich, too, Jack Blue.”
“Aw, Ma.”
But he took the sandwich. So did I. Ma very rarely raised her voice. She didn’t need to. So Jack and I both obediently thanked her for our sandwiches, and Jack took off like a spooked jackrabbit in the direction of Davy Gunderson.
I took my time, munching and watching, and wondering if Mrs. Gunderson had been right about me. Was I really getting prettier every day? It was a comforting thought, I guess, especially since I seemed to have lost my one true beau to a usurping blonde revivalist.
Myrtle came running up to me after I’d taken my second bite of sandwich. The sandwich was good, by the way, being made of leftover roast beef and slapped between two pieces of Ma’s homemade bread. With mustard. “Annabelle!”
“Myrtle!” I noticed that she wore a pretty white shirtwaist and a striped skirt. The skirt was surely going to get in her way when she tried to climb the fence to watch the calf-roping competition that was supposed to be the first activity on the rodeo menu that evening. She carried a blue sweater, in case it got cold.
Until electricity had come to our vicinity, a body pretty much had to stay home at night unless the moon was full, in which case you could almost see your hands if you held them in front of your face. This was especially true if it had been snowing, which it didn’t do very often. But when there was a coating of white on the ground, night was almost as bright as day. If it weren’t for Mr. Edison and his light bulb, however, Rosedale never would have planned an outdoor event on a Thursday night because the horses and cows would be running into the fences and killing their riders in the dark. And spectators would have been flat out of luck as they tried to see the death and destruction, too.
For the past two years, though, Rosedale’s fledgling electric company had strung temporary lighting around the pasture of the ranch family hosting the rodeo. The excitement of actually being able to see past six o’clock was still a novelty that year, so everybody’s spirits were high. Including mine, which is why I didn’t point out to Myrtle the impracticality of her skirt, given the event about to transpire. I doubt that Myrtle would have thanked me for my self-control, as she was still convinced she was doing what God—or at least Reverend Strickland—wanted.
Since I believed that God saved His rules for important things like war and peace and famine and earthquakes and floods and fires and famines and stuff like that, and that the requirement that women wear dresses under all circumstances had been ordained by a much lower power than He, I hurried over to the fence to get a good spot on which to sit. Perhaps I hurried a little more than usual—I was also wearing sensible shoes, as opposed to Myrtle’s pretty black-strapped pumps that were already gray with dust—because she hollered at me to slow down. And maybe I smirked ever so slightly as I turned around and waited for a puffing Myrtle to catch up with me, but I figured I’d earned it.
Then, as I clambered up the slats and perched myself on the top of the fence and leaned my back against a conveniently situated cottonwood tree, she looked at the fence in dismay. I smiled beneficently down upon her. “Why, whatever is the matter, Myrtle?”
“I can’t climb the fence,” she said, sounding bleak. “It’s unladylike.”
Unladylike? Nuts. “I suppose you can fold your arms on the top rung and lean against it from behind,” I suggested helpfully. “Although that might get your pretty blouse dirty.” I regret to say I sniffed. “Personally, I’m glad I’m not ladylike.”
“You would be,” she muttered. Then, to my great appreciation, she hiked up her skirt and climbed the fence in spite of God, Reverend Milo Strickland and his seductress of a sister.
I didn’t mean that. Miss Strickland had thus far—in my vicinity at least—displayed nothing but a modest friendliness to my own personal beau.
Of course, I don’t know what she did behind my back.
Oh, never mind. I was just feeling a little put-upon that evening, is all.
However, I was darned proud of Myrtle.
“This is going to ruin my stockings,” she muttered.
Not to mention her skirt. Nevertheless, I only smiled. Not once during the entire evening did I tell her she’d been stupid to wear a skirt and shirtwaist instead of trousers and a shirt. I believe my restraint should be commended. It took a few minutes, but Myrtle finally found a position that wasn’t horribly uncomfortable. I shared my cottonwood backrest with her.
Mr. Gunderson had just stepped up onto a platform Phil and he had erected at the far end of the pasture. He was greeting one and all, to thunderous applause, when I heard my name spoken by a voice I recognized.
“Annabelle, move over.”
Turning, I saw my sister Zilpha, accompanied by my other sister Hannah, hurrying up to the fence. Zilpha and Hannah are the sisters Ma no longer scolds because they’re married and living in their own houses in town. Zilpha’s husband Mayberry is a really nice fellow whom I like a lot, but his last name is Zink. Maybe it’s petty of
me, but I wouldn’t want to be named Zilpha Zink. I’ve never shared my opinion with Zilpha, who wouldn’t have appreciated it.
Hannah is married to Richard MacDougall, who works at the Rosedale Farmer’s and Rancher’s Bank. I guess Richard is an all right sort of person, as bankers go, but he’s kind of stuffy for my taste, and he likes to show off his money, which he has a lot of. But Hannah seems happy, so I don’t suppose it’s any of my business. Anyhow, no matter what Reverend Strickland would surely have said on the matter, I’ve always thought that there’s nothing wrong with having plenty of money. I should think it would beat the alternative hollow.
At any rate, I moved over, happy to see that my sisters displayed the family’s commonsensical trait and were wearing trousers. “Hey. How are you guys doing? Where are Mayberry and Richard?”
“Mayberry’s over there.” Zilpha pointed to the other side of the pasture, where I discerned her husband in a deep conversation with Phil. They were probably talking about saddles, Mayberry being a saddler and all, and Phil being a cowboy when he wasn’t working in his brother’s hardware store in town.
“I don’t know where Richard is,” said Hannah. “Probably trying to drum up business.”
She didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual about a man trying to drum up business at a community social event, so I guess there wasn’t, although it seemed kind of sad to me that Richard was all business all the time. On the other hand, maybe that made him happy. It had definitely made him well off, which was nice for him and for Hannah. I only said, “Ah.”
Myrtle and Zilpha and Hannah greeted each other. I noticed that Zilpha’s eyebrows arched a little when she saw that Myrtle was wearing a skirt, but she didn’t say anything. Zilpha’s very nice. So is Hannah, but I think Zilpha is more filled with the milk of human kindness than is my other sister. They’re both older than I am, and they were both very good to me when we were growing up, so I’m not complaining or anything. I’ve got friends who can’t say as much about their older sisters and brothers, so I felt fortunate in my family. Well, except for Jack, but he’s another matter altogether.
Mr. Gunderson lifted his megaphone, looking not one little bit like the picture of Rudy Vallee I’d seen in a recent movie magazine, and tried to get the crowd’s attention. Everyone was so excited, it took him a few minutes, but eventually something resembling quiet prevailed.
“Good evening, ladies and gents!”
Everyone shouted, “Good evening!” back at him. We’re friendly folks in Rosedale.
He went on to greet everyone and thank all the hard-working cowboys for bringing the herds to town without any notable catastrophes breaking out. One year a frightened steer ran right through Joyce Pruitt’s front door and proceeded to kick out two windows and flatten two shelves of patent medicine. Maybe that was the animal we later ate at the barbecue that year; I never asked. And then Mr. Gunderson did something I could have lived without.
“And now, to get the festivities off to a good start, we have two special guests. Miss Esther Strickland is going to start us off with a song, and then her brother, Reverend Milo Strickland, will say a prayer that all these gallant lads will survive their competition in one piece!”
That got a laugh from most of the crowd, with the possible exception of my own personal self, who could have lived forever without hearing Esther sing or Milo pray. Oh, well. Nobody asked me.
And then, with help from Phil—naturally—Esther took the stage. Or the platform. With her on it, it looked like a stage. Mr. Gunderson handed her the megaphone, and she smiled sweetly at the crowd, which was stomping, clapping, and hollering by that time.
The whole thing made me sick, although I’m willing to chalk up some of my attitude to jealousy. Oh, very well, it was probably mostly jealousy. But, darn it, I’d never had any serious competition for Phil’s affections before, and I didn’t like it one little bit. I also felt a little guilty knowing Phil might well have turned to another woman in order to get the appreciation he didn’t get from me.
You see, I think Phil is a swell fellow. But he and I have known each other all our lives. And I was only nineteen years old. Can’t a girl have an adventure or two before she shackles herself to a husband and gives up living? All I’d done my whole life was live in Rosedale, New Mexico, and read about adventures in books. I wanted one or two adventures of my own before I got married, for Pete’s sake. I wanted to take an African safari. See the pyramids of Egypt. Visit the Taj Mahal. At least go to New York City and maybe Boston or Salem, Massachusetts, where the witch trials were held. And I wouldn’t have minded if one or two really exciting and adventurous men exhibited some interest in me along the way. I wouldn’t do anything untoward with any of them. Honest, I wouldn’t. I’m not that sort of girl. Is that kind of ambition so hard to understand?
But back to the rodeo. . . .
“Thank you so much,” Esther said in her sugary voice. “You have all been so kind to Milo and me. May God bless you and keep you all safe in His arms.”
Then Esther started to sing “We Gather Together,” a song we folks in Rosedale usually sang around Thanksgiving time, although I suppose it’s logical to sing it during cattle-harvesting season, since we were definitely gathered together that night. Whatever its appropriateness, the song held the attention of everyone in the audience, and I made up my mind then and there to run away and see the world all by myself, and to heck with Phil Gunderson. Let him have the preacher’s sister if he wanted her. Insipid, sneaking creature.
She sure had a voice in her, though. Sweet and pure, it carried clear out to where the cows used to be on the open plains surrounding the Gunderson ranch. I’d never minded having to sing alto in the Methodist choir before that evening. On that particular Thursday night, listening to that gorgeous woman sing in her magnificent, vibrant soprano voice, I couldn’t help but wonder why God had made me the way He had. I mean, if I couldn’t be fabulously beautiful or rich or live in an interesting or charming place, couldn’t I at least have been blessed with a voice like Esther Strickland’s?
I was so annoyed, I stopped looking at her, with one hand clasped to her bosom, the other holding the megaphone, and her ethereal face practically proclaiming her to be one of God’s holy angels. Rather, I scanned the crowd. There were Charles and Edward—or Edward and Charles (I still don’t know which was which)—sitting next to Reverend Strickland and watching Miss Strickland, which was appropriate. As you might expect, most everyone’s attention was riveted upon the stunning Miss Strickland. They were lapping her up like a kitten laps cream. It was as if she was a witch and she’d enchanted the entire town.
There were two exceptions to this rapturous attention—well, besides me, I mean. What’s more, one of those exceptions was none other than Richard MacDougall, my own sister’s husband.
Unsure of what I was seeing, I squinted harder. Yup. It was Richard, all right, and he seemed to be getting awfully cozy with—good heavens, was it really . . . ? Yes, by gum, it was: Josephine Contreras. Josephine, who was married to none other than Armando Contreras. Hmm. What was this meeting all about? I sure didn’t want to think that Richard and Josephine had designs on each other. They were both married to other people, for one thing, and for another thing, one of the other people was my sister Hannah, whom I didn’t want to see hurt.
But there they were. And they were definitely together and being secretive. Well . . . they were being as secretive as they could be, given the occasion and the fact that the entire town was there with them, if not exactly with them, if you know what I mean. I told myself I was only suffering residual upset over the Phil–Esther affair—if that was the right word for it, and I hoped it wasn’t—and was reading into Richard and Josephine’s tête-à-tête things that weren’t there. I still didn’t like it, though. I sneaked a quick glance at Hannah, but she was listening raptly to Miss Strickland.
However, at that moment, the song ended (to more thunderous applause, of course), Esther Strick
land threw a kiss to her audience, which seemed to thrill everyone, Phil helped her down from the platform (again of course), and her brother took to the platform, sans megaphone. I guess he figured God would amplify his voice and he wouldn’t need further help.
He was right. Boy, like his sister, that man had a voice! It wasn’t anything you’d expect if you just looked at him and waited to listen to him speak. Milo Strickland was really kind of thin and reedy, with scant, floppy, sand-colored hair, narrow shoulders, and a pointy chin that made him look kind of like a weasel. He sure didn’t look like his sister, except that they were both smallish and blondish.
But when he let loose, look out! He prayed for the cowboys and for the city of Rosedale. He prayed for the city fathers. He prayed for the sailors at sea and all the soldiers, wherever they were. He prayed for the herds. He prayed for the ranchers. He prayed for the sinners in Africa and India. He prayed for the consecrated and the unconsecrated. He prayed for the President and for Congress, both of which needed all the prayers they could get. He prayed for the Supreme Court and the people involved with the Scopes trial, which had concluded not too many months prior. I’m sure he was on the anti-evolutionist side of the issue, although I still can’t figure out how those anti-evolution people can argue with science. He prayed for the churches in town and out of town, and for the people who didn’t attend any of them, that they’d find their ways to the Lord. He prayed for the king of England and for all the starving Russians in Russia, and he prayed that they’d be guided back to the Lord (evidently, after the revolution there, the people in charge had axed religion). He even prayed for the pope, for Pete’s sake, even though he wasn’t a Catholic. Reverend Strickland, I mean, not the pope.