Pecos Valley Revival

by Alice Duncan

  “I hope you win,” said Sarah unexpectedly, since one would anticipate her to root for her boyfriend. Unless you were me. Heck, I’d been hoping Kenny would win yesterday, because I was mad at Phil. So I understood, although Phil clearly didn’t.

  “Yeah? Well. . . .” He shuffled, looked unsure of himself, and twiddled with the hat in his hands. “Well . . . thanks, Sarah.”

  She sniffed, but I think that had more to do with her recent bout of tears than any indignation regarding Phil or Kenny.

  “Good luck tonight, Phil,” said Myrtle, who was a very nice person.

  “Thanks, Myrtle.” He gave her one of his lovely smiles. He really did have a winning smile. It had melted my own innards a time or two. Today, it was with a stony heart that I watched his teeth flash, thinking how treacherous good looks could be. “Say, Annabelle, do you stock any kind of candy here? You know, like those boxes you see at Christmas time? The ones that are shaped like a heart and have that stuff that looks like a footstool on the boxes?”

  Candy? He was asking about candy? I squinted at him. I wanted to ask exactly whom he aimed to give a Whitman’s Sampler to, but I didn’t want him to perceive how jealous I was. “You mean like Whitman’s Samplers?” That was the only kind of boxed candy our store carried.

  “Is that the one that comes in the box that looks like a chair cushion?” he asked.

  “If you mean is it the one that comes in a box that looks like an old-fashioned needlework sampler, yes, it is.”

  “Oh. Good. Can I have one of those?”

  “Sure. Be right back.” I had to go into the back of the store—into the yard at the back of our house, which was behind the store, in actual fact—because we only put out the Whitman’s Samplers on special occasions. We generally didn’t keep a big supply of them around, since people only bought them at Christmas and Valentine’s Day. Sometimes, though, like today, somebody would want to give a Sampler to a person for a special occasion. I swore to myself I wouldn’t ask Phil to whom he aimed to give this one. Ma kept the candy, which was chocolate and could melt, in the stone cooler out in our backyard, so I got one and carried it back to the store.

  “Here’s one. Who’s it for?”

  Darn! So much for fervent resolutions.

  “Esther Strickland. She’s feeling a little puny today.”

  I swear to heaven, he didn’t stutter, he didn’t stammer, he didn’t stumble over the words, he didn’t blush, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t indicate in any way whatsoever that what he’d just told me was tantamount to a declaration of his independence from yours truly. Inside, I was reeling. Outside, I was as calm and collected as a nun. I’m assuming nuns are calm. I don’t know this from actual fact.

  That being the case, and because both Myrtle and Sarah had gasped and were now staring at the two of us as if they were watching a murder being committed, I said casually, “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter with her?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh. Well, here you go.” And I handed him the box. He handed me some money. I rang up the sale and made change. Phil left.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Myrtle said, “Annabelle!” in a tragic whisper.

  Sarah said, “Annabelle!” in a sympathetic whisper.

  I said, “Nuts.”

  Fortunately for me, I got a break at about eleven o’clock that morning, because I really needed to escape from the store. So many people were coming in, and I kept imagining them all looking at me with the same sympathetic curiosity I’d seen in the eyes of Myrtle and Sarah. I didn’t want to be reminded of my blighted love life, and when I asked if I could run to the library before it closed for the weekend, Ma made my bratty brother watch the store for a while in spite of his many and vocal protests.

  “For heaven’s sake, Jack Blue, stop your whining right this minute and mind the store.” Ma spoke more sternly than was usual for her.

  Jack said, “Aw . . . shucks.” I got the feeling he wanted to say something else but didn’t quite dare. Our mother and father didn’t believe in sparing the rod when it came to misbehavior, or bad words, from their offspring.

  The library isn’t far from Blue’s Dry Goods and Mercantile Emporium. Several years before, it had been funded by the Carnegie Foundation, which had provided a whole lot of small towns with libraries, a charity with which I am in full sympathy. For most of us who lived in out-of-the-way places like Rosedale, the only adventures we ever experienced were through books. Well, books and the occasional flicker that came to the Pecos Theater on Main Street a year or so after the rest of the country saw it.

  So I hung up my apron, put on my sweater because the weather was a little blustery, and headed to the library. I’d been on a Mary Roberts Rinehart kick lately. I was taking back The Man in Lower Ten and The Window at the White Cat, and I aimed to pick up another couple of her books if I could find them. The Circular Staircase had been checked out last week, so I was hoping it would be back in circulation that day. Bless Mrs. Rinehart, she was a prolific writer, so if Staircase wasn’t in, I was sure I could find something else of hers to keep me company. Now that my man had deserted me.

  Oh, very well, I was feeling a little low, if you want to know the truth.

  When I pushed open the door, I took a deep whiff. I guess I’ll always associate that smell with books and libraries: it’s a combination of old paper, leather, floor wax, and I don’t know what else, but every time I catch a sniff of it, I think of reading, which is probably one of the things I like to do best in the world. And books never disappoint, either, unlike people. Sure, I’ve picked up a couple of books that I didn’t care for, but I never felt betrayed by a book, if you know what I mean.

  Since most folks were already headed to the Gundersons’ place, the library was deserted except for the librarian, Miss Whitesmith. She was a nice, elderly lady, who fully approved of my reading tastes—unlike my mother, who thought mystery stories were too sensational for her daughter. But I figured that if I stuck to writers like Mary Roberts Rinehart and Agatha Christie, Ma really couldn’t complain too much. Both of those authors were ladies, and they were also both considerably better off financially than any Blue I knew about; therefore, when Ma scolded me for reading “trash,” I only had to point out those salient facts to shut her up.

  I’d turned in my books, smiled at Miss Whitesmith, and was wandering through the “R” stack. I’d just picked up a book when I saw a sight that made my breath catch. Head down, pretending to be engrossed in thumbing through The Case of Jennie Brice, I edged toward the table isolated at the end of the stacks, between the R’s and S’s.

  “Do you really think it will work?” whispered Josephine Contreras.

  When I lifted my head slightly, I saw her hunched over, almost nose to nose with my brother-in-law Richard MacDougall. Armando Contreras’s wife. With Hannah’s husband. My heart sank into my sensible shoes. Darn it, I didn’t want to see those two together!

  “I’m sure it will. Monday night. Don’t let me down,” said Richard, his voice soft. “What about Armando?”

  “You let me worry about Armando. I’ll take care of him.”

  “And I’ll take care of Hannah.”

  Good heavens! What were these two fiends plotting? It was bad enough to think they were having an illicit affair without worrying that they were out to do something dreadful to their respective spouses.

  I reminded myself that I had a sometimes-too-vivid imagination, and that Josephine and Richard were probably only planning . . . something else. Something benign. Or even something festive. A party, perhaps, for Hannah’s birthday, which was coming up soon.

  Surely Richard would have invited Hannah’s family to any party he was contemplating. And why would he be planning a party for Hannah with Josephine Contreras? Why not with one of Hannah’s sisters? I hadn’t figured out that last question before my attention was caught by something else.

  Was that Sarah Molina who’d just ri
sen from the table in the corner? Squinting down the stacks at the swinging doors, I saw a figure leave the library. I was pretty sure it was Sarah, and I contemplated following her and saying howdy. Then I decided not to. I’d already seen Sarah plenty that day, and I didn’t feel like being cried at anymore until I couldn’t avoid it any longer.

  Besides, what did I care about her unhappy affair with Kenny Sawyer when it looked as if there was another affair going on that hit much closer to my own personal home?

  That being the case, and because I really wanted Richard to think better of what he was doing—provided he was doing something despicable—I decided that Richard and Josephine weren’t going to get away with their devious plans scot-free. I was going to make my presence known. Perhaps if he realized that a member of his wife’s family knew what was going on, Richard would be jolted back to his senses, dump Josephine and head back home to his lovely wife Hannah. Heck, stranger things have happened. At least I think they have.

  So I walked right up to the couple, hugging Jennie Brice to my bosom. In a perky whisper, I said, “Richard! Josephine! What are you guys doing here?”

  My ploy partially worked. Both of them started as if I’d stuck them with pins. Richard leaped to his feet. If the chairs in the library weren’t so heavy, his would probably have toppled over backwards. As it was, it was Richard who had to fight for his balance and not his chair. “Annabelle! You scared the dickens out of us!”

  He’s spoken kind of loudly, and the three of us heard a “Shh!” from the front of the library. As I mentioned, I liked Miss Whitesmith, but see was kind of a stickler about library etiquette. There really wasn’t any reason for her to shush Richard, since we were the only people in the library at the time. However, I digress.

  “Mercy sakes, Annabelle, I didn’t think there was anybody else in here,” said Josephine, pressing a hand to her heart.

  Yeah. I’d already figured that out. I only smiled. “I wanted to stock up on books because I’ve read all the ones I picked up last week.”

  Richard sat again with a grunt. “Shoot, I don’t know when you’re planning to read that.” He gestured at the book I held. “The entire weekend is going to be given over to the rodeo.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t like to be without something to read.” And he hadn’t answered my question about what he and Josephine were doing there, so snuggly close and all, talking about taking care of Josephine’s husband and Richard’s wife.

  He stood again, this time pushing his chair back first. “Well, you two, I have to get back to the bank. See you this afternoon at the Gundersons’?”

  “We’ll be there,” said Josephine brightly. She, too, stood.

  “You know we’ll be there,” I told him. My voice was kind of cold.

  “Well, then. . . .” He stood there looking nervous for a couple of seconds, then said, “Well, then, I’ll see you both later.” And he walked toward the library door.

  Josephine tugged her skirt into alignment. “I guess I’d better be going, too. Armando’s probably in a dither to get to the Gundersons’.”

  “Ah.”

  She frowned slightly. “I hope to heaven he doesn’t have another fight with Kenny Sawyer. What’s the matter with him, anyhow?”

  I didn’t know whether she referred to her husband or Kenny, so I said, “I don’t know,” because the answer applied equally to both men.

  “I don’t, either. Men! See you, Annabelle.” And with a jaunty wave, Josephine, too, left.

  So I ambled back to the “R” stack, my mind troubled, and grabbed a couple more Rinehart books. Then I hit the “C” stack, picked out The Murder on the Links, which was a brand-new book by Agatha Christie that I was the first person to check out—it pays to go to the library when everybody else is at a party—and moseyed back to the front desk. I had to pass the table where I thought I’d seen Sarah, and I glanced at the book she’d left on it—if it actually had been Sarah. The Book of Poisons sat there, squat and fat and out of place, and opened to a page titled “Arsenic and Its Uses.”

  Merciful heavens, what had the girl been reading about poisons for? I considered whether I ought to warn Kenny to watch what he ate for the next couple of days.

  At the time, I thought I was being funny.

  Chapter Four

  If you think that I felt pretty lousy for the rest of the morning, what with Phil having jilted me for Esther Strickland, Sarah Molina trying to figure out a way to poison Kenny Sawyer (or perhaps Esther Strickland), and my sister’s husband showing every indication of carrying on a secret affair with Josephine Contreras, you’re absolutely right.

  In fact, the last notion was almost as appalling as the first two. Maybe it was more appalling, actually. I mean, Phil and I weren’t married or anything. We weren’t even officially engaged, as were Sarah and Kenny. Just because everybody in town, including me, assumed Phil was sweet on me, he hadn’t really said anything about it. At least not to me. Therefore, no matter how crummy I felt, there was no way I could say Phil had treated me badly. Well, I could, but I’d be stretching the truth.

  Actually, I’d been the one who didn’t want things to get hot and heavy between us, because of my desire to have adventures before I got married and became mired in the matrimonial and maternal muck for all eternity. That’s what it looked like from my perspective anyway. Maybe my perspective had been skewed by reading too many novels. They used to claim novels weakened women’s brains. I think that’s bunkum, but perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps I was the end result of a novel-weakened brain.

  No. That’s just nuts. Probably men made up that claim in order to keep women from gaining the equality they deserved. Not only that, but . . . oh, never mind. I sometimes get carried away when I think about how women are oppressed by their male counterparts.

  Getting back to the issues at hand, I wondered if I should tell Ma my worries about Richard and Josephine. It would make me feel better to share my suspicions, even though I’m sure sharing them would make Ma miserable. But then I decided I’d better keep the matter to myself. After all, I might be wrong.

  Fat chance, men being the fickle fiends they were.

  Still, you never knew.

  I didn’t let on that I was down in the dumps, however. I went back to the store and took over clerking duties from my idiot brother, who didn’t even thank me, which was typical. I could have left him there for the rest of the morning, after all, but I didn’t, good sister that I am. He doesn’t deserve me. Neither does Phil. That notion made me feel better for approximately ten seconds, and then gloom descended upon me again.

  Nevertheless, I was as cheerful as cheerful could be, talking to friends and customers. Anybody watching me would have had no idea that my heart had been broken in twain and then stomped flat. And I wouldn’t listen to any fussing by Myrtle or Sarah, who came back to the store around noonish. If Sarah wanted to parade her wounds around town for everyone to see, that was her lookout. That sort of overt wallowing wasn’t for me.

  It crossed my mind to ask Sarah why she’d been reading about poisons in the library. I mean, it seemed unlikely that she was really planning on poisoning Kenny or Esther. At least I think it was. But I didn’t really feel like having a conversation with her. Or with anybody else, for that matter.

  I mainly just wanted to be left alone. Since there was no way of that ever happening, the second-best option—and the only one available to me—was to pretend that everything in my life was fine and dandy. I guess it was a matter of pride and self-respect. Maybe dignity. I just hated the notion of people gossiping about how Phil had forsaken me for another woman, and I’d be darned if I’d let anyone see my inner hurt.

  Anyhow, as I said before, it wasn’t that I was madly in love with Phil or anything. Sure, I liked him better than most people. And it was also true that I’d always sort of figured I’d marry him someday. But I can’t honestly say that we shared a deathless passion like Romeo and Juliet—who were a couple of ridiculous adolescents, if
you ask me. Not that anybody ever did. Still and all, it was really humiliating to think that a guy who’d shown every indication of being sweet on me for years and who had made his attentions plain, had taken one look at a bit of goods like Esther Strickland and abandoned me without a backward glance. That’s what it felt like, at any rate.

  Since I’d rather be burned at the stake than admit how hurt I was, I kept up my jaunty demeanor when I drove the family Model T out to the Gundersons’ ranch. We had the backseat packed solid, what with Jack and Pa crammed in there along with the pot of beans and the applesauce and two pans of chocolate brownies (made with pecans, and very yummy) Ma had made to bring to the barbecue. And really, except for the aforementioned broken heart, I was eagerly anticipating the events of the day to come. The rodeo was about the most exciting thing that ever happened in Rosedale, barring natural disasters like windstorms, floods, and the occasional tornado, and at least the rodeo was fun.

  As soon as I pulled the Ford to a stop underneath a big old elm tree, and before the family even got out of it, I saw Phil and Esther together. Oh, boy, what a thrill. I also noticed that Miss Esther Strickland didn’t look the least little bit under the weather to me. So what was all that nonsense Phil had flung at me about the box of candy? Hmm. This looked very unpromising, and I wondered why God was punishing me. Was I that bad a person?

  I put a stop to that line of thinking instantly. If God didn’t care if women wore trousers to rodeos, I’m sure He had better things to do than taunt me with glimpses of my lost . . . well, whatever Phil was. I was going to say, “lost love,” but I’d already decided that’s not what Phil was to me. Still, I’d sure be glad to see the dust from Milo and Esther Strickland’s caravan as they headed out of town forever, and no mistake. Where the heck were Charles and Edward when I needed them?