Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  When Rowland Price at last departed for Denver, Leo was left undecided over the proposition that had been offered to him. To enter politics, when his business required all of his attention, did not seem wise, yet he found he could not dismiss the vision Price had conjured for his consideration; to be the leader of the first new political entity in the land for more than a century was not a role to refuse without first carefully weighing the disadvantages against the satisfaction that would be his if the gamble should pay off and he be made the nation’s president.

  The opportunities for remaking America were enticing. He would be able to tackle all the old problems the modern age had not alleviated: the poverty and ignorance, the social injustices that proliferated now more than ever, as the wealthy became more so, and the poor made do with the little they had. It was a challenge only a special man could hope to meet and overcome. The nation’s ills were like the mountains Leo stared at from his windows, massive, seemingly immovable, so entrenched in their current form they defied conquest. Yet Leo had heard of a design for a mining process that someday would eat entire mountains for their hidden minerals, literally raze them with vast machines as yet undeveloped, and crush them into submission between mechanical jaws that would dwarf his own crushers and stampers. Might not the problems no man had yet found a solution to yield under similar farsightedness and scientific application?

  It would require a man such as himself to make the new social order work for everyone. Price had said a pure man, a person of moral integrity and proven ability to organize the complex strands required in business, was the only viable type to manage the long-overdue transition from the America of yesterday to the America of tomorrow. The twentieth century was fast approaching; as the old century thudded shut like a stone sealing a tomb, a new doorway filled with light must open, and the Praetorian party, with Leo at its forefront, was the only possible keeper of the keys.

  He knew that such dreams of power and influence were also a distraction for himself from the nightmare of Zoe’s tragedy. The horrific accident had changed his wife utterly, and the least part of it was the actual loss of her arm; she would not see him when he came to her, nor eat with him in the dining room, no matter how early he came home. She would not even leave her bedroom, and permitted only Omie to see her. Once the stitches had been removed from the stump by Dr. Gannett, the doctor and the nurse he had hired on behalf of the Brannans were dismissed by Zoe. She wanted no one near her but her daughter. It was Omie who fetched and carried her mother’s meals and emptied her chamber pot and changed her bedding, a little blue-faced servant who performed her chores seemingly without complaint, and read to Zoe from storybooks, and comforted her. Omie had become a doting parent, and Zoe a capricious child. Leo knew it was not healthy for such a reversal to take place, but he could not think how else to cope with the aftermath of Zoe’s misfortune other than by allowing it to continue.

  Would a man of integrity, as Price insisted Leo was, let his wife become what Zoe had become, simply because that was the easiest option? Should he dismiss all thoughts of accepting the political challenge until such time as Zoe was herself again, or was it ethically permissible to launch himself into newer, deeper waters while she had already withdrawn herself from himself and his interests? What difference could it make to Zoe if her husband became involved in a venture that would doubtless take him far from Glory Hole on many occasions, even before a successful electoral bid should take him away to the east for four solid years. Perhaps by that time Zoe would be recovered, and in a position to accompany him to Washington. The imponderables of Leo’s dilemma sat like vultures on either shoulder. He would have to decide for himself, and do so quickly; Price had left him in no doubt that although his name was at the head of a list of suitable candidates for the position of party leader, the list itself was proof that his refusal would not stop the Praetorians from proceeding under the leadership of a lesser light. He wished sometimes he were a drinking man.

  “Papa has gone away to Denver.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “He said it was business, Mama, but I saw Mr. Price in his thoughts.”

  “It may be that Mr. Price is in the mining business.”

  “No, he doesn’t know anything about mines, I looked.”

  “What did you see?”

  “The same men, Mama, with big cigars. Their faces were clearer than the last time, but I didn’t know any of them.”

  “Then we shan’t worry about them. I’m sure Papa has his reasons for going.”

  “Why won’t you talk to him?”

  “I do not wish to.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m ugly now.”

  “No, Mama, you’re not.”

  “I am, and I have no wish to be seen by anyone but you.”

  Omie knew her mother was telling the truth; inside Zoe’s mind was a picture of herself, grossly distorted, with the missing arm even shorter than it really was, while her other limbs were gigantic appendages that made her resemble a lopsided octopus. Omie did not bother to contradict with mere words what Zoe saw; the repellent image was far too strong to be broken by argument, especially from someone as young as herself. She was more or less resigned to being Zoe’s servant forever, having attempted on several occasions to peer into the future for a glimpse of less tragic times ahead. Despite her best efforts, no pictures came to her, and again she began to doubt the efficacy of her special eye. If she should ever lose it permanently, as her mother had lost an arm, would she react in a similar fashion, cutting herself off from almost everyone? It disturbed Omie to imagine herself and Mama together in the bedroom, looking after each other like a pair of invalids.

  “We might be here till we die, Mama.”

  “I shall. You won’t.”

  “Why won’t I?”

  “Because you will leave this place and marry some man and bring up his children, those that survive, and your life will be what it should.”

  This did not sound any more acceptable to Omie than the bleak future she had pictured for herself and Zoe.

  “I don’t want to get married.”

  “And why not?”

  “The husbands run away after a while.”

  Zoe gave a laugh that was more akin to a bark, making Omie jump. “Perhaps you’re right. Stay a virgin, and be true to yourself alone.”

  “Were you married to my real papa?”

  “No. He was a brute, a farmer. He raped me. Do you know what rape is?”

  “No,” said Omie, but was immediately struck between the eyes by Zoe’s recollection of the event, a memory so painful still, and so inexplicable in its leering violence, that Omie’s breath was taken from her for a moment or two. She began to cry, and seeing the tears, Zoe hated herself for having deliberately caused them by uttering a truth that was best kept hidden, if such things could be hidden from Omie’s eye.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I had no right. The point is, Omie, it doesn’t matter in the least who put you inside me. You don’t resemble him at all, not even to look at. You are not his daughter. You are mine, and mine alone. That’s the thing to remember. I apologize, my darling. I think … I think I wanted you to see how awful a place the world can be. That is part of growing up, seeing the world as it truly is. Sometimes it is ugly, but that isn’t my fault or your fault or even the fault of people like the man who raped me. I don’t know whose fault it is. No one does, but we have religion for those who insist on an answer.”

  “Did he make my face the wrong color, the man?”

  “Certainly not. That is just bad luck … like my arm. We’re not responsible for every unfortunate thing that befalls us, Omie, but we must recognize those things for which we are. Listen to me: I sound like a sage.”

  “That’s a plant, Mama.”

  “Another kind of sage. Really, I know nothing, nothing at all that’s worth ten cents. Isn’t that terrible?”

  “I suppose.”

  Omie inspect
ed her shoes, then asked, “Mama, did you ever know a man that’s tall, with holes in his face for a spike or an arrow to go through, and a big hat?”

  “Gracious, no. I would have remembered a man like that. Why do you ask?”

  “I see him sometimes, and sometimes he sees me too, but I don’t know why. I thought he might be my real papa.…”

  “Absolutely not. He was a fairly short man, as I recall, and even if he was not at all handsome, he certainly didn’t have holes in his face, apart from his nostrils and mouth.”

  “I haven’t seen him for a long time now.”

  “He may have been nothing but a dream.”

  “I don’t think so, Mama.”

  31

  When Madge Clifton’s mother began to die, there was little sympathy in the neighborhood for either woman. The presence of Madge had been tolerated without enthusiasm for a number of years, and it was hoped by the female population of Dry Wash that with the passing of her invalid mother to a better world, Madge would consider moving on also. If Madge chose not to do so, she would be encouraged by means as yet undefined. There had been sympathy for her, even if she was a whore, for as long as she tended her ailing mother, but communal tolerance was nearing its limit.

  But Mrs. Clifton, eighty-one years old and incapable of meaningful speech or movement, lingered for a week, then another week, ingesting only a little soup and sips of water. It was considered miraculous that she clung so tightly to a life that must have been sheer misery for years, but cling she did, well into a third week. The women were becoming impatient with such delay to their plans for encouraging Madge to leave, and kept a close watch on the Clifton home for drawn shades in the daytime, or the appearance of Madge with a black shawl around her, anything to indicate that the time for implementing their plan had arrived.

  It was during Mrs. Clifton’s third week of lingering at death’s door that an unusual figure came to Dry Wash. Within twenty minutes of his arrival, he drew up his wagon outside Madge’s door, knocked and introduced himself. “Ma’am, I am Reverend Francis Wixson, and I ask you for just a short moment of your time, pursuant to a request that may advance the cause of science and religion both, with your cooperation. They tell me at the store you have a parent in close proximity to her maker, and I beg your indulgence.”

  Madge scandalized the town in a new and different manner when it became known she had allowed Reverend Wixson to park his wagon behind the house, then moved her dying mother into it. This apparent callousness and licentiousness (it was assumed the reverend had betrayed his cloth and would move into the house with Madge) was reason enough for a party of women to approach Clay Dugan with a view to having him arrest Madge and the preacher both for outright moral corruption.

  “Ladies,” he told them, “you know Madge’s occupation. I guess she has the right to take a man inside her own house if she wants.”

  “But her mother is dying, Marshal. She’s gone and put the old lady outside in the feller’s wagon, and don’t be telling us she’s got the right to do that.”

  “Well, that does seem like an unusual thing to do.…”

  “You get down there and make her throw that feller out and bring her mother back inside. It’s a disgrace to the community when a woman like her thinks she can get away with murder, and that’s what it’ll be, Marshal, if that old lady dies out there in the wagon while Madge Clifton’s inside tucked up warm with a customer, and I don’t believe for one minute he’s a real preacher. What man of God would have dealings with a whore, I ask you? You get down there and put things right like it’s your job to do.”

  Clay suppressed a sigh and did as he was told, but he insisted that the women allow him to do his duty without all of them trailing down to Willow Street on his heels. They agreed, and let him approach Madge’s house without an escort.

  When he knocked, Madge let him in immediately.

  “Good afternoon, Marshal.”

  “Afternoon, Miss Clifton.”

  When he saw the rawboned figure at the kitchen table, Clay stared. “Don’t I know you?”

  “I believe so. The name was Dugan, was it not?”

  “Was and still is. I forgot yours. Waxman?”

  “Wixson. Reverend Francis Wixson. My calling remains the same, but I see yours has changed.”

  Clay saw Wixson’s eye on the badge he wore on his vest.

  “People here know about my previous occupation,” he said.

  “Oh, I intended no insult, Mr. Dugan. It was an innocent remark, I assure you.”

  “Please sit down, Marshal,” Madge invited.

  Clay sat and placed his hat on his knee. Madge plucked it off and placed it on a hatrack. Clay was irritated by that, but said nothing. He hadn’t wanted to come to Madge Clifton’s house at all, and had been nowhere near it since the hanging of Maxwell the dentist. The temptation to do so had been there in his mind, but he had resisted until now, because he knew it would do him no good at all to get mixed up with a woman like Madge, not while he was supposed to represent law and order. He thought about her often, though, and lifted his hat to her in passing on the street. No one could have guessed he wanted her so badly he often could not sleep without first pouring himself several stiff shots of whiskey. But he suspected Madge knew, with the cunning instinct of the whore for a potential customer. She said and did nothing to relay her secret knowledge of him, but it was there in her eyes whenever they exchanged the briefest of looks in public. I know you want me, her eyes said, and someday you’ll come knocking at my door. And today he had, but only because a bunch of outraged women had obliged him to. He knew why Wixson was there.

  “Your mother, Miss Clifton … she’s in the wagon for weighing when the time comes?”

  “That’s correct. I’m sure Mama would want to take part in an experiment like this. She was always very curious about things until her mind went.”

  “Well, I have to explain this to folks. Can you guarantee she’s comfortable and warm? If I can tell them that, they’ll likely be less upset.”

  “She is indeed, Marshal,” said Wixson, “and I invite you to inspect the wagon for yourself.”

  Clay accompanied Madge and Wixson to the backyard and climbed into the wagon. Mrs. Clifton was laid out on a mattress on one of the beam balance’s pans, the other being occupied by a selection of metal weights, large and small. The central needle indicated a perfect balance between the two. The woman’s eyes were open, and she gazed at the wagon’s canvas roof with a rapt expression that suggested to Clay she was out of her head.

  “Mrs. Clifton, are you happy with this arrangement here? Are you comfortable, ma’am?”

  She offered no reply, seemed in fact unaware that he squatted beside her. She was covered by a heavy quilted comforter, and her breathing was easy. Clay could find no fault with the setup, and stepped back outside.

  “All right, Marshal?” asked Wixson.

  “I suppose. You really expect to weigh her at the exact moment she passes on, and have the difference register?”

  “When her soul departs the physical body, yes.”

  “Been finding many takers these past years?”

  “Quite a number. My portfolio of statistics is swelling, and in a few years more I expect to be in a position to publish my results.”

  “Is that right. Miss Clifton, is there any kind of financial arrangement involved here, I mean, is the reverend paying you for the right to weigh your mother’s soul?”

  “No, Marshal. Should he?”

  “I don’t know. You ever pay anyone before, Reverend?”

  “Indeed no, not once. There are very few individuals who are prepared to submit their loved one into my care, unfortunately, but those that do, do so with a will. They wish to contribute to mankind’s understanding of the unknown, you see, and that is a privilege beyond price.”

  “I’ll go ahead and tell people you’re not doing anything wrong here. Any idea how long this’ll take?”

  “Miss Clifton infor
ms me her mother is tenacious of life, and in any case I’m no doctor. It may happen at any moment, or not for days. We’ll remain here with Mrs. Clifton regardless, to provide her with comfort until the end, whenever that may be.”

  Clay took his hat and left. He had felt extremely uncomfortable in Madge’s house. The bedroom door had been open, and he had seen in passing the bed she made her living by. Most of her customers, Clay had learned, approached the house from the rear, to avoid being seen. He had lately mounted a watch over the open space behind Madge’s house to see just who arrived, and how often. He had done this for two nights, and seen only one man knock and enter through the back door. It had been too dark to identify him. If that was the regular number, it was a wonder Madge was able to survive. Clay himself kept his distance during those two nights, unwilling to risk being seen and associated with Madge’s clientele.

  The same delegation of women arrived at his office shortly after his return, and were far from satisfied with Clay’s explanation of Wixson’s apparatus. There were gasps of incredulity as Clay expressed his own satisfaction with the situation.

  “It isn’t Christian, Marshal! It shouldn’t be let alone, a foolish business like that. They should be made to quit right now, before the old lady passes on in the back of a wagon when she’s got a perfectly good bed to lay herself down in and die natural-like.”

  “Ladies, there’s nothing illegal about what Miss Clifton and the reverend have agreed to between them. Mrs. Clifton is just fine where she is, believe me.”